53317	----	The Novel on the Tram Benito Pérez Galdós (1843-1920) This translation of La novela en el tranvía, which I have entitled The Novel on the Tram, is granted to the public domain by its translator, Michael Wooff. I The tram left the end of the Salamanca district to pass through the whole of Madrid in the direction of Pozas. Motivated by a selfish desire to sit down before others with the same intention, I put my hand on the handrail of the stair leading to the upper deck, stepped onto the platform and went up. At the same time (a fateful meeting!) I collided with another passenger who was getting on the tram from the other side. I looked at him and recognized my friend Don Dionisio Cascajares y de la Vallina, a man as inoffensive as he was discreet, who had at this critical juncture the goodness to greet me with a warm and enthusiastic handshake. The shock of our unexpected meeting did not have serious consequences apart from the partial denting of a certain straw hat placed on top of the head of an English woman who was trying to get on behind my friend, and who suffered, no doubt for lack of agility, a glancing blow from his stick. We sat down without attaching exaggerated importance to this slight mishap and started to chat. Don Dionisio Cascajares is a famous doctor, although not for the depth of his knowledge of pathology, and a good man, since it could never be said of him that he was inclined to take what did not belong to him, nor to kill his fellow men by means other than those of his dangerous and scientific vocation. We can be quite sure that the leniency of his treatment and his complacency in not giving his patients any other treatment than the one they want are the root cause of the confidence he inspires in a great many families, irrespective of class, especially when, in his limitless kindness, he also has a reputation for meting out services over and above the call of duty though always of a rigorously honest nature. Nobody knows like he does interesting events which are not common knowledge, and no-one possesses to a higher degree the mania of asking questions, though this vice of being overly inquisitive is compensated for in him by the promptness with which he tells you everything he knows without others needing to take the trouble to sound him out. Judge then if such a fine exemplar of human flippancy would be in demand with the curious and the garrulous. This man, my friend as he is everyone's, was sitting next to me when the tram, slipping smoothly along its iron road, was going down the calle de Serrano, stopping from time to time in order to fill the few seats that still remained empty. We were so hemmed in that the bundle of books I was carrying with me became a source of great concern to me, and I was putting it first on one knee, then on the other. Finally I decided to sit on it, fearing to disturb the English lady, whose seat just happened to be next to me on my left. "And where are you going?" Cascajares asked me, looking at me over the top of his dark glasses, which made me feel that I was being watched by four eyes rather than two. I answered him evasively and he, not wanting to lose any time before finding something out, insisted on asking questions: "And what's so-and-so up to? And that woman, what's-her-name, where is she?" accompanied by other inquiries of the same ilk which were not fully replied to either. As a last resort, seeing how useless his attempts were to start a conversation, he set off on a path more in keeping with his expansive temperament and began to spill the beans: "Poor countess!" he said, expressing with a movement of his head and facial features his disinterested compassion. "If she had followed my advice, she would not be in such a critical situation." "Quite clearly," I replied mechanically, doing compassionate homage also to the aforementioned countess. "Just imagine," he continued, "that they've let themselves be dominated by that man! And that man will end up being master of the house. Poor woman! She thinks that with tears and lamentations all can be remedied, but it isn't so. She must make a decision, for that man is a monster; I believe he has it in him to commit the most heinous crimes." "Yes, he'll stop at nothing," I said, unconsciously participating in his indignation. "He's like all those low-born men who follow their base instincts. If they raise their station in life, they become insufferable. His face is a clear indication that nothing good can come out of all this." "It hits you in the face. I believe you." "I'll explain it to you in a nutshell. The countess is an excellent woman, angelic, as discreet as she is beautiful and deserving of something far better. But she is married to a man who does not understand the value of the treasure he possesses and he spends his life given over to gambling and to all sorts of illicit pastimes. She in the meantime gets bored and cries. Is it surprising that she tries to dull her pain honestly, here and there, wherever a piano is being played? Moreover I myself give her this advice and say it loud and clear: Madam, seek diversion. Life's too short. The count in the end will have to repent of his follies and your sufferings will then be over. It seems to me I'm right." "No doubt about it," I replied off the cuff, although, in my heart of hearts, as indifferent as I had been to begin with to the sundry misfortunes of the countess. "But that's not the worst of it," Cascajares added, striking the floor with his stick, "for now the count, in the prime of life, has started to be jealous, yes, of a certain young man who has taken to heart the enterprise of helping the countess to enjoy herself." "The husband will be to blame if he succeeds." "None of that would matter as the countess is virtue incarnate; none of that would matter, I say, if there was not a terrible man whom I suspect of being about to cause a disaster in that house." "Really? And who is he, this man?" I asked with a spark of curiosity. "A former butler, well-liked by the count, who has set himself to make a martyr of the countess as unhappy as she is sensitive. It seems that he is now in possession of a certain secret which could compromise her, and with this weapon he presumes to do God knows what. It's infamous!" "It certainly is and he merits an exemplary punishment," I said, discharging in turn the weight of my wrath on that man. "But she is innocent, she is an angel. But enough said! We've reached Cibeles. Yes, on the right I can see Buenavista Park. Have them stop, boy. I'm not one of those who jump off while the tram is still moving to split open their heads on the cobbles. Farewell, my friend, farewell." The tram stopped and Don Dionisio Cascajares y de la Vallina got off after shaking my hand again and inflicting more slight damage on the hat of the English lady who had not yet recovered from her original scare. II The tram carried on and, strange to relate, I in turn continued to think about the unknown countess, of her cruel and suspicious consort and above all of the sinister man who, according to the doctor's emphatic expression, was on the point of causing a disaster in the house. Consider, reader, the nature of human thought: when Cascajares started to relate those events to me, I was annoyed at his importunity and heaviness, but my mind wasted little time in taking hold of that same subject, turning it upside down and right side up, a psychological process which did not cease to be stimulated by the regular motion of the tram and the dull and monotonous noise of its wheels polishing the iron of the rails. But in the end I stopped thinking about what was of such little interest to me and, scanning with my eyes the inside of the tram, I examined one by one my travelling companions. What distinctive faces and what expressions! Some appeared not to be bothered in the least about those who were next to them. Some were happy, some were sad, this one was yawning, that one was laughing, and in spite of the journey's shortness, there was not a single one who did not want it to be over quickly, for among the thousand and one annoyances of our existence, none exceeds the one that consists in being a dozen people gazing at one another's faces without saying a word and mutually musing over their wrinkles, their moles or some anomaly noticed in a face or in clothing. It is strange this short acquaintance with people that we have not seen before and will in all likelihood not see again. We already meet someone on entering and others arrive while we're still there. Passengers get off leaving us alone and finally we too alight. It's a mirror of human life itself in which birth and death are like the entrances and exits I've just mentioned for new generations of passengers come to populate the little world that lives inside the tram. They get on, they get off; they are born and they die. How many have passed through here before we have! How many more will succeed us! And for the resemblance to be even more complete there is also a small world of passions in miniature inside that big box. Many go there that we feel instinctively to be excellent people and their appearance pleases us and we are even upset to see them go. Others, on the contrary, annoy us as soon as we look at them. We examine with a certain rancour their phrenological characteristics and feel a real pleasure when we see them go. And meanwhile the vehicle, an imitation of life, keeps going, always receiving and letting go, uniform, indefatigable, majestic, oblivious to what is happening inside it, without being moved very much by the barely stifled passions of dumb show. The tram is running, always running over the two interminable iron tracks, wide and slippery as centuries. I was thinking about this while the tram was going up the calle de Alcalá until the noise of my bundle of books falling on the floor pulled me back from the gulf of so many mixed up ruminations. I picked it up immediately and my eyes focused on the sheet of newspaper that was serving as a wrapper to the volumes and mechanically took in half a line of what was printed there. All of a sudden my curiosity was well and truly aroused. I had read something that interested me and certain names scattered through that scrap of a newspaper serial affected both my vision and my memory. I looked for the beginning and did not find it: the paper was torn and I could only read, with curiosity at first and afterwards more and more eagerly, what follows: The countess felt indescribably agitated. The presence of Mudarra, the insolent butler, who had forgotten his humble beginnings to dare to cast his gaze on such a noble personage, was a continual source of anxiety to her. The scoundrel never stopped spying on her, watching her as a prison guard watches a prisoner. He already showed no deference to her and nor were the sensitivity and delicacy of such an excellent lady an obstacle to his entrapment of her. Mudarra made an untimely entrance into the private quarters of the countess, who, pale and agitated, feeling at one and the same time both shame and terror, did not have the strength to dismiss him. "Don't be frightened, Your Ladyship," he said with a forced and sinister smile, which made the lady even more alarmed. "I haven't come to do you any harm." "Oh my God! When will this agony be over?" the lady exclaimed, dropping her arms in discouragement. "Leave. I cannot accede to your desires. What infamy! To make use in this way of my weakness and the indifference of my husband, the source of so many of my misfortunes!" "Why so surly, countess?" the fierce butler added. "If I did not have in my hands the secret that could lead to your perdition, if I could not apprise the count of certain particulars with reference to that young nobleman. But I will not use these terrible weapons against you. One day you will understand me and know how selfless is the great love that you have been able to inspire in me." As he said this Mudarra moved a few steps nearer to the countess who distanced herself with horror and repugnance from that monster. Mudarra was a man of around fifty, dark-skinned, thickset and knock-kneed, with rough, untidy hair and a big mouth full of teeth. His eyes, half hidden behind the luxuriant growth of wide, black and very thick eyebrows, expressed at moments like these the most bestial concupiscence. "Ah porcupine!" he angrily exclaimed on seeing the lady's natural reticence. "How unfortunate I am not to be a dapper young chap! Such prudery knowing full well I can tell the count and have no doubt that he'll believe me, Your Ladyship: the count has so much trust in me that he takes what I say as gospel and he'll be full of jealousy if I show him the paper." "Scoundrel!" shouted the countess with a noble display of righteous indignation. "I am innocent and my husband will not give credence to such vile slanders. And even if I were guilty I would prefer a thousand times over for my husband and the whole world to despise me than to buy peace of mind at that price. Leave here at once." "I too have a temper, countess," said the butler swallowing his rage. "I too can lose it and get angry and since Your Ladyship is making a big thing of this, let's make a big thing of it. I already know what I have to do and I've been until now far too affable. One last time I put it to Your Ladyship that we should be friends and don't make me do something you'll regret, and so my lady." On saying this Mudarra contracted the parchment-like skin and the rigid tendons of his face making a grimace like a smile and took a few more steps as if to sit down on the sofa next to the countess. The latter jumped up shouting: "No! Leave! Scoundrel! And not to have anyone here to defend me. Leave!" The butler then was like a wild animal that lets go of the prey it was holding a moment before in its claws. He breathed heavily, made a threatening gesture and slowly left with soft footfalls. The countess, trembling and out of breath, having taken refuge in a corner of the room, heard the footfalls which faded away on the carpet of the room next door and finally breathed when she judged him to be far away. She closed the doors and tried to sleep, but sleep eluded her, her eyes still full of terror at the image of the monster. CHAPTER XI The Plot Mudarra, on leaving the countess's room, went in the direction of his own and, dominated by a strong feeling of nervous anxiety, started to search for letters and papers muttering to himself: "I can't stand it anymore. You'll pay me back for all of this." Then he sat down, took up his pen, and, putting in front of him one of those letters and examining it closely, he began to write another, trying to copy the writing. He moved his eyes feverishly from the model to the copy and finally, after a great deal of work, he wrote with writing totally identical to that of the model, the following letter, the sentiments in which were of his own making: I promised to meet with you and I'm hastening to carry out that promise. The newspaper in which this serial appeared was torn and I could read no further. III Without taking my eyes off the bundle of books I started to think about the relationship between the news I had had from the mouth of Don Cascajares and the scene I had just read in that scandal sheet, a roman feuilleton no doubt translated from some silly novel by Ponson du Terrail or Montépin. It may be silly I said to myself, but the fact is I'm interested in this countess who has fallen victim to the nastiness of an insufferable butler who only exists in the disturbed mind of some novelist born to terrify simple souls. And what will he do to take his revenge? He'd be capable of framing some atrocity to bring to an end in sensational style such a chapter. And what will the count do? And that young man Cascajares mentioned on the tram and Mudarra in the serial, what will he do? Who is he? What is there between the countess and that unknown gentleman? I'd give my eye teeth to know. These were my thoughts when I raised my eyes and looked over the inside of the tram with them. To my horror I saw a person who made me shake with fear. While I was engrossed in the interesting reading of the feuilleton, the tram had stopped several times to take on or let off passengers. On one of these occasions this man had got on whose sudden presence now produced such a strong impression on me. It was him, Mudarra, the butler in person, sitting opposite me, with his knees touching my knees. I took a second to examine him from head to toe and saw in him the features I had already read about. He could be no-one else: even the most trifling details of his clothing clearly indicated it was him. I recognized his dark and lustrous complexion, his unruly hair, the curls of which sprang up in opposite directions like the snakes of Medusa. His deep-sunk eyes were covered by the thickness of his bushy eyebrows and his beard was no less unkempt than his hair, while his feet were twisted inwards like those of parrots. The same look in a nutshell, the same man in his appearance, in his clothes, in the way he breathed and in the way he coughed, even in the way he put his hand into his pocket to pay his fare. Suddenly I saw him take out a letter writing case and I noticed that this object had on its cover a great gilded M, the first letter of his surname. He opened it, took out a letter and looked at the envelope with a demonic smile and I even thought I heard him mutter: "How well I've imitated the handwriting!" The letter was indeed a small one with the envelope addressed in a feminine scrawl. I watched him closely as he took pleasure in his infamous action until he saw that I had indiscreetly and discourteously stretched my face in order to read the address. He gave me a stare that hit me like a blow and put the letter back in the case. The tram kept going and in the short time it had taken me to read an extract from the novel, to reflect on such strange occurrences and to see Mudarra in the flesh, a character out of a book, hard to believe in, made human and now my companion on this journey, we had left behind the calle de Alcalá, were currently crossing the Puerta del Sol and making a triumphal entrance into the calle Mayor, making a way for ourselves between other vehicles, making slow-moving covered waggons speed up and frightening pedestrians who, in the tumult of the street and dazed by so many diverse noises, only saw the solid outline of the tram when it was almost on top of them. I continued to look at that man as one looks at an object of whose existence one is uncertain and I did not take my eyes from his repugnant face till I saw him get up, ask for the tram to stop and get off, losing sight of him then among the crowd on the street. Various passengers got off and got on and the living décor of the tram changed completely. The more I thought of it, the more alive was the curiosity that event aroused in me, which I had to begin with considered as forced into my head exclusively by the juxtaposition of various feelings occasioned by my erstwhile conversation and subsequent reading, but which I finally imagined as indubitably true. When the man in whom I thought to see the awful butler got off the tram, I was still thinking about the incident with the letter and I explained it to myself as best I could, hoping not to have on such a delicate matter an imagination less fertile than the novelist who had written what only moments before I had read. Mudarra, I thought, desirous of taking his revenge on the countess, that unfortunate lady, had copied her writing and written a letter to a certain gentleman of her acquaintance. In the letter she had given him a rendezvous in her own home. The young man had arrived at the time indicated and shortly afterwards the husband, whom the butler had warned so that he would catch his unfaithful wife in flagrante which was in itself an admirable idea! An action, which in life has points for and against, fits snugly in a novel like a ring on a finger. The lady would faint, the lover would panic and the husband would commit an atrocity and, lurking behind a curtain, the face of the butler would light up diabolically. As an avid reader of numerous bad novels, I gave that twist to what was unconsciously developing in my imagination on the basis of the words of a friend, the reading of a piece of torn-off paper and the sight of someone I had never laid eyes on before. IV The tram kept on going and going and whether because of the heat that could be felt inside it or the slow and monotonous movement of the vehicle that gives rise to a certain amount of dizziness which then turns into sleep, what is certain is that I felt my eyelids droop, leaned to my left-hand side, placing my elbow on the bundle of books, and closed my eyes. While in this position I continued to see the row of faces of both sexes in front of me, some bearded, some shaven, some laughing, some very stiff and serious. Afterwards it seemed to me that, obeying the contraction of a single muscle, all those faces winked and grimaced, opening and closing their eyes and their mouths, and showing me in turn a series of teeth that varied from whiter than white to yellowish, some as sharp as knives, others broken and worn. Those eight noses set under sixteen eyes varying in colour and expression, got bigger or smaller and changed shape; the mouths opened in a horizontal line producing silent laughter or stretched forward forming sharp-pointed snouts similar to the interesting face of a certain distinguished animal which has brought down on itself the anathema of being unnameable. Behind those eight faces, whose horrendous traits I have just depicted, and through the windows of the tram, I could see the street, the houses and the passers-by, all speeding past as if the tram were travelling at a vertiginous speed. I at least thought that it went faster than the trains on our railroads, faster than its French, English and North American counterparts. It ran as fast as might be imagined when it came to displacing solid objects. As this state of lethargy increased, I was able to imagine that houses, streets and the whole of Madrid were gradually disappearing. For a moment I thought that the tram was running through oceanic depths: through the windows could be seen the bodies of enormous cetaceans and the sticky appendages of a multitude of polyps of various sizes. Small fish were shaking their slippery tails against the glass and some of them were looking inside with great and gilded eyes. Crustaceans of an unfamiliar shape, large molluscs, madrepores, sponges and a scattering of big and misshapen bivalves which I had never seen before, swam ceaselessly past. The tram was being pulled by monstrous swimming creatures, whose oars, fighting with the water, sounded like the blades of a propeller churning it up with their ceaseless rotation. This vision started to fade. Then it seemed to me that the tram was flying through the air, always in the same direction and without being blown off course by winds. Through the windows only empty space was visible. Clouds sometimes enveloped us and a sudden downpour drummed against the upper deck. All at once we came out into pure space flooded with sunshine, only to go back to the nebulous presence of huge flashes, now red, now yellow, sometimes opal, sometimes amethyst, which were being left behind us as we made our way forward. We passed then through a point in space where shining forms floated in a very fine golden dust: further on this dust storm, which I took to be produced by the movement of the wheels grinding the light, was silver, then green like flour made from emeralds, and finally red like flour made from rubies. The tram was being dragged by some apocalyptic bird, stronger than a hippogryph and more daring than a dragon, and the noise of the wheels and the driving force made me think of the whirring of the great sails of a windmill, or rather the buzz of a bumblebee the size of an elephant. We were flying through infinite space without ever arriving anywhere. In the meantime the earth fell away several leagues below our feet, and the things of earth--Spain, Madrid, the Salamanca district, Cascajares, the Countess, the Count, Mudarra, the gallant young man, all of them together. I soon fell into a deep sleep and then the tram stopped moving, stopped flying and the sensation that I felt of travelling in such a tram disappeared and all that was left was the deep and monotonous bass of the wheels which never abandons us even in our nightmares, be it in a train or in the cabin of a steamship. I slept. Oh unhappy countess! I saw her as clearly as I now see the paper that I'm writing on. I saw her sat next to a night light, hand on cheek, sad and pensive like a statue depicting Melancholy. At her feet a lapdog lay curled up that seemed to me just as sad as his as his interesting mistress. Then I was able to examine at my leisure the woman I had come to see as misfortune personified. She was tall and fair with big and expressive eyes, an aquiline nose that was actually quite prominent, though not out of proportion to the rest of her face, and set off by the twin curves of her fine and arched eyebrows. She was casually groomed and from this, as from her dress, it was possible to surmise that she did not intend to go out again that night. A night of marvels truly! I observed with increasing anxiety the beautiful form I so much wanted to know better and it seemed to me that I could read her mind behind that noble brow in which the habit of reflexion had traced scarcely visible lines which would soon become wrinkles. Suddenly the door to her room opened to let a man in. The Countess gave a yelp of surprise and got up in a state of great agitation. "What's this?" she said. "Rafael. You. What barefaced cheek! How did you get in?" "Madam," answered the one who had just entered, a young man of noble bearing. "Weren't you expecting me? I received a letter from you." "A letter from me!" exclaimed the Countess even more agitated. "I wrote no such letter. And what reason would I have for writing it?" "Madam, look," the young man responded, taking out the letter and showing it to her. "It's in your own handwriting." "Good God! What devilry is this?" said the lady in despair. "It was not I who wrote this letter. They're setting a trap for me." "Madam, calm down. I'm very sorry." "Yes. I understand everything now. That infamous man. I have a strong suspicion as to what he had in mind. Leave this instant. But it's already too late. I can already hear my husband's voice." Indeed a deafening voice could be heard in the room next door and, after a short interval, the Count came in the room. He feigned surprise at seeing the gallant visitor and, subsequently laughing somewhat affectedly, spoke to him: "Ah Rafael! You're here. Long time no see! You came to accompany Antonia on the piano. You'll take tea with us." The Countess and her spouse exchanged a meaningful glance. The young man in his perplexity hardly managed to return the Count's greeting. I saw them entering the living room and servants coming out to meet them. I saw that the servants were carrying tea things and afterwards they disappeared, leaving the three main characters alone. Something terrible was going to happen. They sat down. The Countess looked mortified. The Count affected a dazed hilarity like drunkenness and the young man spoke only in monosyllables. Tea was served and the Count passed to Rafael one of the cups, not just any cup, but one he'd singled out. The Countess looked at that cup so fearfully it seemed that her soul had left her body. They drank in silence ballasting the brew with a tasty assortment of Huntley and Palmers biscuits and other nibbles appropriate to this type of supper. Then the Count burst out laughing again with the outrageous and noisy demonstrativeness that was peculiar to him that night, and said: "How bored we all are! You, Rafael, haven't said a word. Antonia, play something. We haven't heard you play for such a long time. This piece by Gorschack, for instance, entitled Death. You used to play it wonderfully. Come on. Sit down at the piano." The Countess tried to speak, but could not say a word. The Count looked at her in such a way that the unhappy woman quailed before the terrible expression in his eyes like a dove hypnotized by a boa constrictor. She got up to go to the piano and again there the husband must have said something that terrified her even more, subjecting her to his devilish dominion. The piano sounded with several strings struck at once and, running from the low notes to the high notes, the lady's hands awoke in a second hundreds of sounds that were lying dormant in among the strings and hammers. At first the music was a confused mixture of sounds that stunned rather than pleased, but then that storm blew over and a funereal and timorous dirge like the Dies irae came out of such disorder. It seemed to me I heard the sad sound of a choir of Carthusians accompanied by the hoarse bellow of the bassoons. After could be heard pitiful sighs like those that we imagine souls exhale, condemned in purgatory to ceaselessly beg for a pardon that is a long time in coming. Then came loud and extended arpeggios and the notes reared up as if arguing about which of them would could there first. Chords came together and broke up like the foam on waves which forms and is then effaced. The harmonies boiled and fluctuated in an endless heavy swell, fading into silence and then coming back more strongly in great and hasty eddies. I carried on entranced by the majestic and impressive music. I could not see the face of the countess, sat with her back to me, but I imagined it to be in such a state of bewilderment and fright that I started to think that the piano was playing itself. The young man was behind her, the count to her right, leaning on the piano. From time to time she raised her eyes to look at him, but she must have seen something dreadful in the eyes of her companion as she went back to lowering hers and kept on playing. Suddenly the piano stopped sounding and the Countess cried out. Just at that moment I felt an extremely strong blow to my shoulder, shook myself violently and woke up. V In my agitated dream I had changed position and had allowed myself to fall on the venerable English lady who was travelling next to me. "Aah! You--sleeping--disturb me," she said, making a sour face, while she pushed away from her my bundle of books which had fallen onto her knees. "Madam, it's true. I fell asleep," I replied, embarrassed to see that all the passengers were laughing at this scene. "Oh! I tell driver--you disturb me--very shocking," the English woman added in her incomprehensible gibberish: "Oh! You think my body is your bed for you to sleep. Oh! Gentleman, you are a stupid ass." On saying this, this daughter of Britannia, who already had a ruddy complexion, blushed red as a tomato. You might have thought that the blood that had rushed to her cheeks and her nose was flowing from her incandescent pores. She showed me four sharp and very white teeth as if she wanted to bite me. I asked of her a thousand pardons for the discourtesy of falling asleep, picked up my bundle and reviewed the new faces that there now were in the tram. Imagine, oh calm and kind reader, when I saw facing me--guess who? the young man I had just finished dreaming about, Don Rafael in the flesh. I rubbed my eyes to convince myself that I was not still asleep and found myself awake, as awake as I am now. He it was and he was talking to someone else who was travelling with him. I paid attention and listened as hard as I could: "But didn't you suspect anything?" the other person said to him. "Something, yes. But I held my tongue. She looked petrified with terror. Her husband ordered her to play the piano and she did not dare to resist. She played, as always, admirably, and, as I listened to her, I managed to forget the dangerous situation in which we found ourselves. Despite the efforts she was making to look calm, a moment came when she was no longer able to pretend any more. Her arms relaxed and slipped off the keys. She threw her head back and cried out. Then her husband took out a dagger and, taking a step towards her, shouted furiously: "Play or I'll kill you this instant." When I saw this my blood boiled. I wanted to throw myself at that wretch, but I felt in my body a sensation that I cannot describe to you. A furnace had lit up in my stomach. Fire was running through my veins. My lungs were hyperventilating and I fell on the floor senseless." "And before that did you not recognize the symptoms of poisoning?" asked the other. "I noticed a certain feeling of uneasiness and had a vague suspicion, but nothing more than that. The poison had been well prepared. It had a delayed effect on me and did not kill me, though it's left me with a physical impairment for life." "And after you passed out, what happened?" Rafael was going to answer and I was hanging on his every word as if it were a matter of life and death when the tram halted. "Ah, here we are already at Consejos. Let's get off here," said Rafael. What a nuisance! They were getting off and I would not know how the story ended. "Sir, sir, a word," I said on seeing them get off. The young man stopped and looked at me. "And the Countess? What became of her?" I asked eagerly. Loud laughter was my only response. The two young men laughed too and left without saying a word. The only living being to keep her sphinx-like calm at such a comic scene was the English woman who, indignant at my outlandish behaviour, turned to the other passengers saying: "Oh! A lunatic fellow!" VI The tram continued on its way and I was burning with curiosity to know what had happened to the unfortunate Countess. Had her husband killed her? I understood how that villain's mind worked. Desirous of enjoying his revenge, like all cruel souls, he wanted his wife to be present, without pause in playing, at the death of that unwary young man brought there by a spiteful trick on the part of Mudarra. But the lady could not continue making desperate efforts to keep calm, knowing that Rafael had swallowed the poison. A tragic and horrifying scene I thought, more convinced than ever of the reality of that event--and now you'll say that such things only happen in novels! On passing in front of Palacio the tram halted and a woman got on who was carrying a small dog in her arms. I immediately recognized the dog I had seen reclining at the feet of the Countess. This was the same dog with the same white and fine fur, the same black patch on one of his ears. As luck would have it the woman sat down next to me. Unable to resist being curious, I put the following question to her: "Is this nice dog your dog?" "Who else could he belong to? Do you like him?" I fondled one of the ears of the intelligent animal to show him affection, but he, oblivious to my blandishments, jumped and put his paws on the knees of the English woman, who showed me her two teeth again as if wanting to bite me, and exclaimed: "Oh! You are unsupportable!" "And where did you acquire this dog?" I asked without taking notice of the latest explosion of righteous indignation on the part of the British lady. "Can you tell me?" "My mistress gave it me." "And what became of your mistress?" I asked most anxiously. "Ah! Did you know her?" the woman replied. "She was a good woman, wasn't she?" "An excellent woman. But may I know how that bad business ended?" "So you know about it, you've had news of it." "Yes, madam. I know what happened, including the tea that was served. And tell me--did your mistress die?" "Yes, sir. She's gone to a better place." "And what happened? Was she murdered or did she die of fright?" "What murder? What fright?" she said with a mocking expression. "You're not in the know after all. She ate something that disagreed with her that night and it harmed her. She had a fainting fit that lasted till dawn." This one, I thought, knows nothing about the incident with the piano and the poison or doesn't want to make me think she does. Afterwards I said in a loud voice: "So she died of food poisoning?" "Yes, sir. I warned her not to eat those shellfish, but she took no notice of me." "Shellfish, eh?" I said incredulously. "I know what really happened." "Don't you believe me?" "Yes. Yes," I replied, pretending to believe her. "And what about the Count, her husband, the one who pulled the dagger on her while she was playing the piano?" The woman looked at me for a moment and then laughed in my face. "You're laughing, are you? Don't you think I know what took place? You don't want to tell me what really happened. There'd be grounds for a criminal prosecution if you did." "But you mentioned a count and a countess." "Was not this dog's mistress the Countess wronged by the butler Mudarra?" The woman burst out laughing again so uproariously that I muttered to myself distractedly: She must be Mudarra's accomplice and naturally she'll hide as much as she can. "You're mad," the unknown woman added. "Lunatic, lunatic. I'm suffocated. Oh! My God!" "I know everything. Come now. Don't hide it from me. Tell me what the Countess died of." "For crying out loud, what countess?" exclaimed the woman, laughing even more loudly. "Don't think you fool me with your laughter!" I replied. "The Countess was either poisoned or murdered. There's no doubt about it in my mind." At this juncture the tram arrived at Pozas and I had reached the end of my journey. We all got off. The English woman gave me a look indicative of her elation at finding herself free of me and each of us went in our several directions. I followed the woman with the dog, plying her with questions, until she reached her home still laughing at my determination to know better about other people's lives. Once alone in the street, I remembered the object of my journey and set off to visit the house where I was due to hand over those books. I gave them to the person who had asked for them in order to read them, and I started to walk up and down opposite Buen Suceso, waiting for the tram to reappear so I could then return to the opposite end of Madrid again. I waited a long time and finally, just as it was getting dark, the tram prepared to leave. I got on and the first thing I saw was the English lady sitting where she had sat before. When she saw me get on and sit down next to her, the expression on her face beggared description. She went as red as a beetroot and exclaimed: "Oh! You again. I complain to driver--you are for high jump this time." I was so preoccupied with my own emotions that, without paying attention to what the English lady was saying in her laborious utterances, I answered her thus: "Madam, there is no doubt that the Countess was either poisoned or killed. You have no idea of that man's ferocity." The tram continued on its way and every now and then stopped to take on passengers. Near the royal palace three got on, occupying seats opposite me. One of them was a tall, thin and bony man with very stern eyes and a bell-like voice that imposed respect. They hadn't been on ten minutes when this man turned to the others and said: "Poor thing! How she cried out in her dying moments! The bullet went in above her right shoulder-blade and penetrated down to her heart." "What?" I exclaimed all of a sudden. "She died of a shot and not a stab wound?" The three of them looked at me in amazement. "Of a shot, sir, yes," the tall, thin and bony one said with a certain amount of surliness. "And that woman maintained she had died of food poisoning," I said, more interested in this affair by the minute. "Tell me how it came about." "And what concern is it of yours?" said the other with an offhand gesture. "I'm very interested indeed to know the end of this horrific tragedy. Does it not seem to be straight from the pages of a novel?" "Where do novels and dead people come into it? Either you're mad or you're trying to make fun of us." "Young man, be careful what you joke about," added the tall and thin one. "Don't you think I know what happened? I know it all from start to finish. I witnessed all the various scenes of this horrendous crime. But you're saying that the Countess died of a pistol shot." "Good God. We weren't talking about a Countess, but about my female dog that we inadvertently shot while out hunting. If you want to make a joke of it, meet me outside and I'll answer you as you deserve." "I see where you're coming from. Now you're determined to keep the truth hidden," I said, thinking that these men wanted to lead me astray in my inquiries, transforming that unfortunate lady into a female dog. One of my interlocutors was doubtless preparing his answer, more physical than the case required, when the English woman put her finger to her temple as if to indicate to them that my head did not function properly. They calmed down at this and spoke not a single word more for the whole of their journey, which finished for them at the Puerta del Sol. No doubt they had been afraid of me. I was so fixated on the idea that a crime had been committed that it was in vain that I tried to calm down as I reasoned out the threads of such a complicated question. But each time I did so my confusion grew and the image of the poor lady refused to leave me. In all the countenances that succeeded one another inside the tram, I thought I might see something that would contribute to an explanation of the enigma. I felt a frightful overheating of my brain and no doubt this inner disturbance was reflected in my face as everyone looked at me as at something that you don't see every day. VII There was yet another incident which would turn my head during that fateful journey. On passing through the Calle de Alcalá a man got on with his wife. He sat down next to me. He was a man who seemed affected by some strong and recent emotion and I could even believe that, from time to time, he raised his handkerchief to his eyes to wipe away invisible tears which were no doubt being shed behind the dark green lenses of his unusual spectacles. After a short time he said in a low voice to the person I took to be his wife: "They suspect that she was poisoned, there's no doubt about it. Don Mateo's just told me. Poor woman!" "How terrible! That's what I thought too," answered his wife. "What else can you expect from such savages?" "I won't leave a stone unturned till I get to the bottom of this business." I, who was all ears, also said in a low voice: "Yes, sir, she was poisoned. There's proof of it." "What? You know? Did you know her too?" said the man with the green specs, turning towards me. "Yes, sir. And I do not doubt that her death was a violent one, no matter how hard they try to make us believe it was food poisoning." "I'm of the same opinion. What an excellent woman! But how do you know all this for a fact?" "I know, I know," I replied, extremely pleased that this man at least did not think I was mad. "You'll make a declaration to the court then, for the judge has already started to sum up." "I'll be happy just to see these rascals get what's coming to them. I'll make that declaration, yes, I will, sir." My moral blindness had reached such a point that I ended up completely taken in by this event half dreamed, half read about, and believed it as I now believe I'm writing with a pen. "Indeed I will, sir, for it is necessary to clear up this mystery so that the perpetrators of this crime can be punished. I will declare that she was poisoned by a cup of tea, the same as the young man." "Did you hear that, Petronila?" said the bespectacled man to his wife. "By a cup of tea." "Yes, it surprises me," the lady answered. "What terrible things those monsters were capable of!" "It's true, sir. With a cup of tea. The Countess was playing the piano." "What countess?" the man asked, interrupting me. "The countess. The woman who was poisoned." "The woman in question was no countess." "Come off it. You too are one of those determined to hide the facts in this case." "This was no countess or duchess, but simply the woman who did my laundry for me, the wife of the pointsman at Madrid North station." "A laundress, eh?" I said roguishly. "You won't make me swallow that one." The man and his wife looked at me quizzically and muttered some words to each other. From a gesture that I saw the woman make I understood that she had formed the deep conviction I was drunk. I opted not to argue and said nothing, content to despise such an irreverent supposition in silence as befits great souls. My anxiety knew no bounds. The Countess was not absent for a moment from my thoughts and she had started to interest me by reason of her sinister end as if all that had not been a morbid expression of my own impulse to fantasize, forged by successive visions and conversations. Finally, to understand to what extreme my madness carried me, I am going to relate the ultimate occurrence on this journey of mine. I shall say with what extravagance I put an end to the painful combat of my understanding caught in a battle with an army of shadows. The tram was entering the calle de Serrano when I chanced to look through the window opposite where I was sitting into the street, weakly lit by street lights, and I saw a man go by. I shouted with surprise and foolishly exclaimed the following: "There he goes. It's him, Mudarra, the principal author of so many crimes." I ordered the tram to stop and alighted or rather jumped through the door, colliding with the feet and legs of the passengers. I descended to the street and ran after that man, shouting: "Stop him! Stop him! Murderer!" You can imagine what the effect of these words would have been in such a tranquil neighbourhood. The man in question, the same one I had seen in the tram that afternoon, was arrested. I, for my part, did not stop shouting: "He's the one who prepared the poison for the Countess, the one who murdered the Countess." There was a moment of indescribable confusion. He affirmed that I was mad, but we were both placed in police custody. Afterwards I lost all notion of what was happening around me. I do not remember what I did that night in the place where they locked me up. The most vivid recollection that I have of such a strange event was to have awoken from the deep sleep I fell into, a veritable drunken stupor morally produced, I know not how, by one of the passing phenomena of alienation that science now studies with great care as one of the heralds of madness. As you can surmise the event did not have consequences because the unsympathetic person I baptized with the name of Mudarra was an honourable grocer who had never in his life poisoned any countess. But for a long time afterwards I persisted in my self-deception and was wont to exclaim: "Poor countess. Whatever they say, I'll stick to my guns. No-one will persuade me that you did not end your days at the hand of your irate husband." Months needed to pass for the shadows to return to the unknown place from whence they had come forth driving me mad and for reality to gain the ascendance in my head. I always laugh when I remember that journey and all the consideration I had lavished beforehand on my dreamed-of victim I now devoted to--who do you think?--my travelling companion on that anguished expedition, the irascible English woman, whose foot I dislocated when I hastily left the tram to run after the alleged butler. 
47379	----	Proofreaders Canada CLAYTON'S EDITION. A BOLD STROKE FOR A HUSBAND A Comedy, in Five Acts; BY MRS. COWLEY. As Performed at the THEATRE ROYAL, COVENT GARDEN, AND PARK THEATRE, NEW-YORK. PRINTED UNDER THE AUTHORITY OF THE MANAGERS, FROM THE PROMPT BOOK. With Remarks, BY MRS. INCHBALD. New-York: PUBLISHED BY E. B. CLAYTON, No. 9 Chambers-Street. 1831. DRAMATIS PERSONÆ. _Covent Garden._ _Park_, 1830. _Don Cæsar_ Mr. Munden Mr. Barnes. _Don Julio_ Mr. Lewis Mr. Simpson. _Don Carlos_ Mr. Cooke Mr. Barry. _Don Vincentio_ Mr. Fawcet Mr. Richings. _Don Garcia_ Mr. Brunton Mr. Woodhull. _Don Vasquez_ Mr. Simmons Mr. Foot. _Gasper_ Mr. Blanchard Mr. Blakeley. _Pedro_ Mr. Harley Mr. Nexsen. {Mr. Hayden. _Servants_ {Mr. Bissett. _Donna Olivia_ Mrs. Glover Miss Fisher. _Donna Victoria_ Mrs. Litchfield Mrs. Hilson. _Donna Laura_ Mrs. Dibdin Mrs. Durie. _Minette_ Mrs. Gibbs Mrs. Wheatley. _Marcella_ Miss Waddy Mrs. Godey. _Sancha_ Mrs. Whitmore Miss Turnbull. _Inis_ Mrs. Beverly Miss Jessup. SCENE--_Spain_. STAGE DIRECTIONS. EXITS AND ENTRANCES. R. means _Right_; L. _Left_; F. _the Flat, or Scene running across the back of the Stage_; D. F. _Door in Flat_; R. D. _Right Door_; L. D. _Left Door_; S. E. _Second Entrance_; U. E. _Upper Entrance_; C. D. _Centre Door_. RELATIVE POSITIONS. R. means _Right_; L. _Left_; C. _Centre_; R. C. _Right of Centre_; L. C. _Left of Centre_. R. RC. C. LC. L. _The Reader is supposed to be on the Stage, facing the Audience._ REMARKS. Although "The Bold Stroke for a Husband," by Mrs. Cowley, does not equal "The Bold Stroke for a Wife," by Mrs. Centlivre, either in originality of design, wit, or humour, it has other advantages more honourable to her sex, and more conducive to the reputation of the stage. Here is contained no oblique insinuation, detrimental to the cause of morality--but entertainment and instruction unite, to make a pleasant exhibition at a theatre, or give an hour's amusement in the closet. Plays, where the scene is placed in a foreign country, particularly when that country is Spain, have a license to present certain improbabilities to the audience, without incurring the danger of having them called such; and the authoress, by the skill with which she has used this dramatic permittance, in making the wife of Don Carlos pass for a man, has formed a most interesting plot, and embellished it with lively, humorous, and affecting incident. Still there is another plot, of which Olivia is the heroine, as Victoria is of the foregoing; and this more comic fable, in which the former is chiefly concerned, seems to have been the favourite story of the authoress, as from this she has taken her title. But if Olivia makes a bold stroke to obtain a husband, surely Victoria makes a still bolder, to preserve one; and there is something less honourable in the enterprises of the young maiden, in order to renounce her state, than in those of a married woman to avert the dangers that are impending over hers. Whichever of those females becomes the most admired object with the reader, he will not be insensible to the trials of the other, or to the various interests of the whole dramatis personæ, to whom the writer has artfully given a kind of united influence; and upon a happy combination it is, that sometimes, the success of a drama more depends, than upon the most powerful support of any particularly prominent, yet insulated, character. The part of Don Vincentio was certainly meant as a moral satire upon the extravagant love or the foolish affectation, of pretending to love, to extravagance--music. This satire was aimed at so many, that the shaft struck none. The charm of music still prevails in England, and the folly of affected admirers. Vincentio talks music, and Don Julio speaks poetry. Such, at least, is his fond description of his mistress Olivia, in that excellent scene in the third act, where she first takes off her veil, and fascinates him at once by the force of her beauty. In the delineation of this lady, it is implied that she is no termagant, although she so frequently counterfeits the character. This insinuation the reader, if he pleases, may trust--but the man who would venture to marry a good impostor of this kind, could not excite much pity, if his helpmate was often induced to act the part which she had heretofore, with so much spirit, assumed. The impropriety of making fraud and imposition necessary evils, to counteract tyranny and injustice, is the fault of all Spanish dramas--and perhaps the only one which attaches to the present comedy. A Bold Stroke for a Husband. ACT I. SCENE I.--_A Street in Madrid._ _Enter_ SANCHA _from a House_, R. D. _She advances, then runs back, and beckons to_ PEDRO _within_. _San._ Hist! Pedro! Pedro! _Enter_ PEDRO, R. D. There he is: dost see him? just turning by St. Antony in the corner. Now, do you tell him that your mistress is not at home; and if his jealous donship should insist on searching the house, as he did yesterday, say that somebody is ill--the black has got a fever, or that---- _Ped._ Pho, pho, get you in. Don't I know that the duty of a lacquey in Madrid is to lie with a good grace? I have been studying it now for a whole week, and I'll defy don or devil to surprise me into a truth. Get you in, I say--here he comes. [_Exit_ SANCHA, R. D. F. _Enter_ CARLOS, L. [PEDRO _struts up to him_.] Donna Laura is not at home, sir. _Car._ Not at home!--come, sir, what have you received for telling that lie? _Ped._ Lie!--lie!--Signior!-- _Car._ It must be a lie, by your promptness in delivering it.--What a fool does your mistress trust--A clever rascal would have waited my approach, and, delivering the message with easy coolness, deceived me--_thou_ hast been on the watch, and runnest towards me with a face of stupid importance, bawling, that she may hear through the lattice how well thou obeyest her,--"Donna Laura is not at home, sir." _Ped._ Hear through the lattice--hah! by'r lady, she must have long ears, to reach from the grotto in the garden to the street. _Car._ Hah! [_Seizes him._] Now, sir, your ears shall be longer, if you do not tell me who is with her in the grotto. _Ped._ In the grotto, sir!--did I say any thing about the grotto? I----I only meant that---- _Car._ Fool!--dost thou trifle with me? who is with her? [_Pinching his ear._] _Ped._ Oh!--why, nobody, sir--only the pretty young gentleman's valet, waiting for an answer to a letter he brought. There! I have saved my ears at the expense of my place. I have worn this fine coat but a week, and I shall be sent back to Segovia for not being able to lie, though I have been learning the art six days and nights. _Car._ Well--come this way--if thou wilt promise to be faithful to me, I will not betray thee: nor at present enter the house. _Ped._ Oh, sir, blessings on you! _Car._ How often does the pretty young gentleman visit her? _Ped._ Every day, sir--If he misses, madam's stark wild. _Car._ Where does he live? _Ped._ Truly, I know not, sir. _Car._ How! [_Menacing._] _Ped._ By the honesty of my mother, I cannot tell, sir. She calls him Florio;--that's his christian name--his heathen name I never heard. _Car._ You must acquaint me when they are next together. _Ped._ Lord, sir, if there should be any blood spilt! _Car._ Promise,--or I'll lead thee by the ears to the grotto. _Ped._ I promise, I promise. _Car._ There, take that, [_Gives money._] and if thou art faithful, I'll treble it. Now go in and be a good lad--and, d'ye hear?--you may tell lies to every body else, but remember you must always speak truth to me. _Ped._ I will, sir,--I will. [_Exit, looking at the money_, R. D. F. _Car._ 'Tis well my passion is extinguished, for I can now act with coolness; I'll wait patiently, for the hour of their security, and take them in the softest moments of their love. But if ever I trust to woman more--may every---- _Enter two_ WOMEN, _veiled, followed by_ JULIO, R. _Julio._ Fie, ladies! keep your curtains drawn so late! The sun is up--'tis time to look abroad--[_Tries to remove the veils._] Nay, if you are determined on night and silence, I take my leave. A woman without prattle, is like burgundy without spirit.--Bright eyes, to touch me, must belong to sweet tongues. [_Going_, R. _Ladies exit_ L. _Car._ Sure, 'tis Julio. Hey! _Julio._ [_Returning._] Don Carlos? Yes, by all the sober gods of matrimony!--Why, what business, goodman gravity, canst thou have in Madrid? I understand you are married--quietly settled in your own pastures--father of a family, and the instructive companion of country vine dressers--ha! ha! _Car._ 'Tis false, by Heaven!--I have forsworn the country--left my family, and run away from my wife. _Julio._ Really! then matrimony has not totally destroyed thy free will. _Car._ 'Tis with difficulty I have preserved it though; for women, thou knowest, are most unreasonable beings! as soon as I had exhausted my stock of love tales, which, with management, lasted beyond the honey-moon, madam grew sullen,--I found home dull, and amused myself with the pretty peasants of the neighbourhood----Worse and worse!--we had nothing now but faintings, tears and hysterics, for twenty-four honey-moons more.--So one morning I gave her in her sleep a farewell kiss, to comfort her when she should awake, and posted to Madrid; where, if it was not for the remembrance of the clog at my heel, I should bound o'er the regions of pleasure, with more spirit than a young Arabian on his mountains. _Julio._ Do you find this clog no hindrance in affairs of gallantry? _Car._ Not much.--In that house there--but, damn her, she's perfidious!--in that house is a woman of beauty, with pretensions to character and fortune, who devoted herself to my passion. _Julio._ If she's perfidious, give her to the winds. _Car._ Ah, but there is a rub, Julio, I have been a fool--a woman's fool!--In a state of intoxication, she wheedled me, or rather cheated me, out of a settlement. _Julio._ Pho! is that---- _Car._ Oh! but you know not its nature. A settlement of lands, that both honour and gratitude ought to have preserved sacred from such base alienation. In short, if I cannot recover them, I am a ruined man. _Julio._ Nay, this seems a worse clog than t'other--Poor Carlos! so bewived and be---- _Car._ Pr'ythee, have compassion. _Enter a_ SERVANT, R. _with a letter to_ JULIO; _he reads it, and then nods to the_ SERVANT, _who exits_, R. _Car._ An appointment, I'll be sworn, by that air of mystery and satisfaction--come, be friendly, and communicate. _Julio._ [_Putting up the letter._] You are married, Carlos;--that's all I have to say--you are married. _Car._ Pho! that's past long ago, and ought to be forgotten; but if a man does a foolish thing once, he'll hear of it all his life. _Julio._ Ay, the time has been when thou might'st have been intrusted with such a dear secret,--when I might have opened the billet, and feasted thee with the sweet meandering strokes at the bottom, which form her name, when---- _Car._ What, 'tis from a woman then? _Julio._ It is. _Car._ Handsome? _Julio._ Hum--not absolutely handsome, but she'll pass, with one who has not had his taste spoiled by--matrimony. _Car._ Malicious dog!--Is she young? _Julio._ Under twenty--fair complexion, azure eyes, red lips, teeth of pearl, polished neck, fine turned shape, graceful---- _Car._ Hold, Julio, if thou lov'st me!--Is it possible she can be so bewitching a creature? _Julio._ 'Tis possible--though, to deal plainly, I never saw her: but I love my own pleasure so well, that I could fancy all that, and ten times more. _Car._ What star does she inhabit? _Julio._ 'Faith, I know not; my orders are to be in waiting, at seven, at the Prado. _Car._ Prado!--hey!--gad! can't you take me with you? for though I have forsworn the sex myself, and have done with them for ever, yet I may be of use to you, you know. _Julio._ 'Faith, I can't see that--however, as you are a poor wo-begone married mortal, I'll have compassion, and suffer thee to come. _Car._ Then I am a man again! Wife, avaunt! mistress, farewell!--At seven, you say! _Julio._ Exactly. _Car._ I'll meet thee at Philippi! [_Exeunt_, JULIO, L. CARLOS, R. SCENE II.--_A spacious Garden, belonging to_ DON CÆSAR. _Enter_ MINETTE _and_ INIS, R. 2d E. _Min._ There, will that do! My lady sent me to make her up a nosegay; these orange flowers are delicious, and this rose, how sweet? _Inis._ Pho! what signifies wearing sweets in her bosom, unless they would sweeten her manners?--'tis amazing you can be so much at your ease; one might think your lady's tongue was a lute, and her morning scold an agreeable serenade. _Min._ So they are--Custom, you know. I have been used to her music now these two years, and I don't believe I could relish my breakfast without it. _Inis._ I would rather never break my fast, than do it on such terms. What a difference between your mistress and mine! Donna Victoria is as much too gentle, as her cousin is too harsh. _Min._ Ay, and you see what she gets by it; had she been more spirited, perhaps her husband would not have forsaken her;--men enlisted under the matrimonial banner, like those under the king's, would be often tempted to run away from their colours, if fear did not keep them in dread of desertion. _Inis._ If making a husband afraid is the way to keep him faithful, I believe your lady will be the happiest wife in Spain. _Min._ Ha! ha! ha! how people may be deceived!--nay, how people are deceived!--but time will discover all things. _Inis._ What! what, is there a secret in the business, Minette? if there is, hang time! let's have it directly. _Min._ Now, if I dared but tell ye--lud! lud! how I could surprise ye!----[_Going._] _Inis._ [_Stopping her._] Don't go. _Min._ I must go; I am on the very brink of betraying my mistress,--I must leave you--mercy upon me!--it rises like new bread. _Inis._ I hope it will choke ye, if you stir till I know all. _Min._ Will you never breathe a syllable? _Inis._ Never. _Min._ Will you strive to forget it the moment you have heard it? _Inis._ I'll swear to myself forty times a-day to forget it. _Min._ You are sure you will not let me stir from this spot till you know the whole? _Inis._ Not as far as a thrush hops. _Min._ So! now, then, in one word,--here it goes. Though every body supposes my lady an arrant scold, she's no more a----[_Looking out._] _Don Cæsar._ [_Without_, L.] Out upon't e--h--h! _Min._ Oh, St. Gerome!--here is her father, and his privy counsellor, Gasper. I can never communicate a secret in quiet. Well! come to my chamber, for, now my hand's in, you shall have the whole.--I would not keep it another day to be confidant to an infanta. [_Exeunt_, R. _Enter_ DON CÆSAR _and_ GASPER, L. _Gasp._ Take comfort, sir; take comfort. _Cæsar._ Take it;--why, where the devil shall I find it? You may say, take physic, sir, or, take poison, sir----they are to be had; but what signifies bidding me take comfort, when I can neither buy it, beg it, nor steal it? _Gasp._ But patience will bring it, sir. _Cæsar._ 'Tis false, sirrah.--Patience is a cheat, and the man that ranked her with the cardinal virtues was a fool. I have had patience at bed and board these three long years, but the comfort she promised, has never called in with a civil how d'ye? _Gasp._ Ay, sir, but you know the poets say that the twin sister and companion of comfort is good humour. Now if you would but drop that agreeable acidity, which is so conspicuous---- _Cæsar._ Then let my daughter drop her perverse humour; 'tis a more certain bar to marriage than ugliness or folly; and will send me to my grave, at last, without male heirs. [_Crying._] How many have laid siege to her! But that humour of hers, like the works of Gibraltar, no Spaniard can find pregnable. _Gasp._ Ay, well--Troy held out but ten years----Let her once tell over her beads, unmarried at five-and-twenty, and, my life upon it, she ends the rosary, with a hearty prayer for a good husband. _Cæsar._ What, d'ye expect me to wait till the horrors of old maidenism frighten her into civility? no, no;--I'll shut her up in a convent, marry myself, and have heirs in spite of her. There's my neighbour Don Vasquez's daughter, she is but nineteen---- _Gasp._ The very step I was going to recommend, sir. You are but a young gentleman of sixty-three, I take it; and a husband of sixty-three, who marries a wife of nineteen, will never want heirs, take my word for it. _Cæsar._ What! do you joke, sirrah? _Gasp._ Oh no, sir--not if you are serious. I think it would be one of the pleasantest things in the world--Madam would throw a new life into the family; and when you are above stairs in the gout, sir, the music of her concerts, and the spirit of her converzationes, would reach your sick bed, and be a thousand times more comforting than flannels and panada. _Cæsar._ Come, come, I understand ye.--But this daughter of mine--I shall give her but two chances more.----Don Garcia and Don Vincentio will both be here to-day, and if she plays over the old game, I'll marry to-morrow morning, if I hang myself the next. _Gasp._ You decide right, signor; at sixty-three the marriage noose and the hempen noose should always go together. _Cæsar._ Why, you dog you, do you suppose--There's Don Garcia--there he is coming through the portico. Run to my daughter, and bid her remember what I have said to her. [_Exit_ GASPER, R.] She has had her lesson--but another memento mayn't be amiss--a young slut! pretty, and witty, and rich--a match for a prince, and yet--but hist!----Not a word to my young man; if I can but keep him in ignorance till he is married, he must make the best of his bargain afterwards, as other honest men have done before him. _Enter_ GARCIA, L. Welcome, Don Garcia! why, you are rather before your time. _Gar._ Gallantry forbid that I should not, when a fair lady is concerned. Should Donna Olivia welcome me as frankly as you do, I shall think I have been tardy. _Cæsar._ When you made your overtures, signor, I understood it was from inclination to be allied to my family, not from a particular passion to my daughter. Have you ever seen her? _Gar._ But once--that transiently--yet sufficient to convince me that she is charming. _Cæsar._ Why, yes, though I say it, there are few prettier women in Madrid; and she has got enemies amongst her own sex accordingly. They pretend to say that----I say, sir, they have reported that she is not blessed with that kind of docility and gentleness that a----now, though she may not be so very placid, and insipid, as some young women, yet, upon the whole-- _Gar._ Oh, fie, sir!--not a word--a beauty cannot be ill-tempered; gratified vanity keeps her in good humour with herself, and every body about her. _Cæsar._ Yes, as you say--vanity is a prodigious sweetener; and Olivia, considering how much she has been humoured, is as gentle and pliant as---- _Enter_ MINETTE, R. _Min._ Oh, sir! shield me from my mistress--She is in one of her old tempers--the whole house is in an uproar.--I cannot support it! _Cæsar._ Hush! _Min._ No, sir, I can't hush--a saint could not bear it. I am tired of her tyranny, and must quit her service. _Cæsar._ Then quit it in a moment--go to my steward, and receive your wages--go--begone. 'Tis a cousin of my daughter's she is speaking of. _Min._ A cousin, sir!--No, 'tis Donna Olivia, your daughter--my mistress. Oh, sir! you seem to be a sweet, tender-hearted young gentleman--'twould move you to pity if----[_To_ GARCIA.] _Cæsar._ I'll move you, hussy, to some purpose, if you don't move off. _Gar._ I am really confounded--can the charming Olivia---- _Cæsar._ Spite, sir--mere malice! my daughter has refused her some cast gown, or some-- _Olivia._ [_Without_, R.] Where is she?--Where is Minette? _Cæsar._ Oh, 'tis all over!--the tempest is coming. _Enter_ OLIVIA, R. _Oliv._ Oh, you vile creature!--to speak to me!--to answer me!--am I made to be answered? _Cæsar._ Daughter! daughter! _Oliv._ Because I threw my work-bag at her, she had the insolence to complain; and, on my repeating it, said she would not bear it.--Servants choose what they shall bear! _Min._ When you are married, ma'am, I hope your husband will bear your humour less patiently than I have done. _Oliv._ My husband!--dost think my husband shall contradict my will? Oh, I long to set a pattern to those milky wives, whose mean compliances degrade the sex. _Gar._ Opportune! [_Aside._] _Oliv._ The only husband on record who knew how to treat a wife was Socrates; and though his lady was a Grecian, I have some reason to believe her descendants matched into our family; and never shall my tame submission disgrace my ancestry. _Gar._ Heavens! why have you never curbed this intemperate spirit, Don Cæsar? [R. _of_ OLIVIA.] _Oliv._ [_Starting._] Curbed, sir! talk thus to your groom--curbs and bridles for a woman's tongue! _Gar._ Not for yours, lady, truly! 'tis too late. But had the torrent, not so overbearing, been taken at its spring, it might have been stemmed, and turned in gentle streamlets at the master's pleasure. _Oliv._ A mistake, friend!--my spirit, at its spring, was too powerful for any master. _Gar._ Indeed!--perhaps you may meet a Petruchio, gentle Catherine, yet. _Oliv._ But no gentle Catherine will he find me, believe it.----Catherine! why, she had not the spirit of a roasted chestnut--a few big words, an empty oath, and a scanty dinner, made her as submissive as a spaniel. My fire will not be so soon extinguished--it shall resist big words, oaths, and starving. _Min._ I believe so, indeed; help the poor gentleman, I say, to whose fate you fall! [_Returns up._] _Gar._ Don Cæsar, adieu! My commiseration for your fate subdues the resentment I should otherwise feel at your endeavouring to deceive me into such a marriage. [_Crosses_, L.] _Oliv._ Marriage! oh, mercy!--Is this Don Garcia! [_Apart to_ CÆSAR.] _Cæsar._ Yes, termagant! _Oliv._ O, what a misfortune! Why did you not tell me it was the gentleman you designed to marry me to?--Oh, sir! all that is past was in sport; a contrivance between my maid and me: I have no spirit at all--I am as patient as poverty. _Gar._ This mask fits too ill on your features, fair lady: I have seen you without disguise, and rejoice in your ignorance of my name, since, but for that, my peaceful home might have become the seat of perpetual discord. _Min._ Ay, sir, you would never have known what a quiet hour---- [_On_ R. _of Olivia_.] _Oliv._ [_Strikes her._] Impertinence! Indeed, sir, I can be as gentle and forbearing as a pet lamb. _Gar._ I cannot doubt it, madam; the proofs of your placidity are very striking--But adieu! though I shall pray for your conversion, rather than have the honour of it--I'd turn Dominican, and condemn myself to perpetual celibacy. [_Exit_, L. _Cæsar._ Now, hussy!--now, hussy!--what do you expect? _Oliv._ Dear me! how can you be so unreasonable! did ever daughter do more to oblige a father! I absolutely begged the man to have me. _Cæsar._ Yes, vixen! after you had made him detest ye; what, I suppose, he did not hit your fancy, madam; though there is not, in all Spain, a man of prettier conversation. _Oliv._ Yes he has a very pretty kind of conversation; 'tis like a parenthesis. _Cæsar._ Like a parenthesis! _Oliv._ Yes, it might be all left out, and never missed. However, I thought him a modest kind of a well-meaning young man, and that he would make a pretty sort of a husband--for notwithstanding his blustering, had I been his wife, in three months he should have been as humble and complaisant as---- _Cæsar._ Ay, there it is--there it is!--that spirit of yours, hussy, you can neither conquer nor conceal; but I'll find a way to tame it, I'll warrant me. [_Exit_, R. OLIVIA _and_ MINETTE _follow him with their eyes, and then burst into a laugh_. _Min._ Well, madam, I give you joy! had other ladies as much success in getting lovers, as you have in getting rid of yours, what contented faces we should see! _Oliv._ But to what purpose do I get rid of them, whilst they rise in succession like monthly pinks? Was there ever any thing so provoking? After some quiet, and believing the men had ceased to trouble themselves about me, no less than two proposals have been made to my inexorable father this very day--What will become of me? _Min._ What should become of you? You'll chuse one from the pair, I hope. Believe me, madam, the only way to get rid of the impertinence of lovers, is to take one, and make him a scarecrow to the rest. _Oliv._ Oh, but I cannot!--Invention assist me this one day! _Min._ Upon my word, madam, invention owes you nothing; and I am afraid you can draw on that bank no longer.--You must trust to your established character of vixen. _Oliv._ But that won't frighten them all, you know, though it did its business with sober Don Garcia. The brave General Antonio would have made a property of me, in spite of every thing, had I not luckily discovered his antipathy to cats, and so scared the hero, by pretending an immoderate passion for young kittens. _Min._ Yes, but you was still harder pushed by the Castilian Count, and his engraved genealogy from Noah. _Oliv._ Oh, he would have kept his post as immovably as the griffins at his gate, had I not very seriously imparted to him, that my mother's great uncle sold oranges in Arragon. _Min._ And pray, madam, if I may be so bold, who is the next gentleman? _Oliv._ Oh, Don Vincentio, who distracts every body with his skill in music. He ought to be married to a Viol de Gamba. I bless my stars I have never yet had a miser in my list--on such a character all art would be lost, and nothing but an earthquake, to swallow up my estate, could save me. _Min._ Well, if some one did but know, how happy would some one be, that for his sake---- _Oliv._ Now, don't be impertinent, Minette. You have several times attempted to slide yourself into a secret, which I am resolved to keep to myself. Continue faithful, and suppress your curiosity. [_Exit_, R. _Min._ Suppress my curiosity, madam!--why, I am a chambermaid, and a sorry one too, it should seem, to have been in your confidence two years, and never have got the master-secret yet. I never was six weeks in a family before, but I knew every secret they had in it for three generations; ay, and I'll know this too, or I'll blow up all her plans, and declare to the world, that she is no more a vixen than other fine ladies----they have most of them a touch on't. [_Exit_, R. ACT II. SCENE I.--_An Apartment at_ DONNA LAURA'S. _Enter_ LAURA, _followed by_ CARLOS, L. _Car._ Nay, madam, you may as well stop here, for I'll follow you through every apartment, but I will be heard. [_Seizing her hand._] _Laura._ This insolence is not to be endured; within my own walls to be thus---- _Car._ The time has been, when within your walls I might be master. _Laura._ Yes, you were then master of my heart; that gave you a right which---- _Car._ You have now transferred to another. [_Flinging away her hand._] _Laura._ Well, sir! _Car._ "Well, sir!"--Unblushing acknowledgement! False, fickle woman! _Laura._ Because I have luckily got the start of you; in a few weeks I should have been the accuser, and you the false and fickle. _Car._ And to secure yourself from that disgrace, you prudently looked out in time for another lover. _Laura._ I can pardon your sneer, because you are mortified. _Car._ Mortified! _Laura._ Yes, mortified to the soul, Carlos! _Car._ [_Stamping._] Madam! madam! _Laura._ This rage would have been all cool insolence had I waited for your change--Scarcely would you have deigned to form a phrase of pity for me; perhaps have bid me forget a man no longer worthy my attachment, and recommended me to hartshorn and my women. _Car._ Has any hour, since I have first known you, given you cause for such unjust---- _Laura._ Yes, every hour--Now, Carlos I bring thee to the test!--You saw, you liked, you loved me; was there no fond trusting woman whom you deserted, to indulge the transient passion? Yes, one blessed with beauty, gentleness, and youth; one, who more than her own being loved thee, who made thee rich, and whom thou madest thy wife. _Car._ My wife!--here's a turn! So to revenge the quarrels of my wife---- _Laura._ No, do not mistake me--what I have done was merely to indulge myself, without more regard to your feelings, than you had to hers. _Car._ And you dare avow to my face, that you have a passion for another? _Laura._ I do, and--for I am above disguise, I confess, so tender is my love for Florio, it has scarcely left a trace of that I once avowed for Carlos. _Car._ Well, madam, if I hear this without some sudden vengeance on the tongue which speaks it, thank the annihilation of that passion, whose remembrance is as dead in my bosom as in yours. Let us, however, part friends, and with a mutual acquittal of every obligation--so give up the settlement of that estate, which left me almost a beggar. _Laura._ Give it up!--ha! ha!----no, Carlos, you consigned me that estate as a proof of love; do not imagine, then, I'll give up the only part of our connexion of which I am not ashamed. _Car._ Base woman! you know it was not a voluntary gift--after having in vain practised on my fondness, whilst in a state of intoxication, you prevailed on me to sign the deed, which you had artfully prepared for the purpose--therefore you must restore it. _Laura._ Never, never. _Car._ Ruin is in the word!----Call it back, madam, or I'll be revenged on thee in thy heart's dearest object--thy minion, Florio!----_he_ shall not riot on my fortune. _Laura._ Ha! ha! ha! Florio is safe--your lands are sold, and in another country we shall enjoy the blessing of thy fond passion, whilst that passion is indulging itself in hatred and execrations. [_Exit_, R. _Car._ My vengeance shall first fall on her. [_Following._] No, he shall be the first victim, or 'twill be incomplete.--Reduced to poverty, I cannot live;----Oh, folly! where are now all the gilded prospects of my youth? Had I----but 'tis too late to look back,--remorse attends the past, and ruin--ruin waits me in the future! [_Exit_, L. SCENE II.--DON CÆSAR'S. VICTORIA _enters_ L., _perusing a letter; enter_ OLIVIA, R. _Oliv._ [_Speaks as entering._] If my father should inquire for me, tell him I am in Donna Victoria's apartment.--Smiling, I protest! my dear gloomy cousin, where have you purchased that sun-shiny look? _Vict._ It is but April sunshine, I fear; but who could resist such a temptation to smile? a letter from Donna Laura, my husband's mistress, styling me her dearest Florio! her life! her soul! and complaining of a twelve hours absence, as the bitterest misfortune. _Oliv._ Ha! ha! ha! most doughty Don! pray, let us see you in your feather and doublet; as a Cavaleiro, it seems, you are formidable. So suddenly to rob your husband of his charmer's heart! you must have used some witchery. _Vict._ Yes, powerful witchery--the knowledge of my sex. Oh! did the men but know us, as well as we do ourselves;--but, thank fate they do not--'twould be dangerous. _Oliv._ What, I suppose, you praised her understanding, was captivated by her wit, and absolutely struck dumb by the amazing beauties of--her mind. _Vict._ Oh, no,--that's the mode prescribed by the essayists on the female heart--ha! ha! ha!--Not a woman breathing, from fifteen to fifty, but would rather have a compliment to the tip of her ear, or the turn of her ancle, than a volume in praise of her intellects. _Oliv._ So, flattery, then, is your boasted pill? _Vict._ No, that's only the occasional gilding; but 'tis in vain to attempt a description of what changed its nature with every moment. I was now attentive--now gay--then tender, then careless. I strove rather to convince her that I was charming, than that I myself was charmed; and when I saw love's arrow quivering in her heart, instead of falling at her feet, sung a triumphant air, and remembered a sudden engagement. _Oliv._ [_Archly._] Would you have done so, had you been a man? _Vict._ Assuredly--knowing what I now do as a woman. _Oliv._ But can all this be worth while, merely to rival a fickle husband with one woman, whilst he is setting his feather, perhaps, at half a score others? _Vict._ To rival him was not my first motive. The Portuguese robbed me of his heart; I concluded she had fascinations which nature had denied to me; it was impossible to visit her as a woman; I, therefore, assumed the Cavalier, to study her, that I might, if possible, be to my Carlos, all he found in her. _Oliv._ Pretty humble creature? _Vict._ In this adventure I learnt more than I expected;--my (oh, cruel!) my husband has given this woman an estate, almost all that his dissipations had left us. _Oliv._ Indeed! _Vict._ To make him more culpable, it was my estate; it was that fortune which my lavish love had made his, without securing it to my children. _Oliv._ How could you be so improvident? _Vict._ Alas! I trusted him with my heart, with my happiness, without restriction. Should I have shown a greater solicitude for any thing, than for these? _Oliv._ The event proves that you should; but how can you be thus passive in your sorrow? since I had assumed the man, I'd make him feel a man's resentment for such injuries. _Vict._ Oh, Olivia! what resentment can I show to him I have vowed to honour, and whom, both my duty and my heart compel me yet to love. _Oliv._ Why, really now, I think--positively, there's no thinking about it; 'tis among the arcana of the married life, I suppose. _Vict._ You, who know me, can judge how I suffered in prosecuting my plan. I have thrown off the delicacy of sex; I have worn the mask of love to the destroyer of my peace--but the object is too great to be abandoned--nothing less than to save my husband from ruin, and to restore him, again a lover, to my faithful bosom. _Oliv._ Well, I confess, Victoria, I hardly know whether most to blame or praise you; but, with the rest of the world, I suppose, your success will determine me. _Enter_ GASPER, L. _Gasp._ Pray, madam, are your wedding shoes ready? [_To_ OLIVIA.] _Oliv._ Insolence!----I can scarcely ever keep up the vixen to this fellow. [_Apart to_ VICTORIA.] _Gasp._ You'll want them, ma'am, to-morrow morning, that's all--so I came to prepare ye. _Oliv._ I want wedding shoes to-morrow! if you are kept on water gruel till I marry, that plump face of yours will be chap-fallen, I believe. _Gasp._ Yes, truly, I believe so too. Lackaday, did you suppose I came to bring you news of your own wedding? no such glad tidings for you, lady, believe me.--You married! I am sure the man who ties himself to you, ought to be half a salamander, and able to live in fire. _Oliv._ What marriage, then, is it, you do me the honour to inform me of? _Gasp._ Why, your father's marriage. You'll have a mother-in-law to-morrow, and having, like a dutiful daughter, danced at the wedding, be immured in a convent for life. _Oliv._ Immured in a convent! then I'll raise sedition in the sisterhood, depose the abbess, and turn the confessor's chair to a go-cart. _Gasp._ So, the threat of the mother-in-law, which I thought would be worse than that of the abbess, does not frighten ye? _Oliv._ No, because my father dares not give me one.--Marry, without my consent! no, no, he'll never think of it, depend on't; however, lest the fit should grow strong upon him, I'll go and administer my volatiles to keep it under. [_Exit_ L. H.] _Gasp._ Administer them cautiously then: too strong a dose of your volatiles would make the fit stubborn. Who'd think that pretty arch look belonged to a termagant? what a pity! 'twould be worth a thousand ducats to cure her. _Vict._ Has Inis told you I wanted to converse with you in private, Gasper? _Gasp._ Oh, yes, madam, and I took particular notice, that it was to be in private.----Sure, says I, Mrs. Inis, Madam Victoria has not taken a fancy to me, and is going to break her mind. _Vict._ Whimsical! ha! ha! suppose I should, Gasper? _Gasp._ Why, then, madam, I should say, fortune had used you devilish scurvily, to give you a gray-beard in a livery. I know well enough, that some young ladies have given themselves to gray-beards, in a gilded coach, and others have run away with a handsome youth in worsted lace; they each had their apology; but if you run away with me--pardon me, madam, I could not stand the ridicule. _Vict._ Oh, very well; but if you refuse to run away with me, will you do me another favour? _Gasp._ Any thing you'll order, madam, except dancing a fandango. _Vict._ You have seen my rich old uncle in the country? _Gasp._ What, Don Sancho, who, with two thirds of a century in his face, affects the misdemeanors of youth; hides his baldness with amber locks, and complains of the tooth-ache, to make you believe, that the two rows of ivory he carries in his head, grew there? _Vict._ Oh, you know him, I find; could you assume his character for an hour, and make love for him? you know, it must be in the style of King Roderigo the First. _Gasp._ Hang it! I am rather too near his own age; to appear an old man with effect, one should not be above twenty; 'tis always so on the stage. _Vict._ Pho! you might pass for Juan's grandson. _Gasp._ Nay, if your ladyship condesends to flatter me, you have me. _Vict._ Then follow me; for Don Cæsar, I hear, is approaching--in the garden I'll make you acquainted with my plan, and impress on your mind every trait of my uncle's character. If you can hit him off, the arts of Laura shall be foiled, and Carlos be again Victoria's. [_Exeunt_, R. _Enter_ DON CÆSAR, _followed by_ OLIVIA, L. _Cæsar._ No, no, 'tis too late--no coaxings; I am resolved, I say. _Oliv._ But it is not too late, and you shan't be resolved, I say. Indeed, now, I'll be upon my guard with the next Don--what's his name? not a trace of the Xantippe left.--I'll study to be charming. _Cæsar._ Nay, you need not study it, you are always charming enough, if you would but hold your tongue. _Oliv._ Do you think so? then to the next lover I won't open my lips; I'll answer every thing he says with a smile, and if he asks me to have him, drop a courtesy of thankfulness. _Cæsar._ Pshaw! that's too much t'other way; you are always either above the mark or below it; you must talk, but talk with good humour. Can't you look gently and prettily, now, as I do? and say, yes, sir, and no, sir; and 'tis very fine weather, sir; and pray, sir, were you at the ball last night? and, I caught a sad cold the other evening; and bless me! I hear Lucinda has run away with her footman, and Don Philip has married his housemaid?--That's the way agreeable ladies talk; you never hear any thing else. _Oliv._ Very true; and you shall see me as agreeable as the best of them, if you won't give me a mother-in-law to snub me, and set me tasks, and to take up all the fine apartments, and send up poor little Livy to lodge next the stars. _Cæsar._ Ha! if thou wert but always thus soft and good-humoured, no mother-in-law in Spain, though she brought the Castiles for her portion, should have power to snub thee. But, Livy, the trial's at hand, for at this moment do I expect Don Vincentio to visit you. He is but just returned from England, and, probably, has yet heard only of your beauty and fortune; I hope it is not from you he will learn the other part of your character. _Oliv._ This moment expect him! two new lovers in a day? _Cæsar._ Beginning already, as I hope to live! ay, I see 'tis in vain; I'll send him an excuse, and marry Marcella before night. _Oliv._ Oh, no! upon my obedience, I promise to be just the soft, civil creature, you have described. _Enter a_ SERVANT, L. _Ser._ Don Vincentio is below, sir. [_Exit_, L. _Cæsar._ I'll wait upon him----well, go and collect all your smiles and your simpers, and remember all I have said to you;--be gentle, and talk pretty little small talk, d'ye hear, and if you please him, you shall have the portion of a Dutch burgomaster's daughter, and the pin-money of a princess, you jade, you. I think at last, I have done it; the fear of this mother-in-law will keep down the fiend in her, if any thing can. [_Exit_, L. _Oliv._ Hah! my poor father, your anxieties will never end till you bring Don Julio. But what shall I do with this Vincentio?--I fear he is so perfectly harmonized, that to put him in an ill temper will be impracticable.--I must try, however; if 'tis possible to find a discord in him, I'll touch the string. [_Exit_, R. SCENE III.--_Another Apartment._ _Enter_ CÆSAR _and_ VINCENTIO, L. _Vin._ Presto, presto, signior! where is the Olivia?--not a moment to spare. I left off in all the fury of composition; minums and crotchets have been battling it through my head the whole day, and trying a semibreve in G sharp, has made me as flat as double F. _Cæsar._ Sharp and flat!--trying a semibreve!--oh--gad, sir! I had like not to have understood you; but a semibreve is something of a demi-culverin, I take it; and you have been practising the art military. _Vin._ Art military!--what, sir! are you unacquainted with music? _Cæsar._ Music! oh, I ask pardon: then you are fond of music----'ware of discords! [_Aside._] _Vin._ Fond of it! devoted to it.--I composed a thing to-day, in all the gusto of Sacchini, and the sweetness of Gluck. But this recreant finger fails me in composing a passage in E octave; if it does not gain more elastic vigour in a week, I shall be tempted to have it amputated, and supply the shake with a spring. _Cæsar._ Mercy! amputate a finger, to supply a shake! _Vin._ Oh, that's a trifle in the road to reputation--to be talked of, is the summum bonum of this life.--A young man of rank should not glide through the world, without a distinguished rage, or, as they call it in England--a hobby-horse. _Cæsar._ A hobby horse! _Vin._ Yes; that is, every man of figure determines on setting out in life, in that land of liberty, in what line to ruin himself; and that choice is called his hobby-horse. One makes the turf his scene of action--another drives about tall phaetons, to peep into their neighbour's garret windows; and a third rides his hobby-horse in parliament, where it jerks him sometimes on one side, and sometimes on the other; sometimes in, and sometimes out; till at length, he is jerked out of his honesty, and his constituents out of their freedom. _Cæsar._ Ay! Well, 'tis a wonder, that with such sort of hobby-horses as these, they should still outride all the world, to the goal of glory. _Vin._ This is all cantabile; nothing to do with the subject of the piece, which is Donna Olivia;--pray give me the key note to her heart. _Cæsar._ Upon my word, signor, to speak in your own phrase, I believe that note has never yet been sounded.--Ah! here she comes! look at her.--Isn't she a fine girl? _Vin._ Touching! Musical, I'll be sworn! her very air is harmonious! _Cæsar._ [_Aside._] I wish thou may'st find her tongue so. _Enter_ OLIVIA, _courtesies profoundly to each_. R. Daughter, receive Don Vincentio--his rank, fortune, and merit, entitle him to the heiress of a grandee; but he is contented to become my son-in-law, if you can please him. [_Crosses_, R. OLIVIA _courtesies again_. _Vin._ Please me! she entrances me! Her presence thrills me like a cadenza of Pachierotti's, and every nerve vibrates to the music of her looks. _Her step andante gently moves,_ _Pianos glance from either eye;_ _Oh how larghetto is the heart,_ _That charms so forté can defy!_ Donna Olivia, will you be contented to receive me as a lover? _Oliv._ Yes, sir--No, sir. _Vin._ Yes, sir! no, sir! bewitching timidity? _Cæsar._ Yes, sir, she's remarkably timid,--She's in the right cue, I see. [_Aside._] _Vin._ 'Tis clear you have never travelled.--I shall be delighted to show you England.--You will there see how entirely timidity is banished the sex. You must affect a marked character, and maintain it at all hazards. _Oliv._ 'Tis a very fine day, sir. _Vin._ Madam! _Oliv._ I caught a sad cold the other evening.--Pray, was you at the ball last night? _Vin._ What ball, fair lady? _Oliv._ Bless me! they say, Lucinda has run away with her footman, and Don Philip has married his house-maid. Now, am I not very agreeable? [_Apart to_ DON CÆSAR.] _Cæsar._ O, such perverse obedience! _Vin._ Really, madam, I have not the honour to know Don Philip and Lucinda--nor am I happy enough, entirely to comprehend you. _Oliv._ No! I only meant to be agreeable--but, perhaps, you have no taste for pretty little small talk! _Vin._ Pretty little small talk! _Oliv._ A marked character you admire; so do I, I dote on it.--I would not resemble the rest of the world in any thing. _Vin._ My taste to the fiftieth part of a crotchet!--We shall agree admirably when we are married! _Oliv._ And that will be unlike the rest of the world, and therefore, charming! _Cæsar._ [_Aside._] It will do! I have hit her humour at last. Why didn't this young dog offer himself before? _Oliv._ I believe, I have the honour to carry my taste that way, farther than you, Don Vincentio. Pray, now, what is your usual style in living? _Vin._ My winters I spend in Madrid, as other people do. My summers I drawl through at my castle---- _Oliv._ As other people do!--and yet you pretend to taste and singularity, ha! ha! ha! Good Don Vincentio, never talk of a marked character again. Go into the country in July, to smell roses and woodbines, when every body regales on their fragrance! Now, I would rusticate only in winter, and my bleak castle should be decorated with verdure and flowers, amidst the soft zephyrs of December. _Cæsar._ [_Aside._] Oh, she'll go too far! _Oliv._ On the leafless trees I would hang green branches--the labour of silk worms, and therefore, natural; whilst my rose shrubs and myrtles should be scented by the first perfumers in Italy. Unnatural, indeed, but, therefore, singular and striking. _Vin._ Oh, charming! You beat me, where I thought myself the strongest. Would they but establish newspapers here, to paragraph our singularities, we should be the most envied couple in Spain! _Cæsar._ [_Aside._] By St. Antony, he is as mad as she is! _Vin._ What say you, Don Cæsar? Olivia, and her winter garden, and I and my music. _Oliv._ Music, did you say? Music! I am passionately fond of that! _Cæsar._ She has saved my life! I thought she was going to knock down his hobby-horse. [_Aside._] _Vin._ You enchant me! I have the finest band in Madrid--My first violin draws a longer bow than Giardini; my clarionets, my viol de gamba----Oh, you shall have such concerts! _Oliv._ Concerts! Pardon me there--My passion is a single instrument. _Vin._ That's carrying singularity very far indeed! I love a crash; so does every body of taste. _Oliv._ But my taste isn't like every body's; my nerves are so particularly fine, that more than one instrument overpowers them. _Vin._ Pray tell me the name of that one: I am sure it must be the most elegant and captivating in the world.--I am impatient to know it.--We'll have no other instrument in Spain, and I will study to become its master, that I may woo you with its music. Charming Olivia! tell me, is it a harpsichord? a piano forte? a pentachord? a harp? _Oliv._ You have it, you have it; a harp--yes, a Jew's-harp is, to me, the only instrument. Are you not charmed with the delightful h--u--m of its base, running on the ear, like the distant rumble of a state coach? It presents the idea of vastness and importance to the mind. The moment you are its master--I'll give you my hand. _Vin._ Da capo, madam, da capo! a Jew's-harp! _Oliv._ Bless me, sir, don't I tell you so? Violins chill me; clarionets, by sympathy, hurt my lungs; and, instead of maintaining a band under my roof, I would not keep a servant, who knew a bassoon from a flute, or could tell whether he heard a jigg, or a canzonetta. _Cæsar._ Oh thou perverse one! you know you love concerts--you know you do. [_In great agitation._] _Oliv._ I detest them! It's vulgar custom that attaches people to the sound of fifty different instruments at once; 'twould be as well to talk on the same subject, in fifty different tongues. A band; 'tis a mere olio of sound! I'd rather listen to a three-stringed guitar serenading a sempstress in some neighbouring garret. _Cæsar._ Oh you----Don Vincentio, [_Crosses_, C.] this is nothing but perverseness, wicked perverseness. Hussy!--didn't you shake, when you mentioned a garret? didn't bread and water, and a step-mother, come into your head at the same time? _Vin._ Piano, piano, good sir! Spare yourself all farther trouble. Should the Princess of Guzzarat, and all her diamond mines, offer themselves, I would not accept them, in lieu of my band--a band, that has half ruined me to collect. I would have allowed Donna Olivia a blooming garden in winter; I would even have procured barrenness and snow for her in the dog-days; but, to have my band insulted!--to have my knowledge in music slighted!--to be roused from all the energies of composition, by the drone of a Jew's-harp, I cannot breathe under the idea. _Cæsar._ Then--then you refuse her, sir! _Vin._ I cannot use so harsh a word--I take my leave of the lady.--Adieu, madam--I leave you to enjoy your solos, whilst I fly to the raptures of a crash. [_Exit_, L. [CÆSAR _goes up to her, and looks her in the face; then goes off without speaking_, L. _Oliv._ Mercy; that silent anger is terrifying: I read a young mother-in-law, and an old lady abbess, in every line of his face. _Enter_ VICTORIA, R. Well, you heard the whole, I suppose--heard poor unhappy me scorned and rejected. _Vict._ I heard you in imminent danger; and expected Signor Da Capo would have snapped you up, in spite of caprice and extravagance. _Oliv._ Oh, they charmed, instead of scaring him. I soon found, that my only chance was to fall across his caprice. Where is the philosopher who could withstand that? _Vict._ But what, my good cousin, does all this tend to? _Oliv._ I dare say you can guess. Penelope had never cheated her lovers with a never-ending web, had she not had an Ulysses. _Vict._ An Ulysses! what, are you then married? _Oliv._ O no, not yet! but, believe me, my design is not to lead apes; nor is my heart an icicle. If you choose to know more, put on your veil, and slip with me through the garden, to the Prado. _Vict._ I can't, indeed. I am this moment going to dress _en homme_ to visit the impatient Portuguese. _Oliv._ Send an excuse; for, positively, you go with me. Heaven and earth! I am going to meet a man! whom I have been fool enough, to dream and think of these two years, and I don't know that ever he thought of me in his life. _Vict._ Two years discovering that? _Oliv._ He has been abroad. The only time I ever saw him was at the Duchess of Medina's--there were a thousand people; and he was so elegant, so careless, so handsome!--In a word, though he set off for France the next morning, by some witchcraft or other, he has been before my eyes ever since. _Vict._ Was the impression mutual? _Oliv._ He hardly noticed me. I was then a bashful thing just out of a convent, and shrunk from observation. _Vict._ Why, I thought you were going to meet him. _Oliv._ To be sure; I sent him a command this morning, to be at the Prado. I am determined to find out if his heart is engaged, and if it is---- _Vict._ You'll cross your arms, and crown your brow with willows? _Oliv._ No, positively; not whilst we have myrtles. I would prefer Julio, 'tis true, to all his sex; but if he is stupid enough to be insensible to me, I shan't for that reason, pine like a girl, on chalk and oatmeal.--No, no; in that case, I shall form a new plan, and treat my future lovers with more civility. _Vict._ You are the only woman in love, I ever heard talk reasonably. _Oliv._ Well, prepare for the Prado, and I'll give you a lesson against your days of widowhood. Don't you wish this the moment, Victoria? A pretty widow at four-and-twenty has more subjects, and a wider empire, than the first monarch upon earth. I long to see you in your weeds. _Vict._ Never may you see them! Oh, Olivia! my happiness, my life, depend on my husband. The fond hope of still being united to him, gives me spirits in my affliction, and enables me to support even the period of his neglect with patience. [_Exeunt_, R. ACT III. SCENE I.--_A long Street._ JULIO _enters from a Garden Gate in flat, with precipitation; a_ SERVANT, _within, fastens the Gate_. _Julio._ Yes, yes, bar the gate fast, Cerberus, lest some other curious traveller should stumble on your confines.--If ever I am so caught again-- GARCIA _enters_ L.; _going hastily across_, JULIO _seizes him_. Don Garcia, never make love to a woman in a veil. _Gar._ Why so, pr'ythee? Veils and secrecy are the chief ingredients in a Spanish amour; but in two years, Julio, thou art grown absolutely French. _Julio._ That may be; but if ever I trust to a veil again, may no lovely, blooming beauty ever trust me. Why dost know, I have been an hour at the feet of a creature, whose first birth-day must have been kept the latter end of the last century, and whose trembling, weak voice, I mistook for the timid cadence of bashful fifteen! _Gar._ Ha! ha! ha! What a happiness to have seen thee in thy raptures, petitioning for half a glance only, of the charms the envious veil concealed! _Julio._ Yes; and when she unveiled her Gothic countenance, to render the thing completely ridiculous, she began moralizing; and positively would not let me out of the snare, till I had persuaded her she had worked a conversion, and that I'd never make love--but in an honest way, again. _Gar._ Oh, that honest way of love-making is delightful, to be sure! I had a dose of it this morning; but, happily, the ladies have not yet learned to veil their tempers, though they have their faces. _Enter_ DON VINCENTIO, R. _Vin._ Julio! Garcia! congratulate me!--Such an escape! [_Crosses to_ C. _Julio._ What have you escaped? _Vin._ Matrimony. _Gar._ Nay, then our congratulations may be mutual. I have had a matrimonial escape too, this very day. I was almost on the brink of the ceremony with the veriest Xantippe! _Vin._ Oh, that was not my case--mine was a sweet creature, all elegance, all life. _Julio._ Then where's the cause of congratulation? _Vin._ Cause! why she's ignorant of music! prefers a jig to a canzonetta, and a Jew's-harp to a pentachord. _Gar._ Had my nymph no other fault, I would pardon that, for she was lovely and rich. _Vin._ Mine, too, was lovely and rich; and, I'll be sworn, as ignorant of scolding, as of the gamba!--but not to know music! _Julio._ Gentle, lovely, and rich! and ignorant only of music? _Gar._ A venial crime indeed! if the sweet creature will marry me, she shall carry a Jew's-harp always in her train, as a Scotch laird does his bagpipes. I wish you'd give me your interest. _Vin._ Oh, most willingly, if thou hast so gross an inclination; I'll name thee as a dull-souled, largo fellow, to her father, Don Cæsar. _Gar._ Cæsar! what Don Cæsar? _Vin._ De Zuniga. _Gar._ Impossible! _Vin._ Oh, I'll answer for her mother. So much is Don Zuniga, her father, that he does not know a semibreve from a culverin! _Gar._ The name of the lady? _Vin._ Olivia. _Gar._ Why you must be mad--that's my termagant! _Vin._ Termagant!--ha! ha! ha! Thou hast certainly some vixen of a mistress, who infects thy ears towards the whole sex. Olivia is timid and elegant. _Gar._ By Juno, there never existed such a scold! _Vin._ By Orpheus, there never was a gayer tempered creature!--Spirit enough to be charming, that's all. If she loved harmony, I'd marry her to-morrow. _Julio._ Ha! ha! what a ridiculous jangle! 'Tis evident you speak of two different women. _Gar._ I speak of Donna Olivia, heiress to Don Cæsar de Zuniga. _Vin._ I speak of the heiress of Don Cæsar de Zuniga, who is called Donna Olivia. _Gar._ Sir, I perceive you mean to insult me. _Vin._ Your perceptions are very rapid, sir, but if you choose to think so, I'll settle that point with you immediately: But for fear of consequences, I'll fly home, and add the last bar to my concerto, and then meet you where you please. [_Crosses_, L. _Julio._ Pho! this is evidently misapprehension. [_Crosses_, C.] To clear the matter up, I'll visit the lady, if you'll introduce me, Vincentio;--but you shall both promise to be governed in this dispute, by my decision. _Vin._ I'll introduce you with joy, if you'll try to persuade her of the necessity of music, and the charms of harmony. _Gar._ Yes, she needs that----You'll find her all jar and discord. _Julio._ Come, no more, Garcia; thou art but a sort of male vixen thyself. Melodious Vincentio, when shall I expect you? _Vin._ This evening. _Julio._ Not this evening; I have engaged to meet a goldfinch in a grove--then I shall have music, you rogue! _Vin._ It won't sing at night. _Julio._ Then I'll talk to it till the morning, and hear it pour out its matins to the rising sun. Call on me to-morrow; I'll then attend you to Donna Olivia, and declare faithfully the impression her character makes on me.--Come, Garcia, I must not leave you together, lest his crotchets and your minums should fall into a crash of discords. [_Exeunt_, VINCENTIO, L., JULIO _and_ GARCIA, R. SCENE II.--_The Prado._ _Enter_ DON CARLOS, R. _Car._ All hail to the powers of burgundy! Three flasks to my own share! What sorrows can stand against three flasks of burgundy? I was a damned melancholy fellow this morning, going to shoot myself, to get rid of my troubles.--Where are my troubles now? Gone to the moon, to look for my wits; and there I hope they'll remain together, if one cannot come back without t'other. But where is this indolent dog, Julio? He fit to receive appointments from ladies! Sure I have not missed the hour--No, but seven yet--[_Looking at his watch._]--Seven's the hour, by all the joys of burgundy! The rogue must be here--let's reconnoitre. [_Retires_, R. _Enter_ VICTORIA _and_ OLIVIA, _veiled_, L. U. E. _Oliv._ Positively, mine's a pretty spark, to let me be first at the place of appointment. I have half resolved to go home again, to punish him. _Vict._ I'll answer for its being but half a resolution--to make it entire, would be to punish yourself.--There's a solitary man--is not that he? _Oliv._ I think not. If he'd please to turn his face this way---- _Vict._ That's impossible, while the loadstone is the other way. He is looking at the woman in the next walk. Can't you disturb him? _Oliv._ [_Screams._] Oh! a frightful frog! [CARLOS _turns on_ R. _Vict._ Heavens, 'tis my husband! _Oliv._ Your husband! Is that Don Carlos? _Vict._ It is indeed. _Oliv._ Why, really, now I see the man, I don't wonder that you are in no hurry for your weeds. He is moving towards us. _Vict._ I cannot speak to him, and yet my soul flies to meet him. _Car._ Pray, lady, what occasioned that pretty scream? I shrewdly suspect it was a trap. _Oliv._ A trap! ha! ha! ha!--a trap for you! _Car._ Why not, madam? Zounds, a man near six feet high, and three flasks of burgundy in his head, is worth laying a trap for. _Oliv._ Yes, unless he happens to be trapped before. 'Tis about two years since you was caught, I take it--do keep farther off!--Odious! a married man! _Car._ The devil! is it posted under every saint in the street, that I am a married man? _Oliv._ No, you carry the marks about you; that rueful phiz could never belong to a bachelor. Besides, there's an odd appearance on your temples--does your hat sit easily? _Car._ By all the thorns of matrimony, if---- _Oliv._ Poor man! how natural to swear by what one feels--but why were you in such haste to gather the thorns of matrimony? Bless us! had you but looked about you a little, what a market might have been made of that fine, proper, promising person of yours. _Car._ Confound thee, confound thee! If thou art a wife, may thy husband plague thee with jealousies, and thou never be able to give him cause for them; and if thou art a maid, may'st thou be an old one! [_Going_, R. _meets_ DON JULIO.] Oh, Julio, look not that way; there's a tongue will stun thee! _Julio._ Heaven be praised! I love female prattle. A woman's tongue can never scare me. Which of these two goldfinches makes the music? _Car._ [_Crosses to_ VICTORIA.] Oh, this is as silent as a turtle--[_Taking_ VICTORIA'S _hand_.]--only coos now and then,--Perhaps you don't hate a married man, sweet one? _Vict._ You guess right; I love a married man. _Car._ Hah, say'st thou so? wilt thou love me? _Vict._ Will you let me? _Car._ Let thee, my charmer! how I'll cherish thee for't. What would I not give for thy heart! _Vict._ I demand a price, that, perhaps, you cannot give--I ask unbounded love; but you have a wife. _Car._ And, therefore, the readier to love every other woman; 'tis in your favour, child. _Vict._ Will you love me ever? _Car._ Ever! yes, ever; till we find each other dull company, and yawn, and talk of our neighbours for amusement. _Vict._ Farewell! I suspected you to be a bad chapman, and that you would not reach my terms. [_Going._] _Car._ Nay, I'll come to your terms, if I can;--but move this way; [_Crosses_, L.] I am fearful of that woodpecker at your elbow--should she begin again, her noise will scare all the pretty loves that are playing about my heart. Don't turn your head towards them; if you like to listen to love tales, you'll meet fond pairs enough in this walk. [_Forcing her gently off._ _Julio._ I really believe, though you deny it, that you are my destiny--that is, you fated me hither. See, is not this your mandate? [_Taking a letter from his pocket._ _Oliv._ Oh, delightful! the scrawl of some chambermaid: or, perhaps, of your valet, to give you an air. What is it signed? Marriatornes? Tomasa? Sancha? _Julio._ Nay, now I am convinced the letter is yours, since you abuse it: so you may as well confess? _Oliv._ Suppose I should, you can't be sure that I do not deceive you. _Julio._ True; but there is one point in which I have made a vow not to be deceived; therefore, the preliminary is, that you throw off your veil. _Oliv._ My veil! _Julio._ Positively! if you reject this article, our negotiation ends. _Oliv._ You have no right to offer articles, unless you own yourself conquered. _Julio._ I own myself willing to be conquered, and have, therefore, a right to make the best terms I can. Do you accede to the demand? _Oliv._ Certainly not. _Julio._ You had better. _Oliv._ I protest I will not. _Julio._ [_Aside._] My life upon't, I make you. Why, madam, how absurd this is!--yet, 'tis of no consequence, for I know your features, as well as though I saw them. _Oliv._ How can that be? _Julio._ I judge of what you hide, by what I see--I could draw your picture. _Oliv._ Charming! pray begin the portrait. _Julio._ Imprimis, a broad high forehead, rounded at the top, like an old-fashioned gateway. _Oliv._ Oh, horrid! _Julio._ Little gray eyes, a sharp nose, and hair, the colour of rusty prunella. _Oliv._ Odious! _Julio._ Pale cheeks, thin lips, and---- _Oliv._ Hold, hold, thou vilifier! [_Throws off her veil; he sinks on one knee._] There! yes, kneel in contrition for your malicious libel. _Julio._ Say, rather, in adoration. What a charming creature! _Oliv._ So, now for lies on the other side. _Julio._ A forehead formed by the graces; hair, which cupid would steal for his bow-strings, were he not engaged in shooting through those sparkling hazel circlets, which nature has given you for eyes; lips! that 'twere a sin to call so; they are fresh gathered rose leaves, with the fragrant morning dew still hanging on their rounded surface. _Oliv._ Is that extemporaneous, or ready cut, for every woman who takes off her veil to you? _Julio._ I believe, 'tis not extemporaneous; for Nature, when she finished you, formed the sentiment in my heart, and there it has been hid, till you, for whom it was formed, called it into words. _Oliv._ Suppose I should understand, from all this, that you have a mind to be in love with me; would not you be finely caught? _Julio._ Charmingly caught! if you'll let me understand, at the same time, that you have a mind to be in love with me. _Oliv._ In love with a man! Heavens! I never loved any thing but a squirrel! _Julio._ Make me your squirrel--I'll put on your chain, and gambol and play for ever at your side. _Oliv._ But suppose you should have a mind to break the chain? _Julio._ Then loosen it; for, if once that humour seizes me, restraint won't cure it. Let me spring and bound at liberty, and when I return to my lovely mistress, tired of all but her, fasten me again to your girdle, and kiss me while you chide. _Oliv._ Your servant--to encourage you to leave me again? _Julio._ No; to make returning to you, the strongest attraction to my life. Why are you silent? _Oliv._ I am debating, whether to be pleased or displeased, at what you have said. _Julio._ Well? _Oliv._ You shall know when I have determined. My friend and yours are approaching this way, and they must not be interrupted. _Julio._ 'Twould be barbarous--we'll retire as far off as you please. _Oliv._ But we retire separately, sir; that lady is a woman of honour, and this moment of the greatest importance to her. You may, however, conduct me to the gate, on condition that you leave me instantly. _Julio._ Leave her instantly--oh, then I know my cue. [_Exit together_, R. U. E. _Enter_ CARLOS L., _followed by_ VICTORIA, _unveiled_. _Car._ [_Looking back on her._] My wife! _Vict._ Oh, Heavens! I will veil myself again. I will hide my face for ever from you, if you will still feast my ears with those soft vows, which, a moment since, you poured forth so eagerly. _Car._ My wife!--making love to my own wife! _Vict._ Why should one of the dearest moments of my life be to you so displeasing? _Car._ So, I am caught in this snare, by way of agreeable surprise, I suppose. _Vict._ 'Would you could think it so! _Car._ No, madam! by Heaven, 'tis a surprise fatal to every hope with which you may have flattered yourself. What! am I to be followed, haunted, watched! _Vict._ Not to upbraid you. I followed you because my castle, without you, seemed a dreary desert. Indeed, I will never upbraid you. _Car._ Generous assurance! never upbraid me--no, by Heavens! I'll take care you never shall. She has touched my soul, but I dare not yield to the impression. Her softness is worse than death to me! [_Aside._] _Vict._ 'Would I could find words to please you! _Car._ You cannot; therefore leave me, or suffer me to go, without attempting to follow me. _Vict._ Is it possible you can be so barbarous? _Car._ Do not expostulate; your first vowed duty is obedience--that word so grating to your sex. _Vict._ To me it was never grating; to obey you has been my joy; even now, I will not dispute your will, though I feel, for the first time, obedience hateful. [_Going, and then turning back._] Oh, Carlos! my dear Carlos! I go, but my soul remains with you. [_Exit_, L. _Car._ Oh, horrible! had I not taken this harsh measure, I must have killed myself; for how could I tell her that I have made her a beggar? better she should hate, detest me, than that my tenderness should give her a prospect of felicity, which now she can never taste. Oh, wine-created spirit! where art thou now? Madness, return to me again! for reason presents me nothing but despair. _Enter_ JULIO, _from the top_, R. U. E. _Julio._ Carlos, who the devil can they be? my charming little witch was inflexible. I hope yours has been more communicative. _Car._ Folly! Nonsense! _Julio._ Folly! Nonsense! What, a pretty woman's smile!--but you married fellows have neither taste nor joy. _Car._ Pshaw! [_Crosses, and exit_, R. _Julio._ Pshaw! that's a husband! Humph--suppose my fair one should want to debase me into such an animal; she can't have so much villany in her disposition: and yet, if she should? pho! it won't bear thinking about. If I do so mad a thing, it must be as cowards fight, without daring to reflect on the danger. [_Exit_, R. SCENE III.--_An Apartment in the house of_ DON VASQUEZ, MARCELLA'S _Father_. _Enter_ DON CÆSAR _and_ DON VASQUEZ, L. _Cæsar._ Well, Don Vasquez, and a----you----then I say, you have a mind that I should marry your daughter? _Vasq._ It is sufficient, signor, that you have signified to us your intention--my daughter shall prove her gratitude, in her attention to your felicity. _Cæsar._ Egad, now it comes to the push! [_Aside._] hem, hem!--but just nineteen, you say? _Vasq._ Exactly, the eleventh of last month. _Cæsar._ Pity it was not twenty. _Vasq._ Why, a year can make no difference, I should think. _Cæsar._ O, yes it does; a year's a great deal; they are so skittish at nineteen. _Vasq._ Those who are skittish at nineteen, I fear, you won't find much mended at twenty. Marcella is very grave, and a pretty little, plump, fair---- _Cæsar._ Ay, fair again! pity she isn't brown, or olive--I like your olives. _Vasq._ Brown and olive! you are very whimsical, my old friend! _Cæsar._ Why, these fair girls are so stared at by the men; and the young fellows, now-a-days, have a damned impudent stare with them--'tis very abashing to a woman--very distressing! _Vasq._ Yes, so it is; but happily their distress is of that nature, that it generally goes off in a simper. But come, I'll send Marcella to you, and she will--[_Crosses_, R.] _Cæsar._ No, no; stay, my good friend. [_Gasping._] You are in a violent hurry! _Vasq._ Why, truly, signor, at our time of life, when we determine to marry, we have no time to lose. _Cæsar._ Why, that's very true, and so--oh! St. Antony, now it comes to the point--but there can be no harm in looking at her--a look won't bind us for better for worse. [_Aside._] Well, then, if you have a mind, I say, you may let me see her. [_Exit_ VASQUEZ, R. [_Cæsar puts on his spectacles._] Ay, here she comes--I hear her--trip, trip, trip! I don't like that step. A woman should always tread steadily, with dignity, it awes the men. _Enter_ VASQUEZ, _leading_ MARCELLA, R. _Vasq._ There, Marcella, behold your future husband; and remember, that your kindness to him will be the standard of your duty to me. [_Exit_, R. _Mar._ Oh, Heavens! [_Aside._] _Cæsar._ Somehow, I am afraid to look round. _Mar._ Surely he does not know that I am here! [_Coughs gently._] _Cæsar._ So, she knows how to give an item, I find. _Mar._ Pray, signor, have you any commands for me? _Cæsar._ Hum!--not nonpluss'd at all! [_Looks around._] Oh! that eye, I don't like that eye. _Mar._ My father commanded me---- _Cæsar._ Yes, I know--I know. [_To her._] Why, now I look again, there is a sort of a modest--Oh, that smile; that smile will never do. [_Aside._] _Mar._ I understand, signor, that you have demanded my hand in marriage. _Cæsar._ Upon my word, plump to the point! [_Aside._] Yes, I did a sort of--I can't say but that I did---- _Mar._ I am not insensible of the honour you do me, sir, but--but---- _Cæsar._ But!--What, don't you like the thoughts of the match? _Mar._ Oh, yes, sir, yes--exceedingly. I dare not say no. [_Aside._] _Cæsar._ Oh, you do--exceedingly! What, I suppose, child, your head is full of jewels, and finery, and equipage? [_With ill humour._] _Mar._ No, indeed, sir. _Cæsar._ No, what then? what sort of a life do you expect to lead, when you are my wife? what pleasures d'ye look forward to? _Mar._ None. _Cæsar._ Hey! _Mar._ I shall obey my father, sir; I shall marry you; but I shall be most wretched! [_Weeps._] _Cæsar._ Indeed! _Mar._ There is not a fate I would not prefer;--but pardon me! _Cæsar._ Go on, go on, I never was better pleased. _Mar._ Pleased at my reluctance! _Cæsar._ Never, never better pleased in my life;--so you had really, now, you young baggage, rather have me for a grandfather, than a husband? _Mar._ Forgive my frankness, sir--a thousand times! _Cæsar._ My dear girl, let me kiss your hand.--Egad! you've let me off charmingly. I was frightened out of my wits, lest you should have taken as violent an inclination to the match, as your father has. _Mar._ Dear sir, you charm me. _Cæsar._ But harkye!--you'll certainly incur your father's anger, if I don't take the refusal entirely on myself, which I will do, if you'll only assist me in a little business I have in hand. _Mar._ Any thing to show my gratitude. _Cæsar._ You must know, I can't get my daughter to marry; there's nothing on earth will drive her to it, but the dread of a mother-in-law. Now, if you will let it appear to her, that you and I are driving to the goal of matrimony, I believe it will do--what say you? shall we be lovers in play? _Mar._ If you are sure it will be only in play. _Cæsar._ Oh, my life upon't--but we must be very fond, you know. _Mar._ To be sure--exceedingly tender; ha! ha! ha! _Cæsar._ You must smile upon me, now and then, roguishly; and slide your hand into mine, when you are sure she sees you, and let me pat your cheek, and---- _Mar._ Oh, no farther, pray; that will be quite sufficient. _Cæsar._ Gad, I begin to take a fancy to your rogue's face, now I'm in no danger; mayn't we--mayn't we salute sometimes, it will seem infinitely more natural. _Mar._ Never! such an attempt would make me fly off at once. _Cæsar._ Well, you must be lady governess in this business. I'll go home now, and fret madam, about her young mother-in-law--by'e, sweeting! _Mar._ By'e, charmer! _Cæsar._ Oh, bless its pretty eyes! [_Exit_, L. _Mar._ Bless its pretty spectacles! ha! ha! ha! enter into a league with a cross old father against a daughter! why, how could he suspect me capable of so much treachery? I could not answer it to my conscience. No, no, I'll acquaint Donna Olivia with the plot: and, as in duty bound, we'll turn our arms against Don Cæsar. [_Exit_, R. ACT IV. SCENE I.--DONNA LAURA'S. _Enter_ DONNA LAURA _and_ PEDRO, R. _Laura._ Well, Pedro, hast thou seen Don Florio? _Ped._ Yes, Donna. _Laura._ How did he look when he read my letter? _Ped._ Mortal well; I never see'd him look better--he'd got a new cloak, and a---- _Laura._ Pho, blockhead! did he look pleased? did he kiss my name? did he press the billet to his bosom with all the warmth of love? _Ped._ No, he didn't warm in that way; but he did another, for he put it into the fire. _Laura._ How! _Ped._ Yes, when I spoke, he started, for, I think, he had forgot that I was by--So, says he, go home and tell Donna Laura, I fly to her presence. [_She waves her hand for him to go._ _Laura._ Is it possible? so contemptuously to destroy the letter, in which my whole heart overflowed with tenderness! Oh, how idly I talk! he is here: his very voice pierces my heart! I dare not meet his eye, thus discomposed! [_Exit_, R. _Enter_ VICTORIA, L., _in men's clothes, preceded by_ SANCHA. _San._ I will inform my mistress that you are here, Don Florio; I thought she had been in this apartment. [_Exit_, L. _Vict._ Now must I, with a mind torn by anxieties, once more assume the lover of my husband's mistress--of the woman, who has robbed me of his heart, and his children of their fortune. Sure, my task is hard. Oh, love! Oh, married love, assist me! If I can, by any art, obtain from her that fatal deed, I shall save my little ones from ruin, and then--But I hear her step. [_Agitated, pressing her hand on her bosom._]--There! I have hid my griefs within my heart, and, now for all the impudence of an accomplished cavalier! [_Sings an air, sets her hat in the glass, dances a few steps, &c. then runs to_ LAURA, R., _and seizes her hand._] My lovely Laura! _Laura._ That look speaks Laura loved, as well as lovely. _Vict._ To be sure! Petrarch immortalized his Laura by his verses, and mine shall be immortal in my passion. _Laura._ Oh, Florio, how deceitful! I know not what enchantment binds me to thee. _Vict._ Me! my dear! is all this to me? [_Playing carelessly with the feather in her hat._ _Laura._ Yes, ingrate, thee! _Vict._ Positively, Laura, you have these extravagancies so often, I wonder my passion can stand them. To be plain, those violences in your temper may make a pretty relief in the flat of matrimony, child, but they do not suit that state of freedom which is necessary to my happiness. It was by such destructive arts as these you cured Don Carlos of his love. _Laura._ Cured Don Carlos! Oh, Florio! wert thou but as he is? _Vict._ Why, you don't pretend he loves you still? [_Eagerly._] _Laura._ Yes, most ardently and truly. _Vict._ Hah! _Laura._ If thou wouldst persuade me that thy passion is real, borrow his words, his looks: be a hypocrite one dear moment, and speak to me in all the frenzy of that love which warms the heart of Carlos! _Vict._ The heart of Carlos! _Laura._ Hah, that seemed a jealous pang--it gives my hopes new life. [_Aside._] Yes, Florio, he, indeed, knows what it is to love. For me he forsook a beauteous wife; nay, and with me he would forsake his country. _Vict._ Villain! Villain! _Laura._ Nay, let not the thought distress you thus--Carlos I despise--he is the weakest of mankind. _Vict._ 'Tis false, madam, you cannot despise him. Carlos the weakest of mankind! Heavens! what woman could resist him? Persuasion sits on his tongue, and love, almighty love, triumphant in his eyes! _Laura._ This is strange; you speak of your rival with the admiration of a mistress. _Vict._ Laura! it is the fate of jealousy as well as love, to see the charms of its object, increased and heightened. I am jealous--jealous to distraction, of Don Carlos; and cannot taste peace, unless you'll swear never to see him more. _Laura._ I swear, joyfully swear, never to behold or speak to him again. When, dear youth, shall we retire to Portugal?--We are not safe here. _Vict._ You know I am not rich.--You must first sell the lands my rival gave you. [_Observing her with apprehension._ _Laura._ 'Tis done--I have found a purchaser, and to-morrow the transfer will be finished. _Vict._ [_Aside._] Ah! I have now, then, nothing to trust to but the ingenuity of Gasper. There is reason to fear Don Carlos had no right in that estate, with which you supposed yourself endowed. _Laura._ No right! what could have given you those suspicions? _Vict._ A conversation with Juan, his steward, who assures me his master never had an estate in Leon. _Laura._ Never! what, not by marriage? _Vict._ Juan says so. _Laura._ My blood runs cold; can I have taken pains to deceive myself?--Could I think so, I should be mad! _Vict._ These doubts may soon be annihilated, or confirmed to certainty.--I have seen Don Sancho, the uncle of Victoria; he is now in Madrid.--You have told me that he once professed a passion for you. _Laura._ Oh, to excess; but at that time I had another object. _Vict._ Have you conversed with him much? _Laura._ I never saw him nearer than from my balcony, where he used to ogle me through a glass, suspended by a ribbon, like an order of knighthood; he is weak enough to fancy it gives him an air of distinction--Ha! ha! But where can I find him? I must see him. _Vict._ Write him a billet, and I will send it to his lodgings. _Laura._ Instantly--Dear Florio, a new prospect opens to me--Don Sancho is rich and generous; and, by playing on his passions, his fortune may be a constant fund to us.--I'll dip my pen in flattery. [_Exit_, R. _Vict._ Base woman! how can I pity thee, or regret the steps which my duty obliges me to take? For myself, I would not swerve from the nicest line of rectitude, nor wear the shadow of deceit. But, for my children!--Is there a parental heart that will not pardon me? [_Exit_, R. SCENE II.--DON CÆSAR'S. _Enter_ OLIVIA _and_ MINETTE, R. _Oliv._ Well, here we are in private--what is this charming intelligence of which thou art so full this morning? _Min._ Why, ma'am, as I was in the balcony that overlooks Don Vasquez's garden, Donna Marcella told me, that Don Cæsar had last night been to pay her a visit previous to their marriage, and-- _Oliv._ Their marriage! How can you give me the intelligence with such a look of joy? Their marriage!--what will become of me? _Min._ Dear ma'am! if you'll but have patience.--She says that, Don Cæsar and she are perfectly agreed-- _Oliv._ Still with that smirking face?--I can't have patience. _Min._ Then, madam, if you won't let me tell the story, please to read it----Here's a letter from Donna Marcella. _Oliv._ Why did you not give it me at first? [_Reads._] _Min._ Because I didn't like to be cut out of my story. If orators were obliged to come to the point at once, mercy on us! what tropes and figures we should lose! _Oliv._ Oh, Minette! I give you leave to smirk again--listen. [_Reads._] _I am more terrified at the idea of becoming your father's wife, than you are in expectation of a stepmother; and Don Cæsar would be as loath as either of us.--He only means to frighten you into matrimony, and I have, on certain conditions, agreed to assist him; but, whatever you may hear, or see, be assured that nothing is so impossible, as that he should become the husband of Donna Marcella._--Oh, delightful girl! how I love her for this! _Min._ Yes, ma'am; and if you'd had patience, I should have told you that she's now here with Don Cæsar, in grave debate how to begin the attack; which must force you to take shelter in the arms of a husband. _Oliv._ Ah, no matter how they begin it. Let them amuse themselves in raising batteries; my reserved fire shall tumble them about their ears, in the moment my poor father is singing his Io's for victory.--But here come the lovers--Well, I protest now, sixteen and sixty is a very comely sight.--'Tis contrast gives effect to every thing.--Lud! how my father ogles! I had no idea he was such a sort of man. I am really afraid he isn't quite so good as he should be! _Enter_ DON CÆSAR, _leading_ MARCELLA, L. _Cæsar._ H--um! Madam looks very placid; we shall discompose her, or I am mistaken. [_Apart._] So, Olivia, here's Donna Marcella come to visit you--though, as matters are, that respect is due from you. _Oliv._ I am sensible of the condescension. My dear ma'am, how very good this is! [_Taking her hand._] _Cæsar._ Yes, you'll think yourself wonderfully obliged, when you know all! [_Aside._] Pray, Donna Marcella, what do you think of these apartments?--The furniture and decorations are my daughter's taste; would you wish them to remain, or will you give orders to have them changed? _Mar._ Changed, undoubtedly; I can have nobody's taste govern my apartments but my own. _Cæsar._ Ah that touches!--See how she looks!--[_Apart._] They shall receive your orders.--You understand, I suppose, from this, that every thing is fixed on between Donna Marcella and me? _Oliv._ Yes, sir; I understand it perfectly; and it gives me infinite pleasure. _Cæsar._ Eh! pleasure? _Oliv._ Entirely, sir---- _Cæsar._ Tol-de-rol! Ah, that wont do--that wont do! You can't hide it.--You are frightened out of your wits at the thoughts of a mother-in-law; especially a young, gay, handsome one. _Oliv._ Pardon me, sir; the thought of a mother-in-law was indeed disagreeable; but her being young and gay qualifies it.----I hope, ma'am, you'll give us balls, and the most spirited parties. [_Crosses_, C.] You can't think how stupid we have been. My dear father hates those things; but I hope now-- _Cæsar._ Hey! hey! hey! what's the meaning of all this? Why, hussy, don't you know you'll have no apartment but the garret? _Oliv._ That will benefit my complexion, sir, by mending my health. 'Tis charming to sleep in an elevated situation. _Cæsar._ Here! here's an obstinate perverse slut! _Oliv._ Bless me, sir, are you angry that I look forward to your marriage without murmuring? _Cæsar._ Yes, I am--yes, I am; you ought to murmur; and you ought to--to--to---- _Oliv._ Dear me! I find love, taken up late in life, has a bad effect on the temper.--I wish, my dear papa, you had felt the influence of Donna Marcella's charms somewhat sooner. _Cæsar._ You do! you do! why this must be all put on.--This can't be real. _Oliv._ Indeed, indeed it is; and I protest, your engagement with this lady has given me more pleasure than I have tasted ever since you began to tease me about a husband. You seem determined to have a marriage in the family; and I hope, now, I shall live in quiet, with my dear, sweet, young mother-in-law. _Cæsar._ Oh! oh! [_Walking about._] Was there ever--[_Crosses_, C.] She doesn't care for a mother-in-law!--Can't frighten her! _Oliv._ Sure, my fate is very peculiar; that being pleased with your choice, and submitting, with humble duty, to your will, should be the cause of offence. _Cæsar._ Hussy! I don't want you to be pleased with my choice--I don't want you to submit with humble duty to my will.--Where I do want you to submit, you rebel: you are a--you are----But I'll mortify that wayward spirit, yet. [_Exit_ DON CÆSAR _and_ MARCELLA, R. _Min._ Well, really, my master is in a piteous passion; he seems more angry at your liking his marriage, than at your refusing to be married yourself.----Wouldn't it have been better, madam, to have affected discontent? _Oliv._ To what purpose, but to lay myself open to fresh solicitations, in order to get rid of the evil I pretended to dread? Bless us! nothing can be more easy than for my father to be gratified, if he were but lucky in the choice of a lover. _Min._ As much as to say, madam, that there is-- _Oliv._ Why, yes, as much as to say--I see you are resolved to have my secret, Minette, and so-- _Enter_ SERVANT, L. _Serv._ There is a gentleman at the door, madam, called Don Julio de Melessina. He waits on you from Don Vincentio. _Oliv._ Who? Don Julio! it cannot be--art thou sure of his name? _Serv._ The servant repeated it twice. He is in a fine carriage, and seems to be a nobleman. _Oliv._ Conduct him hither. [_Exit_ SERVANT, L.] I am astonished! I cannot see him! I would not have him know the incognita to be Olivia, for worlds!--There is but one way. [_Aside._] Minette, ask no questions; but do as I order you.--Receive Don Julio in my name; call yourself the heiress of Don Cæsar; and on no account suffer him to believe that you are any thing else. [_Exit_, R. _Min._ So, then, this is some new lover she is determined to disgust; and fancies, that making me pass for her will complete it. Perhaps her ladyship may be mistaken though.--[_Looking through the wing._]--Upon my word a sweet man! Oh, lud! my heart beats at the very idea of his making love to me, even though he takes me for another! Stay! I think he shan't find me here. Standing in the middle of a room gives one's appearance no effect. I'll enter upon him with an easy swim, or an engaging trip, or a--something that shall strike--the first glance is every thing. [_Exit_, R. _Enter_ DON JULIO, L., _preceded by a_ SERVANT, _who retires_, R. _Julio._ Not here! The ridiculous dispute between Garcia and Vincentio gives me irresistible curiosity; though, if she is the character Garcia describes, I expect to be cuffed for my impertinence.--Here she comes!--A pretty, smiling girl, 'faith, for a vixen! _Enter_ MINETTE, R., _very affectedly_. _Min._ Sir, your most obedient humble servant.--You are Don Julio de Melessina. I am extremely glad to see you, sir. _Julio._ [_Aside._] A very courteous reception!--You honour me infinitely, madam. I must apologize for waiting on you without a better introduction. Don Vincentio promised to attend me; but a concert called him to another part of the town, at the moment I prepared to come hither. _Min._ A concert--Yes, sir, he is very fond of music. _Julio._ He is, madam:--You, I suppose, have a passion for that charming science? _Min._ Oh, yes, I love it mightily. _Julio._ [_Aside._] This is lucky! I think I have heard, Donna Olivia, that your taste that way is peculiar; you are fond of a----'faith, I can hardly speak it, [_Aside._]--of a----Jew's-harp. [_Smothering a laugh._] _Min._ A Jew's-harp! Mercy! What, do you think a person of my birth and figure, can have such fancies as that?----No, sir, I love fiddles, French horns, tabors, and all the cheerful, noisy instruments in the world. _Julio._ [_Aside._] Vincentio must have been mad; and I as mad as he, to mention it. Then you are fond of concerts, madam? _Min._ Dote on them! I wish he'd offer me a ticket. [_Aside._] _Julio._ [_Aside._] Vincentio is clearly wrong.--Now to prove how far the other was right, in supposing her a vixen. _Min._ There is a grand public concert, sir, to be to-morrow. Pray, do you go? _Julio._ I believe I shall have that pleasure, madam. _Min._ My father, Don Cæsar, won't let me purchase a ticket: I think it's very hard. _Julio._ Pardon me--I think it's perfectly right. _Min._ Right! what, to refuse me a trifling expense, that would procure me a great pleasure? _Julio._ Yes, doubtless--the ladies are too fond of pleasure: I think Don Cæsar is exemplary. _Min._ Lord, sir! you'd think it very hard, if you were me, to be locked up all your life; and know nothing of the world but what you could catch through the bars of your balcony. _Julio._ Perhaps I might; but, as a man, I am convinced 'tis right. Daughters and wives should be equally excluded those destructive haunts of dissipation. Let them keep to their embroidery, nor ever presume to show their faces but at their own firesides.----This will bring out the Xantippe, surely! [_Aside._] _Min._ Well, sir, I don't know--to be sure, home, as you say, is the fittest place for women. For my part, I could live for ever at home. I am determined he shall have his way; who knows what may happen? [_Aside._] _Julio._ [_Aside._] By all the powers of caprice, Garcia is as wrong as the other! _Min._ I delight in nothing so much as in sitting by my father, and hearing his tales of old times; and I fancy, when I have a husband, I shall be more happy to sit and listen to his stories of present times. _Julio._ Perhaps your husband, fair lady, might not be inclined so to amuse you. Men have a thousand delights that call them abroad; and probably your chief amusements would be counting the hours of his absence, and giving a tear to each as it passed. _Min._ Well, he should never see them, however. I would always smile when he entered; and if he found my eyes red, I'd say, I had been weeping over the history of the unfortunate damsel, whose true love hung himself at sea, and appeared to her after wards in a wet jacket.--Sure, this will do! [_Aside._] _Julio._ I am every moment more astonished. Pray, madam, permit me a question. Are you, really--yet I cannot doubt it--are you, really, Donna Olivia, the daughter of Don Cæsar, to whom Don Garcia and Don Vincentio had lately the honour of paying their addresses? _Min._ Am I Donna Olivia! ha! ha! ha! what a question! Pray, sir, is this my father's house?--Are you Don Julio? _Julio._ I beg your pardon; but, to confess, I had heard you described as a lady who had not quite so much sweetness, and---- _Min._ Oh! what, you had heard that I was a termagant, I suppose.--'Tis all slander, sir: there is not in Madrid, though I say it, a sweeter temper than my own; and though I have refused a good many lovers, yet, if one was to offer himself that I could like-- _Julio._ You would take pity, and reward his passion. _Min._ I would. _Julio._ Lovely Donna Olivia, how charming is this frankness!--'Tis a little odd, though! [_Aside._] _Min._ Why, I believe I should take pity: for it always seemed to me to be very hard-hearted, to be cruel to a lover that one likes, because, in that case, one should--a--you know, sir, the sooner the affair is over, the better for both parties. _Julio._ What the deuce does she mean?--Is this Garcia's sour fruit? _Cæsar._ [_Without_, R.] Olivia! Olivia! _Min._ Bless me, I hear my father! Now, sir, I have a particular fancy that you should not tell him, in this first visit, your design. _Julio._ Madam, my design! _Min._ Yes, that you will not speak out, till we have had a little further conversation, which I'll take care to give you an opportunity for very soon. He'll be here in a moment: now, pray, Don Julio, go. If he should meet you, and ask who you are, you can say, that you are--you may say, that you came on a visit to my maid, you know. [_Exit_, R. _Julio._ I thank you, madam, [_Aloud._] for my dismission. [_Aside._] I never was in such a peril in my life. I believe she has a license in her pocket, a priest in her closet, and the ceremony by heart. [_Exit._ ACT V. SCENE I.--DON CARLOS'S. DON CARLOS _discovered writing_. _Car._ [_Tearing paper, and rising._] It is in vain!--Language cannot furnish me with terms, to soften to Victoria the horrid transaction. Could she see the compunctions of my soul, her gentle heart would pity me. But what then?--She's ruined! my children are undone! Oh! the artifices of one base woman, and my villany to another most amiable one, have made me unfit to live. I am a wretch, who ought to be blotted from society. _Enter_ PEDRO, _hastily_, L. _Ped._ Sir--sir! _Car._ Well! _Ped._ Sir, I have just met Don Florio; he asked if my mistress was at home; so I guesses he is going to our house, and so I run to let you know--for I loves to keep my promises, though I am deadly afraid of some mischief. _Car._ You have done well.--Go home, and wait for me at the door, and admit me without noise. [_Exit_ PEDRO, L.] At least, then, I shall have the pleasure of revenge; I'll punish that harlot, by sacrificing her paramour in her arms; and then--Oh! [_Exit_, L. SCENE II.--DONNA LAURA'S. _Enter_ LAURA, L., _with precipitation, followed by_ VICTORIA. _Laura._ 'Tis his carriage!--How successful was my letter! This, my Florio, is a most important moment. _Vict._ It is, indeed; and I will leave you to make every advantage of it. [_Crosses_, R.] If I am present, I must witness condescensions from you, that I shall not be able to bear, though I know them to be but affected.--Now, Gasper, [_Aside._] play thy part well, and save Victoria! [_Exit_, R. _Enter_ GASPER, L. _dressed as an old Beau; two_ SERVANTS _follow him, and take off a rich cloak_. _Gasp._ Take my cloak; and, d'ye hear, Ricardo, go home and bring the eider-down cushions for the coach, and tell the fellow not to hurry me post through the streets of Madrid. [_Exeunt_ SERVANTS, L.] I have been jolted from side to side, like a pippin in a mill stream. Drive a man of my rank, as he would a city vintner and his fat wife, going to a bull fight! Ha, there she is! [_Looking through a glass, suspended by a red ribbon._]--there she is! Charming Donna Laura! let me thus at the shrine of your beauty--[_Makes an effort to kneel, and falls on his face_; LAURA _assists him to rise_.] Fie, fie, those new shoes!--they have made me skate all day, like a Dutchman on a canal; and now--Well, you see how profound my adoration is, madam. Common lovers kneel; I was prostrate. _Laura._ You do me infinite honour.----Disgustful wretch!--You are thinner than you were, Don Sancho: I protest, now I observe you, you are much altered! _Gasp._ Ay, madam--fretting. Your absence threw me into a fever, and that destroyed my bloom:--You see, I look almost a middle-aged man, now. _Laura._ No, really; far from it, I assure you.----The fop is as wrinkled as a baboon! [_Aside._] _Gasp._ Then jealousy--that gave me a jaundice.--My niece's husband, I hear, Don Carlos, has been my happy rival. Oh, my blade will hardly keep in its scabbard, when I think of him. _Laura._ Think no more of him--he has been long banished my thoughts, be assured. I wonder you gave your niece to him, with such a fortune. _Gasp._ Gave! she gave herself; and, as to fortune, she had not a pistole from me. _Laura._ 'Twas, indeed, unnecessary, with so fine an estate as she had in Leon. _Gasp._ My niece an estate in Leon! Not enough to give shelter to a field-mouse; and if he has told you so, he is a braggart. _Laura._ Told me so--I have the writings; he has made over the lands to me. _Gasp._ Made over the lands to you!--Oh, a deceiver! I begin to suspect a plot. Pray, let me see this extraordinary deed. [_She runs to a Cabinet_, D. F.] A plot, I'll be sworn! _Laura._ Here is the deed which made that estate mine for ever. No, sir, I will intrust it in no hand but my own. Yet look over me, and read the description of the lands. _Gasp._ [_Reading through his glass._] H--m--m--. _In the vicinage of Rosalvo, bounded on the west by the river----h--m--m, on the east by the forest_----Oh, an artful dog! I need read no further; I see how the thing is. _Laura._ How, sir!--but hold----Stay a moment--I am breathless with fear. _Gasp._ Nay, madam, don't be afraid! 'Tis my estate--that's all; the very castle where I was born; and which I never did, nor ever will, bestow on any Don in the two Castiles. Dissembling rogue! Bribe you with a fictitious title to my estate--ha! ha! ha! _Laura._ [_Aside._] Curses follow him! The villain I employed must have been his creature; his reluctance all art; and, whilst I believed myself undoing him, was duped myself! _Gasp._ Could you suppose I'd give Carlos such an estate for running away with my niece? No, no; the vineyards, and the cornfields, and the woods of Rosalvo, are not for him.--I've somebody else in my eye--in my eye, observe me--to give those to:--Can't you guess who it is? _Laura._ No, indeed!--He gives me a glimmering that saves me from despair! [_Aside._] _Gasp._ I won't tell you, unless you'll bribe me--I won't indeed. [_Kisses her cheek._] There, now I'll tell you--they are all for you. Yes, this estate, to which you have taken such a fancy, shall be yours.--I'll give you the deeds, if you'll promise to love me, you little, cruel thing! _Laura._ Can you be serious? _Gasp._ I'll sign and seal to-morrow. _Laura._ Noble Don Sancho! Thus, then, I annihilate the proof of his perfidy, and my weakness.--Thus I tear to atoms his detested name; and as I tread on these, so would I on his heart. _Enter_ VICTORIA, R. _Vict._ My children then are saved! [_In transport._] _Laura._ [_Apart._] Oh, Florio, 'tis as thou saidst--Carlos was a villain, and deceived me.--Why this strange air? Ah, I see the cause--you think me ruined, and will abandon me. Yes, I see it in thy averted face; thou dar'st not meet my eyes. If I misjudge thee, speak! _Vict._ Laura, I cannot speak.--You little guess the emotions of heart.--Heaven knows, I pity you! _Laura._ Pity! Oh, villain! and has thy love already snatched the form of pity? Base, deceitful---- _Car._ [_Without._] Stand off; loose your weak hold; I'm come for vengeance! _Enter_ CARLOS, L. Where is this youth? Where is the blooming rival, for whom I have been betrayed? Hold me not, base woman! In vain the stripling flies me; for, by Heaven, my sword shall in his bosom write its master's wrongs! [VICTORIA _first goes towards the Flat, then returns, takes off her hat, and drops on one knee_. _Vict._ Strike, strike it here! Plunge it deep into that bosom, already wounded by a thousand stabs, keener and more painful than your sword can give. Here lives all the gnawing anguish of love betrayed; here live the pangs of disappointed hopes, hopes sanctified by holiest vows, which have been written in the book of Heaven.----Hah! he sinks.--[_She flies to him._]--Oh! my Carlos! beloved! my husband! forgive my too severe reproaches; thou art dear, yet dear as ever, to Victoria's heart! _Car._ [_Recovering._] Oh, you know not what you do--you know not what you are. Oh, Victoria, thou art a beggar! _Vict._ No, we are rich, we are happy! See there, the fragments of that fatal deed, which, had I not recovered, we had been indeed undone; yet still not wretched, could my Carlos think so! _Car._ The fragments of the deed! the deed which that base woman---- _Vict._ Speak not so harshly.----To you, madam, I fear, I seem reprehensible; yet, when you consider my duties as a wife and mother, you will forgive me. Be not afraid of poverty--a woman has deceived, but she will not desert you! _Laura._ Is this real? Can I be awake? _Vict._ Oh, may'st thou indeed awake to virtue!--You have talents that might grace the highest of our sex; be no longer unjust to such precious gifts, by burying them in dishonour.--Virtue is our first, most awful duty; bow, Laura! bow before her throne, and mourn in ceaseless tears, that ever you forgot her heavenly precepts! _Laura._ So, by a smooth speech about virtue, you think to cover the injuries I sustain. Vile, insinuating monster!--but thou knowest me not.--Revenge is sweeter to my heart than love; and if there is a law in Spain to gratify that passion, your virtue shall have another field for exercise. [_Exit_, R. _Car._ [_Turning towards_ VICTORIA.] My hated rival and my charming wife! How many sweet mysteries have you to unfold?----Oh, Victoria! my soul thanks thee, but I dare not yet say I love thee, till ten thousand acts of watchful tenderness, have proved how deep the sentiment's engraved. _Vict._ Can it be true that I have been unhappy?--But the mysteries, my Carlos, are already explained to you--Gasper's resemblance to my uncle---- _Gasp._ Yes, sir, I was always apt at resemblances--In our plays at home, I am always Queen Cleopatra--You know she was but a gipsey queen, and I hits her off to a nicety. _Car._ Come, my Victoria----Oh, there is a painful pleasure in my bosom--To gaze on thee, to listen to and to love thee, seems like the bliss of angels' cheering whispers to repentant sinners. [_Exeunt_ CARLOS _and_ VICTORIA, L. _Gasp._ Lord help 'em! how easily the women are taken in! [_Exit_, L. SCENE III.--_The Prado._ _Enter_ MINETTE, L. _Min._ Ah, here comes the man at last, after I have been sauntering in sight of his lodgings these two hours. Now, if my scheme takes, what a happy person I shall be! and sure, as I was Donna Olivia to-day, to please my lady, I may be Donna Olivia tonight, to please myself. I'll address him as the maid of a lady who has taken a fancy to him, then convey him to our house--then retire, and then come in again, and, with a vast deal of confusion, confess I sent my maid for him. If he should dislike my forwardness, the censure will fall on my lady; if he should be pleased with my person, the advantage will be mine. But perhaps he's come here on some wicked frolic or other.--I'll watch him at a distance before I speak. [_Exit_, L. U. E. _Enter_ DON JULIO, R. _Julio._ Not here, 'faith; though she gave me last night but a faint refusal, and I had a right, by all the rules of gallantry, to construe that into an assent.--Then she's a jilt. Hang her, I feel I am uneasy--The first woman that ever gave me pain--I am ashamed to perceive that this spot has attractions for me, only because it was here I conversed with her. 'Twas here the little syren, conscious of her charms, unveiled her fascinating face----'Twas here--Ha! _Enter_ DON GARCIA _and_ DON VINCENTIO, R. U. E. _Gar._ Ha! Don Julio! _Julio._ Pshaw! gentlemen, pray be quick. _Gar._ (L.) 'Twas here that Julio, leaving champaigne untasted, and songs of gallantry unsung, came to talk to the whistling branches. _Vin._ (R.) 'Twas here that Julio, flying from the young and gay, was found in doleful meditation--[_Altering his tone._]--on a wench, for a hundred ducats! _Gar._ Who is she? _Julio._ (C.) Not Donna Olivia, gentlemen; not Donna Olivia. _Gar._ We have been seeking you, to ask the event of your visit to her. _Julio._ The event has proved that you have been most grossly duped. _Vin._ I know that--Ha! ha! ha! _Julio._ And you likewise, _I_ know that--Ha! ha! ha!----The fair lady, so far from being a vixen, is the very essence of gentleness. To me, so much sweetness in a wife, would be downright mawkish. _Vin._ Well, but she's fond of a Jew's-harp. _Julio._ Detests it; she would be as fond of a Jew. _Gar._ Pho, pho! this is a game at cross purposes;--let us all go to Don Cæsar's together, and compare opinions on the spot. _Julio._ I'll go most willingly--But it will be only to cover you both with confusion, for being the two men in Spain most easily imposed on. [_All going_, R. _Enter_ MINETTE, L. _Min._ Gentlemen, my lady has sent me for one of you, pray which of you is it? _Julio._ [_Returning._] Me, without doubt, child. _Vin._ I don't know that. _Gar._ Look at me, my dear; don't you think I am the man? _Min._ Let me see--a good air, and well made--you are the man for a dancer. [_To_ GARCIA.]--Well dressed, and nicely put out of hands--you are the man for a bandbox. [_Crosses to_ VINCENTIO.]--Handsome and bold--you are the man for my lady. [_Crosses to_ JULIO.] _Julio._ My dear little Iris, here's all the gold in my pocket. Gentlemen, I wish you a good night--I am your very obedient, humble-- [_Stalking by them, with his arm round_ MINETTE. _Gar._ Pho! pr'ythee, don't be a fool. Are we not going to Donna Olivia? _Julio._ Donna Olivia must wait, my dear boy; we can decide about her to-morrow. Come along, my little dove of Venus! [_Exit_, L. _Gar._ What a rash fellow it is! ten to one but this is some common business, and he'll be robbed and murdered--they take him for a stranger. _Vin._ Let's follow, and see where she leads him. _Gar._ That's hardly fair: however, as I think there's danger, we will follow. [_Exit_, L. SCENE IV.--DON CÆSAR'S. _Enter_ MINETTE _and_ DON JULIO, L. _Min._ There, sir, please to sit down, till my lady is ready to wait on you--she won't be long----I'm sure she's out, and I may do great things before she returns. [_Aside.--Exit_, R. _Julio._ Through fifty back lanes, a long garden, and a narrow staircase, into a superb apartment--all that's in the regular way; as the Spanish women manage it, one intrigue is too much like another. If it was not now and then for the little lively fillip of a jealous husband or brother, which obliges one to leap from a window, or crawl, like a cat, along the gutters, there would be no bearing the _ennui_. Ah! ah! but this promises novelty; [_Looking through the Wing._] a young girl and an old man--wife or daughter? They are coming this way. My lovely incognita, by all that's propitious! Why did not some kind spirit whisper to me my happiness? but hold--she can't mean to treat the old gentleman with a sight of me. [_Goes behind the sofa._ _Enter_ DON CÆSAR _and_ OLIVIA, L. _Cæsar._ No, no, madam, no going out--There, madam, this is your apartment, your house, your garden, your assembly, till you go to your convent. Why, how impudent you are to look thus unconcerned!--Can hardly forbear laughing in my face!--Very well--very well! [_Exit, double locking the door_, L. _Oliv._ Ha! ha! ha! I'll be even with you, my dear father, if you treble lock it. I'll stay here two days, without once asking for my liberty, and you'll come the third, with tears in your eyes, to take me out.--He has forgot the door leading to the garden--but I vow I'll stay. [_Sitting down._] I can make the time pass pleasantly enough. _Julio._ I hope so. [_Looking over the back of the sofa._ _Oliv._ Heaven and earth! _Julio._ My dear creature, why are you so alarmed? am I here before you expected me? [_Coming round_, R. _Oliv._ Expected you! _Julio._ Oh, this pretty surprise! Come, let us sit down; I think your father was very obliging to lock us in together. _Oliv._ Sir! sir! my father! [_Calling at the door._ _Cæsar._ [_Without._] Ay, 'tis all in vain--I won't come near you. There you are, and there you may stay. I shan't return, make as much noise as you will. _Julio._ Why, are you not ashamed that your father has so much more consideration for your guest than you have? _Oliv._ My guest! how is it possible he can have discovered me? [_Aside._] _Julio._ Pho! This is carrying the thing further than you need--if there was a third person here, it might be prudent. _Oliv._ Why, this assurance, Don Julio, is really-- _Julio._ The thing in the world you are most ready to pardon. _Oliv._ Upon my word, I don't know how to treat you. _Julio._ Consult your heart! _Oliv._ I shall consult my honour. _Julio._ Honour is a pretty thing to play with, but when spoken with that very grave face, after having sent your maid to bring me here, is really more than I expected. I shall be in an ill humour presently--I won't stay if you treat me thus. [_Crosses_, L.] _Oliv._ Well, this is superior to every thing! I have heard that men will slander women privately to each other; 'tis their common amusement; but to do it to one's face!--and you really pretend that I sent for you? _Julio._ Ha! ha! ha! Well, if it obliges you, I will pretend that you did not send for me; that your maid did not conduct me hither; nay, that I have not now the supreme happiness--[_Catching her in his arms._ _Enter_ MINETTE; _she screams, and runs out_, R. _Julio._ Donna Olivia de Zuniga! how the devil came she here? _Oliv._ [_Aside._] That's lucky! Olivia, my dear friend, why do you run away? Keep the character I charge you. [_Apart to_ MINETTE.] Be still Olivia. _Min._ Oh! dear madam! I was--I was so frightened when I saw that gentleman. _Oliv._ Oh, my dear; it's the merriest pretty kind of gentleman in the world; he pretends that I sent my maid for him into the streets, ha! ha! _Julio._ That's right; always tell a thing yourself, which you would not have believed. _Min._ It is the readiest excuse for being found in a lady's apartment, however. Now will I swear I know nothing of the matter. [_Aside._] _Oliv._ Now, I think it a horrid poor excuse; he has certainly not had occasion to invent reasons for such impertinencies often. Tell me that he has made love to you to-day. [_Apart._] _Min._ I fancy that he has had occasion to excuse impertinencies often;--his impertinence to me to-day---- _Julio._ To you, madam? _Min._ Making love to me, my dear, all the morning--could hardly get him away, he was so desirous to speak to my father. Nay, sir, I don't care for your impatience. _Julio._ [_Aside._] Now would I give a thousand pistoles if she were a man! _Oliv._ Nay, then, this accidental meeting is fortunate--pray, Don Julio, don't let my presence prevent your saying what you think proper to my friend--shall I leave you together? [_Crosses_, L.] _Julio._ [_Apart._] To contradict a lady on such an assertion would be too gross; but, upon my honour, Donna Olivia is the last woman upon earth who could inspire me with a tender idea. Find an excuse to send her away, my angel, I entreat you. I have a thousand things to say, and the moments are too precious to be given to her. _Oliv._ I think so too, but one can't be rude, you know. Come, my dear, sit down, [_Seating herself_, C.] have you brought your work? _Julio._ The devil! what can she mean? [_Pushing himself between_ MINETTE _and the sofa_.] DONNA OLIVIA, I am sorry to inform you that my physician has just been sent for to your father, Don Cæsar.--The poor gentleman was seized with a vertigo. _Oliv._ Vertigoes! Oh, he has them frequently, you know. [_To_ MINETTE.] _Min._ Yes, and they always keep me from his sight. _Julio._ Did ever one woman prevent another from leaving her at such a moment before? I really, madam, cannot comprehend---- _Cæsar._ [_Without._] It is impossible--impossible, gentleman! Don Julio cannot be here. _Julio._ Hah! who's that? _Enter_ DON CÆSAR, DON GARCIA, _and_ DON VINCENTIO, L. D. _Gar._ There! did we not tell you so? we saw him enter the garden. _Cæsar._ What can be the meaning of all this? A man in my daughter's apartment! [_Attempting to draw._ _Gar._ Hold, sir! Don Julio is one of the first rank in Spain, and will unquestionably be able to satisfy your honour, without troubling your sword. We have done mischief, Vincentio! [_Apart._] _Julio._ [_To_ OLIVIA.] They have been cursedly impertinent! but I'll bring you off, never fear, by pretending a passion for your busy friend, there. _Cæsar._ Satisfy me then in a moment; speak, one of you. [_Crosses to_ JULIO. _Julio._ I came here, sir, by the merest accident.--The garden door was open, curiosity led me to this apartment. You came in a moment after, and very civilly locked me in with your daughter. _Cæsar._ Locked you in! why, then, did you not, like a man of honour, cry out? _Julio._ The lady cried out, sir, and you told her you would not return; but when Donna Olivia de Zuniga entered, for whom I have conceived a most violent passion---- _Cæsar._ A passion for her! Oh, let me hear no more on't.--A passion for her! You may as well entertain a passion for the untameable hyena. _Gar._ There, Vincentio, what think you now? Xantippe or not? _Vin._ I am afraid I must give up that--but pray support me as to this point, Don Cæsar; is not the lady fond of a Jew's-harp? _Cæsar._ Fond! she's fond of nothing, but playing the vixen; there is not such a fury upon earth. _Julio._ These are odd liberties, with a person who does not belong to him. _Cæsar._ I'll play the hypocrite for her no more; the world shall know her true character, they shall know----but ask her maid there. _Julio._ Her maid! _Min._ Why, yes, sir; to say truth, I am but Donna Olivia's maid, after all. _Oliv._ [_Apart._] Dear Minette! speak for me, or I am now ruined. _Min._ I will, ma'am.--I must confess, sir, [_Going up to_ JULIO.] there never was so bitter a tempered creature as my lady is. I have borne her humours for two years; I have seen her by night and by day. [OLIVIA _pulls her sleeve, impatiently_.] I will, I will! [_To_ OLIVIA.] and this I am sure, that if you marry her, you'll rue the day every hour the first month, and hang yourself the next. There, madam, I have done it roundly now. [_Exit_, R. _Oliv._ I am undone--I am caught in my own snare! [_Aside._] _Cæsar._ After this true character of my daughter, I suppose, signor, we shall hear no more of your passion; so let us go down, and leave madam to begin her penance. _Julio._ My ideas are totally confused.--You Donna Olivia de Zuniga, and the person I thought you, her maid! something too flattering darts across my mind. _Cæsar._ If you have taken a fancy to her maid, I have nothing farther to say; but as to that violent creature---- _Julio._ Oh, do not profane her. Where is that spirit which you tell me of? Is it that which speaks in modest, conscious blushes on her cheeks? Is it that which bends her lovely eyes to earth? _Cæsar._ Ay, she's only bending them to earth, considering how to afflict me with some new obstinacy--she'll break out like a tigress in a moment. _Julio._ It cannot be--are you, charming woman! such a creature? _Oliv._ Yes, to all mankind--but one. [_Looking down._] _Julio._ But one! Oh, might that excepted one, be me! _Oliv._ Would you not fear to trust your fate with her, you have cause to think so hateful? _Julio._ No, I'd bless the hour that bound my fate to hers. Permit me, sir, to pay my vows to this fair vixen. _Cæsar._ What, are you such a bold man as that? Pho! but if you are, 'twill be only lost time--she'll contrive, some way or other, to return your vows upon your hands. _Oliv._ If they have your authority, sir, I will return them--only with my own. _Cæsar._ What's that! what did she say? my head is giddy with surprise. _Julio._ And mine with rapture. [_Catching her hand._ _Cæsar._ Don't make a fool of me, Olivia.--Wilt marry him? _Oliv._ When you command me, sir. _Cæsar._ My dear Don Julio, thou art my guardian angel--shall I have a son-in-law at last? Garcia, Vincentio, could you have thought it? _Gar._ No, sir; if we had, we should have saved that lady much trouble; 'tis pretty clear now, why she was a vixen. _Vin._ Yes, yes, 'tis clear enough, and I beg your pardon, madam, for the share of trouble I gave you--but, pray, have the goodness to tell me sincerely, what do you think of a crash? [_Crosses to_ OLIVIA. _Oliv._ I love music, Don Vincentio, I admire your skill, and whenever you'll give me a concert, I shall be obliged. [_Crosses to_ CÆSAR. _Vin._ You could not have pleased me so well, if you had married me. _Enter_ DON CARLOS _and_ VICTORIA, R. _Oliv._ Hah! here comes Victoria and her Carlos. My friend, you are happy--'tis in your eyes; I need not ask the event. _Cæsar._ What, is this Don Carlos, whom Victoria gave us for a cousin? Sir, you come in a happy hour. _Car._ I do indeed, for I am most happy. _Julio._ My dear Carlos, what has new made thee thus, since morning? _Car._ A wife! Marry, Julio, marry! _Julio._ What! this advice from you? _Car._ Yes; and when you have married an angel, when that angel has done for you such things, as makes your gratitude almost equal to your love, you may then guess something of what I feel, in calling this angel mine. _Oliv._ Now, I trust, Don Julio, after all this, that if I should do you the honour of my hand, you'll treat me cruelly, be a very bad man, that I, like my exemplary cousin---- _Vict._ Hold, Olivia! it is not necessary that a husband should be faulty, to make a wife's character exemplary.--Should he be tenderly watchful of your happiness, your gratitude will give a thousand graces to your conduct; whilst the purity of your manners, and the nice honour of your life, will gain you the approbation of those, whose praise is fame. _Oliv._ Pretty and matronly! thank you, my dear. We have each struck a bold stroke to-day;--yours has been to reclaim a husband, mine to get one: but the most important is yet to be obtained--the approbation of our judges. That meed withheld, our labours have been vain; Pointless my jests, and doubly keen your pain; Might we their plaudits, and their praise provoke, Our _bold_ should then be term'd, a _happy_ stroke. DISPOSITION OF THE CHARACTERS AT THE FALL OF THE CURTAIN. DON CÆSAR. DONNA OLIVIA. DON VASQUEZ. DON JULIO. DON GARCIA. DON CARLOS. DON VINCENTIO. DONNA VICTORIA. R.] [L. Clayton & Van Norden, Printers, 42 William-street. TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE Contemporary spellings have generally been retained. Hyphenation is inconsistent throughout. Obvious misspellings and punctuation errors have been corrected and character names harmonised; the latter applies in particular to the character of Olivia, who was referred to in the _Remarks_ as "Oliva". Occasionally, the same word occurred at the end of one line and the beginning of the next, and in all such instances, one of the two was removed. A damaged page in the original scans had caused the loss of two words in a passage in Act 5, scene two: No, (no;) the vineyards, and the cornfields, and the woods (of) Rosalvo, are not for him. The words in brackets were supplemented from another scanned copy of the text (same publisher, same year, different edition). The following substantive changes were made: Act IV, scene II "then" was changed to "them" in: The furniture and decorations are my daughter's taste; would you wish THEM to remain, or will you give orders to have them changed? Act V, scene II "thorne" was replaced by "throne" in: Virtue is our first, most awful duty; bow, Laura! bow before her THRONE 
13243	----	Proofreading Team IN THE PALACE OF THE KING A LOVE STORY OF OLD MADRID BY F. MARION CRAWFORD 1900 To my old friend GEORGE P. BRETT New York, October, 1906 CONTENTS CHAPTER I CHAPTER II CHAPTER III CHAPTER IV CHAPTER V CHAPTER VI CHAPTER VII CHAPTER VIII CHAPTER IX CHAPTER X CHAPTER XI CHAPTER XII CHAPTER XIII CHAPTER XIV CHAPTER XV CHAPTER XVI CHAPTER XVII CHAPTER XVIII CHAPTER XIX CHAPTER XX * * * * * CHAPTER I Two young girls sat in a high though very narrow room of the old Moorish palace to which King Philip the Second had brought his court when he finally made Madrid his capital. It was in the month of November, in the afternoon, and the light was cold and grey, for the two tall windows looked due north, and a fine rain had been falling all the morning. The stones in the court were drying now, in patches, but the sky was like a smooth vault of cast lead, closing over the city that lay to the northward, dark, wet and still, as if its life had shrunk down under ground, away from the bitter air and the penetrating damp. The room was scantily furnished, but the few objects it contained, the carved table, the high-backed chairs and the chiselled bronze brazier, bore the stamp of the time when art had not long been born again. On the walls there were broad tapestries of bold design, showing green forests populated by all sorts of animals in stiff attitudes, staring at one another in perpetual surprise. Below the tapestry a carved walnut wainscoting went round the room, and the door was panelled and flanked by fluted doorposts of the same dark wood, on which rested corbels fashioned into curling acanthus leaves, to hold up the cornice, which itself made a high shelf over the door. Three painted Italian vases, filled with last summer's rose leaves and carefully sealed lest the faint perfume should be lost, stood symmetrically on this projection, their contents slowly ripening for future use. The heap of white ashes, under which the wood coals were still alive in the big brazier, diffused a little warmth through the chilly room. The two girls were sitting at opposite ends of the table. The one held a long goose-quill pen, and before her lay several large sheets of paper covered with fine writing. Her eyes followed the lines slowly, and from time to time she made a correction in the manuscript. As she read, her lips moved to form words, but she made no sound. Now and then a faint smile lent singular beauty to her face, and there was more light in her eyes, too; then it disappeared again, and she read on, carefully and intently, as if her soul were in the work. She was very fair, as Spaniards sometimes are still, and were more often in those days, with golden hair and deep grey eyes; she had the high features, the smooth white throat, and the finely modelled ears that were the outward signs of the lordly Gothic race. When she was not smiling, her face was sad, and sometimes the delicate colour left her clear cheek and she grew softly pale, till she seemed almost delicate. Then the sensitive nostrils quivered almost imperceptibly, and the curving lips met closely as if to keep a secret; but that look came seldom, and for the most part her eyes were quiet and her mouth was kind. It was a face that expressed devotion, womanly courage, and sensitiveness rather than an active and dominating energy. The girl was indeed a full-grown woman, more than twenty years of age, but the early bloom of girlhood was on her still, and if there was a little sadness in the eyes, a man could guess well enough that it rose from the heart, and had but one simple source, which was neither a sudden grief nor a long-hidden sorrow, but only youth's one secret--love. Maria Dolores de Mendoza knew all of fear for the man she loved, that any woman could know, and much of the hope that is love's early life; but she knew neither the grief, nor the disappointment, nor the shame for another, nor for herself, nor any of the bitterness that love may bring. She did not believe that such things could be wrung from hearts that were true and faithful; and in that she was right. The man to whom she had given her heart and soul and hope had given her his, and if she feared for him, it was not lest he should forget her or his own honour. He was a man among men, good and true; but he was a soldier, and a leader, who daily threw his life to the battle, as Douglas threw the casket that held the Bruce's heart into the thick of the fight, to win it back, or die. The man she loved was Don John of Austria, the son of the great dead Emperor Charles the Fifth, the uncle of dead Don Carlos and the half brother of King Philip of Spain--the man who won glory by land and sea, who won back Granada a second time from the Moors, as bravely as his great grandfather Ferdinand had won it, but less cruelly, who won Lepanto, his brother's hatred and a death by poison, the foulest stain in Spanish history. It was November now, and it had been June of the preceding year when he had ridden away from Madrid to put down the Moriscoes, who had risen savagely against the hard Spanish rule. He had left Dolores de Mendoza an hour before he mounted, in the freshness of the early summer morning, where they had met many a time, on a lonely terrace above the King's apartments. There were roses there, growing almost wild in great earthen jars, where some Moorish woman had planted them in older days, and Dolores could go there unseen with her blind sister, who helped her faithfully, on pretence of taking the poor girl thither to breathe the sweet quiet air. For Inez was painfully sensitive of her affliction, and suffered, besides blindness, all that an over-sensitive and imaginative being can feel. She was quite blind, with no memory of light, though she had been born seeing, as other children. A scarlet fever had destroyed her sight. Motherless from her birth, her father often absent in long campaigns, she had been at the mercy of a heartless nurse, who had loved the fair little Dolores and had secretly tormented the younger child, as soon as she was able to understand, bringing her up to believe that she was so repulsively ugly as to be almost a monster. Later, when the nurse was gone, and Dolores was a little older, the latter had done all she could to heal the cruel wound and to make her sister know that she had soft dark hair, a sad and gentle face, with eyes that were quite closed, and a delicate mouth that had a little half painful, half pathetic way of twitching when anything hurt her,--for she was easily hurt. Very pale always, she turned her face more upwards than do people who have sight, and being of good average woman's height and very slender and finely made, this gave her carriage an air of dignity that seemed almost pride when she was offended or wounded. But the first hurt had been deep and lasting, and she could never quite believe that she was not offensive to the eyes of those who saw her, still less that she was sometimes almost beautiful in a shadowy, spiritual way. The blind, of all their sufferings, often feel most keenly the impossibility of knowing whether the truth is told them about their own looks; and he who will try and realize what it is to have been always sightless will understand that this is not vanity, but rather a sort of diffidence towards which all people should be very kind. Of all necessities of this world, of all blessings, of all guides to truth, God made light first. There are many sharp pains, many terrible sufferings and sorrows in life that come and wrench body and soul, and pass at last either into alleviation or recovery, or into the rest of death; but of those that abide a lifetime and do not take life itself, the worst is hopeless darkness. We call ignorance 'blindness,' and rage 'blindness,' and we say a man is 'blind' with grief. Inez sat opposite her sister, at the other end of the table, listening. She knew what Dolores was doing, how during long months her sister had written a letter, from time to time, in little fragments, to give to the man she loved, to slip into his hand at the first brief meeting or to drop at his feet in her glove, or even, perhaps, to pass to him by the blind girl's quick fingers. For Inez helped the lovers always, and Don John was very gentle with her, talking with her when he could, and even leading her sometimes when she was in a room she did not know. Dolores knew that she could only hope to exchange a word with him when he came back, and that the terrace was bleak and wet now, and the roses withered, and that her father feared for her, and might do some desperate thing if he found her lover talking with her where no one could see or hear. For old Mendoza knew the world and the court, and he foresaw that sooner or later some royal marriage would be made for Don John of Austria, and that even if Dolores were married to him, some tortuous means would be found to annul her marriage, whereby a great shame would darken his house. Moreover, he was the King's man, devoted to Philip body and soul, as his sovereign, ready to give his life ten times for his sovereign's word, and thinking it treason to doubt a royal thought or motive. He was a rigid old man, a Spaniard of Spain's great days, fearless, proud, intolerant, making Spain's honour his idol, capable of gentleness only to his children, and loving them dearly, but with that sort of severity and hardness in all questions where his authority was concerned which can make a father's true affection the most intolerable burden to a girl of heart, and which, where a son is its object, leads sooner or later to fierce quarrels and lifelong estrangement. And so it had happened now. For the two girls had a brother much older than they, Rodrigo; and he had borne to be treated like a boy until he could bear no more, and then he had left his father's house in anger to find out his own fortune in the world, as many did in his day,--a poor gentleman seeking distinction in an army of men as brave as himself, and as keen to win honour on every field. Then, as if to oppose his father in everything, he had attached himself to Don John, and was spoken of as the latter's friend, and Mendoza feared lest his son should help Don John to a marriage with Dolores. But in this he was mistaken, for Rodrigo was as keen, as much a Spaniard, and as much devoted to the honour of his name as his father could be; and though he looked upon Don John as the very ideal of what a soldier and a prince should be, he would have cut off his own right hand rather than let it give his leader the letter Dolores had been writing so long; and she knew this and feared her brother, and tried to keep her secret from him. Inez knew all, and she also was afraid of Rodrigo and of her father, both for her sister's sake and her own. So, in that divided house, the father was against the son, and the daughters were allied against them both, not in hatred, but in terror and because of Dolores' great love for Don John of Austria. As they sat at the table it began to rain again, and the big drops beat against the windows furiously for a few minutes. The panes were round and heavy, and of a greenish yellow colour, made of blown glass, each with a sort of knob in the middle, where the iron blowpipe had been separated from the hot mass. It was impossible to see through them at all distinctly, and when the sky was dark with rain they admitted only a lurid glare into the room, which grew cold and colourless again when the rain ceased. Inez had been sitting motionless a long time, her elbow on the table, her chin resting upon her loosely clasped white hands, her blind face turned upward, listening to the turning of the pages and to the occasional scratching of her sister's pen. She sighed, moved, and let her hands fall upon the table before her in a helpless, half despairing way, as she leaned back in the big carved chair. Dolores looked up at once, for she was used to helping her sister in her slightest needs and to giving her a ready sympathy in every mood. "What is it?" she asked quickly. "Do you want anything, dear?" "Have you almost finished?" The girl's voice would almost have told that she was blind. It was sweet and low, but it lacked life; though not weak, it was uncertain in strength and full of a longing that could never be satisfied, but that often seemed to come within possible reach of satisfaction. There was in the tones, too, the perpetual doubt of one from whom anything might be hidden by silence, or by the least tarn of words. Every passing hope and fear, and every pleasure and pain, were translated into sound by its quick changes. It trusted but could not always quite promise to believe; it swelled and sank as the sensitive heart beat faster or slower. It came from a world without light, in which only sound had meaning, and only touch was certainty. "Yes," answered Dolores. "I have almost finished--there is only half a page more to read over." "And why do you read it over?" asked Inez. "Do you change what you have written? Do you not think now exactly as you did when you wrote?" "No; I feel a great deal more--I want better words! And then it all seems so little, and so badly written, and I want to say things that no one ever said before, many, many things. He will laugh--no, not that! How could he? But my letter will seem childish to him. I know it will. I wish I had never written it I Do you think I had better give it to him, after all?" "How can I tell?" asked Inez hopelessly. "You have never read it to me. I do not know what you have said to him." "I have said that I love him as no man was ever loved before," answered Dolores, and the true words seemed to thrill with a life of their own as she spoke them. Then she was silent for a moment, and looked down at the written pages without seeing them. Inez did not move, and seemed hardly to breathe. Then Dolores spoke again, pressing both her hands upon the paper before her unconsciously. "I have told him that I love him, and shall love him for ever and ever," she said; "that I will live for him, die for him, suffer for him, serve him! I have told him all that and much more." "More? That is much already. But he loves you, too. There is nothing you can promise which he will not promise, and keep, too, I think. But more! What more can you have said than that?" "There is nothing I would not say if I could find words!" There was a fullness of life in her voice which, to the other's uncertain tones, was as sunshine to moonlight. "You will find words when you see him this evening," said Inez slowly. "And they will be better than anything you can write. Am I to give him your letter?" Dolores looked at her sister quickly, for there was a little constraint in the accent of the last phrase. "I do not know," she answered. "How can I tell what may happen, or how I shall see him first?" "You will see him from the window presently. I can hear the guards forming already to meet him--and you--you will be able to see him from the window." Inez had stopped and had finished her speech, as if something had choked her. She turned sideways in her chair when she had spoken, as if to listen better, for she was seated with her back to the light. "I will tell you everything," said Maria Dolores softly. "It will be almost as if you could see him, too." "Almost--" Inez spoke the one word and broke off abruptly, and rose from her chair. In the familiar room she moved almost as securely as if she could see. She went to the window and listened. Dolores came and stood beside her. "What is it, dear?" she asked. "What is the matter? What has hurt you? Tell me!" "Nothing," answered the blind girl, "nothing, dear. I was thinking--how lonely I shall be when you and he are married, and they send me to a convent, or to our dismal old house in Valladolid." A faint colour came into her pale face, and feeling it she turned away from Dolores; for she was not speaking the truth, or at least not half of it all. "I will not let you go!" answered Dolores, putting one arm round her sister's waist. "They shall never take you from me. And if in many years from now we are married, you shall always be with us, and I will always take care of you as I do now." Inez sighed and pressed her forehead and blind eyes to the cold window, almost withdrawing herself from the pressure of Dolores' arm. Down below there was tramping of heavy feet, as the companies of foot guards took their places, marching across the broad space, in their wrought steel caps and breastplates, carrying their tasselled halberds on their shoulders. An officer's voice gave sharp commands. The gust that had brought the rain had passed by, and a drizzling mist, caused by a sudden chill, now completely obscured the window. "Can you see anything?" asked Inez suddenly, in a low voice. "I think I hear trumpets far away." "I cannot see--there is mist on the glass, too. Do you hear the trumpets clearly?" "I think I do. Yes--I hear them clearly now." She stopped. "He is coming," she added under her breath. Dolores listened, but she had not the almost supernatural hearing of the blind, and could distinguish nothing but the tramping of the soldiers below, and her sister's irregular breathing beside her, as Inez held her breath again and again in order to catch the very faint and distant sound. "Open the window," she said almost sharply, "I know I hear the trumpets." Her delicate fingers felt for the bolts with almost feverish anxiety. Dolores helped her and opened the window wide. A strain of distant clarions sounding a triumphant march came floating across the wet city. Dolores started, and her face grew radiant, while her fresh lips opened a little as if to drink in the sound with the wintry air. Beside her, Inez grew slowly pale and held herself by the edge of the window frame, gripping it hard, and neither of the two girls felt any sensation of cold. Dolores' grey eyes grew wide and bright as she gazed fixedly towards the city where the avenue that led to the palace began, but Inez, bending a little, turned her ear in the same direction, as if she could not bear to lose a single note of the music that told her how Don John of Austria had come home in triumph, safe and whole, from his long campaign in the south. Slowly it came nearer, strain upon strain, each more clear and loud and full of rejoicing. At first only the high-pitched clarions had sent their call to the window, but now the less shrill trumpets made rich harmonies to the melody, and the deep bass horns gave the marching time to the rest, in short full blasts that set the whole air shaking as with little peak of thunder. Below, the mounted officers gave orders, exchanged short phrases, cantered to their places, and came back again a moment later to make some final arrangement--their splendid gold-inlaid corslets and the rich caparisons of their horses looking like great pieces of jewelry that moved hither and thither in the thin grey mist, while the dark red and yellow uniforms of the household guards surrounded the square on three sides with broad bands of colour. Dolores could see her father, who commanded them and to whom the officers came for orders, sitting motionless and erect on his big black horse--a stern figure, with close-cut grey beard, clad all in black saving his heavily gilded breastplate and the silk sash he wore across it from shoulder to sword knot. She shrank back a little, for she would not have let him see her looking down from an upper window to welcome the returning visitor. "What is it? Do you see him? Is he there?" Inez asked the questions in a breath, as she heard her sister move. "No--our father is below on his horse. He must not see us." And she moved further into the embrasure. "You will not be able to see," said Inez anxiously. "How can you tell me--I mean, how can you see, where you are?" Dolores laughed softly, but her laugh trembled with the happiness that was coming so soon. "Oh, I see very well," she answered. "The window is wide open, you know." "Yes--I know." Inez leaned back against the wall beside the window, letting her hand drop in a hopeless gesture. The sample answer had hurt her, who could never see, by its mere thoughtlessness and by the joy that made her sister's voice quaver. The music grew louder and louder, and now there came with it the sound of a great multitude, cheering, singing the march with the trumpets, shouting for Don John; and all at once as the throng burst from the street to the open avenue the voices drowned the clarions for a moment, and a vast cry of triumph filled the whole air. "He is there! He is there!" repeated Inez, leaning towards the window and feeling for the stone sill. But Dolores could not hear for the shouting. The clouds had lifted to the westward and northward; and as the afternoon sun sank lower they broke away, and the level rays drank up the gloom of the wintry day in an instant. Dolores stood motionless before the window, undazzled, like a statue of ivory and gold in a stone niche. With the light, as the advancing procession sent the people before it, the trumpets rang high and clear again, and the bright breastplates of the trumpeters gleamed like dancing fire before the lofty standard that swayed with the slow pace of its bearer's horse. Brighter and nearer came the colours, the blazing armour, the standard, the gorgeous procession of victorious men-at-arms; louder and louder blew the trumpets, higher and higher the clouds were lifted from the lowering sun. Half the people of Madrid went before, the rest flocked behind, all cheering or singing or shouting. The stream of colour and light became a river, the river a flood, and in the high tide of a young victor's glory Don John of Austria rode onward to the palace gate. The mounted trumpeters parted to each side before him, and the standard-bearer ranged his horse to the left, opposite the banner of the King, which held the right, and Don John, on a grey Arab mare, stood out alone at the head of his men, saluting his royal brother with lowered sword and bent head. A final blast from the trumpets sounded full and high, and again and again the shout of the great throng went up like thunder and echoed from the palace walls, as King Philip, in his balcony above the gate, returned the salute with his hand, and bent a little forward over the stone railing. Dolores de Mendoza forgot her father and all that he might say, and stood at the open window, looking down. She had dreamed of this moment; she had seen visions of it in the daytime; she had told herself again and again what it would be, how it must be; but the reality was beyond her dreams and her visions and her imaginings, for she had to the full what few women have in any century, and what few have ever had in the blush of maidenhood,--the sight of the man she loved, and who loved her with all his heart, coming home in triumph from a hard-fought war, himself the leader and the victor, himself in youth's first spring, the young idol of a warlike nation, and the centre of military glory. When he had saluted the King he sat still a moment on his horse and looked upward, as if unconsciously drawn by the eyes that, of all others, welcomed him at that moment; and his own met them instantly and smiled, though his face betrayed nothing. But old Mendoza, motionless in his saddle, followed the look, and saw; and although he would have praised the young leader with the best of his friends, and would have fought under him and for him as well as the bravest, yet at that moment he would gladly have seen Don John of Austria fall dead from his horse before his eyes. Don John dismounted without haste, and advanced to the gate as the King disappeared from the balcony above. He was of very graceful figure and bearing, not short, but looking taller than he really was by the perfection of his proportions. The short reddish brown hair grew close and curling on his small head, but left the forehead high, while it set off the clear skin and the mobile features. A very small moustache shaded his lip without hiding the boyish mouth, and at that time he wore no beard. The lips, indeed, smiled often, and the expression of the mouth was rather careless and good-humoured than strong. The strength of the face was in the clean-cut jaw, while its real expression was in the deep-set, fiery blue eyes, that could turn angry and fierce at one moment, and tender as a woman's the next. He wore without exaggeration the military dress of his time,--a beautifully chiselled corslet inlaid with gold, black velvet sleeves, loose breeches of velvet and silk, so short that they did not descend half way to the knees, while his legs were covered by tight hose and leather boots, made like gaiters to clasp from the knee to the ankle and heel. Over his shoulder hung a short embroidered cloak, and his head covering was a broad velvet cap, in which were fastened the black and yellow plumes of the House of Austria. As he came near to the gate, many friends moved forward to greet him, and he gave his hand to all, with a frank smile and words of greeting. But old Mendoza did not dismount nor move his horse a step nearer. Don John, looking round before he went in, saw the grim face, and waved his hand to Dolores' father; but the old man pretended that he saw nothing, and made no answering gesture. Some one in the crowd of courtiers laughed lightly. Old Mendoza's face never changed; but his knees must have pressed the saddle suddenly, for his black horse stirred uneasily, and tried to rear a little. Don John stopped short, and his eyes hardened and grew very light before the smile could fade from his lips, while he tried to find the face of the man whose laugh he had heard. But that was impossible, and his look was grave and stern as he went in under the great gate, the multitude cheering after him. From her high window Dolores had seen and heard also, for she had followed every movement he made and every change of his expression, and had faithfully told her sister what she saw, until the laugh came, short and light, but cutting. And Inez heard that, too, for she was leaning far forward upon the broad stone sill to listen for the sound of Don John's voice. She drew back with a springing movement, and a sort of cry of pain. "Some one is laughing at me!" she cried. "Some one is laughing because I am trying to see!" Instantly Dolores drew her sister to her, kissing her tenderly, and soothing her as one does a frightened child. "No, dear, no! It was not that--I saw what it was. Nobody was looking at you, my darling. Do you know why some one laughed? It hurt me, too. He smiled and waved his hand to our father, who took no notice of him. The laugh was for that--and for me, because the man knew well enough that our father does not mean that we shall ever marry. Do you see, dear? It was not meant for you." "Did he really look up at us when you said so?" asked Inez, in a smothered voice. "Who? The man who laughed?" "No. I mean--" "Don John? Yes. He looked up to us and smiled--as he often does at me--with his eyes only, while his face was quite grave. He is not changed at all, except that he looks more determined, and handsomer, and braver, and stronger than ever! He does each time I see him!" But Inez was not listening. "That was worth living for--worth being blind for," she said suddenly, "to hear the people shout and cheer for him as he came along. You who can see it all do not understand what the sound means to me. For a moment--only for a moment--I saw light--I know I saw a bright light before my eyes. I am not dreaming. It made my heart beat, and it made my head dizzy. It must have been light. Do you think it could be, Dolores?" "I do not know, dear," answered the other gently. But as the day faded and they sat together in the early dusk, Dolores looked long and thoughtfully at the blind face. Inez loved Don John, though she did not know it, and without knowing it she had told her sister. * * * * * CHAPTER II When Don John had disappeared within the palace the people lingered a little while, hoping that something might happen which would be worth seeing, and then, murmuring a little in perfectly unreasonable disappointment, they slowly dispersed. After that old Mendoza gave his orders to the officers of the guards, the men tramped away, one detachment after another, in a regular order; the cavalry that had ridden up with Don John wheeled at a signal from the trumpets, and began to ride slowly back to the city, pressing hard upon the multitude, and before it was quite dark the square before the palace was deserted again. The sky had cleared, the pavement was dry again, and the full moon was rising. Two tall sentinels with halberds paced silently up and down in the shadow. Dolores and her sister were still sitting in the dark when the door opened, and a grey-haired servant in red and yellow entered the room, bearing two lighted wax candles in heavy bronze candlesticks, which he set upon the table. A moment later he was followed by old Mendoza, still in his breastplate, as he had dismounted, his great spurs jingling on his heavy boots, and his long basket-hilted sword trailing on the marble pavement. He was bareheaded now, and his short hair, smooth and grizzled, covered his energetic head like a close-fitting skull cap of iron-grey velvet. He stood still before the table, his bony right hand resting upon it and holding both his long gloves. The candlelight shone upward into his dark face, and gleamed yellow in his angry eyes. Both the girls rose instinctively as their father entered; but they stood close together, their hands still linked as if to defend each other from a common enemy, though the hard man would have given his life for either of them at any moment since they had come into the world. They knew it, and trembled. "You have made me the laughing-stock of the court," he began slowly, and his voice shook with anger. "What have you to say in your defence?" He was speaking to Dolores, and she turned a little pale. There was something so cruelly hard in his tone and bearing that she drew back a little, not exactly in bodily fear, but as a brave man may draw back a step when another suddenly draws a weapon upon him. Instantly Inez moved forward, raising one white hand in protest, and turning her blind face to her father's gleaming eyes. "I am not speaking to you," he said roughly, "but you," he went on, addressing Dolores, and the heavy table shook under his hand. "What devil possessed you that you should shame me and yourself, standing at your window to smile at Don John, as if he were the Espadero at a bull fight and you the beauty of the ring--with all Madrid there to look on, from his Majesty the King to the beggar in the road? Have you no modesty, no shame, no blood that can blush? And if not, have you not even so much woman's sense as should tell you that you are ruining your name and mine before the whole world?" "Father! For the sake of heaven do not say such words--you must not! You shall not!" Dolores' face was quite white now, as she gently pushed Inez aside and faced the angry man. The table was between them. "Have I said one word more than the very truth?" asked Mendoza. "Does not the whole court know that you love Don John of Austria--" "Let the whole world know it!" cried the girl bravely. "Am I ashamed to love the best and bravest man that breathes?" "Let the whole world know that you are willing to be his toy, his plaything--" "His wife, sir!" Dolores' voice was steady and clear as she interrupted her father. "His wife," she repeated proudly; "And to-morrow, if you and the King will not hinder us. God made you my father, but neither God nor man has given you the right to insult me, and you shall not be unanswered, so long as I have strength and breath to speak. But for you, I should be Don John of Austria's wife to-day--and then, then his 'toy,' his 'plaything'--yes, and his slave and his servant--what you will! I love him, and I would work for him with my hands, as I would give my blood and my life for his, if God would grant me that happiness and grace, since you will not let me be his wife!" "His wife!" exclaimed Mendoza, with a savage sneer. "His wife--to be married to-day and cast off to-morrow by a turn of the pen and the twisting of a word that would prove your marriage void, in order that Don John may be made the husband of some royal widowed lady, like Queen Mary of the Scots! His wife!" He laughed bitterly. "You have an exalted opinion of your King, my father, since you suppose that he would permit such deeds in Spain!" Dolores had drawn herself up to her full height as she spoke, and she remained motionless as she awaited the answer to what she had said. It was long in coming, though Mendoza's dark eyes met hers unflinchingly, and his lips moved more than once as if he were about to speak. She had struck a blow that was hard to parry, and she knew it. Inez stood beside her, silent and breathing hard as she listened. "You think that I have nothing to say," he began at last, and his tone had changed and was more calm. "You are right, perhaps. What should I say to you, since you have lost all sense of shame and all thought of respect or obedience? Do you expect that I shall argue with you, and try to convince you that I am right, instead of forcing you to respect me and yourself? Thank Heaven, I have never yet questioned my King's thoughts, nor his motives, nor his supreme right to do whatsoever may be for the honour and glory of Spain. My life is his, and all I have is his, to do with it all as he pleases, by grace of his divine right. That is my creed and my law--and if I have failed to bring you up in the same belief, I have committed a great sin, and it will be counted against me hereafter, though I have done what I could, to the best of my knowledge." Mendoza lifted his sheathed sword and laid his right hand upon the cross-bar of the basket hilt. "God--the King--Spain!" he said solemnly, as he pressed his lips to it once for each article of his faith. "I do not wish to shake your belief," said Dolores coldly. "I daresay that is impossible!" "As impossible as it is to make me change my determination," answered Mendoza, letting his long sword rest on the pavement again. "And what may your determination be?" asked the girl, still facing him. Something in his face forewarned her of near evil and danger, as he looked at her long without answering. She moved a little, so as to stand directly in front of Inez. Taking an attitude that was almost defiant, she began to speak rapidly, holding her hands behind her and pressing herself back against her sister to attract the latter's attention; and in her hand she held the letter she had written to Don John, folded into the smallest possible space, for she had kept it ready in the wrist of her tight sleeve, not knowing what might happen any moment to give her an opportunity of sending it. "What have you determined?" she asked again, and then went on without waiting for a reply. "In what way are you going to exhibit your power over me? Do you mean to take me away from the court to live in Valladolid again? Are you going to put me in the charge of some sour old woman who will never let me out of her sight from morning till morning?" She had found her sister's hand behind hers and had thrust the letter into the fingers that closed quickly upon it. Then she laughed a little, almost gaily. "Do you think that a score of sour old duennas could teach me to forget the man I love, or could prevent me from sending him a message every day if I chose? Do you think you could hinder Don John of Austria, who came back an hour ago from his victory the idol of all Spain, the favourite of the people--brave, young, powerful, rich, popular, beloved far more than the King himself, from seeing me every day if he chose, so long as he were not away in war? And then--I will ask you something more--do you think that father, or mother, or king, or law, or country has power to will away the love of a woman who loves with all her heart and soul and strength? Then answer me and tell me what you have determined to do with me, and I will tell you my determination, too, for I have one of my own, and shall abide by it, come what may, and whatsoever you may do!" She paused, for she had heard Inez softly close the door as she went out. The letter at least was safe, and if it were humanly possible, Inez would find a means of delivering it; for she had all that strange ingenuity of the blind in escaping observation which it seems impossible that they should possess, but of which every one who has been much with them is fully aware. Mendoza had seen Inez go out, and was glad that she was gone, for her blind face sometimes disturbed him when he wished to assert his authority. "Yes," he said, "I will tell you what I mean to do, and it is the only thing left to me, for you have given me no choice. You are disobedient and unruly, you have lost what little respect you ever had--or showed--for me. But that is not all. Men have had unruly daughters before, and yet have married them well, and to men who in the end have ruled them. I do not speak of my affection for you both, since you have none for me. But now, you are going beyond disobedience and lawlessness, for you are ruining yourself and disgracing me, and I will neither permit the one nor suffer the other." His voice rose harshly. "Do you understand me? I intend to protect my name from you, and yours from the world, in the only way possible. I intend to send you to Las Huelgas to-morrow morning. I am in earnest, and unless you consent to give up this folly and to marry as I wish, you shall stay there for the rest of your natural life. Do you understand? And until to-morrow morning you shall stay within these doors. We shall see whether Don John of Austria will try to force my dwelling first and a convent of holy nuns afterwards. You will be safe from him, I give you my word of honour,--the word of a Spanish gentleman and of your father. You shall be safe forever. And if Don John tries to enter here to-night, I will kill him on the threshold. I swear that I will." He ceased speaking, turned, and began to walk up and down the small room, his spurs and sword clanking heavily at every step. He had folded his arms, and his head was bent low. A look of horror and fear had slowly risen in Dolores' face, for she knew her father, and that he kept his word at every risk. She knew also that the King held him in very high esteem, and was as firmly opposed to her marriage as Mendoza himself, and therefore ready to help him to do what he wished. It had never occurred to her that she could be suddenly thrust out of sight in a religious institution, to be kept there at her father's pleasure, even for her whole life. She was too young and too full of life to have thought of such a possibility. She had indeed heard that such things could be done, and had been done, but she had never known such a case, and had never realized that she was so completely at her father's mercy. For the first time in her life she felt real fear, and as it fell upon her there came the sickening conviction that she could not resist it, that her spirit was broken all at once, that in a moment more she would throw herself at her father's feet and implore mercy, making whatever promise he exacted, yet making it falsely, out of sheer terror, in an utter degradation and abasement of all moral strength, of which she had never even dreamed. She grew giddy as she felt it coming upon her, and the lights of the two candles moved strangely. Already she saw herself on her knees, sobbing with fear, trying to take her father's hand, begging forgiveness, denying her love, vowing submission and dutiful obedience in an agony of terror. For on the other side she saw the dark corridors and gloomy cells of Las Huelgas, the veiled and silent nuns, the abomination of despair that was before her till she should die and escape at last,--the faint hope which would always prevent her from taking the veil herself, yet a hope fainter and fainter, crossed by the frightful uncertainty in which she should be kept by those who guarded her. They would not even tell her whether the man she loved were alive or dead, she could never know whether he had given up her love, himself in despair, or whether, then, as years went by, he would not lose the thread that took him back to the memory of her, and forget--and love again. But then her strong nature rose again, and the vision of fear began to fade as her faith in his love denied the last thought with scorn. Many a time, when words could tell no more, and seemed exhausted just when trust was strongest, he had simply said, "I love you, as you love me," and somehow the little phrase meant all, and far more than the tender speeches that sometimes formed themselves so gracefully, and yet naturally and simply, because they, too, came straight from the heart. So now, in her extreme need, the plain words came back to her in his voice, "I love you, as you love me," with a sudden strength of faith in him that made her live again, and made fear seem impossible. While her father slowly paced the floor in silence, she thought what she should do, and whether there could be anything which she would not do, if Don John of Austria were kept a prisoner from her; and she felt sure that she could overcome every obstacle and laugh at every danger, for the hope of getting to him. If she would, so would he, since he loved her as she loved him. But for all the world, he would not have her throw herself upon her father's mercy and make false promises and sob out denials of her love, out of fear. Death would be better than that. "Do as you will with me, since you have the power," she said at last, quite calmly and steadily. Instantly the old man stopped in his walk, and turned towards her, almost as if he himself were afraid now. To her amazement she saw that his dark eyes were moist with tears that clung but half shed to the rugged lids and rough lashes. He did not speak for some moments, while she gazed at him in wonder, for she could not understand. Then all at once he lifted his brown hands and covered his face with a gesture of utter despair. "Dolores! My child, my little girl!" he cried, in a broken voice. Then he sat down, as it overcome, clasped his hands on the hilt of his sword, and rested his forehead against them, rocking himself with a barely perceptible motion. In twenty years, Dolores had never understood, not even guessed, that the hard man, ever preaching of wholesome duty and strict obedience, always rebuking, never satisfied, ill pleased almost always, loved her with all his heart, and looked upon her as the very jewel of his soul. She guessed it now, in a sudden burst of understanding; but it was so new, so strange, that she could not have told what she felt. There was at best no triumph at the thought that, of the two, he had broken down first in the contest. Pity came first, womanly, simple and kind, for the harsh nature that was so wounded at last. She came to his side, and laid one hand upon his shoulder, speaking softly. "I am very, very sorry that I have hurt you," she said, and waited for him to speak, pressing his shoulder with a gentle touch. He did not look up, and still he rocked himself gently, leaning on his sword. The girl suffered, too, to see him suffering so. A little while ago he had been hard, fierce, angry, cruel, threatening her with a living death that had filled her with horror. It had seemed quite impossible that there could be the least tenderness in him for any one--least of all for her. "God be merciful to me," he said at length in very low tones. "God forgive me if it is my fault--you do not love me--I am nothing to you but an unkind old man, and you are all the world to me, child!" He raised his head slowly and looked into her face. She was startled at the change in his own, as well as deeply touched by what he said. His dark cheeks had grown grey, and the tears that would not quite fall were like a glistening mist under the lids, and almost made him look sightless. Indeed, he scarcely saw her distinctly. His clasped hands trembled a little on the hilt of the sword he still held. "How could I know?" cried Dolores, suddenly kneeling down beside him. "How could I guess? You never let me see that you were fond of me--or I have been blind all these years--" "Hush, child!" he said. "Do not hurt me any more--it must have been my fault." He grew more calm, and though his face was very grave and sad, the natural dark colour was slowly coming back to it now, and his hands were steady again. The girl was too young, and far too different from him, to understand his nature, but she was fast realizing that he was not the man he had always seemed to her. "Oh, if I had only known!" she cried, in deep distress. "If I had only guessed, I would have been so different! I was always frightened, always afraid of you, since I can remember--I thought you did not care for us and that we always displeased you--how could we know?" Mendoza lifted one of his hands from the sword hilt, and took hers, with as much gentleness as was possible to him. His eyes became clear again, and the profound emotion he had shown subsided to the depths whence it had risen. "We shall never quite understand each other," he said quietly. "You cannot see that it is a man's duty to do what is right for his children, rather than to sacrifice that in order to make them love him." It seemed to Dolores that there might be a way open between the two, but she said nothing, and left her hand in his, glad that he was kind, but feeling, as he felt, that there could never be any real understanding between them. The breach had existed too long, and it was far too wide. "You are headstrong, my dear," he said, nodding at each word. "You are very headstrong, if you will only reflect." "It is not my head, it is my heart," answered Dolores. "And besides," she added with a smile, "I am your daughter, and you are not of a very gentle and yielding disposition, are you?" "No," he answered with hesitation, "perhaps not." Then his face relaxed a little, and he almost smiled too. It seemed as if the peace were made and as if thereafter there need not be trouble again. But it was even then not far off, for it was as impossible for Mendoza to yield as it would have been for Dolores to give up her love for Don John. She did not see this, and she fancied that a real change had taken place in his disposition, so that he would forget that he had threatened to send her to Las Huelgas, and not think of it again. "What is done cannot be undone," he said, with renewed sadness. "You will never quite believe that you have been everything to me during your life. How could you not be, my child? I am very lonely. Your mother has been dead nearly eighteen years, and Rodrigo--" He stopped short suddenly, for he had never spoken his son's name in the girl's hearing since Rodrigo had left him to follow his own fortunes. "I think Rodrigo broke my heart," said the old man, after a short pause, controlling his voice so that it sounded dry and indifferent. "And if there is anything left of it, you will break the rest." He rose, taking his hand from hers, and turning away, with the roughness of a strong, hard man, who has broken down once under great emotion and is capable of any harshness in his fear of yielding to it again. Dolores started slightly and drew back. In her the kindly impression was still strong, but his tone and manner wounded her. "You are wrong," she said earnestly. "Since you have shown me that you love me, I will indeed do my best not to hurt you or displease you. I will do what I can--what I can." She repeated the last words slowly and with unconscious emphasis. He turned his face to her again instantly. "Then promise me that you will never see Don John of Austria again, that you will forget that you ever loved him, that you will put him altogether out of your thoughts, and that you will obediently accept the marriage I shall make for you." The words of refusal to any such obedience as that rose to the girl's lips, ready and sharp. But she would not speak them this time, lest more angry words should answer hers. She looked straight at her father's eyes, holding her head proudly high for a moment. Then, smiling at the impossibility of what he asked, she turned from him and went to the window in silence. She opened it wide, leaned upon the stone sill and looked out. The moon had risen much higher now, and the court was white. She had meant to cut short the discussion without rousing anger again, but she could have taken no worse way to destroy whatever was left of her father's kindlier mood. He did not raise his voice now, as he followed her and spoke. "You refuse to do that?" he said, with an already ominous interrogation in his tone. "You ask the impossible," she answered, without looking round. "I have not refused, for I have no will in this, no choice. You can do what you please with me, for you have power over my outward life--and if you lacked it, the King would help you. But you have no power beyond that, neither over my heart nor over my soul. I love him--I have loved him long, and I shall love him till I die, and beyond that, forever and ever, beyond everything--beyond the great to-morrow of God's last judgment! How can I put him out of my thoughts, then? It is madness to ask it of me." She paused a moment, while he stood behind her, getting his teeth and slowly grinding the heel of one heavy boot on the pavement. "And as for threatening me," she continued, "you will not kill Don John, nor even try to kill him, for he is the King's brother. If I can see him this evening, I will--and there will be no risk for him. You would not murder him by stealth, I suppose? No! Then you will not attack him at all, and if I can see him, I will--I tell you so, frankly. To-morrow or the next day, when the festivities they have for him are over, and you yourself are at liberty, take me to Las Huelgas, if you will, and with as little scandal as possible. But when I am there, set a strong guard of armed men to keep me, for I shall escape unless you do. And I shall go to Don John. That is all I have to say. That is my last word." "I gave you mine, and it was my word of honour," said Mendoza. "If Don John tries to enter here, to see you, I will kill him. To-morrow, you shall go to Las Huelgas." Dolores made no answer and did not even turn her head. He left her and went out. She heard his heavy tread in the hall beyond, and she heard a bolt slipped at the further door. She was imprisoned for the night, for the entrance her father had fastened was the one which cut off the portion of the apartment in which the sisters lived from the smaller part which he had reserved for himself. These rooms, from which there was no other exit, opened, like the sitting-room, upon the same hall. When Dolores knew that she was alone, she drew back from the window and shut it. It had served its purpose as a sort of refuge from her father, and the night air was cold. She sat down to think, and being in a somewhat desperate mood, she smiled at the idea of being locked into her room, supperless, like a naughty child. But her face grew grave instantly as she tried to discover some means of escape. Inez was certainly not in the apartment--she must have gone to the other end of the palace, on pretence of seeing one of the court ladies, but really in the hope of giving Don John the letter. It was more than probable that she would not be allowed to enter when she came back, for Mendoza would distrust her. That meant that Dolores could have no communication with any one outside her rooms during the evening and night, and she knew her father too well to doubt that he would send her to Las Huelgas in the morning, as he had sworn to do. Possibly he would let her serving-woman come to her to prepare what she needed for the journey, but even that was unlikely, for he would suspect everybody. The situation looked hopeless, and the girl's face grew slowly pale as she realized that after all she might not even exchange a word with Don John before going to the convent--she might not even be able to tell him whither they were sending her, and Mendoza might keep the secret for years--and she would never be allowed to write, of course. She heard the further door opened again, the bolt running back with a sharp noise. Then she heard her father's footsteps and his voice calling to Inez, as he went from room to room. But there was no answer, and presently he went away, bolting the door a second time. There could be no more doubt about it now. Dolores was quite alone. Her heart beat heavily and slowly. But it was not over yet. Again the bolt slipped in the outer hall, and again she heard the heavy steps. They came straight towards the door. He had perhaps changed his mind, or he had something more to say; she held her breath, but he did not come in. As if to make doubly sure, he bolted her into the little room, crossed the hall a last time, and bolted it for the night, perfectly certain that Dolores was safely shut off from the outer world. For some minutes she sat quite still, profoundly disturbed, and utterly unable to find any way out of her difficulty, which was, indeed, that she was in a very secure prison. Then again there was a sound at the door, but very soft this time, not half as loud in her ears as the beating of her own heart. There was something ghostly in it, for she had heard no footsteps. The bolt moved very slowly and gently--she had to strain her ears to hear it move. The sound ceased, and another followed it--that of the door being cautiously opened. A moment later Inez was in the room--turning her head anxiously from side to side to hear Dolores' breathing, and so to find out where she was. Then as Dolores rose, the blind girl put her finger to her lips, and felt for her sister's hand. "He has the letter," she whispered quickly. "I found him by accident, very quickly. I am to say to you that after he has been some time in the great hall, he will slip away and come here. You see our father will be on duty and cannot come up." Dolores' hand trembled violently. "He swore to me that he would kill Don John if he came here," she whispered. "He will do it, if it costs his own life! You must find him again--go quickly, dear, for the love of Heaven!" Her anxiety increased. "Go--go, darling--do not lose a moment--he may come sooner--save him, save him!" "I cannot go," answered Inez, in terror, as she understood the situation. "I had hidden myself, and I am locked in with you. He called me, but I kept quiet, for I knew he would not let me stay." She buried her face in her hands and sobbed aloud in an agony of fear. Dolores' lips were white, and she steadied herself against a chair. * * * * * CHAPTER III Dolores stood leaning against the back of the chair, neither hearing nor seeing her sister, conscious only that Don John was in danger and that she could not warn him to be on his guard. She had not believed herself when she had told her father that he would not dare to lift his hand against the King's half brother. She had said the words to give herself courage, and perhaps in a rush of certainty that the man she loved was a match for other men, hand to hand, and something more. It was different now. Little as she yet knew of human nature, she guessed without reasoning that a man who has been angry, who has wavered and given way to what he believes to be weakness, and whose anger has then burst out again, is much more dangerous than before, because his wrath is no longer roused against another only, but also against himself. More follies and crimes have been committed in that second tide of passion than under a first impulse. Even if Mendoza had not fully meant what he had said the first time, he had meant it all, and more, when he had last spoken. Once more the vision of fear rose before Dolores' eyes, nobler now; because it was fear for another and not for herself, but therefore also harder to conquer. Inez had ceased from sobbing now, and was sitting quietly in her accustomed seat, in that attitude of concentrated expectancy of sounds which is so natural to the blind, that one can almost recognize blindness by the position of the head and body without seeing the face. The blind rarely lean back in a chair; more often the body is quite upright, or bent a little forward, the face is slightly turned up when there is total silence, often turned down when a sound is already heard distinctly; the knees are hardly ever crossed, the hands are seldom folded together, but are generally spread out, as if ready to help the hearing by the sense of touch--the lips are slightly parted, for the blind know that they hear by the mouth as well as with their ears--the expression of the face is one of expectation and extreme attention, still, not placid, calm, but the very contrary of indifferent. It was thus that Inez sat, as she often sat for hours, listening, always and forever listening to the speech of things and of nature, as well as for human words. And in listening, she thought and reasoned patiently and continually, so that the slightest sounds had often long and accurate meanings for her. The deaf reason little or ill, and are very suspicious; the blind, on the contrary, are keen, thoughtful, and ingenious, and are distrustful of themselves rather than of others. Inez sat quite still, listening, thinking, and planning a means of helping her sister. But Dolores stood motionless as if she were paralyzed, watching the picture that «he could not chase away. For she saw the familiar figure of the man she loved coming down the gloomy corridor, alone and unarmed, past the deep embrasures through which the moonlight streamed, straight towards the oak door at the end; and then, from one of the windows another figure stood out, sword in hand, a gaunt man with a grey beard, and there were few words, and an uncertain quick confounding of shadows with a ray of cold light darting hither and thither, then a fall, and then stillness. As soon as it was over, it began again, with little change, save that it grew more distinct, till she could see Don John's white face in the moonlight as he lay dead on the pavement of the corridor. It became intolerable at last, and she slowly raised one hand and covered her eyes to shut out the sight. "Listen," said Inez, as Dolores stirred. "I have been thinking. You must see him to-night, even if you are not alone with him. There is only one way to do that; you must dress yourself for the court and go down to the great hall with the others and speak to him--then you can decide how to meet to-morrow." "Inez--I have not told you the rest! To-morrow I am to be sent to Las Huelgas, and kept there like a prisoner." Inez uttered a low cry of pain. "To a convent!" It seemed like death. Dolores began to tell her all Mendoza had said, but Inez soon interrupted her. There was a dark flush in the blind girl's face. "And he would have you believe that he loves you?" she cried indignantly. "He has always been hard, and cruel, and unkind, he has never forgiven me for being blind---he will never forgive you for being young! The King! The King before everything and every one--before himself, yes, that is well, but before his children, his soul, his heart--he has no heart! What am I saying--" She stopped short. "And yet, in his strange way, he loves us both," said Dolores. "I cannot understand it, but I saw his face when there were tears in his eyes, and I heard his voice. He would give his life for us." "And our lives, and hearts, and hopes to feed his conscience and to save his own soul!" Inez was trembling with anger, leaning far forward, her face flushed, one slight hand clenched, the other clenching it hard. Dolores was silent. It was not the first time that Inez had spoken in this way, for the blind girl could be suddenly and violently angry for a good cause. But now her tone changed. "I will save you," she said suddenly, "but there is no time to be lost. He will not come back to our rooms now, and he knows well enough that Don John cannot come here at this hour, so that he is not waiting for him. We have this part of the place to ourselves, and the outer door only is bolted now. It will take you an hour to dress--say three-quarters of an hour. As soon as you get out, you must go quickly round the palace to the Duchess Alvarez. Our father will not go there, and you can go down with her, as usual--but tell her nothing. Our father will be there, and he will see you, but he will not care to make an open scandal in the court. Don John will come and speak to you; you must stay beside the Duchess of course--but you can manage to exchange a few words." Dolores listened intently, and her face brightened a little as Inez went on, only to grow sad and hopeless again a moment later. It was all an impossible dream. "That would be possible if I could once get beyond the door of the hall," she said despondently. "It is of no use, dear! The door is bolted." "They will open it for me. Old Eudaldo is always within hearing, and he will do anything for me. Besides, I shall seem to have been shut in by mistake, do you see? I shall say that I am hungry, thirsty, that I am cold, that in locking you in our father locked me in, too, because I was asleep. Then Eudaldo will open the door for me. I shall say that I am going to the Duchess's." "Yes--but then?" "You will cover yourself entirely with my black cloak and draw it over your head and face. We are of the same height--you only need to walk as I do--as if you were blind--across the hall to the left. Eudaldo will open the outer door for you. You will just nod to thank him, without speaking, and when you are outside, touch the wall of the corridor with your left hand, and keep close to it. I always do, for fear of running against some one. If you meet any of the women, they will take you for me. There is never much light in the corridor, is there? There is one oil lamp half way down, I know, for I always smell it when I pass in the evening." "Yes, it is almost dark there--it is a little lamp. Do you really think this is possible?" "It is possible, not sure. If you hear footsteps in the corridor beyond the corner, you will have time to slip into one of the embrasures. But our father will not come now. He knows that Don John is in his own apartments with many people. And besides, it is to be a great festival to-night, and all the court people and officers, and the Archbishop, and all the rest who do not live in the palace will come from the city, so that our father will have to command the troops and give orders for the guards to march out, and a thousand things will take his time. Don John cannot possibly come here till after the royal supper, and if our father can come away at all, it will be at the same time. That is the danger." Dolores shivered and saw the vision in the corridor again. "But if you are seen talking with Don John before supper, no one will suppose that in order to meet him you would risk coming back here, where you are sure to be caught and locked up again. Do you see?" "It all depends upon whether I can get out," answered Dolores, but there was more hope in her tone. "How am I to dress without a maid?" she asked suddenly. "Trust me," said Inez, with a laugh. "My hands are better than a serving-woman's eyes. You shall look as you never looked before. I know every lock of your hair, and just how it should be turned and curled and fastened in place so that it cannot possibly get loose. Come, we are wasting time. Take off your slippers as I have done, so that no one shall hear us walking through the hall to your room, and bring the candles with you if you choose--yes, you need them to pick out the colours you like." "If you think it will be safer in the dark, it does not matter," said Dolores. "I know where everything is." "It would be safer," answered Inez thoughtfully. "It is just possible that he might be in the court and might see the light in your window, whereas if it burns here steadily, he will suspect nothing. We will bolt the door of this room, as I found it. If by any possibility he comes back, he will think you are still here, and will probably not come in." "Pray Heaven he may not!" exclaimed Dolores, and she began to go towards the door. Inez was there before her, opening it very cautiously. "My hands are lighter than yours," she whispered. They both passed out, and Inez slipped the bolt back into its place with infinite precaution. "Is there light here?" she asked under her breath. "There is a very small lamp on the table. I can just see my door." "Put it out as we pass," whispered Inez. "I will lead you if you cannot find your way." They moved cautiously forward, and when they reached the table, Dolores bent down to the small wick and blew out the flame. Then she felt her sister's hand taking hers and leading her quickly to the other door. The blind girl was absolutely noiseless in her movements, and Dolores had the strange impression that she was being led by a spirit through the darkness. Inez stopped a moment, and then went slowly on; they had entered the room though Dolores had not heard the door move, nor did she hear it closed behind her again. Her own room was perfectly dark, for the heavy curtain that covered the window was drawn; she made a step alone, and cautiously, and struck her knee against a chair. "Do not move," whispered Inez. "You will make a noise. I can dress you where you stand, or if you want to find anything, I will lead you to the place where it is. Remember that it is always day for me." Dolores obeyed, and stood still, holding her breath a little in her intense excitement. It seemed impossible that Inez could do all she promised without making a mistake, and Dolores would not have been a woman had she not been visited just then by visions of ridicule. Without light she was utterly helpless to do anything for herself, and she had never before then fully realized the enormous misfortune with which her sister had to contend. She had not guessed, either, what energy and quickness of thought Inez possessed, and the sensation of being advised, guided, and helped by one she had always herself helped and protected was new. They spoke in quick whispers of what she was to wear and of how her hair was to be dressed, and Inez found what was wanted without noise, and almost as quickly as Dolores could have done in broad daylight, and placed a chair for her, making her sit down in it, and began to arrange her hair quickly and skilfully. Dolores felt the spiritlike hands touching her lightly and deftly in the dark--they were very slight and soft, and did not offend her with a rough movement or a wrong turn, as her maid's sometimes did. She felt her golden hair undone, and swiftly drawn out and smoothed without catching, or tangling, or hurting her at all, in a way no woman had ever combed it, and the invisible hands gently divided it, and turned it upon her head, slipping the hairpins into the right places as if by magic, so that they were firm at the first trial, and there was a faint sound of little pearls tapping each other, and Dolores felt the small string laid upon her hair and fastened in its place,--the only ornament a young girl could wear for a headdress,--and presently it was finished, and Inez gave a sigh of satisfaction at her work, and lightly felt her sister's head here and there to be sure that all was right. It felt as if soft little birds were just touching the hair with the tips of their wings as they fluttered round it. Dolores had no longer any fear of looking ill dressed in the blaze of light she was to face before long. The dressing of her hair was the most troublesome part, she knew, and though she could not have done it herself, she had felt that every touch and turn had been perfectly skilful. "What a wonderful creature you are!" she whispered, as Inez bade her stand up. "You have beautiful hair," answered the blind girl, "and you are beautiful in other ways, but to-night you must be the most beautiful of all the court, for his sake--so that every woman may envy you, and every man envy him, when they see you talking together. And now we must be quick, for it has taken a long time, and I hear the soldiers marching out again to form in the square. That is always just an hour and a half before the King goes into the hall. Here--this is the front of the skirt." "No--it is the back!" Inez laughed softly, a whispering laugh that Dolores could scarcely hear. "It is the front," she said. "You can trust me in the dark. Put your arms down, and let me slip it over your head so as not to touch your hair. No---hold your arms down!" Dolores had instinctively lifted her hands to protect her headdress. Then all went quickly, the silence only broken by an occasional whispered word and by the rustle of silk, the long soft sound of the lacing as Inez drew it through the eyelets of the bodice, the light tapping of her hands upon the folds and gatherings of the skirt and on the puffed velvet on the shoulders and elbows. "You must be beautiful, perfectly beautiful to-night," Inez repeated more than once. She herself did not understand why she said it, unless it were that Dolores' beauty was for Don John of Austria, and that nothing in the whole world could be too perfect for him, for the hero of her thoughts, the sun of her blindness, the immeasurably far-removed deity of her heart. She did not know that it was not for her sister's sake, but for his, that she had planned the escape and was taking such infinite pains that Dolores might look her best. Yet she felt a deep and delicious delight in what she did, like nothing she had ever felt before, for it was the first time in her life that she had been able to do something that could give him pleasure; and, behind that, there was the belief that he was in danger, that she could no longer go to him nor warn him now, and that only Dolores herself could hinder him from coming unexpectedly against old Mendoza, sword in hand, in the corridor. "And now my cloak over everything," she said. "Wait here, for I must get it, and do not move!" Dolores hardly knew whether Inez left the room or not, so noiselessly did the girl move. Then she felt the cloak laid upon her shoulders and drawn close round her to hide her dress, for skirts were short in those days and easily hidden. Inez laid a soft silk handkerchief upon her sister's hair, lest it should be disarranged by the hood which she lightly drew over all, assuring herself that it would sufficiently hide the face. "Now come with me," she whispered. I will lead you to the door that is bolted and place you just where it will open. Then I will call Eudaldo and speak to him, and beg him to let me out. If he does, bend your head and try to walk as I do. I shall be on one side of the door, and, as the room is dark, he cannot possibly see me. While he is opening the outer door for you, I will slip back into my own room. Do you understand? And remember to hide in an embrasure if you hear a man's footsteps. Are you quite sure you understand?" "Yes; it will be easy if Eudaldo opens. And I thank you, dear; I wish I knew how to thank you as I ought! It may have saved his life--" "And yours, too, perhaps," answered Inez, beginning to lead her away. "You would die in the convent, and you must not come back--you must never come back to us here--never till you are married. Good-by, Dolores--dear sister. I have done nothing, and you have done everything for me all your life. Good-by--one kiss--then we must go, for it is late." With her soft hands she drew Dolores' head towards her, lifted the hood a little, and kissed her tenderly. All at once there were tears on both their faces, and the arms of each clasped the other almost desperately. "You must come to me, wherever I am," Dolores said. "Yes, I will come, wherever you are. I promise it." Then she disengaged herself quickly, and more than ever she seemed a spirit as she went before, leading her sister by the hand. They reached the door, and she made Dolores stand before the right hand panel, ready to slip out, and once more she touched the hood to be sure it hid the face. She listened a moment. A harsh and regular sound came from a distance, resembling that made by a pit-saw steadily grinding its way lengthwise through a log of soft pine wood. "Eudaldo is asleep," said Inez, and even at this moment she could hardly suppress a half-hysterical laugh. "I shall have to make a tremendous noise to wake him. The danger is that it may bring some one else,---the women, the rest of the servants." "What shall we do?" asked Dolores, in a distressed whisper. She had braced her nerves to act the part of her sister at the dangerous moment, and her excitement made every instant of waiting seem ten times its length. Inez did not answer the question at once. Dolores repeated it still more anxiously. "I was trying to make up my mind," said the other at last. "You could pass Eudaldo well enough, I am sure, but it might be another matter if the hall were full of servants, as it is certain that our father has given a general order that you are not to be allowed to go out. We may wait an hour for the man to wake." Dolores instinctively tried the door, but it was solidly fastened from the outside. She felt hot and cold by turns as her anxiety grew more intolerable. Each minute made it more possible that she might meet her father somewhere outside. "We must decide something!" she whispered desperately. "We cannot wait here." "I do not know what to do," answered Inez. "I have done all I can; I never dreamt that Eudaldo would be asleep. At least, it is a sure sign that our father is not in the house." "But he may come at any moment! We must, we must do something at once!" "I will knock softly," said Inez. "Any one who hears it will suppose it is a knock at the hall door. If he does not open, some one will go and wake him up, and then go away again so as not to be seen." She clenched her small hand, and knocked three times. Such a sound could make not the slightest impression upon Eudaldo's sound sleep, but her reasoning was good, as well as ingenious. After waiting a few moments, she knocked again, more loudly. Dolores held her breath in the silence that followed. Presently a door was opened, and a woman's voice was heard, low but sharp. "Eudaldo, Eudaldo! Some one is knocking at the front door!" The woman probably shook the old man to rouse him, for his voice came next, growling and angry. "Witch! Hag! Mother of malefactors! Let me alone--I am asleep. Are you trying to tear my sleeve off with your greasy claws? Nobody is knocking; you probably hear the wine thumping in your ears!" The woman, who was the drudge and had been cleaning the kitchen, was probably used to Eudaldo's manner of expressing himself, for she only laughed. "Wine makes men sleep, but it does not knock at doors," she answered. "Some one has knocked twice. You had better go and open the door." A shuffling sound and a deep yawn announced that Eudaldo was getting out of his chair. The two girls heard him moving towards the outer entrance. Then they heard the woman go away, shutting the other door behind her, as soon as she was sure that Eudaldo was really awake. Then Inez called him softly. "Eudaldo? Here--it was I that knocked--you must let me out, please--come nearer." "Doña Inez?" asked the old man, standing still. "Hush!" answered the girl. "Come nearer." She waited, listening while he approached. "Listen to me," she continued. "The General has locked me in, by mistake. He did not know I was here when he bolted the door. And I am hungry and thirsty and very cold, Eudaldo--and you must let me out, and I will run to the Duchess Alvarez and stay with her little girl. Indeed, Eudaldo, the General did not mean to lock me in, too." "He said nothing about your ladyship to me," answered the servant doubtfully. "But I do not know--" he hesitated. "Please, please, Eudaldo," pleaded Inez, "I am so cold and lonely here--" "But Doña Dolores is there, too," observed Eudaldo. Dolores held her breath and steadied herself against the panel. "He shut her into the inner sitting-room. How could I dare to open the door! You may go in and knock--she will not answer you." "Is your ladyship sure that Doña Dolores is within?" asked Eudaldo, in a more yielding tone. "Absolutely, perfectly sure!" answered Inez, with perfect truth. "Oh, do please let me out." Slowly the old man drew the bolt, while Dolores' heart stood still, and she prepared herself for the danger; for she knew well enough that the faithful old servant feared his master much more than he feared the devil and all evil spirits, and would prevent her from passing, even with force, if he recognized her. "Thank you, Eudaldo--thank you!" cried Inez, as the latch turned. "And open the front door for me, please," she said, putting her lips just where the panel was opening. Then she drew back into the darkness. The door was wide open now, and Eudaldo was already shuffling towards the entrance. Dolores went forward, bending her head, and trying to affect her sister's step. No distance had ever seemed so long to her as that which separated her from the hall door which Eudaldo was already opening for her. But she dared not hasten her step, for though Inez moved with perfect certainty in the house, she always walked with a certain deliberate caution, and often stopped to listen, while crossing a room. The blind girl was listening now, with all her marvellous hearing, to be sure that all went well till Dolores should be outside. She knew exactly how many steps there were from where she stood to the entrance, for she had often counted them. Dolores must have been not more than three yards from the door, when Inez started involuntarily, for she heard a sound from without, far off--so far that Dolores could not possibly have heard it yet, but unmistakable to the blind girl's keener ear. She listened intently--there were Dolores' last four steps to the open doorway, and there were others from beyond, still very far away in the vaulted corridors, but coming nearer. To call her sister back would have made all further attempt at escape hopeless--to let her go on seemed almost equally fatal--Inez could have shrieked aloud. But Dolores had already gone out, and a moment later the heavy door swung back to its place, and it was too late to call her. Like an immaterial spirit, Inez slipped away from the place where she stood and went back to Dolores' room, knowing that Eudaldo would very probably go and knock where he supposed her sister to be a prisoner, before slipping the outer bolt again. And so he did, muttering an imprecation upon the little lamp that had gone out and left the small hall in darkness. Then he knocked, and spoke through the door, offering to bring her food, or fire, and repeating his words many times, in a supplicating tone, for he was devoted to both the sisters, though terror of old Mendoza was the dominating element in his existence. At last he shook his head and turned despondently to light the little lamp again; and when he had done that, he went away and bolted the door after him, convinced that Inez had gone out and that Dolores had stayed behind in the last room. When she had heard him go away the last time, the blind girl threw herself upon Dolores' bed, and buried her face in the down cushion, sobbing bitterly in her utter loneliness; weeping, too, for something she did not understand, but which she felt the more painfully because she could not understand it, something that was at once like a burning fire and an unspeakable emptiness craving to be filled, something that longed and feared, and feared longing, something that was a strong bodily pain but which she somehow knew might have been the source of all earthly delight,--an element detached from thought and yet holding it, above the body and yet binding it, touching the soul and growing upon it, but filling the soul itself with fear and unquietness, and making her heart cry out within her as if it were not hers and were pleading to be free. So, as she could not understand that this was love, which, as she had heard said, made women and men most happy, like gods and goddesses, above their kind, she lay alone in the darkness that was always as day to her, and wept her heart out in scalding tears. In the corridor outside, Dolores made a few steps, remembering to put out her left hand to touch the wall, as Inez had told her to do; and then she heard what had reached her sister's ears much sooner. She stood still an instant, strained her eyes to see in the dim light of the single lamp, saw nothing, and heard the sound coming nearer. Then she quickly crossed the corridor to the nearest embrasure to hide herself. To her horror she realized that the light of the full moon was streaming in as bright as day, and that she could not be hid. Inez knew nothing of moonlight. She pressed herself to the wall, on the side away from her own door, making herself as small as she could, for it was possible that whoever came by might pass without turning his head. Nervous and exhausted by all she had felt and been made to feel since the afternoon, she held her breath and waited. The regular tread of a man booted and spurred came relentlessly towards her, without haste and without pause. No one who wore spurs but her father ever came that way. She listened breathlessly to the hollow echoes, and turned her eyes along the wall of the embrasure. In a moment she must see his gaunt figure, and the moonlight would be white on his short grey beard. * * * * * CHAPTER IV Dolores knew that there was no time to reflect as to what she should do, if her father found her hiding in the embrasure, and yet in those short seconds a hundred possibilities flashed through her disturbed thoughts. She might slip past him and run for her life down the corridor, or she might draw her hood over her face and try to pretend that she was some one else,--but he would recognize the hood itself as belonging to Inez,--or she might turn and lean upon the window-sill, indifferently, as if she had a right to be there, and he might take her for some lady of the court, and pass on. And yet she could not decide which to attempt, and stood still, pressing herself against the wall of the embrasure, and quite forgetful of the fact that the bright moonlight fell unhindered through all the other windows upon the pavement, whereas she cast a shadow from the one in which she was standing, and that any one coming along the corridor would notice it and stop to see who was there. There was something fateful and paralyzing in the regular footfall that was followed instantly by the short echo from the vault above. It was close at hand now she was sure that at the very next instant she should see her father's face, yet nothing came, except the sound, for that deceived her in the silence and seemed far nearer than it was. She had heard horrible ghost stories of the old Alcazar, and as a child she had been frightened by tales of evil things that haunted the corridors at night, of wraiths and goblins and Moorish wizards who dwelt in secret vaults, where no one knew, and came out in the dark, when all was still, to wander in the moonlight, a terror to the living. The girl felt the thrill of unearthly fear at the roots of her hair, and trembled, and the sound seemed to be magnified till it reëchoed like thunder, though it was only the noise of an advancing footfall, with a little jingling of spurs. But at last there was no doubt. It was close to her, and she shut her eyes involuntarily. She heard one step more on the stones, and then there was silence. She knew that her father had seen her, had stopped before her, and was looking at her. She knew how his rough brows were knitting themselves together, and that even in the pale moonlight his eyes were fierce and angry, and that his left hand was resting on the hilt of his sword, the bony brown fingers tapping the basket nervously. An hour earlier, or little more, she had faced him as bravely as any man, but she could not face him now, and she dared not open her eyes. "Madam, are you ill, or in trouble?" asked a young voice that was soft and deep. She opened her eyes with a sharp cry that was not of fear, and she threw back her hood with one hand as the looked. Don John of Austria was there, a step from her, the light full on his face, bareheaded, his cap in his hand, bending a little towards her, as one does towards a person one does not know, but who seems to be in distress and to need help. Against the whiteness without he could not see her face, nor could he recognize her muffled figure. "Can I not help you, Madam?" asked the kind voice again, very gravely. Then she put out her hands towards him and made a step, and as the hood fell quite back with the silk kerchief, he saw her golden hair in the silver light. Slowly and in wonder, and still not quite believing, he moved to meet her movement, took her hands in his, drew her to him, turned her face gently, till he saw it well. Then he, too, uttered a little sound that was neither a word nor a syllable nor a cry--a sound that was half fierce with strong delight as his lips met hers, and his hands were suddenly at her waist lifting her slowly to his own height, though he did not know it, pressing her closer and closer to him, as if that one kiss were the first and last that ever man gave woman. A minute passed, and yet neither he nor she could speak. She stood with her hands clasped round his neck, and her head resting on his breast just below the shoulder, as if she were saying tender words to the heart she heard beating so loud through the soft black velvet. She knew that it had never beaten in battle as it was beating now, and she loved it because it knew her and welcomed her; but her own stood still, and now and then it fluttered wildly, like a strong young bird in a barred cage, and then was quite still again. Bending his face a little, he softly kissed her hair again and again, till at last the kisses formed themselves into syllables and words, which she felt rather than heard. "God in heaven, how I love you--heart of my heart--life of my life--love of my soul!" And again he repeated the same words, and many more like them, with little change, because at that moment he had neither thought nor care for anything else in the world, not for life nor death nor kingdom nor glory, in comparison with the woman he loved. He could not hear her answers, for she spoke without words to his heart, hiding her face where she heard it throbbing, while her lips pressed many kisses on the velvet. Then, as thought returned, and the first thought was for him, she drew back a little with a quick movement, and looked up to him with frightened and imploring eyes. "We must go!" she cried anxiously, in a very low voice. "We cannot stay here. My father is very angry--he swore on his word of honour that he would kill you if you tried to see me to-night!" Don John laughed gently, and his eyes brightened. Before she could speak again, he held her close once more, and his kisses were on her cheeks and her eyes, on her forehead and on her hair, and then again upon her lips, till they would have hurt her if she had not loved them so, and given back every one. Then she struggled again, and he loosed his hold. "It is death to stay here," she said very earnestly. "It is worse than death to leave you," he answered. "And I will not," he added an instant later, "neither for the King, nor for your father, nor for any royal marriage they may try to force upon me." She looked into his eyes for a moment, before she spoke, and there was deep and true trust in her own. "Then you must save me," she said quietly. "He has vowed that I shall be sent to the convent of Las Huelgas to-morrow morning. He locked me into the inner room, but Inez helped me to dress, and I got out under her cloak." She told him in a few words what she had done and had meant to do, in order to see him, and how she had taken his step for her father's. He listened gravely, and she saw his face harden slowly in an expression she had scarcely ever seen there. When she had finished her story he was silent for a moment. "We are quite safe here," he said at last, "safer than anywhere else, I think, for your father cannot come back until the King goes to supper. For myself, I have an hour, but I have been so surrounded and pestered by visitors in my apartments that I have not found time to put on a court dress--and without vanity, I presume that I am a necessary figure at court this evening. Your father is with Perez, who seems to be acting as master of ceremonies and of everything else, as well as the King's secretary--they have business together, and the General will not have a moment. I ascertained that, before coming here, or I should not have come at this hour. We are safe from him here, I am sure." "You know best," answered Dolores, who was greatly reassured by what he said about Mendoza. "Let us sit down, then. You must be tired after all you have done. And we have much to say to each other." "How could I be tired now?" she asked, with a loving smile; but she sat down on the stone seat in the embrasure, close to the window. It was just wide enough for two to sit there, and Don John took his place beside her, and drew one of her hands silently to him between both his own, and kissed the tips of her fingers a great many times. But he felt that she was watching his face, and he looked up and saw her eyes--and then, again, many seconds passed before either could speak. They were but a boy and girl together, loving each other in the tender first love of early youth, for the victor of the day, the subduer of the Moors, the man who had won back Granada, who was already High Admiral of Spain, and who in some ten months from that time was to win a decisive battle of the world at Lepanto, was a stripling of twenty-three summers--and he had first seen Dolores when he was twenty and she seventeen, and now it was nearly two years since they had met. He was the first to speak, for he was a man of quick and unerring determinations that led to actions as sudden as they were bold and brilliant, and what Dolores had told him of her quarrel with her father was enough to rouse his whole energy at once. At all costs she must never be allowed to pass the gates of Las Huelgas. Once within the convent, by the King's orders, and a close prisoner, nothing short of a sacrilegious assault and armed violence could ever bring her out into the world again. He knew that, and that he must act instantly to prevent it, for he knew Mendoza's character also, and had no doubt but that he would do what he threatened. It was necessary to put Dolores beyond his reach at once, and beyond the King's also, which was not an easy matter within the walls of the King's own palace, and on such a night. Don John had been but little at the court and knew next to nothing of its intrigues, nor of the mutual relations of the ladies and high officers who had apartments in the Alcazar. In his own train there were no women, of course. Dolores' brother Rodrigo, who had fought by his side at Granada, had begged to be left behind with the garrison, in order that he might not be forced to meet his father. Doña Magdalena Quixada, Don John's adoptive mother, was far away at Villagarcia. The Duchess Alvarez, though fond of Dolores, was Mistress of the Robes to the young Queen, and it was not to be hoped nor expected that she should risk the danger of utter ruin and disgrace if it were discovered that she had hidden the girl against the King's wishes. Yet it was absolutely necessary that Dolores should be safely hidden within an hour, and that she should be got out of the palace before morning, and if possible conveyed to Villagarcia. Don John saw in a moment that there was no one to whom he could turn. Again he took Dolores' hand in his, but with a sort of gravity and protecting authority that had not been in his touch the first time. Moreover, he did not kiss her fingers now, and he resolutely looked at the wall opposite him. Then, in a low and quiet voice, he laid the situation before her, while she anxiously listened. "You see," he said at last, "there is only one way left. Dolores, do you altogether trust me?" She started a little, and her fingers pressed his hand suddenly. "Trust you? Ah, with all my soul!" "Think well before you answer," he said. "You do not quite understand--it is a little hard to put it clearly, but I must. I know you trust me in many ways, to love you faithfully always, to speak truth to you always, to defend you always, to help you with my life when you shall be in need. You know that I love you so, as you love me. Have we not often said it? You wrote it in your letter, too--ah, dear, I thank you for that. Yes, I have read it--I have it here, near my heart, and I shall read it again before I sleep--" Without a word, and still listening, she bent down and pressed her lips to the place where her letter lay. He touched her hair with his lips and went on speaking, as she leaned back against the wall again. "You must trust me even more than that, my beloved," he said. "To save you, you must be hidden by some one whom I myself can trust--and for such a matter there is no one in the palace nor in all Madrid--no one to whom I can turn and know that you will be safe--not one human being, except myself." "Except yourself!" Dolores loved the words, and gently pressed his hand. "I thank you, dearest heart--but do you know what that means? Do you understand that I must hide you myself, in my own apartments, and keep you there until I can take you out of the palace, before morning?" She was silent for a few moments, turning her face away from him. His heart sank. "No, dear," he said sadly, "you do not trust me enough for that--I see it--what woman could?" Her hand trembled and started in his, then pressed it hard, and she turned her face quite to him. "You are wrong," she said, with a tremor in her voice. "I love you as no man was ever loved by any woman, far beyond all that all words can say, and I shall love you till I die, and after that, for ever--even if I can never be your wife. I love you as no one loves in these days, and when I say that it is as you love me, I mean a thousand fold for every word. I am not the child you left nearly two years ago. I am a woman now, for I have thought and seen much since then--and I love you better and more than then. God knows, there is enough to see and to learn in this court--that should be hidden deep from honest women's sight! You and I shall have a heaven on this earth, if God grants that we may be joined together--for I will live for you, and serve you, and smooth all trouble out of your way--and ask nothing of you but your love. And if we cannot marry, then I will live for you in my heart, and serve you with my soul, and pray Heaven that harm may never touch you. I will pray so fervently that God must hear me. And so will you pray for me, as you would fight for me, if you could. Remember, if you will, that when you are in battle for Spain, your sword is drawn for Spain's honour, and for the honour of every Christian Spanish woman that lives--and for mine, too!" The words pleased him, and his free hand was suddenly clenched. "You would make cowards fight like wolves, if you could speak to them like that!" he said. "I am not speaking to cowards," she answered, with a loving smile. "I am speaking to the man I love, to the best and bravest and truest man that breathes--and not to Don John of Austria, the victorious leader, but to you, my heart's love, my life, my all, to you who are good and brave and true to me, as no man ever was to any woman. No--" she laughed happily, and there were tears in her eyes--"no, there are no words for such love as ours." "May I be all you would have me, and much more," he said fervently, and his voice shook in the short speech. "I am giving you all I have, because it is not belief, it is certainty. I know you are all that I say you are, and more too. And I trust you, as you mean it, and as you need my trust to save me. Take me where you will. Hide me in your own room if you must, and bolt and bar it if need be. I shall be as safe with you as I should be with my mother in heaven. I put my hands between yours." Again he heard her sweet low laughter, full of joy and trust, and she laid her hands together between his and looked into his eyes, straight and clear. Then she spoke softly and solemnly. "Into your hands I put my life, and my faith, and my maiden honour, trusting them all to you alone in this world, as I trust them to God." Don John held her hands tightly for a moment, still looking into her eyes as if he could see her soul there, giving itself to his keeping. But he swore no great oath, and made no long speech; for a man who has led men to deeds of glory, and against whom no dishonourable thing was ever breathed, knows that his word is good. "You shall not regret that you trust me, and you will be quite safe," he said. She wanted no more. Loving as she did, she believed in him without promises, yet she could not always believe that he quite knew how she loved him. "You are dearer to me than I knew," he said presently, breaking the silence that followed. "I love you even more, and I thought it could never be more, when I found you here a little while ago--because you do really trust me." "You knew it," the said, nestling to him. "But you wanted me to tell you. Yes--we are nearer now." "Far nearer--and a world more dear," he answered. "Do you know? In all these months I have often and often again wondered how we should meet, whether it would be before many people, or only with your sister Inez there--or perhaps alone. But I did not dare hope for that." "Nor I. I have dreamt of meeting you a hundred times--and more than that! But there was always some one in the way. I suppose that if we had found each other in the court and had only been able to say a few words, it would have been a long time before we were quite ourselves together--but now, it seems as if we had never been parted at all, does it not?" "As if we could never be parted again," he answered softly. For a little while there was silence, and though there was to be a great gathering of the court, that night, all was very still where the lovers sat at the window, for the throne room and the great halls of state were far away on the other side of the palace, and the corridor looked upon a court through which few persons had to pass at night. Suddenly from a distance there came the rhythmical beat of the Spanish drums, as some detachment of troops marched by the outer gate. Don John listened. "Those are my men," he said. "We must go, for now that they are below I can send my people on errands with orders to them, until I am alone. Then you must come in. At the end of my apartments there is a small room, beyond my own. It is furnished to be my study, and no one will expect to enter it at night. I must put you there, and lock the door and take the key with me, so that no one can go in while I am at court--or else you can lock it on the inside, yourself. That would be better, perhaps," he added rather hurriedly. "No," said the girl quietly. "I prefer that you should have the key. I shall feel even safer. But how can I get there without being seen? We cannot go so far together without meeting some one." He rose, and she stood up beside him. "My apartments open upon the broad terrace on the south side," he said. "At this time there will be only two or three officers there, and my two servants. Follow me at a little distance, with your hood over your face, and when you reach the sentry-box at the corner where I turn off, go in. There will be no sentinel there, and the door looks outward. I shall send away every one, on different errands, in five minutes. When every one is gone I will come for you. Is that clear?" "Perfectly." She nodded, as if she had made quite sure of what he had explained. Then she put up her hands, as if to say good-by. "Oh, if we could only stay here in peace!" she cried. He said nothing, for he knew that there was still much danger, and he was anxious for her. He only pressed her hands and then led her away. They followed the corridor together, side by side, to the turning. Then he whispered to her to drop behind, and she let him go on a dozen paces and followed him. The way was long, and ill lighted at intervals by oil lamps hung from the vault by small chains; they cast a broad black shadow beneath them, and shed a feeble light above. Several times persons passed them, and Dolores' heart beat furiously. A court lady, followed by a duenna and a serving-woman, stopped with a winning smile, and dropped a low courtesy to Don John, who lifted his cap, bowed, and went on. They did not look at Dolores. A man in a green cloth apron and loose slippers, carrying five lighted lamps in a greasy iron tray, passed with perfect indifference, and without paying the least attention to the victor of Granada. It was his business to carry lamps in that part of the palace--he was not a human being, but a lamplighter. They went on, down a short flight of broad steps, and then through a wider corridor where the lights were better, though the night breeze was blowing in and made them flicker and flare. A corporal's guard of the household halberdiers came swinging down at a marching step, coming from the terrace beyond. The corporal crossed his halberd in salute, but Don John stopped him, for he understood at once that a sentry had been set at his door. "I want no guard," he said. "Take the man away." "The General ordered it, your Highness," answered the man, respectfully. "Request your captain to report to the General that I particularly desire no sentinel at my door. I have no possessions to guard except my reputation, and I can take care of that myself." He laughed good-naturedly. The corporal grinned--he was a very dark, broad-faced man, with high cheek bones, and ears that stuck out. He faced about with his three soldiers, and followed Don John to the terrace--but in the distance he had seen the hooded figure of a woman. Not knowing what to do, for she had heard the colloquy, Dolores stood still a moment, for she did not care to pass the soldiers as they came back. Then she turned and walked a little way in the other direction, to gain time, and kept on slowly. In less than a minute they returned, bringing the sentinel with them. She walked slowly and counted them as they went past her--and then she started as if she had been stung, and blushed scarlet under her hood, for she distinctly heard the big corporal laugh to himself when he had gone by. She knew, then, how she trusted the man she loved. When the soldiers had turned the corner and were out of sight, she ran back to the terrace and hid herself in the stone sentry-box just outside, still blushing and angry. On the side of the box towards Don John's apartment there was a small square window just at the height of her eyes, and she looked through it, sure that her face could not be seen from without. She looked from mere curiosity, to see what sort of men the officers were, and Don John's servants; for everything connected with him or belonging to him in any way interested her most intensely. Two tall captains came out first, magnificent in polished breastplates with gold shoulder straps and sashes and gleaming basket-hilted swords, that stuck up behind them as their owners pressed down the hilts and strutted along, twisting their short black moustaches in the hope of meeting some court lady on their way. Then another and older man passed, also in a soldier's dress, but with bent head, apparently deep in thought. After that no one came for some time--then a servant, who pulled something out of his pocket and began to eat it, before he was in the corridor. Then a woman came past the little window. Dolores saw her as distinctly as she had seen the four men. She came noiselessly and stealthily, putting down her foot delicately, like a cat. She was a lady, and she wore a loose cloak that covered all her gown, and on her head a thick veil, drawn fourfold across her face. Her gait told the girl that she was young and graceful--something in the turn of the head made her sure that she was beautiful, too--something in the whole figure and bearing was familiar. The blood sank from Dolores' cheeks, and she felt a chill slowly rising to her heart. The lady entered the corridor and went on quickly, turned, and was out of sight. Then all at once, Dolores laughed to herself, noiselessly, and was happy again, in spite of her danger. There was nothing to disturb her, she reflected. The terrace was long, there were doubtless other apartments beyond Don John's, though she had not known it. The lady had indeed walked cautiously, but it might well be that she had reasons for not being seen there, and that the further rooms were not hers. The Alcazar was only an old Moorish castle, after all, restored and irregularly enlarged, and altogether very awkwardly built, so that many of the apartments could only be reached by crossing open terraces. When Don John came to get her in the sentry-box, Dolores' momentary doubt was gone, though not all her curiosity. She smiled as she came out of her hiding-place and met his eyes--clear and true as her own. She even hated herself for having thought that the lady could have come from his apartment at all. The light was streaming from his open door as he led her quickly towards it. There were three windows beyond it, and there the terrace ended. She looked at the front as they were passing, and counted again three windows between the open door and the corner where the sentry-box stood. "Who lives in the rooms beyond you?" she asked quickly. "No one--the last is the one where you are to be." He seemed surprised. They had reached the open door, and he stood aside to let her go in. "And on this side?" she asked, speaking with a painful effort. "My drawing-room and dining-room," he answered. She paused and drew breath before she spoke again, and she pressed one hand to her side under her cloak. "Who was the lady who came from here when all the men were gone?" she asked, very pale. * * * * * CHAPTER V Don John was a man not easily taken off his guard, but he started perceptibly at Dolores' question. He did not change colour, however, nor did his eyes waver; he looked fixedly into her face. "No lady has been here," he answered quietly. Dolores doubted the evidence of her own senses. Her belief in the man she loved was so great that his words seemed at first to have destroyed and swept away what must have been a bad dream, or a horrible illusion, and her face was quiet and happy again as she passed him and went in through the open entrance. She found herself in a vestibule from which doors opened to the right and left. He turned in the latter direction, leading the way into the room. It was his bedchamber. Built in the Moorish manner, the vaulting began at the height of a man's head, springing upward in bold and graceful curves to a great height. The room was square and very large, and the wall below the vault was hung with very beautiful tapestries representing the battle of Pavia, the surrender of Francis the First, and a sort of apotheosis of the Emperor Charles, the father of Don John. There were two tall windows, which were quite covered by curtains of a dark brocade, in which the coats of Spain and the Empire were woven in colours at regular intervals; and opposite them, with the head to the wall, stood a vast curtained bedstead with carved posts twice a man's height. The vaulting had been cut on that side, in order that the foot of the bed might stand back against the wall. The canopy had coats of arms at the four corners, and the curtains were of dark green corded silk, heavily embroidered with gold thread in the beautiful scrolls and arabesques of the period of the Renascence. A carved table, dark and polished, stood half way between the foot of the bedstead and the space between the windows, where a magnificent kneeling-stool with red velvet cushions was placed under a large crucifix. Half a dozen big chairs were ranged against the long walls on each side of the room, and two commodious folding chairs with cushions of embossed leather were beside the table. Opposite the door by which Dolores had entered, another communicated with the room beyond. Both were carved and ornamented with scroll work of gilt bronze, but were without curtains. Three or four Eastern, rugs covered the greater part of the polished marble pavement, which here and there reflected the light of the tall wax torches that stood on the table in silver candlesticks, and on each side of the bed upon low stands. The vault above the tapestried walls was very dark blue, and decorated with gilded stars in relief. Dolores thought the room gloomy, and almost funereal. The bed looked like a catafalque, the candles like funeral torches, and the whole place breathed the magnificent discomfort of royalty, and seemed hardly intended for a human habitation. Dolores barely glanced at it all, as her companion locked the first door and led her on to the next room. He knew that he had not many minutes to spare, and was anxious that she should be in her hiding-place before his servants came back. She followed him and went in. Unlike the bedchamber, the small study was scantily and severely furnished. It contained only a writing-table, two simple chairs, a straight-backed divan covered with leather, and a large chest of black oak bound with ornamented steel work. The window was curtained with dark stuff, and two wax candles burned steadily beside the writing-materials that were spread out ready for use. "This is the room," Don John said, speaking for the first time since they had entered the apartments. Dolores let her head fall back, and began to loosen her cloak at her throat without answering him. He helped her, and laid the long garment upon the divan. Then he turned and saw her in the full light of the candles, looking at him, and he uttered an exclamation. "What is it?" she asked almost dreamily. "You are very beautiful," he answered in a low voice. "You are the most beautiful woman I ever saw." The merest girl knows the tone of a man whose genuine admiration breaks out unconsciously in plain words, and Dolores was a grown woman. A faint colour rose in her cheek, and her lips parted to smile, but her eyes were grave and anxious, for the doubt had returned, and would not be thrust away. She had seen the lady in the cloak and veil during several seconds, and though Dolores, who had been watching the men who passed, had not actually seen her come out of Don John's apartments, but had been suddenly aware of her as she glided by, it seemed out of the question that she should have come from any other place. There was neither niche nor embrasure between the door and the corridor, in which the lady could have been hidden, and it was hardly conceivable that she should have been waiting outside for some mysterious purpose, and should not have fled as soon as she heard the two officers coming out, since she evidently wished to escape observation. On the other hand, Don John had quietly denied that any woman had been there, which meant at all events that he had not seen any one. It could mean nothing else. Dolores was neither foolishly jealous nor at all suspicious by nature, and the man was her ideal of truthfulness and honour. She stood looking at him, resting one hand on the table, while he came slowly towards her, moving almost unconsciously in the direction of her exquisite beauty, as a plant lifts itself to the sun at morning. He was near to her, and he stretched out his arms as if to draw her to him. She smiled then, for in his eyes she forgot her trouble for a moment, and she would have kissed him. But suddenly his face grew grave, and he set his teeth, and instead of taking her into his arms, he took one of her hands and raised it to his lips, as if it had been the hand of his brother's wife, the young Queen. "Why?" she asked in surprise, and with a little start. "You are here under my protection," he answered. "Let me have my own way." "Yes, I understand. How good you are to me!" She paused, and then went on, seating herself upon one of the chairs by the table as she spoke. "You must leave me now," she said. "You must lock me in and keep the key. Then I shall know that I am safe; and in the meantime you must decide how I am to escape--it will not be easy." She stopped again. "I wonder who that woman was!" she exclaimed at last. "There was no woman here," replied Don John, as quietly and assuredly as before. He was leaning upon the table at the other side, with both hands resting upon it, looking at her beautiful hair as she bent her head. "Say that you did not see her," she said, "not that she was not here, for she passed me after all the men, walking very cautiously to make no noise; and when she was in the corridor she ran--she was young and light-footed. I could not see her face." "You believe me, do you not?" asked Don John, bending over the table a little, and speaking very anxiously. She turned her face up instantly, her eyes wide and bright. "Should I be here if I did not trust you and believe you?" she asked almost fiercely. "Do you think--do you dare to think--that I would have passed your door if I had supposed that another woman had been here before me, and had been turned out to make room for me, and would have stayed here--here in your room--if you had not sent her away? If I had thought that, I would have left you at your door forever. I would have gone back to my father. I would have gone to Las Huelgas to-morrow, and not to be a prisoner, but to live and die there in the only life fit for a broken-hearted woman. Oh, no! You dare not think that,--you who would dare anything! If you thought that, you could not love me as I love you,--believing, trusting, staking life and soul on your truth and faith!" The generous spirit had risen in her eyes, roused not against him, but by all his question might be made to mean; and as she met his look of grateful gladness her anger broke away, and left only perfect love and trust behind it. "A man would die for you, and wish he might die twice," he answered, standing upright, as if a weight had been taken from him and he were free to breathe. She looked up at the pale, strong features of the young fighter, who was so great and glorious almost before the down had thickened on his lip; and she saw something almost above nature in his face,--something high and angelic, yet manly and well fitted to face earthly battles. He was her sun, her young god, her perfect image of perfection, the very source of her trust. It would have killed her to doubt him. Her whole soul went up to him in her eyes; and as he was ready to die for her, she knew that for him she would suffer every anguish death could hold, and not flinch. Then she looked down, and suddenly laughed a little oddly, and her finger pointed towards the pens and paper. "She has left something behind," she said. "She was clever to get in here and slip out again without being seen." Don John looked where she pointed, and saw a small letter folded round the stems of two white carnations, and neatly tied with a bit of twisted silk. It was laid between the paper and the bronze inkstand, and half hidden by the broad white feather of a goose-quill pen, that seemed to have been thrown carelessly across the flowers. It lay there as if meant to be found, only by one who wrote, and not to attract too much attention. "Oh!" he exclaimed, in a rather singular tone, as he saw it, and a boyish blush reddened his face. Then he took the letter and drew out the two flowers by the blossoms very carefully. Dolores watched him. He seemed in doubt as to what he should do; and the blush subsided quickly, and gave way to a look of settled annoyance. The carnations were quite fresh, and had evidently not been plucked more than an hour. He held them up a moment and looked at them, then laid them down again and took the note. There was no writing on the outside. Without opening it he held it to the flame of the candle, but Dolores caught his wrist. "Why do you not read it?" she asked quickly. "Dear, I do not know who wrote it, and I do not wish to know anything you do not know also." "You have no idea who the woman is?" Dolores looked at him wonderingly. "Not the very least," he answered with a smile. "But I should like to know so much!" she cried. "Do read it and tell me. I do not understand the thing at all." "I cannot do that." He shook his head. "That would be betraying a woman's secret. I do not know who it is, and I must not let you know, for that would not be honourable." "You are right," she said, after a pause. "You always are. Burn it." He pushed the point of a steel erasing-knife through the piece of folded paper and held it over the flame. It turned brown, crackled and burst into a little blaze, and in a moment the black ashes fell fluttering to the table. "What do you suppose it was?" asked Dolores innocently, as Don John brushed the ashes away. "Dear--it is very ridiculous--I am ashamed of it, and I do not quite know how to explain it to you." Again he blushed a little. "It seems strange to speak of it--I never even told my mother. At first I used to open them, but now I generally burn them like this one." "Generally! Do you mean to say that you often find women's letters with flowers in them on your table?" "I find them everywhere," answered Don John, with perfect simplicity. "I have found them in my gloves, tied into the basket hilt of my sword--often they are brought to me like ordinary letters by a messenger who waits for an answer. Once I found one on my pillow!" "But"--Dolores hesitated--"but are they--are they all from the same person?" she asked timidly. Don John laughed, and shook his head. "She would need to be a very persistent and industrious person," he answered. "Do you not understand?" "No. Who are these women who persecute you with their writing? And why do they write to you? Do they want you to help them?" "Not exactly that;" he was still smiling. "I ought not to laugh, I suppose. They are ladies of the court sometimes, and sometimes others, and I--I fancy that they want me to--how shall I say?--to begin by writing them letters of the same sort." "What sort of letters?" "Why--love letters," answered Don John, driven to extremity in spite of his resistance. "Love letters!" cried Dolores, understanding at last. "Do you mean to say that there are women whom you do not know, who tell you that they love you before you have ever spoken to them? Do you mean that a lady of the court, whom you have probably never even seen, wrote that note and tied it up with flowers and risked everything to bring it here, just in the hope that you might notice her? It is horrible! It is vile! It is shameless! It is beneath anything!" "You say she was a lady--you saw her. I did not. But that is what she did, whoever she may be." "And there are women like that--here, in the palace! How little I know!" "And the less you learn about the world, the better," answered the young soldier shortly. "But you have never answered one, have you?" asked Dolores, with a scorn that showed how sure she was of his reply. "No." He spoke thoughtfully. "I once thought of answering one. I meant to tell her that she was out of her senses, but I changed my mind. That was long ago, before I knew you--when I was eighteen." "Ever since you were a boy!" The look of wonder was not quite gone from her face yet, but she was beginning to understand more clearly, though still very far from distinctly. It did not occur to her once that such things could be temptations to the brilliant young leader whom every woman admired and every man flattered, and that only his devoted love for her had kept him out of ignoble adventures since he had grown to be a man. Had she seen that, she would have loved him even better, if it were possible. It was all, as she had said, shameless and abominable. She had thought that she knew much of evil, and she had even told him so that evening, but this was far beyond anything she had dreamt of in her innocent thoughts, and she instinctively felt that there were lower depths of degradation to which a woman could fall, and of which she would not try to guess the vileness and horror. "Shall I burn the flowers, too?" asked Don John, taking them in his hand. "The flowers? No. They are innocent and fresh. What have they to do with her? Give them to me." He raised them to his lips, looking at her, and then held them out. She took them, and kissed them, as he had done, and they both smiled happily. Then she fastened them in her hair. "No one will see me to-night but you," she said. "I may wear flowers in my hair like a peasant woman!" "How they make the gold gleam!" he exclaimed, as he looked. "It is almost time that my men came back," he said sadly. "When I go down to the court, I shall dismiss them. After the royal supper I shall try and come here again and see you. By that time everything will be arranged. I have thought of almost everything already. My mother will provide you with everything you need. To-morrow evening I can leave this place myself to go and see her, as I always do." He always spoke of Doña Magdalena Quixada as his mother--he had never known his own. Dolores rose from her seat, for he was ready to go. "I trust you in everything," she said simply. "I do not need to know how you will accomplish it all--it is enough to know that you will. Tell Inez, if you can--protect her if my father is angry with her." He held out his hand to take hers, and she was going to give it, as she had done before. But it was too little. Before he knew it she had thrown her arms round his neck, and was kissing him, with little cries and broken words of love. Then she drew back suddenly. "I could not help it," she said. "Now lock me in. No--do not say good-by--even for two hours!" "I will come back as soon as I can," he answered, and with a long look he left her, closed the door and locked it after him, leaving her alone. She stood a few moments looking at the panels as if her sight could pierce them and reach him on the other side, and she tried to hold the last look she had seen in his eyes. Hardly two minutes had elapsed before she heard voices and footsteps in the bedchamber. Don John spoke in short sentences now and then to his servants, and his voice was commanding though it was kindly. It seemed strange to be so near him in his life; she wondered whether she should some day always be near him, as she was now, and nearer; she blushed, all alone. So many things had happened, and he and she had found so much to say that nothing had been said at all of what was to follow her flight to Villagarcia. She was to leave for the Quixadas' house before morning, but Quixada and his wife could not protect her against her father, if he found out where she was, unless she were married. After that, neither Mendoza nor any one else, save the King himself, would presume to interfere with the liberty of Don John of Austria's wife. All Spain would rise to protect her--she was sure of that. But they had said nothing about a marriage and had wasted time over that unknown woman's abominable letter. Since she reasoned it out to herself, she saw that in all probability the ceremony would take place as soon as Don John reached Villagarcia. He was powerful enough to demand the necessary permission of the Archbishop, and he would bring it with him; but no priest, even in the absence of a written order, would refuse to marry him if he desired it. Between the real power he possessed and the vast popularity he enjoyed, he could command almost anything. She heard his voice distinctly just then, though she was not listening for it. He was telling a servant to bring white shoes. The fact struck her because she had never seen him wear any that were not black or yellow. She smiled and wished that she might bring him his white shoes and hang his order of the Golden Fleece round his neck, and breathe on the polished hilt of his sword and rub it with soft leather. She had seen Eudaldo furbish her father's weapons in that way since she had been a child. It had all come so suddenly in the end. Shading her eyes from the candles with her hand, she rested one elbow on the table, and tried to think of what should naturally have happened, of what must have happened if the unknown voice among the courtiers had not laughed and roused her father's anger and brought all the rest. Don John would have come to the door, and Eudaldo would have let him in--because no one could refuse him anything and he was the King's brother. He would have spent half an hour with her in the little drawing-room, and it would have been a constrained meeting, with Inez near, though she would presently have left them alone. Then, by this time, she would have gone down with the Duchess Alvarez and the other maids of honour, and by and by she would have followed the Queen when she entered the throne room with the King and Don John; and she might not have exchanged another word with the latter for a whole day, or two days. But now it seemed almost certain that she was to be his wife within the coming week. He was in the next room. "Do not put the sword away," she heard him say. "Leave it here on the table." Of course; what should he do with a sword in his court dress? But if he had met her father in the corridor, coming to her after the supper, he would have been unarmed. Her father, on the contrary, being on actual duty, wore the sword of his rank, like any other officer of the guards, and the King wore a rapier as a part of his state dress. She was astonished at the distinctness with which she heard what was said in the next room. That was doubtless due to the construction of the vault, as she vaguely guessed. It was true that Don John spoke very clearly, but she could hear the servants' subdued answers almost as well, when she listened. It seemed to her that he took but a very short time to dress. "I have the key of that room," he said presently. "I have my papers there. You are at liberty till midnight. My hat, my gloves. Call my gentlemen, one of you, and tell them to meet me in the corridor." She could almost hear him drawing on his gloves. One of the servants went out. "Fadrique," said Don John, "leave out my riding-cloak. I may like to walk on the terrace in the moonlight, and it is cold. Have my drink ready at midnight and wait for me. Send Gil to sleep, for he was up last night." There was a strange pleasure in hearing his familiar orders and small directions and in seeing how thoughtful he was for his servants. She knew that he had always refused to be surrounded by valets and gentlemen-in-waiting, and lived very simply when he could, but it was different to be brought into such close contact with his life. There was a wonderful gentleness in his ways that contrasted widely with her father's despotic manner and harsh tone when he gave orders. Mendoza believed himself the type and model of a soldier and a gentleman, and he maintained that without rigid discipline there could be no order and no safety at home or in the army. But between him and Don John there was all the difference that separates the born leader of men from the mere martinet. Dolores listened. It was clear that Don John was not going to send Fadrique away in order to see her again before he went down to the throne room, though she had almost hoped he might. On the contrary, some one else came. She heard Fadrique announce him. "The Captain Don Juan de Escobedo is in waiting, your Highness," said the servant. "There is also Adonis." "Adonis!" Don John laughed, not at the name, for it was familiar to him, but at the mere mention of the person who bore it and who was the King's dwarf jester, Miguel de Antona, commonly known by his classic nickname. "Bring Adonis here--he is an old friend." The door opened again, and Dolores heard the well-known voice of the hunchback, clear as a woman's, scornful and full of evil laughter,--the sort of voice that is heard instantly in a crowd, though it is not always recognizable. The fellow came in, talking loud. "Ave Cæsar!" he cried from the door. "Hail, conqueror! All hail, thou favoured of heaven, of man,--and of the ladies!" "The ladies too?" laughed Don John, probably amused by the dwarfs antics. "Who told you that?" "The cook, sir. For as you rode up to the gate this afternoon a scullery maid saw you from the cellar grating and has been raving mad ever since, singing of the sun, moon, and undying love, until the kitchen is more like a mad-house than this house would be if the Day of Judgment came before or after Lent." "Do you fast in Lent, Adonis?" "I fast rigidly three times a day, my lord conqueror,--no, six, for I eat nothing either just before or just after my breakfast, my dinner, and my supper. No monk can do better than that, for at those times I eat nothing at all." "If you said your prayers as often as you fast, you would be in a good way," observed Don John. "I do, sir. I say a short grace before and after eating. Why have you come to Madrid, my lord? Do you not know that Madrid is the worst, the wickedest, the dirtiest, vilest, and most damnable habitation devised by man for the corruption of humanity? Especially in the month of November? Has your lordship any reasonable reason for this unreason of coming here, when the streets are full of mud, and men's hearts are packed like saddle-bags with all the sins they have accumulated since Easter and mean to unload at Christmas? Even your old friends are shocked to see so young and honest a prince in such a place!" "My old friends? Who?" "I saw Saint John the Conqueror graciously wave his hand to a most highly respectable old nobleman this afternoon, and the nobleman was so much shocked that he could not stir an arm to return the salutation! His legs must have done something, though, for he seemed to kick his own horse up from the ground under him. The shock must have been terrible. As for me, I laughed aloud, which made both the old nobleman and Don Julius Caesar of Austria exceedingly angry. Get before me, Don Fadrique! I am afraid of the terror of the Moors,--and no shame to me either! A poor dwarf, against a man who tears armies to shreds,--and sends scullery maids into hysterics! What is a poor crippled jester compared with a powerful scullery maid or an army of heathen Moriscoes? Give me that sword, Fadrique, or I am a dead man!" But Don John was laughing good-naturedly. "So it was you, Adonis? I might have-known your voice, I should think." "No one ever knows my voice, sir. It is not a voice, it is a freak of grammar. It is masculine, feminine, and neuter in gender, singular by nature, and generally accusative, and it is optative in mood and full of acute accents. If you can find such another voice in creation, sir, I will forfeit mine in the King's councils." Adonis laughed now, and Dolores remembered the laughter she had heard from the window. "Does his Majesty consult you on matters of state?" inquired Don John. "Answer quickly, for I must be going." "It takes twice as long to tell a story to two men, as to tell it to one,--when you have to tell them different stories," "Go, Fadrique," said Don John, "and shut the door." The dwarf, seeing the servant gone, beckoned Don John to the other side of the room. "It is no great secret, being only the King's," he said. "His Majesty bids me tell your Serene Highness that he wishes to speak with you privately about some matters, and that he will come here soon after supper, and begs you to be alone." "I will be here--alone." "Excellent, sir. Now there is another matter of secrecy which is just the contrary of what I have told you, for it is a secret from the King. A lady laid a letter and two white carnations on your writing-table. If there is any answer to be taken, I will take it." "There is none," answered Don John sternly, "Tell the lady that I burned the letter without reading it. Go, Adonis, and the next time you come here, do not bring messages from women. Fadrique!" "Your Highness burned the letter without reading it?" "Yes. Fadrique!" "I am sorry," said the dwarf, in a low voice. No more words were spoken, and in a few moments there was deep silence, for they were all gone, and Dolores was alone, locked into the little room. * * * * * CHAPTER VI The great throne room of the palace was crowded with courtiers long before the time when the King and Queen and Don John of Austria were to appear, and the entries and halls by which it was approached were almost as full. Though the late November air was keen, the state apartments were at summer heat, warmed by thousands of great wax candles that burned in chandeliers, and in huge sconces and on high candelabra that stood in every corner. The light was everywhere, and was very soft and yellow, while the odour of the wax itself was perceptible in the air, and helped the impression that the great concourse was gathered in a wide cathedral for some solemn function rather than in a throne room to welcome a victorious soldier. Vast tapestries, dim and rich in the thick air, covered the walls between the tall Moorish windows, and above them the great pointed vaulting, ornamented with the fantastically modelled stucco of the Moors, was like the creamy crests of waves lashed into foam by the wind, thrown upright here, and there blown forward in swift spray, and then again breaking in the fall to thousands of light and exquisite shapes; and the whole vault thus gathered up the light of the candles into itself and shed it downward, distributing it into every corner and lighting every face in a soft and golden glow. At the upper end, between two great doors that were like the gateways of an eastern city, stood the vacant throne, on a platform approached by three broad steps and covered with deep red cloth; and there stood magnificent officers of the guard in gilded corslets and plumed steel caps, and other garments of scarlet and gold, with their drawn swords out. But Mendoza was not there yet, for it was his duty to enter with the King's own guard, preceding the Majorduomo. Above the throne, a huge canopy of velvet, red and yellow, was reared up around the royal coat of arms. To the right and left, on the steps, stood carved stools with silken cushions--those on the right for the chief ministers and nobles of the kingdom, those on the left for the great ladies of the court. These would all enter in the King's train and take their places. For the throng of courtiers who filled the floor and the entries there were no seats, for only a score of the highest and greatest personages were suffered to sit in the royal presence. A few, who were near the windows, rested themselves surreptitiously on the high mouldings of the pilasters, pushing aside the curtains cautiously, and seeming from a distance to be standing while they were in reality comfortably seated, an object of laughing envy and of many witticisms to their less fortunate fellow-courtiers. The throng was not so close but that it was possible to move in the middle of the hall, and almost all the persons there were slowly changing place, some going forward to be nearer the throne, others searching for their friends among their many acquaintances, that they might help the tedious hour to pass more quickly. Seen from the high gallery above the arch of the great entrance the hall was a golden cauldron full of rich hues that intermingled in streams, and made slow eddies with deep shadows, and then little waves of light that turned upon themselves, as the colours thrown into the dyeing vat slowly seethe and mix together in rivulets of dark blue and crimson, and of splendid purple that seems to turn black in places and then is suddenly shot through with flashes of golden and opalescent light. Here and there also a silvery gleam flashed in the darker surface, like a pearl in wine, for a few of the court ladies were dressed all in white, with silver and many pearls, and diamonds that shed little rays of their own. The dwarf Adonis had been there for a few moments behind the lattice which the Moors had left, and as he stood there alone, where no one ever thought of going, he listened to the even and not unmusical sound that came up from the great assembly--the full chorus of speaking voices trained never to be harsh or high, and to use chosen words, with no loud exclamations, laughing only to please and little enough out of merriment; and they would not laugh at all after the King and Queen came in, but would only murmur low and pleasant flatteries, the change as sudden as when the musician at the keys closes the full organ all at once and draws gentle harmonies from softer stops. The jester had stood there, and looked down with deep-set, eager eyes, his crooked face pathetically sad and drawn, but alive with a swift and meaning intelligence, while the thin and mobile lips expressed a sort of ready malice which could break out in bitterness or turn to a kindly irony according as the touch that moved the man's sensitive nature was cruel or friendly. He was scarcely taller than a boy of ten years old, but his full-grown arms hung down below his knees, and his man's head, with the long, keen face, was set far forward on his shapeless body, so that in speaking with persons of ordinary stature he looked up under his brows, a little sideways, to see better. Smooth red hair covered his bony head, and grew in a carefully trimmed and pointed beard on his pointed chin. A loose doublet of crimson velvet hid the outlines of his crooked back and projecting breastbone, and the rest of his dress was of materials as rich, and all red. He was, moreover, extraordinarily careful of his appearance, and no courtier had whiter or more delicately tended hands or spent more time before the mirror in tying a shoulder knot, and in fastening the stiffened collar of white embroidered linen at the fashionable angle behind his neck. He had entered the latticed gallery on his way to Don John's apartments with the King's message. A small and half-concealed door, known to few except the servants of the palace, opened upon it suddenly from a niche in one of the upper corridors. In Moorish days the ladies of the harem had been wont to go there unseen to see the reception of ambassadors of state, and such ceremonies, at which, even veiled, they could never be present. He only stayed a few moments, and though his eyes were eager, it was by habit rather than because they were searching for any one in the crowd. It pleased him now and then to see the court world as a spectacle, as it delights the hard-worked actor to be for once a spectator at another's play. He was an integral part of the court himself, a man of whom most was often expected when he had the least to give, to whom it was scarcely permitted to say anything in ordinary language, but to whom almost any license of familiar speech was freely allowed. He was not a man, he was a tradition, a thing that had to be where it was from generation to generation; wherever the court had lived a jester lay buried, and often two and three, for they rarely lived an ordinary lifetime. Adonis thought of that sometimes, when he was alone, or when he looked down at the crowd of delicately scented and richly dressed men and women, every one called by some noble name, who would doubtless laugh at some jest of his before the night was over. To their eyes the fool was a necessary servant, because there had always been a fool at court; he was as indispensable as a chief butler, a chief cook, or a state coachman, and much more amusing. But he was not a man, he had no name, he had no place among men, he was not supposed to have a mother, a wife, a home, anything that belonged to humanity. He was well lodged, indeed, where the last fool had died, and richly clothed as the other had been, and he fed delicately, and was given the fine wines of France to drink, lest his brain should be clouded by stronger liquor and he should fail to make the court laugh. But he knew well enough that somewhere in Toledo or Valladolid the next court jester was being trained to good manners and instructed in the art of wit, to take the vacant place when he should die. It pleased him therefore sometimes to look down at the great assemblies from the gallery and to reflect that all those magnificent fine gentlemen and tenderly nurtured beauties of Spain were to die also, and that there was scarcely one of them, man or woman, for whose death some one was not waiting, and waiting perhaps with evil anxiety and longing. They were splendid to see, those fair women in their brocades and diamonds, those dark young princesses and duchesses in velvet and in pearls. He dreamed of them sometimes, fancying himself one of those Djin of the southern mountains of whom the Moors told blood-curdling tales, and in the dream he flew down from the gallery on broad, black wings and carried off the youngest and most beautiful, straight to his magic fortress above the sea. They never knew that he was sometimes up there, and on this evening he did not wait long, for he had his message to deliver and must be in waiting on the King before the royal train entered the throne room. After he was gone, the courtiers waited long, and more and more came in from without. Now and then the crowd parted as best it might, to allow some grandee who wore the order of the Golden Fleece or of some other exalted order, to lead his lady nearer to the throne, as was his right, advancing with measured steps, and bowing gravely to the right and left as he passed up to the front among his peers. And just behind them, on one aide, the young girls, of whom many were to be presented to the King and Queen that night, drew together and talked in laughing whispers, gathering in groups and knots of three and four, in a sort of irregular rank behind their mothers or the elder ladies who were to lead them to the royal presence and pronounce their names. There was more light where they were gathered, the shadows were few and soft, the colours tender as the tints of roses in a garden at sunset, and from the place where they stood the sound of young voices came silvery and clear. That should have been Inez de Mendoza's place if she had not been blind. But Inez had never been willing to be there, though she had more than once found her way to the gallery where the dwarf had stood, and had listened, and smelled the odour of the wax candles and the perfumes that rose with the heated air. It was long before the great doors on the right hand of the canopy were thrown open, but courtiers are accustomed from their childhood to long waiting, and the greater part of their occupation at court is to see and to be seen, and those who can do both and can take pleasure in either are rarely impatient. Moreover, many found an opportunity of exchanging quick words and of making sudden plans for meeting, who would have found it hard to exchange a written message, and who had few chances of seeing each other in the ordinary course of their lives; and others had waited long to deliver a cutting speech, well studied and tempered to hurt, and sought their enemies in the crowd with the winning smile a woman wears to deal her keenest thrust. There were men, too, who had great interests at stake and sought the influence of such as lived near the King, flattering every one who could possibly be of use, and coolly overlooking any who had a matter of their own to press, though they were of their own kin. Many officers of Don John's army were there, too, bright-eyed and bronzed from their campaigning, and ready to give their laurels for roses, leaf by leaf, with any lady of the court who would make a fair exchange--and of these there were not a few, and the time seemed short to them. There were also ecclesiastics, but not many, in sober black and violet garments, and they kept together in one corner and spoke a jargon of Latin and Spanish which the courtiers could not understand; and all who were there, the great courtiers and the small, the bishops and the canons, the stout princesses laced to suffocation and to the verge of apoplexy, and fanning themselves desperately in the heat, and their slim, dark-eyed daughters, cool and laughing--they were all gathered together to greet Spain's youngest and greatest hero, Don John of Austria, who had won back Granada from the Moors. As the doors opened at last, a distant blast of silver trumpets rang in from without, and the full chorus of speaking voices was hushed to a mere breathing that died away to breathless silence during a few moments as the greatest sovereign of the age, and one of the strangest figures of all time, appeared before his court. The Grand Master of Ceremonies entered first, in his robe of office, bearing a long white staff. In the stillness his voice rang out to the ends of the hall: "His Majesty the King! Her Majesty the Queen!" Then came a score of halberdiers of the guard, picked men of great stature, marching in even steps, led by old Mendoza himself, in his breastplate and helmet, sword in hand; and he drew up the guard at one side in a rank, making them pass him so that he stood next to the door. After the guards came Philip the Second, a tall and melancholy figure; and with him, on his left side, walked the young Queen, a small, thin figure in white, with sad eyes and a pathetic face--wondering, perhaps, whether she was to follow soon those other queens who had walked by the same King to the same court, and had all died before their time--Mary of Portugal, Mary of England, Isabel of Valois. The King was one of those men who seem marked by destiny rather than by nature, fateful, sombre, almost repellent in manner, born to inspire a vague fear at first sight, and foreordained to strange misfortune or to extraordinary success, one of those human beings from whom all men shrink instinctively, and before whom they easily lose their fluency of speech and confidence of thought. Unnaturally still eyes, of an uncertain colour, gazed with a terrifying fixedness upon a human world, and were oddly set in the large and perfectly colourless face that was like an exaggerated waxen mask. The pale lips did not meet evenly, the lower one protruding, forced, outward by the phenomenal jaw that has descended to this day in the House of Austria. A meagre beard, so fair that it looked faded, accentuated the chin rather than concealed it, and the hair on the head was of the same undecided tone, neither thin nor thick, neither long nor short, but parted, and combed with the utmost precision about the large but very finely moulded ears. The brow was very full as well as broad, and the forehead high, the whole face too large, even for a man so tall, and disquieting in its proportions. Philip bent his head forward a little when at rest; when he looked about him it moved with something of the slow, sure motion of a piece of mechanism, stopping now and then, as the look in the eyes solidified to a stare, and then, moving again, until curiosity was satisfied and it resumed its first attitude, and remained motionless, whether the lips were speaking or not. Very tall and thin, and narrow chested, the figure was clothed all in cream-coloured silk and silver, relieved only by the collar of the Golden Fleece, the solitary order the King wore. His step was ungraceful and slow, as if his thin limbs bore his light weight with difficulty, and he sometimes stumbled in walking. One hand rested on the hilt of his sword as he walked, and even under the white gloves the immense length of the fingers and the proportionate development of the long thumb were clearly apparent. No one could have guessed that in such a figure there could be much elasticity or strength, and yet, at rare moments and when younger, King Philip displayed such strength and energy and quickness as might well have made him the match of ordinary men. As a rule his anger was slow, thoughtful, and dangerous, as all his schemes were vast and far-reaching. With the utmost deliberation, and without so much as glancing at the courtiers assembled, he advanced to the throne and sat down, resting both hands on the gilded arms of the great chair; and the Queen took her place beside him. But before he had settled himself, there was a low sound of suppressed delight in the hall, a moving of heads, a brightening of women's eyes, a little swaying of men's shoulders as they tried to see better over those who stood before them; and voices rose here and there above the murmur, though not loudly, and were joined by others. Then the King's waxen face darkened, though the expression did not change and the still eyes did not move, but as if something passed between it and the light, leaving it grey in the shadow. He did not turn to look, for he knew that his brother had entered the throne room and that every eye was upon him. Don John was all in dazzling white--white velvet, white satin, white silk, white lace, white shoes, and wearing neither sword nor ornament of any kind, the most faultless vision of young and manly grace that ever glided through a woman's dream. His place was on the King's right, and he passed along the platform of the throne with an easy, unhesitating step, and an almost boyish smile of pleasure at the sounds he heard, and at the flutter of excitement that was in the air, rather to be felt than otherwise perceived. Coming up the steps of the throne, he bent one knee before his brother, who held out his ungloved hand for him to kiss--and when that was done, he knelt again before the Queen, who did likewise. Then, bowing low as he passed back before the King, he descended one step and took the chair set for him in the place that was for the royal princes. He was alone there, for Philip was again childless at his fourth marriage, and it was not until long afterwards that a son was born who lived to succeed him; and there were no royal princesses in Madrid, so that Don John was his brother's only near blood relation at the court, and since he had been acknowledged he would have had his place by right, even if he had not beaten the Moriscoes in the south and won back Granada. After him came the high Ministers of State and the ambassadors in a rich and stately train, led in by Don Antonio Perez, the King's new favourite, a man of profound and evil intelligence, upon whom Philip was to rely almost entirely during ten years, whom he almost tortured to death for his crimes, and who in the end escaped him, outlived him, and died a natural death, in Paris, when nearly eighty. With these came also the court ladies, the Queen's Mistress of the Robes, and the maids of honour, and with the ladies was Doña Ana de la Cerda, Princess of Eboli and Melito and Duchess of Pastrana, the wife of old Don Ruy Gomez de Silva, the Minister. It was said that she ruled her husband, and Antonio Perez and the King himself, and that she was faithless to all three. She was not more than thirty years of age at that time, and she looked younger when seen in profile. But one facing her might have thought her older from the extraordinary and almost masculine strength of her small head and face, compact as a young athlete's, too square for a woman's, with high cheekbones, deep-set black eyes and eyebrows that met between them, and a cruel red mouth that always curled a little just when she was going to speak, and showed extraordinarily perfect little teeth, when the lips parted. Yet she was almost beautiful when she was not angry or in a hurtful mood. The dark complexion was as smooth as a perfect peach, and tinged with warm colour, and her eyes could be like black opals, and no woman in Spain or Andalusia could match her for grace of figure and lightness of step. Others came after in the long train. Then, last of all, at a little distance from the rest, the jester entered, affecting a very dejected air. He stood still a while on the platform, looking about as if to see whether a seat had been reserved for him, and then, shaking his head sadly, he crouched down, a heap of scarlet velvet with a man's face, just at Don John's feet, and turning a little towards him, so as to watch his eyes. But Don John would not look at him, and was surprised that he should put himself there, having just been dismissed with a sharp reprimand for bringing women's messages. The ceremony, if it can be called by that name, began almost as soon as all were seated. At a sign from the King, Don Antonio Perez rose and read out a document which he had brought in his hand. It was a sort of throne speech, and set forth briefly, in very measured terms, the results of the long campaign against the Moriscoes, according high praise to the army in general, and containing a few congratulatory phrases addressed to Don John himself. The audience of nobles listened attentively, and whenever the leader's name occurred, the suppressed flutter of enthusiasm ran through the hall like a breeze that stirs forest leaves in summer; but when the King was mentioned the silence was dead and unbroken. Don John sat quite still, looking down a little, and now and then his colour deepened perceptibly. The speech did not hint at any reward or further distinction to be conferred on him. When Perez had finished reading, he paused a moment, and the hand that held the paper fell to his side. Then he raised his voice to a higher key. "God save his Majesty Don Philip Second!" be cried. "Long live the King!" The courtiers answered the cheer, but moderately, as a matter of course, and without enthusiasm, repeating it three times. But at the last time a single woman's voice, high and clear above all the rest, cried out other words. "God save Don John of Austria! Long live Don John of Austria!" The whole multitude of men and women was stirred at once, for every heart was in the cheer, and in an instant, courtiers though they were, the King was forgotten, the time, the place, and the cry went up all at once, full, long and loud, shaming the one that had gone before it. King Philip's hands strained at the arms of his great chair, and he half rose, as if to command silence; and Don John, suddenly pale, had half risen, too, stretching out his open hand in a gesture of deprecation, while the Queen watched him with timidly admiring eyes, and the dark Princess of Eboli's dusky lids drooped to hide her own, for she was watching him also, but with other thoughts. For a few seconds longer, the cheers followed each other, and then they died away to a comparative silence. The dwarf rocked himself, his head between his knees, at Don John's feet. "God save the Fool!" he cried softly, mimicking the cheer, and he seemed to shake all over, as he sat huddled together, swinging himself to and fro. But no one noticed what he said, for the King had risen to his feet as soon as there was silence. He spoke in a muffled tone that made his words hard to understand, and those who knew him best saw that he was very angry. The Princess of Eboli's red lips curled scornfully as she listened, and unnoticed she exchanged a meaning glance with Antonio Perez; for he and she were allies, and often of late they had talked long together, and had drawn sharp comparisons between the King and his brother, and the plan they had made was to destroy the King and to crown Don John of Austria in his place; but the woman's plot was deeper, and both were equally determined that Don John should not marry without their consent, and that if he did, his marriage should not hold, unless, as was probable, his young wife should fall ill and die of a sickness unknown to physicians. All had risen with the King, and he addressed Don John amidst the most profound silence. "My brother," he said, "your friends have taken upon themselves unnecessarily to use the words we would have used, and to express to you their enthusiasm for your success in a manner unknown at the court of Spain. Our one voice, rendering you the thanks that are your due, can hardly give you great satisfaction after what you have heard just now. Yet we presume that the praise of others cannot altogether take the place of your sovereign's at such a moment, and we formally thank you for the admirable performance of the task entrusted to you, promising that before long your services shall be required for an even more arduous undertaking. It is not in our power to confer upon you any personal distinction or public office higher than you already hold, as our brother, and as High Admiral of Spain; but we trust the day is not far distant when a marriage befitting your rank may place you on a level with kings." Don John had moved a step forward from his place and stood before the King, who, at the end of his short speech, put his long arms over his brother's shoulders, and proceeded to embrace him in a formal manner by applying one cheek to his and solemnly kissing the air behind Don John's head, a process which the latter imitated as nearly as he could. The court looked on in silence at the ceremony, ill satisfied with Philip's cold words. The King drew back, and Don John returned to his place. As he reached it the dwarf jester made a ceremonious obeisance and handed him a glove which he had dropped as he came forward. As he took it he felt that it contained a letter, which made a slight sound when his hand crumpled it inside the glove. Annoyed by the fool's persistence, Don John's eyes hardened as he looked at the crooked face, and almost imperceptibly he shook his head. But the dwarf was as grave as he, and slightly bent his own, clasping his hands in a gesture of supplication. Don John reflected that the matter must be one of importance this time, as Adonis would not otherwise have incurred the risk of passing the letter to him under the eyes of the King and the whole court. Then followed the long and tedious procession of the court past the royal pair, who remained seated, while all the rest stood up, including Don John himself, to whom a master of ceremonies presented the persons unknown to him, and who were by far the more numerous. To the men, old and young, great or insignificant, he gave his hand with frank cordiality. To the women he courteously bowed his head. A full hour passed before it was over, and still he grasped the glove with the crumpled letter in his hand, while the dwarf stood at a little distance, watching in case it should fall; and as the Duchess Alvarez and the Princess of Eboli presented the ladies of Madrid to the young Queen, the Princess often looked at Don John and often at the jester from beneath her half-dropped lids. But she did not make a single mistake of names nor of etiquette, though her mind was much preoccupied with other matters. The Queen was timidly gracious to every one; but Philip's face was gloomy, and his fixed eyes hardly seemed to see the faces of the courtiers as they passed before him, nor did he open his lips to address a word to any of them, though some were old and faithful servants of his own and of his father's. In his manner, in his silence, in the formality of the ceremony, there was the whole spirit of the Spanish dominion. It was sombrely magnificent, and it was gravely cruel; it adhered to the forms of sovereignty as rigidly as to the outward practices of religion; its power extended to the ends of the world, and the most remote countries sent their homage and obeisance to its head; and beneath the dark splendour that surrounded its gloomy sovereigns there was passion and hatred and intrigue. Beside Don John of Austria stood Antonio Perez, and under the same roof with Dolores de Mendoza dwelt Ana de la Cerda, Princess of Eboli, and in the midst of them all Miguel de Antona, the King's fool. * * * * * CHAPTER VII When the ceremony was over, and every one on the platform and steps of the throne moved a little in order to make way for the royal personages, making a slight momentary confusion, Adonis crept up behind Don John, and softly touched his sleeve to attract his attention. Don John looked round quickly, and was annoyed to see the dwarf there. He did not notice the fact that Doña Ana de la Cerda was watching them both, looking sideways without turning her head. "It is a matter of importance," said the jester, in a low voice. "Read it before supper if you can." Don John looked at him a moment, and turned away without answering, or even making a sign that he understood. The dwarf met Doña Ana's eyes, and grew slowly pale, till his face was a yellow mask; for he feared her. The door on the other side of the throne was opened, and the King and Queen, followed by Don John, and preceded by the Master of Ceremonies, went out. The dwarf, who was privileged, went after them with his strange, rolling step, his long arms hanging down and swinging irregularly, as if they did not belong to his body, but were only stuffed things that hung loose from his shoulders. As on all such state occasions, there were separate suppers, in separate apartments, one for the King, and one for the ministers of state and the high courtiers; thirdly, a vast collation was spread in a hall on the other side of the throne room for the many nobles who were but guests at the court and held no office nor had any special privileges. It was the custom at that time that the supper should last an hour, after which all reëntered the throne room to dance, except the King and Queen, who either retired to the royal apartments, or came back for a short time and remained standing on the floor of the hall, in order to converse with a few of the grandees and ambassadors. The royal party supped in a sombre room of oval shape, dark with tapestries and splendid with gold. The King and Queen sat side by side, and Don John was placed opposite them at the table, of which the shape and outline corresponded on a small scale with those of the room. Four or five gentlemen, whose office it was, served the royal couple, receiving the dishes and wines from the hands of the chief butler; and he, with two other servants in state liveries, waited on Don John. Everything was most exactly ordered according to the unchangeable rules of the most formal court in Europe, not even excepting that of Rome. Philip sat in gloomy silence, eating nothing, but occasionally drinking a little Tokay wine, brought with infinite precaution from Hungary to Madrid. As be said nothing, neither the Queen nor Don John could speak, it being ordained that the King must be the first to open his lips. The Queen, however, being young and of a good constitution in spite of her almost delicate appearance, began to taste everything that was set before her, glancing timidly at her husband, who took no notice of her, or pretended not to do so. Don John, soldier-like, made a sparing supper of the first thing that was offered to him, and then sat silently watching the other two. He understood very well that his brother wished to see him in private, and was annoyed that the Queen should make the meal last longer than necessary. The dwarf understood also, and smiled to himself in the corner where he stood waiting in case the King should wish to be amused, which on that particular evening seemed far from likely. But sometimes he turned pale and his lips twisted a little as if he were suffering great pain; for Don John had not yet read the letter that was hidden in his glove; and Adonis saw in the dark corners of the room the Princess of Eboli's cruel half-closed eyes, and he fancied he heard her deep voice, that almost always spoke very sweetly, telling him again and again that if Don John did not read her letter before he met the King alone that night, Adonis should before very long cease to be court jester, and indeed cease to be anything at all that 'eats and drinks and sleeps and wears a coat'--as Dante had said. What Doña Ana said she would do, was as good as done already, both then and for nine years from that time, but thereafter she paid for all her deeds, and more too. But this history is not concerned with those matters, being only the story of what happened in one night at the old Alcazar of Madrid. King Philip sat a little bent in his chair, apparently staring at a point in space, and not opening his lips except to drink. But his presence filled the shadowy room, his large and yellowish face seemed to be all visible from every part of it, and his still eyes dominated everything and every one, except his brother. It was as if the possession of some supernatural and evil being were stealing slowly upon all who were there; as if a monstrous spider sat absolutely motionless in the midst of its web, drawing everything within reach to itself by the unnatural fascination of its lidless sight--as if the gentlemen in waiting were but helpless flies, circling nearer and nearer, to be caught at last in the meshes, and the Queen a bright butterfly, and Don John a white moth, already taken and soon to be devoured. The dwarf thought of this in his corner, and his blood was chilled, for three queens lay in their tombs in three dim cathedrals, and she who sat at table was the fourth who had supped with the royal Spider in his web. Adonis watched him, and the penetrating fear he had long known crept all through him like the chill that shakes a man before a marsh fever, so that he had to set his teeth with all his might, lest they should chatter audibly. As he looked, he fancied that in the light of the waxen torches the King's face turned by degrees to an ashy grey, and then more slowly to a shadowy yellow again, as he had seen a spider's ugly body change colour when the flies came nearer, and change again when one was entangled in the threads. He thought that the faces of all the people in the room changed, too, and that he saw in them the look that only near and certain death can bring, which is in the eyes of him who goes out with bound hands, at dawn, amongst other men who will see the rising sun shine on his dead face. That fear came on the dwarf sometimes, and he dreaded always lest at that moment the King should call to him and bid him sing or play with words. But this had never happened yet. There were others in the room, also, who knew something of that same terror, though in a less degree, perhaps because they knew Philip less well than the jester, who was almost always near him. But Don John sat quietly in his place, no more realizing that there could be danger than if he had been charging the Moors at the head of his cavalry, or fighting a man hand to hand with drawn swords. But still the fear grew, and even the gentlemen and the servants wondered, for it had never happened that the King had not at last broken the silence at supper, so that all guessed trouble near at hand, and peril for themselves. The Queen grew nervous and ceased to eat. She looked from Philip to Don John, and more than once seemed about to speak, but recollected herself and checked the words. Her hand shook and her thin young nostrils quivered now and then. Evil was gathering in the air, and she felt it approaching, though she could not tell whence it came. A sort of tension took possession of every one, like what people feel in southern countries when the southeast wind blows, or when, almost without warning, the fresh sea-breeze dies away to a dead calm and the blackness rises like a tide of pitch among the mountains of the coast, sending up enormous clouds above it to the pale sky, and lying quite still below; and the air grows lurid quickly, and heavy to breathe and sultry, till the tempest breaks in lightning and-thunder and drenching rain. In the midst of the brewing storm the dwarf saw only the Spider in its web, illuminated by the unearthly glare of his own fear, and with it the frightened butterfly and the beautiful silver moth, that had never dreamed of danger. He shrank against the hangings, pressing backwards till he hurt his crooked back against the stone wall behind the tapestry, and could have shrieked with fear had not a greater fear made him dumb. He felt that the King was going to speak to him, and that he should not be able to answer him. A horrible thought suddenly seized him, and he fancied that the King had seen him slip the letter into Don John's glove, and would ask for it, and take it, and read it--and that would be the end. Thrills of torment ran through him, and he knew how it must feel to lie bound on the rack and to hear the executioner's hands on the wheel, ready to turn it again at the judge's word. He had seen a man tortured once, and remembered his face. He was sure that the King must have seen the letter, and that meant torment and death, and the King was angry also because the court had cheered Don John. It was treason, and he knew it--yet it would have been certain death, too, to refuse to obey Doña Ana. There was destruction on either side, and he could not escape. Don John had not read the writing yet, and if the King asked for it, he would probably give it to him without a thought, unopened, for he was far too simple to imagine that any one could accuse him of a treasonable thought, and too boyishly frank to fancy that his brother could be jealous of him--above all, he was too modest to suppose that there were thousands who would have risked their lives to set him on the throne of Spain. He would therefore give the King the letter unopened, unless, believing it to be a love message from some foolish woman, he chose to tear it up unread. The wretched jester knew that either would mean his own disgrace and death, and he quivered with agony from head to foot. The lights moved up and down before his sight, the air grew heavier, the royal Spider took gigantic proportions, and its motionless eyes were lurid with evil It was about to turn to him; he felt it turning already, and knew that it saw him in his corner, and meant to draw him to it, very slowly. In a moment he should fall to the floor a senseless heap, out of deadly fear--it would be well if his fear really killed him, but he could not even hope for that. His hands gripped the hangings on each side of him as he shrank and crushed his deformity against the wall. Surely the King was taming his head. Yes--he was right. He felt his short hair rising on his scalp and unearthly sounds screamed in his ears. The terrible eyes were upon him now, but he could not move hand or foot--if he had been nailed to the wall to die, he could not have been so helpless. Philip eyed him with cold curiosity, for it was not an illusion, and he was really looking steadily at the dwarf. After a long time, his protruding lower lip moved two or three times before he spoke. The jester should have come forward at his first glance, to answer any question asked him. Instead, his colourless lips were parted and tightly drawn back, and his teeth were chattering, do what he could to close them. The Queen and Don John followed the King's gaze and looked at the dwarf in surprise, for his agony was painfully visible. "He looks as if he were in an ague," observed Philip, as though he were watching a sick dog. He had spoken at last, and the fear of silence was removed. An audible sigh of relief was heard in the room. "Poor man!" exclaimed the Queen. "I am afraid he is very ill!" "It is more like--" began Don John, and then he checked himself, for he had been on the point of saying that the dwarfs fit looked more like physical fear than illness, for he had more than once seen men afraid of death; but he remembered the letter in his glove and thought the words might rouse Philip's suspicions. "What was your Serene Highness about to say?" enquired the King, speaking coldly, and laying stress on the formal title which he had himself given Don John the right to use. "As your Majesty says, it is very like the chill of a fever," replied Don John. But it was already passing, for Adonis was not a natural coward, and the short conversation of the royal personages had broken the spell that held him, or had at least diminished its power. When he had entered the room he had been quite sure that no one except the Princess had seen him slip the letter into Don John's glove. That quieting belief began to return, his jaw became steady, and he relaxed his hold on the tapestries, and even advanced half a step towards the table. "And now he seems better," said the King, in evident surprise. "What sort of illness is this, Fool? If you cannot explain it, you shall be sent to bed, and the physicians shall practise experiments upon your vile body, until they find out what your complaint is, for the advancement of their learning." "They would advance me more than their science, Sire," answered Adonis, in a voice that still quaked with past fear, "for they would send me to paradise at once and learn nothing that they wished to know." "That is probable," observed Don John, thoughtfully, for he had little belief in medicine generally, and none at all in the present case. "May it please your Majesty," said Adonis, taking heart a little, "there are musk melons on the table." "Well, what of that?" asked the King. "The sight of melons on your Majesty's table almost kills me," answered the dwarf. "Are you so fond of them that you cannot bear to see them? You shall have a dozen and be made to eat them all. That will cure your abominable greediness." "Provided that the King had none himself, I would eat all the rest, until I died of a surfeit of melons like your Majesty's great-grandsire of glorious and happy memory, the Emperor Maximilian." Philip turned visibly pale, for he feared illness and death as few have feared either. "Why has no one ever told me that?" he asked in a muffled and angry voice, looking round the room, so that the gentlemen and servants shrank back a little. No one answered his question, for though the fact was true, it had been long forgotten, and it would have been hard for any of those present to realize that the King would fear a danger so far removed. But the dwarf knew him well. "Let there be no more melons," said Philip, rising abruptly, and still pale. Don John had suppressed a smile, and was taken unawares when the King rose, so that in standing up instantly, as was necessary according to the rules, his gloves slipped from his knees, where he had kept them during supper, to the floor, and a moment passed before he realized that they were not in his hand. He was still in his place, for the King had not yet left his own, being engaged in saying a Latin grace in a low tone, He crossed himself devoutly, and an instant later Don John stooped down and picked up what he had dropped. Philip could not but notice the action, and his suspicions were instantly roused. "What have you found?" he asked sharply, his eyes fixing themselves again. "My gloves, Sire. I dropped them." "And are gloves such precious possessions that Don John of Austria must stoop to pick them up himself?" Adonis began to tremble again, and all his fear returned, so that he almost staggered against the wall. The Queen looked on in surprise, for she had not been Philip's wife many months. Don John was unconcerned, and laughed in reply to the question. "It chances that after long campaigning these are the only new white gloves Don John of Austria possesses," he answered lightly. "Let me see them," said the King, extending his hand, and smiling suddenly. With some deliberation Don John presented one of the gloves to his brother, who took it and pretended to examine it critically, still smiling. He turned it over several times, while Adonis looked on, gasping for breath, but unnoticed. "The other," said Philip calmly. Adonis tried to suppress a groan, and his eyes were fixed on Don John's face. Would he refuse? Would he try to extract the letter from the glove under his brother's eyes? Would he give it up? Don John did none of those things, and there was not the least change of colour in his cheek. Without any attempt at concealment he took the letter from its hiding-place, and held out the empty glove with his other hand. The King drew back, and his face grew very grey and shadowy with anger. "What have you in your other hand?" he asked in a voice indistinct with passion. "A lady's letter, Sire," replied Don John, unmoved. "Give it to me at once!" "That, your Majesty, is a request I will not grant to any gentleman in Spain." He undid a button of his close-fitting doublet, thrust the letter into the opening and fastened the button again, before the King could speak. The dwarf's heart almost stood still with joy,--he could have crawled to Don John's feet to kiss the dust from his shoes. The Queen smiled nervously, between fear of the one man and admiration for the other. "Your Serene Highness," answered Philip, with a frightful stare, "is the first gentleman of Spain who has disobeyed his sovereign." "May I be the last, your Majesty," said Don John, with a courtly gesture which showed well enough that he had no intention of changing his mind. The King turned from him coldly and spoke to Adonis, who had almost got his courage back a second time. "You gave my message to his Highness, Fool?" he asked, controlling his voice, but not quite steadying it to a natural tone. "Yes, Sire." "Go and tell Don Antonio Perez to come at once to me in my own apartments." The dwarf bent till his crooked back was high above his head, and he stepped backwards towards the door through which the servants had entered and gone out. When he had disappeared, Philip turned and, as if nothing had happened, gave his hand to the Queen to lead her away with all the prescribed courtesy that was her due. The servants opened wide the door, two gentlemen placed themselves on each side of it, the chief gentleman in waiting went before, and the royal couple passed out, followed at a little distance by Don John, who walked unconcernedly, swinging his right glove carelessly in his hand as he went. The four gentlemen walked last. In the hall beyond, Mendoza was in waiting with the guards. A little while after they were all gone, Adonis came back from his errand, with his rolling step, and searched for the other glove on the floor, where the King had dropped it. He found it there at once and hid it in his doubtlet. No one was in the room, for the servants had disappeared as soon as they could. The dwarf went quickly to Don John's place, took a Venetian goblet full of untasted wine that stood there and drank it at a draught. Then he patted himself comfortably with his other hand and looked thoughtfully at the slices of musk melon that lay in the golden dish flanked by other dishes full of late grapes and pears. "God bless the Emperor Maximilian!" he said in a devout tone. "Since he could not live for ever, it was a special grace of Providence that his death should be by melons." Then he went away again, and softly closed the door behind him, after looking back once more to be sure that no one was there after all, and perhaps, as people sometimes do on leaving a place where they have escaped a great danger, fixing its details unconsciously in his memory, with something almost akin to gratitude, as if the lifeless things had run the risk with them and thus earned their lasting friendship. Thus every man who has been to sea knows how, when his vessel has been hove to in a storm for many hours, perhaps during more than one day, within a few miles of the same spot, the sea there grows familiar to him as a landscape to a landsman, so that when the force of the gale is broken at last and the sea subsides to a long swell, and the ship is wore to the wind and can lay her course once more, he looks astern at the grey water he has learned to know so well and feels that he should know it again if he passed that way, and he leaves it with a faint sensation of regret. So Adonis, the jester, left the King's supper-room that night, devoutly thanking Heaven that the Emperor Maximilian had died of eating too many melons more than a hundred and fifty years ago. Meanwhile, the King had left the Queen at the door of her apartments, and had dismissed Don John in angry silence by a gesture only, as he went on to his study. And when there, he sent away his gentlemen and bade that no one should disturb him, and that only Don Antonio Perez, the new favourite, should be admitted. The supper had scarcely lasted half an hour, and it was still early in the evening when he found himself alone and was able to reflect upon what had happened, and upon what it would be best to do to rid himself of his brother, the hero and idol of Spain. He did not admit that Don John of Austria could be allowed to live on, unmolested, as if he had not openly refused to obey an express command and as if he were not secretly plotting to get possession of the throne. That was impossible. During more than two years, Don John's popularity, not only with the people, but with the army, which was a much more serious matter, had been steadily growing; and with it and even faster than it, the King's jealousy and hatred had grown also, till it had become a matter of common discussion and jest among the soldiers when their officers were out of hearing. But though it was without real cause, it was not without apparent foundation. As Philip slowly paced the floor of his most private room, with awkward, ungainly steps, stumbling more than once against a cushion that lay before his great armchair, he saw clearly before him the whole dimensions of that power to which he had unwillingly raised his brother. The time had been short, but the means used had been great, for they had been intended to be means of destruction, and the result was tremendous when they turned against him who used them. Philip was old enough to have been Don John's father, and he remembered how indifferent he had been to the graceful boy of twelve, whom they called Juan Quixada, when he had been brought to the old court at Valladolid and acknowledged as a son of the Emperor Charles. Though he was his brother, Philip had not even granted him the privilege of living in the palace then, and had smiled at the idea that he should be addressed as "Serene Highness." Even as a boy, he had been impatient to fight; and Philip remembered how he was always practising with the sword or performing wild feats of skill and strength upon half-broken horses, except when he was kept to his books by Doña Magdalena Quixada, the only person in the world whom he ever obeyed without question. Every one had loved the boy from the first, and Philip's jealousy had begun from that; for he, who was loved by none and feared by all, craved popularity and common affection, and was filled with bitter resentment against the world that obeyed him but refused him what he most desired. Little more than ten years had passed since the boy had come, and he had neither died a natural death nor fallen in battle, and was grown up to young manhood, and was by far the greatest man in Spain. He had been treated as an inferior, the people had set him up as a god. He had been sent out to command expeditions that be might fail and be disgraced; but he had shown deeper wisdom than his elders, and had come back covered with honour; and now he had been commanded to fight out the final battle of Spain with the Moriscoes, in the hope that he might die in the fight, since he could not be dishonoured, and instead he had returned in triumph, having utterly subdued the fiercest warriors in Europe, to reap the ripe harvest of his military glory at an age when other men were in the leading-strings of war's school, and to be acclaimed a hero as well as a favourite by a court that could hardly raise a voice to cheer for its own King. Ten years had done all that. Ten more, or even five, might do the rest. The boy could not be without ambition, and there could be no ambition for him of which the object should be less than a throne. And yet no word had been breathed against him,--his young reputation was charmed, as his life was. In vain Philip had bidden Antonio Perez and the Princess of Eboli use all their wits and skill to prove that he was plotting to seize the crown. They answered that he loved a girl of the court, Mendoza's daughter, and that besides war, for war's sake, he cared for nothing in the world but Dolores and his adopted mother. They spoke the truth, for they had reason to know it, having used every means in their power to find out whether he could be induced to quarrel with Philip and enter upon a civil war, which could have had but one issue, since all Spain would have risen to proclaim him king. He had been tempted by questions, and led into discussions in which it seemed certain that he must give them some hope. But they and their agents lost heart before the insuperable obstacle of the young prince's loyalty. It was simple, unaffected, and without exaggeration. He never drew his sword and kissed the blade, and swore by the Blessed Virgin to give his last drop of blood for his sovereign and his country. He never made solemn vows to accomplish ends that looked impossible. But when the charge sounded, he pressed his steel cap a little lower upon his brow, and settled himself in the saddle without any words and rode at death like the devil incarnate; and then men followed him, and the impossible was done, and that was all. Or he could wait and watch, and manoeuvre for weeks, until he had his foe in his hand, with a patience that would have failed his officers and his men, had they not seen him always ready and cheerful, and fully sure that although he might fail twenty times to drive the foe into the pen, he should most certainly succeed in the end,--as he always did. Philip paced the chamber in deep and angry thought. If at that moment any one had offered to rid him of his brother, the reward would have been ready, and worth a murderer's taking. But the King had long cherished the scheme of marrying Don John to Queen Mary of Scotland,--whose marriage with Bothwell could easily be annulled--in order that his presumptuous ambition might be satisfied, and at the same time that he might make of his new kingdom a powerful ally of Spain against Elizabeth of England. It was for this reason that he had long determined to prevent his brother's marriage with Maria Dolores de Mendoza. Perez and Doña Ana de la Cerda, on the other hand, feared that if Don John were allowed to marry the girl he so devotedly loved, he would forget everything for her, give up campaigning, and settle to the insignificance of a thoroughly happy man. For they knew the world well from their own point of view. Happiness is often like sadness, for it paralyzes those to whose lot it falls; but pain and danger rouse man's strength of mind and body. Yet though the King and his treacherous favourite had diametrically opposite intentions, a similar thought had crossed the minds of both, even before Don John had ridden up to the palace gate late on that afternoon, from his last camping ground outside the city walls. Both had reasoned that whoever was to influence a man so straightforward and fearless must have in his power and keeping the person for whom Don John would make the greatest sacrifice of his life; and that person, as both knew, was Dolores herself. Yet when Antonio Perez entered Philip's study, neither had guessed the other's thought. * * * * * CHAPTER VIII The court had been still at supper when Adonis had summoned Don Antonio Perez to the King, and the Secretary, as he was usually called, had been obliged to excuse his sudden departure by explaining that the King had sent for him unexpectedly. He was not even able to exchange a word with Doña Ana, who was seated at another of the three long tables and at some distance from him. She understood, however, and looked after him anxiously. His leaving was not signal for the others, but it caused a little stir which unhinged the solemn formality of the supper. The Ambassador of the Holy Roman Empire presently protested that he was suffering from an unbearable headache, and the Princess of Eboli, next to whom he was seated, begged him not to stand upon ceremony, since Perez was gone from the room, but to order his coach at once; she found it hot, she said, and would be glad to escape. The two rose together, and others followed their example, until the few who would have stayed longer were constrained to imitate the majority. When Mendoza, relieved at last from his duty, went towards the supper-room to take the place that was kept for him at one of the tables, he met Doña Ana in the private corridor through which the officers and ladies of the household passed to the state apartments. He stood still, surprised to see her there. "The supper is over," she said, stopping also, and trying to scrutinize the hard old face by the dim light of the lamps. "May I have a word with you, General? Let us walk together to your apartments." "It is far, Madam," observed Mendoza, who suspected at once that she wished to see Dolores. "I shall be glad to walk a little, and breathe the air," she answered. "Your corridor has arches open to the air, I remember." She began to walk, and he was obliged to accompany her. "Yes," she continued indifferently, "we have had such changeable weather to-day! This morning it almost snowed, then it rained, then it, began to freeze, and now it feels like summer! I hope Dolores has not taken cold? Is she ill? She was not at court before supper." "The weather is indeed very changeable," replied the General, who did not know what to say, and considered it beneath his dignity to lie except by order of the King. "Yes--yes, I was saying so, was I not? But Dolores--is she ill? Please tell me." The Princess spoke almost anxiously. "No, Madam, my daughters are well, so far as I know." "But then, my dear General, it is strange that you should not have sent an excuse for Dolores' not appearing. That is the rule, you know. May I ask why you ventured to break it?" Her tone grew harder by degrees. "It was very sudden," said Mendoza, trying to put her off. "I hope that your Grace will excuse my daughter." "What was sudden?" enquired Doña Ana coldly. "You say she was not taken ill." "Her--her not coming to court." Mendoza hesitated and pulled at his grey beard as they went along. "She fully intended to come," he added, with perfect truth. Doña Ana walked more slowly, glancing sideways at his face, though she could hardly see it except when they passed by a lamp, for he was very tall, and she was short, though exquisitely proportioned. "I do not understand," she said, in a clear, metallic voice. "I have a right to an explanation, for it is quite impossible to give the ladies of the court who live in the palace full liberty to attend upon the Queen or not, as they please. You will be singularly fortunate if Don Antonio Perez does not mention the matter to the King." Mendoza was silent, but the words had their effect upon him, and a very unpleasant one, for they contained a threat. "You see," continued the Princess, pausing as they reached a flight of steps which they would have to ascend, "every one acknowledges the importance of your services, and that you have been very poorly rewarded for them. But that is in a degree your own fault, for you have refused to make friends when you might, and you have little interest with the King." "I know it," said the old soldier, rather bitterly. "Princess," he continued, without giving her time to say more, "this is a private matter, which concerns only me and my daughter. I entreat you to overlook the irregularity and not to question me further. I will serve you in any way in my power--" "You cannot serve me in any way," answered Doña Ana cruelly. "I am trying to help you," she added, with a sudden change of tone. "You see, my dear General, you are no longer young. At your age, with your name and your past services, you should have been a grandee and a rich man. You have thrown away your opportunities of advancement, and you have contented yourself with an office which is highly honourable--but poorly paid, is it not? And there are younger men who court it for the honour alone, and who are willing to be served by their friends." "Who is my successor?" asked Mendoza, bravely controlling his voice though he felt that he was ruined. The skilful and cruel woman began to mount the steps in silence, in order to let him suffer a few moments, before she answered. Reaching the top, she spoke, and her voice was soft and kind. "No one," she answered, "and there is nothing to prevent you from keeping your post as long as you like, even if you become infirm and have to appoint a deputy--but if there were any serious cause of complaint, like this extraordinary behaviour of Dolores--why, perhaps--" She paused to give her words weight, for she knew their value. "Madam," said Mendoza, "the matter I keep from you does not touch my honour, and you may know it, so far as that is concerned. But it is one of which I entreat you not to force me to speak." Doña Ana softly passed her arm through his. "I am not used to walking so fast," she said, by way of explanation. "But, my dear Mendoza," she went on, pressing his arm a little, "you do not think that I shall let what you tell me go further and reach any one else--do you? How can I be of any use to you, if you have no confidence in me? Are we not relatives? You must treat me as I treat you." Mendoza wished that he could. "Madam," he said almost roughly, "I have shut my daughter up in her own room and bolted the door, and to-morrow I intend to send her to a convent, and there she shall stay until she changes her mind, for I will not change mine" "Oh!" ejaculated Doña Ana, with a long intonation, as if grasping the position of affairs by degrees. "I understand," she said, after a long time. "But then you and I are of the same opinion, my dear friend. Let us talk about this." Mendoza did not wish to talk of the matter at all, and said nothing, as they slowly advanced. They had at last reached the passage that ended at his door, and he slackened his pace still more, obliging his companion, whose arm was still in his, to keep pace with him. The moonlight no longer shone in straight through the open embrasures, and there was a dim twilight in the corridor. "You do not wish Dolores to marry Don John of Austria, then," said the Princess presently, in very low tones. "Then the King is on your side, and so am I. But I should like to know your reason for objecting to such a very great marriage." "Simple enough, Madam. Whenever it should please his Majesty's policy to marry his brother to a royal personage, such as Queen Mary of Scotland, the first marriage would be proved null and void, because the King would command that it should be so, and my daughter would be a dishonoured woman, fit for nothing but a convent." "Do you call that dishonour?" asked the Princess thoughtfully. "Even if that happened, you know that Don John would probably not abandon Dolores. He would keep her near him--and provide for her generously--" "Madam!" cried the brave old soldier, interrupting her in sudden and generous anger, "neither man nor woman shall tell me that my daughter could ever fall to that!" She saw that she had made a mistake, and pressed his arm soothingly. "Pray, do not be angry with me, my dear friend. I was thinking what the world would say--no, let me speak! I am quite of your opinion that Dolores should be kept from seeing Don John, even by quiet force if necessary, for they will certainly be married at the very first opportunity they can find. But you cannot do such things violently, you know. You will make a scandal. You cannot take your daughter away from court suddenly and shut her up in a convent without doing her a great injury. Do you not see that? People will not understand that you will not let her marry Don John--I mean that most people would find it hard to believe. Yes, the world is bad, I know; what can one do? The world would say--promise me that you will not be angry, dear General! You can guess what the world would say."' "I see--I see!" exclaimed the old man, in sudden terror for his daughter's good name. "How wise you are!" "Yes," answered Doña Ana, stopping at ten paces from the door, "I am wise, for I am obliged to be. Now, if instead of locking Dolores into her room two or three hours ago, you had come to me, and told me the truth, and put her under my protection, for our common good, I would have made it quite impossible for her to exchange a word with Don John, and I would have taken such good care of her that instead of gossiping about her, the world would have said that she was high in favour, and would have begun to pay court to her. You know that I have the power to do that." "How very wise you are!" exclaimed Mendoza again, with more emphasis. "Very well. Will you let me take her with me now, my dear friend? I will console her a little, for I daresay she has been crying all alone in her room, poor girl, and I can keep her with me till Don John goes to Villagarcia. Then we shall see." Old Mendoza was a very simple-hearted man, as brave men often are, and a singularly spotless life spent chiefly in war and austere devotion had left him more than ignorant of the ways of the world. He had few friends, chiefly old comrades of his own age who did not live in the palace, and he detested gossip. Had he known what the woman was with whom he was speaking, he would have risked Dolores' life rather than give her into the keeping of Doña Ana. But to him, the latter was simply the wife of old Don Ruy Gomez de Silva, the Minister of State, and she was the head of the Queen's household. No one would have thought of repeating the story of a court intrigue to Mendoza, but it was also true that every one feared Doña Ana, whose power was boundless, and no one wished to be heard speaking ill of her. To him, therefore, her proposition seemed both wise and kind. "I am very grateful," he said, with some emotion, for he believed that she was helping him to save his fortune and his honour, as was perhaps really the case, though she would have helped him to lose both with equally persuasive skill could his ruin have served her. "Will you come in with me, Princess?" he asked, beginning to move towards the door. "Yes. Take me to her room and leave me with her." "Indeed, I would rather not see her myself this evening," said Mendoza, feeling his anger still not very far from the surface. "You will be able to speak more wisely than I should." "I daresay," answered Doña Ana thoughtfully. "If you went with me to her, there might be angry words again, and that would make it much harder for me. If you will leave me at the door of her rooms, and then go away, I will promise to manage the rest. You are not sorry that you have told me, now, are you, my dear friend?" "I am most grateful to you. I shall do all I can to be of service to you, even though you said that it was not in my power to serve you." "I was annoyed," said Doña Ana sweetly. "I did not mean it--please forgive me." They reached the door, and as she withdrew her hand from his arm, he took it and ceremoniously kissed her gloved fingers, while she smiled graciously. Then he knocked three times, and presently the shuffling of Eudaldo's slippers was heard within, and the old servant opened sleepily. On seeing the Princess enter first, he stiffened himself in a military fashion, for he had been a soldier and had fought under Mendoza when both were younger. "Eudaldo," said the General, in the stern tone he always used when giving orders, "her Excellency the Princess of Eboli will take Doña Dolores to her own apartments this evening. Tell the maid to follow later with whatever my daughter needs, and do you accompany the ladies with a candle." But at this Doña Ana protested strongly. There was moonlight, there were lamps, there was light everywhere, she said. She needed no one. Mendoza, who had no man-servant in the house but Eudaldo, and eked out his meagre establishment by making use of his halberdiers when he needed any one, yielded after very little persuasion. "Open the door of my daughter's apartments," he said to Eudaldo. "Madam," he said, turning to the Princess, "I have the honour to wish you good-night. I am your Grace's most obedient servant. I must return to my duty." "Good-night, my dear friend," answered Doña Ana, nodding graciously. Mendoza bowed low, and went out again, Eudaldo closing the door behind him. He would not be at liberty until the last of the grandees had gone home, and the time he had consumed in accompanying the Princess was just what he could have spared for his supper. She gave a short sigh of relief as she heard his spurred heels and long sword on the stone pavement. He was gone, leaving Dolores in her power, and she meant to use that power to the utmost. Eudaldo shuffled silently across the hall, to the other door, and she followed him. He drew the bolt. "Wait here," she said quietly. "I wish to see Doña Dolores alone." "Her ladyship is in the farther room, Excellency," said the servant, bowing and standing back. She entered and closed the door, and Eudaldo returned to his big chair, to doze until she should come out. She had not taken two steps in the dim room, when a shadow flitted between her and the lamp, and it was almost instantly extinguished. She uttered an exclamation of surprise and stood still. Anywhere save in Mendoza's house, she would have run back and tried to open the door as quickly as possible, in fear of her life, for she had many enemies, and was constantly on her guard. But she guessed that the shadowy figure she had seen was Dolores. She spoke, without hesitation, in a gentle voice. "Dolores! Are you there?" she asked. A moment later she felt a small hand on her arm. "Who is it?" asked a whisper, which might have come from Dolores' lips for all Doña Ana could tell. She had forgotten the existence of Inez, whom she had rarely seen, and never noticed, though she knew that Mendoza had a blind daughter. "It is I--the Princess of Eboli," she answered in the same gentle tone. "Hush! Whisper to me." "Your father has gone back to his duty, my dear--you need not be afraid." "Yes, but Eudaldo is outside--he hears everything when he is not asleep. What is it, Princess? Why are you here?" "I wish to talk with you a little," replied Doña Ana, whispering now, to please the girl. "Can we not get a light? Why did you put out the lamp? I thought you were in another room." "I was frightened. I did not know who you were. We can talk in the dark, if you do not mind. I will lead you to a chair. I know just where everything is in this room." The Princess suffered herself to be led a few steps, and presently she felt herself gently pushed into a seat. She was surprised, but realizing the girl's fear of her father, she thought it best to humour her. So far Inez had said nothing that could lead her visitor to suppose that she was not Dolores. Intimate as the devoted sisters were, Inez knew almost as much of the Princess as Dolores herself; the two girls were of the same height, and so long as the conversation was carried on in whispers, there was no possibility of detection by speech alone. The quick-witted blind girl reflected that it was strange if Doña Ana had not seen Dolores, who must have been with the court the whole evening, and she feared some harm. That being the case, her first impulse was to help her sister if possible, but so long as she was a prisoner in Dolores' place, she could do nothing, and she resolved that the Princess should help her to escape. Doña Ana began to speak quickly and fluently in the dark. She said that she knew the girl's position, and had long known how tenderly she loved Don John of Austria, and was loved by him. She sympathized deeply with them both, and meant to do all in her power to help them. Then she told how she had missed Dolores at court that night. Inez started involuntarily and drew her breath quickly, but Doña Ana thought it natural that Dolores should give some expression to the disappointment she must have felt at being shut up a prisoner on such an occasion, when all the court was assembled to greet the man she loved. Then the Princess went on to tell how she had met Mendoza and had come with him, and how with great difficulty she had learned the truth, and had undertaken Dolores' care for a few days; and how Mendoza had been satisfied, never suspecting that she really sympathized with the lovers. That was a state secret, but of course Dolores must know it. The King privately desired the marriage, she said, because he was jealous of his brother and wished that he would tire of winning battles and live quietly, as happy men do. "Don John will tell you, when you see him," she continued. "I sent him two letters this evening. The first he burned unopened, because he thought it was a love letter, but he has read the second by this time. He had it before supper." "What did you write to him?" asked Inez, whispering low. "He will tell you. The substance was this: If he would only be prudent, and consent to wait two days, and not attempt to see you alone, which would make a scandal, and injure you, too, if any one knew it, the King would arrange everything at his own pleasure, and your father would give his consent. You have not seen Don John since he arrived, have you?" She asked the question anxiously. "Oh no!" answered the blind girl, with conviction. "I have not seen him. I wish to Heaven I had!" "I am glad of that," whispered the Princess. "But if you will come with me to my apartments, and stay with me till matters are arranged--well--I will not promise, because it might be dangerous, but perhaps you may see him for a moment." "Really? Do you think that is possible?" In the dark Inez was smiling sadly. "Perhaps. He might come to see me, for instance, or my husband, and I could leave you together a moment." "That would be heaven!" And the whisper came from the heart. "Then come with me now, my dear, and I will do my best," answered the Princess. "Indeed I will! But will you wait one moment while I dress? I am in my old frock--it is hardly fit to be seen." This was quite true; but Inez had reflected that dressed as she was she could not pass Eudaldo and be taken by him for her sister, even with a hood over her head. The clothes Dolores had worn before putting on her court dress were in her room, and Dolores' hood was there, too. Before the Princess could answer, Inez was gone, closing the door of the bedroom behind her. Doña Ana, a little taken by surprise again, was fain to wait where she was, in the dark, at the risk of hurting herself against the furniture. Then it struck her that Dolores must be dressing in the dark, for no light had come from the door as it was opened and shut. She remembered the blind sister then, and she wondered idly whether those who lived continually with the blind learned from them to move easily in the dark and to do everything without a light. The question did not interest her much, but while she was thinking of it the door opened again. A skirt and a bodice are soon changed. In a moment she felt her hand taken, and she rose to her feet. "I am ready, Princess. I will open the door if you will come with me. I have covered my head and face," she added carelessly, though always whispering, "because I am afraid of the night air." "I was going to advise you to do it in any case, my dear. It is just as well that neither of us should be recognized by any one in the corridors so far from my apartments." The door opened and let in what seemed a flood of light by comparison with the darkness. The Princess went forward, and Eudaldo got upon his legs as quickly as he could to let the two ladies out, without looking at them as they crossed the hall. Inez followed her companion's footfall exactly, keeping one step behind her by ear, and just pausing before passing out. The old servant saw Dolores' dress and Dolores' hood, which he expected to see, and no more suspected anything than he had when, as he supposed, Inez, had gone out earlier. But Inez herself had a far more difficult part to perform than her sister's. Dolores had gone out alone, and no one had watched her beyond the door, and Dolores had eyes, and could easily enough pretend that she could not see. It was another matter to be blind and to play at seeing, with a clever woman like the Princess at one's elbow, ready to detect the slightest hesitation. Besides, though she had got out of the predicament in which it had been necessary to place her, it was quite impossible to foresee what might happen when the Princess discovered that she had been deceived, and that catastrophe must happen sooner or later, and might occur at any moment. The Princess walked quickly, too, with a gliding, noiseless step that was hard to follow. Fortunately Inez was expected to keep to the left of a superior like her companion, and was accustomed to taking that side when she went anywhere alone in the palace. That made it easier, but trouble might come at one of the short flights of steps down and up which they would have to pass to reach the Princess's apartments. And then, once there, discovery must come, to a certainty, and then, she knew not what. She had not run the risk for the sake of being shut up again. She had got out by a trick in order to help her sister, if she could find her, and in order to be at liberty the first thing necessary was to elude her companion. To go to the door of her apartments would be fatal, but she had not had time to think what she should do. She thought now, with all the concentration of her ingenuity. One chance presented itself to her mind at once. They most pass the pillar behind which was the concealed entrance to the Moorish gallery above the throne room, and it was not at all likely that Doña Ana should know of its existence, for she never came to that part of the palace, and if Inez lagged a little way behind, before they reached the spot, she could slip noiselessly behind the pillar and disappear. She could always trust herself not to attract attention when she had to open and shut a door. The Princess spoke rarely, making little remarks now and then that hardly required an answer, but to which Inez answered in monosyllables, speaking in a low voice through the thick veil she had drawn over her mantle under her hood, on pretence of fearing the cold. She thought it a little safer to speak aloud in that way, lest her companion should wonder at her total silence. She knew exactly where she was, for she touched each corner as she passed, and counted her steps between one well-known point and the next, and she allowed the Princess to gain a little as they neared the last turning before reaching the place where she meant to make the attempt. She hoped in this way, by walking quite noiselessly, and then stopping suddenly just before she reached the pillar, to gain half a dozen paces, and the Princess would take three more before she stopped also. Inez had noticed that most people take at least three steps before they stop, if any one calls them suddenly when they are walking fast. It seems to need as much to balance the body when its speed is checked. She noticed everything that could be heard. She grew nervous. It seemed to her that her companion was walking more slowly, as if not wishing to leave her any distance behind. She quickened her own pace again, fearing that she had excited suspicion. Then she heard the Princess stop suddenly, and she had no choice but to do the same. Her heart began to beat painfully, as she saw her chance slipping from her. She waited for Doña Ana to speak, wondering what was the matter. "I have mistaken the way," said the Princess, in a tone of annoyance. "I do not know where I am. We had better go back and turn down the main staircase, even if we meet some one. You see, I never come to this part of the palace." "I think we are on the right corridor," said Inez nervously. "Let me go as far as the corner. There is a light there, and I can tell you in a moment." In her anxiety to seem to see, she had forgotten for the moment to muffle her voice in her veil. They went on rapidly, and the Doña Ana did what most people do when a companion offers to examine the way,--she stood still a moment and hesitated, looking after the girl, and then followed her with the slow step with which a person walks who is certain of having to turn back. Inez walked lightly to the corner, hardly touching the wall, turned by the corner, and was out of sight in a moment. The Princess walked faster, for though she believed that Dolores trusted her, it seemed foolish to give the girl a chance. She reached the corner, where there was a lamp,--and she saw that the dim corridor was empty to the very end. * * * * * CHAPTER IX The Princess was far from suspecting, even then, that she had been deceived about her companion's identity as well as tricked at the last, when Inez escaped from her. She would have laughed at the idea that any blind person could have moved as confidently as Inez, or could afterwards have run the length of the next corridor in what had seemed but an instant, for she did not know of the niche behind the pillar, and there were pilasters all along, built into the wall. The construction of the high, springing vault that covered the whole throne room required them for its solidity, and only the one under the centre of the arch was built as a detached pillar, in order to give access to the gallery. Seen from either end of the passage, it looked exactly like the rest, and few persons would have noticed that it differed from them, even in passing it. Doña Ana stood looking in the direction she supposed the girl to have taken. An angry flush rose in her cheek, she bit her lips till they almost bled, and at last she stamped once before she turned away, so that her little slipper sent a sharp echo along the corridor. Pursuit was out of the question, of course, though she could run like a deer; some one might meet her at any turning, and in an hour the whole palace would know that she had been seen running at full speed after some unknown person. It would be bad enough if she were recognized walking alone at night at a distance from her own apartments. She drew her veil over her face so closely that she could hardly see her way, and began to retrace her steps towards the principal staircase, pondering as to what she should say to Mendoza when he discovered that she had allowed his daughter to escape. She was a woman of manlike intelligence and not easily unbalanced by a single reverse, however, and before she had gone far her mind began to work clearly. Dolores, she reasoned, would do one of two things. She would either go straight to Don John's apartments, wait for him, and then tell him her story, in the hope that he would protect her, or she would go to the Duchess Alvarez and seek protection there. Under no circumstances would she go down to the throne room without her court dress, for her mere appearance there, dressed as she was, would produce the most profound astonishment, and could do her no possible good. And as for her going to the Duchess, that was impossible, too. If she had run away from Doña Ana, she had done so because the idea of not seeing Don John for two days was intolerable, and she meant to try and see him at once. The Duchess was in all probability with the Queen, in the latter's private apartments, as Dolores would know. On the whole, it seemed far more likely that she had done the rashest thing that had suggested itself to her, and had gone directly to the man she loved,--a man powerful enough to protect her against all comers, at the present time, and quite capable of facing even the King's displeasure. But the whole object of Doña Ana's manoeuvre had been to get possession of Dolores' person, as a means of strongly influencing Don John's actions, in order thus to lead him into a false position from which he should not be able to escape without a serious quarrel with King Philip, which would be the first step towards the execution of the plot elaborated by Doña Ana and Perez together. Anything which could produce an open difference between the brothers would serve to produce two parties in Spain, of which the one that would take Don John's side would be by far the stronger. His power would be suddenly much increased, an organized agitation would be made throughout the country to set him on the throne, and his popularity, like Cæsar's, would grow still more, when he refused the crown, as he would most certainly do. But just then King Philip would die suddenly of a fever, or a cold, or an indigestion, as the conspirators thought best. There would be no direct male heir to the throne but Don John himself, the acknowledged son of the Emperor Charles; and even Don John would then be made to see that he could only serve his country by ruling it, since it cried out for his rule and would have no other. It was a hard and dangerous thing to lead King Philip; it would be an easy matter to direct King John. An honest and unsuspicious soldier would be but as a child in such skilful hands. Doña Ana and Perez would rule Spain as they pleased, and by and by Don John should be chosen Emperor also by the Electors of the Holy Roman Empire, and the conspirators would rule the world, as Charles the Fifth had ruled it. There was no limit to their ambition, and no scruple would stand between them and any crime, and the stake was high and worth many risks. The Princess walked slowly, weighing in the balance all there was to lose or gain. When she reached the head of the main staircase, she had not yet altogether decided how to act, and lest she should meet some one she returned, and walked up and down the lonely corridor nearly a quarter of an hour, in deep thought. Suddenly a plan of action flashed upon her, and she went quickly on her way, to act at once. Don John, meanwhile, had read the letter she had sent him by the dwarf jester. When the King had retired into his own apartments, Don John found himself unexpectedly alone. Mendoza and the guard had filed into the antechamber, the gentlemen in waiting, being temporarily at liberty, went to the room leading out of it on one side, which was appropriated to their use. The sentries were set at the King's door, and Mendoza marched his halberdiers out again and off to their quarters, while the servants disappeared, and the hero of the day was left to himself. He smiled at his own surprise, recollecting that he should have ordered his own attendants to be in waiting after the supper, whereas he had dismissed them until midnight. He turned on his heel and walked away to find a quiet place where he might read the paper which had suddenly become of such importance, and paused at a Moorish niche, where Philip had caused a sacred picture to be placed, and before which a hanging silver lamp shed a clear light. The small sheet of paper contained but little writing. There were half a dozen sentences in a clear hand, without any signature--it was what has since then come to be called an anonymous letter. But it contained neither any threat, nor any evidence of spite; it set forth in plain language that if, as the writer supposed, Don John wished to marry Dolores de Mendoza, it was as necessary for her personal safety as for the accomplishment of his desires, that he should make no attempt to see her for at least two days, and that, if he would accept this advice, he should have the support of every noble and minister at court, including the very highest, with the certainty that no further hindrance would be set in his way; it added that the letter he had burned had contained the same words, and that the two flowers had been intended to serve as a signal which it was now too late to use. It would be sufficient if he told the bearer of the present letter that he agreed to take the advice it contained. His assent in that way would, of course, be taken by the writer to mean that he promised, on his word. That was all. He did not like the last sentence, for it placed him in an awkward position, as a man of honour, since he had already seen Dolores, and therefore could not under any circumstances agree to take advice contrary to which he had already acted. The most he could now say to the dwarf would be that he could give no answer and would act as carefully as possible. For the rest, the letter contained nothing treasonable, and was not at all what he had expected and believed it to be. It appeared to be written in a friendly spirit, and with the exception of his own brother and Mendoza, he was not aware that he had an enemy in Spain, in which he was almost right. Nevertheless, bold and frank as he was by nature, he knew enough of real warfare to distrust appearances. The writer was attached to the King's person, or the letter might have been composed, and even written in an assumed hand, by the King himself, for Philip was not above using the methods of a common conspirator. The limitation of time set upon his prudence was strange, too. If he had not seen her and agreed to the terms, he would have supposed that Dolores was being kept out of his way during those two days, whereas in that time it would be possible to send her very far from Madrid, or to place her secretly in a convent where it would be impossible to find her. It flashed upon him that in shutting up Dolores that evening Mendoza had been obeying the King's secret orders, as well as in telling her that she was to be taken to Las Huelgas at dawn. No one but Philip could have written the letter--only the dwarf's fear of Philip's displeasure could have made him so anxious that it should be read at once. It was all as clear as daylight now, and the King and Mendoza were acting together. The first letter had been brought by a woman, who must have got out through the window of the study, which was so low that she could almost have stepped from it to the terrace without springing. She had watched until the officers and the servants had gone out and the way was clear. Nothing could have been simpler or easier. He would have burnt the letter at the lamp before the picture, had he not feared that some one might see him do it, and he folded it again and thrust it back under his doublet. His face was grave as he turned away, for the position, as he understood it, was a very desperate one. He had meant to send Dolores to Villagarcia, but it was almost impossible that such a matter should remain unknown, and in the face of the King's personal opposition, it would probably ruin Quixada and his wife. He, on his side, might send Dolores to a convent, under an assumed name, and take her out again before she was found, and marry her. But that would be hard, too, for no places were more directly under the sovereign's control than convents and monasteries. Somewhere she must go, for she could not possibly remain concealed in his study more than three or four hours. Suddenly he fancied that she might be in danger even now. The woman who had brought the first letter had of course left the window unfastened. She, or the King, or any one, might get in by that way, and Dolores was alone. They might have taken her away already. He cursed himself for not having looked to see that the window was bolted. The man who had won great battles felt a chill at his heart, and he walked at the best of his speed, careless whether he met any one or not. But no place is more deserted than the more distant parts of a royal palace when there is a great assembly in the state apartments. He met no one on his way, and entered his own door alone. Ten minutes had not elapsed since the King had left the supper-room, and it was almost at that moment that Doña Ana met Mendoza. Dolores started to her feet as she heard his step in the next room and then the key in the lock, and as he entered her hands clasped themselves round his neck, and her eyes looked into his. He was very pale when he saw her at last, for the belief that she had been stolen away had grown with his speed, till it was an intolerable certainty. "What is it? What has happened?" she cried anxiously. "Why are you so white? Are you ill?" "I was frightened," he said simply. "I was afraid you were gone. Look here!" He led her to the window, and drew the curtain to one side. The cool air rushed in, for the bolts were unfastened, and the window was ajar. He closed it and fastened it securely, and they both came back. "The woman got out that way," he said, in explanation. "I understand it all now--and some one might have come back." He told her quietly what had happened, and showed her the letter, which she read slowly to the end before she gave it back to him. "Then the other was not a love letter, after all," she said, with a little laugh that had more of relief in it than amusement, though she did not know it herself. "No," he answered gravely. "I wish I had read it. I should at least have shut the window before leaving you!" Careless of any danger to herself, she sat looking up into his anxious face, her clasped hands lying in his and quite covered by them, as he stood beside her. There was not a trace of fear in her own face, nor indeed of any feeling but perfect love and confidence. Under the gaze of her deep grey eyes his expression relaxed for a moment, and grew like hers, so that it would have been hard to say which trusted the other the more. "What does anything matter, since we are together now?" she asked. "I am with you, can anything happen to me?" "Not while I am alive," he answered, but the look of anxiety for her returned at once. "You cannot stay here." "No--you will take me away. I am ready--" "I do not mean that. You cannot stay in this room, nor in my apartments. The King is coming here in a few minutes. I cannot tell what he may do--he may insist on seeing whether any one is here, listening, for he is very suspicious, and he only comes here because he does not even trust his own apartments. He may wish to open the door--" "I will lock it on the inside. You can say that it is locked, and that you have not the key. If he calls men to open it, I will escape by the window, and hide in the old sentry-box. He will not stay talking with you till morning!" She laughed, and he saw that she was right, simply because there was no other place where she could be even as safe as where she was. He slowly nodded as she spoke. "You see," she cried, with another little laugh of happy satisfaction, "you must keep me here whether you will or not! You are really afraid--frightened like a boy! You! How men would stare if they could see you afraid!" "It is true," he answered, with a faint smile. "But I will give you courage!" she said. "The King cannot come yet. Perez can only have just gone to him, you say. They will talk at least half an hour, and it is very likely that Perez will persuade him not to come at all, because he is angry with you. Perhaps Perez will come instead, and he will be very smooth and flattering, and bring messages of reconciliation, and beg to make peace. He is very clever, but I do not like his face. He makes me think of a beautiful black fox! Even if the King comes himself, we have more than half an hour. You can stay a little while with me--then go into your room and sit down and read, as if you were waiting for him. You can read my letter over, and I will sit here and say all the things I wrote, over and over again, and you will know that I am saying them--it will be almost as if I were with you, and could say them quite close to you--like this--I love you!" She had drawn his hand gently down to her while she was speaking, and she whispered the last words into his ear with a delicate little kiss that sent a thrill straight to his heart. "You are not afraid any more now, are you?" she asked, as she let him go, and he straightened himself suddenly as a man drawing back from something he both fears and loves. He opened and shut his hands quickly two or three times, as some nervous men do, as if trying to shake them clear from a spell, or an influence. Then he began to walk up and down, talking to her. "I am at my wit's end," he said, speaking fast and not looking at her face, as he turned and turned again. "I cannot send you to Villagarcia--there are things that neither you nor I could do, even for each other, things you would not have me do for you, Dolores. It would be ruin and disgrace to my adopted mother and Quixada--it might be worse, for the King can call anything he pleases high treason. It is impossible to take you there without some one knowing it--can I carry you in my arms? There are grooms, coachmen, servants, who will tell anything under examination--under torture! How can I send you there?" "I would not go," answered Dolores quietly. "I cannot send you to a convent, either," he went on, for he had taken her answer for granted, as lovers do who trust each other. "You would be found in a day, for the King knows everything. There is only one place, where I am master--" He stopped short, and grew very pale again, looking at the wall, but seeing something very far away. "Where?" asked Dolores. "Take me there! Oh, take me where you are master--where there is no king but you, where we can be together all our lives, and no one can come between us!" He stood motionless, staring at the wall, contemplating in amazement the vastness of the temptation that arose before him. Dolores could not understand, but she did what a loving women does when the man she loves seems to be in a great distress. She came and stood beside him, passing one arm through his and pressing it tenderly, without a word. There are times when a man needs only that to comfort him and give him strength. But even a woman does not always know them. Very slowly he turned to her, almost as if he were trying to resist her eyes and could not. He took his arm from hers and his hands framed her face softly, and pushed the gold hair gently back on her forehead. But she grew frightened by degrees, for there was a look in his eyes she had never seen there, and that had never been in them before, neither in love nor in battle. His hands were quite cold, and his face was like a beautiful marble, but there was an evil something in it, as in a fallen angel's, a defiance of God, an irresistible strength to do harm, a terror such as no man would dare to meet. "You are worth it," he said in a tone so different from his natural voice that Dolores started, and would have drawn back from him, but could not, for his hands held her, shaking a little fiercely. "What? What is it?" she asked, growing more and more frightened--half believing that he was going mad. "You are worth it," he repeated. "I tell you, you are worth that, and much more, and the world, and all the world holds for me, and all earth and heaven besides. You do not know how I love you--you can never guess--" Her eyes grew tender again, and her hands went up and pressed his that still framed her face. "As I love you--dear love!" she answered, wondering, but happy. "No--not now. I love you more. You cannot guess--you shall see what I will do for your sake, and then you will understand." He uttered an incoherent exclamation, and his eyes dazzled her as he seized her in his arms and pressed her to him so that she could have cried out. And suddenly he kissed her, roughly, almost cruelly, as if he meant to hurt her, and knew that he could. She struggled in his arms, in an unknown terror of him, and her senses reeled. Then all at once, he let her go, and turned from her quickly, leaving her half fainting, so that she leaned against the wall and pressed her cheek to the rough hanging. She felt a storm of tears, that she could not understand, rising in her heart and eyes and throat. He had crossed the room, getting as far as he could from her, and stood there, turned to the wall, his arms bent against it and his face buried in his sleeve. He breathed hard, and spoke as if to himself in broken words. "Worth it? My God! What are you not worth?" There was such a ring of agony and struggling in his voice that Dolores forgot herself and stood up listening, suddenly filled with anxiety for him again. He was surely going mad. She would have gone to him again, forgetting her terror that was barely past, the woman's instinct to help the suffering man overruling everything else. It was for his sake that she stayed where she was, lest if she touched him he should lose his senses altogether. "Oh, there is one place, where I am master and lord!" he was saying. "There is one thing to do--one thing--" "What is the thing?" she asked very gently. "Why are you suffering so? Where is the place?" He turned suddenly, as he would have turned in his saddle in battle at a trumpet call, straight and strong, with fixed eyes and set lips, that spoke deliberately. "There is Granada," he said. "Do you understand now?" "No," she answered timidly. "I do not understand. Granada? Why there? It is so far away--" He laughed harshly. "You do not understand? Yes, Granada is far away--far enough to be another kingdom--so far that John of Austria is master there--so far that with his army at his back he can be not only its master, but its King? Do you understand now? Do you see what I will do for your sake?" He made one step towards her, and she was very white. "I will take you, and go back to-morrow. Do you think the Moors are not men, because I beat them? I tell you that if I set up my standard in Granada and call them to me, they will follow me--if I lead them to the gate of Madrid. Yes--and so will more than half the Spanish army, if I will! But I do not want that--it is not the kingdom--what should I care for that? Could I not have taken it and held it? It is for you, dear love--for your sake only--that we may have a world of our own--a kingdom in which you are queen! Let there be war--why should I care? I will set the world ablaze and let it burn to its own ashes, but I will not let them take you from me, neither now, nor ever, while I am alive!" He came quickly towards her now, and she could not draw back, for the wall was behind her. But she thrust out her hands against him to keep him off. The gesture stopped him, just when he would have taken her in his arms. "No, no!" she cried vehemently. "You must not say such things, you must not think such thoughts! You are beside yourself, and you will drive me mad, too!" "But it will be so easy--you shall see--" She cut his words short. "It must not be easy, it must not be possible, it must not be at all! Do you believe that I love you and that I would let you do such deeds? Oh, no! That would not be love at all--it would be hate, it would be treason to you, and worse treason than yours against your brother!" The fierce light was sinking from his face. He had folded his arms and stood very still, listening to her. "You!" she cried, with rising energy. "You, the brave soldier, the spotless man, the very soul of honour made flesh and blood! You, who have but just come back in triumph from fighting your King's enemies--you against whom no living being has ever dared to breathe a slander or a slighting word. Oh, no, no, no, no! I could not bear that you should betray your faith and your country and yourself, and be called traitor for my sake! Not for ten lives of mine shall you ruin yours. And not because I might love you less if you had done that deed. God help me! I think I should love you if you committed any crime! The shame is the more to me--I know it. I am only a woman! But rather than let my love ruin you, make a traitor of you and lose you in this world and the next, my soul shall go first--life, soul, honour, everything! You shall not do it! You think that you love me more than I love you, but you do not. For to save you as you are, I love you so dearly that I will leave you--leave you to honour, leave you to your King, leave you to the undying glory of the life you have lived, and will live, in memory of my love!" The splendid words rang from her lips like a voice from heaven, and her eyes were divinely lightened. For they looked up, and not at him, calling Heaven to witness that she would keep her promise. As her open hand unconsciously went out, he took it tenderly, and felt her fingers softly closing on his own, as if she would lift him to himself again, and to the dear light of her own thoughts. There was silence for a moment. "You are better and wiser than I," he said, and his tone told her that the madness was past. "And you know that I am right? You see that I must leave you, to save you from me?" "Leave me--now?" he cried. "You only said that--you meant me to understand--you did not mean that you would leave me now?" "I do mean it," she said, in a great effort. "It is all I can do, to show you how I love you. As long as I am in your life you will be in danger--you will never be safe from yourself--I see it all now! I stand between you and all the world would give you--I will not stand between you and honour!" She was breaking down, fight as she would against the pain. He could say nothing, for he could not believe that she really was in earnest. "I must!" she exclaimed suddenly. "It is all I can do for you--it is my life--take it!" The tears broke from her eyes, but she held her head high, and let them fall unheeded. "Take it!" she repeated. "It is all I have to give for yours and your honour. Good-by--oh, love, I love you so dearly! Once more, before I go--" She almost, fell into his arms as she buried her face on his shoulder and clasped his throat as she was wont. He kissed her hair gently, and from time to time her whole frame shook with the sobs she was choking down. "It kills me," she said in a broken voice. "I cannot--I thought I was so strong! Oh, I am the most miserable living woman in the world!" She broke away from him wildly and threw herself upon a chair, turning from him to its cushion and hiding her face in her hands, choking, pressing the furious tears back upon her eyes, shaking from head to foot. "You cannot go! You cannot!" he cried, falling on his knees beside her and trying to take her hands in his. "Dolores--look at me! I will do anything--promise anything--you will believe me! Listen, love--I give you my word--I swear before God--" "No--swear nothing--" she said, between the sobs that broke her voice. "But I will!" he insisted, drawing her hands down till she looked at him. "I swear upon my honour that I will never raise my hand against the King--that I will defend him, and fight for him, and be loyal to him, whatever he may do to me--and that even for you, I will never strike a blow in battle nor speak a word in peace that is not all honourable, through and through,--even as I have fought and spoken until now!" As she listened to his words her weeping subsided, and her tearful eyes took light and life again. She drew him close, and kissed him on the forehead. "I am so glad--so happy!" she cried softly. "I should never have had strength to really say good-by!" * * * * * CHAPTER X Don John smoothed her golden hair. Never since he had known that he loved her, had she seemed so beautiful as then, and his thought tried to hold her as she was, that she might in memory be always the same. There was colour in her cheeks, a soft flush of happiness that destroyed all traces of her tears, so that they only left her grey eyes dark and tender under the long wet lashes. "It was a cruel dream, dear love! It was not true!" Finding him again, her voice was low, and sweet with joy. He smiled, too, and his own eyes were quiet and young, now that the tempest had passed away, almost out of recollection. It had raged but for a few moments, but in that time both he and she had lived and loved as it were through years, and their love had grown better and braver. She knew that his word was enough, and that he would die rather than break it; but though she had called herself weak, and had seemed to break down in despair, she would have left him for ever rather than believe that he was still in danger through her. She did not again ask herself whether her sudden resolution had been all for his sake, and had not formed itself because she dreaded to think of being bound to one who betrayed his country. She knew it and needed no further self-questioning to satisfy her. If such a man could have committed crimes, she would have hated them, not him, she would have pardoned him, not them, she would still have laid her hand in his before the whole world, though it should mean shame and infamy, because she loved him and would always love him, and could never have left him for her own sake, come all that might. She had said it was a shame to her that she would have loved him still; yet if it had been so, she would have gloried in being shamed for his sake, for even then her love might have brought him back from the depths of evil and made him again for her in truth what he had once seemed to the whole world. She could have done that, and if in the end she had saved him she would have counted the price of her name as very little to set against his salvation from himself. She would have given that and much more, for her love, as she would freely give all for him and even for his memory, if he were dead, and if by some unimaginable circumstances her ruin before the world could keep his name spotless, and his glory unsullied. For there is nothing that a true-hearted loving woman will not give and do for him she loves and believes and trusts; and though she will give the greatest thing last of all, she will give it in the end, if it can save him from infamy and destruction. For it is the woman's glory to give, as it is the man's to use strength in the hour of battle and gentleness in the day of peace, and to follow honour always. "Forget it all," answered Don John presently. "Forget it, dear, and forgive me for it all." "I can forget it, because it was only a dream," she said, "and I have nothing to forgive. Listen to me. If it were true--even if I believed that we had not been dreaming, you and I, could I have anything to forgive you? What?" "The mere thought that I could betray a trust, turn against my sovereign and ruin my country," he answered bravely, and a blush of honest shame rose in his boyish cheeks. "It was for me," said Dolores. That should explain all, her heart said. But he was not satisfied, and being a man he began to insist. "Not even for you should I have thought of it," he said. "And there is the thought to forgive, if nothing else." "No--you are wrong, love. Because it was for me, it does not need my forgiveness. It is different--you do not understand yet. It is I who should have never forgiven myself on earth nor expected pardon hereafter, if I had let myself be the cause of such deeds, if I had let my love stand between you and honour. Do you see?" "I see," he answered. "You are very brave and kind and good. I did not know that a woman could be like you." "A woman could be anything--for you--dare anything, do anything, sacrifice anything! Did I not tell you so, long ago? You only half believed me, dear--perhaps you do not quite believe me now--" "Indeed, indeed I do, with all my soul! I believe you as I love you, as I believe in your love--" "Yes. Tell me that you do--and tell me that you love me! It is so good to hear, now that the bad dream is gone." "Shall I tell you?" He smiled, playing with her hand. "How can I? There are so few words in which to say so much. But I will tell you this--I would give my word for you. Does that sound little? You should know, for you know at what price you would have saved my honour a while ago. I believe in you so truly that I would stake my word, and my honour, and my Christian oath upon your faith, and promise for you before God or man that you will always love me as you do to-day." "You may pledge all three. I will, and I will give you all I have that is not God's--and if that is not enough, I will give my soul for yours, if I may, to suffer in your stead." She spoke quietly enough, but there was a little quaver of true earnestness in her voice, that made each word a solemn promise. "And besides that," she added, "you see how I trust you." She smiled again as she looked at him, and knew how safe she was, far safer now than when she had first come with him to the door. Something told her that he had mastered himself--she would not have wished to think that she had ruled him? it was enough if she had shown him the way, and had helped him. He pressed her hand to his cheek and looked down thoughtfully, wishing that he could find such simple words that could say so much, but not trusting himself to speak. For though, in love, a man speaks first, he always finds the least to say of love when it has strongest hold of him; but a woman has words then, true and tender, that come from her heart unsought. Yet by and by, if love is not enduring, so that both tire of it, the man plays the better comedy, because he has the greater strength, and sometimes what he says has the old ring in it, because it is so well said, and the woman smiles and wonders that his love should have lasted longer than hers, and desiring the illusion, she finds old phrases again; yet there is no life in them, because when love is dead she thinks of herself, and instead, it was only of him she thought in the good days when her heart used to beat at the sound of his footfall, and the light grew dim and unsteady as she felt his kiss. But the love of these two was not born to tire; and because he was so young, and knew the world little, save at his sword's point, he was ashamed that he could not speak of love as well as she. "Find words for me," he said, "and I will say them, for yours are better than mine." "Say, 'I love you, dear,' very softly and gently--not roughly, as you sometimes do. I want to hear it gently now, that, and nothing else." She turned a little, leaning towards him, her face near his, her eyes quiet and warm, and she took his hands and held them together before her as if he were her prisoner--and indeed she meant that he should not suddenly take her in his arms, as he often did. "I love you, dear," he repeated, smiling, and pretending to be very docile. "That is not quite the way," she said, with a girlish laugh. "Say it again--quite as softly, but more tenderly! You must be very much in earnest, you know, but you must not be in the least violent." She laughed again. "It is like teaching a young lion," she added. "He may eat you up at any moment, instead of obeying you. Tell me, you have a little lion that follows you like a dog when you are in your camp, have you not? You have not told me about him yet. How did you teach him?" "I did not try to make him say 'I love you, dear,'" answered Don John, laughing in his turn. As he spoke a distant sound caught his ear, and the smile vanished from his face, for though he heard only the far off rumbling of a coach in the great court, it recalled him to reality. "We are playing with life and death," he said suddenly. "It is late, the King may be here at any moment, and we have decided nothing." He rose. "Is it late?" asked Dolores, passing her hand over her eyes dreamily. "I had forgotten--it seems so short. Give me the key on my side of the door--we had decided that, you know. Go and sit down in your room, as we agreed. Shall you read my letter again, love? It may be half an hoar still before the King comes. When he is gone, we shall have all the night in which to decide, and the nights are very long now. Oh, I hate to lose one minute of you! What shall you say to the King?" "I do not know what he may say to me," answered Don John. "Listen and you shall hear--I would rather know that you hear everything I say. It will be as if I were speaking before you, and of course I should tell you everything the King says. He will speak of you, I think." "Indeed, it would be hard not to listen," said Dolores. "I should have to stop my ears, for one cannot help hearing every word that is said in the next room. Do you know? I heard you ask for your white shoes! I hardly dared to breathe for fear the servants should find out that I was here." "So much the better then. Sit in this chair near the door. But be careful to make no noise, for the King is very suspicious." "I know. Do not be afraid; I will be as quiet as a mouse. Go, love, go! It is time--oh, how I hate to let you leave me! You will be careful? You will not be angry at what he says? You would be wiser if you knew I were not hearing everything; you will want to defend me if he says the least word you do not like, but let him say what he will! Anything is better than an open quarrel between you and the King! Promise me to be very moderate in what you say, and very patient. Remember that he is the King!" "And my brother," said Don John, with some bitterness. "Do not fear. You know what I have promised you. I will bear anything he may say that concerns me as well as I can, but if he says anything slighting of you--" "But he may--that is the danger. Promise me not to be angry--" "How can I promise that, if he insults you?" "No, I did not mean that exactly. Promise that you will not forget everything and raise your hand against him. You see I know you would." "No, I will not raise my hand against him. That was in the promise I made you. And as for being angry, I will do my best to keep my temper." "I know you will. Now you must go. Good-by, love! Good-by, for a little while." "For such a little time shall we say good-by? I hate the word; it makes me think of the day when I left you last." "How can I tell what may happen to you when you are out of my sight?" asked Dolores. "And what is 'good-by' but a blessing each prays for the other? That is all it means. It does not mean that we part for long, love. Why, I would say it for an hour! Good-by, dear love, good-by!" She put up her face to kiss him, and it was so full of trust and happiness that the word lost all the bitterness it has gathered through ages of partings, and seemed, what she said it was, a loving blessing. Yet she said it very tenderly, for it was hard to let him go even for less than an hour. He said it, too, to please her; but yet the syllables came mournfully, as if they meant a world more than hers, and the sound of them half frightened her, so that she was sorry she had asked him for the word. "Not so!" she cried, in quick alarm. "You are not keeping anything from me? You are only going to the next room to meet the King--are you sure?" "That is all. You see, the word frightened you. It seems such a sad word to me--I will not say it again." He kissed her gently, as if to soothe her fear, and then he opened the door and set the key in the lock on the inside. Then when he was outside, he lingered a moment, and their lips met once more without a word, and they nodded and smiled to one another a last time, and he closed the door and heard her lock it. When she was alone, she turned away as if he were gone from her altogether instead of being in the next room, where she could hear him moving now and then, as he placed his chair near the light to read and arranged the candlesticks on the table. Then he went to the other door and opened it and opened the one beyond upon the terrace, and she knew that he was looking out to see if any one were there. But presently he came back and sat down, and she distinctly heard the rustle of the strong writing-paper as he unfolded a letter. It was hers. He was going to read it, as they had agreed. So she sat down where she could look at the door, and she tried to force her eyes to see through it, to make him feel that she was watching him, that she came near him and stood beside him, and softly read the words for him, but without looking at them, because she knew them all by heart. But it was not the same as if she had seen him, and it was very hard to be shut off from his sight by an impenetrable piece of wood, to lose all the moments that might pass before the King chose to come. Another hour might pass. No one could even tell whether he would come at all after he had consulted with Antonio Perez. The skilful favourite desired a quarrel between his master and Don John with all his heart, but he was not ready for it yet. He must have possession of Dolores first and hide her safely; and when the quarrel came, Don John should believe that the King had stolen her and imprisoned her, and that she was treated ill; and for the woman he loved, Don John would tear down the walls of Madrid, if need be, and if at the last he found her dead, there would be no harm done, thought Perez, and Don John would hate his brother even to death, and all Spain would cry out in sympathy and horror. But all this Dolores could neither know nor even suspect. She only felt sure that the King and Perez were even now consulting together to hinder her marriage with Don John, and that Perez might persuade the King not to see his brother that night. It was almost intolerable to think that she might wait there for hours, wasting the minutes for which she would have given drops of blood. Surely they both were overcautious. The door could be left open, so that they could talk, and at the first sound without, she could lock it again and sit down. That would be quite as safe. She rose and was almost in the act of opening the door again when she stopped and hesitated. It was possible that at any moment the King might be at the door; for though she could hear every sound that came from the next room, the thick curtains that hid the window effectually shut out all sound from without. It struck her that she could go to the window, however, and look out. Yet a ray of light might betray her presence in the room to any one outside, and if she drew aside the curtain the light would shine out upon the terrace. She listened at Don John's door, and presently she heard him turn her letter in his hand, and all her heart went out to him, and she stood noiselessly kissing the panels and saying over again in her heart that she loved him more than any words could tell. If she could only see out of the window and assure herself that no one was coming yet, there would be time to go to him again, for one moment only, and say the words once more. Then she sat down and told herself how foolish she was. She had been separated from him for many long and empty months, and now she had been with him and talked long with him twice in leas than three hours, and yet she could not bear that he should be out of her sight five minutes without wishing to risk everything to see him again. She tried to laugh at herself, repeating over and over again that she was very, very foolish, and that she should have a just contempt for any woman who could be as foolish as she. For some moments she sat still, staring at the wall. In the thought of him that filled her heart and soul and mind, she saw that her own life had begun when he had first spoken to her, and she felt that it would end with the last good-by, because if he should die or cease to love her, there would be nothing more to live for. Her early girlhood seemed dim and far away, dull and lifeless, as if it had not been hers at all, and had no connection with the present. She saw herself in the past, as she could not see herself now, and the child she remembered seemed not herself but another--a fair-haired girl living in the gloomy old house in Valladolid, with her blind sister and an old maiden cousin of her father's, who had offered to bring up the two and to teach them, being a woman of some learning, and who fulfilled her promise in such a conscientious and austere way as made their lives something of a burden under her strict rule. But that was all forgotten now, and though she still lived in Valladolid she had probably changed but little in the few years since Dolores had seen her; she was part of the past, a relic of something that had hardly ever had a real existence, and which it was not at all necessary to remember. There was one great light in the girl's simple existence, it had come all at once, and it was with her still. There was nothing dim nor dark nor forgotten about the day when she had been presented at court by the Duchess Alvarez, and she had first seen Don John, and he had first seen her and had spoken to her, when he had talked with the Duchess herself. At the first glance--and it was her first sight of the great world--she had seen that of all the men in the great hall, there was no one at all like him. She had no sooner looked into his face and cast her eyes upon his slender figure, all in white then, as he was dressed to-night, than she began to compare him with the rest. She looked so quickly from one to another that any one might have thought her to be anxiously searching for a friend in the crowd. But she had none then, and she was but assuring herself once, and for all her life, that the man she was to love was immeasurably beyond all other men, though the others were the very flower of Spain's young chivalry. Of course, as she told herself now, she had not loved him then, nor even when she heard his voice speaking to her the first time and was almost too happy to understand his words. But she had remembered them. He had asked her whether she lived in Madrid. She had told him that she lived in the Alcazar itself, since her father commanded the guards and had his quarters in the palace. And then Don John had looked at her very fixedly for a moment, and had seemed pleased, for he smiled and said that he hoped he might see her often, and that if it were in his power to be of use to her father, he would do what he could. She was sure that she had not loved him then, though she had dreamed of his winning face and voice and had thought of little else all the next day, and the day after that, with a sort of feverish longing to see him again, and had asked the Duchess Alvarez so many questions about him that the Duchess had smiled oddly, and had shaken her handsome young head a little, saying that it was better not to think too much about Don John of Austria. Surely, she had not loved him already, at first sight. But on the evening of the third day, towards sunset, when she had been walking with Inez on a deserted terrace where no one but the two sisters ever went, Don John had suddenly appeared, sauntering idly out with one of his gentlemen on his left, as if he expected nothing at all; and he had seemed very much surprised to see her, and had bowed low, and somehow very soon, blind Inez, who was little more than a child three years ago, was leading the gentleman about the terrace, to show him where the best roses grew, which she knew by their touch and smell, and Don John and Dolores were seated on an old stone bench, talking earnestly together. Even to herself she admitted that she had loved him from that evening, and whenever she thought of it she smelt the first scent of roses, and saw his face with the blaze of the sunset in his eyes, and heard his voice saying that he should come to the terrace again at that hour, in which matter he had kept his word as faithfully as he always did, and presumably without any especial effort. So she had known him as he really was, without the formalities of the court life, of which she was herself a somewhat insignificant part; and it was only when he said a few words to her before the other ladies that she took pains to say 'your Highness' to him once or twice, and he called her 'Doña Dolores,' and enquired in a friendly manner about her father's health. But on the terrace they managed to talk without any such formal mode of address, and used no names at all for each other, until one day--but she would not think of that now. If she let her memory run all its course, she could not sit there with the door closed between him and her, for something stronger than she would force her to go and open it, and make sure he was there. This method, indeed, would be a very certain one, leaving no doubt whatever, but at the present moment it would be foolish to resort to it, and, perhaps, it would be dangerous, too. The past was so beautiful and peaceful; she could think its history through many times up to that point, where thinking was sure to end suddenly in something which was too present for memory and too well remembered not to be present. It came back to her so vividly that she left her seat again and went to the curtained window, as if to get as far as possible from the irresistible attraction. Standing there she looked back and saw the key in the lock. It was foolish, girlish, childish, at such a time, but she felt that as long as it was there she should want to turn it. With a sudden resolution and a smile that was for her own weakness, she went to the door again, listened for footsteps, and then quietly took the key from the lock. Instantly Don John was on the other side, calling to her softly. "What is it?" he asked. "For Heaven's sake do not come in, for I think I hear him coming." "No," she answered through the panel. "I was afraid I should turn the key, so I have taken it out." She paused. "I love you!" she said, so that he could hear, and she kissed the wood, where she thought his face must be, just above her own. "I love you with all my heart!" he answered gently. "Hush, dear love, he is coming!" They were like two children, playing at a game; but they were playing on the very verge of tragedy, playing at life with death at the door and the safety of a great nation hanging in the balance. A moment later, Dolores heard Don John opening and shutting the other doors again, and then there were voices. She heard her father's name spoken in the King's unmistakable tones, at once harsh and muffled. Every word came to her from the other room, as if she were present. "Mendoza," said Philip, "I have private matters to discuss with his Highness. I desire you to wait before the entrance, on the terrace, and to let no one pass in, as we do not wish to be disturbed." Her father did not speak, but she knew how he was bending a little stiffly, before he went backwards through the open door. It closed behind him, and the two brothers were alone. Dolores' heart beat a little faster, and her face grew paler as she concentrated her attention upon making no noise. If they could hear her as she heard them, a mere rustling of her silk gown would be enough to betray her, and if then the King bade her father take her with him, all would be over, for Don John would certainly not use any violence to protect her. "This is your bedchamber," said Philip's voice. He was evidently examining the room, as Don John had anticipated that he would, for he was moving about. There was no mistaking his heavy steps for his brother's elastic tread. "There is no one behind the curtain," said the King, by which it was clear that he was making search for a possible concealed listener. He was by no means above such precautions. "And that door?" he said, with a question. "What is there?" Dolores' heart almost stood still, as she held her breath, and heard the clumsy footfall coming nearer. "It is locked," said Don John, with undisturbed calm. "I have not the key. I do not know where it is,--it is not here." As Dolores had taken it from the lock, even the last statement was true to the letter, and in spite of her anxiety she smiled as she heard it, but the next moment she trembled, for the King was trying the door, and it shook under his hand, as if it must fly open. "It is certainly locked," he said, in a discontented tone. "But I do not like locked doors, unless I know what is beyond them." He crossed the room again and called out to Mendoza, who answered at once. "Mendoza, come here with me. There is a door here, of which his Highness has not the key. Can you open it?" "I will try, your Majesty," answered the General's hard voice. A moment later the panels shook violently under the old man's weight, for he was stronger than one might have thought, being lean and tough rather than muscular. Dolores took the moment when the noise was loudest and ran a few steps towards the window. Then the sounds ceased suddenly, and she stood still. "I cannot open it, your Majesty," said Mendoza, in a disconsolate tone. "Then go and get the key," answered the King almost angrily. * * * * * CHAPTER XI Inez remained hidden a quarter of an hour in the gallery over the throne room, before she ventured to open the door noiselessly and listen for any sound that might come from the passage. She was quite safe there, as long as she chose to remain, for the Princess had believed that she had fled far beyond and was altogether out of reach of any one whose dignity would not allow of running a race. It must be remembered that at the time she entered the gallery Mendoza had returned to his duty below, and that some time afterwards he had accompanied the King to Don John's apartments, and had then been sent in search of the key to the locked door. The blind girl was of course wholly ignorant of his whereabouts, and believed him to be in or about the throne room. Her instinct told her that since Dolores had not gone to the court, as she had intended, with the Duchess Alvarez, she must have made some last attempt to see Don John alone. In her perfect innocence such an idea seemed natural enough to Inez, and it at first occurred to her that the two might have arranged to meet on the deserted terrace where they had spent so many hours in former times. She went there first, finding her way with some little difficulty from the corridor where the gallery was, for the region was not the one to which she was most accustomed, though there was hardly a corner of the upper story where she had never been. Reaching the terrace, she went out and called softly, but there was no answer, nor could she hear any sound. The night was not cold now, but the breeze chilled her a little, and just then the melancholy cry of a screech owl pierced the air, and she shivered and went in again. She would have gone to the Duchess Alvarez had she not been sure that the latter was below with the Queen, and even as it was, she would have taken refuge in the Duchess's apartments with the women, and she might have learned something of Dolores there. But her touch reminded her that she was dressed in her sister's clothes, and that many questions might be asked her which it would be hard to answer. And again, it grew quite clear to her that Dolores must be somewhere near Don John, perhaps waiting in some concealed corner until all should be quiet. It was more than probable that he would get her out of the palace secretly during the night and send her to his adoptive mother at Villagarcia. She had not believed the Princess's words in the least, but she had not forgotten them, and had argued rightly enough to their real meaning. In the upper story all was still now. She and Dolores had known where Don John was to be lodged in the palace nearly a month before he had returned, and they had been there more than once, when no one was on the terrace, and Dolores had made her touch the door and the six windows, three on each side of it. She could get there without difficulty, provided that no one stopped her. She went a little way in the right direction and then hesitated. There was more danger to Dolores than to herself if she should be recognized, and, after all, if Dolores was near Don John she was safer than she could be anywhere else. Inez could not help her very much in any way if she found her there, and it would be hard to find her if she had met Mendoza at first and if he had placed her in the keeping of a third person. She imagined what his astonishment would have been had he found the real Dolores in her court dress a few moments after Inez had been delivered over to the Princess disguised in Dolores' clothes, and she almost smiled. But then a great loneliness and a sense of helplessness came over her, and she turned back and went out upon the deserted terrace again and sat down upon the old stone seat, listening for the screech owl and the fluttering of the bats that flew aimlessly in and out, attracted by the light and then scared away by it again because the moon was at the full. Inez had never before then wandered about the palace at night, and though darkness and daylight were one to her, there was something in the air that frightened her, and made her feel how really helpless she was in spite of her almost superhuman hearing and her wonderful sense of touch. It was very still--it was never so still by day. It seemed as if people must be lying in wait for her, holding their breath lest she should hear even that. She had never felt blind before; she had never so completely realized the difference between her life and the lives of others. By day, she could wander where she pleased on the upper story--it was cheerful, familiar; now and then some one passed and perhaps spoke to her kindly, as every one did who knew her; and then there was the warm sunlight at the windows, and the cool breath of the living day in the corridors. The sounds guided her, the sun warmed her, the air fanned her, the voices of the people made her feel that she was one of them. But now, the place was like an empty church, full of tombs and silent as the dead that lay there. She felt horribly lonely, and cold, and miserable, and she would have given anything to be in bed in her own room. She could not go there. Eudaldo would not understand her return, after being told that she was to stay with the Princess, and she would be obliged to give him some explanation. Then her voice would betray her, and there would be terrible trouble. If only she had kept her own cloak to cover Dolores' frock, she could have gone back and the servant would have thought it quite natural Indeed, by this time he would be expecting her. It would be almost better to go in after all, and tell him some story of her having mistaken her sister's skirt for her own, and beg him to say nothing. She could easily confuse him a little so that he would not really understand--and then in a few minutes she could be in her own room, safe and in bed, and far away from the dismal place where she was sitting and shivering as she listened to the owls. She rose and began to walk towards her father's quarters. But suddenly she felt that it was cowardly to go back without accomplishing the least part of her purpose, and without even finding out whether Dolores was in safety after all. There was but one chance of finding her, and that lay in searching the neighbourhood of Don John's lodging. Without hesitating any longer, she began to find her way thither at once. She determined that if she were stopped, either by her father or the Princess, she would throw back her head and show her face at once. That would be the safest way in the end. She reached Don John's windows unhindered at last. She had felt every corner, and had been into the empty sentry-box; and once or twice, after listening a long time, she had called Dolores in a very low tone. She listened by the first window, and by the second and third, and at the door, and then beyond, till she came to the last. There were voices there, and her heart beat quickly for a moment. It was impossible to distinguish the words that were spoken, through the closed window and the heavy curtains, but the mere tones told her that Don John and Dolores were there together. That was enough for her, and she could go back to her room; for it seemed quite natural to her that her sister should be in the keeping of the man she loved,--she was out of harm's way and beyond their father's power, and that was all that was necessary. She would go back to her room at once, and explain the matter of her dress to Eudaldo as best she might. After all, why should he care what she wore or where she had been, or whether in the Princess's apartments she had for some reason exchanged gowns with Dolores. Perhaps he would not even notice the dress at all. She meant to go at once, but she stood quite still, her hands resting on the low sill of the window, while her forehead pressed against the cold round panes of glass. Something hurt her which she could not understand, as she tried to fancy the two beautiful young beings who were within,--for she knew what beauty they had, and Dolores had described Don John to her as a young god. His voice came to her like strains of very distant sweet music, that connect themselves to an unknown melody in the fancy of him who faintly hears. But Dolores was hearing every word he said, and it was all for her; and Dolores not only heard, but saw; and seeing and hearing, she was loved by the man who spoke to her, as dearly as she loved him. Then utter loneliness fell upon the blind girl as she leaned against the window. She had expected nothing, she had asked nothing, even in her heart; and she had less than nothing, since never on earth, nor in heaven hereafter, could Don John say a loving word to her. And yet she felt that something had been taken from her and given to her sister,--something that was more to her than life, and dearer than the thought of sight to her blindness. She had taken what had not been given her, in innocent girlish thoughts that were only dreams, and could hurt no one. He had always spoken gently to her, and touched her hand kindly; and many a time, sitting alone in the sun, she had set those words to the well-remembered music of his voice, and she had let the memory of his light touch on her fingers thrill her strangely to the very quick. It had been but the reflection of a reflection in her darkness, wherein the shadow of a shadow seemed as bright as day. It had been all she had to make her feel that she was a part of the living, loving world she could never see. Somehow she had unconsciously fancied that with a little dreaming she could live happy in Dolores' happiness, as by a proxy, and she had never called it love, any more than she would have dared to hope for love in return. Yet it was that, and nothing else,--the love that is so hopeless and starving, and yet so innocent, that it can draw the illusion of an airy nourishment from that which to another nature would be the fountain of all jealousy and hatred. But now, without reason and without warning, even that was taken from her, and in its place something burned that she did not know, save that it was a bad thing, and made even blackness blacker. She heard their voices still. They were happy together, while she was alone outside, her forehead resting against the chill glass, and her hands half numb upon the stone; and so it would always be hereafter. They would go, and take her life with them, and she should be left behind, alone for ever; and a great revolt against her fate rose quickly in her breast like a flame before the wind, and then, as if finding nothing to consume, sank down again into its own ashes, and left her more lonely than before. The voices had ceased now, or else the lovers were speaking very low, fearing, perhaps, that some one might be listening at the window. If Inez had heard their words at first, she would have stopped her ears or gone to a distance, for the child knew what that sort of honour meant, and had done as much before. But the unformed sound had been good to hear, and she missed it. Perhaps they were sitting close and, hand in hand, reading all the sweet unsaid things in one another's eyes. There must be silent voices in eyes that could see, she thought. She took little thought of the time, yet it seemed long to her since they had spoken. Perhaps they had gone to another room. She moved to the next window and listened there, but no sound came from within. Then she heard footfalls, and one was her father's. Two men were coming out by the corridor, and she had not time to reach the sentry-box. With her hands out before her, she went lightly away from the windows to the outer side of the broad terrace, and cowered down by the balustrade as she ran against it, not knowing whether she was in the moonlight or the shade. She had crossed like a shadow and was crouching there before Mendoza and the King came out. She knew by their steady tread, that ended at the door, that they had not noticed her; and as the door closed behind them, she ran back to the window again and listened, expecting to hear loud and angry words, for she could not doubt that the King and her father had discovered that Dolores was there, and had come to take her away. The Princess must have told Mendoza that Dolores had escaped. But she only heard men's voices speaking in an ordinary tone, and she understood that Dolores was concealed. Almost at once, and to her dismay, she heard her father's step in the hall, and now she could neither pass the door nor run across the terrace again. A moment later the King called him from within. Instantly she slipped across to the other side, and listened again. They were shaking a door,--they were in the very act of finding Dolores. Her heart hurt her. But then the noise stopped, as if they had given up the attempt, and presently she heard her father's step again. Thinking that he would remain in the hall until the King called him,--for she could not possibly guess what had happened,--she stood quite still. The door opened without warning, and he was almost upon her before she knew it. To hesitate an instant was out of the question, and for the second time that night she fled, running madly to the corridor, which was not ten steps from where she had been standing, and as she entered it the light fell upon her from the swinging lamp, though she did not know it. Old as he was, Mendoza sprang forward in pursuit when he saw her figure in the dimness, flying before him, but as she reached the light of the lamp he stopped himself, staggering one or two steps and then reeling against the wall. He had recognized Dolores' dress and hood, and there was not the slightest doubt in his mind but that it was herself. In that same dress he had seen her in the late afternoon, she had been wearing it when he had locked her into the sitting-room, and, still clad in it, she must have come out with the Princess. And now she was running before him from Don John's lodging. Doubtless she had been in another room and had slipped out while he was trying the door within. He passed his hand over his eyes and breathed hard as he leaned against the wall, for her appearance there could only mean one thing, and that was ruin to her and disgrace to his name--the very end of all things in his life, in which all had been based upon his honour and every action had been a tribute to it. He was too much stunned to ask himself how the lovers had met, if there had been any agreement between them, but the frightful conviction took hold of him that this was not the first time, that long ago, before Don John had led the army to Granada, Dolores had found her way to that same door and had spent long hours with her lover when no one knew. Else she could not have gone to him without agreement, at an instant's notice, on the very night of his return. Despair took possession of the unhappy man from that moment. But that the King was with Don John, Mendoza would have gone back at that moment to kill his enemy and himself afterwards, if need be. He remembered his errand then. No doubt that was the very room where Dolores had been concealed, and she had escaped from it by some other way, of which her father did not know. He was too dazed to think connectedly, but he had the King's commands to execute at once. He straightened himself with a great effort, for the weight of his years had come upon him suddenly and bowed him like a burden. With the exertion of his will came the thirst for the satisfaction of blood, and he saw that the sooner he returned with the key, the sooner he should be near his enemy. But the pulses came and went in his throbbing temples, as when a man is almost spent in a struggle with death, and at first he walked uncertainly, as if he felt no ground under his feet. By the time he had gone a hundred yards he had recovered a sort of mechanical self-possession, such as comes upon men at very desperate times, when they must not allow themselves to stop and think of what is before them. They were pictures, rather than thoughts, that formed themselves in his brain as he went along, for he saw all the past years again, from the day when his young wife had died, he being then already in middle age, until that afternoon. One by one the years came back, and the central figure in each was the fair-haired little child, growing steadily to be a woman, all coming nearer and nearer to the end he had seen but now, which was unutterable shame and disgrace, and beyond which there was nothing. He heard the baby voice again, and felt the little hands upon his brow, and saw the serious grey eyes close to his own; and then the girl, gravely lovely--and her far-off laugh that hardly ever rippled through the room when he was there; and then the stealing softness of grown maidenhood, winning the features one by one, and bringing back from death to life the face he had loved best, and the voice with long-forgotten tones that touched his soul's quick, and dimmed his sight with a mist, so that he grew hard and stern as he fought within him against the tenderness he loved and feared. All this he saw and heard and felt again, knowing that each picture must end but in one way, in the one sight he had seen and that had told his shame--a guilty woman stealing by night from her lover's door. Not only that, either, for there was the almost certain knowledge that she had deceived him for years, and that while he had been fighting so hard to save her from what seemed but a show of marriage, she had been already lost to him for ever and ruined beyond all hope of honesty. They were not thoughts, but pictures of the false and of the true, that rose and glowed an instant and then sank like the inner darkness of his soul, leaving only that last most terrible one of all behind them, burned into his eyes till death should put out their light and bid him rest at last, if he could rest even in heaven with such a memory. It was too much, and though he walked upright and gazed before him, he did not know his way, and his feet took him to his own door instead of on the King's errand. His hand was raised to knock before he understood, and it fell to his side in a helpless, hopeless way, when he saw where he was. Then he turned stiffly, as a man turns on parade, and gathered his strength and marched away with a measured tread. For the world and what it held he would not have entered his dwelling then, for he felt that his daughter was there before him, and that if he once saw her face he should not be able to hold his hand. He would not see her again on earth, lest he should take her life for what she had done. He was more aware of outward things after that, though he almost commanded himself to do what he had to do, as he would have given orders to one of his soldiers. He went to the chief steward's office and demanded the key of the room in the King's name. But it was not forthcoming, and the fact that it could not be found strengthened his conviction that Don John had it in his keeping. Yet, for the sake of form, he insisted sternly, saying that the King was waiting for it even then. Servants were called and examined and threatened, but those who knew anything about it unanimously declared that it had been left in the door, while those who knew nothing supported their fellow-servants by the same unhesitating assertion, till Mendoza was convinced that he had done enough, and turned his back on them all and went out with a grey look of despair on his face. He walked rapidly now, for he knew that he was going back to meet his enemy, and he was trying not to think what he should do when he should see Don John before him and at arm's length, but defended by the King's presence from any sudden violence. He knew that in his heart there was the wild resolve to tell the truth before his master and then to take the payment of blood with one thrust and destroy himself with the next, but though he was half mad with despair, he would not let the thought become a resolve. In his soldier's nature, high above everything else and dominating his austere conscience of right and wrong, as well as every other instinct of his heart, there was the respect of his sovereign and the loyalty to him at all costs, good or bad, which sent self out of sight where his duty to the King was concerned. * * * * * CHAPTER XII When he had sent away Mendoza, the King remained standing and began to pace the floor, while Don John stood by the table watching him and waiting for him to speak. It was clear that he was still angry, for his anger, though sometimes suddenly roused, was very slow to reach its height, and slower still to subside; and when at last it had cooled, it generally left behind it an enduring hatred, such as could be satisfied only by the final destruction of the object that had caused it. That lasting hate was perhaps more dangerous than the sudden outburst had been, but in moments of furious passion Philip was undoubtedly a man to be feared. He was evidently not inclined to speak until he had ascertained that no one was listening in the next room, but as he looked from time to time at Don John his still eyes seemed to grow almost yellow, and his lower lip moved uneasily. He knew, perhaps, that Mendoza could not at once find the servant in whose keeping the key of the door was supposed to be, and he grew impatient by quick degrees until his rising temper got the better of his caution. Don John instinctively drew himself up, as a man does who expects to be attacked. He was close to the table, and remained almost motionless during the discussion that followed, while Philip paced up and down, sometimes pausing before his brother for a moment, and then turning again to resume his walk. His voice was muffled always, and was hard to hear; now and then it became thick and indistinct with rage, and he cleared his throat roughly, as if he were angry with it, too. At first he maintained the outward forms of courtesy in words if not in tone, but long before his wrath had reached its final climax he forgot them altogether. "I had hoped to speak with you in privacy, on matters of great importance. It has pleased your Highness to make that impossible by your extraordinary behaviour." Don John raised his eyebrows a little incredulously, and answered with perfect calmness. "I do not recollect doing anything which should seem extraordinary to your Majesty." "You contradict me," retorted Philip. "That is extraordinary enough, I should think. I am not aware that it is usual for subjects to contradict the King. What have you to say in explanation?" "Nothing. The facts explain themselves well enough." "We are not in camp," said Philip. "Your Highness is not in command here, and I am not your subordinate. I desire you to remember whom you are addressing, for your words will be remembered." "I never said anything which I wished another to forget," answered Don John proudly. "Take care, then!" The King spoke sullenly, and turned away, for he was slow at retort until he was greatly roused. Don John did not answer, for he had no wish to produce such a result, and moreover he was much more preoccupied by the serious question of Dolores' safety than by any other consideration. So far the King had said nothing which, but for some derogation from his dignity, might not have been said before any one, and Don John expected that he would maintain the same tone until Mendoza returned. It was hard to predict what might happen then. In all probability Dolores would escape by the window and endeavour to hide herself in the empty sentry-box until the interview was over. He could then bring her back in safety, but the discussion promised to be long and stormy, and meanwhile she would be in constant danger of discovery. But there was a worse possibility, not even quite beyond the bounds of the probable. In his present mood, Philip, if he lost his temper altogether, would perhaps be capable of placing Don John under arrest. He was all powerful, he hated his brother, and he was very angry. His last words had been a menace, or had sounded like one, and another word, when Mendoza returned, could put the threat into execution. Don John reflected, if such thought could be called reflection, upon the situation that must ensue, and upon the probable fate of the woman he loved. He wondered whether she were still in the room, for hearing that the door was to be opened, she might have thought it best to escape at once, while her father was absent from the terrace on his errand. If not, she could certainly go out by the window as soon as she heard him coming back. It was clearly of the greatest importance to prevent the King's anger from going any further. Antonio Perez had recognized the same truth from a very different point of view, and had spent nearly three-quarters of an hour in flattering his master with the consummate skill which he alone possessed. He believed that he had succeeded when the King had dismissed him, saying that he would not see Don John until the morning. Five minutes after Perez was gone, Philip was threading the corridors, completely disguised in a long black cloak, with the ever-loyal Mendoza at his heels. It was not the first time that he had deceived his deceivers. He paced the room in silence after he had last spoken. As soon as Don John realized that his liberty might be endangered, he saw that he must say what he could in honour and justice to save himself from arrest, since nothing else could save Dolores. "I greatly regret having done anything to anger your Majesty," he said, with quiet dignity. "I was placed in a very difficult position by unforeseen circumstances. If there had been time to reflect, I might have acted otherwise." "Might have acted otherwise!" repeated Philip harshly. "I do not like those words. You might have acted otherwise than to defy your sovereign before the Queen! I trusted you might, indeed!" He was silent again, his protruding lip working angrily, as if he had tasted something he disliked. Don John's half apology had not been received with much grace, but he saw no way open save to insist that it was genuine. "It is certainly true that I have lived much in camps of late," he answered, "and that a camp is not a school of manners, any more than the habit of commanding others accustoms a man to courtly submission." "Precisely. You have learned to forget that you have a superior in Spain, or in the world. You already begin to affect the manners and speech of a sovereign--you will soon claim the dignity of one, too, I have no doubt. The sooner we procure you a kingdom of your own, the better, for your Highness will before long become an element of discord in ours." "Rather than that," answered Don John, "I will live in retirement for the rest of my life." "We may require it of your Highness," replied Philip, standing still and facing his brother. "It may be necessary for our own safety that you should spend some time at least in very close retirement--very!" He almost laughed. "I should prefer that to the possibility of causing any disturbance in your Majesty's kingdom." Nothing could have been more gravely submissive than Don John's tone, but the King was apparently determined to rouse his anger. "Your deeds belie your words," he retorted, beginning to walk again. "There is too much loyalty in what you say, and too much of a rebellious spirit in what you do. The two do not agree together. You mock me." "God forbid that!" cried Don John. "I desire no praise for what I may have done, but such as my deeds have been they have produced peace and submission in your Majesty's kingdom, and not rebellion--" "And is it because you have beaten a handful of ill-armed Moriscoes, in the short space of two years, that the people follow you in throngs wherever you go, shouting for you, singing your praises, bringing petitions to you by hundreds, as if you were King--as if you were more than that, a sort of god before whom every one must bow down? Am I so simple as to believe that what you have done with such leisure is enough to rouse all Spain, and to make the whole court break out into cries of wonder and applause as soon as you appear? If you publicly defy me and disobey me, do I not know that you believe yourself able to do so, and think your power equal to mine? And how could that all be brought about, save by a party that is for you, by your secret agents everywhere, high and low, forever praising you and telling men, and women, too, of your graces, and your generosities, and your victories, and saying that it is a pity so good and brave a prince should be but a leader of the King's armies, and then contrasting the King himself with you, the cruel King, the grasping King, the scheming King, the King who has every fault that is not found in Don John of Austria, the people's god! Is that peace and submission? Or is it the beginning of rebellion, and revolution, and civil war, which is to set Don John of Austria on the throne of Spain, and send King Philip to another world as soon as all is ready?" Don John listened in amazement. It had never occurred to him any one could believe him capable of the least of the deeds Philip was attributing to him, and in spite of his resolution his anger began to rise. Then, suddenly, as if cold water had been dashed in his face, he remembered that an hour had not passed since he had held Dolores in his arms, swearing to do that of which he was now accused, and that her words only had held him back. It all seemed monstrous now. As she had said, it had been only a bad dream and he had wakened to himself again. Yet the thought of rebellion had more than crossed his mind, for in a moment it had taken possession of him and had seemed to change all his nature from good to bad. In his own eyes he was rebuked, and he did not answer at once. "You have nothing to say!" exclaimed Philip scornfully. "Is there any reason why I should not try you for high treason?" Don John started at the words, but his anger was gone, and he thought only of Dolores' safety in the near future. "Your Majesty is far too just to accuse an innocent man who has served you faithfully," he answered. Philip stopped and looked at him curiously and long, trying to detect some sign of anxiety if not of fear. He was accustomed to torture men with words well enough, before he used other means, and he himself had not believed what he had said. It had been only an experiment tried on a mere chance, and it had failed. At the root of his anger there was only jealousy and personal hatred of the brother who had every grace and charm which he himself had not. "More kind than just, perhaps," he said, with a slight change of tone towards condescension. "I am willing to admit that I have no proofs against you, but the evidence of circumstances is not in your favour. Take care, for you are observed. You are too much before the world, too imposing a figure to escape observation." "My actions will bear it. I only beg that your Majesty will take account of them rather than listen to such interpretation as may be put upon them by other men." "Other men do nothing but praise you," said Philip bluntly. "Their opinion of you is not worth having! I thought I had explained that matter sufficiently. You are the idol of the people, and as if that were not enough, you are the darling of the court, besides being the women's favourite. That is too much for one man to be--take care, I say, take care! Be at more pains for my favour, and at less trouble for your popularity." "So far as that goes," answered Don John, with some pride, "I think that if men praise me it is because I have served the King as well as I could, and with success. If your Majesty is not satisfied with what I have done, let me have more to do. I shall try to do even the impossible." "That will please the ladies," retorted Philip, with a sneer. "You will be overwhelmed with correspondence--your gloves will not hold it all" Don John did not answer, for it seemed wiser to let the King take this ground than return to his former position. "You will have plenty of agreeable occupation in time of peace. But it is better that you should be married soon, before you become so entangled with the ladies of Madrid as to make your marriage impossible." "Saving the last clause," said Don John boldly, "I am altogether of your Majesty's opinion. But I fear no entanglements here." "No--you do not fear them. On the contrary, you live in them as if they were your element." "No man can say that," answered Don John. "You contradict me again. Pray, if you have no entanglements, how comes it that you have a lady's letter in your glove?" "I cannot tell whether it was a lady's letter or a man's." "Have you not read it?" "Yes." "And you refused to show it to me on the ground that it was a woman's secret?" "I had not read it then. It was not signed, and it might well have been written by a man." Don John watched the King's face. It was for from improbable, he thought, that the King had caused it to be written, or had written it himself, that he supposed his brother to have read it, and desired to regain possession of it as soon as possible. Philip seemed to hesitate whether to continue his cross-examination or not, and he looked at the door leading into the antechamber, suddenly wondering why Mendoza had not returned. Then he began to speak again, but he did not wish, angry though he was, to face alone a second refusal to deliver the document to him. His dignity would have suffered too much. "The facts of the case are these," he said, as if he were recapitulating what had gone before in his mind. "It is my desire to marry you to the widowed Queen of Scots, as you know. You are doing all you can to oppose me, and you have determined to marry the dowerless daughter of a poor soldier. I am equally determined that you shall not disgrace yourself by such an alliance." "Disgrace!" cried Don John loudly, almost before the word had passed the King's lips, and he made half a step forward. "You are braver than I thought you, if you dare use that word to me!" Philip stepped back, growing livid, and his hand was on his rapier. Don John was unarmed, but his sword lay on the table within his reach. Seeing the King afraid, he stepped back. "No," he said scornfully, "I was mistaken. You are a coward." He laughed as he glanced at Philip's hand, still on the hilt of his weapon and ready to draw it. In the next room Dolores drew frightened breath, for the tones of the two men's voices had changed suddenly. Yet her heart had leapt for joy when she had heard Don John's cry of anger at the King's insulting word. But Don John was right, for Philip was a coward at heart, and though he inwardly resolved that his brother should be placed under arrest as soon as Mendoza returned, his present instinct was not to rouse him further. He was indeed in danger, between his anger and his fear, for at any moment he might speak some bitter word, accustomed as he was to the perpetual protection of his guards, but at the next his brother's hands might be on his throat, for he had the coward's true instinct to recognize the man who was quite fearless. "You strangely forget yourself," he said, with an appearance of dignity. "You spring forward as if you were going to grapple with me, and then you are surprised that I should be ready to defend myself." "I barely moved a step from where I stand," answered Don John, with profound contempt. "I am unarmed, too. There lies my sword, on the table. But since you are the King as well as my brother, I make all excuses to your Majesty for having been the cause of your fright." Dolores understood what had happened, as Don John meant that she should. She knew also that her position was growing more and more desperate and untenable at every moment; yet she could not blame her lover for what he had said. Even to save her, she would not have had him cringe to the King and ask pardon for his hasty word and movement, still less could she have borne that he should not cry out in protest at a word that insulted her, though ever so lightly. "I do not desire to insist upon our kinship," said Philip coldly. "If I chose to acknowledge it when you were a boy, it was out of respect for the memory of the Emperor. It was not in the expectation of being called brother by the son of a German burgher's daughter." Don John did not wince, for the words, being literally true and without exaggeration, could hardly be treated as an insult, though they were meant for one, and hurt him, as all reference to his real mother always did. "Yes," he said, still scornfully. "I am the son of a German burgher's daughter, neither better nor worse. But I am your brother, for all that, and though I shall not forget that you are King and I am subject, when we are before the world, yet here, we are man and man, you and I, brother and brother, and there is neither King nor prince. But I shall not hurt you, so you need fear nothing. I respect the brother far too little for that, and the sovereign too much." There was a bad yellow light in Philip's face, and instead of walking towards Don John and away from him, as he had done hitherto, he began to pace up and down, crossing and recrossing before him, from the foot of the great canopied bed to one of the curtained windows, keeping his eyes upon his brother almost all the time. "I warned you when I came here that your words should be remembered," he said. "And your actions shall not be forgotten, either. There are safe places, even in Madrid, where you can live in the retirement you desire so much, even in total solitude." "If it pleases your Majesty to imprison Don John of Austria, you have the power. For my part, I shall make no resistance." "Who shall, then?" asked the King angrily. "Do you expect that there will be a general rising of the people to liberate you, or that there will be a revolution within the palace, brought on by your party, which shall force me to set you free for reasons of state? We are not in Paris that you should expect the one, nor in Constantinople where the other might be possible. We are in Spain, and I am master, and my will shall be done, and no one shall cry out against it. I am too gentle with you, too kind! For the half of what you have said and done, Elizabeth of England would have had your life to-morrow--yes, I consent to give you a chance, the benefit of a doubt there is still in my thoughts about you, because justice shall not be offended and turned into an instrument of revenge. Yes--I am kind, I am clement. We shall see whether you can save yourself. You shall have the chance." "What chance is that?" asked Don John, growing very quiet, for he saw the real danger near at hand again. "You shall have an opportunity of proving that a subject is at liberty to insult his sovereign, and that the King is not free to speak his mind to a subject. Can you prove that?" "I cannot." "Then you can be convicted of high treason," answered Philip, his evil mouth curling. "There are several methods of interrogating the accused," he continued. "I daresay you have heard of them." "Do you expect to frighten me by talking of torture?" asked Don John, with a smile at the implied suggestion. "Witnesses are also examined," replied the King, his voice thickening again in anticipation of the effect he was going to produce upon the man who would not fear him. "With them, even more painful methods are often employed. Witnesses may be men or women, you know, my dear brother--" he pronounced the word with a sneer--"and among the many ladies of your acquaintance--" "There are very few." "It will be the easier to find the two or three, or perhaps the only one, whom it will be necessary to interrogate--in your presence, most probably, and by torture." "I was right to call you a coward," said Don John, slowly turning pale till his face was almost as white as the white silks and satins of his doublet. "Will you give me the letter you were reading when I came here?" "No." "Not to save yourself from the executioner's hands?" "No." "Not to save--" Philip paused, and a frightful stare of hatred fixed his eyes on his brother. "Will you give me that letter to save Dolores de Mendoza from being torn piecemeal?" "Coward!" By instinct Don John's hand went to the hilt of his sheathed sword this time, as he cried out in rage, and sprang forward. Even then he would have remembered the promise he had given and would not have raised his hand to strike. But the first movement was enough, and Philip drew his rapier in a flash of light, fearing for his life. Without waiting for an attack he made a furious pass at his brother's body. Don John's hand went out with the sheathed sword in a desperate attempt to parry the thrust, but the weapon was entangled in the belt that hung to it, and Philip's lunge had been strong and quick as lightning. With a cry of anger Don John fell straight backwards, his feet seeming to slip from under him on the smooth marble pavement, and with his fall, as he threw out his hands to save himself, the sword flew high into the air, sheathed as it was, and landed far away. He lay at full length with one arm stretched out, and for a moment the hand twitched in quick spasms. Then it was quite still. At his feet stood Philip, his rapier in his hand, and blood on its fine point. His eyes shone yellow in the candlelight, his jaw had dropped a little, and he bent forwards, looking intently at the still, white face. He had longed for that moment ever since he had entered his brother's room, though even he himself had not guessed that he wanted his brother's life. There was not a sound in the room as he looked at what he had done, and two or three drops of blood fell one by one, very slowly, upon the marble. On the dazzling white of Don John's doublet there was a small red stain. As Philip watched it, he thought it grew wider and brighter. Beyond the door, Dolores had fallen upon her knees, pressing her hands to her temples in an agony beyond thought or expression. Her fear had risen to terror while she listened to the last words that had been exchanged, and the King's threat had chilled her blood like ice, though she was brave. She had longed to cry out to Don John to give up her letter or the other, whichever the King wanted--she had almost tried to raise her voice, in spite of every other fear, when she had heard Don John's single word of scorn, and the quick footsteps, the drawing of the rapier from its sheath, the desperate scuffle that had not lasted five seconds, and then the dull fall which meant that one was hurt. It could only be the King,--but that was terrible enough,--and yet, if the King had fallen, Don John would have come to the door the next instant. All was still in the room, but her terror made wild noises in her ears. The two men might have spoken now and she could not have heard them,--nor the opening of a door, nor any ordinary sound. It was no longer the fear of being heard, either, that made her silent. Her throat was parched and her tongue paralyzed. She remembered suddenly that Don John had been unarmed, and how he had pointed out to Philip that his sword lay on the table. It was the King who had drawn his own, then, and had killed his unarmed brother. She felt as if something heavy were striking her head as the thoughts made broken words, and flashes of light danced before her eyes. With her hands she tried to press feeling and reason and silence back into her brain that would not be quieted, but the certainty grew upon her that Don John was killed, and the tide of despair rose higher with every breath. The sensation came upon her that she was dying, then and there, of a pain human nature could not endure, far beyond the torments Philip had threatened, and the thought was merciful, for she could not have lived an hour in such agony,--something would have broken before then. She was dying, there, on her knees before the door beyond which her lover lay suddenly dead. It would be easy to die. In a moment more she would be with him, for ever, and in peace. They would find her there, dead, and perhaps they would be merciful and bury her near him. But that would matter little, since she should be with him always now. In the first grief that struck her, and bruised her, and numbed her as with material blows, she had no tears, but there was a sort of choking fire in her throat, and her eyes burned her like hot iron. She did not know how long she knelt, waiting for death. She was dying, and there was no time any more, nor any outward world, nor anything but her lover's dead body on the floor in the next room, and his soul waiting for hers, waiting beside her for her to die also, that they might go together. She was so sure now, that she was wondering dreamily why it took so long to die, seeing that death had taken him so quickly. Could one shaft be aimed so straight and could the next miss the mark? She shook all over, as a new dread seized her. She was not dying,--her life clung too closely to her suffering body, her heart was too young and strong to stand still in her breast for grief. She was to live, and bear that same pain a lifetime. She rocked herself gently on her knees, bowing her head almost to the floor. She was roused by the sound of her father's voice, and the words he was speaking sent a fresh shock of horror through her unutterable grief, for they told her that Don John was dead, and then something else so strange that she could not understand it. Philip had stood only a few moments, sword in hand, over his brother's body, staring down at his face, when the door opened. On the threshold stood old Mendoza, half-stunned by the sight he saw. Philip heard, stood up, and drew back as his eyes fell upon the old soldier. He knew that Mendoza, if no one else, knew the truth now, beyond any power of his to conceal it. His anger had subsided, and a sort of horror that could never be remorse, had come over him for what he had done. It must have been in his face, for Mendoza understood, and he came forward quickly and knelt down upon the floor to listen for the beating of the heart, and to try whether there was any breath to dim the brightness of his polished scabbard. Philip looked on in silence. Like many an old soldier Mendoza had some little skill, but he saw the bright spot on the white doublet, and the still face and the hands relaxed, and there was neither breath nor beating of the heart to give hope. He rose silently, and shook his head. Still looking down he saw the red drops that had fallen upon the pavement from Philip's rapier, and looking at that, saw that the point was dark. With a gesture of excuse he took the sword from the King's hand and wiped it quite dry and bright upon his own handkerchief, and gave it back to Philip, who sheathed it by his side, but never spoke. Together the two looked at the body for a full minute and more, each silently debating what should be done with it. At last Mendoza raised his head, and there was a strange look in his old eyes and a sort of wan greatness came over his war-worn face. It was then that he spoke the words Dolores heard. "I throw myself upon your Majesty's mercy! I have killed Don John of Austria in a private quarrel, and he was unarmed." Philip understood well enough, and a faint smile of satisfaction flitted through the shadows of his face. It was out of the question that the world should ever know who had killed his brother, and he knew the man who offered to sacrifice himself by bearing the blame of the deed. Mendoza would die, on the scaffold if need be, and it would be enough for him to know that his death saved his King. No word would ever pass his lips. The man's loyalty would bear any proof; he could feel horror at the thought that Philip could have done such a deed, but the King's name must be saved at all costs, and the King's divine right must be sustained before the world. He felt no hesitation from the moment when he saw clearly how this must be done. To accuse some unknown murderer and let it be supposed that he had escaped would have been worse than useless; the court and half Spain knew of the King's jealousy of his brother, every one had seen that Philip had been very angry when the courtiers had shouted for Don John; already the story of the quarrel about the glove was being repeated from mouth to mouth in the throne room, where the nobles had reassembled after supper. As soon as it was known that Don John was dead, it would be believed by every one in the palace that the King had killed him or had caused him to be murdered. But if Mendoza took the blame upon himself, the court would believe him, for many knew of Dolores' love for Don John, and knew also how bitterly the old soldier was opposed to their marriage, on the ground that it would be no marriage at all, but his daughter's present ruin. There was no one else in the palace who could accuse himself of the murder and who would be believed to have done it without the King's orders, and Mendoza knew this, when he offered his life to shield Philip's honour. Philip knew it, too, and while he wondered at the old man's simple devotion, he accepted it without protest, as his vast selfishness would have permitted the destruction of all mankind, that it might be satisfied and filled. He looked once more at the motionless body at his feet, and once more at the faithful old man. Then he bent his head with condescending gravity, as if he were signifying his pleasure to receive kindly, for the giver's sake, a gift of little value. "So be it," he said slowly. Mendoza bowed his head, too, as if in thanks, and then taking up the long dark cloak which the King had thrown off on entering, he put it upon Philip's shoulders, and went before him to the door. And Philip followed him without looking back, and both went out upon the terrace, leaving both doors ajar after them. They exchanged a few words more as they walked slowly in the direction of the corridor. "It is necessary that your Majesty should return at once to the throne room, as if nothing had happened," said Mendoza. "Your Majesty should be talking unconcernedly with some ambassador or minister when the news is brought that his Highness is dead." "And who shall bring the news?" asked Philip calmly, as if he were speaking to an indifferent person. "I will, Sire," answered Mendoza firmly. "They will tear you in pieces before I can save you," returned Philip, in a thoughtful tone. "So much the better. I shall die for my King, and your Majesty will be spared the difficulty of pardoning a deed which will be unpardonable in the eyes of the whole world." "That is true," said the King meditatively. "But I do not wish you to die, Mendoza," he added, as an afterthought. "You must escape to France or to England." "I could not make my escape without your Majesty's help, and that would soon be known. It would then be believed that I had done the deed by your Majesty's orders, and no good end would have been gained." "You may be right. You are a very brave man, Mendoza--the bravest I have ever known. I thank you. If it is possible to save you, you shall be saved." "It will not be possible," replied the soldier, in a low and steady voice. "If your Majesty will return at once to the throne room, it may be soon over. Besides, it is growing late, and it must be done before the whole court." They entered the corridor, and the King walked a few steps before Mendoza, covering his head with the hood of his cloak lest any one should recognize him, and gradually increasing his distance as the old man fell behind. Descending by a private staircase, Philip reëntered his own apartments by a small door that gave access to his study without obliging him to pass through the antechamber, and by which he often came and went unobserved. Alone in his innermost room, and divested of his hood and cloak, the King went to a Venetian mirror that stood upon a pier table between the windows, and examined his face attentively. Not a trace of excitement or emotion was visible in the features he saw, but his hair was a little disarranged, and he smoothed it carefully and adjusted it about his ears. From a silver box on the table he took a little scented lozenge and put it into his mouth. No reasonable being would have suspected from his appearance that he had been moved to furious anger and had done a murderous deed less than twenty minutes earlier. His still eyes were quite calm now, and the yellow gleam in them had given place to their naturally uncertain colour. With a smile of admiration for his own extraordinary powers, he turned and left the room. He was enjoying one of his rare moments of satisfaction, for the rival he had long hated and was beginning to dread was never to stand in his way again nor to rob him of the least of his attributes of sovereignty. * * * * * CHAPTER XIII Dolores had not understood her father's words. All that was clear to her was that Don John was dead and that his murderers were gone. Had there been danger still for herself, she could not have felt it; but there was none now as she laid her hand upon the key to enter the bedchamber. At first the lock would not open, as it had been injured in some way by being so roughly shaken when Mendoza had tried it. But Dolores' desperate fingers wound themselves upon the key like little ropes of white silk, slender but very strong, and she wrenched at the thing furiously till it turned. The door flew open, and she stood motionless a moment on the threshold. Mendoza had said that Don John was dead, but she had not quite believed it. He lay on his back as he had fallen, his feet towards her, his graceful limbs relaxed, one arm beside him, the other thrown back beyond his head, the colourless fingers just bent a little and showing the nervous beauty of the hand. The beautiful young face was white as marble, and the eyes were half open, very dark under the waxen lids. There was one little spot of scarlet on the white satin coat, near the left breast. Dolores saw it all in the bright light of the candles, and she neither moved nor closed her fixed eyes as she gazed. She felt that she was at the end of life; she stood still to see it all and to understand. But though she tried to think, it was as if she had no mind left, no capacity for grasping any new thought, and no power to connect those that had disturbed her brain with the present that stared her in the face. An earthquake might have torn the world open under her feet at that moment, swallowing up the old Alcazar with the living and the dead, and Dolores would have gone down to destruction as she stood, unconscious of her fate, her eyes fixed upon Don John's dead features, her own life already suspended and waiting to follow his. It seemed as if she might stand there till her horror should stop the beating of her own heart, unless something came to rouse her from the stupor she was in. But gradually a change came over her face, her lids drooped and quivered, her face turned a little upward, and she grasped the doorpost with one hand, lest she should reel and fall. Then, knowing that she could stand no longer, instinct made a last effort upon her; its invisible power thrust her violently forward in a few swift steps, till her strength broke all at once, and she fell and lay almost upon the body of her lover, her face hidden upon his silent breast, one hand seeking his hand, the other pressing his cold forehead. It was not probable that any one should find her there for a long time. The servants and gentlemen had been dismissed, and until it was known that Don John was dead, no one would come. Even if she could have thought at all, she would not have cared who saw her lying there; but thought was altogether gone now, and there was nothing left but the ancient instinct of the primeval woman mourning her dead mate alone, with long-drawn, hopeless weeping and blinding tears. They came, too, when she had lain upon his breast a little while and when understanding had wholly ceased and given way to nature. Then her body shook and her breast heaved strongly, almost throwing her upon her side as she lay, and sounds that were hardly human came from her lips; for the first dissolving of a woman's despair into tears is most like the death agony of those who die young in their strength, when the limbs are wrung at the joints and the light breaks in the upturned eyes, when the bosom heaves and would take in the whole world at one breath, when the voice makes sounds of fear that are beyond words and worse to hear than any words could be. Her weeping was wild at first, measureless and violent, broken by sharp cries that hurt her heart like jagged knives, then strangled to a choking silence again and again, as the merciless consciousness that could have killed, if it had prevailed, almost had her by the throat, but was forced back again with cruel pain by the young life that would not die, though living was agony and death would have been as welcome as air. Then her loud grief subsided to a lower key, and her voice grew by degrees monotonous and despairing as the turning tide on a quicksand, before bad weather,--not diminished, but deeper drawn within itself; and the low moan came regularly with each breath, while the tears flowed steadily. The first wild tempest had swept by, and the more enduring storm followed in its track. So she lay a long time weeping; and then strong hands were upon her, lifting her up and dragging her away, without warning and without word. She did not understand, and she fancied herself in the arms of some supernatural being of monstrous strength that was tearing her from what was left of life and love. She struggled senselessly, but she could find no foothold as she was swept through the open door. She gasped for breath, as one does in bad dreams, and bodily fear almost reached her heart through its sevenfold armour of such grief as makes fear ridiculous and turns mortal danger to an empty show. The time had seemed an age since she had fallen upon dead Don John--it had measured but a short few minutes; it seemed as if she were being dragged the whole length of the dim palace as the strong hands bore her along, yet she was only carried from the room to the terrace; and when her eyes could see, she knew that she was in the open air on a stone seat in the moonlight, the cool night breeze fanning her face, while a gentle hand supported her head,--the same hand that had been so masterfully strong a moment earlier. A face she knew and did not dread, though it was unlike other faces, was just at the same height with her own, though the man was standing beside her and she was seated; and the moonlight made very soft shadows in the ill-drawn features of the dwarf, so that his thin and twisted lips were kind and his deep-set eyes were overflowing with human sympathy. When he understood that she saw him and was not fainting, he gently drew away his hand and let her head rest against the stone parapet. She was dazed still, and the tears veiled her sight. He stood before her, as if guarding her, ready in case she should move and try to leave him. His long arms hung by his sides, but not quite motionless, so that he could have caught her instantly had she attempted to spring past him; and he was wise and guessed rightly what she would do. Her eyes brightened suddenly, and she half rose before he held her again. "No, no!" she said desperately. "I must go to him--let me go--let me go back!" But his hands were on her shoulders in an instant, and she was in a vise, forced back to her seat. "How dare you touch me!" she cried, in the furious anger of a woman beside herself with grief. "How dare you lay hands on me!" she repeated in a rising key, but struggling in vain against his greater strength. "You would have died, if I had left you there," answered the jester. "And besides, the people will come soon, and they would have found you there, lying on his body, and your good name would have gone forever." "My name! What does a name matter? Or anything? Oh, let me go! No one must touch him--no hands that do not love him must come near him--let me get up--let me go in again!" She tried to force the dwarf from her--she would have struck him, crushed him, thrown him from the terrace, if she could. She was strong, too, in her grief; but his vast arms were like iron bars, growing from his misshapen body. His face was very grave and kind, and his eyes more tender than they had ever been in his life. "No," he said gently. "You must not go. By and by you shall see him again, but not now. Do not try, for I am much stronger than you, and I will not let you go back into the room." Then her strength relaxed, and she turned to the stone parapet, burying her face in her crossed arms, and her tears came again. For this the jester was glad, knowing that tears quench the first white heat of such sorrows as can burn out the soul and drive the brain raving mad, when life can bear the torture. He stood still before her, watching her and guarding her, but he felt that the worst was past, and that before very long he could lead her away to a place of greater safety. He had indeed taken her as far as he could from Don John's door, and out of sight of it, where the long terrace turned to the westward, and where it was not likely that any one should pass at that hour. It had been the impulse of the moment, and he himself had not recovered from the shock of finding Don John's body lifeless on the floor. He had known nothing of what had happened, but lurking in a corner to see the King pass on his way back from his brother's quarters, he had made sure that Don John was alone, and had gone to his apartment to find out, if he could, how matters had fared, and whether he himself were in further danger or not. He meant to escape from the palace, or to take his own life, rather than be put to the torture, if the King suspected him of being involved in a conspiracy. He was not a common coward, but he feared bodily pain as only such sensitive organizations can, and the vision of the rack and the boot had been before him since he had seen Philip's face at supper. Don John was kind, and would have warned him if he were in danger, and so all might have been well, and by flight or death he might have escaped being torn limb from limb. So he had gone boldly in, and had found the door ajar and had entered the bedchamber, and when he had seen what was there, he would have fled at once, for his own safety, not only because Don John's murder was sure to produce terrible trouble, and many enquiries and trials, in the course of which he was almost sure to be lost, but also for the more immediate reason that if he were seen near the body when it was discovered, he should certainly be put to the question ordinary and extraordinary for his evidence. But he was not a common coward, and in spite of his own pardonable terror, he thought first of the innocent girl whose name and fame would be gone if she were found lying upon her murdered lover's body, and so far as he could, he saved her before he thought of saving himself, though with infinite difficulty and against her will. Half paralyzed by her immeasurable grief, she lay against the parapet, and the great sobs came evenly, as if they were counted, shaking her from her head to her waist, and just leaving her a breathing space between each one and the next. The jester felt that he could do nothing. So long as she had seemed unconscious, he had tried to help her a little by supporting her head with his hand and arm, as tenderly as if she had been his own child. So long as she did not know what he was doing, she was only a human being in distress, and a woman, and deep down in the jester's nature there was a marvellous depth of pity for all things that suffered--the deeper and truer because his own sufferings in the world were great. But it was quite different now that she knew where she was and recognized him. She was no longer a woman now, but a high-born lady, one of the Queen's maids of honour, a being infinitely far removed above his sphere, and whose hand he was not worthy to touch. He would have dared to be much more familiar with the King himself than with this young girl whom fate had placed in his keeping for a moment. In the moonlight he watched her, and as he gazed upon her graceful figure and small head and slender, bending arms, it seemed to him that she had come down from an altar to suffer in life, and that it had been almost sacrilege to lay his hands upon her shoulders and keep her from doing her own will. He almost wondered how he had found courage to be so rough and commanding. He was gentle of heart, though it was his trade to make sharp speeches, and there were wonderful delicacies of thought and feeling far down in his suffering cripple's nature. "Come," he said softly, when he had waited a long time, and when he thought she was growing more quiet. "You must let me take you away, Doña Maria Dolores, for we cannot stay here." "Take me back to him," she answered. "Let me go back to him!" "No--to your father--I cannot take you to him. You will be safe there." Dolores sprang to her feet before the dwarf could prevent her. "To my father? oh, no, no, no! Never, as long as I live! I will go anywhere, but not to him! Take your hands from me--do not touch me! I am not strong, but I shall kill you if you try to take me to my father!" Her small hands grasped the dwarfs wrists and wrung them with desperate energy, and she tried to push him away, so that she might pass him. But he resisted her quietly, planting himself in a position of resistance on his short bowed legs, and opposing the whole strength of his great arms to her girlish violence. Her hands relaxed suddenly in despair. "Not to my father!" she pleaded, in a broken voice. "Oh, please, please--not to my father!" The jester did not fully understand, but he yielded, for he could not carry her to Mendoza's apartments by force. "But what can I do to put you in a place of safety?" he asked, in growing distress. "You cannot stay here." While he was speaking a light figure glided out from the shadows, with outstretched hands, and a low voice called Dolores' name, trembling with terror and emotion. Dolores broke from the dwarf and clasped her sister in her arms. "Is it true?" moaned Inez. "Is it true? Is he dead?" And her voice broke. * * * * * CHAPTER XIV The courtiers had assembled again in the great throne room after supper, and the stately dancing, for which the court of Spain was even then famous throughout Europe, had begun. The orchestra was placed under the great arch of the central window on a small raised platform draped with velvets and brocades that hung from a railing, high enough to conceal the musicians as they sat, though some of the instruments and the moving bows of the violins could be seen above it. The masked dancing, if it were dancing at all, which had been general in the days of the Emperor Maximilian, and which had not yet gone out of fashion altogether at the imperial court of Vienna, had long been relegated to the past in Spain, and the beautiful "pavane" dances, of which awkward travesties survive in our day, had been introduced instead. As now, the older ladies of the court withdrew to the sides of the hall, leaving the polished floor free for those who danced, and sets formed themselves in the order of their rank from the foot of the throne dais to the lower end. As now, too, the older and graver men congregated together in outer rooms; and there gaming-tables were set out, and the nobles lost vast sums at games now long forgotten, by the express authorization of the pious Philip, who saw that everything which could injure the fortunes of the grandees must consolidate his own, by depriving them of some of that immense wealth which was an ever-ready element of revolution. He did everything in his power to promote the ruin of the most powerful grandees in the kingdom by encouraging gaming and all imaginable forms of extravagance, and he looked with suspicion and displeasure upon those more prudent men who guarded their riches carefully, as their fathers had done before them. But these were few, for it was a part of a noble's dignity to lose enormous sums of money without the slightest outward sign of emotion or annoyance. It had been announced that the King and Queen would not return after supper, and the magnificent gravity of the most formal court in the world was a little relaxed when this was known. Between the strains of music, the voices of the courtiers rose in unbroken conversation, and now and then there was a ripple of fresh young laughter that echoed sweetly under the high Moorish vault, and died away just as it rose again from below. Yet the dancing was a matter of state, and solemn enough, though it was very graceful. Magnificent young nobles in scarlet, in pale green, in straw colour, in tender shades of blue, all satin and silk and velvet and embroidery, led lovely women slowly forward with long and gliding steps that kept perfect time to the music, and turned and went back, and wound mazy figures with the rest, under the waxen light of the waxen torches, and returned to their places with deep curtsies on the one side, and sweeping obeisance on the other. The dresses of the women were richer by far with gold and silver, and pearls and other jewels, than those of the men, but were generally darker in tone, for that was the fashion then. Their skirts were straight and barely touched the floor, being made for a time when dancing was a part of court life, and when every one within certain limits of age was expected to dance well. There was no exaggeration of the ruffle then, nor had the awkward hoop skirt been introduced in Spain. Those were the earlier days of Queen Elizabeth's reign, before Queen Mary was imprisoned; it was the time, indeed, when the rough Bothwell had lately carried her off and married her, after a fashion, with so little ceremony that Philip paid no attention to the marriage at all, and deliberately proposed to make her Don John's wife. The matter was freely talked of on that night by the noble ladies of elder years who gossiped while they watched the dancing. That was indeed such a court as had not been seen before, nor was ever seen again, whether one count beauty first, or riches and magnificence, or the marvel of splendid ceremony and the faultless grace of studied manners, or even the cool recklessness of great lords and ladies who could lose a fortune at play, as if they were throwing a handful of coin to a beggar in the street. The Princess of Eboli stood a little apart from the rest, having just returned to the ball-room, and her eyes searched for Dolores in the crowd, though she scarcely expected to see her there. It would have been almost impossible for the girl to put on a court dress in so short a time, though since her father had allowed her to leave her room, she could have gone back to dress if she had chosen. The Princess had rarely been at a loss in her evil life, and had seldom been baffled in anything she had undertaken, since that memorable occasion on which her husband, soon after her marriage, had forcibly shut her up in a convent for several months, in the vain hope of cooling her indomitable temper. But now she was nervous and uncertain of herself. Not only had Dolores escaped her, but Don John had disappeared also, and the Princess had not the least doubt but that the two were somewhere together, and she was very far from being sure that they had not already left the palace. Antonio Perez had informed her that the King had promised not to see Don John that night, and for once she was foolish enough to believe the King's word. Perez came up to her as she was debating what she should do. She told him her thoughts, laughing gaily from time to time, as if she were telling him some very witty story, for she did not wish those who watched them to guess that the conversation was serious. Perez laughed, too, and answered in low tones, with many gestures meant to deceive the court. "The King did not take my advice," he said. "I had scarcely left him, when he went to Don John's apartments." "How do you know that?" asked the Princess, with some anxiety. "He found the door of an inner room locked, and he sent Mendoza to find the key. Fortunately for the old man's feelings it could not be found! He would have had an unpleasant surprise." "Why?" "Because his daughter was in the room that was locked," laughed Perez. "When? How? How long ago was that?" "Half an hour--not more." "That is impossible. Half an hour ago Dolores de Mendoza was with me." "Then there was another lady in the room." Perez laughed again. "Better two than one," he added. "You are wrong," said the Princess, and her face darkened. "Don John has not so much as deigned to look at any other woman these two years." "You should know that best," returned the Secretary, with a little malice in his smile. It was well known in the court that two or three years earlier, during the horrible intrigue that ended in the death of Don Carlos, the Princess of Eboli had done her best to bring Don John of Austria to her feet, and had failed notoriously, because he was already in love with Dolores. She was angry now, and the rich colour came into her handsome dark face. "Don Antonio Perez," she said, "take care! I have made you. I can also unmake you." Perez assumed an air of simple and innocent surprise, as if he were quite sure that he had said nothing to annoy her, still less to wound her deeply. He believed that she really loved him and that he could play with her as if his own intelligence far surpassed hers. In the first matter he was right, but he was very much mistaken in the second. "I do not understand," he said. "If I have done anything to offend you, pray forgive my ignorance, and believe in the unchanging devotion of your most faithful slave." His dark eyes became very expressive as he bowed a little, with a graceful gesture of deprecation. The Princess laughed lightly, but there was still a spark of annoyance in her look. "Why does Don John not come?" she asked impatiently. "We should have danced together. Something must have happened--can you not find out?" Others were asking the same question in surprise, for it had been expected that Don John would enter immediately after the supper. His name was heard from end to end of the hall, in every conversation, wherever two or three persons were talking together. It was in the air, like his popularity, everywhere and in everything, and the expectation of his coming produced a sort of tension that was felt by every one. The men grew more witty, the younger women's eyes brightened, though they constantly glanced towards the door of the state apartments by which Don John should enter, and as the men's conversation became more brilliant the women paid less attention to it, for there was hardly one of them who did not hope that Don John might notice her before the evening was over,--there was not one who did not fancy herself a little in love with him, as there was hardly a man there who would not have drawn his sword for him and fought for him with all his heart. Many, though they dared not say so, secretly wished that some evil might befall Philip, and that he might soon die childless, since he had destroyed his only son and only heir, and that Don John might be King in his stead. The Princess of Eboli and Perez knew well enough that their plan would be popular, if they could ever bring it to maturity. The music swelled and softened, and rose again in those swaying strains that inspire an irresistible bodily longing for rhythmical motion, and which have infinite power to call up all manner of thoughts, passionate, gentle, hopeful, regretful, by turns. In the middle of the hall, more than a hundred dancers moved, swayed, and glided in time with the sound, changed places, and touched hands in the measure, tripped forward and back and sideways, and met and parted again without pause, the colours of their dresses mingling to rich unknown hues in the soft candlelight, as the figure brought many together, and separating into a hundred elements again, when the next steps scattered them again; the jewels in the women's hair, the clasps of diamonds and precious stones at throat, and shoulder, and waist, all moved with an intricate motion, in orbits that crossed and recrossed in the tinted sea of silk, and flashed all at once, as the returning burden of the music brought the dancers to stand and turn at the same beat of the measure. Yet it was all unlike the square dancing of these days, which is either no dancing at all, but a disorderly walk, or else is so stiffly regular and awkward that it makes one think of a squad of recruits exercising on the drill ground. There was not a motion, then, that lacked grace, or ease, or a certain purpose of beauty, nor any, perhaps, that was not a phrase in the allegory of love, from which all dancing is, and was, and always must be, drawn. Swift, slow, by turns, now languorous, now passionate, now full of delicious regret, singing love's triumph, breathing love's fire, sighing in love's despair, the dance and its music were one, so was sight intermingled with sound, and motion a part of both. And at each pause, lips parted and glance sought glance in the light, while hearts found words in the music that answered the language of love. Men laugh at dancing and love it, and women, too, and no one can tell where its charm is, but few have not felt it, or longed to feel it, and its beginnings are very far away in primeval humanity, beyond the reach of theory, unless instinct may explain all simply, as it well may. For light and grace and sweet sound are things of beauty which last for ever, and love is the source of the future and the explanation of the past; and that which can bring into itself both love and melody, and grace and light, must needs be a spell to charm men and women. There was more than that in the air on that night, for Don John's return had set free that most intoxicating essence of victory, which turns to a mad fire in the veins of a rejoicing people, making the least man of them feel himself a soldier, and a conqueror, and a sharer in undying fame. They had loved him from a child, they had seen him outgrow them in beauty, and skill, and courage, and they had loved him still the more for being the better man; and now he had done a great deed, and had fulfilled and overfilled their greatest expectations, and in an instant he leapt from the favourite's place in their hearts to the hero's height on the altar of their wonder, to be the young god of a nation that loved him. Not a man, on that night, but would have sworn that Don John was braver than Alexander, wiser than Charlemagne, greater than Cæsar himself; not a man but would have drawn his sword to prove it on the body of any who should dare to contradict him,--not a mother was there, who did not pray that her sons might be but ever so little like him, no girl of Spain but dreamt she heard his soft voice speaking low in her ear. Not often in the world's story has a man so young done such great things as he had done and was to do before his short life was ended; never, perhaps, was any man so honoured by his own people, so trusted, and so loved. They could talk only of him, wondering more and more that he stayed away from them on such a night, yet sure that he would come, and join the dancing, for as he fought with a skill beyond that of other swordsmen, so he danced with the most surpassing grace. They longed to see him, to look into his face, to hear his voice, perhaps to touch his hand; for he was free of manner and gentle to all, and if he came he would go from one to another, and remember each with royal memory, and find kind words for every one. They wanted him among them, they felt a sort of tense desire to see him again, and even to shout for him again, as the vulgar herd did in the streets,--as they themselves had done but an hour ago when he had stood out beside the throne. And still the dancers danced through the endless measures, laughing and talking at each pause, and repeating his name till it was impossible not to hear it, wherever one might be in the hall, and there was no one, old or young, who did not speak it at least once in every five minutes. There was a sort of intoxication in its very sound, and the more they heard it, the more they wished to hear it, coupled with every word of praise that the language possessed. From admiration they rose to enthusiasm, from enthusiasm to a generous patriotic passion in which Spain was the world and Don John was Spain, and all the rest of everything was but a dull and lifeless blank which could have no possible interest for natural people. Young men, darkly flushed from dancing, swore that whenever Don John should be next sent with an army, they would go, too, and win his battles and share in his immortal glory; and grand, grey men who wore the Golden Fleece, men who had seen great battles in the Emperor's day, stood together and talked of him, and praised God that Spain had another hero of the Austrian house, to strike terror to the heart of France, to humble England at last, and to grasp what little of the world was not already gathered in the hollow of Spain's vast hand. Antonio Perez and the Princess of Eboli parted and went among the courtiers, listening to all that was to be heard and feeding the fire of enthusiasm, and met again to exchange glances of satisfaction, for they were well pleased with the direction matters were taking, and the talk grew more free from minute to minute, till many, carried away by a force they could not understand and did not seek to question, were openly talking of the succession to the throne, of Philip's apparent ill health, and of the chance that they might before long be doing service to his Majesty King John. The music ceased again, and the couples dispersed about the hall, to collect again in groups. There was a momentary lull in the talk, too, as often happens when a dance is just over, and at that moment the great door beside the throne was opened, with a noise that attracted the attention of all; and all believed that Don John was returning, while all eyes were fixed upon the entrance to catch the first glimpse of him, and every one pronounced his name at once in short, glad tones of satisfaction. "Don John is coming! It is Don John of Austria! Don John is there!" It was almost a universal cry of welcome. An instant later a dead silence followed as a chamberlain's clear voice announced the royal presence, and King Philip advanced upon the platform of the throne. For several seconds not a sound broke the stillness, and he came slowly forward followed by half a dozen nobles in immediate attendance upon him. But though he must have heard his brother's name in the general chorus of voices as soon as the door had been thrown open, he seemed by no means disconcerted; on the contrary, he smiled almost affably, and his eyes were less fixed than usual, as he looked about him with something like an air of satisfaction. As soon as it was clear that he meant to descend the steps to the floor of the hall, the chief courtiers came forward, Ruy Gomez de Silva, Prince of Eboli, Alvarez de Toledo, the terrible Duke of Alva, the Dukes of Medina Sidonia and of Infantado, Don Antonio Perez the chief Secretary, the Ambassadors of Queen Elizabeth of England and of France, and a dozen others, bowing so low that the plumes of their hats literally touched the floor beside them. "Why is there no dancing?" asked Philip, addressing Ruy Gomez, with a smile. The Minister explained that one of the dances was but just over. "Let there be more at once," answered the King. "Let there be dancing and music without end to-night. We have good reason to keep the day with rejoicing, since the war is over, and Don John of Austria has come back in triumph." The command was obeyed instantly, as Ruy Gomez made a sign to the leader of the musicians, who was watching him intently in expectation of the order. The King smiled again as the long strain broke the silence and the conversation began again all through the hall, though in a far more subdued tone than before, and with much more caution. Philip turned to the English Ambassador. "It is a pity," he said, "that my sister of England cannot be here with us on such a night as this. We saw no such sights in London in my day, my lord." "There have been changes since then, Sire," answered the Ambassador. "The Queen is very much inclined to magnificence and to great entertainments, and does not hesitate to dance herself, being of a very vital and pleasant temper. Nevertheless, your Majesty's court is by far the most splendid in the world." "There you are right, my lord!" exclaimed the King. "And for that matter, we have beauty also, such as is found nowhere else." The Princess of Eboli was close by, waiting for him to speak to her, and his eyes fixed themselves upon her face with a sort of cold and snakelike admiration, to which she was well accustomed, but which even now made her nervous. The Ambassador was not slow to take up the cue of flattery, for Englishmen still knew how to flatter in Elizabeth's day. "The inheritance of universal conquest," he said, bowing and smiling to the Princess. "Even the victories of Don John of Austria must yield to that." The Princess laughed carelessly. Had Perez spoken the words, she would have frowned, but the King's eyes were watching her. "His Highness has fled from the field without striking a blow," she said. "We have not seen him this evening." As she spoke she met the King's gaze with a look of enquiry. "Don John will be here presently, no doubt," he said, as if answering a question. "Has he not been here at all since supper?" "No, Sire; though every one expected him to come at once." "That is strange," said Philip, with perfect self-possession. "He is fond of dancing, too--no one can dance better than he. Have you ever known a man so roundly gifted as my brother, my lord?" "A most admirable prince," answered the Ambassador, gravely and without enthusiasm, for he feared that the King was about to speak of his brother's possible marriage with Queen Mary of Scots. "And a most affectionate and gentle nature," said Philip, musing. "I remember from the time when he was a boy that every one loved him and praised him, and yet he is not spoiled. He is always the same. He is my brother--how often have I wished for such a son! Well, he may yet be King. Who should, if not he, when I am gone?" "Your Majesty need not anticipate such a frightful calamity!" cried the Princess fervently, though she was at that moment weighing the comparative advantage of several mortal diseases by which, in appearance at least, his exit from the world might be accelerated. "Life is very uncertain, Princess," observed the King. "My lord," he turned to the English Ambassador again, "do you consider melons indigestible in England? I have lately heard much against them." "A melon is a poor thing, of a watery constitution, your Majesty," replied the Ambassador glibly. "There can be but little sustenance in a hollow piece of water that is sucked from a marsh and enclosed in a green rind. To tell the truth, I hear it ill spoken of by our physicians, but I cannot well speak of the matter, for I never ate one in my life, and please God I never will!" "Why not!" enquired the King, who took an extraordinary interest in the subject. "You fear them, then! Yet you seem to be exceedingly strong and healthy." "Sire, I have sometimes drunk a little water for my stomach's sake, but I will not eat it." The King smiled pleasantly. "How wise the English are!" he said. "We may yet learn much of them." Philip turned away from the Ambassador and watched the dance in silence. The courtiers now stood in a wide half circle to the right and left of him as he faced the hall, and the dancers passed backwards and forwards across the open space. His slow eyes followed one figure without seeing the rest. In the set nearest to him a beautiful girl was dancing with one of Don John's officers. She was of the rarest type of Andalusian beauty, tall, pliant, and slenderly strong, with raven's-wing hair and splendidly languorous eyes, her creamy cheek as smooth as velvet, and a mouth like a small ripe fruit. As she moved she bent from the waist as easily and naturally as a child, and every movement followed a new curve of beauty from her white throat to the small arched foot that darted into sight as she stepped forward now and then, to disappear instantly under the shadow of the gold-embroidered skirt. As she glanced towards the King, her shadowy lids half hid her eyes and the long black lashes almost brushed her cheek. Philip could not look away from her. But suddenly there was a stir among the courtiers, and a shadow came between the King and the vision he was watching. He started a little, annoyed by the interruption and at being rudely reminded of what had happened half an hour earlier, for the shadow was cast by Mendoza, tall and grim in his armour, his face as grey as his grey beard, and his eyes hard and fixed. Without bending, like a soldier on parade, he stood there, waiting by force of habit until Philip should speak to him. The King's brows bent together, and he almost unconsciously raised one hand to signify that the music should cease. It stopped in the midst of a bar, leaving the dancers at a standstill in their measure, and all the moving sea of light and colour and gleaming jewels was arrested instantly in its motion, while every look was turned towards the King. The change from sound to silence, from motion to immobility, was so sudden that every one was startled, as if some frightful accident had happened, or as if an earthquake had shaken the Alcazar to its deep foundation. Mendoza's harsh voice spoke out alone in accents that were heard to the end of the hall. "Don John of Austria is dead! I, Mendoza, have killed him unarmed." It was long before a sound was heard, before any man or woman in the hall had breath to utter a word. Philip's voice was heard first. "The man is mad," he said, with undisturbed coolness. "See to him, Perez." "No, no!" cried Mendoza. "I am not mad. I have killed Don John. You shall find him in his room as he fell, with the wound in his breast." One moment more the silence lasted, while Philip's stony face never moved. A single woman's shriek rang out first, long, ear-piercing, agonized, and then, without warning, a cry went up such as the old hall had never heard before. It was a bad cry to hear, for it clamoured for blood to be shed for blood, and though it was not for him, Philip turned livid and shrank back a step. But Mendoza stood like a rock, waiting to be taken. In another moment furious confusion filled the hall. From every side at once rose women's cries, and the deep shouts of angry men, and high, clear yells of rage and hate. The men pushed past the ladies of the court to the front, and some came singly, but a serried rank moved up from behind, pushing the others before them. "Kill him! Kill him at the King's feet! Kill him where he stands!" And suddenly something made blue flashes of light high over the heads of all; a rapier was out and wheeled in quick circles from a pliant wrist. An officer of Mendoza's guard had drawn it, and a dozen more were in the air in an instant, and then daggers by scores, keen, short, and strong, held high at arm's length, each shaking with the fury of the hand that held it. "Sangre! Sangre!" Some one had screamed out the wild cry of the Spanish soldiers--'Blood! Blood!'--and the young men took it up in a mad yell, as they pushed forwards furiously, while the few who stood in front tried to keep a space open round the King and Mendoza. The old man never winced, and disdained to turn his head, though he heard the cry of death behind him, and the quick, soft sound of daggers drawn from leathern sheaths, and the pressing of men who would be upon him in another moment to tear him limb from limb with their knives. Tall old Ruy Gomez had stepped forwards to stem the tide of death, and beside him the English Ambassador, quietly determined to see fair play or to be hurt himself in preventing murder. "Back!" thundered Ruy Gomez, in a voice that was heard. "Back, I say! Are you gentlemen of Spain, or are you executioners yourselves that you would take this man's blood? Stand back!" "Sangre! Sangre!" echoed the hall. "Then take mine first!" shouted the brave old Prince, spreading his short cloak out behind him with his hands to cover Mendoza more completely. But still the crowd of splendid young nobles surged up to him, and back a little, out of sheer respect for his station and his old age, and forwards again, dagger in hand, with blazing eyes. "Sangre! Sangre! Sangre!" they cried, blind with fury. But meanwhile, the guards filed in, for the prudent Perez had hastened to throw wide the doors and summon them. Weapons in hand and ready, they formed a square round the King and Mendoza and Ruy Gomez, and at the sight of their steel caps and breastplates and long-tasselled halberds, the yells of the courtiers subsided a little and turned to deep curses and execrations and oaths of vengeance. A high voice pierced the low roar, keen and cutting as a knife, but no one knew whose it was, and Philip almost reeled as he heard the words. "Remember Don Carlos! Don John of Austria is gone to join Don Carlos and Queen Isabel!" Again a deadly silence fell upon the multitude, and the King leaned on Perez' arm. Some woman's hate had bared the truth in a flash, and there were hundreds of hands in the hall that were ready to take his life instead of Mendoza's; and he knew it, and was afraid. * * * * * CHAPTER XV The agonized cry that had been first heard in the hall had come from Inez's lips. When she had fled from her father, she had regained her hiding-place in the gallery above the throne room. She would not go to her own room, for she felt that rest was out of the question while Dolores was in such danger; and yet there would have been no object in going to Don John's door again, to risk being caught by her father or met by the King himself. She had therefore determined to let an hour pass before attempting another move. So she slipped into the gallery again, and sat upon the little wooden bench that had been made for the Moorish women in old times; and she listened to the music and the sound of the dancers' feet far below, and to the hum of voices, in which she often distinguished the name of Don John. She had heard all,--the cries when it was thought that he was coming, the chamberlain's voice announcing the King, and then the change of key in the sounds that had followed. Lastly, she had heard plainly every syllable of her father's speech, so that when she realized what it meant, she had shrieked aloud, and had fled from the gallery to find her sister if she could, to find Don John's body most certainly where it lay on the marble floor, with the death wound at the breast. Her instinct--she could not have reasoned then--told her that her father must have found the lovers together, and that in sudden rage he had stabbed Don John, defenceless. Dolores' tears answered her sister's question well enough when the two girls were clasped in one another's arms at last. There was not a doubt left in the mind of either. Inez spoke first. She said that she had hidden in the gallery. "Our father must have come in some time after the King," she said, in broken sentences, and almost choking. "Suddenly the music stopped. I could hear every word. He said that he had done it,--that he had murdered Don John,--and then I ran here, for I was afraid he had killed you, too." "Would God he had!" cried Dolores. "Would to Heaven that I were dead beside the man I love!" "And I!" moaned Inez pitifully, and she began to sob wildly, as Dolores had sobbed at first. But Dolores was silent now, as if she had shed all her tears at once, and had none left. She held her sister in her arms, and soothed her almost unconsciously, as if she had been a little child. But her own thoughts were taking shape quickly, for she was strong; and after the first paroxysm of her grief, she saw the immediate future as clearly as the present. When she spoke again she had the mastery of her voice, and it was clear and low. "You say that our father confessed before the whole court that he had murdered Don John?" she said, with a question. "What happened then? Did the King speak? Was our father arrested? Can you remember?" "I only heard loud cries," sobbed Inez. "I came to you--as quickly as I could--I was afraid." "We shall never see our father again--unless we see him on the morning when he is to die." "Dolores! They will not kill him, too?" In sudden and greater fear than before, Inez ceased sobbing. "He will die on the scaffold," answered Dolores, in the same clear tone, as if she were speaking in a dream, or of things that did not come near her. "There is no pardon possible. He will die to-morrow or the next day." The present truth stood out in all its frightful distinctness. Whoever had done the murder--since Mendoza had confessed it, he would be made to die for it,--of that she was sure. She could not have guessed what had really happened; and though the evidence of the sounds she had heard through the door would have gone to show that Philip had done the deed himself, yet there had been no doubt about Mendoza's words, spoken to the King alone over Don John's dead body, and repeated before the great assembly in the ball-room. If she guessed at an explanation, it was that her father, entering the bedchamber during the quarrel, and supposing from what he saw that Don John was about to attack the King, had drawn and killed the Prince without hesitation. The only thing quite clear was that Mendoza was to suffer, and seemed strangely determined to suffer, for what he had or had not done. The dark shadow of the scaffold rose before Dolores' eyes. It had seemed impossible that she could be made to bear more than she had borne that night, when she had fallen upon Don John's body to weep her heart out for her dead love. But she saw that there was more to bear, and dimly she guessed that there might be something for her to do. There was Inez first, and she must be cared for and placed in safety, for she was beside herself with grief. It was only on that afternoon by the window that Dolores had guessed the blind girl's secret, which Inez herself hardly suspected even now, though she was half mad with grief and utterly broken-hearted. Dolores felt almost helpless, but she understood that she and her sister were henceforth to be more really alone in what remained of life than if they had been orphans from their earliest childhood. The vision of the convent, that had been unbearable but an hour since, held all her hope of peace and safety now, unless her father could be saved from his fate by some miracle of heaven. But that was impossible. He had given himself up as if he were determined to die. He had been out of his mind, beside himself, stark mad, in his fear that Don John might bring harm upon his daughter. That was why he had killed him--there could be no other reason, unless he had guessed that she was in the locked room, and had judged her then and at once, and forever. The thought had not crossed her mind till then, and it was a new torture now, so that she shrank under it as under a bodily blow; and her grasp tightened violently upon her sister's arm, rousing the half-fainting girl again to the full consciousness of pain. It was no wonder that Mendoza should have done such a deed, since he had believed her ruined and lost to honour beyond salvation. That explained all. He had guessed that she had been long with Don John, who had locked her hastily into the inner room to hide her from the King. Had the King been Don John, had she loved Philip as she loved his brother, her father would have killed his sovereign as unhesitatingly, and would have suffered any death without flinching. She believed that, and there was enough of his nature in herself to understand it. She was as innocent as the blind girl who lay in her arms, but suddenly it flashed upon her that no one would believe it, since her own father would not, and that her maiden honour and good name were gone for ever, gone with her dead lover, who alone could have cleared her before the world. She cared little for the court now, but she cared tenfold more earnestly for her father's thought of her, and she knew him and the terrible tenacity of his conviction when he believed himself to be right. He had proved that by what he had done. Since she understood all, she no longer doubted that he had killed Don John with the fullest intention, to avenge her, and almost knowing that she was within hearing, as indeed she had been. He had taken a royal life in atonement for her honour, but he was to give his own, and was to die a shameful death on the scaffold, within a few hours, or, at the latest, within a few days, for her sake. Then she remembered how on that afternoon she had seen tears in his eyes, and had heard the tremor in his voice when he had said that she was everything to him, that she had been all his life since her mother had died--he had proved that, too; and though he had killed the man she loved, she shrank from herself again as she thought what he must have suffered in her dishonour. For it was nothing else. There was neither man nor woman nor girl in Spain who would believe her innocent against such evidence. The world might have believed Don John, if he had lived, because the world had loved him and trusted him, and could never have heard falsehood in his voice; but it would not believe her though she were dying, and though she should swear upon the most sacred and true things. The world would turn from her with an unbelieving laugh, and she was to be left alone in her dishonour, and people would judge that she was not even a fit companion for her blind sister in their solitude. The King would send her to Las Huelgas, or to some other distant convent of a severe order, that she might wear out her useless life in grief and silence and penance as quickly as possible. She bowed her head. It was too hard to bear. Inez was more quiet now, and the two sat side by side in mournful silence, leaning against the parapet. They had forgotten the dwarf, and he had disappeared, waiting, perhaps, in the shadow at a distance, in case he might be of use to them. But if he was within hearing, they did not see him. At last Inez spoke, almost in a whisper, as if she were in the presence of the dead. "Were you there, dear?" she asked. "Did you see?" "I was in the next room," Dolores answered. "I could not see, but I heard. I heard him fall," she added almost inaudibly, and choking. Inez shuddered and pressed nearer to her sister, leaning against her, but she did not begin to sob again. She was thinking. "Can we not help our father, at least?" she asked presently. "Is there nothing we can say, or do? We ought to help him if we can, Dolores--though he did it." "I would save him with my life, if I could. God knows, I would! He was mad when he struck the blow. He did it for my sake, because he thought Don John had ruined my good name. And we should have been married the day after to-morrow! God of heaven, have mercy!" Her grief took hold of her again, like a material power, shaking her from head to foot, and bowing her down upon herself and wringing her hands together, so that Inez, calmer than she, touched her gently and tried to comfort her without any words, for there were none to say, since nothing mattered now, and life was over at its very beginning. Little by little the sharp agony subsided to dull pain once more, and Dolores sat upright. But Inez was thinking still, and even in her sorrow and fright she was gathering all her innocent ingenuity to her aid. "Is there no way?" she asked, speaking more to herself than to her sister. "Could we not say that we were there, that it was not our father but some one else? Perhaps some one would believe us. If we told the judges that we were quite, quite sure that he did not do it, do you not think--but then," she checked herself--"then it could only have been the King." "Only the King himself," echoed Dolores, half unconsciously, and in a dreamy tone. "That would be terrible," said Inez. "But we could say that the King was not there, you know--that it was some one else, some one we did not know--" Dolores rose abruptly from the seat and laid her hand upon the parapet steadily, as if an unnatural strength had suddenly grown up in her. Inez went on speaking, confusing herself in the details she was trying to put together to make a plan, and losing the thread of her idea as she attempted to build up falsehoods, for she was truthful as their father was. But Dolores did not hear her. "You can do nothing, child," she said at last, in a firm tone. "But I may. You have made me think of something that I may do--it is just possible--it may help a little. Let me think." Inez waited in silence for her to go on, and Dolores stood as motionless as a statue, contemplating in thought the step she meant to take if it offered the slightest hope of saving her father. The thought was worthy of her, but the sacrifice was great even then. She had not believed that the world still held anything with which she would not willingly part, but there was one thing yet. It might be taken from her, though her father had slain Don John of Austria to save it, and was to die for it himself. She could give it before she could be robbed of it, perhaps, and it might buy his life. She could still forfeit her good name of her own free will, and call herself what she was not. In words she could give her honour to the dead man, and the dead could not rise up and deny her nor refuse the gift. And it seemed to her that when the people should hear her, they would believe her, seeing that it was her shame, a shame such as no maiden who had honour left would bear before the world. But it was hard to do. For honour was her last and only possession now that all was taken from her. It was not the so-called honour of society, either, based on long-forgotten traditions, and depending on convention for its being--not the sort of honour within which a man may ruin an honest woman and suffer no retribution, but which decrees that he must take his own life if he cannot pay a debt of play made on his promise to a friend, which allows him to lie like a cheat, but ordains that he must give or require satisfaction of blood for the imaginary insult of a hasty word--the honour which is to chivalry what black superstition is to the true Christian faith, which compares with real courage and truth and honesty, as an ape compares with a man. It was not that, and Dolores knew it, as every maiden knows it; for the honour of woman is the fact on which the whole world turns, and has turned and will turn to the end of things; but what is called the honour of society has been a fiction these many centuries, and though it came first of a high parentage, of honest thought wedded to brave deed, and though there are honourable men yet, these are for the most part the few who talk least loudly about honour's code, and the belief they hold has come to be a secret and a persecuted faith, at which the common gentleman thinks fit to laugh lest some one should presume to measure him by it and should find him wanting. Dolores did not mean to hesitate, after she had decided what to do. But she could not avoid the struggle, and it was long and hard, though she saw the end plainly before her and did not waver. Inez did not understand and kept silence while it lasted. It was only a word to say, but it was the word which would be repeated against her as long as she lived, and which nothing she could ever say or do afterwards could take back when it had once been spoken--it would leave the mark that a lifetime could not efface. But she meant to speak it. She could not see what her father would see, that he would rather die, justly or unjustly, than let his daughter be dishonoured before the world. That was a part of a man's code, perhaps, but it should not hinder her from saving her father's life, or trying to, at whatever cost. What she was fighting against was something much harder to understand in herself. What could it matter now, that the world should think her fallen from her maiden estate? The world was nothing to her, surely. It held nothing, it meant nothing, it was nothing. Her world had been her lover, and he lay dead in his room. In heaven, he knew that she was innocent, as he was himself, and he would see that she was going to accuse herself that she might save her father. In heaven, he had forgiven his murderer, and he would understand. As for the world and what it said, she knew that she must leave it instantly, and go from the confession she was about to make to the convent where she was to die, and whence her spotless soul would soon be wafted away to join her true lover beyond the earth. There was no reason why she should find it hard to do, and yet it was harder than anything she had ever dreamed of doing. But she was fighting the deepest and strongest instinct of woman's nature, and the fight went hard. She fancied the scene, the court, the grey-haired nobles, the fair and honourable women, the brave young soldiers, the thoughtless courtiers, the whole throng she was about to face, for she meant to speak before them all, and to her own shame. She was as white as marble, but when she thought of what was coming the blood sprang to her face and tingled in her forehead, and she felt her eyes fall and her proud head bend, as the storm of humiliation descended upon her. She could hear beforehand the sounds that would follow her words, the sharp, short laugh of jealous women who hated her, the murmur of surprise among the men. Then the sea of faces would seem to rise and fall before her in waves, the lights would dance, her cheeks would burn like flames, and she would grow dizzy. That would be the end. Afterwards she could go out alone. Perhaps the women would shrink from her, no man would be brave enough to lead her kindly from the room. Yet all that she would bear, for the mere hope of saving her father. The worst, by far the worst and hardest to endure, would be something within herself, for which she had neither words nor true understanding, but which was more real than anything she could define, for it was in the very core of her heart and in the secret of her soul, a sort of despairing shame of herself and a desolate longing for something she could never recover. She closed her tired eyes and pressed her hand heavily upon the stone coping of the parapet. It was the supreme effort, and when she looked down at Inez again she knew that she should live to the end of the ordeal without wavering. "I am going down to the throne room," she said, very quietly and gently. "You had better go to our apartment, dear, and wait for me there. I am going to try and save our father's life--do not ask me how. It will not take long to say what I have to say, and then I will come to you." Inez had risen now, and was standing beside her, laying a hand upon her arm. "Let me come, too," she said. "I can help you, I am sure I can help you." "No," answered Dolores, with authority. "You cannot help me, dearest, and it would hurt you, and you must not come." "Then I will stay here," said Inez sorrowfully. "I shall be nearer to him," she added under her breath. "Stay here--yes. I will come back to you, and then--then we will go in together, and say a prayer--his soul can hear us still--we will go and say good-by to him--together." Her voice was almost firm, and Inez could not see the agony in her white face. Then Dolores clasped her in her arms and kissed her forehead and her blind eyes very lovingly, and pressed her head to her own shoulders and patted it and smoothed the girl's dark hair. "I will come back," she said, "and, Inez--you know the truth, my darling. Whatever evil they may say of me after to-night, remember that I have said it of myself for our father's sake, and that it is not true." "No one will believe it," answered Inez. "They will not believe anything bad of you." "Then our father must die." Dolores kissed her once more and made her sit down, then turned and went away. She walked quickly along the corridors and descended the second staircase, to enter the throne room by the side door reserved for the officers of the household and the maids of honour. She walked swiftly, her head erect, one hand holding the folds of her cloak pressed to her bosom, and the other, nervously clenched, and hanging down, as if she were expecting to strike a blow. She reached the door, and for a moment her heart stopped beating, and her eyes closed. She heard many loud voices within, and she knew that most of the court must still be assembled. It was better that all the world should hear her--even the King, if he were still there. She pushed the door open and went in by the familiar way, letting the dark cloak that covered her court dress fall to the ground as she passed the threshold. Half a dozen young nobles, grouped near the entrance, made way for her to pass. When they recognized her, their voices dropped suddenly, and they stared after her in astonishment that she should appear at such a time. She was doubtless in ignorance of what had happened, they thought. As for the throng in the hall, there was no restraint upon their talk now, and words were spoken freely which would have been high treason half an hour earlier. There was the noise, the tension, the ceaseless talking, the excited air, that belong to great palace revolutions. The press was closer near the steps of the throne, where the King and Mendoza had stood, for after they had left the hall, surrounded and protected by the guards, the courtiers had crowded upon one another, and those near the further door and outside it in the outer apartments had pressed in till there was scarcely standing room on the floor of the hall. Dolores found it hard to advance. Some made way for her with low exclamations of surprise, but others, not looking to see who she was, offered a passive resistance to her movements. "Will you kindly let me pass?" she asked at last, in a gentle tone, "I am Dolores de Mendoza." At the name the group that barred her passage started and made way, and going through she came upon the Prince of Eboli, not far from the steps of the throne. The English Ambassador, who meant to stay as long as there was anything for him to observe, was still by the Prince's side. Dolores addressed the latter without hesitation. "Don Ruy Gomez," she said, "I ask your help. My father is innocent, and I can prove it. But the court must hear me--every one must hear the truth. Will you help me? Can you make them listen?" Ruy Gomez looked down at Dolores' pale and determined features in courteous astonishment. "I am at your service," he answered. "But what are you going to say? The court is in a dangerous mood to-night." "I must speak to all," said Dolores. "I am not afraid. What I have to say cannot be said twice--not even if I had the strength. I can save my father--" "Why not go to the King at once?" argued the Prince, who feared trouble. "For the love of God, help me to do as I wish!" Dolores grasped his arm, and spoke with an effort. "Let me tell them all, how I know that my father is not guilty of the murder. After that take me to the King if you will." She spoke very earnestly, and he no longer opposed her. He knew the temper of the court well enough, and was sure that whatever proved Mendoza innocent would be welcome just then, and though he was far too loyal to wish the suspicion of the deed to be fixed upon the King, he was too just not to desire Mendoza to be exculpated if he were innocent. "Come with me," he said briefly, and he took Dolores by the hand, and led her up the first three steps of the platform, so that she could see over the heads of all present. It was no time to think of court ceremonies or customs, for there was danger in the air. Ruy Gomez did not stop to make any long ceremony. Drawing himself up to his commanding height, he held up his white gloves at arm's length to attract the attention of the courtiers, and in a few moments there was silence. They seemed an hour of torture to Dolores. Ruy Gomez raised his voice. "Grandees! The daughter of Don Diego de Mendoza stands here at my side to prove to you that he is innocent of Don John of Austria's death!" The words had hardly left his lips when a shout went up, like a ringing cheer. But again he raised his hand. "Hear Doña Maria Dolores de Mendoza!" he cried. Then he stepped a little away from Dolores, and looked towards her. She was dead white, and her lips trembled. There was an almost glassy look in her eyes, and still she pressed one hand to her bosom, and the other hung by her side, the fingers twitching nervously against the folds of her skirt. A few seconds passed before she could speak. "Grandees of Spain!" she began, and at the first words she found strength in her voice so that it reached the ends of the hall, clear and vibrating. The silence was intense, as she proceeded. "My father has accused himself of a fearful crime. He is innocent. He would no more have raised his hand against Don John of Austria than against the King's own person. I cannot tell why he wishes to sacrifice his life by taking upon himself the guilt. But this I know. He did not do the deed. You ask me how I know that, how I can prove it? I was there, I, Dolores de Mendoza, his daughter, was there unseen in my lover's chamber when he was murdered. While he was alive I gave him all, my heart, my soul, my maiden honour; and I was there to-night, and had been with him long. But now that he is dead, I will pay for my father's life with my dishonour. He must not die, for he is innocent. Grandees of Spain, as you are men of honour, he must not die, for he is one of you, and this foul deed was not his." She ceased, her lids drooped till her eyes were half closed and she swayed a little as she stood. Roy Gomez made one long stride and held her, for he thought she was fainting. But she bit her lips, and forced her eyes to open and face the crowd again. "That is all," she said in a low voice, but distinctly, "It is done. I am a ruined woman. Help me to go out." The old Prince gently led her down the steps. The silence had lasted long after she had spoken, but people were beginning to talk again in lower tones. It was as she had foreseen it. She heard a scornful woman's laugh, and as she passed along, she saw how the older ladies shrank from her and how the young ones eyed her with a look of hard curiosity, as if she were some wild creature, dangerous to approach, though worth seeing from a distance. But the men pressed close to her as she passed, and she heard them tell each other that she was a brave woman who could dare to save her father by such means, and there were quick applauding words as she passed, and one said audibly that he could die for a girl who had such a true heart, and another answered that he would marry her if she could forget Don John. And they did not speak without respect, but in earnest, and out of the fulness of their admiration. At last she was at the door, and she paused to speak before going out. "Have I saved his life?" she asked, looking up to the old Prince's kind face. "Will they believe me?" "They believe you," he answered. "But your father's life is in the King's hands. You should go to his Majesty without wasting time. Shall I go with you? He will see you, I think, if I ask it." "Why should I tell the King?" asked Dolores. "He was there--he saw it all--he knows the truth." She hardly realized what she was saying. * * * * * CHAPTER XVI Ruy Gomez was as loyal, in his way, as Mendoza himself, but his loyalty was of a very different sort, for it was tempered by a diplomatic spirit which made it more serviceable on ordinary occasions, and its object was altogether a principle rather than a person. Mendoza could not conceive of monarchy, in its abstract, without a concrete individuality represented by King Philip; but Ruy Gomez could not imagine the world without the Spanish monarchy, though he was well able to gauge his sovereign's weaknesses and to deplore his crimes. He himself was somewhat easily deceived, as good men often are, and it was he who had given the King his new secretary, Antonio Perez; yet from the moment when Mendoza had announced Don John's death, he had been convinced that the deed had either been done by Philip himself or by his orders, and that Mendoza had bravely sacrificed himself to shield his master. What Dolores had said only confirmed his previous opinion, so far as her father's innocence was at stake. As for her own confession, he believed it, and in spite of himself he could not help admiring the girl's heroic courage. Dolores might have been in reality ten times worse than she had chosen to represent herself; she would still have been a model of all virtue compared with his own wife, though he did not know half of the Princess's doings, and was certainly ignorant of her relations with the King. He was not at all surprised when Dolores told him at the door that Philip knew the truth about the supposed murder, but he saw how dangerous it might be for Dolores to say as much to others of the court. She wished to go away alone, as she had come, but he insisted on going with her. "You must see his Majesty," he said authoritatively. "I will try to arrange it at once. And I entreat you to be discreet, my dear, for your father's sake, if not for any other reason. You have said too much already. It was not wise of you, though it showed amazing courage. You are your father's own daughter in that--he is one of the bravest men I ever knew in my life." "It is easy to be brave when one is dead already!" said Dolores, in low tones. "Courage, my dear, courage!" answered the old Prince, in a fatherly tone, as they went along. "You are not as brave as you think, since you talk of death. Your life is not over yet." "There is little left of it. I wish it were ended already." She could hardly speak, for an inevitable and overwhelming reaction had followed on the great effort she had made. She put out her hand and caught her companion's arm for support. He led her quickly to the small entrance of the King's apartments, by which it was his privilege to pass in. They reached a small waiting-room where there were a few chairs and a marble table, on which two big wax candles were burning. Dolores sank into a seat, and leaned back, closing her eyes, while Ruy Gomez went into the antechamber beyond and exchanged a few words with the chamberlain on duty. He came back almost immediately. "Your father is alone with the King," he said. "We must wait." Dolores scarcely heard what he said, and did not change her position nor open her eyes. The old man looked at her, sighed, and sat down near a brazier of wood coals, over which he slowly warmed his transparent hands, from time to time turning his rings slowly on his fingers, as if to warm them, too. Outside, the chamberlain in attendance walked slowly up and down, again and again passing the open door, through which he glanced at Dolores' face. The antechamber was little more than a short, broad corridor, and led to the King's study. This corridor had other doors, however, and it was through it that the King's private rooms communicated with the hall of the royal apartments. As Ruy Gomez had learned, Mendoza was with Philip, but not alone. The old officer was standing on one side of the room, erect and grave, and King Philip sat opposite him, in a huge chair, his still eyes staring at the fire that blazed in the vast chimney, and sent sudden flashes of yellow through the calm atmosphere of light shed by a score of tall candles. At a table on one side sat Antonio Perez, the Secretary. He was provided with writing-materials and appeared to be taking down the conversation as it proceeded. Philip asked a question from time to time, which Mendoza answered in a strange voice unlike his own, and between the questions there were long intervals of silence. "You say that you had long entertained feelings of resentment against his Highness," said the King, "You admit that, do you?" "I beg your Majesty's pardon. I did not say resentment. I said that I had long looked upon his Highness's passion for my daughter with great anxiety." "Is that what he said, Perez?" asked Philip, speaking to the Secretary without looking at him. "Read that." "He said: I have long resented his Highness's admiration for my daughter," answered Perez, reading from his notes. "You see," said the King. "You resented it. That is resentment. I was right. Be careful, Mendoza, for your words may be used against you to-morrow. Say precisely what you mean, and nothing but what you mean." Mendoza inclined his head rather proudly, for he detested Antonio Perez, and it appeared to him that the King was playing a sort of comedy for the Secretary's benefit. It seemed an unworthy interlude in what was really a solemn tragedy. "Why did you resent his Highness's courtship of your daughter?" enquired Philip presently, continuing his cross-examination. "Because I never believed that there could be a real marriage," answered Mendoza boldly. "I believed that my child must become the toy and plaything of Don John of Austria, or else that if his Highness married her, the marriage would soon be declared void, in order that he might marry a more important personage." "Set that down," said the King to Perez, in a sharp tone. "Set that down exactly. It is important." He waited till the Secretary's pen stopped before he went on. His next question came suddenly. "How could a marriage consecrated by our holy religion ever be declared null and void?" "Easily enough, if your Majesty wished it," answered Mendoza unguardedly, for his temper was slowly heating. "Write down that answer, Perez. In other words, Mendoza, you think that I have no respect for the sacrament of marriage, which I would at any time cause to be revoked to suit my political purposes. Is that what you think?" "I did not say that, Sire. I said that even if Don John married my daughter--" "I know quite well what you said," interrupted the King suavely. "Perez has got every word of it on paper." The Secretary's bad black eyes looked up from his writing, and he slowly nodded as he looked at Mendoza. He understood the situation perfectly, though the soldier was far too honourable to suspect the truth. "I have confessed publicly that I killed Don John defenceless," he said, in rough tones. "Is not that enough?" "Oh, no!" Philip almost smiled, "That is not enough. We must also know why you committed such on abominable crime. You do not seem to understand that in taking your evidence here myself, I am sparing you the indignity of an examination before a tribunal, and under torture--in all probability. You ought to be very grateful, my dear Mendoza." "I thank your Majesty," said the brave old soldier coldly. "That is right. So we know that your hatred of his Highness was of long standing, and you had probably determined some time ago that you would murder him on his return." The King paused a moment and then continued. "Do you deny that on this very afternoon you swore that if Don John attempted to see your daughter, you would kill him at once?" Mendoza was taken by surprise, and his haggard eyes opened wide as he stared at Philip. "You said that, did you not?" asked the King, insisting upon the point. "On your honour, did you say it?" "Yes, I said that," answered Mendoza at last. "But how did your Majesty know that I did?" The King's enormous under lip thrust itself forward, and two ugly lines of amusement were drawn in his colourless cheeks. His jaw moved slowly, as if he were biting something of which he found the taste agreeable. "I know everything," he said slowly. "I am well served in my own house. Perez, be careful. Write down everything. We also know, I think, that your daughter met his Highness this evening. You no doubt found that out as others did. The girl is imprudent. Do you confess to knowing that the two had met this evening?" Mendoza ground his teeth as if he were suffering bodily torture. His brows contracted, and as Perez looked up, he faced him with such a look of hatred and anger that the Secretary could hot meet his eyes. The King was a sacred and semi-divine personage, privileged to ask any question he chose and theoretically incapable of doing wrong, but it was unbearable that this sleek black fox should have the right to hear Diego de Mendoza confess his daughter's dishonour. Antonio Perez was not an adventurer of low birth, as many have gratuitously supposed, for his father had held an honourable post at court before him; but he was very far from being the equal of one who, though poor and far removed from the head of his own family, bore one of the most noble names in Spain. "Let your Majesty dismiss Don Antonio Perez," said Mendoza boldly. "I will then tell your Majesty all I know." Perez smiled as he bent over his notes, for he knew what the answer would be to such a demand. It came sharply. "It is not the privilege of a man convicted of murder to choose his hearers. Answer my questions or be silent. Do you confess that you knew of your daughter's meeting with Don John this evening?" Mendoza's lips set themselves tightly under his grey beard, and he uttered no sound. He interpreted the King's words literally. "Well, what have you to say?" "Nothing, Sire, since I have your Majesty's permission to be silent." "It does not matter," said Philip indifferently. "Note that he refuses to answer the question, Perez. Note that this is equivalent to confessing the fact, since he would otherwise deny it. His silence is & reason, however, for allowing the case to go to the tribunal to be examined in the usual way--the usual way," he repeated, looking hard at Mendoza and emphasizing the words strongly. "Since I do not deny the deed, I entreat your Majesty to let me suffer for it quickly. I am ready to die, God knows. Let it be to-morrow morning or to-night. Your Majesty need only sign the warrant for my execution, which Don Antonio Perez has, no doubt, already prepared." "Not at all, not at all," answered the King, with horrible coolness. "I mean that you shall have a fair and open trial and every possible opportunity of justifying yourself. There must be nothing secret about this. So horrible a crime must be treated in the most public manner. Though it is very painful to me to refer to such a matter, you must remember that after it had pleased Heaven, in its infinite justice, to bereave me of my unfortunate son, Don Carlos, the heir to the throne, there were not wanting ill-disposed and wicked persons who actually said that I had caused his life to be shortened by various inhuman cruelties. No, no! we cannot have too much publicity. Consider how terrible a thing it would be if any one should dare to suppose that my own brother had been murdered with my consent! You should love your country too much not to fear such a result; for though you have murdered my brother in cold blood, I am too just to forget that you have proved your patriotism through a long and hitherto honourable career. It is my duty to see that the causes of your atrocious action are perfectly clear to my subjects, so that no doubt may exist even in the most prejudiced minds. Do you understand? I repeat that if I have condescended to examine you alone, I have done so only out of a merciful desire to spare an old soldier the suffering and mortification of an examination by the tribunal that is to judge you. Understand that." "I understand that and much more besides," answered Mendoza, in low and savage tones. "It is not necessary that you should understand or think that you understand anything more than what I say," returned the King coldly. "At what time did you go to his Highness's apartments this evening?" "Your Majesty knows." "I know nothing of it," said the King, with the utmost calm. "You were on duty after supper. You escorted me to my apartments afterwards. I had already sent for Perez, who came at once, and we remained here, busy with affairs, until I returned to the throne room, five minutes before you came and confessed the murder; did we not, Perez?" "Most certainly, Sire," answered the Secretary gravely. "Your Majesty must have been at work with me an hour, at least, before returning to the throne room." "And your Majesty did not go with me by the private staircase to Don John of Austria's apartment?" asked Mendoza, thunderstruck by the enormous falsehood. "With you?" cried the King, in admirably feigned astonishment. "What madness is this? Do not write that down, Perez. I really believe the man is beside himself!" Mendoza groaned aloud, for he saw that he had been frightfully deceived. In his magnificent generosity, he had assumed the guilt of the crime, being ready and willing to die for it quickly to save the King from blame and to put an end to his own miserable existence. But he had expected death quickly, mercifully, within a few hours. Had he suspected what Philip had meant to do,--that he was to be publicly tried for a murder he had not committed, and held up to public hatred and ignominy for days and perhaps weeks together, while a slow tribunal dragged out its endless procedure,--neither his loyalty nor his desire for death could have had power to bring his pride to such a sacrifice. And now he saw that he was caught in a vise, and that no accusation he could bring against the King could save him, even if he were willing to resort to such a measure and so take back his word. There was no witness for him but himself. Don John was dead, and the infamous Perez was ready to swear that Philip had not left the room in which they had been closeted together. There was not a living being to prove that Mendoza had not gone alone to Don John's apartments with the deliberate intention of killing him. He had, indeed, been to the chief steward's office in search of a key, saying that the King desired to have it and was waiting; but it would be said that he had used the King's authority to try and get the key for himself because he knew that his daughter was hidden in the locked room. He had foolishly fancied that the King would send for him and see him alone before he died, that his sovereign would thank him for the service that was costing his life, would embrace him and send him to his death for the good of Spain and the divine right of monarchy. Truly, he had been most bitterly deceived. "You said," continued Philip mercilessly, "that you killed his Highness when he was unarmed. Is that true?" "His Highness was unarmed," said Mendoza, almost through his closed teeth, for he was suffering beyond words. "Unarmed," repeated the King, nodding to Perez, who wrote rapidly. "You might have given him a chance for his life. It would have been more soldier-like. Had you any words before you drew upon him? Was there any quarrel?" "None. We did not speak to each other." Mendoza tried to make Philip meet his eyes, but the King would not look at him. "There was no altercation," said the King, looking at Perez. "That proves that the murder was premeditated. Put it down--it is very important. You could hardly have stabbed him in the back, I suppose. He must have turned when he heard you enter. Where was the wound?" "The wound that killed his Highness will be found near the heart." "Cruel!" Philip looked down at his own hands, and he shook his head very sadly. "Cruel, most cruel," he repeated in a low tone. "I admit that it was a very cruel deed," said Mendoza, looking at him fixedly. "In that, your Majesty is right." "Did you see your daughter before or after you had committed the murder?" asked the King calmly. "I have not seen my daughter since the murder was committed." "But you saw her before? Be careful, Perez. Write down every word. You say that you saw your daughter before you did it." "I did not say that," answered Mendoza firmly. "It makes very little difference," said the King, "If you had seen her with his Highness, the murder would have seemed less cold-blooded, that is all. There would then have been something like a natural provocation for it." There was a low sound, as of some one scratching at the door. That was the usual way of asking admittance to the King's room on very urgent matters. Perez rose instantly, the King nodded to him, and he went to the door. On opening, someone handed him a folded paper on a gold salver. He brought it to Philip, dropped on one knee very ceremoniously, and presented it. Philip took the note and opened it, and Perez returned to his seat at once. The King unfolded the small sheet carefully. The room was so full of light that he could read it when he sat, without moving. His eyes followed the lines quickly to the end, and returned to the beginning, and he read the missive again more carefully. Not the slightest change of expression was visible in his face, as he folded the paper neatly again in the exact shape in which he had received it. Then he remained silent a few moments. Perez held his pen ready to write, moving it mechanically now and then as if he were writing in the air, and staring at the fire, absorbed in his own thoughts, though his ear was on the alert. "You refuse to admit that you found your daughter and Don John together, then?" The King spoke with an interrogation. "I did not find them together," answered Mendoza. "I have said so." He was becoming exasperated under the protracted cross-examination. "You have not said so. My memory is very good, but if it should fail we have everything written down. I believe you merely refused to answer when I asked if you knew of their meeting--which meant that you did know of it. Is that it, Perez?" "Exactly so, Sire." The Secretary had already found the place among his notes. "Do you persistently refuse to admit that you had positive evidence of your daughter's guilt before the murder?" "I will not admit that, Sire, for it would not be true." "Your daughter has given her evidence since," said the King, holding up the folded note, and fixing his eyes at last on his victim's face. If it were possible, Mendoza turned more ashy pale than before, and he started perceptibly at the King's words. "I shall never believe that!" he cried in a voice which nevertheless betrayed his terror for his child. "A few moments before this note was written," said Philip calmly, "your daughter entered the throne room, and addressed the court, standing upon the steps of the throne--a very improper proceeding and one which Ruy Gomez should not have allowed. Your daughter Dolores--is that the girl's name? Yes. Your daughter Dolores, amidst the most profound silence, confessed that she--it is so monstrous that I can hardly bring myself to say it--that she had yielded to the importunities of his late Highness, that she was with him in his room a long time this evening, and that, in fact, she was actually in his bedchamber when he was murdered." "It is a lie!" cried Mendoza vehemently. "It is an abominable lie--she was not in the room!" "She has said that she was," answered Philip. "You can hardly suppose a girl capable of inventing such damning evidence against herself, even for the sake of saving her own father. She added that his Highness was not killed by you. But that is puerile. She evidently saw you do it, and has boldly confessed that she was in the room--hidden somewhere, perhaps, since you absolutely refuse to admit that you saw her there. It is quite clear that you found the two together and that you killed his Highness before your daughter's eyes. Why not admit that, Mendoza? It makes you seem a little less cold-blooded. The provocation was great--" "She was not there," protested Mendoza, interrupting the King, for he hardly knew what he was doing. "She was there, since she confesses to have been in the room. I do not tolerate interruption when I am speaking. She was there, and her evidence will be considered. Even if you did not see her, how can you be sure that your daughter was not there? Did you search the room? Did you look behind the curtains?" "I did not." The stern old man seemed to shrink bodily under the frightful humiliation to which he was subjected. "Very well, then you cannot swear that she was not in the room. But you did not see her there. Then I am sorry to say that there can have been no extenuating circumstances. You entered his Highness's bedchamber, you did not even speak to him, you drew your sword and you killed him. All this shows that you went there fully determined to commit the crime. But with regard to its motive, this strange confession of your daughter's makes that quite clear. She had been extremely imprudent with Don John, you were aware of the fact, and you revenged yourself in the most brutal way. Such vengeance never can produce any but the most fatal results. You yourself must die, in the first place, a degrading and painful death on the scaffold, and you die leaving behind you a ruined girl, who must bury herself in a convent and never be seen by her worldly equals again. And besides that, you have deprived your King of a beloved brother, and Spain of her most brilliant general. Could anything be worse?" "Yes. There are worse things than that, your Majesty, and worse things have been done. It would have been a thousand times worse if I had done the deed and cast the blame of it on a man so devoted to me that he would bear the guilt in my stead, and a hundred thousand times worse if I had then held up that man to the execration of mankind, and tortured him with every distortion of evidence which great falsehoods can put upon a little truth. That would indeed have been far worse than anything I have done. God may find forgiveness for murderers, but there is only hell for traitors, and the hell of hells is the place of men who betray their friends." "His mind is unsettled, I fear," said the King, speaking to Perez. "These are signs of madness." "Indeed I fear so, Sire," answered the smooth Secretary, shaking his head solemnly. "He does not know what he says." "I am not mad, and I know what I am saying, for I am a man under the hand of death." Mendoza's eyes glared at the King savagely as he spoke, and then at Perez, but neither could look at him, for neither dared to meet his gaze. "As for this confession my daughter has made, I do not believe in it. But if she has said these things, you might have let me die without the bitterness of knowing them, since that was in your power. And God knows that I have staked my life freely for your Majesty and for Spain these many years, and would again if I had it to lose instead of having thrown it away. And God knows, too, that for what I have done, be it good or bad, I will bear whatsoever your Majesty shall choose to say to me alone in the way of reproach. But as I am a dying man I will not forgive that scribbler there for having seen a Spanish gentleman's honour torn to rags, and an old soldier's last humiliation, and I pray Heaven with my dying breath, that he may some day be tormented as he has seen me tormented, and worse, till he shall cry out for mercy--as I will not!" The cruelly injured man's prayer was answered eight years from that day, and even now Perez turned slowly pale as he heard the words, for they were spoken with all the vehemence of a dying man's curse. But Philip was unmoved. He was probably not making Mendoza suffer merely for the pleasure of watching his pain, though others' suffering seems always to have caused him a sort of morbid satisfaction. What he desired most was to establish a logical reason for which Mendoza might have committed the crime, lest in the absence of sound evidence he himself should be suspected of having instigated it. He had no intention whatever of allowing Mendoza to be subjected to torture during the trial that was to ensue. On the contrary, he intended to prepare all the evidence for the judges and to prevent Mendoza from saying anything in self-defence. To that end it was necessary that the facts elicited should be clearly connected from first cause to final effect, and by the skill of Antonio Perez in writing down only the words which contributed to that end, the King's purpose was now accomplished. He heard every word of Mendoza's imprecation and thought it proper to rebuke him for speaking so freely. "You forget yourself, sir," he said coldly. "Don Antonio Perez is my private Secretary, and you must respect him. While you belonged to the court his position was higher and more important than your own; now that you stand convicted of an outrageous murder in cold blood, you need not forget that he is an innocent man. I have done, Mendoza. You will not see me again, for you will be kept in confinement until your trial, which can only have one issue. Come here." He sat upright in his chair and held out his hand, while Mendoza approached with unsteady steps, and knelt upon one knee, as was the custom. "I am not unforgiving," said the King. "Forgiveness is a very beautiful Christian virtue, which we are taught to exercise from our earliest childhood. You have cut off my dearly loved brother in the flower of his youth, but you shall not die believing that I bear you any malice. So far as I am able, I freely forgive you for what you have done, and in token I give you my hand, that you may have that comfort at the last." With incredible calmness Philip took Mendoza's hand as he spoke, held it for a moment in his, and pressed it almost warmly at the last words. The old man's loyalty to his sovereign had been a devotion almost amounting to real adoration, and bitterly as he had suffered throughout the terrible interview, he well-nigh forgot every suffering as he felt the pressure of the royal fingers. In an instant he had told himself that it had all been but a play, necessary to deceive Perez, and to clear the King from suspicion before the world, and that in this sense the unbearable agony he had borne had served his sovereign. He forgot all for a moment, and bending his iron-grey head, he kissed the thin and yellow hand fervently, and looked up to Philip's cold face and felt that there were tears of gratitude in his own eyes, of gratitude at being allowed to leave the world he hated with the certainty that his death was to serve his sovereign idol. "I shall be faithful to your Majesty until the end," he said simply, as the King withdrew his fingers, and he rose to his feet. The King nodded slowly, and his stony look watched Mendoza with a sort of fixed curiosity. Even he had not known that such men lived. "Call the guards to the door, Perez," he said coldly. "Tell the officer to take Don Diego Mendoza to the west tower for to-night, and to treat him with every consideration." Perez obeyed. A detachment of halberdiers with an officer were stationed in the short, broad corridor that led to the room where Dolores was waiting. Perez gave the lieutenant his orders. Mendoza walked backwards to the door from the King's presence, making three low bows as he went. At the door he turned, taking no notice of the Secretary, marched out with head erect, and gave himself up to the soldiers. * * * * * CHAPTER XVII The halberdiers closed round their old chief, but did not press upon him. Three went before him, three behind, and one walked on each side, and the lieutenant led the little detachment. The men were too much accustomed to seeing courtiers in the extremes of favour and disfavour to be much surprised at the arrest of Mendoza, and they felt no great sympathy for him. He had always been too rigidly exacting for their taste, and they longed for a younger commander who should devote more time to his own pleasure and less to inspecting uniforms and finding fault with details. Yet Mendoza had been a very just man, and he possessed the eminently military bearing and temper which always impose themselves on soldiers. At the present moment, too, they were more inclined to pity him than to treat him roughly, for if they did not guess what had really taken place, they were quite sure that Don John of Austria had been murdered by the King's orders, like Don Carlos and Queen Isabel and a fair number of other unfortunate persons; and if the King had chosen Mendoza to do the deed, the soldiers thought that he was probably not meant to suffer for it in the end, and that before long he would be restored to his command. It would, therefore, be the better for them, later, if they showed him a certain deference in his misfortune. Besides, they had heard Antonio Perez tell their officer that Mendoza was to be treated with every consideration. They marched in time, with heavy tread and the swinging gait to right and left that is natural to a soldier who carries for a weapon a long halberd with a very heavy head. Mendoza was as tall as any of them, and kept their step, holding his head high. He was bareheaded, but was otherwise still in the complete uniform he wore when on duty on state occasions. The corridor, which seemed short on account of its breadth and in comparison with the great size of the halls in the palace, was some thirty paces long and lighted by a number of chandeliers that hung from the painted vault. The party reached the door of the waiting room and halted a moment, while one of the King's footmen opened the doors wide. Don Ruy Gomez and Dolores were waiting within. The servant passed rapidly through to open the doors beyond. Ruy Gomez stood up and drew his chair aside, somewhat surprised at the entrance of the soldiers, who rarely passed that way. Dolores opened her eyes at the sound of marching, but in the uncertain light of the candles she did not at first see Mendoza, half hidden as he was by the men who guarded him. She paid little attention, for she was accustomed to seeing such detachments of halberdiers marching through the corridors when the sentries were relieved, and as she had never been in the King's apartments she was not surprised by the sudden appearance of the soldiers, as her companion was. But as the latter made way for them he lifted his hat, which as a Grandee he wore even in the King's presence, and he bent his head courteously as Mendoza went by. He hoped that Dolores would not see her father, but his own recognition of the prisoner had attracted her attention. She sprang to her feet with a cry. Mendoza turned his head and saw her before she could reach him, for she was moving forward. He stood still, and the soldiers halted instinctively and parted before her, for they all knew their commander's daughter. "Father!" she cried, and she tried to take his hand. But he pushed her away and turned his face resolutely towards the door before him. "Close up! Forward--march!" he said, in his harsh tone of command. The men obeyed, gently forcing Dolores aside. They made two steps forward, but Ruy Gomez stopped them by a gesture, standing in their way and raising one hand, while he laid the other on the young lieutenant's shoulder. Ruy Gomez was one of the greatest personages in Spain; he was the majorduomo of the palace, and had almost unlimited authority. But the officer had his orders directly from the King and felt bound to carry them out to the letter. "His Majesty has directed me to convey Don Diego de Mendoza to the west tower without delay," he said. "I beg your Excellency to let us proceed." Ruy Gomez still held him by the shoulder with a gentle pressure. "That I will not," he said firmly; "and if you are blamed for being slow in the execution of your duty, say that Ruy Gomez de Silva hindered you, and fear nothing. It is not right that father and daughter should part as these two are parting." "I have nothing to say to my daughter," said Mendoza harshly; but the words seemed to hurt him. "Don Diego," answered Ruy Gomez, "the deed of which you have accused yourself is as much worse than anything your child has done as hatred is worse than love. By the right of mere humanity I take upon myself to say that you shall be left here a while with your daughter, that you may take leave of one another." He turned to the officer. "Withdraw your men, sir," he said. "Wait at the door. You have my word for the security of your prisoner, and my authority for what you do. I will call you when it is time." He spoke in a tone that admitted of no refusal, and he was obeyed. The officers and the men filed out, and Ruy Gomez closed the door after them. He himself recrossed the room and went out by the other way into the broad corridor. He meant to wait there. His orders had been carried out so quickly that Mendoza found himself alone with Dolores, almost as by a surprise. In his desperate mood he resented what Ruy Gomez had done, as an interference in his family affairs, and he bent his bushy brows together as he stood facing Dolores, with folded arms. Four hours had not passed since they had last spoken together alone in his own dwelling; there was a lifetime of tragedy between that moment and this. Dolores had not spoken since he had pushed her away. She stood beside a chair, resting one hand upon it, dead white, with the dark shadow of pain under her eyes, her lips almost colourless, but firm, and evenly closed. There were lines of suffering in her young face that looked as if they never could be effaced. It seemed to her that the worst conflict of all was raging in her heart as she watched her father's face, waiting for the sound of his voice; and as for him, he would rather have gone back to the King's presence to be tormented under the eyes of Antonio Perez than stand there, forced to see her and speak to her. In his eyes, in the light of what he had been told, she was a ruined and shameless woman, who had deceived him day in, day out, for more than two years. And to her, so far as she could understand, he was the condemned murderer of the man she had so innocently and truly loved. But yet, she had a doubt, and for that possibility, she had cast her good name to the winds in the hope of saving his life. At one moment, in a vision of dread, she saw his armed hand striking at her lover--at the next she felt that he could never have struck the blow, and that there was an unsolved mystery behind it all. Never were two innocent human beings so utterly deceived, each about the other. "Father," she said, at last, in a trembling tone, "can you not speak to me, if I can find heart to hear you?" "What can we two say to each other?" he asked sternly. "Why did you stop me? I am ready to die for killing the man who ruined you. I am glad. Why should I say anything to you, and what words can you have for me? I hope your end may come quickly, with such peace as you can find from your shame at the last. That is what I wish for you, and it is a good wish, for you have made death on the scaffold look easy to me, so that I long for it. Do you understand?" "Condemned to death!" she cried out, almost incoherently, before he had finished speaking. "But they cannot condemn you--I have told them that I was there--that it was not you--they must believe me--O God of mercy!" "They believe you--yes. They believe that I found you together and killed him. I shall be tried by judges, but I am condemned beforehand, and I must die." He spoke calmly enough. "Your mad confession before the court only made my conviction more certain," he said. "It gave the reason for the deed--and it burned away the last doubt I had. If they are slow in trying me, you will have been before the executioner, for he will find me dead--by your hand. You might have spared me that--and spared yourself. You still had the remnant of a good name, and your lover being dead, you might have worn the rag of your honour still. You have chosen to throw it away, and let me know my full disgrace before I die a disgraceful death. And yet you wish to speak to me. Do you expect my blessing?" Dolores had lost the power of speech. Passing her hand now and then across her forehead, as though trying to brush away a material veil, she stood half paralyzed, staring wildly at him while he spoke. But when she saw him turn away from her towards the door, as if he would go out and leave her there, her strength was loosed from the spell, and she sprang before him and caught his wrists with her hands. "I am as innocent as when my mother bore me," she said, and her low voice rang with the truth. "I told the lie to save your life. Do you believe me now?" He gazed at her with haggard eyes for many moments before he spoke. "How can it be true?" he asked, but his voice shook in his throat. "You were there--I saw you leave his room--" "No, that you never saw!" she cried, well knowing how impossible it was, since she had been locked in till after he had gone away. "I saw your dress--not this one--what you wore this afternoon." "Not this one? I put on this court dress before I got out of the room in which you had locked me up. Inez helped me--I pretended that I was she, and wore her cloak, and slipped away, and I have not been back again. You did not see me." Mendoza passed his hand over his eyes and drew back from her. If what she said were true, the strongest link was gone from the chain of facts by which he had argued so much sorrow and shame. Forgetting himself and his own near fate, he looked at the court dress she wore, and a mere glance convinced him that it was not the one he had seen. "But--" he was suddenly confused--"but why did you need to disguise yourself? I left the Princess of Eboli with you, and I gave her permission to take you away to stay with her. You needed no disguise." "I never saw her. She must have found Inez in the room. I was gone long before that." "Gone--where?" Mendoza was fast losing the thread of it all--in his confusion of ideas he grasped the clue of his chief sorrow, which was far beyond any thought for himself. "But if you are innocent--pray God you may be, as you say--how is it possible--oh, no! I cannot believe it--I cannot! No woman could do that--no innocent girl could stand out before a multitude of men and women, and say what you said--" "I hoped to save your life. I had the strength. I did it." Her clear grey eyes looked into his, and his doubt began to break away before the truth. "Make me believe it!" he cried, his voice breaking. "Oh, God! Make me believe it before I die!" "It is true," she cried, in a low, strong voice that carried belief to his breast in spite of such reasoning as still had some power over him. "It is true, and you shall believe it; and if you will not, the man you have killed, the man I loved and trusted, the dead man who knows the whole truth as I know it, will come back from the dead to prove it true--for I swear it upon his soul in heaven, and upon yours and mine that will not be long on earth--as I will swear it in the hour of your death and mine, since we must die!" He could not take his eyes from hers that held him, and suddenly in the pure depths he seemed to see her soul facing him without fear, and he knew that what she said was true, and his tortured heart leapt up at the good certainty. "I believe you, my child," he said at last, and then his grey lids half closed over his eyes and he bent down to her, and put his arm round her. But she shuddered at the touch of his right hand, and though she knew that he was a condemned man, and that she might never see him again, she could not bear to receive his parting kiss upon her forehead. "Oh, father, why did you kill him?" she asked, turning her head away and moving to escape from his hold. But Mendoza did not answer. His arm dropped by his side, and his face grew white and stony. She was asking him to give up the King's secret, to keep which he was giving his life. He felt that it would be treason to tell even her. And besides, she would not keep the secret--what woman could, what daughter would? It must go out of the world with him, if it was to be safe. He glanced at her and saw her face ravaged by an hour's grief. Yet she would not mourn Don John the less if she knew whose hand had done the deed. It could make but a little difference to her, though to himself that difference would be great, if she knew that he died innocent. And then began a struggle fierce and grim, that tore his soul and wounded his heart as no death agony could have hurt him. Since he had judged her unjustly, since it had all been a hideous dream, since she was still the child that had been all in all to him throughout her life, since all was changed, he did not wish to die, he bore the dead man no hatred, it was no soothing satisfaction to his outraged heart to know him dead of a sword wound in the breast, far away in the room where they had left him, there was no fierce regret that he had not driven the thrust himself. The man was as innocent as the innocent girl, and he himself, as innocent as both, was to be led out to die to shield the King--no more. His life was to be taken for that only, and he no longer set its value at naught nor wished it over. He was the mere scapegoat, to suffer for his master's crime, since crime it was and nothing better. And since he was willing to bear the punishment, or since there was now no escape from it, had he not at least the human right to proclaim his innocence to the only being he really loved? It would be monstrous to deny it. What could she do, after all, even if she knew the truth? Nothing. No one would dare to believe her if she accused the King. She would be shut up in a convent as a mad woman, but in any case, she would certainly disappear to end her life in some religious house as soon as he was dead. Poor girl--she had loved Don John with all her heart--what could the world hold for her, even if the disgrace of her father's death were not to shut her out of the world altogether, as it inevitably must. She would not live long, but she would live in the profoundest sorrow. It would be an alleviation, almost the greatest possible, to know that her father's hand was not stained by such a deed. The temptation to speak out was overwhelming, and he knew that the time was short. At any moment Ruy Gomez might open the door, and bid him part from her, and there would be small chance for him of seeing her again. He stood uncertain, with bent head and folded arms, and she watched him, trying to bring herself to touch his hand again and bear his kiss. His loyalty to the King, that was like a sort of madness, stood between him and the words he longed to say. It was the habit of his long soldier's life, unbending as the corslet he wore and enclosing his soul as the steel encased his body, proof against every cruelty, every unkindness, every insult. It was better to die a traitor's death for the King's secret than to live for his own honour. So it had always seemed to him, since he had been a boy and had learned to fight under the great Emperor. But now he knew that he wavered as he had never done in the most desperate charge, when life was but a missile to be flung in the enemy's face, and found or not, when the fray was over. There was no intoxication of fury now, there was no far ring of glory in the air, there was no victory to be won. The hard and hideous fact stared him in the face, that he was to die like a malefactor by the hangman's hand, and that the sovereign who had graciously deigned to accept the sacrifice had tortured him for nearly half an hour without mercy in the presence of an inferior, in order to get a few facts on paper which might help his own royal credit. And as if that were not enough, his own daughter was to live after him, believing that he had cruelly murdered the man she most dearly loved. It was more than humanity could bear. His brow unbent, his arms unfolded themselves, and he held them out to Dolores with a smile almost gentle. "There is no blood on these hands, my little girl," he said tenderly. "I did not do it, child. Let me hold you in my arms once, and kiss you before I go. We are both innocent--we can bless one another before we part for ever." The pure, grey eyes opened wide in amazement. Dolores could hardly believe her ears, as she made a step towards him, and then stopped, shrinking, and then made one step more. Her lips moved and wondering words came to him, so low that he could hardly understand, save that she questioned him. "You did not do it!" she breathed. "You did not kill him after all? But then--who--why?" Still she hesitated, though she came slowly nearer, and a faint light warmed her sorrowful face. "You must try to guess who and why," he said, in a tone as low as her own. "I must not tell you that." "I cannot guess," she answered; but she was close to him now, and she had taken one of his hands softly in both her own, while she gazed into his eyes. "How can I understand unless you tell me? Is it so great a secret that you must die for it, and never tell it? Oh, father, father! Are you sure--quite sure?" "He was dead already when I came into the room," Mendoza answered. "I did not even see him hurt." "But then--yes--then"--her voice sank to a whisper--"then it was the King!" He saw the words on her lips rather than heard them, and she saw in his face that she was right. She dropped his hand and threw her arms round his neck, pressing her bosom to his breastplate; and suddenly her love for him awoke, and she began to know how she might have loved him if she had known him through all the years that were gone. "It cannot be that he will let you die!" she cried softly. "You shall not die!" she cried again, with sudden strength, and her light frame shook his as if she would wrench him back from inevitable fate. "My little girl," he answered, most tenderly clasping her to him, and most thoughtfully, lest his armour should hurt her, "I can die happy now, for I have found all of you again." "You shall not die! You shall not die!" she cried. "I will not let you go--they must take me, too--" "No power can save me now, my darling," he answered. "But it does not matter, since you know. It will be easy now." She could only hold him with her small hands, and say over and over again that she would not let him go. "Ah! why have you never loved me before in all these years?" he cried. "It was my fault--all my fault." "I love you now with all my heart," she answered, "and I will save you, even from the King; and you and I and Inez will go far away, and you two shall comfort me and love me till I go to him." Mendoza shook his head sadly, looking over her shoulder as he held her, for he knew that there was no hope now. Had he known, or half guessed, but an hour or two ago, he would have turned on his heel from the door of Don John's chamber, and he would have left the King to bear the blame or shift it as he could. "It is too late, Dolores. God bless you, my dear, dear child! It will soon be over--two days at most, for the people will cry out for the blood of Don John's murderer; and when they see mine they will be satisfied. It is too late now. Good-by, my little girl, good-by! The blessing of all heaven be on your dear head!" Dolores nestled against him, as she had never done before, with the feeling that she had found something that had been wanting in her life, at the very moment when the world, with all it held for her, was slipping over the edge of eternity. "I will not leave you," she cried again. "They shall take me to your prison, and I will stay with you and take care of you, and never leave you; and at last I shall save your life, and then--" The door of the corridor opened, and she saw Ruy Gomez standing in the entrance, as if he were waiting. His face was calm and grave as usual, but she saw a profound pity in his eyes. "No, no!" she cried to him, "not yet--one moment more!" But Mendoza turned his head at her words, looking over his shoulder, and he saw the Prince also. "I am ready," he said briefly, and he tried to take Dolores' hands from his neck. "It is time," he said to her. "Be brave, my darling! We have found each other at last. It will not be long before we are together for ever." He kissed her tenderly once more, and loosed her hold, putting her two hands together and kissing them also. "I will not say good-by," she said. "It is not good-by--it shall not be. I shall be with you soon." His eyes lingered upon hers for a moment, and then he broke away, setting his teeth lest he should choke and break down. He opened the door and presented himself to the halberdiers. Dolores heard his familiar voice give the words of command. "Close up! Forward, march!" The heavy tramp she knew so well began at once, and echoed along the outer entries, growing slowly less distinct till it was only a distant and rumbling echo, and then died away altogether. Her hand was still on the open door, and Ruy Gomez was standing beside her. He gently drew her away, and closed the door again. She let him lead her to a chair, and sat down where she had sat before. But this time she did not lean back exhausted, with half-closed eyes,--she rested her elbow on her knee and her chin in her hand, and she tried to think connectedly to a conclusion. She remembered all the details of the past hours one by one, and she felt that the determination to save her father had given her strength to live. "Don Ruy Gomez," she said at last, looking up to the tall old nobleman, who stood by the brazier warming his hands again, "can I see the King alone?" "That is more than I can promise," answered the Prince. "I have asked an audience for you, and the chamberlain will bring word presently whether his Majesty is willing to see you. But if you are admitted, I cannot tell whether Perez will be there or not. He generally is. His presence need make no difference to you. He is an excellent young man, full of heart. I have great confidence in him,--so much so that I recommended him to his Majesty as Secretary. I am sure that he will do all he can to be of use to you." Dolores looked up incredulously, and with a certain wonder at the Prince's extreme simplicity. Yet he had been married ten years to the clever woman who ruled him and Perez and King Philip, and made each one believe that she was devoted to him only, body and soul. Of the three, Perez alone may have guessed the truth, but though it was degrading enough, he would not let it stand in the way of his advancement; and in the end it was he who escaped, leaving her to perish, the victim of the King's implacable anger, Dolores could not help shaking her head in answer to the Prince of Eboli's speech. "People are very unjust to Perez," he said. "But the King trusts him. If he is there, try to conciliate him, for he has much influence with his Majesty." Dolores said nothing, and resuming her attitude, returned to her sad meditations, and to the study of some immediate plan. But she could think of no way. Her only fixed intention was to see the King himself. Ruy Gomez could do no more to help her than he had done already, and that indeed was not little, since it was to his kindly impulse that she owed her meeting with her father. "And if Perez is not inclined to help Don Diego," said the Prince, after a long pause which had not interrupted the slow progression of, his kindly thought, "I will request my wife to speak to him. I have often noticed that the Princess can make Perez do almost anything she wishes. Women are far cleverer than men, my dear--they have ways we do not understand. Yes, I will interest my wife in the affair. It would be a sad thing if your father--" The old man stopped short, and Dolores wondered vaguely what he had been going to say. Ruy Gomez was a very strange compound of almost childlike and most honourable simplicity, and of the experienced wisdom with regard to the truth of matters in which he was not concerned, which sometimes belongs to very honourable and simple men. "You do not believe that my father is guilty," said Dolores, boldly asserting what she suspected. "My dear child," answered Ruy Gomez, twisting his rings on his fingers as he spread his hands above the coals in the brazier, "I have lived in this court for fifty years, and I have learned in that time that where great matters are at stake those who do not know the whole truth are often greatly deceived by appearances. I know nothing of the real matter now, but it would not surprise me if a great change took place before to-morrow night. A man who has committed a crime so horrible as the one your father confessed before us all rarely finds it expedient to make such a confession, and a young girl, my dear, who has really been a little too imprudently in love with a royal Prince, would be a great deal too wise to make a dramatic statement of her fault to the assembled Grandees of Spain." He looked across at Dolores and smiled gently. But she only shook her head gravely in answer, though she wondered at what he said, and wondered, too, whether there might not be a great many persons in the court who thought as he did. She was silent, too, because it hurt her to talk when she could not draw breath without remembering that what she had lived for was lying dead in that dim room on the upper story. The door opened, and a chamberlain entered the room. "His Majesty is pleased to receive Doña Dolores de Mendoza, in private audience," he said. Ruy Gomez rose and led Dolores out into the corridor. * * * * * CHAPTER XVIII Dolores had prepared no speech with which to appeal to the King, and she had not counted upon her own feelings towards him when she found herself in the room where Mendoza had been questioned, and heard the door closed behind her by the chamberlain who had announced her coming. She stood still a moment, dazzled by the brilliant lights after having been so long in the dimmer waiting room. She had never before been in the King's study, and she had fancied it very different from what it really was when she had tried to picture to herself the coming interview. She had supposed the room small, sombre, littered with books and papers, and cold; it was, on the contrary, so spacious as to be almost a hall, it was brightly illuminated and warmed by the big wood fire. Magnificent tapestries covered the walls with glowing colour, and upon one of these, in barbaric bad taste, was hung a single great picture by Titian, Philip's favourite master. Dolores blushed as she recognized in the face of the insolent Venus the features of the Princess of Eboli. Prom his accustomed chair, the King could see this painting. Everywhere in the room there were rich objects that caught and reflected the light, things of gold and silver, of jade and lapis lazuli, in a sort of tasteless profusion that detracted from the beauty of each, and made Dolores feel that she had been suddenly transported out of her own element into another that was hard to breathe and in which it was bad to live. It oppressed her, and though her courage was undiminished, the air of the place seemed to stifle her thought and speech. As she entered she saw the King in profile, seated in his great chair at some distance from the fire, but looking at it steadily. He did not notice her presence at first. Antonio Perez sat at the table, busily writing, and he only glanced at Dolores sideways when he heard the door close after her. She sank almost to the ground as she made the first court curtsey before advancing, and she came forward into the light. As her skirt swept the ground a second time, Philip looked slowly round, and his dull stare followed her as she came round in a quarter of a wide circle and curtsied a third time immediately in front of him. She was very beautiful, as she stood waiting for him to speak, and meeting his gaze fearlessly with a look of cold contempt in her white face such as no living person had ever dared to turn to him, while the light of anger burned in her deep grey eyes. But for the presence of the Secretary, she would have spoken first, regardless of court ceremony. Philip looked at her attentively, mentally comparing her with his young Queen's placidly dull personality and with the Princess of Eboli's fast disappearing and somewhat coarse beauty. For the Princess had changed much since Titian had painted his very flattering picture, and though she was only thirty years of age, she was already the mother of many children. Philip stared steadily at the beautiful girl who stood waiting before him, and he wondered why she had never seemed so lovely to him before. There was a half morbid, half bitter savour in what he felt, too,--he had just condemned the beauty's father to death, and she must therefore hate him with all her heart. It pleased him to think of that; she was beautiful and he stared at her long. "Be seated, Doña Dolores," he said at last, in a muffled voice that was not harsh. "I am glad that you have come, for I have much to say to you." Without lifting his wrist from the arm of the chair on which it rested, the King moved his hand, and his long forefinger pointed to a low cushioned stool that was placed near him. Dolores came forward unwillingly and sat down. Perez watched the two thoughtfully, and forgot his writing. He did not remember that any one excepting the Princess of Eboli had been allowed to be seated in the King's study. The Queen never came there. Perez' work exempted him in private, of course, from much of the tedious ceremonial upon which Philip insisted. Dolores sat upon the edge of the stool, very erect, with her hands folded on her knees. "Doña Dolores is pale," observed the King. "Bring a cordial, Perez, or a glass of Oporto wine." "I thank your Majesty," said the young girl quickly. "I need nothing." "I will be your physician," answered Philip, very suavely. "I shall insist upon your taking the medicine I prescribe." He did not turn his eyes from her as Perez brought a gold salver and offered Dolores the glass. It was impossible to refuse, so she lifted it to her lips and sipped a little. "I thank your Majesty," she said again. "I thank you, sir," she said gravely to Perez as she set down the glass, but she did not raise her eyes to his face as she spoke any more than she would have done if he had been a footman. "I have much to say to you, and some questions to ask of you," the King began, speaking very slowly, but with extreme suavity. He paused, and coughed a little, but Dolores said nothing. Then he began to look at her again, and while he spoke he steadily examined every detail of her appearance till his inscrutable gaze had travelled from her headdress to the points of her velvet slippers, and finally remained fixed upon her mouth in a way that disturbed her even more than the speech he made. Perez had resumed his seat. "In my life," he began, speaking of himself quite without formality, "I have suffered more than most men, in being bereaved of the persons to whom I have been most sincerely attached. The most fortunate and successful sovereign in the world has been and is the most unhappy man in his kingdom. One after another, those I have loved have been taken from me, until I am almost alone in the world that is so largely mine. I suppose you cannot understand that, my dear, for my sorrows began before you were born. But they have reached their crown and culmination to-day in the death of my dear brother." He paused, watching her mouth, and he saw that she was making a superhuman effort to control herself, pressing the beautiful lips together, though they moved gainfully in spite of her, and visibly lost colour. "Perez," he said after a moment, "you may go and take some rest. I will send for you when I need you." The Secretary rose, bowed low, and left the room by a small masked door in a corner. The King waited till he saw it close before he spoke again. His tone changed a little then and his words came quickly, as if he felt here constraint. "I feel," he said, "that we are united by a common calamity, my dear. I intend to take you under my most particular care and protection from this very hour. Yes, I know!" he held up his hand o deprecate any interruption, for Dolores seemed about to speak. "I know why you come to me, you wish to intercede for your father. That is natural, and you are right to come to me yourself, for I would rather hear your voice than that of another speaking for you, and I would rather grant any mercy in my power to you directly than to some personage of the court who would be seeking his own interest as much as yours." "I ask justice, not mercy, Sire," said Dolores, in a firm, low voice, and the fire lightened in her eyes. "Your father shall have both," answered Philip, "for they are compatible." "He needs no mercy," returned the young girl, "for he has done no harm. Your Majesty knows that as well as I." "If I knew that, my dear, your father would not be under arrest. I cannot guess what you know or do not know--" "I know the truth." She spoke so confidently that the King's expression changed a little. "I wish I did," he answered, with as much suavity as ever. "But tell me what you think you know about this matter. You may help me to sift it, and then I shall be the better able to help you, if such a thing be possible. What do you know?" Dolores leaned forward toward him from her seat, almost rising as she lowered her voice to a whisper, her eyes fixed on his face. "I was close behind the door your Majesty wished to open," she said. "I heard every word; I heard your sword drawn and I heard Don John fall--and then it was some time before I heard my father's voice, taking the blame upon himself, lest it should be said that the King had murdered his own brother in his room, unarmed. Is that the truth, or not?" While she was speaking, a greenish hue overspread Philip's face, ghastly in the candlelight. He sat upright in his chair, his hands straining on its arms and pushing, as if he would have got farther back if he could. He had foreseen everything except that Dolores had been in the next room, for his secret spies had informed him through Perez that her father had kept her a prisoner during the early part of the evening and until after supper. "When you were both gone," Dolores continued, holding him under her terrible eyes, "I came in, and I found him dead, with the wound in his left breast, and he was unarmed, murdered without a chance for his life. There is blood upon my dress where it touched his--the blood of the man I loved, shed by you. Ah, he was right to call you coward, and he died for me, because you said things of me that no loving man would bear. He was right to call you coward--it was well said--it was the last word he spoke, and I shall not forget it. He had borne everything you heaped upon himself, your insults, your scorn of his mother, but he would not let you cast a slur upon my name, and if you had not killed him out of sheer cowardice, he would have struck you in the face. He was a man! And then my father took the blame to save you from the monstrous accusation, and that all might believe him guilty he told the lie that saved you before them all. Do I know the truth? Is one word of that not true?" She had quite risen now and stood before him like an accusing angel. And he, who was seldom taken unawares, and was very hard to hurt, leaned back and suffered, slowly turning his head from side to side against the back of the high carved chair. "Confess that it is true!" she cried, in concentrated tones. "Can you not even find courage for that? You are not the King now, you are your brother's murderer, and the murderer of the man I loved, whose wife I should have been to-morrow. Look at me, and confess that I have told the truth. I am a Spanish woman, and I would not see my country branded before the world with the shame of your royal murders, and if you will confess and save my father, I will keep your secret for my country's sake. But if not--then you must either kill me here, as you slew him, or by the God that made you and the mother that bore you, I will tell all Spain what you are, and the men who loved Don John of Austria shall rise and take your blood for his blood, though it be blood royal, and you shall die, as you killed, like the coward you are!" The King's eyes were closed, and still his great pale head moved slowly from side to side; for he was suffering, and the torture of mind he had made Mendoza bear was avenged already. But he was silent. "Will you not speak?" asked the young girl, with blazing eyes. "Then find some weapon and kill me here before I go, for I shall not wait till you find many words." She was silent, and she stood upright in the act to go. He made no sound, and she moved towards the door, stood still, then moved again and then again, pausing for his answer at each step. He heard her, but could not bring himself to speak the words she demanded of him. She began to walk quickly. Her hand was almost on the door when he raised himself by the arms of his chair, and cried out to her in a frightened voice:-- "No, no! Stay here--you must not go--what do you want me to say?" She advanced a step again, and once more stood still and met his scared eyes as he turned his face towards her. "Say, 'You have spoken the truth,'" she answered, dictating to him as if she were the sovereign and he a guilty subject. She waited a moment and then moved as if she would go out. "Stay--yes--it is true--I did it--for God's mercy do not betray me!" He almost screamed the words out to her, half rising, his body bent, his face livid in his extreme fear. She came slowly back towards him, keeping her eyes upon him as if he were some dangerous wild animal that she controlled by her look alone. "That is not all," she said. "That was for me, that I might hear the words from your own lips. There is something more." "What more do you want of me?" asked Philip, in thick tones, leaning back exhausted in his chair. "My father's freedom and safety," answered Dolores. "I must have an order for his instant release. He can hardly have reached his prison yet. Send for him. Let him come here at once, as a free man." "That is impossible," replied Philip. "He has confessed the deed before the whole court--he cannot possibly be set at liberty without a trial. You forget what you are asking--indeed you forget yourself altogether too much." He was gathering his dignity again, by force of habit, as his terror subsided, but Dolores was too strong for him. "I am not asking anything of your Majesty; I am dictating terms to my lover's murderer," she said proudly. "This is past bearing, girl!" cried Philip hoarsely. "You are out of your mind--I shall call servants to take you away to a place of safety. We shall see what you will do then. You shall not impose your insolence upon me any longer." Dolores reflected that it was probably in his power to carry out the threat, and to have her carried off by the private door through which Perez had gone out. She saw in a flash how great her danger was, for she was the only witness against him, and if he could put her out of the way in a place of silence, he could send her father to trial and execution without risk to himself, as he had certainly intended to do. On the other hand, she had been able to terrify him to submission a few moments earlier. In the instant working of her woman's mind, she recollected how his fright had increased as she had approached the door by which she had entered. His only chance of accomplishing her disappearance lay in having her taken away by some secret passage, where no open scandal could be possible. Before she answered his last angry speech, she had almost reached the main entrance again. "Call whom you will," she said contemptuously. "You cannot save yourself. Don Ruy Gomez is on the other side of that door, and there are chamberlains and guards there, too. I shall have told them all the truth before your men can lay hands on me. If you will not write the order to release my father, I shall go out at once. In ten minutes there will be a revolution in the palace, and to-morrow all Spain will be on fire to avenge your brother. Spain has not forgotten Don Carlos yet! There are those alive who saw you give Queen Isabel the draught that killed her--with your own hand. Are you mad enough to think that no one knows those things, that your spies, who spy on others, do not spy on you, that you alone, of all mankind, can commit every crime with impunity?" "Take care, girl! Take care!" "Beware--Don Philip of Austria, King of Spain and half the world, lest a girl's voice be heard above yours, and a girl's hand loosen the foundation of your throne, lest all mankind rise up to-morrow and take your life for the lives you have destroyed! Outside this door here, there are men who guess the truth already, who hate you as they hate Satan, and who loved your brother as every living being loved him--except you. One moment more--order my father to be set free, or I will open and speak. One moment! You will not? It is too late--you are lost!" Her hand went out to open, but Philip was already on his feet, and with quick, clumsy steps he reached the writing-table, seized the pen Perez had thrown down, and began to scrawl words rapidly in his great angular handwriting. He threw sand upon it to dry the ink, and then poured the grains back into the silver sandbox, glanced at the paper and held it out to Dolores without a word. His other hand slipped along the table to a silver bell, used for calling his private attendants, but the girl saw the movement and instinctively suspected his treachery. He meant her to come to the table, when he would ring the bell and then catch her and hold her by main force till help came. Her faculties were furiously awake under the strain she bore, and outran his slow cunning. "If you ring that bell, I will open," she said imperiously. "I must have the paper here, where I am safe, and I must read it myself before I shall be satisfied." "You are a terrible woman," said the King, but she did not like his smile as he came towards her, holding out the document. She took it from his hand, keeping her eyes on his, for something told her that he would try to seize her and draw her from the door while she was reading it. For some seconds they faced each other in silence, and she knew by his determined attitude that she was right, and that it would not be safe to look down. She wondered why he did not catch her in his arms as she stood, and then she realized that her free hand was on the latch of the door, and that he knew it. She slowly turned the handle, and drew the door to her, and she saw his face fall. She moved to one side so that she could have sprung out if he had tried violence, and then at last she allowed her eyes to glance at the paper. It was in order and would be obeyed; she saw that, at a glance, for it said that Don Diego de Mendoza was to be set at liberty instantly and unconditionally. "I humbly thank your Majesty, and take my leave," she said, throwing the door wide open and curtseying low. A chamberlain who had seen the door move on its hinges stepped in to shut it, for it opened inward. The King beckoned him in, and closed it, but before it was quite shut, he heard Dolores' voice. "Don Ruy Gomez," she was saying, "this is an order to set my father at liberty unconditionally and at once. I do not know to whom it should be given. Will you take it for me and see to it?" "I will go to the west tower myself," he said, beginning to walk with her. "Such good news is even better when a friend brings it." "Thank you. Tell him from me that he is safe, for his Majesty has told me that he knows the whole truth. Will you do that? You have been very kind to me to-night, Prince--let me thank you with all my heart now, for we may not meet again. You will not see me at court after this, and I trust my father will take us back to Valladolid and live with us." "That would be wise," answered Ruy Gomez. "As for any help I have given you, it has been little enough and freely given. I will not keep your father waiting for his liberty. Good-night, Doña Dolores." * * * * * CHAPTER XIX All that had happened from the time when Don John had fallen in his room to the moment when Dolores left her sister on the terrace had occupied little more than half an hour, during which the King had descended to the hall, Mendoza had claimed the guilt of Don John's murder, and the two had gone out under the protection of the guards. As soon as Dolores was out of hearing, Inez rose and crept along the terrace to Don John's door. In the confusion that had ensued upon the announcement of his death no one had thought of going to him; every one took it for granted that some one else had done what was necessary, and that his apartments were filled with physicians and servants. It was not the first time in history that a royal personage had thus been left alone an hour, either dead or dying, because no one was immediately responsible, and such things have happened since. Inez stole along the terrace and found the outer door open, as the dwarf had left it when he had carried Dolores out in his arms. She remembered that the voices she had heard earlier had come from rooms on the left of the door, and she felt her way to the entrance of the bedchamber, and then went in without hesitation. Bending very low, so that her hands touched the floor from time to time, she crept along, feeling for the body she expected to find. Suddenly she started and stood upright in an instant. She had heard a deep sigh in the room, not far off. She listened intently, but even her ears could detect no sound after that. She was a little frightened, not with any supernatural fear, for the blind, who live in the dark for ever, are generally singularly exempt from such terrors, but because she had thought herself alone with the dead man, and did not wish to be discovered. "Who is here?" she asked quickly, but there was no answer out of the dead stillness. She stood quite still a few seconds and then crept forward again, bending down and feeling before her along the floor. A moment later her hand touched velvet, and she knew that she had found what she sought. With a low moan she fell upon her knees and felt for the cold hand that lay stretched out upon the marble pavement beyond the thick carpet. Her hand followed the arm, reached the shoulder and then the face. Her fingers fluttered lightly upon the features, while her own heart almost stood still She felt no horror of death, though she had never been near a dead person before; and those who were fond of her had allowed her to feel their features with her gentle hands, and she knew beauty through her touch, by its shape. Though her heart was breaking, she had felt that once, before it was too late, she must know the face she had long loved in dreams. Her longing satisfied, her grief broke out again, and she let herself fall her length upon the floor beside Don John, one arm across his chest, her head resting against the motionless shoulder, her face almost hidden against the gathered velvet and silk of his doublet. Once or twice she sobbed convulsively, and then she lay quite still, trying with all her might to die there, on his arm, before any one came to disturb her. It seemed very simple, just to stop living and stay with him for ever. Again she heard a sound of deep-drawn breath--but it was close to her now, and her own arm moved with it on his chest--the dead man had moved, he had sighed. She started up wildly, with a sharp cry, half of paralyzing fear, and half of mad delight in a hope altogether impossible. Then, he drew his breath again, and it issued from his lips with a low groan. He was not quite dead yet, he might speak to her still, he could hear her voice, perhaps, before he really died. She could never have found courage to kiss him, even then she could have blushed scarlet at the thought, but she bent down to his face, very close to it, till her cheek almost touched his as she spoke in a very trembling, low voice. "Not yet--not yet--come back for one moment, only for one little moment! Oh, let it be God's miracle for me!" She hardly knew what she said, but the miracle was there, for she heard his breath come again and again, and as she stared into her everlasting night, strange flashes, like light, shot through her brain, her bosom trembled, and her hands stiffened in the spasm of a delirious joy. "Come back!" she cried again. "Come back!" Her hands shook as they felt his body move. His voice came again, not in a word yet, but yet not in a groan of pain. His eyes, that had been half open and staring, closed with a look of rest, and colour rose slowly in his cheeks. Then he felt her breath, and his strength returned for an instant, his arms contracted and clasped her to him violently. "Dolores!" he cried, and in a moment his lips rained kisses on her face, while his eyes were still closed. Then he sank back again exhausted, and her arm kept his head from striking the marble floor. The girl's cheek flushed a deep red, as she tried to speak, and her words came broken and indistinct. "I am not Dolores," she managed to say. "I am Inez--" But he did not hear, for he was swooning again, and the painful blush sank down again, as she realized that he was once more unconscious. She wondered whether the room were dark or whether there were lights, or whether he had not opened his eyes when he had kissed her. His head was very heavy on her arm. With her other hand she drew off the hood she wore and rolled it together, and lifting him a little she made a pillow of it so that he rested easily. He had not recognized her, and she believed he was dying, he had kissed her, and all eternity could not take from her the memory of that moment. In the wild confusion of her thoughts she was almost content that he should die now, for she had felt what she had never dared to feel in sweetest dreams, and it had been true, and no one could steal it away now, nor should any one ever know it, not even Dolores herself. The jealous thought was there, in the whirlwind of her brain, with all the rest, sudden, fierce, and strong, as if Don John had been hers in life, and as if the sister she loved so dearly had tried to win him from her. He was hers in death, and should be hers for ever, and no one should ever know. It did not matter that he had taken her for another, his kisses were her own. Once only had a man's lips, not her father's, touched her cheek, and they had been the lips of the fairest, and best, and bravest man in the world, her idol and her earthly god. He might die now, and she would follow him, and in the world beyond God would make it right somehow, and he, and she, and her sister would all be but one loving soul for ever and ever. There was no reasoning in all that--it was but the flash of wild thoughts that all seemed certainties. But Don John of Austria was neither dead nor dying. His brother's sword had pierced his doublet and run through the outer flesh beneath his left arm, as he stood sideways with his right thrust forward. The wound was a mere scratch, as soldiers count wounds, and though the young blood had followed quickly, it had now ceased to flow. It was the fall that had hurt him, not the stab. The carpet had slipped from under his feet, and he had fallen backwards to his full length, as a man falls on ice, and his head had struck the marble floor so violently that he had lain half an hour almost in a swoon, like a dead man at first, with neither breath nor beating of the heart to give a sign of life, till after Dolores had left him; and then he had sighed back to consciousness by very slow degrees, because no one was there to help him, to raise his head a few inches from the floor, to dash a little cold water into his face. He stirred uneasily now, and moved his hands again, and his eyes opened wide. Inez felt the slight motion and heard his regular breathing, and an instinct told her that he was conscious, and not in a dream as he had been when he had kissed her. "I am Inez," she said, almost mechanically, and not knowing why she had feared that he should take her for her sister. "I found your Highness here--they all think that you are dead." "Dead?" There was surprise in his voice, and his eyes looked at her and about the room as he spoke, though he did not yet lift his head from the hood on which it lay. "Dead?" he repeated, dazed still. "No--I must have fallen. My head hurts me." He uttered a sharp sound as he moved again, more of annoyance than of suffering, as strong men do who unexpectedly find themselves hurt or helpless, or both. Then, as his eyes fell upon the open door of the inner room, he forgot his pain instantly and raised himself upon his hand with startled eyes. "Where is Dolores?" he cried, in utmost anxiety. "Where have they taken her? Did she get out by the window?" "She is safe," answered Inez, hardly knowing what she said, for he turned pale instantly and had barely heard her answer, when he reeled as he half sat and almost fell against her. She held him as well as she could, but the position was strained and she was not very strong. Half mad now, between fear lest he should die in her arms and the instinctive belief that he was to live, she wished with all her heart that some one would come and help her, or send for a physician. He might die for lack of some simple aid she did not know how to give him. But he had only been dizzy with the unconscious effort he had made, and presently he rested on his own hand again. "Thank God Dolores is safe!" he said, in a weak voice. "Can you help me to get to a chair, my dear child? I must have been badly stunned. I wonder how long I have been here. I remember--" He paused and passed one hand over his eyes. The first instinct of strong persons who have been unconscious is to think aloud, and to try and recall every detail of the accident that left them unconscious. "I remember--the King was here--we talked and we quarrelled--oh!" The short exclamation ended his speech, as complete recollection returned, and he knew that the secret must be kept, for his brother's sake. He laid one head on the slight girl's shoulder to steady himself, and with his other he helped himself to kneel on one knee. "I am very dizzy," he said. "Try and help me to a chair, Inez." She rose swiftly, holding his hand, and then putting one arm round him under his own. He struggled to his feet and leaned his weight upon her, and breathed hard. The effort hurt him where the flesh was torn. "I am wounded, too," he said quietly, as he glanced at the blood on his vest. "But it is nothing serious, I think." With the instinct of the soldier hurt in the chest, he brushed his lips with the small lace ruffle of his sleeve, and looked at it, expecting to see the bright red stains that might mean death. There was nothing. "It is only a scratch," he said, with an accent of indifference. "Help me to the chair, my dear." "Where?" she asked. "I do not know the room." "One forgets that you are blind," he answered, with a smile, and leaning heavily upon her, he led her by his weight, till he could touch the chair in which he had sat reading Dolores' letter when the King had entered an hour earlier. He sat down with a sigh of relief, and stretched first one leg and then the other, and leaned back with half-closed eyes. "Where is Dolores?" he asked at last. "Why did she go away?" "The jester took her away, I think," answered Inez. "I found them together on the terrace. She was trying to come back to you, but he prevented her. They thought you were dead." "That was wise of him." He spoke faintly still, and when he opened his eyes, the room swam with him. "And then?" "Then I told her what had happened at court; I had heard everything from the gallery. And Dolores went down alone. I could not understand what she was going to do, but she is trying to save our father." "Your father!" Don John looked at her in surprise, forgetting his hurt, but it was as if some one had struck his head again, and he closed his eyes. "What has happened?" he asked faintly. "Try and tell me. I do not understand." "My father thought he had killed you," answered Inez, in surprise. "He came into the great hall when the King was there, and he cried out in a loud voice that he had killed you, unarmed." "Your father?" He forgot his suffering altogether now. "Your father was not even in the room when--when I fell! And did the King say nothing? Tell me quickly!" "There was a great uproar, and I ran away to find Dolores. I do not know what happened afterwards." Don John turned painfully in his chair and lifted his hand to the back of his head. But he said nothing at first, for he was beginning to understand, and he would not betray the secret of his accident even to Inez. "I knew he could not have done it! I thought he was mad--he most have been! But I also thought your Highness was dead." "Dear child!" Don John's voice was very kind. "You brought me to life. Your father was not here. It was some one else who hurt me. Do you think you could find Dolores or send some one to tell her--to tell every one that I am alive? Say that I had a bad fall and was stunned for a while. Never mind the scratch--it is nothing--do not speak of it. If you could find Adonis, he could go." He groaned now, for the pain of speaking was almost intolerable. Inez put out her hand towards him. "Does it hurt very much?" she asked, with a sort of pathetic, childlike sympathy. "Yes, my head hurts, but I shall not faint. There is something to drink by the bed, I think--on this side. If you could only find it. I cannot walk there yet, I am so giddy." "Some one is coming!" exclaimed Inez, instead of answering him. "I hear some one on the terrace. Hark!" she listened with bent head. "It is Adonis. I know his step. There he is!" Almost as she spoke the last words the dwarf was in the doorway. He stood still, transfixed with astonishment. "Mercy of heaven!" he exclaimed devoutly. "His Highness is alive after all!" "Yes," said Inez, in a glad tone. "The Prince was only stunned by the fall. Go and tell Dolores--go out and tell every one--bring every one here to me!" "No!" cried Don John. "Try and bring Doña Dolores alone, and let no one else know. The rest can wait." "But your Highness needs a physician," protested the dwarf, not yet recovered from his astonishment. "Your Highness is wounded, and must therefore be bled at once. I will call the Doctor Galdos--" "I tell you it is nothing," interrupted Don John. "Do as I order you, and bring Doña Dolores. Give me that drink there, first--from the little table. In a quarter of an hour I shall be quite well again. I have been as badly stunned before when my horse has fallen with me at a barrier." The jester swung quickly to the table, in his awkward, bow-legged gait, and brought the beaker that stood there. Don John drank eagerly, for his lips were parched with pain. "Go!" he said imperatively. "And come back quickly." "I will go," said Adonis. "But I may not come back quickly, for I believe that Doña Dolores is with his Majesty at this moment, or with her father, unless the three are together. Since it has pleased your Highness not to remain dead, it would have been much simpler not to die at all, for your Highness's premature death has caused trouble which your Highness's premature resurrection may not quickly set right." "The sooner you bring Doña Dolores, the sooner the tremble will be over," said Don John. "Go at once, and do your best." Adonis rolled away, shaking his head and almost touching the floor with his hands as he walked. "So the Last Trumpet is not merely another of those priests' tales!" he muttered. "I shall meet Don Carlos on the terrace, and the Emperor in the corridor, no doubt! They might give a man time to confess his sins. It was unnecessary that the end of the world should come so suddenly!" The last words of his jest were spoken to himself, for he was already outside when he uttered them, and he had no intention of wasting time in bearing the good news to Dolores. The difficulty was to find her. He had been a witness of the scene in the hall from the balcony, and he guessed that when she left the hall with Ruy Gomez she would go either to her father or the King. It would not be an easy matter to see her, and it was by no means beyond the bounds of possibility that he might be altogether hindered from doing so, unless he at once announced to every one he met the astounding fact that Don John was alive after all. He was strongly tempted to do that, without waiting, for it seemed by far the most sensible thing to do in the disturbed state of the court; but it was his business to serve and amuse many masters, and his office, if not his life, depended upon obeying each in turn and finding the right jest for each. He placed the King highest, of course, among those he had to please, and before he had gone far in the corridor he slackened his pace to give himself time to think over the situation. Either the King had meant to kill Don John himself, or he had ordered Mendoza to do so. That much was clear to any one who had known the secret of Don Carlos' death, and the dwarf had been one of the last who had talked with the unfortunate Prince before that dark tragedy. And on this present night he had seen everything, and knew more of the thoughts of each of the actors in the drama than any one else, so that he had no doubt as to his conclusions. If, then, the King had wished to get rid of Don John, he would be very much displeased to learn that the latter was alive after all. It would not be good to be the bearer of that news, and it was more than likely that Philip would let Mendoza go to the scaffold for the attempt, as he long afterwards condemned Antonio Perez to death for the murder of Escobedo, Don John's secretary, though he himself had ordered Perez to do that deed; as he had already allowed the ecclesiastic Doctor Cazalla to be burned alive, though innocent, rather than displease the judges who had condemned him. The dwarf well knew that there was no crime, however monstrous, of which Philip was not capable, and of the righteous necessity of which he could not persuade himself if he chose. Nothing could possibly be more dangerous than to stand between him and the perpetration of any evil he considered politically necessary, except perhaps to hinder him in the pursuit of his gloomy and secret pleasures. Adonis decided at once that he would not be the means of enlightening the King on the present occasion. He most go to some one else. The second person in command of his life, and whom he dreaded most after Philip himself, was the Princess of Eboli. He knew her secret, too, as he had formerly known how she had forged the letters that brought about the deaths of Don Carlos and of Queen Isabel; for the Princess ruled him by fear, and knew that she could trust him as long as he stood in terror of her. He knew, therefore, that she had not only forgiven Don John for not yielding to her charm in former days, but that she now hoped that he might ascend the throne in Philip's stead, by fair means or foul, and that the news of his death must have been a destructive blow to her hopes. He made up his mind to tell her first that he was alive, unless he could get speech with Dolores alone, which seemed improbable. Having decided this, he hastened his walk again. Before he reached the lower story of the palace he composed his face to an expression of solemnity, not to say mourning, for he remembered that as no one knew the truth but himself, he must not go about with too gay a look. In the great vestibule of the hall he found a throng of courtiers, talking excitedly in low tones, but neither Dolores nor Ruy Gomez was there. He sidled up to a tall officer of the guards who was standing alone, looking on. "Could you inform me, sir," he asked, "what became of Doña Dolores de Mendoza when she left the hall with the Prince of Eboli?" The officer looked down at the dwarf, with whom he had never spoken before, but who, in his way, was considered to be a personage of importance by the less exalted members of the royal household. Indeed, Adonis was by no means given to making acquaintance at haphazard with all those who wished to know him in the hope that he might say a good word for them when the King was in a pleasant humour. "I do not know, Master Adonis," answered the magnificent lieutenant, very politely. "But if you wish it, I will enquire." "You are most kind and courteous, sir," answered the dwarf ceremoniously. "I have a message for the lady." The officer turned away and went towards the King's apartments, leaving the jester in the corner. Adonis knew that he might wait some time before his informant returned, and he shrank into the shadow to avoid attracting attention. That was easy enough, so long as the crowd was moving and did not diminish, but before long he heard some one speaking within the hall, as if addressing a number of persons at once, and the others began to leave the vestibule in order to hear what was passing. Though the light did not fall upon him directly, the dwarf, in his scarlet dress, became a conspicuous object. Yet he did not dare to go away, for fear of missing the officer when the latter should return. His anxiety to escape observation was not without cause, since he really wished to give Don John's message to Dolores before any one else knew the truth. In a few moments he saw the Princess of Eboli coming towards him, leaning on the arm of the Duke of Medina Sidonia. She came from the hall as if she had been listening to the person who was still speaking near the door, and her handsome face wore a look of profound dejection and disappointment. She had evidently seen the dwarf, for she walked directly towards him, and at half a dozen paces she stopped and dismissed her companion, who bowed low, kissed the tips of her fingers, and withdrew. Adonis drew down the corners of his mouth, bent his head still lower, and tried to look as unhappy as possible, in imitation of the Princess's expression. She stood still before him, and spoke briefly in imperious tones. "What is the meaning of all this?" she asked. "Tell me the truth at once. It will be the better for you." "Madam," answered Adonis, with all the assurance he could muster, "I think your Excellency knows the truth much better than I." The Princess bent her black brows and her eyes began to gleam angrily. Titian would not have recognized in her stern face the smiling features of his portrait of her--of the insolently beautiful Venus painted by order of King Philip when the Princess was in the height of his favour. "My friend," she said, in a mocking tone, "I know nothing, and you know everything. At the present moment your disappearance from the court will not attract even the smallest attention compared with the things that are happening. If you do not tell me what you know, you will not be here to-morrow, and I will see that you are burned alive for a sorcerer next week. Do you understand? Now tell me who killed Don John of Austria, and why. Be quick, I have no time to lose." Adonis made up his mind very suddenly that it would be better to disobey Don John than the angry woman who was speaking to him. "Nobody killed him," he answered bluntly. The Princess was naturally violent, especially with her inferiors, and when she was angry she easily lost all dignity. She seized the dwarf by the arm and shook him. "No jesting!" she cried. "He did not kill himself--who did it?" "Nobody," repeated Adonis doggedly, and quite without fear, for he knew how glad she would be to know the truth. "His Highness is not dead at all--" "You little hound!" The Princess shook him furiously again and threatened to strike him with her other hand. He only laughed. "Before heaven, Madam," he said, "the Prince is alive and recovered, and is sitting in his chair. I have just been talking with him. Will you go with me to his Highness's apartment? If he is not there, and safe, burn me for a heretic to-morrow." The Princess's hands dropped by her sides in sheer amazement, for she saw that the jester was in earnest. "He had a scratch in the scuffle," he continued, "but it was the fall that killed him, his resurrection followed soon afterwards--and I trust that his ascension may be no further distant than your Excellency desires." He laughed at his blasphemous jest, and the Princess laughed too, a little wildly, for she could hardly control her joy. "And who wounded him?" she asked suddenly. "You know everything, you must know that also." "Madam," said the dwarf, fixing his eyes on hers, "we both know the name of the person who wounded Don John, very well indeed, I regret that I should not be able to recall it at this moment. His Highness has forgotten it too, I am sure." The Princess's expression did not change, but she returned his gaze steadily during several seconds, and then nodded slowly to show that she understood. Then she looked away and was silent for a moment. "I am sorry I was rough with you, Adonis," she said at last, thoughtfully. "It was hard to believe you at first, and if the Prince had been dead, as we all believed, your jesting would have been abominable. There,"--she unclasped a diamond brooch from her bodice--"take that, Adonis--you can turn it into money." The Princess's financial troubles were notorious, and she hardly ever possessed any ready gold. "I shall keep it as the most precious of my possessions," answered the dwarf readily. "No," she said quickly. "Sell it. The King--I mean--some one may see it if you keep it." "It shall be sold to-morrow, then," replied the jester, bending his head to hide his smile, for he understood what she meant. "One thing more," she said; "Don John did not send you down to tell this news to the court without warning. He meant that I should know it before any one else. You have told me--now go away and do not tell others." Adonis hesitated a moment. He wished to do Don John's bidding if he could, but he knew his danger, and that he should be forgiven if, to save his own head, he did not execute the commission. The Princess wished an immediate answer, and she had no difficulty in guessing the truth. "His Highness sent you to find Doña Dolores," she said. "Is that not true?" "It is true," replied Adonis. "But," he added, anticipating her wish out of fear, "it is not easy to find Doña Dolores." "It is impossible. Did you expect to find her by waiting in this corner! Adonis, it is safer for you to serve me than Don John, and in serving me you will help his interests. You know that. Listen to me--Doña Dolores must believe him dead till to-morrow morning. She must on no account find out that he is alive." At that moment the officer who had offered to get information for the dwarf returned. Seeing the latter in conversation with such a great personage, he waited at a little distance. "If you have found out where Doña Dolores de Mendoza is at this moment, my dear sir," said Adonis, "pray tell the Princess of Eboli, who is very anxious to know." The officer bowed and came nearer. "Doña Dolores de Mendoza is in his Majesty's inner apartment," he said. * * * * * CHAPTER XX Dolores and Ruy Gomez had passed through the outer vestibule, and he left her to pursue his way towards the western end of the Alcazar, which was at a considerable distance from the royal apartments. Dolores went down the corridor till she came to the niche and the picture before which Don John had paused to read the Princess of Eboli's letter after supper. She stopped a moment, for she suddenly felt that her strength was exhausted and that she must rest or break down altogether. She leaned her weight against the elaborately carved railing that shut off the niche like a shrine, and looked at the painting, which was one of Raphael's smaller masterpieces, a Holy Family so smoothly and delicately painted that it jarred upon her at that moment as something untrue and out of all keeping with possibility. Though most perfectly drawn and coloured, the spotlessly neat figures with their airs of complacent satisfaction seemed horribly out of place in the world of suffering she was condemned to dwell in, and she fancied, somewhat irreverently and resentfully, that they would look as much out of keeping with their surroundings in a heaven that must be won by the endurance of pain. Their complacent smiles seemed meant for her anguish, and she turned from the picture in displeasure, and went on. She was going back to her sister on the terrace, and she was going to kneel once more beside the dear head of the man she had loved, and to say one last prayer before his face was covered for ever. At the thought she felt that she needed no rest again, for the vision drew her to the sorrowful presence of its reality, and she could not have stopped again if she had wished to. She must go straight on, on to the staircase, up the long flight of steps, through the lonely corridors, and out at hist to the moonlit terrace where Inez was waiting. She went forward in a dream, without pausing. Since she had freed her father she had a right to go back to her grief. But as she went along, lightly and quickly, it seemed beyond her own belief that she should have found strength for what she had done that night. For the strength of youth is elastic and far beyond its own knowledge. Dolores had reached the last passage that led out upon the terrace, when she heard hurrying footsteps behind her, and a woman in a cloak slipped beside her, walking very easily and smoothly. It was the Princess of Eboli. She had left the dwarf, after frightening him into giving up his search for Dolores, and she was hastening to Don John's rooms to make sure that the jester had not deceived her or been himself deceived in some way she could not understand. Dolores had lost her cloak in the hall, and was bareheaded, in her court dress. The Princess recognized her in the gloom and stopped her. "I have looked for you everywhere," she said. "Why did you run away from me before?" "It was my blind sister who was with you," answered Dolores, who knew her voice at once and had understood from her father what had happened. "Where are you going now?" she asked, without giving the Princess time to put a question. "I was looking for you. I wish you to come and stay with me to-night--" "I will stay with my father. I thank you for your kindness, but I would not on any account leave him now." "Your father is in prison--in the west tower--he has just been sent there. How can you stay with him?" "You are well informed," said Dolores quietly. "But your husband is just now gone to release him. I gave Don Ruy Gomez the order which his Majesty had himself placed in my hands, and the Prince was kind enough to take it to the west tower himself. My father is unconditionally free." The Princess looked fixedly at Dolores while the girl was speaking, but it was very dark in the corridor and the lamp was flickering to go out in the night breeze. The only explanation of Mendoza's release lay in the fact that the King was already aware that Don John was alive and in no danger. In that case Dolores knew it, too. It was no great matter, though she had hoped to keep the girl out of the way of hearing the news for a day or two. Dolores' mournful face might have told her that she was mistaken, if there had been more light; but it was far too dark to see shades of colour or expression. "So your father is free!" she said. "Of course, that was to be expected, but I am glad that he has been set at liberty at once." "I do not think it was exactly to be expected," answered Dolores, in some surprise, and wondering whether there could have been any simpler way of getting what she had obtained by such extraordinary means. "He might have been kept under arrest until to-morrow morning, I suppose," said the Princess quietly. "But the King is of course anxious to destroy the unpleasant impression produced by this absurd affair, as soon as possible." "Absurd!" Dolores' anger rose and overflowed at the word. "Do you dare to use such a word to me to-night?" "My dear Dolores, why do you lose your temper about such a thing?" asked the Princess, in a conciliatory tone. "Of course if it had all ended as we expected it would, I never should use such a word--if Don John had died--" "What do you mean?" Dolores held her by the wrist in an instant and the maddest excitement was in her voice. "What I mean? Why--" the Princess stopped short, realizing that Dolores might not know the truth after all. "What did I say?" she asked, to gain time. "Why do you hold my hand like that?" "You called the murder of Don John an absurd affair, and then you said, 'if Don John had died'--as if he were not lying there dead in his room, twenty paces from where you stand! Are you mad? Are you playing some heartless comedy with me? What does it all mean?" The Princess was very worldly wise, and she saw at a glance that she must tell Dolores the truth. If she did not, the girl would soon learn it from some one else, but if she did, Dolores would always remember who had told her the good news. "My dear," she said very gently, "let my wrist go and let me take your arm. We do not understand each other, or you would not be so angry with me. Something has happened of which you do not know--" "Oh, no! I know the whole truth!" Dolores interrupted her, and resisted being led along in a slow walk. "Let me go to him!" she cried. "I only wish to see him once more--" "But, dearest child, listen to me--if I do not tell you everything at once, it is because the shock might hurt you. There is some hope that he may not die--" "Hope! Oh no, no, no! I saw him lying dead--" "He had fainted, dear. He was not dead--" "Not dead?" Dolores' voice broke. "Tell me--tell me quickly." She pressed her hand to her side. "No. He came to himself after you had left him--he is alive. No--listen to me--yes, dear, he is alive and not much hurt. The wound was a scratch, and he was only stunned--he is well--to-morrow he will be as well as ever--ah, dear, I told you so!" Dolores had borne grief, shame, torment of mind that night, as bravely as ever a woman bore all three, but the joy of the truth that he lived almost ended her life then and there. She fell back upon the Princess's arm and threw out her hands wildly, as if she were fighting for breath, and the lids of her eyes quivered violently and then were quite still, and she uttered a short, unnatural sound that was more like a groan of pain than a cry of happiness. The Princess was very strong, and held her, steadying herself against the wall, thinking anything better than to let her slip to the floor and lie swooning on the stone pavement. But the girl was not unconscious, and in a moment her own strength returned. "Let me go!" she cried wildly. "Let me go to him, or I shall die!" "Go, child--go," said the Princess, with an accent of womanly kindness that was rare in her voice. But Dolores did not hear it, for she was already gone. Dolores saw nothing in the room, as she entered, but the eyes of the man she loved, though Inez was still beside him. Dolores threw herself wildly into his arms and hid her face, crying out incoherent words between little showers of happy tears; and her hands softly beat upon his shoulders and against his neck, and stole up wondering to his cheeks and touched his hair, as she drew back her head and held him still to look at him and see that he was whole. She had no speech left, for it was altogether beyond the belief of any sense but touch itself that a man should rise unhurt from the dead, to go on living as if nothing not common had happened in his life, to have his strength at once, to look into her eyes and rain kisses on the lids still dark with grief for his death. Sight could not believe the sight, hearing could not but doubt the sound, yet her hands held him and touched him, and it was he, unhurt saving for a scratch and a bruise. In her overwhelming happiness, she had no questions, and the first syllables that her lips could shape made broken words of love, and of thanks to Heaven that he had been saved alive for her, while her hands still fluttered to his face and beat gently and quickly on his shoulders and his arms, as if fearing lest he should turn to incorporeal light, without substance under her touch, and vanish then in air, as happiness does in a dream, leaving only pain behind. But at last she threw back her head and let him go, and her hands brushed away the last tears from her grey eyes, and she looked into his face and smiled with parted lips, drinking the sight of him with her breath and eyes and heart. One moment so, and then they kissed as only man and woman can when there has been death between them and it is gone not to come back again. Then memory returned, though very slowly and broken in many places, for it seemed to her as if she had not been separated from him a moment, and as if he must know all she had done without hearing her story in words. The time had been so short since she had kissed him last, in the little room beyond: there had been the minutes of waiting until the King had come, and then the trying of the door, and then the quarrel, that had lasted a short ten minutes to end in Don John's fall; then the half hour during which he had lain unconscious and alone till Inez had come at the moment when Dolores had gone down to the throne room; and after that the short few minutes in which she had met her father, and then her interview with the King, which had not lasted long, and now she was with him again; and it was not two hours since they had parted--a lifetime of two hours. "I cannot believe it!" she cried, and now she laughed at last. "I cannot, I cannot! It is impossible!" "We are both alive," he answered. "We are both flesh and blood, and breathing. I feel as if I had been in an illness or in a sleep that had lasted very long." "And I in an awful dream." Her face grew grave as she thought of what was but just passed. "You must know it all--surely you know it already--oh, yes! I need not tell it all." "Something Inez has told me," he replied, "and some things I guess, but I do not know everything. You must try and tell me--but you should not be here--it is late. When my servants know that I am living, they will come back, and my gentlemen and my officers. They would have left me here all night, if I had been really dead, lest being seen near my body should send them to trial for my death." He laughed. "They were wise enough in their way. But you cannot stay here." "If the whole court found me here, it would not matter," answered Dolores. "Their tongues can take nothing from my name which my own words have not given them to feed on." "I do not understand," he said, suddenly anxious. "What have you said? What have you done?" Inez came near them from the window, by which she had been standing. She laid a hand on Dolores' arm. "I will watch," she said. "If I hear anything, I will warn you, and you can go into the small room again." She went out almost before either of them could thank her. They had, indeed, forgotten her presence in the room, being accustomed to her being near them; but she could no longer bear to stay, listening to their loving words that made her loneliness so very dark. And now, too, she had memories of her own, which she would keep secret to the end of her life,--beautiful and happy recollections of that sweet moment when the man that seemed dead had breathed and had clasped her in his arms, taking her for the other, and had kissed her as he would have kissed the one he loved. She knew at last what a kiss might be, and that was much; but she knew also what it was to kneel by her dead love and to feel his life come back, breath by breath and beat by beat, till he was all alive; and few women have felt that or can guess how great it is to feel. It was better to go out into the dark and listen, lest any one should disturb the two, than to let her memories of short happiness be marred by hearing words that were not meant for her. "She found you?" asked Dolores, when she was gone. "Yes, she found me. You had gone down, she said, to try and save your father. He is safe now!" he laughed. "She found you alive." Dolores lingered on the words. "I never envied her before, I think; and it is not because if I had stayed I should have suffered less, dear." She put up her hands upon his shoulders again. "It is not for that, but to have thought you dead and to have seen you grow alive again, to have watched your face, to have seen your eyes wake and the colour come back to your cheeks and the warmth to your dear hands! I would have given anything for that, and you would rather that I should have been there, would you not?" She laughed low and kissed away the answer from his lips. "If I had stayed beside you, it would have been sooner, love. You would have felt me there even in your dream of death, and you would have put out your hand to come back to me. Say that you would! You could not have let me lie there many minutes longer breaking my heart over you and wanting to die, too, so that we might be buried together. Surely my kisses would have brought you back!" "I dreamed they did, as mine would you." "Sit down beside me," she said presently. "It will be very hard to tell--and it cannot be very long before they come. Oh, they may find me here! It cannot matter now, for I told them all that I had been long in your room to-night." "Told them all? Told whom? The King? What did you say?" His face was grave again. "The King, the court, the whole world. But it is harder to tell you." She blushed and looked away. "It was the King that wounded you--I heard you fall." "Scratched me. I was only stunned for a while." "He drew his sword, for I heard it. You know the sound a sword makes when it is drawn from a leathern sheath? Of course--you are a soldier! I have often watched my father draw his, and I know the soft, long pull. The King drew quickly, and I knew you were unarmed, and besides--you had promised me that you would not raise your hand against him." "I remember that my sword was on the table in its scabbard. I got it into my hand, sheathed as it was, to guard myself. Where is it? I had forgotten that. It must be somewhere on the floor." "Never mind--your men will find it. You fell, and then there was silence, and presently I heard my father's voice saying that he had killed you defenceless. They went away. I was half dead myself when I fell there beside you on the floor. There--do you see? You lay with your head towards the door and one arm out. I shall see you so till I die, whenever I think of it. Then--I forget. Adonis must have found me there, and he carried me away, and Inez met me on the terrace and she had heard my father tell the King that he had murdered you--and it was the King who had done it! Do you understand?" "I see, yes. Go on!" Don John was listening breathlessly, forgetting the pain he still suffered from time to time. "And then I went down, and I made Don Ruy Gomez stand beside me on the steps, and the whole court was there--the Grandees and the great dukes--Alva, Medina Sidonia, Medina Cali, Infantado, the Princess of Eboli--the Ambassadors, everyone, all the maids of honour, hundreds and hundreds--an ocean of faces, and they knew me, almost all of them." "What did you say?" asked Don John very anxiously. "What did you tell them all? That you had been here?" "Yes--more than that, much more. It was not true, but I hoped they would believe it I said--" the colour filled her face and she caught her breath. "Oh, how can I tell you? Can you not guess what I said?" "That we were married already, secretly?" he asked. "You might have said that." "No. Not that--no one would have believed me. I told them," she paused and gathered her strength, and then the words came quickly, ashamed of being heard--"I told them that I knew my father had no share in the crime, because I had been here long to-night, in this room, and even when you were killed, and that I was here because I had given you all, my life, my soul, my honour, everything." "Great God!" exclaimed Don John starting. "And you did that to save your father?" She had covered her face with her hands for a moment. Then suddenly she rose and turned away from him, and paced the floor. "Yes. I did that. What was there for me to do? It was better that I should be ruined and end in a convent than that my father should die on the scaffold. What would have become of Inez?" "What would have become of you?" Don John's eyes followed her in loving wonder. "It would not have mattered. But I had thrown away my name for nothing. They believed me, I think, but the King, to spare himself, was determined that my father should die. We met as he was led away to prison. Then I went to the King himself--and when I came away I had my father's release in my hand. Oh, I wish I had that to do again! I wish you had been there, for you would have been proud of me, then. I told him he had killed you, I heard him confess it, I threatened to tell the court, the world, all Spain, if he would not set my father free. But the other--can you forgive me, dear?" She stood before him now, and the colour was fainter in her cheeks, for she trusted him with all her heart, and she put out her hands. "Forgive you? What? For doing the bravest thing a woman ever did?" "I thought you would know it in heaven and understand," she said. "It is better that you know it on earth--but it was hard to tell." He held her hands together and pressed them to his lips. He had no words to tell her what he thought. Again and again he silently kissed the firm white fingers folded in his own. "It was magnificent," he said at last. "But it will be hard to undo, very hard." "What will it ever matter, since we know it is not true?" she asked. "Let the world think what it will, say what it likes--" "The world shall never say a slighting word of you," he interrupted. "Do you think that I will let the world say openly what I would not hear from the King alone between these four walls? There is no fear of that, love. I will die sooner." "Oh, no!" she cried, in sudden fear. "Oh, do not speak of death again to-night! I cannot bear the word!" "Of life, then, of life together,--of all our lives in peace and love! But first this must be set right. It is late, but this must be done now--at once. There is only one way, there is only one thing to be done." He was silent for a moment, and his eyes looked quickly to the door and back to Dolores' face. "I cannot go away," she cried, nestling to him. "You will not make me go? What does it matter?" "It matters much. It will matter much more hereafter." He was on his feet, and all his energy and graceful strength came back as if he had received no hurt. "There is little time left, but what there is, is ours. Inez!" He was at the door. "Is no one there upon the terrace? Is there no servant, no sentry? Ho, there! Who are you? Come here, man! Let me see your face! Adonis?" Inez and the dwarf were in the door. Dolores was behind him, looking out, not knowing what he meant to do. He had his hand on the dwarf's arm in his haste. The crooked creature looked up, half in fear. "Quick! Go!" cried Don John. "Get me a priest, a monk, a bishop,--anything that wears a frock and can speak Latin. Bring him here. Threaten his life, in my name, if you like. Tell him Don John of Austria is in extreme need, and must have a priest. Quick, man! Fly! Your life and fortune are in your legs! Off, man! Off!" Adonis was already gone, rolling through the gloom with swinging arms, more like a huge bat than anything human, and at a rate of speed none would have guessed latent in his little twisted legs. Don John drew back within the door. "Stay within," he said to Dolores, gently pressing her backwards into the room. "I will let no one pass till the priest comes; and then the world may come, too, and welcome,--and the court and the King, and the devil and all his angels!" He laughed aloud in his excitement. "You have not told me," Dolores began, but her eyes laughed in his. "But you know without words," he answered. "When that is done which a priest can do in an instant, and no one else, the world is ours, with all it holds, in spite of men and women and Kings!" "It is ours already," she cried happily. "But is this wise, love? Are you not too quick?" "Would you have me slow when you and your name and my honour are all at stake on one quick throw? Can we play too quickly at such a game with fate? There will be time, just time, no more. For when the news is known, it will spread like fire. I wonder that no one comes yet." He listened, and Inez' hearing was ten times more sensitive than his, but there was no sound. For besides Dolores and Inez only the dwarf and the Princess of Eboli knew that Don John was living; and the Princess had imposed silence on the jester and was in no haste to tell the news until she should decide who was to know it first and how her own advantage could be secured. So there was time, and Adonis swung himself along the dim corridor and up winding stairs that be knew, and roused the little wizened priest who lived in the west tower all alone, and whose duty it was to say a mass each morning for any prisoner who chanced to be locked up there; and when there was no one in confinement he said his mass for himself in the small chapel which was divided from the prison only by a heavy iron grating. The jester sometimes visited him in his lonely dwelling and shocked and delighted him with alternate tales of the court's wickedness and with harmless jokes that made his wizened cheeks pucker and wrinkle into unaccustomed smiles. And he had some hopes of converting the poor jester to a pious life. So they were friends. But when the old priest heard that Don John of Austria was suddenly dying in his room and that there was no one to shrive him,--for that was the tale Adonis told,--he trembled from head to foot like a paralytic, and the buttons of his cassock became as drops of quicksilver and slipped from his weak fingers everywhere except into the buttonholes, so that the dwarf had to fasten them for him in a furious hurry, and find his stole, and set his hat upon his head, and polish away the tears of excitement from his cheeks with his own silk handkerchief. Yet it was well done, though so quickly, and he had a kind old face and was a good priest. But when Adonis had almost carried him to Don John's door, and pushed him into the room, and when he saw that the man he supposed to be dying was standing upright, holding a most beautiful lady by the hand, he drew back, seeing that he had been deceived, and suspecting that he was to be asked to do something for which he had no authority. The dwarf's long arm was behind him, however, and he could not escape. "This is the priest of the west tower, your Highness," said Adonis. "He is a good priest, but he is a little frightened now." "You need fear nothing," said Don John kindly. "I am Don John of Austria. This lady is Doña Maria Dolores de Mendoza. Marry us without delay. We take each other for man and wife." "But--" the little priest hesitated--"but, your Highness--the banns--or the bishop's license--" "I am above banns and licenses, my good sir," answered Don John, "and if there is anything lacking in the formalities, I take it upon myself to set all right to-morrow. I will protect you, never fear. Make haste, for I cannot wait. Begin, sir, lose no time, and take my word for the right of what you do." "The witnesses of this," faltered the old man, seeing that he must yield, but doubtful still. "This lady is Doña Inez de Mendoza," said Don John, "and this is Miguel de Antona, the court jester. They are sufficient." So it chanced that the witnesses of Don John of Austria's secret marriage were a blind girl and the King's fool. The aged priest cleared his throat and began to say the words in Latin, and Don John and Dolores held their clasped hands before him, not knowing what else to do, and each looked into the other's eyes and saw there the whole world that had any meaning for them, while the priest said things they but half understood, but that made the world's difference to them, then and afterwards. It was soon done, and he raised his trembling hand and blessed them, saying the words very softly and clearly and without stumbling, for they were familiar, and meant much; and having reached them, his haste was over. The dwarf was on his knees, his rough red head bent reverently low, and on the other side Inez knelt with joined hands, her blind eyes turned upward to her sister's face, while she prayed that all blessings of life and joy might be on the two she loved so well, and that they might have for ever and unbroken the infinite happiness she had felt for one instant that night, not meant for her, but dearer to her than all memories or hopes. Then as the priest's words died away in the silent room, there was a sound of many feet and of many voices on the terrace outside, coming nearer and nearer to the door, very quickly; and the priest looked round in terror, not knowing what new thing was to come upon him, and wishing with all his heart that he were safe in his tower room again and out of all harm's way. But Don John smiled, while he still held Dolores' hand, and the dwarf rose quickly and led the priest into the study where Dolores had been shut up so long, and closed the door behind him. That was hardly done when the outer door was opened wide, and a clear, formal voice was heard speaking outside. "His Majesty the King!" cried the chamberlain who walked before Philip. Dolores dropped Don John's hand and stood beside him, growing a little pale; but his face was serene and high, and he smiled quietly as he went forward to meet his brother. The King advanced also, with outstretched arms, and he formally embraced Don John, to exhibit his joy at such an unexpected recovery. Behind him came in torch-bearers and guards and many of the court who had joined the train, and in the front rank Mendoza, grim and erect, but no longer ashy pale, and Ruy Gomez with him, and the Princess of Eboli, and all the chief Grandees of Spain, filling the wide bedchamber from side to side with a flood of rich colour in which the little constellations of their jewels shone here and there with changing lights. Out of respect for the King they did not speak, and yet there was a soft sound of rejoicing in the room, and their very breathing was like a murmur of deep satisfaction. Then the King spoke, and all at once the silence was profound. "I wished to be the first to welcome my dear brother back to life," he said. "The court has been in mourning for you these two hours, and none has mourned you more deeply and sorrowfully than I. We would all know the cause of your Highness's accident, the meaning of our friend Mendoza's strange self-accusation, and of other things we cannot understand without a word from you." The chair in which Don John had sat to read Dolores' letter was brought forward, and the King took his seat in it, while the chief officers of the household grouped themselves round him. Don John remained standing, facing him and all the rest, while Dolores drew back a little into the shadow not far from him. The King's unmoving eyes watched him closely, even anxiously. "The story is short, Sire, and if it is not all clear, I shall crave your Majesty's pardon for being silent on certain points which concern my private life. I was alone this evening in my room here, after your Majesty had left supper, and I was reading. A man came to visit me then whom I have known and trusted long. We were alone, we have had differences before, to-night sharp words passed between us. I ask your Majesty's permission not to name that man, for I would not do him an injury, though it should cost me my life." His eyes were fixed on the King, who slowly nodded his assent. He had known that he could trust his brother not to betray him, and he wondered what was to come next. Don John smiled a little as he went on. "There were sharp words," he said, "and being men, steel was soon out, and I received this scratch here--a mere nothing. But as chance would have it I fell backward and was so stunned that I seemed dead. And then, as I learn, my friend Mendoza there came in, either while we fought, or afterwards, and understood--and so, as I suppose, in generous fear for my good name, lest it should be told that I had been killed in some dishonest brawl, or for a woman's sake--my friend Mendoza, in the madness of generosity, and because my love for his beautiful daughter might give the tale some colour, takes all the blame upon himself, owns himself murderer, loses his wits, and well-nigh loses his head, too. So I understand the matter, Sire." He paused a moment, and again the King slowly nodded, but this time he smiled also, and seemed much pleased. "For what remains," Don John continued, "that is soon explained. This brave and noble lady whom you found here, you all know. I have loved her long and faithfully, and with all my heart. Those who know me, know that my word is good, and here before your Majesty, before man and before Heaven, I solemnly swear upon my most sacred word that no harm has ever come near her, by me, or by another. Yet, in the hope of saving her father's life, believing and yet not believing that he might have hurt me in some quarrel, she went among you, and told you the tale you know. I ask your Majesty to say that my word and oath are good, and thereby to give your Majesty's authority to what I say. And if there is any man here, or in Spain, among your Majesty's subjects, who doubts the word I give, let him say so, for this is a grave matter, and I wish to be believed before I say more." A third time the King nodded, and this time not ungraciously, since matters had gone well for him. "For myself," he said, "I would take your word against another man's oath, and I think there is no one bold enough to question what we both believe." "I thank your Majesty. And moreover, I desire permission to present to your Majesty--" He took Dolores' hand and drew her forward, though she came a little unwillingly, and was pale, and her deep grey eyes gazed steadily at the King's face. "--My wedded wife," said Don John, completing the sentence. "Your wife!" exclaimed the King, in great surprise. "Are you married already?" "Wedded man and wife, Sire," answered Don John, in tones that all could hear. "And what does Mendoza say to this?" asked Philip, looking round at the veteran soldier. "That his Highness has done my house a great honour, your Majesty; and I pray that my daughter and I be not needlessly separated hereafter." His glance went to Dolores' triumphant eyes almost timidly, and then rested on her face with a look she had never seen in his, save on that evening, but which she always found there afterwards. And at the same time the hard old man drew Inez close to him, for she had found him among the officers, and she stood by him and rested her arm on his with a new confidence. Then, as the King rose, there was a sound of glad voices in the room, as all talked at once and each told the other that an evil adventure was well ended, and that Don John of Austria was the bravest and the handsomest and the most honourable prince in the world, and that Maria Dolores de Mendoza had not her equal among women for beauty and high womanly courage and perfect devotion. But there were a few who were ill pleased; for Antonio Perez said nothing, and absently smoothed his black hair with his immaculate white hand, and the Princess of Eboli was very silent, too, for it seemed to her that Don John's sudden marriage, and his reconciliation with his brother, had set back the beginning of her plan beyond the bounds of possible accomplishment; and she was right in that, and the beginning of her resentment against Don John for having succeeded in marrying Dolores in spite of every one was the beginning of the chain that led her to her own dark fate. For though she held the cards long in her hands after that, and played for high stakes, as she had done before, fortune failed her at the last, and she came to unutterable ruin. It may be, too, that Don John's splendid destiny was measured on that night, and cut off beforehand, though his most daring fights were not yet fought, nor his greatest victories won. To tell more here would be to tell too much, and much, too, that is well told elsewhere. But this is true, that he loved Dolores with all his heart; that the marriage remained a court secret; and that she bore him one fair daughter, and died, and the child grew up under another reign, a holy nun, and was abbess of the convent of Las Huelgas whither Dolores was to have gone on the morning after that most eventful night. 
18876	----	Online Distributed Proofreaders Europe at http://dp.rastko.net. WOMAN TRIUMPHANT (LA MAJA DESNUDA) BY VICENTE BLASCO IBAÑEZ TRANSLATED FROM THE SPANISH BY HAYWARD KENISTON WITH A SPECIAL INTRODUCTORY NOTE BY THE AUTHOR [Illustration] NEW YORK E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY 681 FIFTH AVENUE Copyright, 1920, BY K. P. DUTTON & COMPANY _All Rights Reserved_ First printing March, 1920 Second printing March, 1920 Third printing March, 1920 Fourth printing March, 1920 Fifth printing March, 1920 Sixth printing March, 1920 Seventh printing March. 1920 Eighth printing March, 1920 Ninth printing April, 1920 Tenth printing April, 1920 Eleventh printing April, 1920 Twelfth printing April, 1920 Thirteenth printing April, 1920 Fourteenth printing April, 1920 Printed In the United States of America INTRODUCTORY NOTE TO THE ENGLISH TRANSLATION The title of this novel in the original, _La maja desnuda_, "The Nude Maja," is also the name of one of the most famous pictures of the great Spanish painter Francisco Goya. The word _maja_ has no exact equivalent in English or in any of the modern languages. Literally, it means "bedecked," "showy," "gaudily attired," "flashy," "dazzling," etc., and it was applied at the end of the eighteenth century and at the beginning of the nineteenth to a certain class of gay women of the lower strata of Madrid society notorious for their love of dancing and their fondness for exhibiting themselves conspicuously at bull-fights and all popular celebrations. The great ladies of the aristocracy affected the free ways and imitated the picturesque dress of the _maja_; Goya made this type the central figure of many of his genre paintings, and the dramatist Ramón de la Cruz based most of his _sainetes_--farcical pieces in one act--upon the customs and rivalries of these women. The dress invented by the _maja_, consisting of a short skirt partly covered by a net with berry-shaped tassels, white _mantilla_ and high shell-comb, is considered all over the world as the national costume of Spanish women. When the novel first appeared in Spain some years ago, a certain part of the Madrid public, unduly evil-minded, thought that it had discovered the identity of the real persons whom I had taken as models to draw my characters. This claim provoked a scandalous sensation and gave my book an unwholesome notoriety. It was thought that the protagonists of _La maja desnuda_ were an illustrious Spanish painter of world-wide fame, who is my friend, and an aristocratic lady very celebrated at the time but now forgotten. I protested against this unwarranted and fantastic interpretation. Although I draw my characters from life, I do so only in a very fragmentary way (like all the great creative novelists whom I admire as masters in the field of fiction), using the materials gathered in my observations to form completely new types which are the direct and legitimate offspring of my own imagination. To use a figure: as a novelist I am a painter, not a photographer. Although I seek my inspiration in reality, I copy it in accordance with my own way of seeing it; I do not reproduce it with the mechanical servility of the photographic camera. It is possible that my imaginary heroes are vaguely reminiscent of beings who actually exist. Subconsciousness is the novelist's principal instrument, and this subconsciousness frequently mocks us, leading us to mistake for our own creation the things which we have unwittingly observed in Nature. But despite this, it is unfair, as well as risky, for the reader to assign the names of real persons to the characters of fiction, saying, "This is So-and-so." It would be equally unfair to consider this novel as audacious or of doubtful morality. The artistic world which I describe in _La maja desnuda_ cannot be expected to have the same conception of life as the conventional world. Far from believing it immoral, I consider this one of the most moral novels I have ever written. And it is for this reason that, with a full realization of the standards demanded by the English-reading public, I have not hesitated to authorize the present translation without palliation or amputation, fully convinced that the reader will not find anything in this novel objectionable or offensive to his moral sense. Morality is not to be found in words but in deeds and in the lessons which these deeds teach. The difficulty of adequately translating the word _maja_ into English led to the adoption of "Woman Triumphant" as the title of the present version. I believe it is a happy selection; it interprets the spirit of the novel. But it must be borne in mind that the woman here is the wife of the protagonist. It is the wife who triumphs, resurrecting in spirit to exert an overwhelming influence over the life of a man who had wished to live without her. Renovales, the hero, is simply the personification of human desire, this poor desire which, in reality, does not know what it wants, eternally fickle and unsatisfied. When we finally obtain what we desire, it does not seem enough. "More: I want more," we say. If we lose something that made life unbearable, we immediately wish it back as indispensable to our happiness. Such are we: poor deluded children who cried yesterday for what we scorn to-day and shall want again to-morrow; poor deluded beings plunging across the span of life on the Icarian wings of caprice. VICENTE BLASCO IBAÑEZ. New York, January, 1920. WOMAN TRIUMPHANT PART I I It was eleven o'clock in the morning when Mariano Renovales reached the Museo del Prado. Several years had passed since the famous painter had entered it. The dead did not attract him; very interesting they were, very worthy of respect, under the glorious shroud of the centuries, but art was moving along new paths and he could not study there under the false glare of the skylights, where he saw reality only through the temperaments of other men. A bit of sea, a mountainside, a group of ragged people, an expressive head attracted him more than that palace, with its broad staircases, its white columns and its statues of bronze and alabaster--a solemn pantheon of art, where the neophytes vacillated in fruitless confusion, without knowing what course to follow. The master Renovales stopped for a few moments at the foot of the stairway. He contemplated the valley through which you approach the palace--with its slopes of fresh turf, dotted at intervals with the sickly little trees--with a certain emotion, as men are wont to contemplate, after a long absence, the places familiar to their youth. Above the scattered growth the ancient church of Los Jerónimos, with its gothic masonry, outlined against the blue sky its twin towers and ruined arcades. The wintry foliage of the Retiro served as a background for the white mass of the Casón. Renovales thought of the frescos of Giordano that decorated its ceilings. Afterwards, he fixed his attention on a building with red walls and a stone portal, which pretentiously obstructed the space in the foreground, at the edge of the green slope. Bah! The Academy! And the artist's sneer included in the same loathing the Academy of Language and the other Academies--painting, literature, every manifestation of human thought, dried, smoked, and swathed, with the immortality of a mummy, in the bandages of tradition, rules, and respect for precedent. A gust of icy wind shook the skirts of his overcoat, his long beard tinged with gray and his wide felt hat, beneath the brim of which protruded the heavy locks of his hair, that had excited so much comment in his youth, but which had gradually grown shorter with prudent trimming, as the master rose in the world, winning fame and money. Renovales felt cold in the damp valley. It was one of those bright, freezing days that are so frequent in the winter in Madrid. The sun was shining; the sky was blue; but from the mountains, covered with snow, came an icy wind, that hardened the ground, making it as brittle as glass. In the corners, where the warmth of the sun did not reach, the morning frost still glistened like a coating of sugar. On the mossy carpet, the sparrows, thin with the privations of winter, trotted back and forth like children, shaking their bedraggled feathers. The stairway of the Museo recalled to the master his early youth, when at sixteen he had climbed those steps many a time with his stomach faint from the wretched meal at the boarding-house. How many mornings he had spent in that old building copying Velásquez! The place brought to his memory his dead hopes, a host of illusions that now made his smile; recollections of hunger and humiliating bargaining to make his first money by the sale of copies. His large, stern face, his brow that filled his pupils and admirers with terror lighted up with a merry smile. He recalled how he used to go into the Museo with halting steps, how he feared to leave the easel, lest people might notice the gaping soles of his boots that left his feet uncovered. He passed through the vestibule and opened the first glass door. Instantly the noises of the world outside ceased; the rattling of the carriages in the Prado; the bells of the street-cars, the dull rumble of the carts, the shrill cries of the children who were running about on the slopes. He opened the second door, and his face, swollen by the cold, felt the caress of warm air, buzzing with the vague hum of silence. The footfalls of the visitors reverberated in the manner peculiar to large, unoccupied buildings. The slam of the door, as it closed, resounded like a cannon shot, passing from hall to hall through the heavy curtains. From the gratings of the registers poured the invisible breath of the furnaces. The people, on entering, spoke in a low tone, as if they were in a cathedral; their faces assumed an expression of unnatural seriousness, as though they were intimidated by the thousands of canvases that lined the walls, by the enormous busts that decorated the circle of the rotunda and the middle of the central salon. On seeing Renovales, the two door-keepers, in their long frock-coats, started to their feet. They did not know who he was, but he certainly was somebody. They had often seen that face, perhaps in the newspapers, perhaps on match-boxes. It was associated in their minds with the glory of popularity, with the high honors reserved for people of distinction. Presently they recognized him. It was so many years since they had seen him there! And the two attendants, with their caps covered with gold-braid in their hands and with an obsequious smile, came forward towards the great artist. "Good morning, Don Mariano. Did Señor de Renovales wish something? Did he want them to call the curator?" They spoke with oily obsequiousness, with the confusion of courtiers who see a foreign sovereign suddenly enter their palace, recognizing him through his disguise. Renovales rid himself of them with a brusque gesture and cast a glance over the large decorative canvases of the rotunda, that recalled the wars of the 17th century; generals with bristling mustaches and plumed slouch-hat, directing the battle with a short baton, as though they were directing an orchestra, troops of arquebusiers disappearing downhill with banners of red and blue crosses at their front, forests of pikes rising from the smoke, green meadows of Flanders in the backgrounds--thundering, fruitless combats that were almost the last gasps of a Spain of European influence. He lifted a heavy curtain and entered the spacious salon, where the people at the other end looked like little wax figures under the dull illumination of the skylights. The artist continued straight ahead, scarcely noticing the pictures, old acquaintances that could tell him nothing new. His eyes sought the people without, however, finding in them any greater novelty. It seemed as though they formed a part of the building and had not moved from it in many years; good-natured fathers with a group of children before their knees, explaining the meaning of the pictures; a school teacher, with her well-behaved and silent pupils who, in obedience to the command of their superior, passed without stopping before the lightly clad saints; a gentleman with two priests, talking loudly, to show that he was intelligent and almost at home there; several foreign ladies with their veils caught up over their straw hats and their coats on their arms, consulting the catalogue, all with a sort of family-air, with identical expressions of admiration and curiosity, until Renovales wondered if they were the same ones he had seen there years before, the last time he was there. As he passed, he greeted the great masters mentally; on one side the holy figures of El Greco, with their greenish or bluish spirituality, slender and undulating; beyond, the wrinkled, black heads of Ribera, with ferocious expressions of torture and pain--marvelous artists, whom Renovales admired, while determined not to imitate them. Afterwards, between the railing that protects the pictures and the line of busts, show-cases and marble tables supported by gilded lions, he came upon the easels of several copyists. They were boys from the School of Fine Arts, or poverty-stricken young ladies with run-down heels and dilapidated hats, who were copying Murillos. They were tracing on the canvas the blue of the Virgin's robe or the plump flesh of the curly-haired boys that played with the Divine Lamb. Their copies were commissions from pious people; a _genre_ that found an easy sale among the benefactors of convents and oratories. The smoke of the candles, the wear of years, the blindness of devotion would dim the colors, and some day the eyes of the worshipers, weeping in supplication, would see the celestial figures move with mysterious life on their blackened background, as they implored from them wondrous miracles. The master made his way toward the Hall of Velásquez. It was there that his friend Tekli was working. His visit to the Museo had no other object than to see the copy that the Hungarian painter was making of the picture of _Las Meninas_. The day before, when the foreigner was announced in his studio, he had remained perplexed for a long while, looking at the name on the card. Tekli! And then all at once he remembered a friend of twenty years before, when he lived in Rome; a good-natured Hungarian, who admired him sincerely and who made up for his lack of genius with a silent persistency in his work, like a beast of burden. Renovales was glad to see his little blue eyes, hidden under his thin, silky eyebrows, his jaw, protruding like a shovel, a feature that made him look very much like the Austrian monarchs--his tall frame that bent forward under the impulse of excitement, while he stretched out his bony arms, long as tentacles, and greeted him in Italian: "Oh, _maestro, caro maestro!_" He had taken refuge in a professorship, like all artists who lack the power to continue the upward climb, who fall in the rut. Renovales recognized the artist-official in his spotless suit, dark and proper, in his dignified glance that rested from time to time on his shining boots that seemed to reflect the whole studio. He even wore on one lapel of his coat the variegated button of some mysterious decoration. The felt hat, white as meringue, which he held in his hand, was the only discordant feature in this general effect of a public functionary. Renovales caught his hands with sincere enthusiasm. The famous Tekli! How glad he was to see him! What times they used to have in Rome! And with a smile of kindly superiority he listened to the story of his success. He was a professor in Budapest; every year he saved money in order to go and study in some celebrated European museum. At last he had succeeded in coming to Spain, fulfilling the desire he had cherished for many years. "_Oh, Velásquez! uel maestro, caro Mariano!_" And throwing back his head, with a dreamy expression in his eyes, he moved his protruding jaw covered with reddish hair, with a voluptuous look, as though he were sipping a glass of his sweet native Tokay. He had been in Madrid for a month, working every morning in the Museo. His copy of _Las Meninas_ was almost finished. He had not been to see his "Dear Mariano" sooner because he wanted to show him this work. Would he come and see him some morning in the Museo? Would he give him this proof of his friendship? Renovales tried to decline. What did he care for a copy? But there was an expression of such humble supplication in the Hungarian's little eyes, he showered him with so many praises of his great triumphs, expatiating on the success that his picture _Man Overboard!_ had won at the last Budapest Exhibition, that the master promised to go to the Museo. And a few days later, one morning when a gentleman whose portrait he was painting canceled his appointment, Renovales remembered his promise and went to the Museo del Prado, feeling, as he entered, the same sensation of insignificance and homesickness that a man suffers on returning to the university where he has passed his youth. When he found himself in the Hall of Velásquez, he suddenly felt seized with religious respect. There was a painter! _The_ painter! All his irreverent theories of hatred for the dead were left outside the door. The charm of those canvases that he had not seen for many years rose again--fresh, powerful, irresistible; it overwhelmed him, awakening his remorse. For a long time he remained motionless, turning his eyes from one picture to another, eager to comprise in one glance the whole work of the immortal, while around him the hum of curiosity began again. "Renovales! That's Renovales!" The news had started from the door, spreading through the whole Museo, reaching the Hall of Velásquez behind his steps. The groups of curious people stopped gazing at the pictures to look at that huge, self-possessed man who did not seem to realize the curiosity that surrounded him. The ladies, as they went from canvas to canvas, looked out of the corner of their eyes at the celebrated artist whose portrait they had seen so often. They found him more ugly, more commonplace than he appeared in the engravings in the papers. It did not seem possible that that "porter" had talent and painted women so well. Some young fellows approached to look at him more closely, pretending to gaze at the same pictures as the master. They scrutinized him, noting his external peculiarities with that desire for enthusiastic imitation which marks the novice. Some determined to copy his soft bow-tie and his tangled hair, with the fantastic hope that this would give them a new spirit for painting. Others complained to themselves that they were beardless and could not display the curly gray whiskers of the famous master. He, with his keen sensitiveness to praise, was not long in observing the atmosphere of curiosity that surrounded him. The young copyists seemed to stick closer to their easels, knitted their brows, dilated their nostrils, and moved their brushes slowly, with hesitation, knowing that he was behind them, trembling at every step that sounded on the inlaid floor, full of fear and desire that he might deign to cast a glance over their shoulders. He divined with a sort of pride what all the mouths were whispering, what all the eyes were saying, fixed absent-mindedly on the canvases only to turn toward him. "It's Renovales--the painter Renovales." The master looked for a long while at one of the copyists--an old man, decrepit and almost blind, with heavy convex spectacles that gave him the appearance of a sea-monster, whose hands trembled with senile unsteadiness. Renovales recognized him. Twenty years before, when he used to study in the Museo, he had seen him in the same spot, always copying _Los Borrachos_. Even if he should become completely blind, if the picture should be lost, he could reproduce it by feeling. In those days they had often talked together, but the poor man could not have the remotest suspicion that the Renovales whom people talked so much about was the same lad who on more than one occasion had borrowed a brush from him, but whose memory was scarcely preserved in his mind, mummified by eternal imitation. Renovales thought of the kindness of the chummy Bacchus and the gang of ruffians of his court, who for half a century had been supporting the household of the copyist, and he fancied he could see the old wife, the married children, the grandchildren--a whole family supported by the old man's trembling hand. Some one whispered to him the news that was filling the Museo with excitement and the copyist, shrugging his shoulders disdainfully, raised his moribund glance from his work. And so Renovales was there, the famous Renovales! At last he was going to see the prodigy! The master saw those grotesque eyes like those of a sea-monster, fixed on him, with an ironical gleam behind the heavy lenses. The grafter! He had already heard of that studio, as splendid as a palace, behind the Retire What Renovales had in such plenty had been taken from men like him who, for want of influence, had been left behind. He charged thousands of dollars for a canvas, when Velásquez worked for three _pesetas_ a day and Goya painted his portraits for a couple of doubloons. Deceit, modernism, the audacity of the younger generation that lacked scruples, the ignorance of the simpletons that believe the newspapers! The only good thing was right there before him. And once more shrugging his shoulders scornfully, he lost his expression of ironical protest and returned to his thousandth copy of _Los Borrachos_. Renovales, seeing that the curiosity about him was diminishing, entered the little hall that contained the picture of _Las Meninas_. There was Tekli in front of the famous canvas that occupies the whole back of the room, seated before his easel, with his white hat pushed back to leave free his throbbing brow that was contracted with a tenacious insistence on accuracy. Seeing Renovales, he rose hastily, leaving his palette on the piece of oil-cloth that protected the floor from spots of paint. Dear master! How thankful he was to him for this visit! And he showed him the copy, minutely accurate but without the wonderful atmosphere, without the miraculous realism of the original. Renovales approved with a nod; he admired the patient toil of that gentle ox of art, whose furrows were always alike, of geometric precision, without the slightest negligence or the least attempt at originality. "_Ti piace?_" he asked anxiously, looking into his eyes to divine his thoughts. "_È vero? È vero?_" he repeated with the uncertainty of a child who fears that he is being deceived. And suddenly calmed by the evidences of Renovales' approval, that kept growing more extravagant to conceal his indifference, the Hungarian grasped both of his hands and lifted them to his breast. _"Sono contento, maestro, sono contento."_ He did not want to let Renovales go. Since he had had the generosity to come and see his work, he could not let him go away, they would lunch together at the hotel where he lived. They would open a bottle of Chianti to recall their life in Rome; they would talk of the merry Bohemian days of their youth, of those comrades of various nationalities that used to gather in the Café del Greco,--some already dead, the rest scattered through Europe and America, a few celebrated, the majority vegetating in the schools of their native land, dreaming of a final masterpiece before which death would probably overtake them. Renovales felt overcome by the insistence of the Hungarian, who seized his hands with a dramatic expression, as though he would die at a refusal. Good for the Chianti! They would lunch together, and while Tekli was giving a few touches to his work, he would wait for him, wandering through the Museo, renewing old memories. When he returned to the Hall of Velásquez, the assemblage had diminished; only the copyists remained bending over their canvases. The painter felt anew the influence of the great master. He admired his wonderful art, feeling at the same time the intense, historical sadness that seemed to emanate from all of his work. Poor Don Diego! He was born in the most melancholy period of Spanish history. His sane realism was fitted to immortalize the human form in all its naked beauty and fate had provided him a period when women looked like turtles, with their heads and shoulders peeping out between the double shell of their inflated gowns, and when men had a sacerdotal stiffness, raising their dark, ill-washed heads above their gloomy garb. He had painted what he saw; fear and hypocrisy were reflected in the eyes of that world. In the jesters, fools and humpbacks immortalized by Don Diego was revealed the forced merriment of a dying nation that must needs find distraction in the monstrous and absurd. The hypochondriac temper of a monarchy weak in body and fettered in spirit by the terrors of hell, lived in all those masterpieces, that inspired at once admiration and sadness. Alas for the artistic treasures wasted in immortalizing a period which without Velásquez would have fallen into utter oblivion! Renovales thought, too, of the man, comparing with a feeling of remorse the great painter's life with the princely existence of the modern masters. Ah, the munificence of kings, their protection of artists, that people talked about in their enthusiasm for the past! He thought of the peaceful Don Diego and his salary of three _pesetas_ as court painter, which he received only at rare intervals; of his glorious name figuring among those of jesters and barbers in the list of members of the king's household, forced to accept the office of appraiser of masonry to improve his situation, of the shame and humiliation of his last years in order to gain the Cross of Santiago, denying as a crime before the tribunal of the Orders that he had received money for his pictures, declaring with servile pride his position as servant of the king, as though this title were superior to the glory of an artist. Happy days of the present, blessed revolution of modern life, that dignifies the artist, and places him under the protection of the public, an impersonal sovereign that leaves the creator of beauty free and ends by even following him in new-created paths! Renovales went up to the central gallery in search of another of his favorites. The works of Goya filled a large space on both walls. On one side the portraits of the kings and queens of the Bourbon decadence; heads of monarchs, or princes, crushed under their white wigs; sharp feminine eyes, bloodless faces, with their hair combed in the form of a tower. The two great painters had coincided in their lives with the moral downfall of two dynasties. In the Hall of Velásquez the thin, bony, fair-haired kings, of monastic grace and anæmic pallor, with their protruding under-jaws, and in their eyes an expression of doubt and fear for the salvation of their souls. Here, the corpulent, clumsy monarchs, with their huge, heavy noses, fatefully pendulous, as though by some mysterious relation they were dragging on the brain, paralyzing its functions; their thick underlips, hanging in sensual inertia; their eyes, calm as those of cattle, reflecting in their tranquil light indifference for everything that did not directly concern their own well-being. The Austrians, nervous, restless, vacillating with the fever of insanity, riding on theatrical chargers, in dark landscapes, bounded by the snowy crests of the Guadarrama, as sad, cold and crystallized as the soul of the nation; the Bourbons, peaceful, adipose, resting--surfeited--on their huge calves, without any other thought than the hunt of the following day or the domestic intrigue that would set the family in dissension, deaf to the storms that thundered beyond the Pyrenees. The one, surrounded by brutal-faced imbeciles, by gloomy pettifoggers, by Infantas with childish faces and the hollow skirts of a Virgin's image on an altar; the others bringing as a merry, unconcerned retinue, a rabble clad in bright colors, wrapped in scarlet capes or lace mantillas, crowned with ornamental combs or masculine hats--a race that, without knowing it, was sapping its heroism in picnics at the Canal or in grotesque amusements. The lash of invasion aroused them from their century-long infancy. The same great artist that for many years had portrayed the simple thoughtlessness of this gay people, showy and light-hearted as a comic-opera chorus, afterwards painted them, knife in hand, attacking the Mamelukes with the agility of monkeys, felling those Egyptian centaurs under their slashes, blackened with the smoke of a hundred battles, or dying with theatrical pride by the light of a lantern in the gloomy solitude of Moncloa, shot by the invaders. Renovales admired the tragic atmosphere of the canvas before him. The executioners hid their faces, leaning on their guns; they were the blind executors of fate, a nameless force, and before them rose the pile of palpitating, bloody flesh; the dead with strips of flesh torn off by the bullets, showing reddish holes, the living with folded arms, defying the murderers in a tongue they could not understand, or covering their faces with their hands, as though this instinctive movement could save them from the lead. A whole people died, to be born again. And beside this picture of horror and heroism, in another close to it, he saw Palafox, the Leonidas of Saragossa, mounted on horseback, with his stylish whiskers and the arrogance of a blacksmith in a captain-general's uniform, having in his bearing something of the appearance of a popular chieftain, holding in one hand, gloved in buckskin, the curved saber, and in the other the reins of his stocky, big-bellied steed. Renovales thought that art is like light, which acquires color and brightness from the objects it touches. Goya had passed through a stormy period; he had been a spectator of the resurrection of the soul of the people and his painting contained the tumultuous life, the heroic fury that you look for in vain in the canvases of that other genius, tied as he was to the monotonous existence of the palace, unbroken except by the news of distant wars in which they had little interest and whose victories, too late to be useful, had the coldness of doubt. The painter turned away from the dames of Goya, clad in white cambric, with their rosebud mouths and with their hair done up like a turban, to concentrate his attention on a nude figure, the luminous gleam of whose flesh seemed to throw the adjacent canvases in a shadow. He contemplated it closely for a long time, bending over the railing till the brim of his hat almost touched the canvas. Then he gradually moved away, without ceasing to look at it, until, at last, he sat down on a bench, still facing the picture with his eyes fixed upon it. "Goya's _Maja_. The _Maja Desnuda!_" He spoke aloud, without realizing it, as if his words were the inevitable outburst of the thoughts that rushed into his mind and seemed to pass back and forth behind the lenses of his eyes. His expressions of admiration were in different tones, marking a descending scale of memories. The painter looked with delight at the gracefully delicate form, luminous, as though within it burned the flame of life, showing through the pearl-pale flesh. A shadow, scarcely perceptible, veiled in mystery of her femininity; the light traced a bright spot on her smoothly rounded knees and once more the shadow reached down to her tiny feet with their delicate toes, rosy and babyish. The woman was small, graceful, and dainty; the Spanish Venus with no more flesh than was necessary to cover her supple, shapely frame with softly curving outlines. Her amber eyes that flashed slyly, were disconcerting with their gaze; her mouth had in its graceful corners the fleeting touch of an eternal smile; on her cheeks, elbows and feet the pink tone showed the transparency and the moist brilliancy of those shells that open their mysterious colors in the secret depths of the sea. "Goya's _Maja_. The _Maja Desnuda!_" He no longer said these words aloud, but his thought and his expression repeated them, his smile was their echo. Renovales was not alone. From time to time groups of visitors passed back and forth between his eyes and the picture, talking loudly. The tread of heavy feet shook the wooden floor. It was noon and the bricklayers from nearby buildings were taking advantage of the noon hour to explore those salons as if it were a new world, delighting in the warm air of the furnaces. As they went, they left footprints of plaster on the floor; they called out to each other to share their admiration before a picture; they were impatient to take it all in at a single glance; they waxed enthusiastic over the warriors in their shining armor or the elaborate uniforms of olden times. The cleverest among them served as guides to their companions, driving them impatiently. They had been there the day before. Go ahead! There was still a lot to see! And they ran toward the inner halls with the breathless curiosity of men who tread on new ground and expect something marvelous to rise before their steps. Amid this rush of simple admirers there passed, too, some groups of Spanish ladies. All did the same thing before Goya's work, as if they had been previously coached. They went from picture to picture, commenting on the fashions of the past, feeling a sort of longing for the curious old crinolines and the broad mantillas with the high combs. Suddenly they became serious, drew their lips together and started at a quick pace for the end of the gallery. Instinct warned them. Their restless eyes felt hurt by the nude in the distance; they seemed to scent the famous _Maja_ before they saw her and they kept on--erect, with severe countenances, just as if they were annoyed by some rude fellow's advances in the street--passing in front of the picture without turning their faces, without seeing even the adjacent pictures nor stopping till they reached the Hall of Murillo. It was the hatred for the nude, the Christian, century-old abomination of Nature and truth, that rose instinctively to protest against the toleration of such horrors in a public building which was peopled with saints, kings and ascetics. Renovales worshiped the canvas with ardent devotion, and placed it in a class by itself. It was the first manifestation in Spanish history of art that was free from scruples, unhampered by prejudice. Three centuries of painting, several generations of glorious names, succeeded one another with wonderful fertility; but not until Goya had the Spanish brush dared to trace the form of a woman's body, the divine nakedness that among all peoples has been the first inspiration of nascent art. Renovales remembered another nude, the Venus of Velásquez, preserved abroad. But that work had not been spontaneous; it was a commission of the monarch who, at the same time that he was paying foreigners lavishly for their studies in the nude, wished to have a similar canvas by his court-painter. Religious oppression had obscured art for centuries. Human beauty terrified the great artists, who painted with a cross on their breasts and a rosary on their sword-hilts. Bodies were hidden under the stiff, heavy folds of sackcloth or the grotesque, courtly crinoline, and the painter never ventured to guess what was beneath them, looking at the model, as the devout worshiper contemplates the hollow mantle of the Virgin, not knowing whether it contains a body or three sticks to hold up the head. The joy of life was a sin. In vain a sun fairer than that of Venice shone on Spanish soil, futile was the light that burned upon the land with a brighter glow than that of Flanders: Spanish art was dark, lifeless, sober, even after it knew the works of Titian. The Renaissance, that in the rest of the world worshiped the nude as the supreme work of Nature, was covered here with the monk's cowl or the beggar's rags. The shining landscapes were dark and gloomy when they reached the canvas; under the brush the land of the sun appeared with a gray sky and grass that was a mournful green; the heads had a monkish gravity. The artist placed in his pictures not what surrounded him, but what he had within him, a piece of his soul--and his soul was fettered by the fear of dangers in the present life and torments in the life to come; it was black--black with sadness, as if it were dyed in the soot of the fires of the autos-de-fé. That naked woman with her curly head resting on her folded arms was the awakening of an art that had lived in isolation. The slight frame, that scarcely rested on the green divan and the fine lace cushions, seemed on the point of rising in the air with the mighty impulse of resurrection. Renovales thought of the two masters, equally great, and still so different. One had the imposing majesty of famous monuments--serene, correct, cold, filling the horizon of history with their colossal mass, growing old in glory without the centuries opening the least crack in their marble walls. On all sides the same façade--noble, symmetrical, calm, without the vagaries of caprice. It was reason--solid, well-balanced, alien to enthusiasm and weakness, without feverish haste. The other was as great as a mountain, with the fantastic disorder of Nature, covered with tortuous inequalities. On one side the wild, barren cliff; beyond, the glen, covered with blossoming heath; below, the garden with its perfumes and birds; on the heights, the crown of dark clouds, heavy with thunder and lightning. It was imagination in unbridled career, with breathless halts and new flights--its brow in the infinite and its feet implanted on earth. The life of Don Diego was summed up in these words: "He had painted." That was his whole biography. Never in his travels in Spain and Italy did he feel curious to see anything but pictures. In the court of the Poet-king, he had vegetated amid gallantries and masquerades, calm as a monk of painting, always standing before his canvas and model--to-day a jester, to-morrow a little Infanta--without any other desire than to rise in rank among the members of the royal household, to see a cross of red cloth sewed on his black jerkin. He was a lofty soul, enclosed in a phlegmatic body that never tormented him with nervous desires nor disturbed the calm of his work with violent passions. When he died the good Dona Juana, his wife, died too, as though they sought each other, unable to remain apart after their long, uneventful pilgrimage through the world. Goya "had lived." His life was that of the nobleman-artist--a stormy novel, full of mysterious amours. His pupils, on parting the curtains of his studio, saw the silk of royal skirts on their master's knees. The dainty duchesses of the period resorted to that robust Aragonese of rough, manly gallantry to have him paint their cheeks, laughing like mad at these intimate touches. When he contemplated some divine beauty on the tumbled bed, he transferred her form to the canvas by an irresistible impulse, an imperious necessity of reproducing beauty; and the legend that floated about the Spanish artist connected an illustrious name with all the beauties whom his brush immortalized. To paint without fear or prejudice, to take delight in reproducing on canvas the glory of the nude, the lustrous amber of woman's flesh with its pale roses like a sea-shell, was Renovales' desire and envy; to live like the famous Don Francisco--a free bird with restless, shining plumage in the midst of the monotony of the human barn-yard; in his passions, in his diversions, in his tastes, to be different from the majority of men, since he was already different from them in his way of appreciating life. But, ah! his existence was like that of Don Diego--unbroken, monotonous, laid out by level in a straight line. He painted, but he did not live. People praised his work for the accuracy with which he reproduced Nature, for the gleam of light, for the indefinable color of the atmosphere, and the exterior of things; but something was lacking, something that stirred within him and fought in vain to leap the vulgar barriers of daily existence. The memory of the romantic life of Goya made him think of his own life. People called him a master; they bought everything he painted at good prices, especially if it was in accordance with some one else's tastes and contrary to his artistic desire; he enjoyed a calm existence, full of comforts; in his studio, almost as splendid as a palace, the façade of which was reproduced in the illustrated magazines, he had a wife who was convinced of his genius and a daughter who was almost a woman and who made the troop of his intimate pupils stammer with embarrassment. The only evidences of his Bohemian past that remained were his soft felt hats, his long beard, his tangled hair and a certain carelessness in his dress; but when his position as a "national celebrity" demanded it, he took out of his wardrobe a dress suit with the lapel covered with the insignia of honorary orders and played his part in official receptions. He had thousands of dollars in the bank. In his studio, palette in hand, he conferred with his broker, discussing what sort of investments he ought to make with the year's profits. His name awakened no surprise or aversion in high society, where it was fashionable for ladies to have their portraits painted by him. In the early days he had provoked scandal and protests by his boldness in color and his revolutionary way of seeing Nature, but there was not connected with his name the least offence against the conventions of society. His women were women of the people, picturesque and repugnant; the only flesh that he had shown on his canvases was that of a sweaty laborer or the chubby child. He was an honored master, who cultivated his stupendous ability with the same calm that he showed in his business affairs. What was lacking in his life? Ah! Renovales smiled ironically. His whole life suddenly came to mind in a tumultuous rush of memories. Once more he fixed his glance on that woman, shining white like a pearl amphora, with her arms above her head, her breasts erect and triumphant, her eyes resting on him, as if she had known him for many years, and he repeated mentally with an expression of bitterness and dejection: "Goya's _Maja_, the _Maja Desnuda_!" II As Mariano Renovales recalled the first years of his life, his memory, always sensitive to exterior impressions, called up the ceaseless clang of hammers. From the rising of the sun till the earth began to darken with the shadows of twilight the iron sang or groaned on the anvil, jarring the walls of the house and the floor of the garret, where Mariano used to play, lying on the floor at the feet of a pale, sickly woman with serious, deep-set eyes, who frequently dropped her sewing to kiss the little one with sudden violence, as though she feared she would not see him again. Those tireless hammers that had accompanied Mariano's birth, made him jump out of bed as soon as day broke and go down to the shop to warm himself beside the glowing forge. His father, a good-natured Cyclops--hairy and blackened--walked back and forth, turning over the irons, picking up files, giving orders to his assistants with loud shouts, in order to be heard in the din of the hammering. Two sturdy fellows, stripped to the waist, swung their arms, panting over the anvil, and the iron--now red, now golden--leaped in bright showers, scattered in crackling sprays, peopling the black atmosphere of the shop with a swarm of fiery flies that died away in the soot of the corners. "Take care, little one!" said the father, protecting his delicate curly-haired head with one of his great hands. The little fellow felt attracted by the colors of the glowing iron, till with the thoughtlessness of childhood he sometimes tried to pick up the fragments that glowed on the ground like fallen stars. His father would push him out of the shop, and outside the door--black with soot--Mariano could see stretching out below him in the flood of sunlight the fields with their red soil cut into geometric figures by stone walls; at the bottom the valley with groups of poplars bordering the winding, crystal stream, and before him the mountains, covered to the very tops with dark pine woods. The shop was in the suburbs of a town and from it and the villages of the valley came the jobs that supported the blacksmith--new axles for carts, plowshares, scythes, shovels, and pitchforks in need of repair. The incessant pounding of the hammers seemed to stir up the little fellow, inspiring him with a fever of activity, tearing him from his childish amusements. When he was eight years old, he used to seize the rope of the bellows and pull it, delighting in the shower of sparks that the current of air drove out of the lighted coals. The Cyclops was gratified at the strength of his son, robust and vigorous like all the men of his family, with a pair of fists that inspired a wholesome respect in all the village lads. He was one of his own blood. From his poor mother, weak and sickly, he inherited only his propensity toward silence and isolation that sometimes, when the fever of activity died out in him, kept him for hours at a time watching the fields, the sky or the brooks that came tumbling down over the pebbles to join the stream at the bottom of the valley. The boy hated school, showing a holy horror of letters. His strong hands shook with uncertainty when he tried to write a word. On the other hand, his father and the other people in the shop admired the ease with which he could reproduce objects in a simple, ingenuous drawing, in which no detail of naturalness was lacking. His pockets were always full of bits of charcoal and he never saw a wall or stone that had a suggestion of whiteness, without at once tracing on it a copy of the objects that struck his eyes because of some marked peculiarity. The outside walls of the shop were black with little Mariano's drawings. Along the walls ran the pigs of Saint Anthony, with their puckered snouts and twisted tails, that wandered through the village and were supported by public charity, to be raffled on the festival of the saint. And in the midst of this stout procession stood out the profiles of the blacksmith and all the workmen of the shop, with an inscription beneath, that no doubt might arise as to their identity. "Come here, woman," the blacksmith would shout to his sick wife when he discovered a new sketch. "Come and see what our son has done. A devil of a boy!" And influenced by this enthusiasm, he no longer complained when Mariano ran away from school and the bellows rope to spend the whole day running through the valley or the village, a piece of charcoal in his hand, covering the rocks of the mountain and the house walls with black lines, to the despair of the neighbors. In the tavern in the Plaza Mayor he had traced the heads of the most constant customers, and the innkeeper pointed them out proudly, forbidding anyone to touch the wall for fear the sketches would disappear. This work was a source of vanity to the blacksmith when Sundays, after mass, he went in to drink a glass with his friends. On the wall of the rectory he had traced a Virgin, before which the most pious old women in the village stopped with deep sighs. The blacksmith with a flush of satisfaction accepted all the praises that were showered on the little fellow as if they belonged in large part to himself. Where had that prodigy come from, when all the rest of his family were such brutes? And he nodded affirmatively when the village notables spoke of doing something for the boy. To be sure, he did not know what to do, but they were right; his Mariano was not destined to hammer iron like his father. He might become as great a personage as Don Rafael, a gentleman who painted saints in the capital of the province and was a teacher of painting in a big house, full of pictures, in the city. During the summer he came with his family to live in an estate in the valley. This Don Rafael was a man of imposing gravity; a saint with a large family of children, who wore a frock-coat as if it were a cassock and spoke with the suavity of a friar through his white beard that covered his thin, pink cheeks. In the village church they had a wonderful picture painted by him, a _Purísima_, whose soft glowing colors made the legs of the pious tremble. Besides, the eyes of the image had the marvelous peculiarity of looking straight at those who contemplated it, following them even though they changed position. A veritable miracle. It seemed impossible that that good gentleman who came up every morning in the summer to hear mass in the village, had painted that supernatural work. An Englishman had tried to buy it for its weight in gold. No one had seen the Englishman, but every one smiled sarcastically when they commented on the offer. Yes, indeed, they were likely to let the picture go! Let the heretics rage with all their millions. The _Purísima_ would stay in her chapel to the envy of the whole world--and especially of the neighboring villages. When the parish priest went to visit Don Rafael to speak to him about the blacksmith's son, the great man already knew about his ability. He had seen his drawings in the village; the boy had some talent and it was a pity not to guide him in the right path. After this came the visits of the blacksmith and his son, both trembling when they found themselves in the attic of the country house that the great painter had converted into a studio, seeing close at hand the pots of color, the oily palette, the brushes and those pale blue canvases on which the rosy, chubby cheeks of the cherubim or the ecstatic face of the Mother of God were beginning to assume form. At the end of the summer the good blacksmith decided to follow Don Rafael's advice. As long as he was so good as to consent to helping the boy, he was not going to be the one to interfere with his good fortune. The shop gave him enough to live on. All it meant was to work a few years longer, to support himself till the end of his life beside the anvil, without an assistant or a successor. His son was born to be somebody, and it was a serious sin to stop his progress by scorning the help of his good protector. His mother, who constantly grew weaker and more sickly, cried as if the journey to the capital of the province were to the end of the world. "Good-by, my boy. I shall never see you again." And in truth it was the last time that Mariano saw that pale face with its great expressionless eyes, now almost wiped out of his memory like a whitish spot in which, in spite of all his efforts, he could not succeed in restoring the outline of the features. In the city his life was radically different. Then for the first time he understood what it was his hands were striving for as they moved the charcoal over the whitewashed walls. Art was revealed to his eyes in those silent afternoons, passed in the convent where the provincial museum was situated, while his master, Don Rafael, argued with other gentlemen in the professor's hall, or signed papers in the secretary's office. Mariano lived at his protector's house, at once his servant and his pupil. He carried letters to the dean and the other canons, who were friends of his master and who accompanied him on his walks or spent social evenings in his studio. More than once he visited the locutories of nunneries, to deliver through the heavy gratings presents from Don Rafael to certain black and white shadows, which attracted by this sturdy young country boy, and aware that he meant to be a painter, overwhelmed him with the eager questions born of their seclusion. Before he went away they would hand him, through the revolving window, cakes and candied lemons or some other goody, and then, with a word of advice, would say good-by in their thin, soft voices, which sifted through the iron of the gratings. "Be a good boy, little Mariano. Study, pray. Be a good Christian, the Lord will protect you and perhaps you will get to be as great a painter as Don Rafael, who is one of the first in the world." How the master laughed at the memory of the childish simplicity that made him see in his master the most marvelous painter on earth!... Mornings, when he attended the classes in the School of Fine Arts, he grew angry at his comrades, a disrespectful rabble, brought up in the streets, sons of mechanics, who, as soon as the professor turned his back, pelted each other with the crumbs of bread meant to wipe out their drawings, and cursed Don Rafael, calling him a "Christer" and a "Jesuit." The afternoon Mariano passed in the studio, at his master's side. How excited he was the first time he placed a palette in his hand and allowed him to copy on an old canvas a child St. John which he had finished for a society!... While the boy with his forehead wrinkled in his eagerness, tried to imitate his master's work, he listened to the good advice that the master gave him without looking up from the canvas over which his angelic brush was running. Painting must be religious; the first pictures in the world had been inspired by religion; outside of it, life offered nothing but base materialism, loathsome sins. Painting must be ideal, beautiful. It must always represent pretty subjects, reproduce things as they ought to be, not as they really are, and above all, look up to heaven, since there is true life, not on this earth, a valley of tears. Mariano must modify his instincts--that was his master's advice--must lose his fondness for drawing coarse subjects--people as he saw them, animals in all their material brutality, landscapes in the same form as his eyes gazed upon. He must have idealism. Many painters were almost saints; only thus could they reflect celestial beauty in the faces of their madonnas. And poor Mariano strove to be ideal, to catch a little of that beatific serenity which surrounded his master. Little by little he came to understand the methods which Don Rafael employed to create these masterpieces which called forth cries of admiration from his circle of canons and the rich ladies that gave him commissions for pictures. When he intended to begin one of his _Purísimas_, which were slowly invading the churches and convents of the province, he arose early and returned to his studio after mass and communion. In this way he felt an inner strength, a calm enthusiasm, and, if he felt depressed in the midst of the work, he once more had recourse to this inspiring medicine. The artist, besides, must be pure. He had taken a vow of chastity after he had reached the age of fifty, somewhat late to be sure, but it was not because he had not known before this certain means of reaching the perfect idealism of a celestial painter. His wife, who had grown old in her countless confinements, exhausted by the tiresome fidelity and virtue of the master, was no longer anything but the companion who gave the responses when he prayed his rosaries and Trisagia at night. He had several daughters, who weighed on his conscience like the reproachful memory of a disgraceful materialism, but some were already nuns and the others were on the way, while the idealism of the artist increased as these evidences of his impurity disappeared from the house and went to hide away in a convent where they upheld the artistic prestige of their father. Sometimes the great painter hesitated before a _Purísima_, which was always the same, as if he painted it with a stencil. Then he spoke mysteriously to his disciple: "Mariano, tell the gentlemen not to come to-morrow. We have a model." And when the studio was closed to the priests and the other respectable friends, with heavy step in came Rodríguez, a policeman, with a cigarette stub under his heavy bristling mustache and one hand on the handle of his sword. Dismissed from the gendarmerie for intoxication and cruelty, and finding himself without employment, by some strange chance he began to devote himself to serving as a painter's model. The pious artist, who held him in a sort of terror, nagged by his constant petitions, had secured for him this position as policeman, and Rodríguez took advantage of every opportunity to show his rough appreciation, slapping the master's shoulders with his great hands and blowing in his face, his breath redolent with nicotine and alcohol. "Don Rafael, you are my father. If anybody touches you, I'll fix him, whoever he is." And the ascetic artist, with a feeling of satisfaction at this protection, blushed and waved his hands in protest against the frankness of the rude fellow with his threats for the men he would "fix." He threw his helmet on the ground, handed his heavy sword to Mariano, and like a man that knows his duty, took out of the bottom of a chest a white woolen tunic and a piece of blue cloth like a cloak, placing both garments on his body with the skill of practice. Mariano looked at him with astonished eyes but without any temptation to laugh. They were mysteries of art, surprises that were reserved only for those who, like him, had the good fortune to live on terms of intimacy with the great master. "Ready, Rodríguez?" Don Rafael asked impatiently. And Rodríguez, erect in his bath robe with the blue rag hanging from his shoulders, clasped his hands and lifted his fierce gaze to the ceiling, without ceasing to suck the stub that singed his mustache. The master did not need the model except for the robes of the figure, to study the folds of the celestial garment, which must not reveal the slightest evidence of human contour. The possibility of copying a woman had never passed through his imagination. That was falling into materialism, glorifying the flesh, inviting temptation; Rodríguez was all he needed; one must be an idealist. The model continued in his mystic attitude with his body lost in the innumerable folds of his blue and white raiment, while under it the square toes of his army boots stuck out, and he held up his grotesque, flat head, crowned with bristling hair, coughing and choking from the smoke of the cigar, without ceasing to look up and without separating his hands clasped in an attitude of worship. Sometimes, tired out by the industrious silence of the master and the pupil, Rodríguez uttered a few grumbles that little by little took the form of words and finally developed into the story of the deeds of his heroic period, when he was a rural policeman and "could take a shot at anyone and pay for it afterward with a report." The _Purísima_ grew excited at these memories. His hands separated with a tremble of murderous joy, the carefully arranged folds were disturbed, his bloodshot eyes no longer looked heavenward, and with a hoarse voice he told of tremendous beatings he administered, of men who fell to the ground writhing with pain, the shooting of prisoners which afterwards were reported as attempts to escape; and to give greater relief to this autobiography which he declaimed with bestial pride, he sprinkled his words with interjections as vulgar as they were lacking in respect for the first personages of the heavenly court. "Rodríguez, Rodríguez!" exclaimed the master, horror-stricken. "At your command, Don Rafael." And the _Purísima_, after passing the stub from one side of his mouth to the other, once more folded his hands, straightened up, showing his red-striped trousers under the tunic, and lost his gaze on high, smiling with ecstasy, as if he contemplated on the ceiling all his heroic deeds of which he felt so proud. Mariano was in despair before his canvas. He could never imitate his illustrious master. He was incapable of painting anything but what he saw, and his brush, after reproducing the blue and white raiment, stopped, hesitating at the face, calling in vain on imagination. After futile efforts it was the grotesque mask of Rodríguez that appeared on the canvas. And the pupil had a sincere admiration for the ability of Don Rafael, for that pale head veiled in the light of its halo, a pretty, expressionless face of childish beauty, which took the place of the policeman's fierce head in the picture. This sleight-of-hand seemed to the boy the most astounding evidence of art. When would he reach the easy prestidigitation of his master! With time the difference between Don Rafael and his pupil became more marked. At school his comrades gathered around him, recognizing his superiority and praising his drawings. Some professors, enemies of his master, lamented that such talent should be lost beside that "saint-painter." Don Rafael was surprised at what Mariano did outside of his studio--figures and landscapes, directly observed which, according to him, breathed the brutality of life. His circle of serious gentlemen began to discover some merit in the pupil. "He will never reach your height, Don Rafael," they said. "He lacks unction, he has no idealism, he will never paint a good Virgin--but as a worldly painter he has a future." The master, who loved the boy for his submissive nature and the purity of his habits, tried in vain to make him follow the right way. If he would only imitate him, his fortune was made. He would die without a successor and his studio and his fame would be his. The boy only had to see how, little by little, like a good ant of the Lord, the master had gathered together a fair sized future with his brush. By virtue of his idealism, he had his country house there in the village, and no end of estates, the tenants of which came and visited him in his studio, carrying on endless discussions over the payment and amount of the rents in front of the poetic Virgins. The Church was poor because of the impiety of the times, it could not pay as generously as in other centuries, but commissions were numerous, and a Virgin in all her purity was a matter of only three days--but young Renovales made a troubled, wry face, as if a painful sacrifice were demanded of him. "I can't, Master. I'm an idiot. I don't know how to invent things. I paint only what I see." And when he began to see naked bodies in the so-called "life" class he devoted himself zealously to this study, as if the flesh caused in him the most violent intoxication. Don Rafael was appalled by finding in the corners of his house sketches that portrayed shameful nudes in all their reality. Besides, the progress of his pupil caused him some uneasiness; he saw in his painting a vigor that he himself had never had. He even noted some falling-off in his circle of admirers. The good canons, as always, admired his Virgins, but some of them had their portraits painted by Mariano, praising the skill of his brush. One day he said to his pupil, firmly: "You know that I love you as I would a son, Mariano, but you are wasting your time with me. I cannot teach you anything. Your place is somewhere else. I thought you might go to Madrid. There you will find men of your stamp." His mother was dead; his father was still in the blacksmith shop, and when he saw him come home with several duros, the pay for portraits he had made, he looked on this sum as a fortune. It did not seem possible that anyone would give money in exchange for colors. A letter from Don Rafael convinced him. Since that wise gentleman advised that his son should go to Madrid, he must agree. "Go to Madrid, my boy, and try to make money soon, for your father is old and will not always be able to help you." At the age of sixteen, Renovales landed in Madrid and finding himself alone, with only his wishes for his guide, devoted himself zealously to his work. He spent the morning in the Museo del Prado, copying all the heads in Velásquez's pictures. He felt that till then he had been blind. Besides, he worked in an attic studio with some other companions and evenings painted water-colors. By selling these and some copies, he managed to eke out the small allowance his father sent him. He recalled with a sort of homesickness those years of poverty, of real misery, the cold nights in his wretched bed, the irritating meals--Heaven knows what was in them--eaten in a bar-room near the Teatro Real; the discussions in the corner of a café, under the hostile glances of the waiters who were provoked that a dozen long-haired youths should occupy several tables and order all together only three coffees and many bottles of water. The light-hearted young fellows stood their misery without difficulty and, to make up for it, what a fill of fancies they had, what a glorious feast of hopes! A new discovery every day. Renovales ran through the realm of art like a wild colt, seeing new horizons spreading out before him, and his career caused an outburst of scandal that amounted to premature celebrity. The old men said that he was the only boy who "had the stuff in him"; his comrades declared that he was a "real painter," and in their iconoclastic enthusiasm compared his inexperienced works with those of the recognized old masters--"poor humdrum artists" on whose bald pates they felt obliged to vent their spleen in order to show the superiority of the younger generation. Renovales' candidacy for the fellowship at Rome caused a veritable revolution. The younger set, who swore by him and considered him their illustrious captain, broke out in threats, fearful lest the "old boys" should sacrifice their idol. When at last his manifest superiority won him the fellowship, there were banquets in his honor, articles in the papers, his picture was published in the illustrated magazines, and even the old blacksmith made a trip to Madrid, to breathe with tearful emotion part of the incense that was burned for his son. In Rome a cruel disappointment awaited Renovales. His countrymen received him rather coldly. The younger men looked on him as a rival and waited for his next works with the hope of a failure; the old men who lived far from their fatherland examined him with malignant curiosity. "And so that big chap was the blacksmith's son, who caused so much disturbance among the ignorant people at home!... Madrid was not Rome. They would soon see what that _genius_ could do!" Renovales did nothing in the first months of his stay in Rome. He answered with a shrug of his shoulders those who asked for his pictures with evident innuendo. He had come there not to paint but to study; that was what the State was paying him for. And he spent more than half a year drawing, always drawing in the famous art galleries, where, pencil in hand, he studied the famous works. The paint boxes remained unopened in one corner of the studio. Before long he came to detest the great city, because of the life the artists led in it. What was the use of fellowships? People studied less there than in other places. Rome was not a school, it was a market. The painting merchants set up their business there, attracted by the gathering of artists. All--old and beginners, famous and unknown--felt the temptation of money; all were seduced by the easy comforts of life, producing works for sale, painting pictures in accordance with the suggestions of some German Jews who frequented the studios, designating the sizes and the types that were in style in order to spread them over Europe and America. When Renovales visited the studios, he saw nothing but _genre_ pictures, sometimes gentlemen in long dress coats, others tattered Moors or Calabrian peasants. They were pretty, faultless paintings, for which they used as models a manikin, or the families of _ciociari_ whom they hired every morning in the Piazza di Espagna beside the Sealinata of the Trinity; the everlasting country-woman, swarthy and black-eyed, with great hoops in her ears and wearing a green skirt, a black waist and a white head-dress caught up on her hair with large pins; the usual old man with sandals, a woolen cloak and a pointed hat with spiral bands on his snowy head that was a fitting model for the Eternal Father. The artists judged each other's ability by the number of thousand lire they took in during a year; they spoke with respect of the famous masters who made a fortune out of the millionaires of Paris and Chicago for easel-pictures that nobody saw. Renovales was indignant. This sort of art was almost like that of his first master, even if it was "worldly" as Don Rafael had said. And that was what they sent him to Rome for! Unpopular with his countrymen because of his brusque ways, his rude tongue and his honesty, which made him refuse all commissions from the art merchants, he sought the society of artists from other countries. Among the cosmopolitan group of young painters who were quartered in Rome, Renovales soon became popular. His energy, his exuberant spirits, made him a congenial, merry comrade, when he appeared in the studios of the Via di Babuino or in the chocolate rooms and cafés of the Corso, where the artists of different nationalities gathered in friendly company. Mariano, at the age of twenty, was an athletic fellow, a worthy scion of the man who was pounding iron from morning till night in a far away corner of Spain. One day an English youth, a friend of his, read him a page of Ruskin in his honor. "The plastic arts are essentially athletic." An invalid, a half paralyzed man, might be a great poet, a celebrated musician, but to be a Michael Angelo or a Titian a man must have not merely a privileged soul, but a vigorous body. Leonardo da Vinci broke a horseshoe in his hands; the sculptors of the Renaissance worked huge blocks of marble with their titanic arms or chipped off the bronze with their gravers; the great painters were often architects and, covered with dust, moved huge masses. Renovales listened thoughtfully to the words of the great English æstheticist. He, too, was a strong soul in an athlete's body. The appetites of his youth never went beyond the manly intoxications of strength and movement. Attracted by the abundance of models which Rome offered, he often undressed a _ciociara_ in his studio, delighting in drawing the forms of her body. He laughed, like the big giant that he was, he spoke to her with the same freedom as if she were one of the poor women that came out to stop him at night as he returned alone to the Academy of Spain, but when the work was over and she was dressed--out with her! He had the chastity of strong men. He worshiped the flesh, but only to copy its lines. The animal contact, the chance meeting, without love, without attraction, with the inner reserve of two people who do not know each other and who look on each other with suspicion, filled him with shame. What he wanted to do was to study, and women only served as a hindrance in great undertakings. He consumed the surplus of his energy in athletic exercise. After one of his feats of strength, which filled his comrades with enthusiasm, he would come in fresh, serene, indifferent, as though he were coming out of a bath. He fenced with the French painters of the Villa Medici; learned to box with Englishmen and Americans; organized, with some German artists, excursions to a grove near Rome, which were talked about for days in the cafés of the Corso. He drank countless healths with his companions to the Kaiser whom he did not know and for whom he did not care a rap. He would thunder in his noisy voice the traditional _Gaudeamus Igitur_ and finally would catch two models of the party around the waist and with his arms stretched out like a cross carry them through the woods till he dropped them on the grass as if they were feathers. Afterwards he would smile with satisfaction at the admiration of those good Germans, many of them sickly and near-sighted, who compared him with Siegfried and the other muscular heroes of their warlike mythology. In the Carnival season, when the Spaniards organized a cavalcade of the Quixote, he undertook to represent the knight Pentapolin--"him of the rolled-up sleeves,"--and in the Corso there were applause and cries of admiration for the huge biceps that the knight-errant, erect on his horse, revealed. When the spring nights came, the artists marched in a procession across the city to the Jewish quarter to buy the first artichokes--the popular dish in Rome, in the preparation of which an old Hebrew woman was famous. Renovales went at the head of the _carciofalatta_, bearing the banner, starting the songs which were alternated with the cries of all sorts of animals; and his comrades marched behind him, reckless and insolent under the protection of such a chieftain. As long as Mariano was with them there was no danger. They told the story that in the alleys of the Trastevere he had given a deadly beating to two bullies of the district, after taking away their stilettos. Suddenly the athlete shut himself up in the Academy and did not come down to the city. For several days they talked about him at the gatherings of artists. He was painting; an exhibition that was going to take place in Madrid was close at hand and he wanted to take to it a picture to justify his fellowship. He kept the door of his studio closed to everyone, he did not permit comment nor advice, the canvas would appear just as he conceived it. His comrades soon forgot him and Renovales ended his work in seclusion, and left for his country with it. It was a complete success, the first important step on the road that was to lead him to fame. Now he remembered with shame, with remorse, the glorious uproar his picture "The Victory of Pavia" stirred up. People crowded in front of the huge canvas, forgetting the rest of the Exhibition. And as, at that time, the Government was strong, the Cortes was closed and there was no serious accident in any of the bull-rings, the newspapers, for lack of any more lively event, hastened in cheap rivalry to reproduce the picture, to talk about it, publishing portraits of the author, profiles, as well as front views, large and small, expatiating on his life in Rome and his eccentricities, and recalled with tears of emotion the poor old man who far away in his village was pounding iron, hardly knowing of his son's glory. With one bound Renovales passed from obscurity to the light of apotheosis. The older men whose duty it was to judge his work became benevolent and extended kindly sympathy. The little tiger was getting tame. Renovales had seen the world and now he was coming back to the good traditions; he was going to be a painter like the rest. His picture had portions that were like Velásquez, fragments worthy of Goya, corners that recalled El Greco; there was everything in it, except Renovales, and this amalgam of reminiscences was its chief merit, what attracted general applause and won it the first medal. A magnificent debut it was. A dowager duchess, a great protectress of the arts, who never bought a picture or a statue but who entertained at her table painters and sculptors of renown, finding in this an inexpensive pleasure and a certain distinction as an illustrious lady, wished to make Renovales' acquaintance. He overcame the stand-offishness of his nature that kept him away from all social relations. Why should he not know high society? He could go wherever other men could. And he put on his first dress-coat, and after the banquets of the duchess, where his way of arguing with members of the Academy provoked peals of merry laughter, he visited other salons and for several weeks was the idol of society which, to be sure, was somewhat scandalized by his faux pas, but still pleased with the timidity that overcame him after his daring sallies. The younger set liked him because he handled a sword like a Saint George. Although a painter and son of a blacksmith, he was in every way a respectable person. The ladies flattered him with their most amiable smiles, hoping that the fashionable artist would honor them with a portrait gratis, as he had done with the duchess. In this period of high-life, always in dress clothes from seven in the evening, without painting anything but women who wanted to appear pretty and discussed gravely with the artist which gown they should put on to serve as a model, Renovales met his wife Josephina. The first time that he saw her among so many ladies of arrogant bearing and striking presence, he felt attracted towards her by force of contrast. The bashfulness, the modesty, the insignificance of the girl impressed him. She was small, her face offered no other beauty than that of youth, her body had the charm of delicacy. Like himself, the poor girl was there out of a sort of condescendence on the part of the others; she seemed to be there by sufferance and she shrank in it, as if afraid of attracting attention, Renovales always saw her in the same evening gown somewhat old, with that appearance of weariness which a garment constantly made over to follow the course of the fashions is wont to acquire. The gloves, the flowers, the ribbons had a sort of sadness in their freshness, as if they betrayed the sacrifices, the domestic exertions it had taken to procure them. She was on intimate terms with all the girls who made a triumphal entrance into the drawing-rooms, inspiring praise and envy with their new toilettes; her mother, a majestic lady, with a big nose and gold glasses, treated the ladies of the noblest families with familiarity; but in spite of this intimacy there was apparent around the mother and daughter the gap of somewhat disdainful affection, in which commiseration bore no small part. They were poor. The father had been a diplomat of some distinction who, at his death, left his wife no other source of income than the widow's pension. Two sons were abroad as attachés of an embassy, struggling with the scantiness of their salary and the demands of their position. The mother and daughter lived in Madrid, chained to the society in which they were born, fearing to abandon it, as if that would be equivalent to a degradation, remaining during the day in a fourth-floor apartment, furnished with the remnants of their past opulence, making unheard-of sacrifices in order to be able in the evening to rub elbows worthily with those who had been their equals. Some relative of Doña Emilia, the mother, contributed to her support, not with money (never that!) but by loaning her the surplus of their luxury, that she and her daughter might maintain a pale appearance of comfort. Some of them loaned them their carriage on certain days, so that they might drive through the Castellana and the Retiro, bowing to their friends as the carriages passed; others sent them their box at the Opera on evenings when the bill was not a brilliant one. Their pity made them remember them, too, when they sent out invitations to birthday dinners, afternoon teas, and the like. "We mustn't forget the Torrealtas, poor things." And the next day, the society reporters included in the list of those present at the function "the charming Señorita de Torrealta and her distinguished mother, the widow of the famous diplomat of imperishable memory," and Doña Emilia, forgetting her situation, fancying she was in the good old times, went to everything, in the same black gown, annoying with her "my dears" and her gossip the great ladies whose maids were richer and ate better than she and her daughter. If some old gentleman took refuge beside her, the diplomat's wife tried to overwhelm him with the majesty of her recollections. "When we were ambassadors in Stockholm." "When my friend Eugénie was empress...." The daughter, endowed with her instinctive girlish timidity, seemed better to realize her position. She would remain seated among the older ladies, only rarely venturing to join the other girls who had been her boarding-school companions and who now treated her condescendingly, looking on her as they would upon a governess who had been raised to their station, out of remembrance for the past. Her mother was annoyed at her timidity. She ought to dance a lot, be lively and bold, like the other girls, crack jokes, even if they were doubtful, that the men might repeat them and give her the reputation of being a wit. It was incredible that with the bringing up she had had, she should be so insignificant. The idea! The daughter of a great man about whom people used to crowd as soon as he entered the first salons in Europe! A girl who had been educated at the school of the Sacred Heart in Paris, who spoke English, a little German, and spent the day reading when she did not have to clean a pair of gloves or make over a dress! Didn't she want to get married? Was she so well satisfied with that fourth-story apartment, that wretched cell so unworthy of their name? Josephina smiled sadly. Get married! She never would get to that in the society they frequented. Everyone knew they were poor. The young men thronged the drawing-rooms in search of women with money. If by chance one of them did come up to her, attracted by her pale beauty, it was only to whisper to her shameful suggestions while they danced; to propose uncompromising engagements, friendly relations with a prudence modeled on the English, flirtations that had no result. Renovales did not realize how his friendship with Josephina began. Perhaps it was the contrast between himself and the little woman who hardly came up to his shoulder and who seemed about fifteen when she was already past twenty. Her soft voice with its slight lisp came to his ears like a caress. He laughed when he thought of the possibility of embracing that graceful, slender form; it would break in pieces in his pugilist's hands, like a wax doll. Mariano sought her out in the drawing-rooms which she and her mother were accustomed to frequent, and spent all the time sitting at her side, feeling an impulse to confide in her as a brother, a desire of telling her all about herself, his past, his present work, his hopes, as if she were a room-mate. She listened to him, looking at him with her brown eyes that seemed to smile at him, nodding assent, often without having heard what he said, receiving like a caress the exuberance of that nature which seemed to overflow in waves of fire. He was different from all the men she had known. When someone--nobody knows who--perhaps one of Josephina's friends, noticed this intimacy, to make sport of her, she spread the news. The painter and the Torrealta girl were engaged. That was when the interested parties discovered that they loved each other. It was something more than friendship that made Renovales pass through Josephina's street mornings, looking at the high windows in the hope of seeing her dainty silhouette through the panes. One night at the duchess' when they were left alone in the hallway, Renovales caught her hand and lifted it to his lips, but so timidly that they scarcely touched her glove. He was afraid after his rudeness, felt ashamed of his violence; he thought he was hurting the delicate, slender girl; but she let her hand stay in his, and at the same time bowed her head and began to cry. "How good you are, Mariano!" She felt the most intense gratitude, when she realized that she was loved for the first time; loved truly, by a man of some distinction, who fled from the women of fortune to seek a humble, neglected girl like her. All the treasures of affection which had been accumulating in the isolation of her humiliating life overflowed. How she could love the man who loved her, taking her out of that parasite's existence, lifting her by his strength and affection to the level of those who scorned her! The noble widow of Torrealta gave a cry of indignation when she learned of the engagement of the painter and her daughter. "The blacksmith's son!" "The illustrious diplomat of imperishable memory!" But as if this protest of her pride opened her eyes, she thought of the years her daughter had spent going from one drawing-room to another, without anyone paying any attention to her. What dunces men were! She thought, too, that a celebrated painter was a personage; she remembered the articles devoted to Renovales because of his last picture, and, above all, a thing that had the most effect on her, she knew by hearsay of the great fortune that artists amassed abroad, the hundreds of thousands of francs paid for a canvas that could be carried under your arm. Why might not Renovales be one of the fortunate? She began to annoy her countless relatives with requests for advice. The girl had no father and they must take his place. Some answered indifferently. "The painter! Hump! Not bad!" evidencing by their coldness that it was all the same to them if she married a tax-collector. Others insulted her unwittingly by showing their approval. "Renovales? An artist with a great future before him. What more do you want? You ought to be thankful he has taken a fancy to her." But the advice that decided her was that of her famous cousin, the Marquis of Tarfe, a man to whom she looked upon as the most distinguished citizen in the country, without doubt because of his office as permanent head of the Foreign Service, for every two years he was made Minister of Foreign Affairs. "It looks very good to me," said the nobleman, hastily, for they were waiting for him in the Senate. "It is a modern marriage and we must keep up with the times. I am a conservative, but liberal, very liberal and very modern. I will protect the children. I like the marriage. Art joining its prestige with a historic family! The popular blood that rises through its merits and is mingled with that of the ancient nobility!" And the Marquis of Tarfe, whose marquisate did not go back half a century, with these rhetorical figures of an orator in the Senate and his promises of protection, convinced the haughty widow. She was the one who spoke to Renovales, to relieve him of an explanation that would be trying because of the timidity he felt in this society that was not his own. "I know all about it, Mariano, my dear, and you have my consent." But she did not like long engagements. When did he intend to get married? Renovales was more eager for it than the mother. Josephina was different from other women who hardly aroused his desire. His chastity, which had been like that of a rough laborer, developed into a feverish desire to make that charming doll his own as soon as possible. Besides, his pride was flattered by this union. His fiancée was poor; her only dowry was a few ragged clothes, but she belonged to a noble family, ministers, generals--all of noble descent. They could weigh by the ton the coronets and coats-of-arms of those countless relatives who did not pay much attention to Josephina and her mother, but who would soon be his family. What would Señor Antón think, hammering iron in the suburbs of his town? What would his comrades in Rome say, whose lot consisted in living with the _ciociari_ who served as their models, and marrying them afterward out of fear for the stiletto of the venerable Calabrian who insisted on providing a legitimate father for his grandsons! The papers had much to say about the wedding, repeating with slight variations the very phrases of the Marquis of Tarfe, "Art uniting with nobility." Renovales wanted to leave for Rome with Josephina as soon as the marriage was celebrated. He had made all the arrangements for his new life there, investing in it all the money he had received from the State for his picture and the product of several pictures for the Senate for which he received commissions through his illustrious relative-to-be. A friend in Rome (the jolly Cotoner) had hired for him an apartment in the Via Margutta and had furnished it in accordance with his artistic taste. Doña Emilia would remain in Madrid with one of her sons, who had been promoted to a position in the Foreign Office. Everybody, even the mother, was in the young couple's way. And Doña Emilia wiped away an invisible tear with the tip of her glove. Besides, she did not care to go back to the countries where she had been _somebody_; she preferred to stay in Madrid; there people knew her at least. The wedding was an event. Not a soul in the huge family was absent; all feared the annoying questions of the illustrious widow who kept a list of relatives to the sixth remove. Señor Antón arrived two days before, in a new suit with knee-breeches and a broad plush hat, looking somewhat confused at the smiles of those people who regarded him as a quaint type. Crestfallen and trembling in the presence of the two women, with a countryman's respect, he called his daughter-in-law "Señorita." "No, papa, call me 'daughter.' Say Josephina to me." But in spite of Josephina's simplicity and the tender gratitude he felt when he saw her look at his son with such loving eyes, he did not venture to take the liberty of speaking to her as his child and made the greatest efforts to avoid this danger, always speaking to her in the third person. Doña Emilia, with her gold glasses and her majestic bearing, caused him even greater emotion. He always called her "Señora marquesa," for in his simplicity he could not admit that that lady was not at least a marchioness. The widow, somewhat disarmed by the good man's homage, admitted that he was a "rube" of some natural talent, a fact that made her tolerate the ridiculous note of his knee breeches. In the chapel of the Marquis of Tarfe's palace, after looking dumbfounded at the great throng of nobility that had gathered for his son's wedding, the old man, standing in the doorway, began to cry: "Now I can die, O Lord. Now I can die!" And he repeated his sad desire, without noticing the laughter of the servants, as if, after a life of toil, happiness were the inevitable forerunner of death. The bride and groom started on their trip the same day. Señor Antón for the first time kissed his daughter-in-law on the forehead, moistening it with his tears, and went home to his village, still repeating his longing for death, as though nothing were left in the world for him to hope for. Renovales and his wife reached Rome after several stops on the way. Their short stay in various cities of the Riviera, the days in Pisa and Florence, though delightful, as keeping the memory of their first intimacy, seemed unspeakably vulgar, when they were installed in their little house in Rome. There the real honeymoon began, by their own fireside, free from all intrusion, far from the confusion of hotels. Josephina, accustomed to a life of secret privation, to the misery of that fourth-floor apartment in which she and her mother lived as though they were camping out, keeping all their show for the street, admired the coquettish charm, the smart daintiness of the house in the Via Margutta. Mariano's friend, who had charge of the furnishing of the house, a certain Pepe Cotoner, who hardly ever touched his brushes and who devoted all his artistic enthusiasm to his worship of Renovales, had certainly done things well. Josephina clapped her hands in childish joy when she saw the bedroom, admiring its sumptuous Venetian furniture, with its wonderful inlaid pearl and ebony, a princely luxury that the painter would have to pay for in instalments. Oh! The first night of their stay in Rome! How well Renovales remembered it! Josephina, lying on the monumental bed, made for the wife of a Doge, shook with the delight of rest, stretching her limbs before she hid them under the fine sheets, showing herself with the abandon of a woman who no longer has any secrets to keep. The pink toes of her plump little feet moved as if they were calling Renovales. Standing beside the bed, he looked at her seriously, with his brows contracted, dominated by a desire that he hesitated to express. He wanted to see her, to admire her; he did not know her yet, after those nights in the hotels when they could hear strange voices on the other side of the thin walls. It was not the caprice of a lover, it was the desire of a painter, the demand of an artist. His eyes were hungry for beauty. She resisted, blushing, a trifle angry at this demand which offended her deepest prejudices. "Don't be foolish, Mariano, dear. Come to bed; don't talk nonsense." But he persisted obstinately in his desire. She must overcome her bourgeois scruples, art scoffed at such modesty, human beauty was meant to be shown in all its radiant majesty and not to be kept hidden, despised and cursed. He did not want to paint her; he did not dare to ask for that; but he did want to see her, to see her and admire her, not with a coarse desire, but with religious adoration. And his hands, restrained by the fears of hurting her, gently pulled her weak arms that were crossed on her breast in the endeavor to resist his advances. She laughed: "You silly thing. You're tickling me--you're hurting me." But little by little, conquered by his persistency, her feminine pride flattered by this worship of her body, she gave in to him, allowed herself to be treated like a child, with soft remonstrances as if she were undergoing torture, but without resisting any longer. Her body, free from veils, shone with the whiteness of pearl. Josephina closed her eyes as if she wanted to flee from the shame of her nakedness. On the smooth sheet, her graceful form was outlined in a slightly rosy tone, intoxicating the eyes of the artist. Josephina's face was not much to look at, but her body! If he could only overcome her scruples some time and paint her! Renovales kneeled down beside the bed in a transport of admiration. "I worship you, Josephina. You are as fair as Venus. No, not Venus. She is cold and calm, like a goddess, and you are a woman. You are like--what are you like? Yes, now I see the likeness. You are Goya's little _Maja_, with her delicate grace, her fascinating daintiness. You are the _Maja Desnuda!_" III Renovales' life was changed. In love with his wife, fearing that she might lack some comfort, and thinking with anxiety of the Torrealta widow, who might complain that the daughter of the "illustrious diplomat of imperishable memory" was not happy because she had lowered herself to the extent of marrying a painter, he worked incessantly to maintain with his brush the comforts with which he had surrounded Josephina. He, who had had so much scorn for industrial art, painting for money, as did his comrades, followed their example, but with the energy that he showed in all his undertakings. In some of the studios there were cries of protest against this tireless competitor who lowered prices scandalously. He had sold his brush for a year to one of those Jewish dealers who exported paintings at so much a picture, and under agreement not to paint for any other dealer. Renovales worked from morning till night changing subjects when it was demanded by what he called his _impresario_. "Enough _ciociari_, now for some Moors." Afterwards the Moors lost their market-value and the turn of the musketeers came, fencing a valiant duel; then pink shepherdesses in the style of Watteau or ladies in powdered wigs embarking in a golden gondola to the sound of lutes. To give freshness to his stock, he would interpolate a sacristy scene with much show of embroidered chasubles and golden incensaries, or an occasional bacchanalian, imitating from memory, without models, Titians' voluptuous forms and amber flesh. When the list was ended, the _ciociari_ were once more in style and could be begun again. The painter with his extraordinary facility of execution produced two or three pictures a week, and the _impresario_, to encourage him in his work, often visited him afternoons, following the movements of his brush with the enthusiasm of a man who appreciated art at so much a foot and so much an hour. The news he brought was of a sort to infuse new zest. The last bacchanal painted by Renovales was in a fashionable bar in New York. His pageant of the Abruzzi was in one of the noblest castles in Russia. Another picture, representing a dance of countesses disguised as shepherdesses in a field of violets, was in the possession of a Jewish baron, a banker in Frankfort. The dealer rubbed his hands, as he spoke to the painter with a patronizing air. His name was becoming famous, thanks to him, and he would not step until he had won him a world-wide reputation. Already his agents were asking him to send nothing but the works of Signor Renovales, for they were the best sellers. But Mariano answered him with a sudden outburst of bitterness. All those canvases were mere rot. If that was art, he would prefer to break stone on the high roads. But his rebellion against this debasement of his art disappeared when he saw his Josephina in the house whose ornamentation he was constantly improving, converting it into a jewel case worthy of his love. She was happy in her home, with a splendid carriage in which to drive every afternoon and perfect freedom to spend money on her clothes and jewelry. Renovales' wife lacked nothing; she had-at her disposal, as adviser and errand-boy, Cotoner, who spent the night in a garret that served him as a studio in one of the cheap districts and the rest of the day with the young couple. She was mistress of the money; she had never seen so many banknotes at once. When Renovales handed her the pile of lires which the impresario gave him she said with a little laugh of joy, "Money, money!" and ran and hid it away with the serious expression of a diligent, economical housewife--only to take it out the next day and squander it with a childish carelessness. What a wonderful thing painting was! Her illustrious father (in spite of all that her mother said) had never made so much money in all his travels through the world, going from cotillon to cotillon as the representative of his king. While Renovales was in the studio, she had been to drive in the Pincio, bowing from her landau to the countless wives of ambassadors who were stationed at Rome, to aristocratic travelers stopping in the city, to whom she had been introduced in some drawing-room, and to all the crowd of diplomatic attachés who live about the double court of the Vatican and the Quirinal. The painter was introduced by his wife into an official society of the most rigid formality. The niece of the Marquis of Tarfe, perpetual foreign minister, was received with open arms by the high society of Rome, the most exclusive in Europe. At every reception at the two Spanish embassies, "the famous painter Renovales and his charming wife" were present and these invitations had spread to the embassies of other countries. Almost every night there was some function. Since there were two diplomatic centers, one at the court of the Italian king, the other at the Vatican, the receptions and evening parties were frequent in this isolated society that gathered every night, sufficient for its own enjoyment. When Renovales got home at dark, tired out with his work, he would find Josephina, already half dressed, waiting for him, and Cotoner helped him to put on his evening clothes. "The cross!" exclaimed Josephina, when she saw him with his dress-coat on. "Why, man alive, how did you happen to forget your cross? You know that they all wear something there." Cotoner went for the insignia, a great cross the Spanish government had given him for his picture, and the artist, with the ribbon across his shirt-front and a brilliant circle on his coat, started out with his wife to spend the evening among diplomats, distinguished travelers and cardinals' nephews. The other painters were furious with envy when they learned how often the Spanish ambassador and his wife, the consul and prominent people connected with the Vatican visited his studio. They denied his talent, attributing these distinctions to Josephina's position. They called him a courtier and a flatterer, alleging that he had married to better his position. One of his most constant visitors was Father Recovero, the representative of a monastic order that was powerful in Spain, a sort of cowled ambassador who enjoyed great influence with the Pope. When he was not in Renovales' studio, the latter was sure that he was at his house, doing some favor for Josephina who felt proud of her friendship with this influential friar, so jovial and scrupulously correct in spite of his coarse clothes. Renovales' wife always had some favor to ask of him, her friends in Madrid were unceasing in their requests. The Torrealta widow contributed to this by her constant chatter among her acquaintances about the high position her daughter occupied in Rome. According to her, Mariano was making millions; Josephina was reported to be a great friend of the Pope, her house was full of Cardinals and if the Pope did not visit her it was only because the poor thing was a prisoner in the Vatican. And so the painter's wife had to keep sending to Madrid some rosary that had been passed over St. Peter's tomb or reliques taken from the Catacombs. She urged Father Recovero to negotiate difficult marriage dispensations and interested herself in behalf of the petitions of pious ladies, friends of her mother. The great festivals of the Roman Church filled her with enthusiasm because of their theatrical interest and she was very grateful to the generous friar who never forgot to reserve her a good place. There never was a reception of pilgrims in Saint Peter's with a triumphal march of the Pope carried on a platform amid feather fans, at which Josephina was not present. At other times the good Father made the mysterious announcement that on the next day Pallestri, the famous male soprano of the papal chapel, was going to sing; the Spanish lady got up early, leaving her husband still in bed, to hear the sweet voice of the pontifical eunuch whose beardless face appeared in shop windows among the portraits of dancers and fashionable tenors. Renovales laughed good-naturedly at the countless occupations and futile entertainments of his wife. Poor girl, she must enjoy herself; that was what he was working for. He was sorry enough that he could go with her only in her evening diversions. During the day he entrusted her to his faithful Cotoner who attended her like an old family servant, carrying her bundles when she went shopping, performing the duties of butler and sometimes of chef. Renovales had made his acquaintance when he came to Rome. He was his best friend. Ten years his senior, Cotoner showed the worship of a pupil and the affections of an older brother for the young artist. Everyone in Rome knew him, laughing at his pictures on the rare occasions when he painted, and appreciated his accommodating nature that to some extent dignified his parasite's existence. Short, rotund, bald-headed, with projecting ears and the ugliness of a good-natured, merry satyr, Signor Cotoner, when summer came, always found refuge in the castle of some cardinal in the Roman Campagna. During the winter he was a familiar sight in the Corso, wrapped in his greenish mackintosh, the sleeves of which waved like a bat's wings. He had begun in his own province as a landscape painter but he wanted to paint figures, to equal the masters, and so he landed in Rome in the company of the bishop of his diocese who looked on him as an honor to the church. He never moved from the city. His progress was remarkable. He knew the names and histories of all the artists, no one could compare with him in his ability to live economically in Rome and to find where things were cheapest. If a Spaniard went through the great city, he never missed visiting him. The children of celebrated painters looked on him as a sort of nurse, for he had put them all to sleep in his arms. The great triumph of his life was having figured in the cavalcade of the Quixote as Sancho Panza. He always painted the same picture, portraits of the Pope in three different sizes, piling them up in the attic that served him for a studio and bedroom. His friends, the cardinals whom he visited frequently, took pity on "Poor Signor Cotoner" and for a few lire bought a picture of the Pontiff horribly ugly, to present it to some village church where it would arouse great admiration since it came from Rome and was by a painter who was a friend of His Eminence. These purchases were a ray of joy for Cotoner, who came to Renovales' studio with his head up and wearing a smile of affected modesty. "I have made a sale, my boy. A pope; a large one, two meter size." And with a sudden burst of confidence in his talent, he talked of the future. Other men desired medals, triumphs in the exhibitions; he was more modest. He would be satisfied if he could guess who would be Pope when the present Pope died, in order to be able to paint up pictures of him by the dozen ahead of time. What a triumph to put the goods on the market the day after the Conclave! A perfect fortune! And well acquainted with all the cardinals, he passed the Sacred College in mental review with the persistency of a gambler in a lottery, hesitating between the half dozen who aspired to the tiara. He lived like a parasite among the high functionaries of the Church, but he was indifferent to religion, as if this association with them had taken away all his belief. The old man clad in white and the other red gentlemen inspired respect in him because they were rich and served indirectly his wretched portrait business. His admiration was wholly devoted to Renovales. In the studio of other artists he received their irritating jests with his usual calm smile of affability, but they could not speak ill of Renovales nor discuss his ability. To his mind, Renovales could produce nothing but masterpieces and in his blind admiration he even went so far as to rave naively over the easel pictures he painted for his impresario. Sometimes Josephina unexpectedly appeared in her husband's studio and chatted with him while he painted, praising the canvases that had a pretty subject. She preferred to find him alone in these visits, painting from his fancy without any other model than some clothes placed on a manikin. She felt a sort of aversion to models, and Renovales tried in vain to convince her of the necessity of using them. He had talent to paint beautiful things without resorting to the assistance of those ordinary old men and above all, of those women with their disheveled hair, their flashing eyes and their wolfish teeth, who, in the solitude and silence of the studio, actually terrified her. Renovales laughed. What nonsense! Jealous little girl! As if he were capable of thinking of anything but art with a palette in his hand! One afternoon, when Josephina suddenly came into the studio she saw on the model's platform a naked woman, lying in some furs, showing the curves of her yellow back. The wife compressed her lips and pretended not to see her, listened to Renovales with a distracted air, as he explained this innovation. He was painting a bacchanal and it was impossible for him to proceed without a model. It was a case of necessity, flesh could not be done from memory. The model, at ease before the painter, felt ashamed of her nakedness in the presence of that fashionable lady, and after wrapping herself up in the furs, hid behind a screen and hastily dressed herself. Renovales recovered his serenity when he reached home, seeing that his wife received him with her customary eagerness, as if she had forgotten her displeasure of the afternoon. She laughed at Cotoner's stories; after dinner they went to the theater and when bedtime came, the painter had forgotten about the surprise in the studio. He was falling asleep when he was alarmed by a painful, prolonged sigh, as if some one were stifling beside him. When he lit the light he saw Josephina with both fists in her eyes, crying, her breast heaving with sobs, and kicking in a childish fit of temper till the bed-clothes were rolled in a ball and the exquisite puff fell to the floor. "I won't, I won't," she moaned with an accent of protest. The painter had jumped out of bed, full of anxiety, going from one side to the other without knowing what to do, trying to pull her hands away from her eyes, giving in, in spite of his strength, to Josephina's efforts to free herself from him. "But what's the matter? What is it you won't do? What's happened to you?" And she continued to cry, tossing about in the bed, kicking in a nervous fury. "Let me alone! I don't like you; don't touch me. I won't let you, no, sir, I won't let you. I'm going away. I'm going home to my mother." Renovales, terrified at the fury of the little woman who was always so gentle, did not know what to do to calm her. He ran through the bedroom and the adjoining dressing room in his night shirt, that showed his athletic muscles; he offered her water, going so far as to pick up the bottles of perfumes in his confusion as if they could serve him as sedatives, and finally he knelt down, trying to kiss the clenched little hands that thrust him away, catching at his hair and beard. "Let me alone. I tell you to let me alone. I know you don't love me. I'm going away." The painter was surprised and afraid of the nervousness in this beloved little doll; he did not dare to touch her for fear of hurting her. As soon as the sun rose she would leave that house forever. Her husband did not love her. No one but her mother cared for her. He was making her a laughing stock before people. And all these incoherent complaints that did not explain the motive for her anger, continued for a long time until the artist guessed the cause. Was it the model, the naked woman? Yes, that was it; she would not consent to it, that in a studio that was practically her house, low women should show themselves immodestly to her husband's eyes. And as she protested against such abominations, her twitching fingers tore the front of her night dress, showing the hidden charms that filled Renovales with such enthusiasm. The painter, tired out by this scene, enervated by the cries and tears of his wife, could not help laughing when he discovered the motive of her irritation. "Ah! So it's all on account of the model. Be quiet, girl, no woman shall come into the studio." And he promised everything Josephina wished, in order to be over with it as soon as possible. When it was dark once more, she was still sighing, but now it was in her husband's strong arms with her head resting on his breast, lisping like a grieved child that tries to justify the past fit of temper. It did not cost Mariano anything to do her this favor. She loved him dearly, so dearly, and she would love him still more if he respected her prejudices. He might call her bourgeois, a common ordinary soul, but that was what she wanted to be, just as she always had been. Besides, what was the need of painting naked women? Couldn't he do other things? She urged him to paint children in smocks and sandals, curly haired and chubby, like the child Jesus; old peasant women with wrinkled, copper-colored faces, bald-headed ancients with long beards; character studies, but no young women, understand? No naked beauties! Renovales said "yes" to everything, drawing close to him that beloved form still trembling with its past rage. They clung to each other with a sort of anxiety, desirous of forgetting what had happened, and the night ended peacefully for Renovales in the happiness of reconciliation. When summer came they rented a little villa at Castel-Gandolfo. Cotoner had gone to Rivoli in the train of a cardinal and the married couple lived in the country accompanied only by a couple of maids and a manservant, who took care of Renovales' painting kit. Josephina was perfectly contented in this retirement, far from Rome, talking with her husband at all hours, free from the anxiety that filled her, when he was working in his studio. For a month Renovales remained in placid idleness. His art seemed forgotten; the boxes of paints, the easels, all the artistic luggage brought from Rome, remained packed up and forgotten in a shed in the garden. Afternoons they took long walks, returning home at nightfall slowly, with their arms around each other's waists, watching the strip of pale gold in the western sky, breaking the rural silence with one of the sweet, passionate romances that came from Naples. Now that they were alone in the intimacy of a life without cares or friendships, the enthusiastic love of the first days of their married life reawakened. But the "demon of painting" was not long in spreading over him his invisible wings, which seemed to scatter an irresistible enchantment. He became bored at the long hours in the bright sun, yawned in his wicker chair, smoking pipe after pipe, not knowing what to talk about. Josephina, on her part, tried to drive away the ennui by reading some English novel of aristocratic life, tiresome and moral, to which she had taken a great liking in her school girl days. Renovales began to work again. His servant brought out his artist's kit and he took up his palette as enthusiastically as a beginner, and painted for himself with a religious fervor as if he thought to purify himself from that base submission to the commissions of a dealer. He studied Nature directly; painted delightful bits of landscapes, tanned and repulsive heads that breathed the selfish brutality of the peasant. But this artistic activity did not seem to satisfy him. His life of increased intimacy with Josephina aroused in him mysterious longings that he hardly dared to formulate. Mornings when his wife, fresh and rosy from her bath, appeared before him almost naked, he looked at her with greedy eyes. "Oh, if you were only willing! If you didn't have that foolish prejudice of yours!" And his exclamations made her smile, for her feminine vanity was flattered by this worship. Renovales regretted that his artistic talent had to go in search of beautiful things when the supreme, definitive work was at his side. He told her about Rubens, the great master, who surrounded Elène Froment with the luxury of a princess, and of her who felt no objection to freeing her fresh, mythological beauty from veils in order to serve as a model for her husband. Renovales praised the Flemish woman. Artists formed a family by themselves; morality and the popular prejudices were meant for other people. They lived under the jurisdiction of Beauty, regarding as natural what other people looked on as a sin. Josephina protested against her husband's wishes with a playful indignation but she allowed him to admire her. Her abandon increased every day. Mornings, when she got up, she remained undressed longer, prolonging her toilette while the artist walked around her, praising her various beauties. "That is Rubens, pure and simple, that's Titian's color. Look, little girl, lift up your arms, like this. Oh, you are the _Maja_, Goya's little _Maja_." And she submitted to him with a gracious pout, as if she relished the expression of worship and disappointment which her husband wore at possessing her as a woman and not possessing her as a model. One afternoon when a scorching wind seemed to stifle the countryside with its breath, Josephina capitulated. They were in their room, with the windows closed, trying to escape the terrible sirocco by shutting it out and putting on thin clothes. She did not want to see her husband with such a gloomy face nor listen to his complaints. As long as he was crazy and was set on his whim, she did not dare to oppose him. He could paint her; but only a study, not a picture. When he was tired of reproducing her flesh on the canvas they would destroy it,--just as if he had done nothing. The painter said "yes" to everything, eager to have his brush in hand as soon as possible, before the beauty he craved. For three days he worked with a mad fever, with his eyes unnaturally wide open, as if he meant to devour the graceful outlines with his sight. Josephina, accustomed now to being naked, posed with unconscious abandon, with that feminine shamelessness which hesitates only at the first step. Oppressed by the heat, she slept while her husband kept on painting. When the work was finished, Josephina could not help admiring it. "How clever you are! But am I really like that, so pretty?" Mariano showed his satisfaction. It was his masterpiece, his best. Perhaps in all his life he might never find another moment like that, of prodigious mental intensity, what people commonly call inspiration. She continued to admire herself in the canvas, just as she did some mornings in the great mirror in the bedroom. She praised the various parts of her beauty with frank immodesty. Dazzled by the beauty of her body she did not notice the face, that seemed unimportant, lost in soft veils. When her eyes fell on it she showed a sort of disappointment. "It doesn't look much like me! It isn't my face!" The artist smiled. It was not she; he had tried to disguise her face, nothing but her face. It was a mask, a concession to social conventions. As it was, no one would recognize her and his work, his great work, might appear and receive the admiration of the world. "Because, we aren't going to destroy it," Renovales continued with a tremble in his voice, "that would be a crime. Never in my life will I be able to do anything like it again. We won't destroy it, will we, little girl?" The little girl remained silent for a good while with her gaze fixed on the picture. Renovales' eager eyes saw a cloud slowly rise over her face, like a shadow on a white wall. The painter felt as though the floor were sinking under his feet; the storm was coming. Josephina turned pale, two tears slipped slowly down her cheeks, two others took their places to fall with them and then more and more. "I won't! I won't!" It was the same hoarse, nervous, despotic cry that had set his hair on end with anxiety and fear that night in Rome. The little woman looked with hatred at the naked body that radiated its pearly light from the depths of the canvas. She seemed to feel the terror of a sleep-walker who suddenly awakens in the midst of a square surrounded by a thousand curious, eager eyes and in her fright does not know what to do nor where to flee. How could she have assented to such a disgraceful thing? "I won't have it!" she cried angrily. "Destroy it, Mariano, destroy it." But Mariano seemed on the point of weeping too. Destroy it! Who could demand such a foolish thing? That figure was not she; no one would recognize her. What was the use of depriving him of a signal triumph? But his wife did not listen to him. She was rolling on the floor with the same convulsions and moans as on the night of the stormy scene, her hands were clenched like a crook, her feet kicked like a dying lamb's and her mouth, painfully distorted, kept crying hoarsely: "I won't have it! I won't have it! Destroy it!" She complained of her lot with a violence that wounded Renovales. She, a respectable woman, submitted to that degradation as if she were a street walker. If she had only known! How was she going to imagine that her husband would make such abominable proposals to her! Renovales, offended at these insults, at these lashes which her shrill, piercing voice dealt his artistic talent, left his wife, let her roll on the floor and with clenched fists, went from one end of the room to the other, looking at the ceiling, muttering all the oaths, Spanish and Italian, that were in current use in his studio. Suddenly he stood still, rooted to the floor by terror and surprise. Josephina, still naked, had jumped on the picture with the quickness of a wild cat. With the first stroke of her finger nails, she scratched the canvas from top to bottom, mingling the colors that were still soft, tearing off the thin shell of the dry parts. Then she caught up the little knife from the paint box and--rip! the canvas gave a long moan, parted under the thrust of that white arm which seemed to have a bluish cast in the violence of her wrath. He did not move. For a moment he felt indignant, tempted to throw himself on her but he lapsed into a childish weakness, ready to cry, to take refuge in a corner, to hide his weak, aching head. She, blind with wrath, continued to vent her fury on the picture, tangling her feet in the wood of the frame, tearing off pieces of canvas, walking back and forth with her prey like a wild beast. The artist had leaned his head against the wall, his strong breast shook with cowardly sobs. To the almost fatherly grief at the loss of his work was added the bitterness of disappointment. For the first time he foresaw what his life was going to be. What a mistake he had made in marrying that girl who admired his art as a profession, as a means of making money, and who was trying to mold him to the prejudices and scruples of the circle in which she was born! He loved her in spite of this and he was certain that she did not love him less, but, still, perhaps it would have been better to remain alone, free for his art and, in case a companion was necessary, to find a fair maid of all work with all the splendor and intellectual humility of a beautiful animal that would admire and obey her master blindly. Three days passed in which the painter and his wife hardly spoke to each other. They looked at each other askance, humbled and broken by this domestic trouble. But the solitude in which they lived, the necessity of remaining together made the reconciliation imperative. She was the first to speak, as if she were terrified by the sadness and dejection of that huge giant who wandered about as peevish as a sick man. She threw her arms around him, kissed his forehead, made a thousand gracious efforts to bring a faint smile to his face. "Who loved him? His Josephina. His _Maja_ but not his _Maja Desnuda;_ that was over forever. He must never think of those horrible things. A decent painter does not think of them. What would all her friends say? There were many pretty things to paint in the world. They must live in each other's love, without his displeasing her with his hateful whims. His affection for the nude was a shameful remnant of his Bohemian days." And Renovales, won over by his wife's petting, made peace,--tried to forget his work and smiled with the resignation of a slave who loves his chain because it assures him peace and life. They returned to Rome at the beginning of the fall. Renovales began his work for the contractor, but after a few months the latter seemed dissatisfied. Not that Signor Mariano was losing power, not at all, but his agents complained of a certain monotony in the subjects of his works. The dealer advised him to travel; he might stay awhile in Umbria, painting peasants in ascetic landscapes, or old churches; he might--and this was the best thing to do--move to Venice. How much Signor Mariano could accomplish in those canals! And it was thus that the idea of leaving Rome first came to the painter. Josephina did not object. That daily round of receptions in the countless embassies and legations was beginning to bore her. Now that the charm of the first impressions had disappeared, Josephina noticed that the great ladies treated her with an annoying condescension as if she had descended from her rank in marrying an artist. Besides, the younger men in the embassies, the attachés of different nationalities, some light, some dark, who sought relief from their celibacy without going outside diplomatic society, were disgracefully impudent as they danced with her or went through the figures of a cotillion, as if they considered her an easy conquest, seeing her married to an artist who could not display an ugly uniform in the drawing rooms. They made cynical declarations to her in English or German and she had to keep her temper, smiling and biting her lips, close to Renovales, who did not understand a word and showed his satisfaction at the attentions of which his wife was the object on the part of the fashionable youths whose manners he tried to imitate. The trip was decided on. They would go to Venice! Their friend Cotoner said "Good-by," he was sorry to part from them but his place was in Rome. The Pope was ailing just at that time and the painter, in the hope of his death, was preparing canvases of all sizes, striving to guess who would be his successor. As he went back in his memories, Renovales always thought of his life in Venice with a sort of pleasant homesickness. It was the best period of his life. The enchanting city of the lagoons,--bathed in golden light, lulled by the lapping of the water, fascinated him from the first moment, making him forget his love for the human form. For some time his enthusiasm for the nude was calmed. He worshiped the old palaces, the solitary canals, the lagoon with its green, motionless waiter, the soul of a majestic past, which seemed to breathe in the solemn old age of the dead, eternally smiling city. They lived in the Foscarini palace, a huge building with red walls and casements of white stone that opened on a little alley of water adjoining the Grand Canal. It was the former abode of merchants, navigators and conquerors of the Isles of the East who in times gone by had worn on their heads the golden horn of the Doges. The modern spirit, utilitarian and irreverent, had converted the palace into a tenement, dividing gilded drawing rooms with ugly partitions, establishing kitchens in the filigreed arcades of the seignorial court, filling the marble galleries to which the centuries gave the amber-like transparency of old ivory, with clothes hung out to dry and replacing the gaps in the superb mosaic with cheap square tiles. Renovales and his wife occupied the apartment nearest the Grand Canal. Mornings, Josephina saw from a bay window the rapid silent approach of her husband's gondola. The gondolier, accustomed to the service of artists, shouted to the painter, till Renovales came down with his box of water-colors and the boat started immediately through the narrow, winding canals, moving the silvered comb of its prow from one side to the other as if it were feeling the way. What mornings of placid silence in the sleeping water of an alley, between two palaces whose boldly projecting roofs kept the surface of the little canal in perpetual shadow! The gondolier slept stretched out in one of the curving ends of his boat and Renovales, sitting beside the black canopy, painted his Venetian water-colors, a new type that his impresario in Rome received with the greatest enthusiasm. His deftness enabled him to produce these works with as much facility as if they were mechanical copies. In the maze of canals he had one of his own which he called his "estate" on account of the money it netted him. He had painted again and again its dead, silent waters which all day long were never rippled except by his gondola; two old palaces with broken blinds, the doors covered with the crust of years, stairways rotted with mold and in the background a little arch of light, a marble bridge and under it the life, the movement, the sun of a broad, busy canal. The neglected little alley came to life every week under Renovales' brush--he could paint it with his eyes shut--and the business initiative of the Roman Jew scattered it through the world. The afternoons Mariano passed with his wife. Sometimes they went in a gondola to the promenade of the Lido and sitting on the sandy beach, watched the angry surface of the open Adriatic, that stretched its tossing white caps to the horizon, like a flock of snowy sheep hurrying in the rush of a panic. Other afternoons they walked in the Square of Saint Mark, under the arcades of its three rows of palaces where they could see in the background, by the last rays of the sun, the pale gold of the basilica gleaming, as if in its walls and domes there were crystallized all the wealth of the ancient Republic. Renovales, with his wife on his arm, walked calmly as if the majesty of the place impelled him to a sort of noble bearing. The august silence was not disturbed by the deafening hubbub of other great capitals; no rattling of carts or footsteps of horses or hucksters' cries. The Square, with its white marble pavement, was a huge drawing room through which the visitors passed as if they were making a call. The musicians of the Venice band were gathered in the center with their hats surmounted by black waving plumes. The blasts of the Wagnerian brasses, galloping in the mad ride of the Valkyries, made the marble columns shake and seemed to give life to the four golden horses that reared over space with silent whinnies on the cornice of St. Mark's. The dark-feathered doves of Venice scattered in playful spirals, somewhat frightened at the music, finally settled, like rain, on the tables of the café. Then, taking flight again, they blackened the roof of the palaces and once more swooped down like a mantle of metallic luster on the groups of English tourists in green veils and round hats, who called them in order to offer them grain. Josephina, with childish eagerness, left her husband in order to buy a cone full of grain, and spreading it out in her gloved hands she gathered the wards of St. Mark around her; they rested on the flowers of her head, fluttering like fantastic crests, they hopped on her shoulders, or lined up on her outstretched arms, they clung desperately to her slight hips, trying to walk around her waist, and others, more daring, as if possessed of human mischievousness, scratched her breast, reached out their beaks striving to caress her ruddy, half-opened, lips through the veil. She laughed, trembling at the tickling of the animated cloud that rubbed against her body. Her husband watched her, laughing too, and certain that no one but she would understand him, he called to her in Spanish. "My, but you are beautiful! I wish I could paint your picture! If it weren't for the people, I would kiss you." Venice was the scene of her happiest days. She lived quietly while her husband worked, taking odd corners of the city for his models. When he left the house, her placid calm was not disturbed by any troublesome thought. This was painting, she was sure,--and not the conditions of affairs in Rome, where he would shut himself up with shameless women who were not afraid to pose stark naked. She loved him with a renewed passion, she petted him with constant caresses. It was then that her daughter was born, their only child. Majestic Doña Emilia could not remain in Madrid when she learned that she was going to be a grandmother. Her poor Josephina, in a foreign land, with no one to take care of her but her husband, who had some talent according to what people said, but who seemed to her rather ordinary! At her son-in-law's expense, she made the trip to Venice and there she stayed for several months, fuming against the city, which she had never visited in her diplomatic travels. The distinguished lady considered that no cities were inhabitable except the capitals that have a court. Pshaw! Venice! A shabby town that no one liked but writers of romanzas and decorators of fans, and where there were nothing higher than consuls. She liked Rome with its Pope and kings. Besides, it made her seasick to ride in the gondolas and she complained constantly of the rheumatism, blaming it to the dampness of the lagoons. Renovales, who had feared for Josephina's life, believing that her weak, delicate constitution could not stand the shock, broke out into cries of joy when he received the little one in his arms and looked at the mother with her head resting on the pillow as if she were dead. Her white face was hardly outlined against the white of the linen. His first thought was for her, for the pale features, distorted by the recent crisis, which gradually were growing calmer with rest. Poor little girl! How she had suffered! But as he tip-toed out of the bed room in order not to disturb the heavy sleep that, after two cruel days, had overpowered the sick woman, he gave himself up to his admiration for the bit of flesh that lay in the huge flabby arms of the grandmother, wrapped in fine linen. Ah, what a dear little thing! He looked at the livid little face, the big head, thinly covered with hair, seeking for some suggestion of himself in this surge of flesh that was in motion and still without definite form. "Mamma, whom does she look like?" Doña Emilia was surprised at his blindness. Whom; should she look like? Like him, no one but him. She was large, enormous; she had seen few babies as large as this one. It did not seem possible that her poor daughter could live after giving birth to "that." They could not complain that she was not healthy; she was as ruddy as a country baby. "She's a Renovales; she's yours, wholly yours, Mariano. We belong to a different class." And Renovales, without noticing his mother's words, saw only that his daughter was like him, overjoyed to see how robust she was, shouting his pleasure at the health of which the grandmother spoke in a disappointed tone. In vain did he and Doña Emilia try to dissuade Josephina from nursing the baby. The little woman, in spite of the weakness that kept her motionless in bed, wept and cried almost as she had in the crises that had so terrified Renovales. "I won't have it," she said with that obstinacy that made her so terrible. "I won't have a strange woman's milk for my daughter. I will nurse her, her mother." And they had to give the baby to her. When Josephina seemed recovered, her mother, feeling that her mission was over, went home to Madrid. She was bored to death in that silent city of Venice, night after night she thought she was dead, for she could not hear a single sound from her bed. The calm, interrupted now and then by the shouts of the gondoliers filled her with the same terror that she felt in a cemetery. She had no friends, she did not "shine"; there was nobody in that dirty hole and nobody knew her. She was always recalling her distinguished friends in Madrid where she thought she was an indispensable personage. The modesty of her granddaughter's christening left a deep impression in her mind in spite of the fact that they gave her name to the child; an insignificant little party that needed only two gondolas; she, who was the godmother, with the godfather, an old Venetian painter, who was a friend of Renovales and, besides, Renovales himself and two artists, a Frenchman and another Spaniard. The Patriarch of Venice did not officiate at the baptism, not even a bishop. And she knew so many of them at home. A mere priest, who was in a shameful hurry, had been sufficient to christen the granddaughter of the famous diplomat, in a little church, as the sun was setting. She went away repeating once more that Josephina was killing herself, that it was perfect folly for her to nurse the baby in her delicate condition, regretting that she did not follow the example of her mother who had always intrusted her children to nurses. Josephina cried bitterly when her mother went, but Renovales said "good-by" with ill-concealed joy. _Bon voyage_! He simply could not endure the woman, always complaining that she was being neglected when she saw how her son-in-law was working to make her daughter happy. The only thing he agreed with her in was in scolding Josephina tenderly for her obstinacy in nursing the baby. Poor little _Maja Desnuda_! Her form had lost its bud-like daintiness in the full flower of motherhood. She appeared more robust, but the stoutness was accompanied by an anemic weakness. Her husband, seeing how she was losing her daintiness, loved her with more tender compassion. Poor little girl! How good she was! She was sacrificing herself for her daughter. When the baby was a year old, the great crisis in Renovales' life occurred. Desirous of taking a "bath in art," of knowing what was going on outside of the dungeon in which he was imprisoned, painting at so much a piece, he left Josephina in Venice and made a short trip to Paris to see its famous Salon. He came back transfigured, with a new fever for work and a determination to transform his existence which filled his wife with astonishment and fear. He was going to break with his _impresario_, he would no longer debase himself with that false painting, even if he had to beg for his living. Great things were being done in the world, and he felt that he had the courage to be an innovator, following the steps of those modern painters who made such a profound impression on him. Now he hated old Italy, where artists went to study under the protection of ignorant governments. In reality what they found there was a market of tempting commissions where they soon grew accustomed to taking orders, to the luxurious, indifferent life of easy profit. He wanted to move to Paris. But Josephina, who listened to Renovales' fancies in silence, unable to understand them for the most part, modified this determination by her advice. She too wanted to leave Venice. The city seemed gloomy in the winter with its ceaseless rains that left the bridges slippery and the marble alleys impassable. Since they were determined to break up camp, why not go back to Madrid? Mamma was sick, she complained in all her letters at living so far from her daughter. Josephina wanted to see her, she had a presentiment that her mother was going to die. Renovales thought it over; he too wanted to go back to Spain. He felt homesick; he thought of the great stir he would cause there, teaching his new methods amid the general routine. The desire of shocking the Academicians, who had accepted him before because he had renounced his ideals, tempted him. They went back to Madrid with little Milita, as they called her for short, abbreviating the diminutive of Emilia. Renovales brought with him as his whole capital some few thousand lire, that represented Josephina's savings and the product of his sale of part of the furniture that decorated the poorly furnished halls of the Foscarini palace. At first it was hard. Doña Emilia died a few months after they reached Madrid. Her funeral did not come up to the dreams the illustrious widow had always fashioned. Hardly a score of her countless relatives were present. Poor old lady, if she had known how her hopes were destined to be disappointed! Renovales was almost glad of the event. With it, the only tie that bound them to society was broken. He and Josephina lived in a fifth story flat on the Calle de Alcalá, near the Plaza de Toros, with a large terrace that the artist converted into a studio. Their life was modest, secluded, humble, without friends or functions. She spent the day taking care of her daughter and the house, without help except a dull, poorly-paid maid. Oftentimes when she seemed most active, she fell into a sudden languor, complaining of strange, new ailments. Mariano hardly ever worked at home; he painted out of doors. He despised the conventional light of the studio, the closeness of its atmosphere. He wandered through the suburbs of Madrid and the neighboring provinces in search of rough, simple types, whose faces seemed to bear the stamp of the ancient Spanish soul. He climbed the Guadarrama in the midst of winter, standing alone in the snowy fields like an Arctic explorer, to transfer to his canvas the century-old pines, twisted and black under their caps of frozen sleet. When the Exhibition took place, Renovales' name became famous in a flash. He did not present a huge picture with a key, as he had at his first triumph. They were small canvases, studies prompted by a chance meeting; bits of nature, men and landscapes reproduced with an astonishing, brutal truth that shocked the public. The sober fathers of painting writhed as if they had received a slap in the face, before those sketches that seemed to flame among the other dead, leaden pictures. They admitted that Renovales was a painter, but he lacked imagination, invention, his only merit was his ability to transfer to the canvas what his eyes saw. The younger men flocked to the standard of the new master; there were endless disputes, impassioned arguments, deadly hatred, and over this battle Renovales', name flitted, appearing almost daily in the newspapers, till he was almost as celebrated as a bull-fighter or an orator in the Congress. The struggle lasted for six years, giving rise to a storm of insults and applause every time that Renovales exhibited one of his works, and meanwhile the master, discussed as he was, lived in poverty, forced to paint water-colors in the old style which he secretly sent to his dealer in Rome. But all combats have their end. The public finally accepted as unquestionable a name that they saw every day; his enemies, weakened by the unconscious effect of public opinion, grew tired, and the master like all innovators, as soon as the first success of the scandal was over, began to limit his daring, pruning and softening his original brutality. The dreaded painter became fashionable. The easy, instantaneous success he had won at the beginning of his career was renewed, but more solidly and more definitely, like a conquest made by rough, hard paths when there is a struggle at every step. Money, the fickle page, came back to him, holding the train of glory. He sold pictures at prices unheard of in Spain and they grew fabulously as they were repeated by his admirers. Some American millionaires, surprised that a Spanish painter should be mentioned abroad and that the principal reviews in Europe should reproduce his works, bought canvases as objects of great luxury. The master, embittered by the poverty of his years of struggle, suddenly felt a longing for money, an overpowering greed that his friends had never known in him. His wife seemed to grow more sickly every day; her daughter was growing up and he wanted his Milita to have the education and the luxuries of a princess. They now had a respectable house of their own, but he wanted something better for them. His business instinct, which everyone recognized in him when he was not blinded by some artistic prejudice, strove to make his brush an instrument of great profits. Pictures were bound to disappear, according to the master. Modern rooms, small and soberly decorated, were not fitted for the large canvases that ornamented the walls of drawing rooms in the old days. Besides, the reception rooms of the present, like the rooms in a doll's house, were good merely for pretty pictures marked by stereotyped mannerisms. Scenes taken from nature were out of place in this background. The only way to make money then was to paint portraits and Renovales forgot his distinction as an innovator in order to win at any cost fame as a portrait painter of society people. He painted members of the royal family in all sorts of postures, not omitting any of their important occupations; on foot, and on horseback, with a general's plumes or a gray hunting jacket, killing pigeons or riding in an automobile. He portrayed the beauties of the oldest families, concealing imperceptibly, with clever dissimulation, the ravages of time, giving firmness to the flabby flesh with his brush, holding up the heavy eyelids and cheeks that sagged with fatigue and the poison of rouge. After successes at court, the rich considered a portrait by Renovales as an indispensable decoration for their drawing rooms. They sought him because his signature cost thousands of dollars; to possess a canvas by him was an evidence of opulence, quite as necessary as an automobile of the best make. Renovales was as rich as a painter can be. It was at that time that he built what envious people called his "pantheon"; a magnificent mansion behind the iron grating of the Retiro. He had a violent desire to build a home after his own heart and image, like those mollusks that build a shell with the substance of their bodies so that it may serve both as a dwelling and a defense. There awakened in him that longing for show, for pompous, swaggering, amusing originality that lies dormant in the mind of every artist. At first he planned a reproduction of Rubens' palace in Antwerp, open _loggie_ for studios, leafy gardens covered with flowers at all seasons, and in the paths, gazelles, giraffes, birds of bright plumage, like flying flowers, and other exotic animals which this great painter used as models in his desire to copy Nature in all its magnificence. But he was forced to give up this dream, on account of the nature of the building sites in Madrid, a few thousand feet of barren, chalky soil, bounded by a wretched fence and as dry as only Castile can be. Since this Rubenesque ostentation was not possible, he took refuge in Classicism and in a little garden he erected a sort of Greek temple that should serve at once as a dwelling and a studio. On the triangular pediment rose three tripods like torch-holders, that gave the house the appearance of a commemorative tomb. But in order that those who stopped outside the grating might make no mistake, the master had garlands of laurel, palettes surrounded with crowns, carved on the stone façade, and in the midst of this display of simple modesty a short inscription in gold letters of average size--"Renovales." Exactly like a store. Inside, in two studios where no one ever painted and which led to the real working studio, the finished pictures were exhibited on easels covered with antique textures, and callers gazed with wonder at the collection of properties fit for a theater,--suits of armor, tapestries, old standards hanging from the ceiling, show-cases full of ancient knick-knacks, deep couches with canopies of oriental stuffs supported by lances, century old coffers and open secretaries shining with the pale gold of their rows of drawers. These studios where no one studied were like the luxurious line of waiting rooms in the house of a doctor who charges twenty dollars for a consultation, or like the anterooms, furnished in dark leather with venerable pictures, of a famous lawyer, who never opens his mouth without carrying off a large portion of his client's fortune. People who waited in these two studios spacious as the nave of a church, with the silent majesty which comes with the lapse of years, were brought to the necessary frame of mind to make them submit to the enormous prices the master demanded. Renovales had "made good" and he could rest calmly, as his admirers said. And still the master was gloomy; his nature, embittered by his years of silent suffering, broke out in violent fits of temper. The slightest attack by some insignificant enemy was enough to send him into a rage. His pupils thought it was due to the fact that he was getting old. His struggles had so aged him that with his heavy beard and his round shoulders he looked ten years older than he was. In this white temple, on the pediment of which his name shone in letters of glorious gold, he was not so happy as in the modest houses in Italy or the little garret near the Plaza de Toros. All that was left of the Josephina of the first months of his married life was a distant shadow. The "_Maja Desnuda_" of the happy nights in Rome and Venice was nothing but a memory. On her return to Spain the false stoutness of motherhood had disappeared. She grew thin, as if some hidden fire were devouring her; the flesh that had covered her body with graceful curves melted away in the flames that burned within her. The sharp angles and dark hollows of her skeleton began to show beneath her pale, flabby flesh. Poor _"Maja Desnuda"!_ Her husband pitied her, attributing her decline to the struggles and cares she had suffered when they first returned to Madrid. For her sake, he was eager to conquer, to become rich, that he might provide her with the comforts he had dreamed of. Her illness seemed to be mental; it was neurasthenia, melancholia. The poor woman had suffered without doubt at being condemned to a pauper's existence, in Madrid, where she had once lived in comparative splendor, this time in a wretched house, struggling with poverty, forced to perform the most menial tasks. She complained of strange pains, her legs lost their strength, she sank into a chair where she would stay motionless for hours at a time, weeping without knowing why. Her digestion was poor; for weeks her stomach refused all nourishment. At night she would toss about in bed, unable to sleep and at daybreak she was up flitting about the house with a feverish activity, turning things upside down, finding fault with the servant, with her husband, with herself, until suddenly she would collapse from the height of her excitement and begin to cry. These domestic trials broke the painter's spirit, but he bore them patiently. Now a gentle sympathy was added to his former love, when he saw her so weak, without any remnant of her former charm except her eyes, sunk in their bluish sockets, bright with the mysterious fire of fever. Poor little girl! Her struggles brought her to such a pass. Her weakness filled Renovales with a sort of remorse. Her lot was that of the soldier who sacrifices himself for his general's glory. He had conquered, but he left behind him the woman he loved, fallen in the struggle because she was the weaker. He admired, too, her maternal self-sacrifice. The baby, Milita, who attracted attention because of her whiteness and ruddiness, had the strength that her mother lacked. The greediness of this strong, enslaving creature had absorbed all of the mother's life. When the artist was rich and installed his family in the new house, he thought that Josephina was going to get well. The doctors were confident of a rapid improvement. The first day that they walked through the parlors and studios of the new house, taking note of the furniture and the valuables, old and new, with a glance of satisfaction, Renovales put him arm around the waist of the weak little doll, bending his head over her, caressing her forehead with his bearded lips. Everything was hers, the house and its sumptuous decorations, hers too was the money that was left and that he would continue to make. She was the owner, the absolute mistress, she could spend all she wanted to, he would stand for everything. She could wear stylish clothes, have carriages, make her former friends green with envy, be proud of being the wife of a famous painter, much more proud than others who had landed a ducal crown by marriage. Was she satisfied? She said "Yes," nodding her assent weakly, and she even stood on tiptoe to kiss the lips that seemed to caress her through a cloud of hair, but her expression was sad and her listless movements were like a withered flower's, as if there was no joy on earth that could lift her out of this dejection. After a few days, when the first impress of the change in her mode of life was over, the old outbreaks that had so often disturbed their former dwelling began again in the luxurious palace. Renovales found her in the dining-room with her head in her hands, crying, but unwilling to explain the cause of her tears. When he tried to take her in his arms, caressing her like a child, the little woman became as agitated as if she had received an insult. "Let me go!" she cried with a hostile look. "Don't touch me. Go away!" At other times he looked all over the house for her in vain, questioning Milita who, accustomed to her mother's outbreaks and made selfish by her girlish strength, paid little attention to her and kept on playing with her dolls. "I don't know, papa; she's probably crying up stairs," she would answer naively. And in some corner of the upper story, in the bedroom, beside the bed or among the clothes in the wardrobe, the husband would find her, sitting on the floor with her chin in her hands, her eyes fixed on the wall as if she were looking at something invisible and mysterious that only she could see. She was not crying, her eyes were dry and enlarged with an expression of terror, and her husband tried in vain to attract her attention. She remained motionless, cold, indifferent to his caresses, as if he were a stranger, as if there were a hopeless gap between them. "I want to die," she said in a serious, tense tone. "I am of no use in the world; I want to rest." The deadly resignation would change a moment later into furious antagonism. Renovales could never tell how the quarrel began. The most insignificant word on his part, the expression of his face, silence even, was all that was needed to bring on the storm. Josephina began to speak with a taunting accent that made her words cut like cold steel. She found fault with the painter for what he did and what he did not do, for his most trifling habits, for what he painted, and presently, extending the radius of her insults to include the whole world, she broke out into denunciations of the distinguished people who formed her husband's clientele and brought him such profits. He might be satisfied with painting the portraits of those people, disreputable society men and women. Her mother, who was in close touch with that society, had told her many stories about them. The women she knew still better; almost all of them had been her companions at boarding-school or her friends. They had married to make sport of their husbands; they all had a past, they were worse than the women who walked the streets at night. This house with all its façade of laurels and its gold letters was a brothel. One of these fine days she would come into the studio and throw them into the street to have their pictures painted somewhere else. "For God's sake, Josephina," Renovales murmured with a troubled voice, "don't talk like that. Don't think of such outrageous things. I don't see how you can talk that way. Milita will hear us." Now that her nervous anger was exhausted, Josephina would burst into tears and Renovales would have to leave the table and take her to bed, where she lay, crying out for the hundredth time that she wanted to die. This life was even more intolerable because he was faithful to his wife, because his love, mingled with habit and routine, kept him firmly devoted to her. At the end of the afternoon, several of his friends used to gather in his studio, among them the jolly Cotoner who had moved to Madrid. When the twilight crept in through the huge window and made them all prone to friendly confidences, Renovales always made the same statement. "As a boy I had my good times just like anyone else, but since I was married I have never had anything to do with any woman except my own wife. I am proud to say so." And the big man drew himself up to his full height and stroked his beard, as proud of his faithfulness to his wife as other men are of their good fortune in love. When they talked about beautiful women in his presence, or looked at portraits of great foreign beauties, the master did not conceal his approval. "Very beautiful! Very pretty to paint!" His enthusiasm over beauty never went beyond the limits of art. There was only one woman in the world for him, his wife; the others were models. He, who carried in his mind a perfect orgy of flesh, who worshiped the nude with religious fervor, reserved all his manly homage for his wife who grew constantly more sickly, more gloomy, and waited with the patience of a lover for a moment of calm, a ray of sunlight among the incessant storms. The doctors, who admitted their inability to cure the nervous disorder that was consuming the wife, had hopes of a sudden change and recommended to the husband that he should be extremely kind to her. This only increased his patient gentleness. They attributed the nervous trouble to the birth and nursing of the child, that had broken her weak health; they suspected, too, the existence of some unknown cause that kept the sick woman in constant excitement. Renovales, who studied his wife closely in his eagerness to recover peace in his house, soon discovered the true cause of her illness. Milita was growing up; already she was a woman. She was fourteen years old and wore long skirts, and her healthy beauty was beginning to attract the glances of men. "One of these days they'll carry her off," said the master laughing. And his wife, when she heard him talking about marriage, making conjectures on his future son-in-law, closed her eyes and said in a tense voice, that revealed her insuperable obstinacy: "She shall marry anyone she wants to,--except a painter. I would rather see her dead than that." It was then Renovales divined his wife's true illness. It was jealousy, a terrific, deadly, ruinous jealousy; it was the sadness of realizing that she was sickly. She was certain of her husband; she knew his declarations of faithfulness to her. But when the painter spoke of his artistic interests in her presence, he did not hide his worship of beauty, his religious cult of form. Even if he was silent, she penetrated his thoughts; she read in him that fervor which dated from his youth and had grown greater as the years went by. When she looked at the statues of sovereign nakedness that decorated the studios, when she glanced through the albums of pictures where the light of flesh shone brightly amid the shadows of the engraving, she compared them mentally with her own form emaciated by illness. Renovales' eyes that seemed to worship every beauty of form were the same eyes that saw her in all her ugliness. That man could never love her. His faithfulness was pity, perhaps habit, unconscious virtue. She could not believe that it was love. This illusion might be possible with another man, but he was an artist. By day he worshiped beauty; at night he was brought face to face with ugliness, with physical wretchedness. She was constantly tormented by jealousy, that embittered her mind and consumed her life, a jealousy that was inconsolable for the very reason that it had no real foundation. The consciousness of her ugliness brought with it a sadness, an insatiable envy of everyone, a desire to die but to kill the world first, that she might drag it down with her in her fall. Her husband's caresses irritated her like an insult. Maybe he thought he loved her, maybe his advances were in good faith, but she read his thoughts and she found there her irresistible enemy, the rival that overshadowed her with her beauty. And there was no remedy for this. She was married to a man who, as long as he lived, would be faithful to his religion of beauty. How well she remembered the days when she had refused to allow her husband to paint her youthful body! If youth and beauty would but come back to her, she would recklessly cast off all her veils, would stand in the middle of the studio as arrogantly as a bacchante, crying, "Paint! Satisfy yourself with my flesh, and whenever you think of your eternal beloved, whom you call Beauty, fancy that you see her with my face, that she has my body!" It was a terrible misfortune to be the wife of an artist. She would never marry her daughter to a painter; she would rather see her dead. Men who carry with them the demon of form, cannot live in peace and happiness except with a companion who is eternally young, eternally fair. Her husband's fidelity made her desperate. That chaste artist was always musing over the memory of naked beauties, fancying pictures he did not dare to paint for fear of her. With her sick woman's penetration, she seemed to read this longing in her husband's face. She would have preferred certain infidelity, to see him in love with another woman, mad with passion. He might return from such a wandering outside the bonds of matrimony, wearied and humble, begging her forgiveness; but from the other, he would never return. When Renovates discovered the cause of her sadness, he tenderly undertook to cure his wife's mental disorder. He avoided speaking of his artistic interests in her presence; he discovered terrible defects in the fair ladies who sought him as a portrait painter; he praised Josephina's spiritual beauty; he painted pictures of her, putting her features on the canvas, but beautifying them with, subtle skill. She smiled, with that eternal condescension that a woman has for the most stupendous, most shameful deceits, as long as they flatter her. "It's you," said Renovales, "your face, your charm, your air of distinction. I really don't think I have made you as beautiful as you are." She continued to smile, but soon her look grew hard, her lips tightened and the shadow spread little by little across her face. She fixed her eyes on the painter's as if she were scrutinizing his thoughts. It was a lie. Her husband was flattering her; he thought he loved her, but only his flesh was faithful. The invincible enemy, the eternal beloved, was mistress of his mind. Tortured by this mental unfaithfulness and by the rage which her helplessness produced, she would gradually fall into one of the nervous storms that broke out in a shower of tears and a thunder of insults and recriminations. Renovales' life was a hell at the very time when he possessed the glory and wealth which he had dreamed of so many years, building on them his hope of happiness. IV It was three o'clock in the afternoon when the painter went home after his luncheon with the Hungarian. As he entered the dining-room, before going to the studio, he saw two women with their hats and veils on who looked as if they were getting ready to go out. One of them, as tall as the painter, threw her arms around his neck. "Papa, dear, we waited for you until nearly two o'clock. Did you have a good luncheon?" And she kissed him noisily, rubbing her fresh, rosy cheeks against the master's gray beard. Renovales smiled good naturedly under this shower of caresses. Ah, his Milita! She was the only joy in that gloomy, showy house. It was she who sweetened that atmosphere of tedious strife which seemed to emanate from the sick woman. He looked at his daughter with an air of comic gallantry. "Very pretty; yes, I swear you are very pretty to-day. You are a perfect Rubens, my dear, a brunette Rubens. And where are we going to show off?" He looked with a father's pride at that strong, rosy body, in which the transition to womanhood was marked by a sort of passing delicacy--the result of her rapid growth--and a dark circle around her eyes. Her soft, mysterious glance was that of a woman who is beginning to understand the meaning of life. She dressed with a sort of exotic elegance; her clothes had a masculine appearance; her mannish collar and tie were in keeping with the rigid energy of her movements, with her wide-soled English boots, and the violent swing of her legs that opened her skirts like a compass when she walked, more intent on speed and a heavy step than on a graceful carriage. The master admired her healthy beauty. What a splendid specimen! The race would not die out with her. She was like him, wholly like him; if he had been a woman, he would have been like his Milita. She kept on talking, without taking her arms from her father's shoulders, with her eyes, tremulous like molten gold, fixed on the master. She was going for her daily walk with "Miss," a two hours' tramp through the Castellana and the Retiro, without stopping a moment to sit down, taking a peripatetic lesson in English on the way. For the first time Renovates turned around to speak to "Miss," a stout woman with a red, wrinkled face who, when she smiled, showed a set of teeth that shone like yellow dominoes. In the studio Renovales and his friends often laughed at "Miss's" appearance and eccentricities, at her red wig that was placed on her head as carelessly as a hat, at her terrible false teeth, at her bonnets that she made herself out of chance bits of ribbon and discarded ornaments, of her chronic lack of appetite, that forced her to live on beer, which kept her in a continual state of confusion, which was revealed in her exaggerated curtsies. Soft and heavy from drink, she was alarmed at the approach of the hour of the walk, a daily torment for her, as she tried painfully to keep up with Milita's long strides. Seeing the painter looking at her, she turned even redder and made three profound curtsies. "Oh, Mr. Renovales, oh, sir!" And she did not call him "Lord," because the master greeting her with a nod, forgot her presence and began to talk again with his daughter. Milita was eager to hear about her father's luncheon with Tekli. And so he had had some Chianti? Selfish man! When he knew how much she liked it! He ought to have let them know sooner that he would not be home. Fortunately Cotoner was at the house and mamma had made him stay, so that they would not have to lunch alone. Their old friend had gone to the kitchen and prepared one of those dishes he had learned to make in the days when he was a landscape-painter. Milita observed that all landscape-painters knew something about cooking. Their outdoor life, the necessities of their wandering existence among country inns and huts, defying poverty, gave them a liking for this art. They had had a very pleasant luncheon; mamma had laughed at Cotoner's jokes, who was always in good humor, but during the dessert, when Soldevilla, Renovales' favorite pupil, came, she had felt indisposed and had disappeared to hide her eyes swimming with tears and her breast that heaved with sobs. "She's probably upstairs," said the girl with a sort of indifference, accustomed to these outbreaks. "Good-by, papa, dear, a kiss. Cotoner and Soldevilla are waiting for you in the studio. Another kiss. Let me bite you." And after fixing her little teeth gently in one of the master's cheeks, she ran out, followed by Miss, who was already puffing in anticipation at the thought of the tiresome walk. Renovales remained motionless as if he hesitated to shake off the atmosphere of affection in which his daughter enveloped him. Milita was his, wholly his. She loved her mother, but her affection was cold in comparison with the ardent passion she felt for him--that vague, instinctive preference girls feel for their fathers and which is, as it were, a forecast of the worship the man they love will later inspire in them. For a moment he thought of looking for Josephina to console her, but after a brief reflection, he gave up the idea. It probably was nothing; his daughter was not disturbed; a sudden fit such as she usually had. If he went upstairs he would run the risk of an unpleasant scene that would spoil the afternoon, rob him of his desire to work and banish the youthful light-heartedness that filled him after his luncheon with Tekli. He turned his steps towards the last studio, the only one that deserved the name, for it was there he worked, and he saw Cotoner sitting in a huge armchair, the seat of which sagged under his corpulent frame, with his elbows resting on the oaken arms, his waistcoat unbuttoned to relieve his well-filled paunch, his head sunk between his shoulders, his face red and sweating, his eyes half closed with the sweet joy of digestion in that comfortable atmosphere heated by a huge stove. Cotoner was getting old; his mustache was white and his head was bald, but his face was as rosy and shining as a child's. He breathed the placidness of a respectable old bachelor whose only love is for good living and who appreciates the digestive sleepiness of the boaconstrictor as the greatest of happiness. He was tired of living in Rome. Commissions were scarce. The Popes lived longer than the Biblical patriarchs. The chromo portraits of the Pontiff had simply forced him out of business. Besides, he was old and the young painters who came to Rome did not know him; they were poor fellows who looked on him as a clown, and never laid aside their seriousness except to make sport of him. His time had passed. The echoes of Mariano's triumphs at home had come to his ears, had determined him to move to Madrid. Life was the same everywhere. He had friends in Madrid, too. And here he had continued the life he had led in Rome, without any effort, feeling a kind of longing for glory in that narrow personality which had made him a mere day-laborer in art, as if his relations with Renovales imposed on him the duty of seeking a place near his in the world of painting. He had gone back to landscapes, never winning any greater success than the simple admirations of wash-women and brickmakers who gathered around his easel in the suburbs of Madrid, whispering to each other that the gentleman who wore on his lapel the variegated button of his numerous Papal Orders, must be a famous old "buck," one of the great painters the papers talked about. Renovales had secured for him two honorable mentions at the Exhibitions and after this victory, shared with all the young chaps who were just beginning, Cotoner settled down in the rut, to rest forever, counting that the mission of his life was fulfilled. Life in Madrid was no more difficult for him than in Rome. He slept at the house of a priest whom he had known in Italy, and had accompanied on his tours as Papal representative. This chaplain, who was employed in the office of the Rota, considered it a great honor to entertain the artist, recalling his friendly relations with the cardinals and believing that he was in correspondence with the Pope himself. They had agreed on a sum which he was to pay for his lodging, but the priest did not seem to be in any hurry for payment; he would soon give him a commission for a painting for some nuns for whom he was confessor. The eating problem offered still less difficulty for Cotoner. He had the days of the week divided among various rich families noted for their piety, whom he had met in Rome during the great Spanish pilgrimages. They were wealthy miners from Bilbao, gentlemen farmers from Andalusia, old marchionesses who thought about God a great deal, but continued to live their comfortable life to which they gave a serious tone by the respectable color of devotion. The painter felt closely attached to this little group; they were serious, religious and they ate well. Everyone called him "good Cotoner." The ladies smiled with gratitude when he presented them with a rosary or some other article of devotion brought from Rome. If they expressed the desire of obtaining some dispensation from the Vatican, he would offer to write to "his friend the cardinal." The husbands, glad to entertain an artist so cheaply, consulted him about the plan for a new chapel or the designs for an altar, and on their saint's day they would receive with a condescending mien some present from Cotoner--a "little daub," a landscape painted on a piece of wood, that often needed an explanation before they could understand what it was meant for. At dinners he was a constant source of amusement for these people of solid principles and measured words, with his stories of the strange doings of the "Monsignori" or the "Eminences" he used to know in Rome. They listened to these jokes with a sort of unction, however dubious they were, seeing that they came from such respectable personages. When the round of invitations was interrupted by illness or absence, and Cotoner lacked a place to dine, he stayed at Renovales' house without waiting for an invitation. The master wanted him to live with them, but he did not accept. He was very fond of the family; Milita played with him as if he were an old dog, Josephina felt a sort of affection for him, because his presence reminded her of the good old days in Rome. But Cotoner, in spite of this, seemed to be somewhat reluctant, divining the storms that darkened the master's life. He preferred his free existence, to which he adapted himself with the ease of a parasite. After dinner was over, he would listen to the weighty discussions between learned priests and serious old church-goers, nodding his approval, and an hour later he would be jesting impiously in some café or other with painters, actors and journalists. He knew everybody; he only needed to speak to an artist twice and he would call him by his first name and swear that he loved and admired him from the bottom of his heart. When Renovales came into the studio, he shook off his drowsiness and stretched out his short legs so that he could touch the floor and get out of the chair. "Did they tell you, Mariano? A magnificent dish! I made them an Andalusian pot-pourri! They were tickled to death over it!" He was enthusiastic over his culinary achievement as if all his merits were summed up in this skill. Afterwards, while Renovales was handing his coat and hat to the servant who followed him, Cotoner with the curiosity of an intimate friend who wants to know all the details of his idol's life, questioned him about his luncheon with the foreigner. Renovales lay down on a divan deep as a niche, between two bookcases and lined with piles of cushions. As they spoke of Tekli, they recalled friends in Rome, painters of different nationalities who twenty years before had walked with their heads high, following the star of hope as if they were hypnotized. Renovales, in his pride in his strength, incapable of hypocritical modesty, declared that he was the only one who had succeeded. Poor Tekli was a professor; his copy of Velásquez amounted to nothing more than the work of a patient cart horse in art. "Do you think so?" asked Cotoner doubtfully. "Is his work so poor?" His selfishness kept him from saying a word against anyone; he had no faith in criticism, he believed blindly in praise; thereby preserving his reputation as a good fellow, which gave him the entree everywhere and made his life easy. The figure of the Hungarian was fixed in his memory and made him think of a series of luncheons before he left Madrid. "Good afternoon, master." It was Soldevilla who came out from behind a screen with his hands clasped behind his back under the tail of his short sack coat, his head in the air, tortured by the excessive height of his stiff, shining collar, throwing out his chest so as to show off better his velvet waistcoat. His thinness and his small stature were made up for by the length of his blond mustache that curled around his pink little nose as if it were trying to reach the straight, scraggly bangs on his forehead. This Soldevilla was Renovales' favorite pupil--"his weakness" Cotoner called him. The master had fought a great battle to win him the fellowship at Rome; afterward he had given him the prize at several exhibitions. He looked on him almost as a son, attracted perhaps by the contrast between his own rough strength and the weakness of that artistic dandy, always proper, always amiable, who consulted this master about everything, even if afterwards he did not pay much attention to his advice. When he criticized his fellow painters, he did it with a venomous suavity, with a feminine finesse. Renovales laughed at his appearance and his habits and Cotoner joined in. He was like china, always shining; you could not find the least speck of dust on him; you were sure he slept in a cupboard. These present-day painters! The two old artists recalled the disorder of their youth, their Bohemian carelessness, with long beards and huge hats, all their odd extravagances to distinguish them from the rest of men, forming a world by themselves. They felt out of humor with these painters of the last batch--proper, prudent, incapable of doing anything absurd, copying the fashions of the idle and presenting the appearance of State functionaries, clerks, who wielded the brush. His greeting over, Soldevilla fairly overwhelmed the master with his effusive praise. He had been admiring the portrait of the Countess of Alberca. "A perfect marvel, master. The best thing you have painted, and it's only half done, too." This praise aroused Renovales. He got up, shoved aside the screen and pulled out an easel that held a large canvas, until it was opposite the light that came in through the wide window. On a gray background stood a woman dressed in white, with that majesty of beauty that is accustomed to admiration. The aigrette of feathers and diamonds seemed to tremble on her tawny yellow curls, the curve of her breasts was outlined through the lace of her low-necked gown, her gloves reached above her elbows, in one of her hands she held a costly fan, in the other, a dark cloak, lined with flame-colored satin, that slipped from her bare shoulders, on the point of falling. The lower part of the figure was merely outlined in charcoal on the white canvas. The head, almost finished, seemed to look at the three men with its proud eyes, cold, but with a false coldness that bespoke a hidden passion within, a dead volcano that might come to life at any moment. She was a tall, stately woman, with a charming, well-proportioned figure, who seemed to keep the freshness of youth, thanks to the healthy, comfortable life she led. The corners of her eyes were narrowed with a tired fold. Cotoner looked at her from his seat with chaste calmness, commenting tranquilly on her beauty, feeling above temptation. "It's she, you've caught her, Mariano. She has been a great woman." Renovales appeared offended at this comment. "She is," he said with a sort of hostility. "She is still." Cotoner could not argue with his idol and he hastened to correct himself. "She is a charming woman, very attractive, yes sir, and very stylish. They say she is talented and cannot bear to let men who worship her suffer. She has certainly enjoyed life." Renovales began to bristle again, as if these words cut him. "Nonsense! lies, calumnies!" he said angrily. "Inventions of some young fellows who spread these disgraceful reports because they were rejected." Cotoner began to explain away what he had said. He did not know anything, he had heard it. The ladies at whose houses he dined spoke ill of the Alberca woman, but perhaps it was merely woman's gossip. There was a moment of silence and Renovales, as if he wanted to change the subject of conversation, turned to Soldevilla. "And you, aren't you painting any longer? I always find you here in working hours." He smiled somewhat knowingly as he said this, while the youth blushed and tried to make excuses. He was working hard, but every day he felt the need of dropping into his master's studio for a minute before he went to his own. It was a habit he had formed when he was a beginner, in that period, the best in his life, when he studied beside the great painter in a studio far less sumptuous than this. "And Milita? Did you see her?" continued Renovales with a good-natured smile that had not lost its playfulness. "Didn't she 'kid' you, for wearing that dazzling new tie?" Soldevilla smiled too. He had been in the dining-room with Doña Josephina and Milita and the latter had made fun of him as usual. But she did not mean anything; the master knew that Milita and he treated each other like brother and sister. More than once when she was a little tot and he a lad, he had acted as her horse, trotting around the old studio with the little scamp on his back, pulling his hair and pounding him with her tiny fists. "She's very cute," interrupted Cotoner. "She is the most attractive, the best girl I know." "And the unequaled López de Sosa?" asked the master, once more in a playful tone. "Didn't that 'chauffeur' that drives us crazy with his automobiles come to-day?" Soldevilla's smile disappeared. He grew pale and his eyes flashed spitefully. No, he had not seen the gentleman. According to the ladies, he was busy repairing an automobile that had broken down on the Pardo road. And as if the recollection of this friend of the family was trying for him and he wished to avoid any further allusions to him, he said "good-by" to the master. He was going to work; he must take advantage of the two hours of sunlight that were left. But before he went out he stopped to say another word in praise of the portrait of the countess. The two friends remained alone for a long while in silence. Renovales, buried in the shadow of that niche of Persian stuffs with which his divan was canopied, gazed at the picture. "Is she going to come to-day?" asked Cotoner, pointing to the canvas. Renovales shrugged his shoulders. To-day or the next day; it was impossible to do any serious work with that woman. He expected her that afternoon; but he would not feel surprised if she failed to keep her appointment. For nearly a month he had been unable to get in two days in succession. She was always engaged; she was president of societies for the education and emancipation of woman; she was constantly planning festivals and raffles; the activity of a tired woman of society, the fluttering of a wild bird that made her want to be everywhere at the same time, without the will to withdraw when once she was started in the current of feminine excitement. Suddenly the painter whose eyes were fixed on the portrait gave a cry of enthusiasm. "What a woman, Pepe! What a woman to paint!" His eyes seemed to lay bare the beauty that stood on the canvas in all its aristocratic grandeur. They strove to penetrate the mystery of that covering of lace and silk, to see the color and the lines of the form that was hardly revealed through the gown. This mental reconstruction was helped by the bare shoulders and the curve of her breasts that seemed to tremble at the edge of her dress, separated by a line of soft shadow. "That's just what I told your wife," said the Bohemian naively. "If you paint beautiful women, like the countess, it is merely for the sake of painting them and not that you would think of seeing in them anything more than a model." "Aha! So my wife has been talking to you about that!" Cotoner hastened to set his mind at ease, fearing his digestion might be disturbed. A mere trifle, nervousness on the part of poor Josephina, who saw the dark side of everything in her illness. She had referred during the luncheon to the Alberca woman and her portrait. She did not seem to be very fond of her, in spite of the fact that she had been her companion in boarding-school. She felt as other women did; the countess was an enemy, who inspired them with fear. But he had calmed her and finally succeeded in making her smile faintly. There was no use in talking about that any longer. But Renovales did not share his friend's optimism. He was well aware of his wife's state of mind; he understood now the motive that had made her flee from the table, to take refuge upstairs and to weep and long for death. She hated Concha as she did all the women who entered his studio. But this impression of sadness did not last very long in the painter; he was used to his wife's susceptibility. Besides, the consciousness of his faithfulness calmed him. His conscience was clean, and Josephina might believe what she would. It would only be one more injustice and he was resigned to endure his slavery without complaint. In order to forget his trouble, he began to talk about painting. The recollection of his conversation with Tekli enlivened him, for Tekli had been traveling all over Europe and was well acquainted with what the most famous masters were thinking and painting. "I'm getting old, Cotoner. Did you think I didn't know it? No, don't protest. I know that I am not old; forty-three years. I mean that I have lost my gait and cannot get started. It's a long time since I have done anything new; I always strike the same note. You know that some people, envious of my reputation are always throwing that defect in my face, like a vile insult." And the painter, with the selfishness of great artists who always think that they are neglected and the world begrudges them their glory, complained at the slavery that was imposed upon him by his good fortune. Making money! What a calamity for art! If the world were governed by his common sense, artists with talent would be supported by the State, which would generously provide for all their needs and whims. There would be no need of bothering about making a living. "Paint what you want to, and as you please." Then great things would be done and art would advance with giant strides, not constrained to debase itself by flattering public vulgarity and the ignorance of the rich. But now, to be a celebrated painter it was necessary to make money and this could not be done except by portraits, opening a shop, painting the first one that appeared, without the right of choice. Accursed painting! In writing, poverty was a merit. It stood for truth and honesty. But the painter must be rich, his talent was judged by his profits. The fame of his pictures was connected with the idea of thousands of dollars. When people talked about his work they always said, "He's making such and such a sum of money," and to keep up this wealth, the indispensable companion of his glory, he had to paint by the job, cringing before the vulgar throng that pays. Renovales walked excitedly around the portrait. Sometimes this laborer's work was tolerable, when he was painting beautiful women and men whose faces had the light of intelligence. But the vulgar politicians, the rich men that looked like porters, the stout dames with dead faces that he had to paint! When he let his love for truth overcome him and copied the model as he saw it, he won another enemy, who paid the bill grumblingly and went away to tell everyone that Renovales was not so great as people thought. To avoid this he lied in his painting, having recourse to the methods employed by other mediocre artists and this base procedure tormented his conscience, as if he were robbing his inferiors who deserved respect for the very reason that they were less endowed for artistic production than he. "Besides, that is not painting, the whole of painting. We think we are artists because we can reproduce a face, and the face is only a part of the body. We tremble with fear at the thought of the nude. We have forgotten it. We speak of it with respect and fear, as we would of something religious, worthy of worship, but something we never see close at hand. A large part of our talent is the talent of a dry-goods clerk. Cloth, nothing but cloth; garments. The body must be carefully wrapped up or we flee from it as from a danger." He ceased his nervous walking to and fro and stopped in front of the picture, fixing his gaze on it. "Imagine, Pepe," he said in an undertone, looking first instinctively toward the door, with that eternal fear of being heard by his wife in the midst of his artistic raptures. "Imagine, if that woman would undress; if I could paint her as she certainly is." Cotoner burst into laughter with a look like a knavish friar. "Wonderful, Mariano, a masterpiece. But she won't. I'm sure she would refuse to undress, though I admit she isn't always particular." Renovales shook his fists in protest. "And why won't they? What a rut! What vulgarity!" In his artistic selfishness he fancied that the world had been created without any other purpose than supporting painters, the rest of humanity was made to serve them as models, and he was shocked at this incomprehensible modesty. Ah, where could they find now the beauties of Greece, the calm models of sculptors, the pale Venetian ladies painted by Titian, the graceful Flemish women of Rubens, and the dainty, sprightly beauties of Goya? Beauty was eclipsed forever behind the veils of hypocrisy and false modesty. Women had one lover to-day, another to-morrow and still they blushed at recalling the woman of other times, far more pure than they, who did not hesitate to reveal to the public admiration the perfect work of God, the chastity of the nude. Renovales lay down on the divan again, and in the twilight he talked confidentially with Cotoner in a subdued voice, sometimes looking toward the door as if he feared being overheard. For some time he had been dreaming of a masterpiece. He had it in his imagination complete even to the least details. He saw it, closing his eyes, just at it would be, if he ever succeeded in painting it. It was Phryne, the famous beauty of Athens, appearing naked before the crowd of pilgrims on the beach of Delphi. All the suffering humanity of Greece walked on the shore of the sea toward the famous temple, seeking divine intervention for the relief of their ills, cripples with distorted limbs, repulsive lepers, men swollen with dropsy, pale, suffering women, trembling old men, youths disfigured in hideous expressions, withered arms like bare bones, shapeless elephant legs, all the phases of a perverted Nature, the piteous, desperate expressions of human pain. When they see on the beach Phryne, the glory of Greece, whose beauty was a national pride, the pilgrims stop and gaze upon her, turning their backs to the temple, that outlines its marble columns in the background of the parched mountains; and the beautiful woman, filled with pity by this procession of suffering, desires to brighten their sadness, to cast a handful of health and beauty among their wretched furrows, and tears off her veils, giving them the royal alms of her nakedness. The white, radiant body is outlined on the dark blue of the sea. The wind scatters her hair like golden serpents on her ivory shoulders; the waves that die at her feet, toss upon her stars of foam that make her skin tremble with the caress from her amber neck down to her rosy feet. The wet sand, polished and bright as a mirror, reproduces the sovereign nakedness, inverted and confused in serpentine lines that take on the shimmer of the rainbow as they disappear. And the pilgrims, on their knees, in the ecstasy of worship, stretch out their arms toward the mortal goddess, believing that Beauty and eternal Health have come to meet them. Renovales sat up and grasped Cotoner's arm as he described his future picture, and his friend nodded his approval gravely, impressed by the description. "Very fine! Sublime, Mariano!" But the master became dejected again after this flash of enthusiasm. The task was very difficult. He would have to go and take up quarters on the shore of the Mediterranean, on some secluded beach at Valencia or in Catalonia; he would have to build a cabin on the very edge of the sand where the water breaks with its bright reflections, and take woman after woman there, a hundred if it was necessary, in order to study the whiteness of their skin against the blue of the sea and sky, until he found the divine body of the Phryne he had dreamed. "Very difficult," murmured Renovales. "I tell you it is very difficult. There are so many obstacles to struggle against." Cotoner leaned forward with a confidential expression. "And besides, there's the mistress," he said in a quiet voice, looking at the door with a sort of fear. "I don't believe Josephina would be very much pleased with this picture and its pack of models." The master lowered his head. "If you only knew, Pepe! If you could see the life I lead every day!" "I know what it is," Cotoner hastened to say, "or rather, I can imagine. Don't tell me anything." And in his haste to avoid the sad confidences of his friend, there was a great deal of selfishness, the desire not to disturb his peaceful calm with other men's sorrows that excite only a distant interest. Renovales spoke after a long silence. He often wondered whether an artist ought to be married or single. Other men, of weak, hesitating character needed the support of a comrade, the atmosphere of a family. He recalled with relish the first few months of his married life; but since then it had weighed on him like a chain. He did not deny the existence of love; he needed the sweet company of a woman in order to live, but with intermissions, without the endless imprisonment of common life. Artists like himself ought to be free, he was sure of it. "Oh, Pepe, if I had only stayed like you, master of my time and my work, without having to think what my family will say if they see me painting this or that, what great things I should have done!" The old man, who had failed in all his tasks, was going to say something when the door of the studio opened and Renovales' servant came in, a little man with fat red cheeks and a high voice which, according to Cotoner, sounded like the messenger of a monastery. "The countess." Cotoner jumped out of his armchair. Those models didn't like to see people in the studio. How could he get out? Renovales helped him to find his hat, coat and cane, which with his usual carelessness he had left in different corners of the studio. The master pushed him out of a door that led into the garden. Then, when he was alone, he ran to an old Venetian mirror, and looked at himself for a moment in its deep, bluish surface, smoothing his curly gray hair with his fingers. V She came in with a great rustling of silks and laces, her least step accompanied by the _frou-frou_ of her skirts, scattering various perfumes, like the breath of an exotic garden. "Good afternoon, _mon cher maître_." As she looked at him through her tortoise-shell lorgnette, hanging from a gold chain, the gray amber of her eyes took on an insolent stare through the glasses, a strange expression, half caressing, half mocking. He must pardon her for being so late. She was sorry for her lack of attention, but she was the busiest woman in Madrid. The things she had done since luncheon! Signing and examining papers with the secretary of the "Women's League," a conference with the carpenter and the foreman (two rough fellows who fairly devoured her with their eyes), who had charge of putting up the booths for the great fair for the benefit of destitute working women; a call on the president of the Cabinet, a somewhat dissolute old gentleman, in spite of his gravity, who received her with the airs of an old-fashioned gallant, kissing her hand, as they used to in a minuet. "We have lost the afternoon, haven't we, _maître?_ There's hardly sun enough to work by now. Besides, I didn't bring my maid to help me." She pointed with her lorgnette to the door of an alcove that served as a dressing-room for the models and where she kept the evening gown and the flame-colored cloak in which he was painting her. Renovales, after looking furtively at the entrance of the studio, assumed an arrogant air of swaggering gallantry, such as he used to have in his youth in Rome, free and obstreperous. "You needn't give up on that account. If you will let me, I'll act as maid for you." The countess began to laugh loudly, throwing back her head and shoulders, showing her white throat that shook with merriment. "Oh, what a good joke! And how daring the master is getting. You don't know anything about such things, Renovales. All you can do is paint. You are not in practice." And in her accent of subtle irony, there was something like pity for the artist, removed from mundane things, whose conjugal virtue everyone knew. This seemed to offend him for he spoke to the countess very sharply as he picked up the palette and prepared the colors. There was no need of changing her dress; he would make use of what little daylight remained to work on the head. Concha took off her hat and then, before the same Venetian mirror in which the painter had looked at himself, began to touch up her hair. Her arms curved around her golden head, while Renovales contemplated the grace of her back, seeing at the same time her face and breast in the glass. She hummed as she arranged her hair, with her eyes fixed on their own reflection, not letting anything distract her in this important operation. That brilliant, striking golden hair was probably bleached. The painter was sure of it, but it did not seem less beautiful to him on that account. The beauties of Venice in the olden times used to dye their hair. The countess sat down in an armchair, a short distance from the easel. She felt tired and as long as he was not going to paint anything but her face, he would not be so cruel as to make her stand, as he did on days of real sittings. Renovales answered with monosyllables and shrugs of his shoulders. That was all right--for what they were going to do. An afternoon lost. He would limit himself to working on her hair and her forehead. She might take it easy, looking anywhere she wanted to. The master did not feel any desire to work either. A dull anger disturbed him; he was irritated by the ironical accent of the countess who saw in him a man different from other men, a strange being who was incapable of acting like the insipid young men who formed her court and many of whom, according to common gossip, were her lovers. A strange woman, provoking and cold! He felt like falling on her, in his rage at her offence, and beating her with the same scorn that he would a low woman, to make her feel his manly superiority. Of all the ladies whose pictures he had painted, none had disturbed his artistic calm as she had. He felt attracted by her mad jesting, by her almost childish levity, and at the same time he hated her for the pitying air with which she treated him. For her he was a good fellow, but very commonplace, who by some rare caprice of Nature possessed the gift of painting well. Renovales returned this scorn by insulting her mentally. That Countess of Alberca was a fine one. No wonder people talked about her. Perhaps when she appeared in his studio, always in a hurry and out of breath, she came from a private interview with some one of those young bloods that hung around her, attracted by her still fresh, alluring maturity. But if Concha spoke to him with her easy freedom, telling him of the sadness she said she felt and allowing herself to confide in him, as if they were united by a long standing friendship, that was enough to make the master change his thoughts immediately. She was a superior woman of ideals, condemned to live in a depressing aristocratic atmosphere. All the gossip about her was a calumny, a lie forged by envious people. She ought to be the companion of a superior man, of an artist. Renovales knew her history; he was proud of the friendly confidence she had had in him. She was the only daughter of a distinguished gentleman, a solemn jurist, and a violent Conservative, a minister in the most reactionary cabinets of the reign of Isabel II. She had been educated at the same school as Josephina, who in spite of the fact that Concha was four years her senior, retained a vivid recollection of her lively companion. "For mischief and deviltry you can't beat Conchita Salazar." It was thus that Renovales heard her name for the first time. Then when the artist and his wife had moved from Venice to Madrid, he learned that she had changed her name to that of the Countess of Alberca by marrying a man who might have been her father. He was an old courtier who performed his duties as a grandee of Spain with great conscientiousness, proud of his slavery to the royal family. His ambition was to belong to all the honorable orders of Europe and as soon as he was named to one of them, he had his picture painted, covered with scarfs and crosses, wearing the uniform of one of the traditional military Orders. His wife laughed to see him, so little, bald and solemn, with high boots, a dangling sword, his breast covered with trinkets, a white plumed helmet resting in his lap. During the life of isolation and privation with which Renovales struggled so courageously, the papers brought to the artist's wretched house the echoes of the triumphs of the "fair Countess of Alberca." Her name appeared in the first line of every account of an aristocratic function. Besides, they called her "enlightened," and talked about her literary culture, her classic education which she owed to her "illustrious father," now dead. And with this public news there reached the artist on the whispering wings of Madrid gossip other tales that represented the Countess of Alberca as consoling herself merrily for the mistake she had made in marrying an old man. At Court, they had taken her name from the lists, as a result of this reputation. Her husband took part at all the royal functions, for he did not have a chance every day to show off his load of honorary hardware, but she stayed at home, loathing these ceremonious affairs. Renovales had often heard her declare, dressed luxuriously and wearing costly jewels in her ears and on her breast, that she laughed at his set, that she was on the inside, she was an anarchist! And he laughed as he heard her, just as all men laughed at what they called the "ways" of the Alberca woman. When Renovales won success and, as a famous master, returned to those drawing rooms through which he had passed in his youth, he felt the attraction of the countess who in her character as a "woman of intellect," insisted on gathering celebrated men about her. Josephina did not accompany him in this return to society. She felt ill; contact with the same people in the same places tired her; she lacked the strength to undertake even the trips her doctors urged upon her. The countess enrolled the painter in her following, appearing offended when he failed to present himself at her house on the afternoons on which she received her friends. What ingratitude to show to such a fervent admirer! How she liked to exhibit him before her friends, as if he were a new jewel! "The painter Renovales, the famous master." At one of these afternoon receptions, the count spoke to Renovales with the serious air of a man who is crushed beneath his worldly honors. "Concha wants a portrait done by you, and I like to please her in every way. You can say when to begin. She is afraid to propose it to you and has commissioned me to do it. I know that your work is better than that of other painters. Paint her well, so that she may be pleased." And noticing that Renovales seemed rather offended at his patronizing familiarity, he added as if he were doing him another favor. "If you have success with Concha, you may paint my picture afterward. I am only waiting for the Grand Chrysanthemum of Japan. At the Government offices they tell me the titles will come one of these days." Renovales began the countess's portrait. The task was prolonged by that rattle-brained woman who always came late, alleging that she had been busy. Many days the artist did not take a stroke with his brush; they spent the time chatting. At other times the master listened in silence while she with her ceaseless volubility made fun of her friends and related their secret defects, their most intimate habits, their mysterious amours, with a kind of relish, as if all women were her enemies. In the midst of one of these confidential talks, she stopped and said with a shy expression and an ironical accent: "But I am probably shocking you, Mariano. You, who are a good husband, a staunch family-man." Renovales felt tempted to choke her. She was making fun of him; she looked on him as a man different from the rest of men, a sort of monk of painting. Eager to wound her, to return the blow, he interrupted once brutally in the midst of her merciless gossip. "Well, they talk about you, too, Concha. They say things that wouldn't be very pleasing to the count." He expected an outburst of anger, a protest, and all that resounded in the silence of the studio was a merry, reckless laugh that lasted a long time, stopping occasionally, only to begin again. Then she grew pensive, with the gentle sadness of women who are "misunderstood." She was very unhappy. She could tell him everything because he was a good friend. She had married when she was still a child; a terrible mistake. There was something else in the world besides the glare of fortune, the splendor of luxury and that count's coronet, which had stirred her school-girl's mind. "We have the right to a little love, and if not love, to a little joy. Don't you think so, Mariano?" Of course he thought so. And he declared it in such a way, looking at Concha with alarming eyes, that she finally laughed at his frankness and threatened him with her finger. "Take care, master. Don't forget that Josephina is my friend and if you go astray, I'll tell her everything." Renovales was irritated at her disposition, always restless and capricious as a bird's, quite as likely to sit down beside him in warm intimacy as to flit away with tormenting banter. Sometimes she was aggressive, teasing the artist from her very first words, as had just happened that afternoon. They were silent for a long time--he, painting with an absent-minded air, she watching the movement of the brush, buried in an armchair in the sweet calm of rest. But the Alberca woman was incapable of remaining silent long. Little by little her usual chatter began, paying no attention to the painter's silence, talking to relieve the convent-like stillness of the studio with her words and laughter. The painter heard the story of her labors as president of the "Women's League," of the great things she meant to do in the holy undertaking for the emancipation of the sex. And, in passing, led on by her desire of ridiculing all women, she gaily made sport of her co-workers in the great project; unknown literary women, school teachers, whose lives were embittered by their ugliness, painters of flowers and doves, a throng of poor women with extravagant hats and clothes that looked as though they were hung on a bean-pole; feminine Bohemians, rebellious and rabid against their lot, who were proud to have her as their leader and who made it a point to call her "Countess" in sonorous tones at every other word, in order to flatter themselves with the distinction of this friendship. The Alberca woman was greatly amused at her following of admirers; she laughed at their intolerance and their proposals. "Yes, I know what it is," said Renovales breaking his long silence. "You want to annihilate us, to reign over man, whom you hate." The countess laughed at the recollection of the fierce feminism of some of her acolytes. As most of them were homely, they hated feminine beauty as a sign of weakness. They wanted the woman of the future to be without hips, without breasts, straight, bony, muscular, fitted for all sorts of manual labor, free from the slavery of love and reproduction. "Down with feminine fat!" "What a frightful idea! Don't you think so, Mariano?" she continued. "Woman, straight in front and straight behind, with her hair cut short and her hands hardened, competing with men in all sorts of struggles! And they call that emancipation! I know what men are; if they saw us looking like that, in a few days they would be beating us." No, she was not one of them. She wanted to see a woman triumph, but by increasing still more her charm and her fascination. If they took away her beauty what would she have left? She wanted her to be man's equal in intelligence, his superior by the magic of her beauty. "I don't hate men, Mariano, I am very much a woman, and I like them. What's the use of denying it?" "I know it, Concha, I know it," said the painter, with a malicious meaning. "What do you know? Lies, gossip that people tell about me because I am not a hypocrite and am not always wearing a gloomy expression." And led on by that desire for sympathy that all women of questionable reputation experience, she spoke once more of her unpleasant situation. Renovales knew the count, a good man in spite of his hobbies, who thought of nothing but his honorary trinkets. She did everything for him, watched out for his comfort, but he was nothing to her. She lacked the most important thing--heart-love. As she spoke she looked up, with a longing idealism that would have made anyone but Renovales smile. "In this situation," she said slowly, looking into space, "it isn't strange that a woman seeks happiness where she can find it. But I am very unhappy, Mariano; I don't know what love is. I have never loved." Ah, she would have been happy, if she had married a man who was her superior. To be the companion of a great artist, of a scholar, would have meant happiness for her. The men who gathered around her in her drawing-rooms were younger and stronger than the poor count, but mentally they were even weaker than he. There was no such thing as virtue in the world, she admitted that; she did not dare to lie to a friend like the painter. She had had her diversions, her whims, just as many other women who passed as impregnable models of virtue, but she always came out of these misdoings with a feeling of disenchantment and disgust. She knew that love was a reality for other women, but she had never succeeded in finding it. Renovales had stopped painting. The sunlight no longer came in through the wide window. The panes took on a violet opaqueness. Twilight filled the studio, and in the shadows there shone dimly like dying sparks, here the corner of a picture frame, beyond the old gold of an embroidered banner, in the corners the pummel of a sword, the pearl inlay of a cabinet. The painter sat down beside the countess, sinking into the perfumed atmosphere which surrounded her with a sort of nimbus of keen voluptuousness. He, too, was unhappy. He said it sincerely, believing honestly in the lady's melancholy despair. Something was lacking in his life; he was alone in the world. And as he saw an expression of surprise on Concha's face, he pounded his chest energetically. Yes, alone. He knew what she was going to say. He had his wife, his daughter. About Milita he did not want to talk; he worshiped her; she was his joy. When he felt tired out with work, it gave him a sweet sense of rest to put his arms around her neck. But he was still too young to be satisfied with this joy of a father's love. He longed for something more and he could not find it in the companion of his life, always ill, with her nerves constantly on edge. Besides, she did not understand him. She never would understand him; she was a burden who was crushing his talent. Their union was based merely on friendship, on mutual consideration for the suffering they had undergone together. He, too, had been deceived in taking for love what was only an impulse of youthful attraction. He needed a true passion; to live close to a soul that was akin to his, to love a woman who was his superior, who could understand him and encourage him in his bold projects, who could sacrifice her commonplace prejudices to the demands of art. He spoke vehemently, with his eyes fixed on Concha's eyes that shone with light from the window. But Renovales was interrupted by a cruel, ironical laugh, while the countess pushed back her chair, as if to avoid the artist who slowly leaned forward toward her. "Look out, you're slipping, Mariano! I see it coming. A little more and you would have made me a confession. Heavens! These men! You can't talk to them like a good friend, show them any confidence without their beginning to talk love on the spot. If I would let you, in less than a minute you would tell me that I am your ideal, that you worship me." Renovales, who had moved away from her, recovering his sternness, felt cut by that mocking laugh and said in a quiet tone: "And what if it were true? What if I loved you?" The laugh of the countess rang out again, but forced, false, with a tone that seemed to tear the artist's breast. "Just what I expected! The confession I spoke of! That's the third one I've received to-day. But isn't it possible to talk with a man of anything but love?" She was already on her feet, looking around for her hat, for she could not remember where she had left it. "I'm going, _cher maître_. It isn't safe to stay here. I'll try to come earlier next time so that the twilight won't catch us. It's a treacherous hour; the moment of the greatest follies." The painter objected to her leaving. Her carriage had not yet come. She could wait a few minutes longer. He promised to be quiet, not to talk to her, as long as it seemed to displease her. The countess remained, but she would not sit down in the chair. She walked around the studio for a few moments and finally opened the organ that stood near the window. "Let's have a little music; that will quiet us. You, Mariano, sit still as a mouse in your chair and don't come near me. Be a good boy now." Her fingers rested on the keys; her feet moved the pedals and the _Largo_ of Handel, grave, mystic, dreamy, swelled softly through the studio. The melody filled the wide room, already wrapped in shadows, it made its way through the tapestries, prolonging its winged whisper through the other two studios, as though it were the song of an organ played by invisible hands in a deserted cathedral at the mysterious hour of dusk. Concha felt stirred with feminine sentimentality, that superficial, whimsical, sensitiveness that made her friends look on her as a great artist. The music filled her with tenderness; she strove to keep back the tears that came to her eyes,--why, she could not tell. Suddenly she stopped playing and looked around anxiously. The painter was behind her, she fancied she felt his breath on her neck. She wanted to protest, to make him draw back with one of her cruel laughs, but she could not. "Mariano," she murmured, "go sit down, be a good boy and mind me. If you don't I'll be cross." But she did not move; after turning half way around on the stool, she remained facing the window with one elbow resting on the keys. They were silent for a long time; she in this position, he watching her face that now was only a white spot in the deepening shadow. The panes of the window took on a bluish opaqueness. The branches of the garden cut them like sinuous, shifting lines of ink. In the deep calm of the studio the creaking of the furniture could be heard, that breathing of wood, of dust, of objects in the silence and shadow. Both of them seem to be captivated by the mystery of the hour, as if the death of day acted as an anæsthetic on their minds. They felt lulled in a vague, sweet dream. She trembled with pleasure. "Mariano, go away," she said slowly, as if it cost her an effort. "This is so pleasant, I feel as if I were in a bath, a bath that penetrates to my very soul. But it isn't right. Turn on the lights, master. Light! Light! This isn't proper." Mariano did not listen to her. He had bent over her, taking her hand that was cold, unfeeling, as if it did not notice the pressure of his. Then, with a sudden start, he kissed it, almost bit it. The countess seemed to awake and stood up, proudly, angrily. "That's childish, Mariano. It isn't fair." But in a moment she laughed with her cruel laugh, as if she pitied the confusion that Renovales showed when he saw her anger. "You are pardoned, master. A kiss on the hand means nothing. It is the conventional thing. Many men kiss my hand." And this indifference was a bitter torment for the artist, who considered that his kiss was a sign of possession. The countess continued to search in the darkness, repeating in an irritated voice: "Light, turn on the light. Where in the world is the button?" The light was turned on without Mariano's moving, before she found the button she was looking for. Three clusters of electric lights flashed out on the ceiling of the studio, and their crowns of white needles, brought out of the shadows the golden picture frames, the brilliant tapestries, the shining arms, the showy furniture and the bright-colored paintings. They both blinked, blinded by the sudden brightness. "Good evening," said a honeyed voice from the doorway. "Josephina!" The countess ran toward her, embracing her effusively, kissing her bright red, emaciated cheeks. "How dark you were," continued Josephina with a smile that Renovales knew well. Concha fairly stunned her with her flow of chatter. The illustrious master had refused to light up, he liked the twilight. An artist's whim! They had been talking about their dear Josephina, while she was waiting for her carriage to come. And as she said this, she kept kissing the little woman, drawing back a little to look at her better, repeating impetuously: "My, how pretty you are to-day. You look better than you did three days ago." Josephina continued to smile. She thanked her. Her carriage was waiting at the door. The servant had told her when she came downstairs, attracted by the distant sound of the organ. The countess seemed to be in a hurry to leave. She suddenly remembered a host of things she had to do, she enumerated the people who were waiting for her at home. Josephina helped her to put on her hat and veil and even then the countess gave her several good-by kisses through the veil. "Good-by, _ma chère_. Good-by, _mignonne_. Do you remember our school days? How happy we were there! Good-by, _maître_." She stopped at the door to kiss Josephina once more. And finally, before she disappeared, she exclaimed in the querulous tone of a victim who wants sympathy: "I envy you, _chèrie_. You, at least, are happy. You have found a husband who worships you. Master, take lots of care of her. Be good to her so that she may get well and pretty. Take care of her or we shall quarrel." VI Renovales had finished reading the evening papers in bed as was his custom, and before putting out the light he looked at his wife. She was awake. Above the fold of the sheet he saw her eyes, unusually wide open, fixed on him with a hostile stare, and the little tails of her hair, that stuck out under the lace of her night-cap straight and sedate. "Aren't you asleep?" the painter asked in an affectionate tone, in which there was some anxiety. "No." And after this hard monosyllable, she turned over in the bed with her back to him. Renovales remained in the darkness, with his eyes open, somewhat disturbed, almost afraid of that body, hidden under the same sheet, lying a short distance from him, which avoided touching him, shrinking with manifest repulsion. Poor little girl! Renovales' better nature felt tormented with a painful remorse. His conscience was a cruel beast that had awakened, angry and implacable, tearing him with scornful teeth. The events of the afternoon meant nothing, a moment of thoughtlessness, of weakness. Surely the countess would not remember it and he, for his part, was determined not to slip again. A pretty situation for a father of a family, for a man whose youth was past, compromising himself in a love affair, getting melancholy in the twilight, kissing a white hand like an enamored troubadour! Good God! How his friends would have laughed to see him in that posture! He must purge himself of that romanticism which sometimes mastered him. Every man must follow his fate, accepting life as he found it. He was born to be virtuous, he must put up with the relative peace of his domestic life, must accept its limited pleasures as a compensation for the suffering his wife's illness caused him. He would be content with the feasts of his thought, with the revels in beauty at the banquets served by his fancy. He would keep his flesh faithful though it amounted to perpetual privation. Poor Josephina! His remorse at a moment of weakness which he considered a crime, impelled him to draw closer to her, as if he sought in her warmth and contact a mute forgiveness. Her body, burning with a slow fever, drew away as it felt his touch, it shriveled like those timid molluscs that shrink and hide at the least touch. She was awake. He could not hear her breathing; she seemed dead in the profound darkness, but he fancied her with her eyes open, a scowl on her forehead and he felt the fear of a man who has a presentiment of danger in the mystery of the darkness. Renovales too remained motionless, taking care not to touch again that form which silently repelled him. The sincerity of his repentance brought him a sort of consolation. Never again would he forget his wife, his daughter, his respectability. He would give up forever the longings of youth, that recklessness, that thirst for enjoying all the pleasures of life. His lot was cast; he would continue to be what he always had been. He would paint portraits and everything that was given to him as a commission; he would please the public; he would make more money, he would adapt his art to meet his wife's jealous demands, that she might live in peace; he would scoff at that phantom of human ambition which men call glory. Glory! A lottery, where the only chance for a prize depended on the tastes of people still to be born! Who knew what the artistic inclinations of the future would be? Perhaps it would appreciate what he was now producing with such loathing; perhaps it would laugh scornfully at what he wanted to paint. The only thing of importance was to live in peace, as long as he could be surrounded by happiness. His daughter would marry. Perhaps her husband would be his favorite pupil, that Soldevilla, so polite, so courteous, who was mad over the mischievous Milita. If it was not he, it would be López de Sosa, a crazy fellow, in love with his automobiles, who pleased Josephina more than the pupil because he had not committed the sin of showing talent and devoting himself to painting. He would have grandchildren, his beard would grow white, he would have the majesty of an Eternal Father and Josephina, cared for by him, restored to health by an atmosphere of affection, would grow old too, freed from her nervous troubles. The painter felt allured by this picture of patriarchal happiness. He would go out of the world without having tasted the best fruits which life offers, but still with the peace of a soul that does not know the great heat of passion. Lulled by these illusions, the artist was sinking into sleep. He saw in the darkness, the image of his calm old age, with rosy wrinkles and silvery hair, at his side a sprightly little old lady, healthy and attractive, with wavy hair, and around them a group of children, many children, some of them with their fingers in their noses, others rolling on their backs on the floor, like playful kittens, the older ones with pencils in their hands, making caricatures of the old couple and all shouting in a chorus of loving cries: "Grandpa, dear! Pretty grandma!" In his sleepy fancy, the picture grew indistinct and was blotted out. He no longer saw the figures, but the loving cry continued to sound in his ears, dying away in the distance. Then it began to increase again, drew slowly nearer, but it was a complaint, a howl like that of the victim that feels the sacrificer's knife at its throat. The artist, terrified by this moan, thought that some dark animal, some monster of the night was tossing beside him, brushing him with its tentacles, pushing him with the bony points of its joints. He awoke and with his brain still cloudy with sleep, the first sensation he experienced was a tremble of fear and surprise, reaching from his head to his feet. The invisible monster was beside him, dying, kicking violently, sticking him with its angular body. The howl tore the darkness like a death rattle. Renovales, aroused by his fear, awoke completely. That cry came from Josephina. His wife was tossing about in the bed, shrieking while she gasped for breath. The electric button snapped and the white, hard light of the lamp showed the little woman in the disorder of her nervous outbreak; her weak limbs painfully convulsed, her eyes, staring, dull with an uncanny vacancy; her mouth contracted, dripping with foam. The husband, dazed at this awakening, tried to take her in his arms, to hold her gently against him, as if his warmth might restore her calm. "Let me--alone," she cried brokenly. "Let go of me. I hate you!" And though she asked him to let go of her, she was the one who clung to him, digging her fingers into his throat, as if she wanted to strangle him. Renovates, insensible to this clutch which made little impression on his strong neck, murmured with sad kindness: "Squeeze! Don't be afraid of hurting me. Relieve your feelings!" Her hands, tired out with this useless pressure on that muscular flesh, relaxed their grasp with a sort of dejection. The outbreak lasted for some time, but tears came and she lay exhausted, inert, without any other signs of life than the heaving of her breast and a constant stream of tears. Renovales had jumped out of bed, moving about the room in his night clothing, searching on all sides, without knowing what he was looking for, murmuring loving words to calm his wife. She stopped crying, struggling to enunciate each syllable between her sobs. She spoke with her head buried in her arms. The painter stopped to listen to her, astounded at the coarse words that came from her lips, as if the grief that stirred her soul had set afloat all the shameful, filthy words she had heard in the streets that were hidden in the depth of her memory. "The ----!" (And here she uttered the classic word, naturally, as if she had spoken thus all her life.) "The shameless woman! The ----!" And she continued to volley a string of interjections which shocked her husband to hear them coming from those lips. "But whom are you talking about? Who is it?" She, as if she were only waiting for his question, sat up in bed, got onto her knees, looking at him fixedly, shaking her head on her delicate neck, so that the short, straight locks of hair whirled around it. "Whom do you suppose? The Alberca woman. That peacock! Look surprised! You don't know what I mean! Poor thing!" Renovales expected this, but when he heard it, he assumed an injured expression, fortified by his determination to reform and by the certainty that he was telling the truth. He raised his hand to his heart in a tragic attitude, throwing back his shock of hair, not noticing the absurdity of his appearance that was reflected in the bedroom mirror. "Josephina, I swear by all that I love most in the world that your suspicions are not true. I have had nothing to do with Concha. I swear it by our daughter!" The little woman became more irritated. "Don't swear, don't lie, don't name my daughter. You deceiver! You hypocrite! You are all alike!" Did he think she was a fool? She knew everything that was going on around her. He was a rake, a false husband, she had discovered it a few months after their marriage; a Bohemian without any other education than the low associations of his class. And the woman was as bad; the worst in Madrid. There was a reason why people laughed at the count everywhere. Mariano and Concha understood each other; birds of a feather; they made fun of her in her own house, in the dark of the studio. "She is your mistress," she said with cold anger. "Come now, admit it. Repeat all those shameless things about the rights of love and joy that you talk about to your friends in the studio, those infamous hypocrisies to justify your scorn for the family, for marriage, for everything. Have the courage of your convictions." But Renovales, overwhelmed by this fierce outpouring of words that fell on him like a rain of blows, could only repeat, with his hand on his heart and the expression of noble resignation of a man who suffers an injustice: "I am innocent. I swear it. Your suspicions are absolutely groundless." And walking around to the other side of the bed, he tried again to take Josephina in his arms, thinking he could calm her, now that she seemed less furious and that her angry words were broken by tears. It was a useless effort. The delicate form slipped out of his hands, repelling them with a feeling of horror and repugnance. "Let me alone. Don't touch me. I loathe you." Her husband was mistaken if he thought that she was Concha's enemy. Pshaw! She knew what women were. She even admitted (since he was so insistent in his protestations of innocence) that there was nothing between them. But if so, it was due solely to Concha--she had plenty of admirers and, besides, her old time friendship would impel her not to embitter Josephina's life. Concha was the one who had resisted and not he. "I know you. You know that I can guess your thoughts, that I read in your face. You are faithful because you are a coward, because you have lacked an opportunity. But your mind is loaded with foul ideas; I detest your spirit." And before he could protest, his wife attacked him; anew, pouring out in one breath all the observations she had made, weighing his words and deeds with the subtlety of a diseased imagination. She threw in his face the expression of rapture in his eyes when he saw beautiful women sit down before his easel to have their portraits painted; his praise of the throat of one, the shoulders of another; the almost religious unction with which he examined the photographs and engravings of naked beauties, painted by other artists whom he would like to imitate in his licentious impulses. "If I should leave you! If I should disappear! Your studio would be a brothel, no decent person could enter it; you would always have some woman stripped in there, painting some disgraceful picture of her." And in the tremble of her irritated voice there was revealed the anger, the bitter disappointment she had experienced in the constant contact with this cult of beauty, that paid no attention to her, who was aged before her time, sickly, with the ugliness of physical misery, whom each one of these enthusiastic homages wounded like a reproach, marking the abyss between her sad condition and the ideal that filled the mind of her husband. "Do you think I don't know what you are thinking about. I laugh at your fidelity. A lie! Hypocrisy! As you get older, a mad desire is mastering you. If you could, if you had the courage, you would run after these creatures of beautiful flesh that you praise so highly. You are commonplace. There's nothing in you but coarseness and materialism. Form! Flesh! And they call that artistic? I'd have done better to marry a shoemaker, one of those honest, simple men that takes his poor little wife to dinner in a restaurant on Sunday and worships her, not knowing any other." Renovales began to feel irritated at this attack that was no longer based on his actions but on his thoughts. That was worse than the Inquisition. She had spied on him constantly; always on the watch, she picked up his least words and expressions, she penetrated his thoughts, making his inclinations and enthusiasms a subject for jealousy. "Stop, Josephina. That's despicable. I won't be able to think, to produce. You spy on me and pursue me even in my art." She shrugged her shoulders scornfully. His art! She scoffed at it. And she began again to insult painting, repenting that she had joined her lot to an artist's. Men like him ought not to marry respectable women, what people call "homebodies." Their fate was to remain single or to join with unscrupulous women who were in love with their own form and were capable of exhibiting it in the street, taking pride in their nakedness. "I used to love you; did you know it?" she said coldly. "I used to love you, but I no longer love you. What's the use? I know that even if you swore to me on your knees, you would never be faithful to me. You might be tied to my apron strings but your thoughts would go wandering off to caress those beauties you worship. You've got a perfect harem in your head. I think I am living alone with you and when I look at you, the house is peopled with women that surround me, that fill everything and mock at me; all fair, like children of the devil all naked, like temptations. Let me alone, Mariano, don't come near me. I don't want to see you. Put out the light." And seeing that the artist did not obey her command, she pressed the button herself. The cracking of her bones could be heard as she wrapped herself up in the bed-clothes. Renovales was left in utter darkness, and feeling his way, he got into bed too. He no longer implored, he remained silent, angry. The tender compassion that made him put up with his wife's nervous attacks had disappeared. What more did she expect of him? How far was it going to go? He lived the life of a recluse, restraining his healthy passion, keeping a chaste fidelity out of habit and respect, seeking an outlet in the ardent vagaries of his fancy, and even that was a crime! With the acumen of a sick woman, she saw within him, divining his ideas, following their course, tearing off the veil behind which he concealed those feasts of fancy with which he passed his solitary hours. This persecution reached even his brain. He could not patiently endure the jealousy of that woman who was embittered by the loss of her youthful freshness. She began her weeping again in the darkness. She sobbed convulsively, tossing the clothes with the heaving of her breast. His anger made him insensible and hard. "Groan, you poor wretch," he thought with a sort of relish. "Weep till you ruin yourself. I won't be the one to say a word." Josephina, tired out by his silence, interjected words amid her sobs. People made fun of her. She was a constant laughing-stock. How his friends who hung on his words, and the ladies who visited him in his studio, laughed when they heard him enthusiastically praising beauty in the presence of his sickly, broken-down wife! What did she amount to in that house, that terrible pantheon, that home of sorrow? A poor housekeeper who watched out for the artist's comforts. And he thought that he was fulfilling his duty by not keeping a mistress, by staying at home, but still abusing her with his words that made her an object of derision. If her mother were only alive! If her brothers were not so selfish, wandering about the world from embassy to embassy, satisfied with life, paying no attention to her letters filled with complaints, thinking she was insane because she was not contented with a distinguished husband and with wealth! Renovales, in the darkness, lifted his hands to his forehead in despair, infuriated at the sing-song of her unjust words. "Her mother!" he thought. "It's lucky that intolerable old dame is under the sod forever. Her brothers! A crowd of rakes that are always asking me for something whenever they get a chance. Heavens! Give me the patience to stand this woman, the calm resignation to keep a cool head and not to forget that I am a man!" He scorned her mentally in order to maintain his indifference in this way. Bah! A woman! and a sick one! Every man carries his cross and his was Josephina. But she, as if she penetrated his thoughts, stopped crying and spoke to him slowly in a voice that shook with cruel irony. "You need not expect anything from the Alberca woman," she said suddenly with feminine incoherence. "I warn you that she has worshipers by the dozen, young and stylish, too, something that counts more with women than talent." "What difference does that make to me?" Renovales' voice roared in the darkness with an outbreak of wrath. "I'm telling you, so that you won't fool yourself. Master, you are going to suffer a failure. You are very old, my good man, the years are going by. So old and so ugly that if you had looked the way you do when I met you, I should never have been your wife in spite of all your glory." After this thrust, satisfied and calm, she seemed to go to sleep. The master remained motionless, lying on his back with his head resting on his arms and his eyes wide open, seeing in the darkness a host of red spots that spread out in ceaseless rotation, forming floating, fiery rings. His wrath had set his nerves on edge; the final thrust made sleep impossible. He felt restless, wide-awake after this cruel shock to his pride. He thought that in his bed, close to him, he had his worst enemy. He hated that frail form that he could touch with the slightest movement, as if it contained the rancor of all the adversaries he had met in life. Old! Contemptible! Inferior to those young bloods that swarmed around the Alberca woman; he, a man known all over Europe, and in whose presence all the young ladies that painted fans and water-colors of birds and flowers, grew pale with emotion, looking at him with worshiping eyes! "I will soon show you, you poor woman," he thought, while a cruel laugh shook silently in the darkness. "You'll soon see whether glory means anything and people find me as old as you believe." With boyish joy, he recalled the twilight scene, the kiss on the countess's hand, her gentle abandon, that mingling of resistance and pleasure which opened the way for him to go farther. He enjoyed these memories with a relish of vengeance. Afterwards, his body, as he moved, touched Josephina, who seemed to be asleep, and he felt a sort of repugnance as if he had rubbed against a hostile creature. She was his enemy; she had distorted and ruined his life as an artist, she had saddened his life as a man. Now he believed that he might have produced the most remarkable works, if he had not known that little woman who crushed him with her weight. Her silent censure, her prying eyes, that narrow, petty morality of a well-educated girl, blocked his course and made him turn out of his way. Her fits of temper, her nervous attacks, made him lose his bearings, belittling him, robbing him of his strength for work. Must he always live like this? The thought of the long years before him filled him with horror, the long road that life offered him, monotonous, dusty, rough, without a shadow or a resting place, a painful journey lacking enthusiasm and ardor, pulling at the chain of duty, at the end of which dragged the enemy, always fretful, always unjust, with the selfish cruelty of disease, spying on him with searching eyes in the hours when his mind was off its guard, while he slept, violating his secrecy, forcing his immobility, robbing him of his most intimate ideas, only to parade them before his eyes later with the insolence of a successful thief. And that was what his life was to be! God! No, it was better to die. Then in the black recesses of his brain there rose, like a blue spark of infernal gleam, a thought, a desire, that made a chill of terror and surprise run over his body. "If she would only die!" Why not? Always ill, always sad, she seemed to darken his mind with the wings that beat ominously. He had a right to liberty, to break the chain, because he was the stronger. He had spent his life in the struggle for glory, and glory was a delusion, if it brought only cold respect from his fellows, if it could not be exchanged for something more positive. Many years of intense existence were left; he could still exult in a host of pleasures, he could still live, like some artists whom he admired, intoxicated with worldly joys, working in mad freedom. "Oh, if she would only die!" He recalled books he had read, in which other imaginary people had desired another's death that they might be able to satisfy more fully their appetites and passions. Suddenly he felt as though he were awakening from a bad dream, as though he were throwing off an overwhelming nightmare. Poor Josephina! His thought filled him with horror, he felt the infernal desire burning his conscience, like a hot iron that throws off a shower of sparks when touched. It was not tenderness that made him turn again towards his companion; not that; his old animosity remained. But he thought of her years of sacrifice, of the privations she had suffered, following him in the struggle with misery, without a complaint, without a protest, in the pains of motherhood, in the nursing of her daughter, that Milita who seemed to have stolen all the strength of her body and perhaps was the cause of her decline. How terrible to wish for her death! He hoped that she would live. He would bear everything with the patience of duty. She die? Never, he would rather die himself. But in vain did he struggle to forget the thought. The atrocious, monstrous desire, once awakened, resisted, refused to recede, to hide, to die in the windings of his brain whence it had arisen. In vain did he repent his villainy, or feel ashamed of his cruel idea, striving to crush it forever. It seemed as though a second personality had arisen within him, rebellious to his commands, opposed to his conscience, hard and indifferent to his sympathetic scruples, and this personality, this power, continued to sing in his ear with a merry accent, as if it promised him all the pleasures of life. "If she would only die! Eh, master? If she would only die!" PART II I At the coming of spring López de Sosa, "the intrepid sportsman," as Cotoner called him, appeared at Renovales' house every afternoon. Outside the entrance gate stood his eighty-horsepower automobile, his latest acquisition, of which he was intensely proud, a huge green car, that started and backed under the hand of the chauffeur while its owner was crossing the garden of the painter's house. Renovales saw him enter the studio, in a blue suit with a shining visor over his eyes, affecting the resolute bearing of a sailor or an explorer. "Good afternoon, Don Mariano, I have come for the ladies." And Milita came down stairs in a long gray coat, with a white cap, around which she wound a long blue veil. After her came her mother clad in the same fashion, small and insignificant beside the girl, who seemed to overwhelm her with her health and grace. Renovales approved of these trips. Josephina's legs were troubling her; a sudden weakness sometimes kept her in her chair for days at a time. Finding any sort of movement difficult, she liked to ride motionless in that car that fairly ate up space, reaching distant suburbs of Madrid without the least effort, as if she had not moved from the house. "Have a good time," said the painter with a sort of joy at the prospect of being left alone, completely alone, without the disturbance of feeling his wife's hostility near him. "I entrust them to you, Rafaelito; be careful, now." And Rafaelito assumed an expression of protest, as if he were shocked that anyone could doubt his skill. There was no danger with him. "Aren't you coming, Don Mariano? Lay down your brushes for a while. We're only going to the Pardo." The painter declined; he had a great deal to do. He knew what it was, and he did not like to go so fast. There was no pleasure in swallowing space with your eyes almost closed, unable to see anything but a hazy blur of the scenery, amid clouds of dust and crushed stone. He preferred to look at the landscape calmly, without haste, with the reflective quiet of the student. Besides he was out of place in things that did not belong to his time; he was getting old and these frightful novelties did not agree with him. "Good-by, papa." Milita, lifting her veil, put out her red, tempting lips, showing her bright teeth as she smiled. After this kiss came the other, formal and cold, exchanged with the indifference of habit, without any novelty except that Josephina's mouth drew back from his, as if she wanted to avoid any contact with him. They went out, the mother leaning on Rafaelito's arm with a sort of languor, as if she could hardly drag her weak body,--her pale face unrelieved by the least sign of blood. When Renovales found himself alone in the studio he would feel as happy as a school-boy on a holiday. He worked with a lighter touch, he roared out old songs, delighting to listen to the echoes that his voice awakened in the high-studded rooms. Often when Cotoner came in, he would surprise him by the serene shamelessness with which he sang some one of the licentious songs he had learned in Rome, and the painter of the Popes, smiling like a faun, joined in the chorus, applauding at the end these ribald verses of the studio. Tekli, the Hungarian, who sometimes spent an afternoon with him, had departed for his native land with his copy of _Las Meninas_, but not before lifting Renovales' hands several times to his heart, with extravagant terms of affection and calling him "noble master." The portrait of the Countess of Alberca was no longer in the studio; in a glittering frame it hung on the walls of the illustrious lady's drawing-room, where it received the worship of her admirers. Sometimes of an afternoon when the ladies had left the studio and the dull mumble of the car and the tooting of the horn had died away, the master and his friend would talk of López de Sosa. A good fellow, somewhat foolish, but well-meaning; this was the judgment of Renovales and his old friend. He was proud of his mustache that gave him a certain likeness to the German emperor, and when he sat down, he took care to show his hands, by placing them prominently on his knees, in order that everyone might appreciate their vigorous hugeness, the prominent veins, and the strong fingers, all this with the naïve satisfaction of a ditch-digger. His conversation always turned on feats of strength and before the two artists he strutted as if he belonged to another race, talking of his prowess as a fencer, of his triumphs in the bouts, of the weights he could lift with the slightest effort, of the number of chairs he could jump over without touching one of them. Often he interrupted the two painters when they were eulogizing the great masters of art, to tell them of the latest victory of some celebrated driver in the contest for a coveted cup. He knew by heart the names of all the European champions who had won the immortal laurel, in running, jumping, killing pigeons, boxing or fencing. Renovales had seen him come into the studio one afternoon, trembling with excitement, his eyes flashing, and showing a telegram. "Don Mariano, I have a Mercedes; they have just announced its shipment." The painter looked blank. Who was that personage with the woman's name? And Rafaelito smiled with pity. "The best make, a Mercedes, better than a Panhard; everyone knows that. Made in Germany; sixty thousand francs. There isn't another one in Madrid." "Well, congratulations." And the artist shrugged his shoulders and went on painting. López de Sosa was wealthy. His father, a former manufacturer of canned goods, had left him a fortune that he administered prudently, never gambling, nor keeping mistresses (he had no time for such follies) but finding all his amusement in sports that strengthen the body. He had a coach-house of his own, where he kept his carriages and his automobiles which he showed to his friends with the satisfaction of an artist. It was his museum. Besides, he owned several teams of horses, for modern fads did not make him forget his former tastes, and he took as much pride in his past glories as a horseman as he did in his skill as a driver of cars. At rare intervals, on the days of an important bull-fight or when some sensational races were being run in the Hippodrome, he won a triumph on the box by driving six cabs, covered with tassels and bells, that seemed to proclaim the glory and wealth of their owner with their noisy course. He was proud of his virtuous life; free from foolishness or petty love affairs, wholly devoted to sports and show. His income was less than his expenses. The numerous personnel of his stable-garage, his horses, gasoline and tailors' bills ate up even a part of the principal. But López de Sosa was undisturbed in this ruinous course,--for he was conscious of the danger, in spite of his extravagance. It was a mere youthful folly, he would cut down his expenses when he married. He devoted his evenings to reading, for he could not sleep quietly, unless he went through his classics (sporting-papers, automobile catalogs, etc.), and every month he made new acquisitions abroad, spending thousands of francs and, complaining, like a serious business man, of the rise in the Exchange, of the exorbitant customs charges, of the stupidity of the Government that so shackled the development of the country. The price of every automobile was greatly increased on crossing the frontier. And after that, politicians expected progress and regeneration! He had been educated by the Jesuits at the University of Deusto and had his degree in law. But that had not made him over-pious. He was liberal, he lived the modern spirit; he had no use for fanaticism nor hypocrisy. He had said good-by to the good Fathers as soon as his own father, who was a great admirer of them, had died. But he still preserved a certain respect for them because they had been his teachers and he knew that they were great scholars. But modern life was different. He read with perfect freedom, he read a great deal; he had in his house a library composed of at least a hundred French novels. He purchased all the volumes that came from Paris with a woman's picture on the cover and in which, under pretext of describing Greek, Roman, or Egyptian customs, the author placed a large number of youths and maidens without any other decorations of civilization than the fillets and the caps that covered their heads. He insisted on freedom, perfect freedom, but for him, men were divided into two castes, decent people and those who were not. Among the first figured en masse all the young fellows of the Gran Peña, the old men of the Casino, together with some people whose names appeared in the papers, a certain evidence of their merit. The rest was the rabble, despicable and vulgar in the streets of the cities, repulsive and displeasing on the road, whom he insulted with all of the coarseness of ill-breeding and threatened to kill when a child ran in front of his car with the vicious purpose of letting itself be crushed under the wheels, to stir up trouble with a decent person, or when some workingman, pretending he could not hear the warnings of his horn, would not get out of the way and was run over--as if a man who makes two pesetas a day were superior to machines that cost thousands of francs! What could you do with such ignorant, commonplace people! And some wretches were still talking about the rights of man and revolutions! Cotoner, who expended incredible care in keeping his single suit presentable for calls and dinners, questioned López de Sosa with astonishment in regard to the progress of his wardrobe. "How many ties have you now, Rafael?" "About seven hundred." He had counted them recently. And ashamed that he did not yet own the longed-for thousand, he spoke of fitting himself out on his next trip to London when the principal British automobilists were to contend for the cup. He received his boots from Paris, but they were made by a Swiss boot-maker, the same one who provided the foot-gear of Edward of England; he counted his trousers by the dozen, and never wore one pair more than eight or ten times; his linen was given to his valet almost before it was used, his hats all came from London. He had eight frock-coats made every year, that often grew old without ever being worn, of different colors to suit the circumstances and the hours when he must wear them. One in particular, dead black with long skirts, gloomy and austere, copied from the foreign illustrations that represented duels, was his uniform on solemn occasions, which he wore when some friend looked him up at the Peña, to get his assistance in representing him with his customary skill in affairs of honor. His tailor admired his talent, his masterly command in choosing cloth and deciding on the cut among the countless designs. Result, he spent something like five thousand dollars a year on his clothes, and said ingenuously to the two artists, "How much less can a decent person spend if he wants to be presentable?" López de Sosa visited Renovales' house as a friend after the latter had painted his portrait. In spite of his automobiles, his clothes, and the fact that he chose his associates among people who bore noble titles, he could not succeed in getting a foothold in society. He knew that behind his back people nicknamed him, "Pickled Herring," alluding to his father's trade, and that the young ladies, who counted him as a friend, rebelled at the idea of marrying the "Canned-goods Boy," which was another of his names. The friendship of Renovales was a source of pride. He had requested him to make his portrait, paying him without haggling, in order that he might appear at the Exhibition, quite as good a way as any other of introducing his insignificance among the famous men who were painted by the artist. After that he was on intimate terms with the master, talking everywhere about "his friend, Renovales!" with a sort of familiarity, as if he were a comrade who could not live without him. This raised him greatly in the estimation of his acquaintances. Besides, he had felt a real admiration for the master ever since one afternoon when tired out with the account of his prowess as a fencer, Renovales had laid aside his brushes and taking down two old foils, had had several bouts with him. What a man he was! And how he remembered the points he had learned in Rome! In his frequent visits to the artist's house, he finally felt attracted toward Milita; he saw in her the woman he wanted to marry. Lacking more sonorous titles, it was something to be the son-in-law of Renovales. Besides, the painter enjoyed the reputation of being wealthy, he spoke of his enormous profits, and he still had many years before him, to add to his fortune, all of which would be his daughter's. López de Sosa began to pay court to Milita, calling on his great resources, appearing every day in a different suit, coming every afternoon, sometimes in a carriage drawn by a dashing pair, sometimes in one of his cars. The fashionable youth won the favor of her mother,--an important part. This was the kind of a husband for her daughter. No painter! And in vain did Soldevilla put on his brightest ties and show off shocking waistcoats; his rival crushed him and, what was worse, the master's wife, who formerly used to have a sort of motherly concern for him and called him by his first name, for she had known him as a boy, now received him coldly, as if she wished to discourage his suit for Milita. The girl fluctuated between her two admirers with a mocking smile. One seemed to interest her as much as the other. She drove the painter, the companion of her childhood, to despair, at times abusing him with her jests, at others attracting him with her effusive intimacy, as in the days when they played together; and at the same time she praised López de Sosa's stylishness, laughed with him, and Soldevilla even suspected that they wrote letters to each other as if they were engaged. Renovales rejoiced at the cleverness with which his daughter kept the two young men uncertain and eager about her. She was a terror, a boy in skirts, more manly than either of her worshipers. "I know her, Pepe," he said to Cotoner. "We must let her do what she wants to. The day she decides in favor of one or the other we'll have to marry her at once. She isn't one of the girls to wait. If we don't marry her soon and to her taste, she's likely to elope with her fiancé." The father excused Milita's impatience. Poor girl! Think what she saw in her home! Her mother always ill, terrifying her with her tears, her cries and her nervous attacks; her father working in his studio, and her only companion the unsympathetic "Miss." He owed his thanks to López de Sosa for taking them outdoors on these dizzy rides from which Josephina returned greatly quieted. Renovales preferred his pupil. He was almost his son, he had fought many a hard battle to give him fellowships and prizes. He was a trifle displeased at some of his slight infidelities, for as soon as he had won some renown, he bragged about his independence, praising everything that the master thought condemnable behind his back. But even so, the idea of his marrying his daughter pleased him; a painter as a son-in-law; his grandchildren painters, the blood of Renovales perpetuated in a dynasty of artists who would fill history with their glory. "But, oh, Pepe! I'm afraid the girl will choose the other. After all, she's a woman. And women appreciate only what they see, gallantry and youth." And the master's words betrayed a certain bitterness, as though he were thinking of something very different from what he was saying. Then he began to discuss the merits of López de Sosa, as if he were already a member of the family. "A good boy, isn't he, Pepe? A little stupid for us, unable to talk for ten minutes without making us yawn, a fine fellow, but not our kind." There was scorn in Renovales' voice as he spoke of the vigorous healthy young men of the present, with their brains absolutely free from culture, who had just assaulted life, invading every phase of it. What people! Gymnastics, fencing, kicking a huge bull, swinging a mallet on horseback, wild flights in an automobile; from the royal family down to the last middle-class scion everyone rushed into this life of childish joy, as if a man's mission consisted merely in hardening his muscles, sweating and delighting in the shifting chances of a game. Activity fled from the brain to the extremities of the body. They were strong, but their minds lay fallow, wrapped in a haze of childish credulity. Modern men seemed to stop growing at the age of fourteen; they never went beyond, content with the joys of movement and strength. Many of these big fellows were ignorant of women, or almost so, at the age when in other times they were turning back, satiated with love. Busy running without direction or end, they had no time nor quiet to think about women. Love was about to go on a strike, unable to resist the competition of sports. The young men lived by themselves, finding in athletic exercise a satisfaction that left them without any desire or curiosity for the other pleasures of life. They were big boys with strong fists; they could fight with a bull and yet the approach of a woman filled them with terror. All the sap of their life was used up in violent exercise. Intelligence seemed to have concentrated in their hands, leaving their heads empty. What was going to become of this new people? Perhaps it would form a healthier, stronger human race, but without love or passion, without any other association than the blind impulse of reproduction. "We are a different sort, eh, Pepe?" said Renovales with a sly wink. "When we were boys we didn't care for our bodies so well, but we had better times. We weren't so pure, but we were interested in something higher than automobiles and prize cups; we had ideals." Then he began to talk again of the young man who expected to become one of his family and made sport of his mentality. "If Milita decides on him, I won't object. The important thing in such matters is that they should be congenial to each other. He's a good boy; I could almost give him my blessing. But I suspect that when the sensation of novelty has worn off, he will go back to his fads and poor Milita will be jealous of those machines that are eating up the greater part of his fortune." Sometimes, before the light died out in the afternoon, Renovales excused his model, if he had one, and laying aside his brushes went out of the studio. When he came back, he would have on his coat and hat. "Pepe, let's take a walk." Cotoner knew where this walk would land them. They followed the iron fence of the Retiro and went down the Calle de Alcalá, walking slowly among the groups of strollers, some of whom turned round behind them to point out the master. "That taller one is Renovales, the painter." In a few minutes, Mariano hastened his step with nervous impatience, he stopped talking and Cotoner followed him with an ill-humored expression, humming between his teeth. When they reached the Cibeles, the old painter knew that their walk was nearly over. "I'll see you to-morrow, Pepe, I'm going this way. I've got to see the countess." One day, he did not limit himself to this brief leave-taking. After he had gone a few steps, he came back toward his companion and said hesitatingly: "Listen, if Josephina asks you where I went, don't say anything. I know that you are prudent but she is always worried. I tell you this so as to avoid any trouble. The two women don't get along together very well. Some woman's quarrel!" II At the opening of spring, when Madrid was beginning to think good weather had really come, and people were impatiently getting out their summer clothes, there was an unexpected and treacherous return of winter that clouded the sky and covered with a coat of snow the muddy ground and the gardens where the first flowers of spring were beginning to sprout. There was a fire once more in the fireplace in the drawing-room of the Countess of Alberca, where all the gentlemen who formed her coterie gathered to keep warm on days when she was "at home," not having a meeting to preside over or calls to make. When Renovales came one afternoon, he spoke enthusiastically of the view of Moncloa, covered with snow. He had just been there, a beautiful sight, the woods, buried in wintry silence, surprised by the white shroud when they were beginning to crack with the swelling of the sap. It was a pity that the camera craze filled the woods with so many people who went back and forth with their outfits, sullying the purity of the snow. The countess was as interested as a child. She wanted to see that, she would go the next day. Her friends tried in vain to dissuade her, telling her the weather would probably change presently. To-morrow the sun would come out, the snow would melt; these unexpected storms were characteristic of the fickle climate of Madrid. "It makes no difference," said Concha obstinately, "I've got the idea into my head. It's years since I have seen it. My life is such a busy one." She would go to see the thaw in the morning; no, not in the morning. She got up late and had to receive all those Women's Rights ladies that came to consult her. In the afternoon, she would go after luncheon. It was too bad that Renovales worked at that time and could not go with her. He could appreciate landscapes so well with his artist's eyes and had often spoken to her of the sunset from the palace of Moncloa, a sight almost equal to the one you can see in Rome from the Pinzio at dusk. The painter smiled gallantly. He would try to be at Moncloa the next day; they would meet. The countess seemed to take sudden fright at this promise and glanced at Doctor Monteverde. But she was disappointed in her hope of being censured for her fickleness and unfaithfulness, for the doctor remained indifferent. Lucky doctor! How Renovales hated him. He was a young man, as fair and as fragile as a porcelain figure, a combination of such striking beauties that his face was almost a caricature. His hair, parted in two waves over his pale forehead, was black, very black and shining with bluish reflections, his eyes, as soft as velvet, showed the read spot of the lachrymal on the polished ivory of the cornea, veritable odalisque eyes, his bright red lips showed under his bristly mustache, his complexion was as pale as a camellia, and his teeth flashed like pearl. Concha looked at him with ecstatic devotion, talked with her eyes on him, consulting him with her glance, lamenting inwardly his lack of mastery, eager to be his slave, to be corrected by him in all the caprices of her giddy character. Renovales scorned him, questioning his manhood, making the most atrocious comments on him in his rough fashion. He was a doctor of science and was waiting for a chair at Madrid to be declared vacant, that he might become a candidate for it. The Countess of Alberca had him under her high protection, talking about him enthusiastically to all the important gentlemen who exercised any influence in University circles. She would break out into the most extravagant praise of the doctor in Renovales' presence. He was a scholar and what made her admire him was the fact that all his learning did not keep him from dressing well and being as fair as an angel. "For pretty teeth, look at Monteverde's," she would say, looking at him in the crowded room, through her lorgnette. At other times, following the course of her ideas, she would interrupt the conversation, without noticing the irrelevancy of her words. "But did you notice the doctor's hands? They're more delicate than mine! They look like a woman's hands." The painter was indignant at these demonstrations of Concha's that often occurred in her husband's presence. The calm of that honorable gentleman astounded him. Was the man blind? And the count with fatherly good humor always said the same thing. "That Concha! Did you ever hear such frankness! Don't mind her, Monteverde, it's my wife's way, childishness." The doctor would smile, flattered at the atmosphere of worship with which the countess surrounded him. He had written a book on the natural origin of animal organism, of which the fair countess spoke enthusiastically. The painter observed this change in her tastes with surprise and envy. No more music, nor verses, nor plastic arts which had formerly occupied her flighty attention, that was attracted by everything that shines or makes a noise. Now she looked on the arts as pretty, insignificant toys that were fit to amuse only the childhood of the human race. Times were changing, people must be serious. Science, nothing but science; she was the protectress, the good friend, the adviser of a scholar. And Renovales found famous books on the tables and chairs, feverishly run through and laid aside because she grew tired of them or could not understand them after the first impulse of curiosity. Her coterie, almost wholly composed of old gentlemen attracted by the beauty of the countess, and in love with her though without hope, smiled to hear her talking so weightily about science. Men who were prominent in politics admired her frankly. How many things that woman knew! Many that they did not know themselves. The others, well-known physicians, professors, lawyers, who had not studied anything for years, approved complacently. For a woman it was not at all bad. And she, lifting her glasses to her eyes from time to time to relish the doctor's beauty, talked with a pedantic slowness about protoplasms, and the reproduction of the cells, the cannibalisms of the phagocytes, catarine, anthropoid and pithecoid apes, discoplacentary mammals and the Pithecanthropos, treating the mysteries of life with friendly confidence, repeating strange scientific words, as if they were the names of society folks, who had dined with her the evening before. The handsome Doctor Monteverde, according to her, was head and shoulders above all the scholars of universal reputation. Their books made her tired, she could not make anything out of them, in spite of the fact that the doctor admired them greatly. To make up for this, she had read Monteverde's book over and over, and she recommended this wonderful work to her lady friends, who in matters of reading never went beyond the novels in popular magazines. "He is a scholar," said the countess one afternoon while talking alone with Renovales. "He's just beginning now, but I will push him ahead and he will turn out to be a genius. He has extraordinary talent. I wish you had read his book. Are you acquainted with Darwin? You aren't, are you? Well, he is greater than Darwin, much greater." "I can believe that," said the painter. "Your Monteverde is as pretty as a baby and Darwin was an ugly old fellow." The countess hesitated whether to get serious or to laugh, and finally she shook her lorgnette at him. "Keep still, you horrid man. After all, you're a painter. You can't understand tender friendships, pure relations, fraternity based on study." How bitterly the painter laughed at this purity and fraternity! His eyes were good and Concha, for her part, was no model of prudence in hiding her feelings. Monteverde was her lover, just as formerly a musician had been, at a period when the countess talked of nothing but Beethoven and Wagner, as if they were callers, and long before that a pretty little duke, who gave private amateur bull-fights at which he slaughtered the innocent oxen after greeting lovingly the Alberca woman, who, wrapped in a white mantilla, and decorated with pinks, leaned out of the box in the grandstand. Her relations with the doctor were almost common talk. That was amply proved by the fury with which the gentlemen of her coterie pulled him to pieces, declaring that he was an idiot and that his book was a Harlequin's coat, a series of excerpts from other men, poorly basted together, with the daring of ignorance. They, too, were stung by envy, in their senile, silent love, by the triumph of that stripling who carried off their idol, whom they had worshiped with a contemplative devotion that gave new life to their old age. Renovales was angry with himself. He tried in vain to overcome the habit that made him turn his steps every afternoon toward the countess's house. "I'll never go there again," he would say when he was back in his studio. "A pretty part you're playing, Mariano! Acting as a chorus to a love duet, in the company of all these senile imbeciles. A fine aim in life, this countess of yours!" But the next day he would go back, thinking with a sort of hope of Monteverde's pretentious superiority, and the disdainful air with which he received his fair adorer's worship. Concha would soon get tired of this mustached doll and turn her eyes on him, a man. The painter observed the transformation of his nature. He was a different man, and he made every effort to keep his family from noticing this change. He recognized mentally that he was in love, with the satisfaction of a mature man who sees in this a sign of youth the budding of a second life. He had felt impelled toward Concha by the desire of breaking the monotony of his existence, of imitating other men, of tasting the acidity of infidelity, in a brief escape from the stern imposing walls that shut in the desert of married life which was every day covered with more brambles and tares. Her resistance exasperated him, increasing his desire. He was not exactly sure how he felt; perhaps it was merely a physical attraction and added to that the wound to his pride, the bitterness of being repelled when he came down from the heights of virtue, where he had held his position with savage pride, believing that all the joys of the earth were waiting for him, dazzled by his glory and that he had only to hold out his arms and they would run to him. He felt humiliated by his failure; a dumb rage filled him when he compared his gray hair and his eyes, surrounded by growing wrinkles, with that pretty boy of science who seemed to drive the countess insane. Women! Their intellectual interest, their exaggerated admiration of fame! A lie! They worshiped talent only when it was well presented in a young and beautiful covering. Impelled by his obstinacy, Renovales was determined to overcome the resistance. He recalled, without the least remorse, the scene with his wife in the bedroom, and her scornful words that foretold his failure with the countess. Josephina's disdain was only another spur to urge him to continue his course. Concha kept him off and led him on at the same time. There was no doubt that the master's love flattered her vanity. She laughed at his passionate protestations, taking them in jest, always answering them in the same tone: "Be dignified, master. That isn't becoming to you. You are a great man, a genius. Let the boys be the ones to play the part of the lovesick student." But when enraged at her subtle mockery, he took a mental oath not to come back again, she seemed to guess it and she suddenly assumed an affectionate air, attracting him with an interest that made him foresee the near approach of his triumph. If he was offended and kept silence, she was the one who talked of love, of eternal passions between two beings of lofty minds, based on the harmony of their thoughts; and she did not cease this dangerous conversation until the master, with a sudden renewal of confidence, came forward offering his love, only to be received with that kindly and still ironical smile that seemed to look on him as a child whose judgment was faulty. And so the master lived, fluctuating between hope and despair, now favored, now repelled, but always incapable of escaping from her influence, as if a crime were haunting him. He sought opportunities to see her alone with the ingenuity of a college boy, he invented pretexts for going to her house at unusual hours, when there were no callers present, and his courage failed him when he ran into the pretty doctor and felt around himself that sensation of uneasiness which always seizes an unwelcome guest. The vague hope of meeting the countess at Moncloa, of walking with her a whole afternoon, unmolested by that circle of insufferable people who surrounded her with their drooling worship, kept him excited all night and the next morning, as if a real rendezvous were awaiting him. Would she go? Was not her promise a mere whim that she had immediately forgotten? He sent a note to an ex-minister of State, whose portrait he was painting, to ask him not to come to the studio that afternoon, and after luncheon he got into a cab, telling the cabby to beat the horse, to go full speed, for fear of being late. He knew that it would be hours before she came, if she did come; but a mad, unreasonable impatience filled him. He thought without knowing why that, by arriving ahead of time, he would hasten the countess's coming. He got out in the square in front of the little palace of Moncloa. The cab disappeared in the direction of Madrid, up hill along an avenue that was lost in the distance behind an arch of dry branches. Renovales walked up and down, alone in the little square. The sun was shining in a patch of blue sky, among the heavy clouds. In the places which its rays did not reach, it was cold. The water ran down from the foot of the trees, after dripping from the branches and trickling down the trunks; it was melting rapidly. The wood seemed to weep with joy under the caress of the sun, that destroyed the last traces of the white shroud. The majestic silence of Nature, abandoned to its own power, surrounded the artist. The pines were swinging with the long gusts of wind, filling space with a murmur, like the sound of distant harps. The square was hidden in the icy shadow of the trees. Up above in the front of the palace some pigeons, seeking the sun above the tops of the pines, swept around the old flagpole and the classic busts blackened by the weather. Then, tired of flying, they settled down on the rusty iron balconies, adding to the old building a white fluttering decoration, a rustling garland of feathers. In the middle of the square a marble swan, with its neck violently stretched toward the sky, threw out a jet, whose murmur seemed to heighten the impression of icy cold which he felt in the shadow. Renovales began to walk, crushing the frozen crust that cracked under his feet in the shady places. He leaned over the circular iron rail that surrounds a part of the square. Through the curtain of black branches, where the first buds were beginning to open, he saw the ridge that bounds the horizon; the mountains of Guadarrama, phantoms of snow that were mingled with the masses of clouds. Nearer, the mountains of Pardo stood out with their dark peaks, black with pines, and to the left stretched out the slopes of the hills of the Casa de Campo, where the first yellow touches of spring were beginning to show. At his feet lay the fields of Moncloa, the antique little gardens, the grove of Viveros, bordering the stream. Carriages were moving in the roads below, their varnished tops flashing in the sun like fiery mortar boards. The meadows, the foliage of the woods, everything seemed clean and bright after the recent storm. The all-pervading green tone, with its infinite variations from black to yellow, smiled at the touch of the sun after the chill of the snow. In the distance sounded the constant reports of shotguns that seemed to tear the air with the intensity that is common in still afternoons. They were hunting in the Casa de Campo. Between the colonnades of trees and the green sheets of the meadows, the water flashed in the sun, bits of ponds, glimpses of canals, pools of melted snow, like bright trembling edges of huge swords, lost in the grass. Renovales hardly looked at the landscape; it had no message for him that afternoon. He was preoccupied with other things. He saw a smart coupé come down the avenue, and he left the belvedere to go to meet it. She was coming! But the coupé passed by him, slowly and majestically without stopping and he saw through the window an old lady wrapped in furs, with sunken eyes and distorted mouth, trembling with old age, her head bobbing with the movement of the carriage. It disappeared in the direction of the little church beside the palace and the painter was alone again. No! She would not come! His heart began to tell him that there was no use waiting. Some little girls, with battered shoes, and straight greasy hair that floated around their necks, began to run about the square. Renovales did not see where they came from. Perhaps they were the children of the guardian of the palace. A guard came down the avenue with his gun hanging from his shoulder, and his horn at his side. Beyond approached a man in black, who looked like a servant, escorted by two huge dogs, two majestic bluish-gray Danes, that walked with a dignified bearing, prudent and moderate but proud of their terrifying appearance. Not a carriage could be seen. Curses! Seated on one of the stone benches, the master finally took out the little notebook that he always carried with him. He sketched the figures of the children as they ran around the fountain. That was one way to kill time. One after the other he sketched all the girls, then he caught them in several groups, but at last they disappeared behind the palace, going down toward the Caño Gordo. Renovales, having nothing to distract him, left his seat and walked about, stamping noisily. His feet were like ice, this waiting in the cold was putting him in a terrible mood. Then he went and sat down on another bench near the servant in black, who had the two dogs at his knees. They were sitting on their hind paws, resting with as much dignity as real people, watching that gentleman with their gray eyes that winked intelligently, as he looked at them attentively and then moved his pencil on the book that rested on his knee. The painter sketched the two dogs in different postures, giving himself up to the work with such interest that he quite forgot his purpose in coming there. Oh, what splendid creatures! Renovales loved animals in which beauty was united with strength. If he had lived alone and could have consulted his own tastes, he would have converted his house into a menagerie. The servant went away with his dogs and the artist once more was left alone. Several couples passed slowly, arm in arm, and disappeared behind the palace toward the gardens below. Then a group of school boys that left behind them, as their cassocks fluttered, that odor of healthy, dirty flesh that is peculiar to barracks and convents. And still the countess did not come! The painter went again to rest his elbows on the balustrade of the belvedere. He would only wait a half an hour longer. The afternoon was wearing away; the sun was still high, but from time to time the landscape was darkened. The clouds that had been confined on the horizon had been let loose and they were rolling through the field of the sky like a flock of sheep, assuming fantastic shapes, rushing eagerly in tumultuous confusion as if they wished to swallow the ball of fire that was slipping slowly over a bit of clear blue sky. Suddenly, Renovales felt a sort of shock near his heart. No one had touched him; it was a warning of his nerves that for some time had been especially irritable. She was near, was coming he was sure. And turning around, he saw her, still a long way off, coming down the avenue, in black with a fur coat, her hands in a little muff and a veil over her eyes. Her tall, graceful silhouette was outlined against the yellow ground as she passed the trees. Her carriage was returning up the hill, perhaps to wait for her at the top near the School of Agriculture. As she met him in the center of the square she held out her gloved hand, warm from the muff, and they turned toward the belvedere, chatting. "I'm in a furious mood, disgusted to death. I didn't expect to come; I forgot all about it, upon my word. But as I was coming out of the President's house I thought of you. I was sure I would find you here. And so I have come to have you drive away my ill humor." Through the veil, Renovales saw her eyes that flashed hostilely and her dainty lips angrily tightened. She spoke quickly, eager to vent the wrath that was swelling her heart, without paying any attention to what was around her, as if she were in her own drawing room where everything was familiar. She had been to see the Prime-Minister to recommend her "affair" to his attention; a desire of the count's on the fulfillment of which his happiness depended. Poor Paco (her husband) dreamed of the Golden Fleece. That was the only thing that was lacking to crown the tower of crosses, keys and ribbons that he was raising about his person, from his belly to his neck, till not an inch of his body was without this glorious covering. The Golden Fleece and then death! Why should they not do this favor for Paco, such a good man, who would not hurt a fly? What would it cost them to grant him this toy and make him happy? "There aren't any friends any longer, Mariano," said the countess bitterly. "The Prime-Minister is a fool who forgets his old friendships now that he is head of the government. I who have seen him sighing around me like a comic opera tenor, making love to me (yes, I tell the truth to you) and ready to commit suicide because I scorned his vulgarity and foolishness! This afternoon, the same old story; lots of holding my hand, lots of making eyes, 'dear Concha,' 'sweet Concha' and other sugary expressions, just such as he sings in Congress like an old canary. Sum total, the Fleece is impossible, he is very sorry, but at Court they are unwilling." And the countess, as if she saw for the first time where she was, turned her eyes angrily toward the dark hills of the Casa de Campo, where shots could still be heard. "And they wonder that people think this way or that! I am an anarchist, do you hear, Mariano? Every day I feel more revolutionary. Don't laugh, for it is no jest. Poor Paco, who is a lamb of God, is horrified to hear me. 'Woman, think what we are! We must be on good terms with the royal house.' But I rise in rebellion; I know them; a crowd of reprobates. Why shouldn't my Paco have the Fleece, if the poor man needs it. I tell you, master, this cowardly, meek country makes me raging mad. We ought to have what France had in '93. If I were alone, without all these trifles of name and position, I would do to-day something that would stir people. I'd throw a bomb, no, not a bomb; I'd get a revolver and----" "Fire!" shouted the painter, bursting into a laugh. Concha drew back indignantly. "Don't joke, master. I'll go away. I'll slap you. This is more serious than you think. This afternoon is no time for jokes." But her fickle nature contradicted the seriousness that she pretended to give her words, for she smiled slightly, as if pleased at some memory. "It wasn't wholly a failure," she said after a long pause. "My hands aren't empty. The prime-minister didn't want to make me his enemy and so he offered me a compensation, since the 'Lamb' affair was impossible. A deputy's chair at the next election." Renovales' eyes opened in astonishment. "For whom do you want that? To whom is that going to be given?" "To whom?" mimicked Concha with mock astonishment. "To whom! To whom do you suppose, you simpleton! Not for you, you don't know anything about that or anything else, except your brushes. For Monteverde, for the doctor, who will do great things." The artist's noisy laugh resounded in the silence of the square. "Darwin a deputy of the majority! Darwin saying 'Aye' and 'No.'" And after these exclamations his laugh of mock astonishment continued. "Laugh, you old bear! Open that mouth wider; wag your apostolic beard! How funny you are! And what's strange about that? But don't laugh any longer; you make me nervous. I'll go away, if you keep on like this." They remained silent for a long while. The countess was not long in forgetting her troubles; her bird-like brain never retained any one impression for long. She looked around her with disdainful eyes, eager to mortify the painter. Was that what Renovales raved over so? Was there nothing more? They began to walk slowly, going down to the terraced gardens behind the palace. They descended the moss-covered slopes that were streaked with the black flint of the flights of stairs. The silence was deathlike. The water murmured as it flowed from the trunks of the trees, forming little streams that trickled down hill, almost invisible in the grass. In some shady spots there still remained piles of snow, like bundles of white wool. The shrill cries of the birds sounded like the scratching of a diamond on glass. At the edge of the stairways, the pedestals of black, crumbling stone recalled the statues and urns they had once supported. The little gardens, cut in geometric figures, stretched out the Greek square of their carpet of foliage on each level of the terrace. In the squares, the fountains spurted in pools surrounded by rusted railings, or flowed down triple layers with a ceaseless murmur. Water everywhere,--in the air, in the ground, whispering, icy, adding to the cold impression of the landscape, where the sun seemed a red blotch of color devoid of heat. They passed under arches of vines, between huge dying trees covered to the top with winding rings of ivy that clung to the venerable trunks, veneered with a green and yellow crust. The paths were bounded on one side by the slope of the hill, from the top of which came the invisible tinkling of a bell, and where from time to time there appeared on the blue background of the sky the massive outline of a slowly moving cow. On the other, a rustic railing of branches painted white bounded the path and, beyond it, in the valley, lay the dark flower beds with their melancholy solitude and their fountains that wept day and night in an atmosphere of old age and abandon. The closely matted brambles stretched from tree to tree along the slopes. The slender cypresses, the tall pines with their straight trunks, formed a thick colonnade, a lattice through which the sunlight flitted, a false unearthly light, that striped the ground with bands of gold and bars of shadow. The painter praised the spot enthusiastically. It was the only corner for artists that could be found in Madrid. It was there that the great Don Francisco had worked. It seemed as though at some turn in the path they would run into Goya, sitting before his easel, scowling ill-naturedly at some dainty duchess who was serving as his model. Modern clothes seemed out of keeping with this background. Renovales declared that the correct apparel for such a landscape was a bright coat, a powdered wig, silk stockings, walking beside a Directoire gown. The countess smiled as she listened to the painter. She looked about with great curiosity; that was not a bad walk; she guessed it was the first time she ever saw it. Very pretty! But she was not fond of the country. To her mind the best landscape was the silks of a drawing room and, as for trees, she preferred the scenery at the Opera to the accompaniment of music. "The country bores me, master. It makes me so sad. If you leave Nature alone to itself it is very commonplace." They entered a little square in the center of which was a pool, on the level of the ground, with stone posts that marked where there had once been a railing. The water, swollen by the melting snow, was overflowing the stone curb, and reached out in a thin sheet as it started down hill. The countess stopped, afraid of wetting her feet. The painter went ahead, putting his feet in the driest places, taking her hand to guide her, and she followed him, laughing at the obstacle and picking up her skirts. As they continued their way down another path, Renovales kept that soft little hand in his, feeling its warmth through the glove. She let him hold it, as if she did not notice his touch, but still with a faint expression of mischievousness on her lips and in her eyes. The master seemed undecided, embarrassed, as if he did not know how to begin. "Always the same?" he asked weakly. "Haven't you a little charity for me to-day?" The countess broke out in a merry laugh. "There it comes. I was expecting it; that's why I hesitated to come. In the carriage I said to myself several times: 'My dear, you're making a mistake in going to Moncloa; you will be bored to death; you may expect declaration number one thousand.'" Then she assumed a tone of mock indignation. "But, master, can't you talk about anything else? Are we women condemned to be unable to talk with a man without his feeling obliged to pour out a proposal?" Renovales protested. She might say that to other men, but not to him, for he was in love with her. He swore it; he would say it on his knees, to make her believe it. Madly in love with her! But she mimicked him grotesquely, raising one hand to her breast and laughing cruelly. "Yes, I know, the old story. There's no use in your repeating it; I know it by heart. A volcano in my breast, impossible to live without you--if you do not love me, I will kill myself. They all say the same thing. I never saw such a lack of originality. Master, for goodness sake, do not be so commonplace! A man like you saying such things!" Renovales was crushed by her mocking mimicry. But Concha, as if she took pity on him, hastened to add, in an affectionate tone: "Why should you have to be in love with me? Do you think I shall esteem you less if I relieve you from an obligation that all men who surround me feel under? I like you, master; I need to see you; I should be very sorry if we quarreled. I like you as a friend; the best of all, the first. I like you because you are good; a great big boy; a bearded baby who doesn't know even the least bit about the world, but who is very, _very_ talented. I've wanted for a long time to see you alone, to talk with you quite freely, to tell you this. I like you as I like no one else. When I am with you, I feel a confidence such as no other man inspires in me. Good friends, brother and sister, if you will. But don't put on such a gloomy face! Look pleasant, please! Give one of your laughs that cheer my soul, master!" But the master remained sullen, looking at the ground, running the fingers of his hand through his thick beard. "All that's a lie, Concha," he said rudely. "The truth is that you are in love, you're mad over that worthless Monteverde." The countess smiled, as if the rudeness of these words flattered her. "Well, yes, Mariano. We like each other; I believe I love him as I never loved any man. I have never told anyone; you are the first one to hear it from me, because you are my friend, because somehow or other I tell you everything. We like each other or, rather, I like him much more than he does me. There is something like gratitude in my love. I don't deceive myself, Mariano! Thirty-six years! I venture to confess my age to you. However, I am still presentable; I keep my youth well, but he is much younger. Years younger and I could almost be his mother." She was silent for a moment, almost frightened at this difference between her lover's age and hers, but then she added with a sudden confidence: "He likes me, too, I know. I am his adviser, his inspiration; he says that with me he feels a new strength for work, that he will be a great man, thanks to me. But I like him more, much more than he does me; there is almost as great a difference in our affections as there is in our ages." "And why do you not love me?" said the master tearfully. "I worship you, the tables would be turned. I would be the one to surround you with constant idolatry, and you would let me worship you, caress you, as I would an idol, my head bowed at its feet." Concha laughed again, mocking the artist's hoarse voice, his passionate expression, and his eager eyes. "Why don't I love you? Master, don't be childish. There's no use in asking such things, you cannot dictate to Love. I do not like you as you want me to, because it is impossible. Be satisfied to be my best friend. You know I show a confidence in you that I do not show to Monteverde. Yes, I tell you things I would never tell him." "But the other part!" exclaimed the painter violently. "What I need, what I am hungry for,--you, your beauty, real love!" "Master, contain yourself," she said with affected modesty. "How well I know you! You're going to say some of those horrid things that men always say when they rave over a woman. I'm going away so as not to hear you." Then she added with maternal seriousness, as if she wanted to reprimand his violence: "I am not so crazy as people think. I consider the consequences of my actions carefully. Mariano, look at yourself, think of your position. A wife, a daughter who will marry one of these days, the prospect of being a grandfather. And you still think of such follies! I could not accede to your proposal even if I loved you. How terrible! To deceive Josephina, the friend of my school-days! Poor thing, so gentle, so kind,--always ill. No, Mariano, never. A man cannot enter such compromising affairs, unless he is free. I could never feel like loving you. Friends, nothing more than friends!" "Well, we will not be that," exclaimed Renovales impetuously. "I will leave your house forever. I will not see you any longer. I will do anything to forget you. It is an intolerable torment. My life will be calmer if I do not see you." "You will not go away," said Concha quietly, certain of her power. "You will remain beside me just as you always have, if you really like me, and I shall have in you my best friend. Don't be a baby, master, you will see that there is something charming about our friendship that you do not understand now. I shall give you something that the rest do not know,--intimacy, confidence." And as she said this, she put one hand on the painter's arm and drew closer to him, searching him with her eyes in which there was a strange, mysterious light. A horn sounded near them; there was swift rush of heavy wheels. An automobile shot past them at full speed, following the highroad. Renovales tried to make out the figures in the car, hardly larger than dolls in the distance. Perhaps it was López de Sosa, who was driving, perhaps his wife and daughter were those two little figures, wrapped in veils, who occupied the seats. The possibility of Josephina's having passed through the background of the landscape without seeing him, without noticing that he was there, forgetful of everything, an imploring lover, overcame him with the sense of remorse. They remained motionless for a long while in silence, leaning on the rough wooden railing, watching through the colonnade of the trees the bright, cherry-red sun, as it sank, lighting up the horizon with a blaze of fire. The leaden clouds, seeing it on the point of death, assailed it with treacherous greed. Concha watched the sunset with the interest that a sight but seldom seen arouses. "Look at that huge cloud, master. How black it is! It looks like a dragon; no, a hippopotamus; see its round paws, like towers. How it runs! It's going to eat the sun. It's eating it! It has swallowed it now!" The landscape grew dark. The sun had disappeared inside of that monster that filled the horizon. Its waving back was edged with silver, and as if it could not hold the burning star; it broke below, pouring out a rain of pale rays. Then, burned by this digestion, it vanished in smoke, was torn into black tufts, and once more the red disc appeared, bathing sky and earth with gold, peopling the water of the pools with restless fiery fishes. Renovales, leaning on the railing with one elbow beside the countess, breathed her subtle fragrance, felt the warm touch of her firm body. "Let's go back, master," she said with a suggestion of uneasiness in her voice. "I feel cold. Besides, with a companion like you, it's impossible to stay still." And she hastened her step, realizing from her experience with men the danger of remaining alone with Renovales. His pale, excited face warned her that he was likely to make some reckless, impetuous advance. In the square of Caño Gordo they passed a couple going slowly down the hill, very close together, not yet daring to walk arm in arm, but ready to put their arms around each other's waists as soon as they disappeared in the next path. The young man carried his cloak under his arm, as proudly as a gallant in the old comedies; she, small and pale, without any beauty except that of youth, was wrapped in a poor cloak and walked with her simple eyes fixed on her companion's. "Some student with his girl," said Renovales. "They are happier than we are, Concha." "We are getting old, master," she said with feigned sadness, excluding herself from old age, loading the whole burden of years on her companion. Renovales turned toward her in a final outburst of protest. "Why should I not be as happy as that boy? Haven't I a right to it? Concha, you do not know who I am; you forget it, accustomed as you are to treat me like a child. I am Renovales, the painter, the famous master. I am known all over the world." And he spoke of his fame with brutal indelicacy, growing more and more irritated at her coldness, displaying his renown like a mantle of light that should blind women and make them fall at his feet. And a man like him had to submit to being put off for that simpleton of a doctor? The countess smiled with pity. Her eyes, too, revealed a sort of compassion. The fool! The child! How absurd men of talent were! "Yes, you are a great man, master. That is why I am proud of your friendship. I even admit that it gives me some importance. I like you. I feel admiration for you." "No, not admiration, Concha, love! To belong to each other! Complete love." She continued to laugh. "Oh, my boy; Love!" Her eyes seemed to speak to him ironically. Love does not distinguish talents; it is ignorant and therefore boasts of its blindness. It only perceives the fragrance of youth, of life in its flower. "We shall be friends, Mariano, friends and nothing more. You will grow accustomed to it and find our affection dear. Don't be material; it doesn't seem as if you were an artist. Idealism, master, that is what you need." And she continued to talk to him from the heights of her pity, until they parted near the place where her carriage was waiting for her. "Friends, Mariano, nothing more than friends, but true friends." When Concha had gone, Renovales walked in the shadows of the twilight, gesticulating and clenching his fists, until he left Moncloa. Finding himself alone, he was again filled with wrath and insulted the countess mentally, now that he was free from the loving subjection that he suffered in her presence. How she amused herself with him! How his friends would laugh to see him helplessly submissive to that woman who had belonged to so many! His pride made him insist on conquering her, at any cost, even of humiliation and brutality. It was an affair of honor to make her his, even if it were only once, and then to take revenge by repelling her, throwing her at his feet, and saying with a sovereign air, "That is what I do to people who resist me." But then he realized his weakness. He would always be beaten by that woman who looked at him coldly, who never lost her calm and considered him an inferior being. His dejection made him think of his family, of his sick wife, and the duties that bound him to her, and he felt the bitter joy of the man who sacrifices himself, taking up his cross. His mind was made up. He would flee from the woman. He would not see her again. III And he did not see her; he did not see her for two days. But on the third there came a letter in a long blue envelope scented with a perfume that made him tremble. The countess complained of his absence in affectionate terms. She needed to see him, she had many things to tell him. A real love-letter which the artist hastened to hide, for fear that if any one read it, he would suspect what was not yet true. Renovales was indignant. "I will go to see her," he said to himself, walking up and down the studio. "But it will be only to give her a piece of my mind, and have done with her once and for all. If she thinks she is going to play with me, she is mistaken; she doesn't know that, when I want to be, I am like stone." Poor master! While in one corner of his mind he was formulating this cruel determination to be a man of stone, in the other a sweet voice was murmuring seductively: "Go quickly, take advantage of the opportunity. Perhaps she has repented. She is waiting for you; she is going to be yours." And the artist hastened to the countess's anxiously. Nothing. She complained of his absence with affected sadness. She liked him so much! She needed to see him, she could not have any peace as long as she felt that he was offended with her on account of the other afternoon. And they spent nearly two hours together in the private room she used as an office, until at the end of the afternoon the serious friends of the countess began to arrive, her coterie of mute worshipers and last of all Monteverde with the calm of a man who has nothing to fear. The painter left the house. Nothing out of the ordinary had happened except that he had twice kissed the countess's hand; the conventional caress and nothing more. Whenever he tried to go farther, moving his lips along her arm, she checked him imperiously. "I shall be angry, master, and not receive you any more alone! You are not keeping the agreement!" Renovales protested. They had not made any agreement; but Concha managed to calm him instantly by asking about Milita, praising her beauty, inquiring for poor Josephina, so good, so lovable, showing great concern for her health and promising to call on her soon. And the master was restrained, tormented by remorse, not daring to make any new advances, until his discomfort had disappeared. He continued to visit the countess, as before. He felt that he must see her; he had grown accustomed to her enthusiastic praise of his artistic merits. Sometimes the impetuous nature of his youthful days awakened and he longed to rid himself of this shameful chain. The woman had bewitched him; she sent for him without any reason, she seemed to delight in making him suffer, she needed him for a plaything. She spoke of Monteverde and their love with quiet cynicism, as if the doctor were her husband. She had to confide the secrets of her life to some one, with that imperious naïveté that forces the guilty to confess. Little by little she let the master into the secret of her passion, telling him unblushingly of the most intimate details of their meetings, which were often in her own house. They took advantage of the blindness of the count, who seemed almost stunned by his failure to receive the Fleece; they took a morbid delight in the danger of being surprised. "I tell you this, Mariano, I don't know why it is I feel as I do toward you; I like you as a brother. No, not as a brother, rather as a confidential woman friend." When Renovales was alone, he despised Concha's frankness. It was just as people believed; she was very attractive, very pretty, but absolutely lacking in scruples. As for himself, he heaped insults on himself in the slang of his Bohemian days, comparing himself with all the horned animals he could think of. "I won't go there again. It's disgraceful. A pretty part you are playing, master!" But he had hardly been absent two days when Marie, the Countess's French maid, appeared with the scented letter, or it arrived in the mail, where it stood out scandalously among the other envelopes of the master's correspondence. "Curse that woman!" exclaimed Renovales, hastening to hide the showy note. "What a lack of prudence. One of these fine days, Josephina will discover these letters." Cotoner, in his blind devotion to his idol whom he considered irresistible, supposed that the Alberca woman was madly in love with the master and shook his head sadly. "This will have a bad end, Mariano. You ought to break with her. The peace of your home! You are piling up trouble for yourself." The letters were always alike; endless complaints at his short absences. "_Cher maître_, I could not sleep last night, thinking of you," and she ended with "Your admirer and good friend, Coquillerosse," a _nom de guerre_ she had adopted for her correspondence with the artist. She wrote in a disordered style, at unusual hours, just as her fancy and her abnormal nervous system prompted. Sometimes she dated her letter at three in the morning, she could not sleep, got out of bed and to pass the sleepless hours filled four sheets of paper (with the facility of despair) in her fine hand, addressed to her good friend, talking to him of the count, of what her acquaintances said, telling him the latest gossip about the Court, lamenting the doctor's coldness. At other times, there were only four brief, desperate lines. "Come at once, dear Mariano. A very urgent matter." And the master, leaving his tasks early in the morning, ran to the countess' house, where she received him still in bed in her fragrant chamber which the gentleman with honorary crosses had not entered for many years. The painter came in in great anxiety, disturbed at the possibility of some terrible event, and Concha, tossing about between the embroidered sheets, tucking in the golden wisps of hair that escaped from her lace cap, talked and talked, as incoherently as a bird sings, as if the silence of the night had hopelessly confused her ideas. A great idea had occurred to her; during her sleep she had thought out an absolutely original scientific theory that would delight Monteverde. And she explained it earnestly to the master, who nodded his approval without understanding a word, thinking it was a pity to see such an attractive mouth uttering such follies. At other times she would talk to him about the speech she was preparing for a fair of the Woman's Association, the _magnum opus_ of her presidency; and drawing her ivory arms from under the sheet with a calmness that dazed Renovales, she would pick up from the nearby table some sheets of paper scribbled with pencil, and ask her friend to tell her who was the greatest painter in the world, for she had left a blank to fill in with this name. After an hour of incessant chatter while the artist watched her silently with greedy eyes, he finally came to the urgent matter, the desperate summons that had made the master leave his work. It was always an affair of life or death, compromises in which her honor was at stake. Sometimes she wanted him to paint some little thing on the fan of a foreign lady who was eager to take away from Spain some souvenir of the great master. The person in question had asked her at a diplomatic soirée the night before, knowing her friendship with Renovales. Or she had sent for him to ask him for some little sketch, a daub, any one of the little things that lay in the corner of his studio for a bazaar of the Association for the Benefit of Fallen Women, whom the countess and her friends were very eager to rescue. "Don't put on such a wry face, master, don't be stingy. You must expect to sacrifice something for friendship. Everybody thinks that I have great power over the famous artist, and they ask me favors and are constantly getting me into difficulty. They don't know you, they don't realize how perverse, how rebellious you are, you horrid man!" And she let him kiss her hand, smiling condescendingly. But as she felt the touch of his lips and his beard on her arm she struggled to free herself, half-laughing, half-trembling. "Let me go, Mariano! I'll scream! I'll call Marie! I won't receive you again in my bedroom. You aren't worthy of being trusted. Quiet, master, or I'll tell Josephina everything." Sometimes when Renovales came, full of alarm at her summons, he found her pale, with dark circles under her eyes, as if she had spent the night weeping. When she saw the master her tears began to flow again. It was pique, deep pain at Monteverde's coldness. He passed whole days without seeing her; he even went so far as to say that women are a hindrance to serious study. Oh, these scholars! And she, madly devoted to him, submissive as a slave, putting up with his whimsical moods, worshiping him with that ardent passion of a woman who is older than her lover and appreciates her own inferiority! "Oh, Renovales. Never fall in love. It is hell. You do not know the happiness you enjoy in not understanding these things." But the master, indifferent to her tears, enraged by her confidences, walked up and down gesticulating, just as if he were in his studio, and he spoke to the countess with brutal frankness, as he would to a woman who had revealed all her secrets and weaknesses. What difference did all that make to him? Had she sent for him to tell him such stuff? She grieved with childish sighs from the bed. She was alone in the world, she was very unhappy. The master was her only friend; he was her father, her brother. To whom could she tell her troubles if not to him? And taking courage at the painter's silence who finally was moved by her tears, she recovered her boldness and expressed her wish. He must go to Monteverde, give him a good, heart-to-heart lecture, so that he would be good and not make her suffer. The doctor respected him highly; he was one of his greatest admirers; she was certain that a few words of the master would be enough to bring him back like a lamb. He must show him that she was not alone, that she had some one to defend her, that no one could make sport of her with impunity. But before she finished her request, the painter was walking around the bed waving his arms, cursing in the violence of his excitement. "That's the last straw! One of these days you'll be asking me to shine his boots. Are you mad, woman? What are you thinking of? You have enough accommodating people already in the count. Don't drag me into it!" But she rolled over in bed, weeping disconsolately. She had no friends left! The master was like the others; if he would not accede to her requests, their friendship was over. All talk, oaths, and then not the least sacrifice! Suddenly she sat up, frowning angrily with the coldness of an offended queen. She knew him at last, she had made a mistake in counting on him. And as Renovales, confused at her anger, tried to offer excuse, she interrupted him haughtily. "Will you, or will you not? One, two----" Yes, he would do what she wanted; he had sunk so low that it did not matter if he went a little farther. He would lecture the doctor, throwing in his face his stupidity in scorning such happiness,--he said this with all his heart, his voice trembling with envy. What else did his fair despot want? She might ask without fear. If it was necessary he would challenge the count, with all his decorations, to single combat and would kill him so that she might be free to join her little doctor. "You joker," cried Concha, smiling at her triumph. "You are as nice as can be but you are very perverse. Come here, you horrid man." And lifting a lock of his heavy hair with her hand, she kissed him on the forehead, laughing at the start the painter gave at her caress. He felt his legs trembling, then his arms strove to embrace the warm, scented body, that seemed to slip from him in its delicate covering. "It was on the forehead," cried Concha in protest. "A sister's caress, Mariano. Stop! You're hurting me! I'll call!" And she called, realizing her weakness, seeing that she was on the point of being overcome in his fierce, masterly grasp. The electric bell sounded out of the maze of corridors and rooms and the door opened. Marie entered in a black dress with a white apron and a lace cap, discreet and silent. Her pale, smiling face, accustomed to see everything, to guess everything, did not reveal the slightest impression. The countess stretched out her hand to Renovales, calmly and affectionately, as if the entrance of the maid had found her saying good-by. She was sorry that he must go so soon, she would see him in the evening at the Opera. When the painter breathed the air of the street and jostled against the people, he felt as if he were awakening from a nightmare. He loathed himself. "You're showing off finely, master." His weakness that made him give in to all of the countess's demands, his base acquiescence in serving as an intermediary between her and her lover was sickening now. But he still felt the touch of her kiss on his forehead; he still breathed the atmosphere of the bedroom, heavy with perfume. Optimism overcame him. The affair was not going badly. However disagreeable the path was, it would lead to the realization of his desire. Many evenings Renovales went to the Opera, in obedience to Concha, who wanted to see him, and spent whole acts in the back of her box, conversing with her. Milita laughed at this change in the habits of her father, who used to go to bed early, so as to be able to work early in the morning. She was the one who, charged with the household affairs on account of her mother's constant illness, helped him to put on his dress-coat, and amid caresses and laughter combed his hair and adjusted his tie. "Papa, dear. I shouldn't know you, you're getting dissipated. When are you going to take me with you?" The artist excused himself seriously. It was a duty of his profession; artists must go into society. And as for taking her with him--some other time. He had to go alone this time, he had to talk to a great many people at the theater. Another change took place in him that provoked joyful comments on the part of Milita. Papa was getting young. Under irreverent trimmings, every week his hair became shorter, his beard diminished until only a light remnant remained of that tangled growth that gave him such a ferocious appearance. He did not want to look like other men, he must preserve the exterior that stamped him as an artist, so that people might not pass by the great Renovales without recognizing him. But he managed, while keeping within this desire, to approach and mingle with the fashionably dressed young men who frequented the countess's house. Other people too noticed this change. Students in the School of Fine Arts pointed him out from the gallery of the Opera-house or stopped on the sidewalk when they saw him at night, with a shining silk hat on his carefully trimmed hair and the expanse of shirt-front showing in his unbuttoned overcoat. The boys in their simple admiration imagined the great master thundering before his easel, as savage, fierce and intractable as Michael Angelo in his studio. And so when they saw him looking so differently, their eyes followed him enviously. "What a good time the master is having!" And they fancied the great ladies disputing over him, believing in perfect faith that no woman could resist a man who painted so well. His enemies, established artists but who were inferior to him, growled in their conversations. "Four-flusher, prig! He wasn't satisfied with making so much money and now he's playing the sport among the aristocracy, to pick up more portraits, to get all he can out of his signature." Cotoner, who sometimes stayed at the house in the evenings, to keep the ladies company, smiled sadly as he saw him leave, shaking his head. "It's bad. Mariano married too soon. Now that he is almost an old man, he's doing what he didn't do in his youth in his fever for work and glory." Many people were laughing at him already, divining his passion for the Alberca woman, that love without practical results, that made him live with her and Monteverde, acting as a good-natured mediator, a tolerant kindly father. When the famous master took off his mask of fierceness, he was a poor fellow about whom people talked with pity: they compared him with Hercules, dressed as a woman and spinning at the feet of his fair seducer. He had contracted a close friendship with Monteverde as a result of meeting him so often at the countess's. He no longer seemed foolish and unattractive. Renovales found in him something of the woman he loved and therefore his company was pleasing. He experienced that calm attraction, free from jealousy, that the husband of a mistress inspires in some men. They sat together at the theater, went to walk, conversing amiably, and the doctor frequently visited the artist's studio in the afternoon. This intimacy quite disconcerted people, for they could no longer tell with certainty which one was the Alberca woman's master and which the aspirant, even going so far as to believe that by a mutual agreement they all three lived in an ideal world. Monteverde admired the master and the latter, from his years and the superiority of his fame, assumed a paternal authority over him. He chided him when the countess complained of him. "Women!" the doctor would say with a bored expression. "You don't know what they are, master. They are only a hindrance to obstruct a man's career. You have been successful because you haven't let them dominate you because you are strong." And the poor strong man looked at Monteverde narrowly suspecting that he was making sport of him. He felt tempted to knock him down at the thought that the doctor scorned what he craved so keenly. Concha was more communicative with the master. She confessed to him what she had never dared to tell the doctor. "I tell you everything, Mariano. I cannot live without seeing you. Do you know what I think? The doctor is a sort of husband to me and you are the lover of my heart. Don't get excited; don't move or I'll call. I have spoken from my heart. I like you too much to think of the coarse things you want." Sometimes Renovales found her excited, nervous, speaking hoarsely, working her delicate fingers as if she wanted to scratch the air. They were terrible days that stirred up the whole house. Marie ran from room to room with her silent step, pursued by the ringing of the bells; the count slipped out of doors, like a frightened school-boy. Concha was bored, felt tired of everything, hated her life. When the painter appeared she would almost throw herself in his arms. "Take me out of here, Mariano; I'm tired of it, I'm dying. This life is killing me. My husband! He doesn't count. My friends! Fools that flay me as soon as I leave them. The doctor! as untrustworthy as a weathercock. All those men in my coterie, idiots. Master, have pity on me. Take me far away from here. You must know some other world; artists know everything." If she only was not such a familiar figure and if people only did not know the master in Madrid! In her nervous excitement she formed the wildest projects. She wanted to go out at night arm in arm with Renovales. She in a shawl and a kerchief over her head and he in a cape and a slouch hat. She would be his grisette; she would imitate the carriage and stride of a woman of the streets and they would go to the lowest districts like two night-hawks, and they would drink, would get into a brawl; he would defend her and they would go and spend the night in the police station. The painter looked shocked. What nonsense! But she insisted on her wish. "Laugh, master, open that great mouth of yours, you ugly thing. What is strange about what I said? You, with all your artist's hair and soft hats, are humdrum, a peaceful soul that is incapable of doing anything original in order to amuse yourself." When she thought of the couple they had seen one afternoon at Moncloa, she grew melancholy and sentimental. She, too, thought it would be fun to play the grisette, to walk arm in arm with the master as if she were a poor dressmaker and he a clerk, to end the trip in a picnic park, and he would give her a ride in the green swing, while she screamed with pleasure, as she went up and down with her skirts whirling around her feet. That was not foolishness. Just the simplest, most rustic pleasure! What a pity that they were both so well known. But what they would do, at least, was to disguise themselves some morning and go house-hunting in some low quarter, like the Rastro, as if they were a newly married couple. No one would recognize them in that part of Madrid. Agreed, master? And the master approved of everything. But the next day, Concha received him with confusion, biting her lips, until at last she broke out into hearty laughter at the recollection of the follies she had proposed. "How you must laugh at me! Some days I am perfectly crazy." Renovales did not conceal his assent. Yes, she was a trifle crazy. But with all her absurdities that made him alternate between hope and despair, she was more attractive, with her merry nonsense, and her transitory fits of anger, than the woman at home, implacable, silent, shunning him with ceaseless repugnance, but following him everywhere with her weeping, uncanny eyes, that became as cutting as steel, as soon as, out of sympathy or remorse, he gave the least evidence of familiarity. Oh, what a heavy, intolerable comedy! Before his daughter and his friends they had to talk to each other, and he, looking away, so that their eyes might not meet, scolded her gently, for not following the advice of the doctors. At first they had said it was neurasthenia, now it was diabetes, that was increasing the invalid's weakness. The master lamented the passive resistance she opposed to all their curative methods. She would follow them for a few days and then give them up with calm obstinacy. Her health was better than they thought: doctors could not cure her trouble. At night, when they entered the bed-chamber, a deathly silence fell on them; a leaden wall seemed to rise between their bodies. Here they no longer had to dissemble; they looked at each other face to face with silent hostility. Their life at night was sheer torment, but neither of them dared to change their mode of living. Their bodies could not leave the common bed; they found in it the places they had occupied for years. The habit of their wills subjected them to this room and its furnishings, with all its memories of the happy days of their youth. Renovales would fall into the deep sleep of a healthy man, tired out with work. His last thoughts were of the countess. He saw her in that vague mist that shrouds the portal of unconsciousness; he went to sleep, thinking of what he would say to her the next day. And his dreams were in keeping with his desires, for he saw her standing on a pedestal, in all the majesty of her nakedness, surpassing the marble of the most famous statues with the life of her flesh. When he awakened suddenly and stretched out his arms, he touched the body of his companion, small, stiff, burning with the fire of fever or icy with deathly cold. He divined that she was not asleep. She spent the nights without closing her eyes, but she did not move, as if all her strength was concentrated on something that she watched in the darkness with a hypnotic stare. She was like a corpse. There was the obstacle, the leaden weight, the phantom that checked the other woman when sometimes in a moment of hesitation, she leaned toward him, on the point of falling. And the terrible longing, the hideous thought came forth again in all its ugliness, announcing that it was not dead, that it had only hidden in the den of his brain, to rise more cruelly, more insolently. "Why not?" argued the rejected spirit, scattering in his fancy the golden dust of dreams. Love, fame, joy, a new artistic life, the rejuvenation of Doctor Faustus; he might expect everything, if kindly death would but come to help him, breaking the chain that bound him to sadness and sickness. But straightway a protest would arise within him. Though he lived like an infidel, he still had a religious soul that in the trying moments of his life led him to call on all the superhuman and miraculous powers as if they were under an inevitable obligation to come to his aid. "Lord, take this horrible thought from me. Take away this temptation. Don't let her die. Let her live, even if I perish." And the following day, filled with remorse, he would go to some doctors, friends of his, to consult with them minutely. He would stir up the house, organizing the cure according to a vast plan, distributing the medicines by hours. Then he would calmly return to his work, to his artistic prejudices, to his passionate longing, forgetting his determinations, thinking his wife's life was already saved. One afternoon after luncheon, she came into the studio and as the master looked at her, a sense of anxiety crept over him. It was a long time since Josephina had entered the room while he was working. She would not sit down; standing beside the easel she spoke slowly and meekly to her husband, without looking at him. Renovales was frightened at this simplicity. "Mariano, I have come to talk to you about our daughter." She wanted her to be married: it must come some day and the sooner, the better. She would die before long and she wanted to leave the world with the assurance that her daughter was well settled. Renovales felt forced to protest loudly with all the vehemence of a man who is not very sure of what he is saying. Shucks! Die! Why should she die? Her health was better now than it had ever been. The only thing she needed was to heed what the doctors told her. "I shall die before long," she repeated coldly; "I shall die and you will be left in peace. You know it." The painter tried to protest with a greater show of righteous indignation but his eyes met his wife's cold look. Then he contented himself with shrugging his shoulders in a resigned way. He did not want to argue; he must keep calm. He had to paint; he must go out that afternoon as usual on important business. "Very well, go ahead. Milita is going to be married. And to whom?" Led by his desire to maintain his authority, to take the lead, and because of his long-standing affection for his pupil, he hastened to speak of him. Was Soldevilla the suitor? A good boy with a future ahead of him. He worshiped Milita; his dejection when she treated him ill was pitiful. He would make an excellent husband. Josephina cut short her husband's chatter in a cold, contemptuous tone. "I don't want any painters for my daughter; you know it. Her mother has had enough of them." Milita was going to marry López de Sosa. The matter was already settled as far as she was concerned. The boy had spoken to her and, assured of her approval, would ask the father. "But does she love him? Do you think, Josephina, that these things can be arranged to suit you?" "Yes, she loves him; she is suited and wants to be married. Besides she is your daughter; she would accept the other man just as readily. What she wants is freedom, to get away from her mother, not to live in the unhappy atmosphere of my ill health. She doesn't say so, she doesn't even know that she thinks it, but I see through her." And as if, while she spoke of her daughter, she could not maintain the coldness she had toward her husband, she raised her hand to her eyes, to wipe away the silent tears. Renovales had recourse to rudeness in order to get out of the difficulty. It was all nonsense; an invention of her diseased mind. She ought to think of getting well and nothing else. What was she crying for! Did she want to marry her daughter to that automobile enthusiast? Well, get him. She did not want to? Well, let the girl stay at home. She was the one who had charge; no one was hindering her. Have the marriage as soon as possible? He was a mere cipher, and there was no reason for asking his advice. But steady, shucks! He had to work; he had to go out. And when he saw Josephina leaving the studio to weep somewhere else, he gave a snort of satisfaction, glad to have escaped from this difficult scene so successfully. López de Sosa was all right. An excellent boy! Or anyone else. He did not have time to give to such matters. Other things occupied his attention. He accepted his future son-in-law, and for several evenings he stayed at home to lend a sort of patriarchal air to the family parties. Milita and her betrothed talked at one end of the drawing-room. Cotoner, in the full bliss of digestion, strove with his jests to bring a faint smile to the face of the master's wife, but she stayed in the corner, shivering with cold. Renovales, in a smoking jacket, read the papers, soothed by the charming atmosphere of his quiet home. If the countess could only see him! One night the Alberca woman's name was mentioned in the drawing-room. Milita was running over from memory the list of friends of the family,--prominent ladies who would not fail to honor her approaching marriage with some magnificent present. "Concha won't come," said the girl. "It's a long time since she has been here." There was a painful silence, as if the countess's name chilled the atmosphere. Cotoner hummed a tune, pretending to be thinking of something else; López de Sosa began to look for a piece of music on the piano, talking about it to change the subject. He too seemed to be aware of the matter. "She doesn't come because she doesn't have to come," said Josephina from her corner. "Your father manages to see her every day, so that she won't forget us." Renovales raised his eyes in protest, as if he were awakening from a calm sleep. Josephina's gaze was fixed on him, not angry, but mocking and cruel. It reflected the same scorn with which she had wounded him on that unhappy night. She no longer said anything, but the master read in those eyes: "It is useless, my good man. You are mad over her, you pursue her, but she belongs to other men. I know her of old. I know all about it. Oh, how people laugh at you! How I laugh! How I scorn you!" IV The beginning of summer saw the wedding of the daughter of Renovales to López de Sosa. The papers published whole columns on the event, in which, according to some of the reporters, "the glory and splendor of art were united with the prestige of aristocracy and fortune." No one remembered now the nickname "Pickled Herring." The master Renovales did things well. He had only one daughter and he was eager to marry her with royal pomp; eager that Madrid and all Spain should know of the affair, that a ray of the glory her father had won might fall on Milita. The list of gifts was long. All the friends of the master, society ladies, political leaders, famous artists, and even royal personages, appeared in it with their corresponding presents. There was enough to fill a store. Both of the studios for visitors were converted into show rooms with countless tables loaded with articles, a regular fair of clothes and jewelry, that was visited by all of Milita's girl friends, even the most distant and forgotten, who came to congratulate her, pale with envy. The Countess of Alberca, too, sent a huge, showy gift, as if she did not want to remain unnoticed among the friends of the house. Doctor Monteverde was represented by a modest remembrance, though he had no other connection with the family than his friendship with the master. The wedding was celebrated at the house, where one of the studios was converted into a chapel. Cotoner had a hand in everything that concerned the ceremony, delighted to be able to show his influence with the people of the Church. Renovales took charge of the arrangements of the altar, eager to display the touch of an artist even in the least details. On a background of ancient tapestries he placed an old triptych, a medieval cross; all the articles of worship which filled his studio as decorations, cleaned now from dust and cobwebs, recovered for a few moments their religious importance. A variegated flood of flowers filled the master's house. Renovales insisted on having them everywhere; he had sent to Valencia and Murcia for them in reckless quantities; they hung on the door-frames, and along the cornices; they lay in huge clusters on the tables and in the corners. They even swung in pagan garlands from one column of the façade to another, arousing the curiosity of the passers-by, who crowded outside of the iron fence,--women in shawls, boys with great baskets on their heads who stood in open-mouthed wonder before the strange sight, waiting to see what was going on in that unusual house, following the coming and going of the servants who carried in music stands and two base viols, hidden in varnished cases. Early in the morning Renovales was hurrying about with two ribbons across his shirt front and a constellation of golden, flashing stars covering one whole side of his coat. Cotoner, too, had put on the insignia of his various Papal Orders. The master looked at himself in all the mirrors with considerable satisfaction, admiring equally his friend. They must look handsome; a celebration like this they would never see again. He plied his companion with incessant questions, to make sure that nothing had been overlooked in the preparations. The master Pedraza, a great friend of Renovales, was to conduct the orchestra. They had gathered all the best players in Madrid, for the most part from the Opera. The choir was a good one, but the only notable artists they had been able to secure were people who made the capital their residence. The season was not the best; the theaters were closed. Cotoner continued to explain the measures he had taken. Promptly at ten the Nuncio, Monsignore Orlandi,--a great friend of his--would arrive; a handsome chap, still young, whom he had met in Rome when he was attached to the Vatican. A word on Cotoner's part was all that was necessary to persuade him to do them the honor of marrying the children. Friends are useful at times! And the painter of the popes, proud of his sudden rise to importance, went from room to room, arranging everything, followed by the master who approved of his orders. In the studio, the orchestra and the table for the luncheon were set. The other rooms were for the guests. Was anything forgotten? The two artists looked at the altar with its dark tapestries, and its candelabra, crosses and reliquaries, of dull, old gold that seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it. Nothing was lacking. Ancient fabrics and garlands of flowers covered the walls, hiding the master's studies in color, unfinished pictures, profane works that could not be tolerated in the discreet, harmonious atmosphere of that chapel-like room. The floor was partly covered with costly rugs, Persian and Moorish. In front of the altar were two praying desks and behind them, for the more important guests, all the luxurious chairs of the studio: white armchairs of the 18th Century, embroidered with pastoral scenes, Greek settles, benches of carved oak and Venetian chairs with high backs, the bizarre confusion of an antique shop. Suddenly Cotoner started back as if he were shocked. How careless! A fine thing it would have been if he had not noticed it! At the end of the studio, opposite the altar that screened a large part of the window, and directly in its light, stood a huge, white, naked woman. It was the "Venus de Medici," a superb piece of marble that Renovales had brought from Italy. Its pagan beauty in its dazzling whiteness seemed to challenge the deathly yellow of the religious objects that filled the other end of the studio. Accustomed to see it, the two artists had passed in front of it several times without noticing its nakedness that seemed more insolent and triumphant now that the studio was converted into an oratory. Cotoner began to laugh. "What a scandal if we hadn't seen it! What would the ladies have said! My friend Orlandi would have thought that you did it on purpose, for he considers you rather lax morally. Come, my boy, let's get something to cover up this lady." After much searching in the disorder of the studio, they found a piece of Indian cotton, scrawled with elephants and lotus flowers; they stretched it over the goddess's head, so that it covered her down to her feet and there it stood, like a mystery, a riddle for the guests. They were beginning to arrive. Outside of the house, at the fence sounded the stamping of the horses, the slam of doors as they closed. In the distance rumbled other carriages, drawing nearer every minute. The swish of silk on the floor sounded in the hall, and the servants ran back and forth, receiving wraps and putting numbers on them, as at the theater, to stow them away in the parlor that had been converted into a coat-room. Cotoner directed the servants, smooth shaven or wearing side-whiskers, and clad in faded dress-suits. Renovales meanwhile was wreathed in smiles, bowing graciously, greeting the ladies who came in their black or white mantillas, grasping the hands of the men, some of whom wore brilliant uniforms. The master felt elated at this procession which ceremoniously passed through his drawing-rooms and studios. In his ears, the swish of skirts, the movement of fans, the greetings, the praise of his good taste sounded like caressing music. Everyone came with the same satisfaction in seeing and being seen, which people reveal on a first night at the theater or at some brilliant reception. Good music, presence of the Nuncio, preparations for the luncheon which they seemed to sniff already, and besides, the certainty of seeing their names in print the next day, perhaps of having their picture in some illustrated magazine. Emilia Renovales' wedding was an event. Among the crowd of people that continued to pour in were seen several young men, hastily holding up their cameras. They were going to have snap-shots! Those who retained some bitterness against the artist, remembering how dearly they had paid him for a portrait, now pardoned him generously and excused his robbery. There was an artist that lived like a gentleman! And Renovales went from one side to another, shaking hands, bowing, talking incoherently, not knowing in which direction to turn. For a moment, while he stood in the hall, he saw a bit of sunlit garden, covered with flowers and beyond a fence a black mass: the admiring, smiling throng. He breathed the odor of roses and subtle perfumes, and felt the rapture of optimism flood his breast. Life was a great thing. The poor rabble, crowded together outside, made him recall with pride the blacksmith's son. Heavens, how he had risen! He felt grateful to those wealthy, idle people who supported his well-being; he made every effort so that they might lack nothing, and overwhelmed Cotoner with his suggestions. The latter turned on the master with the arrogance of one who is in authority. His place was inside, with the guests. He need not mind him, for he knew his duties. And turning his back on Mariano, he issued orders to the servants and showed the way to the new arrivals, recognizing their station at a glance. "This way, gentlemen." It was a group of musicians and he led them through a servants' hallway so that they might get to their stands without having to mingle with the guests. Then he turned to scold a crowd of bakerboys, who were late in bringing the last shipments of the luncheon and advanced through the assemblage, raising the great, wicker baskets over the heads of the ladies. Cotoner left his place when he saw rising from the stairway a plush hat with gold tassels over a pale face, then a silk cassock with purple sash and buttons, flanked by two others, black and modest. _"Oh, monsignore! Monsignore Orlandi! Va bene? Va bene?"_ He kissed his hand with a profound reverence, and after inquiring anxiously for his health, as if he had not seen him the day before, started off, opening a passage way in the crowded drawing-rooms. "The Nuncio! The Nuncio of His Holiness!" The men, with the decorum of decent persons, who know how to show respect for dignitaries, stopped laughing and talking to the ladies, and bent forward, as he passed, to take that delicate, pale hand, which looked like the hand of a lady of the olden days, and kiss the huge stone of its ring. The ladies, with moist eyes, looked for a moment at Monsignor Orlandi,--a distinguished prelate, a diplomat of the Church, a noble of the Old Roman nobility,--tall, thin, pale as chalk, with black hair and imperious eyes in which there was an intense flash of flame. He moved with the haughty grace of a bull-fighter. The lips of the women rested eagerly on his hand, while he gazed with enigmatical eyes at the line of graceful necks bowed before him. Cotoner continued ahead, opening a passage, proud of his part, elated at the respect which his illustrious friend inspired. What a wonderful thing religion was! He accompanied him to the sacristy, which once was the dressing-room for the models. He remained outside, discreetly, but every other minute some one of the Nuncio's attendants came out in search of him,--sprightly young fellows with a feminine carriage and a faint suggestion of perfume about them, who looked on the artist with respect, believing he was an important personage. They called to Signor Cotoner, asking him to help them find something Monsignor had sent the day before, and the Bohemian, in order to avoid further requests, finally went into the dressing-room, to assist in the sacred toilette of his illustrious friend. In the drawing-rooms the company suddenly eddied, the conversation ceased, and a throng of people, after crowding in front of one of the doors, opened to leave a passage. The bride, leaning on the arm of a distinguished gentleman, who was the best man, entered, clad in white, ivory white her dress, snow white her veil, pearl white her flowers. The only bright color she showed was the healthy pink of her cheeks and the red of her lips. She smiled to her friends, not bashfully nor timidly, but with an air of satisfaction at the festivity and the fact that she was its principal object. After her came the groom, giving his arm to his new mother, the painter's wife, smaller than ever in her party-gown that was too large for her, dazed by this noisy event that broke the painful calm of her existence. And the father? Renovales was missing in the formal entrance; he was very busy attending to the guests; a gracious smile, half hidden behind a fan, detained him at one end of the drawing-room. He had felt some one touch his shoulder and, turning around, he saw the solemn Count of Alberca with his wife on his arm. The count had congratulated him on the appearance of the studios; all very artistic. The countess had congratulated him too, in a jesting tone, on the importance of this event in his life. The moment of retiring, of saying good-by to youth had come. "They are shelving you, dear master. Pretty soon they will be calling you grandfather." She laughed with pleasure at the flush of pain these pitying words caused him. But before Mariano could answer the countess, he felt himself dragged away by Cotoner. What was he doing there? The bride and groom were at the altar; Monsignor was beginning the service; the father's chair was still vacant. And Renovales passed a tiresome half-hour following the ceremonies of the prelate with an absent-minded glance. Far away in the last of the studios, the stringed instruments struck a loud chord and a melody of earthly mysticism poured forth from room to room in the atmosphere laden with the perfume of crumpled roses. Then a sweet voice, supported by others more harsh, began a prayer that had the voluptuous rhythm of an Italian serenade. A passing wave of sentimentality seemed to stir the guests. Cotoner, who stood near the altar, in case Monsignor should need something, felt moved to tenderness by the music, by the sight of that distinguished gathering, by the dramatic gravity with which the Roman prelate conducted the ceremonies of his profession. Seeing Milita so fair, kneeling, with her eyes lowered under her snowy veil, the poor Bohemian blinked to keep back the tears. He felt just as if he were marrying his own daughter. He who had not had one! Renovales sat up, seeking the countess's eyes above the white and black mantillas. Sometimes he found them resting on him with a mocking expression, at other times he saw them seeking Monteverde in the crowd of gentlemen that filled the doorway. There was one moment when the painter paid attention to the ceremony. How long it was! The music had ceased; Monsignor, with his back to the altar, advanced several steps toward the newly married couple, holding out his hands, as if he were going to speak to them. There was a profound hush and the voice of the Italian began to sound in the silence with a sing-song mellowness, hesitating over some words, supplying them with others of his own language. He explained to the man and wife their duties and expatiated, with oratorical fire, in his praises of their families. He spoke little of him; he was a representative of the upper classes, from which rise the leaders of men; he knew his duties. She was the descendant of a great painter whose fame was universal, of an artist. As he mentioned art, the Roman prelate was fired with enthusiasm, as if he were speaking of his own stock, with the deep interest of a man whose life had been spent among the splendid half-pagan decorations of the Vatican. "Next to God, there is nothing like art." And after this statement, with which he attributed to the bride a nobility superior to that of many of the people who were watching her, he eulogized the virtues of her parents. In admirable terms, he commended their pure love and Christian fidelity, ties with which they approached together, Renovales and his wife, the portal of old age and which surely would accompany them till death. The painter bowed his head, afraid that he would meet Concha's mocking glance. He could hear Josephina's stifled sobs, with her face hidden in the lace of her mantilla. Cotoner felt called upon to second the prelate's praises with discreet words of approval. Then the orchestra noisily began Mendelssohn's "Wedding March"; the chairs ground on the floor as they were pushed back; the ladies rushed toward the bride and a buzz of congratulations, shouted over the heads of the company, and of noisy efforts to be the first to reach her, drowned out the vibration of the strings and the heavy blast of the brasses. Monsignor, whose importance disappeared as soon as the ceremony was over, made his way with his attendants to the dressing-room, passing unnoticed through the throng. The bride smiled with a resigned air amid the circle of feminine arms that squeezed her and friendly lips that showered kisses on her. She expressed surprise at the simplicity of the ceremony. Was that all there was to it? Was she really married? Cotoner saw Josephina making her way across the room, looking impatiently among the shoulders of the guests, her face tinged with a hectic flush. His instinct of a master of ceremonies warned him that danger was at hand. "Take my arm, Josephina. Let's go outside for a breath of fresh air. This is unbearable." She took his arm but instead of following him, she dragged him among the people who crowded around her daughter until at last, seeing the Countess of Alberca, she stopped. Her prudent friend trembled. Just what he thought--she was looking for the other woman. "Josephina, Josephina! Remember that this is Milita's wedding!" But his advice was useless. Concha, seeing her old friend, ran toward her. "Dear! So long since I've seen you! A kiss--another." And she kissed her effusively. The little woman made one attempt to resist; but then she submitted, dejectedly, smiling sadly, overcome by habit and training. She returned her kisses coldly with an indifferent expression. She did not hate Concha. If her husband did not go to her, he would go to some one else; the real, the dangerous enemy was within him. The bride and groom, arm in arm, smiling and somewhat fatigued by the violent congratulations, passed through the groups of people and disappeared, followed by the last chords of the triumphal march. The music ceased, and the company crowded around the tables covered with bottles, cold meats and confections, behind which the servants hurried in confusion, not knowing how to serve so many a black glove or white hand that seized the gold-bordered plates and the little pearl knives crossed on the dishes. It was a smiling, well-bred riot, but they pushed and trod on the ladies' trains and used their elbows, as if, now the ceremony was over, they were all gnawed with hunger. Plate in hand, stifled and breathless after the assault, they scattered through the studios, eating even on the very altar. There were not servants enough for so great a gathering; the young men, seizing bottles of champagne, ran in all directions, filling the ladies' glasses. Amid great merriment the tables were pillaged. The servants covered them hastily and with no less speed the pyramids of sandwiches, fruits, and sweets came down and the bottles disappeared. The corks popped two and three at a time, in ceaseless crossfire. Renovales ran about like a servant, loaded with plates and glasses, going back and forth from the crowded tables to the corners where some of his friends were seated. The Alberca woman assumed the airs of a mistress; she made him go and come with constant requests. On one of these trips he ran into his beloved pupil, Soldevilla. He had not seen him for a long time. He looked rather gloomy, but he found some consolation in looking at his waistcoat, a novelty that had made a "hit" among the younger set; of black velvet with embroidered flowers and gold buttons. The master felt that he ought to console him,--poor boy! For the first time he gave him to understand that he was "in the secret." "I wanted something else for my daughter, but it was impossible. Work, Soldevilla! Courage! We must not have any mistress except painting." And content to have delivered this kindly consolation, he returned to the countess. At noon, the reception ended. López de Sosa and his wife reappeared in traveling costume; he in a fox-skin overcoat, in spite of the heat, a leather cap and high leggings; she in a long mackintosh that reached to her feet and a turban of thick veils that hid her face, like a fugitive from a harem. At the door, the groom's latest acquisition was waiting for them--an eighty horse-power car that he had bought for his wedding trip. They intended to spend the night some hundred miles away in a corner of old Castile, at an estate inherited from his father which he had never visited. A modern wedding, as Cotoner said, a honeymoon at full speed, without any witness except the discreet back of the chauffeur. The next day they expected to start for a tour of Europe. They would go as far as Berlin; perhaps farther. López de Sosa shook hands with his friends vigorously, like a proud explorer, and went out to look over his car, before leaving. Milita submitted to her friends' caresses, carrying away her mother's tears on her veil. "Good-by, good-by, my daughter!" And the wedding was over. Renovales and his wife were left alone. The absence of their daughter seemed to increase the solitude, widening the distance between them. They looked at each other hostilely, reserved and gloomy, without a sound to break the silence and serve as a bridge to enable them to exchange a few words. Their life was going to be like that of convicts, who hate each other and walk side by side, bound with the same chain, in tormenting union, forced to share the same necessities of life. As a remedy for this isolation that filled them with misgivings they both thought of having the newly married couple come to live with them. The house was large, there was room for them all. But Milita objected, gently but firmly, and her husband seconded her. He must live near his coach house, his garage. Besides, where could he, without shocking his father-in-law, put his collection of treasures, his museum of bull's heads and bloody suits of famous toreadors, which was the envy of his friends and an object of great curiosity for many foreigners. When the painter and his wife were alone again, it seemed as though they had aged many years in a month; they found their house more huge, more deserted,--with the echoing silence of abandoned monuments. Renovales wanted Cotoner to move to the house, but the Bohemian declined with a sort of fear. He would eat with them; he would spend a great part of the day at their house; they were all the family he had; but he wanted to keep his freedom; he could not give up his numerous friends. Well along in the summer, the master induced his wife to take her usual vacation. They would go to a little known Andalusian watering-place, a fishing village where the artist had painted many of his pictures. He was tired of Madrid. The Countess of Alberca was at Biarritz with her husband. Doctor Monteverde had gone there too, dragged along by her. They made the trip, but it did not last more than a month. The master hardly finished two canvases. Josephina felt ill. When they reached the watering-place, her health improved greatly. She appeared more cheerful; for hours at a time she would sit in the sand, getting tanned in the sun, craving the warmth with the eagerness of an invalid, watching the sea with her expressionless eyes, near her husband who painted, surrounded by a semicircle of wretched people. She sang, smiled sometimes to the master, as if she forgave him everything and wanted to forget, but suddenly a shadow of sadness had fallen on her; her body seemed paralyzed once more by weakness. She conceived an aversion to the bright beach, and the life of the open air, with that repugnance for light and noise which sometimes seizes invalids and makes them hide in the seclusion of their beds. She sighed for her gloomy house in Madrid. There she was better, she felt stronger, surrounded with memories; she thought she was safer from the black danger that hovered about her. Besides, she longed to see her daughter. Renovales must telegraph to his son-in-law. They had toured Europe long enough; it was time for them to come back; she must see Milita. They returned to Madrid at the end of September, and a little later the newly married couple joined them, delighted with their trip and still more delighted to be at home again. López de Sosa had been greatly vexed by meeting people wealthier than he, who humiliated him with their luxury. His wife wanted to live among friends who would admire her prosperity. She was grieved at the lack of curiosity in those countries where no one paid any attention to her. With the presence of her daughter, Josephina seemed to recover her spirits. The latter frequently came in the afternoon, dressed in her showy gowns, which were the more striking at that season when most of the society folk were away from Madrid, and took her mother to ride in the motor in the suburbs of the capital, sweeping along the dusty roads. Sometimes, too, Josephina summoning her courage, overcame her bodily weakness and went to her daughter's house, a second-story apartment in the Calle de Olòzaga, admiring the modern comforts that surrounded her. The master seemed to be bored. He had no portraits to paint; it was impossible for him to do anything in Madrid while he was still saturated with the radiant sun and the brilliant colors of the Mediterranean shore. Besides, he missed the company of Cotoner, who had gone to a historic little town in Castile, where with a comic pride he received the honors due to genius, living in the palace of the prelate and ruining several pictures in the Cathedral by an infamous restoration. His loneliness made Renovales remember the Alberca woman with all the greater longing. She, on her part, with a constant succession of letters reminded the painter of her every day. She had written to him while he was at the little village on the coast and now she wrote to him in Madrid, asking him what he was doing, taking an interest in the most insignificant details of his daily life and telling him about her own with an exuberance that filled pages and pages, till every envelope contained a veritable history. The painter followed her life minute by minute, as if he were with her. She talked to him about Darwin, concealing Monteverde under this name; she complained of his coldness, of his indifference, of the air of commiseration with which he submitted to her love. "Oh, master, I am very unhappy!" At other times her letter was triumphant, optimistic; she seemed radiant, and the painter read her satisfaction between the lines; he divined her intoxication after those daring meetings in her own house, defying the count's blindness. And she told him everything, with shameless, maddening familiarity, as if he were a woman, as if he could not be moved in the least by her confidences. In her last letter, Concha seemed mad with joy. The count was at San Sebastian, to take leave of the king and queen,--an important diplomatic mission. Although he was not "in line," they had chosen him as a representative of the most distinguished Spanish nobility to take the Fleece to a petty prince of a little German state. The poor gentleman, since he could not win the golden distinction, had to be contented with taking it to other men with great pomp. Renovales saw the countess's hand in all this. Her letters were radiant with joy. She was going to be left alone with Darwin, for the noble gentleman would be absent for a long time. Married life with the doctor, free from risk and disturbance! Renovales read these letters merely out of curiosity; they no longer awakened in him an intense or lasting interest. He had grown accustomed to his situation as a confidant; his desire was cooled by the frankness of that woman who put herself in his power, telling him all her secrets. Her body was the only thing he did not know; her inner life he possessed as did none of her lovers and he began to feel tired of this possession. When he finished reading these letters, he would always think the same thing. "She is mad. What do I care about her secrets?" A week passed without any news from Biarritz. The papers spoke of the trip of the eminent Count of Alberca. He was already in Germany with all his retinue, getting ready to put the noble lambskin around the princely shoulders. Renovates smiled knowingly, without emotion, without envy, as he thought of the countess's silence. She had a great deal to take up her time, no doubt, since she was left alone. Suddenly one afternoon he heard from her in the most unexpected manner. He was going out of his house, just at sunset, to take a walk on the heights of the Hippodrome along the Canalillo to view Madrid from the hill, when at the gate a messenger boy in a red coat handed him a letter. The painter started with surprise on recognizing Concha's handwriting. Four hasty, excited lines. She had just arrived that afternoon on the French express with her maid, Marie. She was alone at home. "Come, hurry. Serious news. I am dying." And the master hurried, though the announcement of her death did not make much impression on him. It was probably some trifle. He was used to the countess's exaggeration. The spacious house of the Albercas was dark, dusty and echoing like all deserted buildings. The only servant who remained was the concierge. His children were playing beside the steps as if they did not know that the lady of the house had returned. Upstairs the furniture was wrapped in gray covers, the chandeliers were veiled with cheese-cloth, the house and glass of the mirrors were dull and lifeless under the coating of dust. Marie opened the door for him and led the way through the dark, musty rooms, the windows closed, and the curtains down, without any light except what came through the cracks. In the reception hall he ran into several trunks, still unpacked, dropped and forgotten in the haste of arrival. At the end of this pilgrimage, almost feeling his way through the deserted house, he saw a spot of light, the door of the countess's bedroom, the only room that was alive, lighted up by the glow of the setting sun. Concha was there beside the window, buried in a chair, her brow contracted, her glance lost in the distance, her face tinged with the orange of the dying light. Seeing the painter she sprang to her feet, stretched out her arms and ran toward him, as if she were fleeing from pursuit. "Mariano! Master! He has gone! He has left me forever!" Her voice was a wail; she threw her arms around him, burying her face in his shoulder, wetting his beard with the tears that began to fall from her eyes drop by drop. Renovales, under the impulse of his surprise, repelled her gently and he made her go back to her chair. "Who has gone away? Who is it? Darwin?" Yes; he. It was all over. The countess could hardly talk; a painful sob interrupted her words. She was enraged to see herself deserted and her pride trampled on; her whole body trembled. He had fled at the height of their happiness, when she thought that she was surest of him, when they enjoyed a liberty they had never known. He was tired of her; he still loved her,--as he said in a letter,--but he wanted to be free to continue his studies. He was grateful to her for her kindness, surfeited with so much love, and he fled to go into seclusion abroad and become a great man, not thinking any more about women. This was the purpose of the brief lines he had sent her on his disappearance. A lie, an absolute lie! She saw something else. The wretch had run away with a cocotte who was the cynosure of all eyes on the beach at Biarritz. An ugly thing, who had some vulgar charm about her, for all the men raved over her. That young "sport" was tired of respectable people. He probably was offended because she had not secured him the professorship, because he had not been made a deputy. Heavens! How was she to blame for her failure? Had she not done everything she could? "Oh, Mariano. I know I am going to die. This is not love; I no longer care for him. I detest him! It is rage, indignation. I would like to get hold of the little whipper-snapper, to choke him. Think of all the foolish things I have done for him. Heavens! Where were my eyes!" As soon as she discovered that she had been deserted, her only thought was to find her good friend, her counselor, her "brother," to go to Madrid, to see Renovales and tell him everything, everything! impelled by the necessity of confessing to him even secrets whose memory made her blush. She had no one in the world who loved her disinterestedly, no one except the master, and with the panicky haste of a traveler who is lost at night, in the midst of a desert, she had run to him, seeking warmth and protection. This longing for protection came back to her in the master's presence. She went to him again, clinging to him, sobbing in hysteric fear, as if she were surrounded by dangers. "Master, you are all I have; you are my life! You won't ever leave me, will you? You will always be my brother?" Renovales, bewildered at the unexpectedness of this scene, at the submission of that woman who had always repelled him and now suddenly clung to him, unable to stand unless her arms were clasped about his neck, tried to free himself from her arms. After the first surprise, the old coldness came over him. He was irritated at this proud despair that was another's work. The woman he had longed for, the woman of his dreams came to him, seemed to give herself to him with hysteric sobs, eager to overwhelm him, perhaps without realizing what she was doing in the thoughtlessness of her abnormal state; but he pushed her back, with sudden terror, hesitating and timid in the face of the deed, pained that the realization of his dreams came, not voluntarily but under the influence of disappointment and desertion. Concha pressed close to him, eager to feel the protection of his powerful body. "Master! My friend! You won't leave me! You are so good!" And closing her eyes that no longer wept, she kissed his strong neck, and looked up with her eyes still moist, seeking his face in the shadow. They could hardly see each other; the room was dim with mysterious twilight,--all its objects indistinct as in a dream, the dangerous hour that had attracted them for the first time in the seclusion of the studio. Suddenly she drew away in terror, fleeing from him, taking refuge in the gloom, pursued by his eager hands. "No, not that. We'll be sorry for it! Friends! Nothing more than friends and always!" Her voice, as she said this, was sincere, but weak, faint, the voice of a victim who resists and has not the strength to defend himself. When the painter awakened it was night. The light from the street lamps shone through the window with a distant, reddish glow. He shivered with a sensation of cold, as if he were emerging from under an enticing wave where he had lain, he could not remember how long. He felt weak, humiliated, with the anxiety of a child who has done something wrong. Concha was sobbing. What folly! It had been against her will; she knew they would be sorry for it. But she was the first to recover her calmness. Her outline rose on the bright background of the window. She called the painter who stood in the shadow, ashamed. "After all, there was no escape," she said firmly. "It was a dangerous game and it could not end in any other way. Now I know that I cared for you; that you are the only man for whom I can care." Renovales was beside her. Their two forms made a single outline on the bright background of the window, in a supreme embrace as though they desired to take refuge in each other. Her hands gently parted the heavy locks that hid the master's forehead. She gazed at him rapturously. Then she kissed his lips with an endless caress, whispering: "Mariano, dear. I love you, I worship you. I will be your slave. Don't ever leave me. I will seek you on my knees. You don't know how I will care for you. You shall not escape me. You wanted it,--you ugly darling, you big giant, my love." V One afternoon at the end of October, Renovales noticed that his friend Cotoner was rather worried. The master was jesting with him, making him tell about his labors as restorer of paintings in the old church. He had come back fatter and merrier, with a greasy, priestly luster. According to Renovales he had brought back all the health of the clerics. The bishop's table with its succulent abundance was a sweet memory for Cotoner. He extolled it and described it, praising those good gentlemen who, like himself, lived free from passion with no other voluptuousness in life than a refined appetite. The master laughed at the thought of the simplicity of those priests who in the afternoon, after the choir, formed a group around Cotoner's scaffold, following the movements of his hands with wondering eyes; at the respect of the attendants and other servants of the episcopal palace, hanging on Don José's words, astonished to find such modesty in an artist who was a friend of cardinals and had studied in Rome. When the master saw him so serious and silent that afternoon after luncheon he wanted to know what was worrying him. Had they complained of his restoration? Was his money gone? Cotoner shook his head. It was not his affairs; he was worrying over Josephina's condition. Had he not noticed her? Renovales shrugged his shoulders. It was the usual trouble: neurasthenia, diabetes, all those chronic ailments of which she did not want to be cured, refusing to obey the physicians. She was thinner, but her nerves seemed calmer; she cried less; she maintained a sad silence, simply wanting to be alone and stay in a corner, staring into space. Cotoner shook his head again. Renovales' optimism was not to be wondered at. "You are leading a strange life, Mariano. Since I came back from my trip, you are a different man; I wouldn't know you. Once, you could not live without painting and now you spend weeks at a time without taking up a brush. You smoke, sing, walk up and down the studio and all at once rush off, out of the house and go--well. I know where, and perhaps your wife suspects it. You seem to be having a good time, master. The deuce take the rest! But, man alive, come down from the clouds. See what is around you; have some charity." And good Cotoner complained bitterly of the life the master was leading--disturbed by sudden impatience and hasty departures, from which he returned absent-minded, with a faint smile on his lips and a vague look in his eyes, as if he still relished the feast of memories he carried in his mind. The old painter seemed alarmed at Josephina's increasing delicacy, acute consumption that still found matter to destroy in her organism wasted by years of illness. The poor little woman coughed constantly and this cough, that was not dry but prolonged and violent, alarmed Cotoner. "The doctors ought to see her again." "The doctors!" exclaimed Renovales, "What's the use? A whole medical faculty has been here and to no avail. She doesn't mind them; she refuses everything, perhaps to annoy me, to oppose me. There's no danger; you don't know her. Weak and small as she is, she will outlive you and me." His voice shook with wrath, as if he could not stand the atmosphere of that house where the only distractions he found were the pleasant memories that took him away from it. Cotoner's insistence finally forced him to call a doctor who was a friend of his. Josephina was provoked, divining the cause of their anxiety. She felt strong. It was nothing but a cold; the coming of winter. And in her glances at the artist there was reproach and insult for his attention which she regarded as hypocrisy. When the doctor and the painter returned to the studio after the examination of the patient and stood face to face, the former hesitated as if he was afraid to formulate his ideas. He could not say anything with certainty; it was easy to make a mistake in regard to that weak system that maintained itself only by its extraordinary reserve power. Then he had recourse to the usual evasive measure of his profession. He advised him to take her away from Madrid, a change of air,--a change of life. Renovales objected. Where could she go, now that winter was beginning, when at the height of summer she had wanted to come home? The doctor shrugged his shoulders and wrote out a prescription, revealing in his expression the desire to write something, not to go away without leaving a piece of paper as a trace. He explained various symptoms to the husband in order that he might observe them in the patient and he went away shrugging his shoulders again with a gesture that revealed indecision and dejection. Pshaw! Who knows? Perhaps! The system sometimes has unexpected reactions, wonderful reserve power to resist disease. This enigmatic consolation alarmed Renovales. He spied on his wife, studying her cough, watching her closely when she did not see him. They no longer spent the night together. Since Milita's marriage, the father occupied her room. They had broken the slavery of the common bed that tormented their rest. Renovales made up for this departure by going into Josephina's chamber every morning. "Did you have a good night? Do you want something?" His wife's eyes greeted him with hostility. "Nothing." And she accompanied this brief statement by turning over in the bed, disdainfully, with her back to the master. The painter received these evidences of hostility with quiet resignation. It was his duty; perhaps she might die! But this possibility of death did not stir him; it left him cold and he was angry at himself, as if two distinct personalities existed within him. He reproached himself for his cruelty, his icy indifference before the invalid who now produced in him only a passing remorse. One afternoon at the Alberca woman's house, after one of their daring meetings with which they defied the holy calm of the noble, who had now returned from his trip, the painter spoke timidly of his wife. "I shall have to come less; don't be surprised. Josephina is very ill." "Very?" asked Concha. And in the flash of her glance, Renovales thought he saw something familiar, a blue gleam that had danced before him in the darkness of the night with infernal glow, troubling his conscience. "No, maybe it isn't anything. I don't believe there is any danger." He felt forced to lie. It consoled him to discount her illness. He felt that, by this voluntary deceit, he was relieving himself of the anxiety that goaded him. It was the lie of the man who justifies himself by pretending not to know the depth of the harm he has caused. "It isn't anything," he said to his daughter, who, greatly alarmed at her mother's appearance, came to spend every night with her. "Just a cold. It will disappear as soon as good weather comes." He had a fire in every fireplace in the house; the rooms were as hot as a furnace. He declared loudly, without any show of excitement, that his wife was merely suffering from a slight cold, and as he spoke with such assurance, a strange voice seemed to cry within him: "You lie, she is dying; she is dying and you know it." The symptoms of which the doctor had spoken began to appear with ominous regularity in fatal succession. At first he noticed only a constant high fever that seemed to grow worse with severe chills at the end of the afternoon. Then he observed sweats that were terrifying in their frequency--sweats at night that left the print of her body on the sheets. And that poor body, which grew more fragile, more like a skeleton, as if the fire of the fever were devouring the last particle of fat and muscle, was left without any other covering and protection than the skin, and that too seemed to be melting away. She coughed frequently; at all hours of the day and night her painful hacking disturbed the silence of the house. She complained of a continual pain in the lower part of her chest. Her daughter made her eat by dint of coaxing, lifting the spoon to her mouth, as if she were a child. But coughing and nausea made nutrition impossible. Her tongue was dry; she complained of an infernal thirst that was devouring her. Thus passed a month. Renovales, in his optimistic mood, strove to believe that her illness would not last long. "She is not dying, Pepe," he would say in a convinced tone, as if he were disposed to quarrel with anyone who opposed this statement. "She is not dying, doctor. You don't think she is, do you?" The doctor would answer with his everlasting shrug. "Perhaps,--it's possible." And as the patient refused to submit to an internal examination, he was forced to inquire of the daughter and husband about the symptoms. In spite of her extreme emaciation, some parts of her body seemed to be undergoing an abnormal swelling. Renovales questioned the doctor frankly. What did he think of these symptoms? And the doctor bowed his head. He did not know. They must wait: Nature has surprises. But afterward, with sudden decision, he pretended that he wanted to write a prescription, in order that he might talk with the husband alone in his working studio. "To tell you the truth, Renovales, this pitiful comedy is getting tiresome. It may be all right for the others but you are a man. It is acute consumption; perhaps a matter of days, perhaps a matter of a few months; but she is dying and I know no remedy. If you want to, get some one else." "She is dying!" Renovales was dazed with surprise as if the possibility of this outcome had never occurred to him. "She is dying!" And when the doctor had gone away, with a firmer step than usual, as if he had freed himself of a weight, the painter repeated the words to himself, without their producing any other effect than leaving him abstracted in senseless stupidity. She is dying! But was it really possible that that little woman could die, who had so weighed on his life and whose weakness filled him with fear? Suddenly he found himself walking up and down the studio, repeating aloud, "She is dying! She is dying!" He said it to himself in order that he might make himself feel sorry, and break out into sobs of grief, but he remained mute. Josephina was going to die--and he was calm. He wanted to weep; it seemed to him a duty. He blinked, swelling out his chest, holding his breath, trying to take in the whole meaning of his sorrow; but his eyes remained dry; his lungs breathed the air with pleasure; his thoughts, hard and refractory, did not shudder with any painful image. It was an exterior grief that found expression only in words, gestures and excited walking, his interior continued its old stolidness, as if the certainty of that death had congealed it in peaceful indifference. The shame of his villainy tormented him. The same instinct that forces ascetics to submit themselves to mortal punishments for their imaginary sins dragged him with the power of remorse to the sick chamber. He would not leave the room; he would face her scornful silence; he would stay with her till the end, forgetting sleep and hunger. He felt that he must purify himself by some noble, generous sacrifice from this blindness of soul that now was terrifying. Milita no longer spent the nights caring for her mother and would go home, somewhat to the discomfiture of her husband, who had been rather pleased at this unexpected return to a bachelor's life. Renovales did not sleep. After midnight when Cotoner went away he walked in silence through the brilliantly lighted rooms; he prowled around the chamber--entered it to see Josephina in bed, sweating, shaken from time to time by a fit of coughing or in a deathlike lethargy, so thin and small that the bed-clothes hardly showed the childlike outline of her body. Then the master passed the rest of the night in an armchair, smoking, his eyes staring but his brain drowsy with sleep. His thoughts were far away. There was no use in feeling ashamed of his cruelty; he seemed bewitched by a mysterious power that was superior to his remorse. He forgot the sick woman; he wondered what Concha was doing at that time; he saw her in fancy; he remembered her words, her caresses; he thought of their nights of abandon. And when, with a violent effort, he threw off these dreams, in expiation he would go to the door of the sick chamber and listen to her labored breathing, putting on a gloomy face, but unable to weep or feel the sadness he longed to feel. After two months of illness, Josephina could no longer stay in bed. Her daughter would lift her out of it without any effort as if she were a feather, and she would sit in a chair,--small, insignificant, unrecognizable, her face so emaciated that its only features seemed to be the deep hollows of her eyes and her nose, sharp as the edge of a knife. Cotoner could hardly keep back the tears when he saw her. "There isn't anything left of her!" he would say as he went away. "No one would know her!" Her harrowing cough scattered a deathly poison about her. White foam came to her lips where it seemed to harden in the corners. Her eyes grew larger, they took on a strange glow as if they saw through persons and things. Oh, those eyes! What a shudder of terror they awakened in Renovales! One afternoon they fell on him, with the intense, searching glance that had always terrified him. They were eyes that pierced his forehead, that laid bare his thoughts. They were alone; Milita had gone home; Cotoner was sleeping in a chair in the studio. The sick woman seemed more animated, eager to talk, looking on her husband with a sort of pity as he sat beside her, almost at her feet. She was going to die; she was certain of death. And a last revolt of life that recoils from the end, the horror of the unknown, made the tears rise to her eyes. Renovales protested violently, trying to conceal his deceit by his shouts. Die? She must not think of that! She would live; she still had before her many years of happy existence. She smiled as if she pitied him. She could not be deceived; her eyes penetrated farther than his; she divined the impalpable, the invisible that hovered about her. She spoke weakly but with that inexplicable solemnity that is characteristic of a voice that emits its last sounds, of a soul that unbosoms itself for the last time. "I shall die, Mariano, sooner than you think, later than I desire. I shall die and you will be free." He! He desire her death! His surprise and remorse made him jump to his feet, wave his arms in angry protest, writhe, as if a pair of invisible hands had just laid him bare with a rude wrench. "Josephina, don't rave. Calm yourself. For God's sake don't talk such nonsense!" She smiled with a painful, horrible expression, but immediately her poor face became beautiful with the serenity of one who is departing this life without hallucinations or delirium, in perfect mental poise. She spoke to him with the immense sympathy, the superhuman compassion of one who contemplates the wretched stream of life, departing from its current, already touching with her feet the shores of eternal shadow, of eternal peace. "I should not want to go away without telling you. I die knowing everything. Do not move; do not protest. You know the power I have over you. More than once I have seen you watching me in terror, so easily do I read your thoughts. For years I have been convinced that all was over between us. We have lived like good creatures of God--eating together, sleeping together, helping each other in our needs. But I peered within you; I looked at your heart. Nothing! Not a memory, not a spark of love. I have been your woman, the good companion who cares for the house, and relieves a man of the petty cares of life. You have worked hard to surround me with comforts, in order that I might be contented and not disturb you. But Love? Never. Many people live as we have--many of them; almost all. I could not; I thought that life was something different and I am not sorry to go away. Don't go into a rage; don't shout. You aren't to blame, poor Mariano--It was a mistake for us to marry." She excused him gently with a kindness that seemed not of this world, generously passing over the cruelty and selfishness of a life she was about to leave. Men like him were exceptional; they ought to live alone, by themselves, like those great trees that absorb all the life from the ground and do not allow a single plant to grow in the space which their roots reach. She was not strong enough to stand isolation; in order to live she must have the shadow of tenderness, the certainty of being loved. She ought to have married a man like other men; a simple being like herself, whose only longings were modest and commonplace. The painter had dragged her into his extraordinary path out of the easy, well-beaten roads that the rest follow and she was falling by the wayside, old in the prime of her youth, broken because she had gone with him in this journey which was beyond her strength. Renovales was walking about with ceaseless protests. "Why, what nonsense you are talking! You are raving! I have always loved you, Josephina. I love you now." Her eyes suddenly became hard. A flash of anger crossed their pupils. "Stop; don't lie. I know of a pile of letters that you have in your studio, hidden behind the books in your library. I have read them one by one. I have been following them as they came; I discovered your hiding place when you had only three of them. You know that I see through you; that I have a power over you, that you can hide nothing from me. I know your love affairs." Renovales felt his ears buzzing, the floor slipping from under his feet. What astounding witchcraft! Even the letters so carefully hidden had been discovered by that woman's divining instinct! "It's a lie!" he cried vehemently to conceal his agitation. "It isn't love! If you have read them, you know what it is as well as I; just friendship; the letters of a friend who is somewhat crazy." The sick woman smiled sadly. At first it was friendship--even less than that, the perverse amusement of a flighty woman who liked to play with a celebrated man, exciting in him the enthusiasm of youth. She knew her childhood companion; she was sure it would not go any farther; and so she pitied the poor man in the midst of his mad love. But afterward something extraordinary had certainly happened; something that she could not explain and which had upset all of her calculations. Now her husband and Concha were lovers. "Do not deny it; it is useless. It is this certainty that is killing me. I realized it when I saw you distracted, with a happy smile as if you were relishing your thoughts. I realized it in the merry songs you sang when you awoke in the morning, in the perfume with which you were impregnated and which followed you everywhere. I did not need to find any more letters. The odor around you, that perfume of infidelity, of sin, which always accompanied you, was enough. You, poor man, came home thinking that everything was left outside the door, and that odor follows you, denounces you; I think I can still perceive it." And her nostrils dilated, as she breathed with a pained expression, closing her eyes as though she wished to escape the images which that perfume called up in her. Her husband persisted in his denials, now that he was convinced that she had no other proof of his infidelity. A lie! An hallucination! "No, Mariano," murmured the sick woman. "She is within you; she fills your head; from here I can see her. Once a thousand mad fancies occupied her place,--illusions of your taste, naked women, a wantonness that was your religion. Now it is she who fills it. It is your desire incarnated. Go on and be happy. I am going away--there is no place for me in the world." She was silent for a moment and the tears came to her eyes again at the memory of the first years of their life together. "No one has cared for you as I have, Mariano," she said with tender regret. "I look on you now as a stranger, without affection and without hate. And still, there was never a woman who loved her husband so passionately." "I worship you. Josephina, I love you just as I did when we first met each other. Do you remember?" But in spite of the emotion he pretended to show, his voice had a false ring. "Don't try to bluff, Mariano; it is useless; everything is over. You do not care for me nor have I either any of the old feeling." In her face there was an expression of wonder, of surprise; she seemed terror-stricken at her own calmness that made her forgive thus indifferently the man who had caused her so much suffering. In her fancy, she saw a wide garden, flowers that seemed immortal and they were withering and falling with the advent of winter. Then her thoughts went beyond, over the chill of death. The snow was melting; the sun was shining once more; the new spring was coming with its court of love and the dry branches were growing green once more with another life. "Who knows!" murmured the sick woman with her eyes closed. "Perhaps, after I am dead, you will remember me. Perhaps you will care for me then, and be grateful to one who loved you so. We want a thing when it is lost." The invalid was silent, exhausted by such an effort; she relapsed into that lethargy which for her took the place of rest. Renovales, after this conversation, felt his vile inferiority beside his wife. She knew everything and forgave him. She had followed the course of his love, letter by letter, look by look, seeing in his smiles the memory of his faithlessness. And she was silent! She was dying without a protest! And he did not fall at her feet to beg her forgiveness! And he remained unmoved, without a tear, without a sigh! He was afraid to stay alone with her. Milita came back to stay at the house to care for her mother. The master took refuge in his studio; he wanted to forget in work the body that was dying under the same roof. But in vain he poured colors on his palette and took up brushes and prepared canvases. He did nothing but daub; he could make no progress, as if he had forgotten his art. He kept turning his head anxiously, thinking that Josephina was going to enter suddenly, to continue that interview in which she had laid bare the greatness of her soul and the baseness of his own. He felt forced to return to her apartments, to go on tiptoe to the door of the chamber, in order to be sure that she was there. Her emaciation was frightful; it had no limits. When it seemed that it must stop, it still surprised them with new shrinking, as if after the disappearance of her flesh, her poor skeleton was melting away. Sometimes she was tormented with delirium, and her daughter, holding back her tears, approved of the extravagant trips she planned, of her proposals to go far away to live with Milita in a garden, where they would find no men; where there were no painters--no painters. She lived about two weeks. Renovales, with cruel selfishness, was anxious to rest, complaining of this abnormal existence. If she must die, why did she not end it as soon as possible, and restore the whole house to tranquillity! The end came one afternoon when the master, lying on a couch in his studio, was re-reading the tender complaints of a scented little letter. So long since she had seen him! How was the patient getting on? She knew that his duty was there; people would talk if he came to see her. But this separation was hard! He did not have a chance to finish it. Milita came into the studio, in her eyes that expression of horror and fright, which the presence of death, the touch of his passage, always inspires, even if his arrival has been expected. Her voice came breathlessly, broken. Mamma was talking with her; she was amusing her with the hope of a trip in the near future,--and all at once a hoarse sound,--her head bent forward before it fell onto her shoulder--a moment--nothing--just like a little bird. Renovales ran to the bedroom, bumping into his friend Cotoner who came out of the dining-room, running too. They saw her in an armchair, shrunken, wilted, in the deathly abandon that converts the body into a limp mass. All was over. Milita had to catch her father, to hold him up. She had to be the one who kept her calmness and energy at the critical moment. Renovales let his daughter lead him; he rested his face on her shoulder, with sublime, dramatic grief, with beautiful, artistic despair, still holding absent-mindedly in his hand the letter of the countess. "Courage, Mariano," said poor Cotoner, his voice choked with tears. "We must be men. Milita, take your father to the studio. Don't let him see her." The master let his daughter guide him, sighing deeply, trying in vain to weep. The tears would not come. He could not concentrate his attention; a voice within him was distracting him,--the voice of temptation. She was dead and he was free. He would go on his way, light-hearted, master of himself, relieved of troublesome hindrances. Before him lay life with all its joys, love without a fear or a scruple; glory with its sweet returns. Life was going to begin again. PART III I Until the beginning of the following winter Renovales did not return to Madrid. The death of his wife had left him stunned, as if he doubted its reality, as if he felt strange at finding himself alone and master of his actions. Cotoner, seeing that he had no ambition for work and would lie on the couch in the studio with a blank expression on his face, as if he were in a waking dream, interpreted his condition as a deep, silent grief. Besides, it irritated him that as soon as Josephina was dead, the countess began to come to the house frequently to see the master and her dear Milita. "You ought to go away,"--the old artist advised. "You are free; you will be just as well off anywhere as here. What you need is a long journey; that will take your mind off your trouble." And Renovales started on his journey with the eagerness of a school-boy, free for the first time from the vigilance of a family. Alone, rich, master of his actions, he believed that he was the happiest being on earth. His daughter had her husband, a family of her own; he saw himself in welcome seclusion, without cares or duties, without any other ties than the constant letters of Concha, which met him on his travels. Oh, happy freedom! He lived in Holland, studying its museums, which he had never seen: then, with the caprice of a wandering bird, he went down to Italy where he enjoyed several months of easy life, without any work, visiting studios, receiving the honors due a famous master, in the same places where once he had struggled, poor and unknown. Then he moved to Paris, finally attracted by the countess, who was spending the summer at Biarritz with her husband. Concha's epistolary style grew more urgent. She had numerous objections to a prolongation of the period of their separation. He must come back; he had traveled enough. She could not stand it without seeing him; she loved him; she could not live without him. Besides, as a last resource, she spoke to him of her husband, the count, who, in his eternal blindness, joined in his wife's requests asking her to invite the artist to spend a while at their house in Biarritz. The poor painter must be very sad in his bereavement and the kindly nobleman insisted on consoling him in his loneliness. In his house, they would divert him; they would be a new family for him. The painter lived for a great part of the summer and all the autumn in the welcome atmosphere of that home which seemed created for him. The servants respected him, seeing in him the true master. The countess, delirious after his long absence, was so reckless that the artist had to restrain her, urging her to be prudent. The noble Count of Alberca was unceasing in his sympathy. Poor friend! Deprived of his companion! And by his expression he shared the horror he felt at the possibility of being left a widower, without that wife who made him so happy. At the beginning of winter Renovales returned to his house. He did not experience the slightest emotion on entering the three great studios, on passing through those rooms, which seemed more icy, larger, more hollow, now that they were stirred by no other steps than his own. He could not believe that a year had passed. All was the same as if he had been absent for only a few days. Cotoner had taken good care of the house, setting to work the concierge and his wife and the old servant who had charge of cleaning the studios,--the only servants that Renovales had kept. There was no dust, none of the close atmosphere of a house that has long been closed. Everything appeared bright and clean, as if life had not been interrupted in that house. The sun and air had been pouring in the windows, driving out that atmosphere of sickness which Renovales had left when he went away and in which he fancied he could feel the trace of the invisible garb of death. It was a new house, like the one he had known before in form, but as fresh as a recently constructed building. Outside of his studio nothing reminded him of his dead wife. He avoided going into her chamber; he did not even ask who had the key. He slept in the room that had formerly been his daughter's in a small, iron bed, delighted to lead a modest, sober life in that princely mansion. He took breakfast in the dining room at one end of the table, on a napkin, oppressed by the size and luxury of the room which now seemed vast and useless. He looked at the chair beside the fireplace, where the dead woman had often sat. That chair with its open arms seemed to be waiting for her trembling, bird-like little body. But the painter did not feel any emotion. He could not even remember Josephina's face exactly. She had changed so much! The last, that skeleton-like mask, was the one he recalled the best, but he thrust it aside, with the selfishness of a strong, happy man, who does not want to sadden his life with unpleasant memories. He did not see her picture anywhere in the house. She seemed to have evaporated forever without leaving the least trace of her body on the walls that had so often supported her tottering steps, on the stairways that hardly felt the weight of her feet. Nothing; she was quite forgotten. Within Renovales, the only trace of the long years of their union that remained was an unpleasant feeling, an annoying memory that made him relish all the more his new existence. His first days in the solitude of the house brought new, intense joys. After luncheon he would lie down on the couch in the studio, watching the blue spirals of cigar smoke. Complete liberty! Alone in the world! Life wholly to himself, without any care or fear. He could go and come without a pair of eyes spying on his actions, without being reproached with bitter words. That little door of the studio, which he used to watch in terror, no longer opened, to let in his enemy. He could close it, shutting out the world; he could open it and summon in a noisy, scandalous stream, all that he fancied--hosts of naked beauties, to paint in a wild bacchanalian rout, strange, black-eyed Oriental girls to dance in morbid abandon on the rugs of the studio, all the disordered illusions of his desire--the monstrous feasts of fancy which he had dreamed of in his days of servitude. He was not sure where he could find all this, he was not very eager to look for it. But the consciousness that he could realize it without any obstacle was enough. This consciousness of his absolute freedom, instead of urging him into action, kept him in a state of calm, satisfied that he could do everything, without the least desire to try anything. Formerly he used to rage, complaining of his fetters. What things he would do if he were free! What scandals he would cause with his daring! Oh, if he only were not married to a slave of convention who tried to apply rules to his art with the same formality which she had for her calls and her household expenses! And now that the slave of convention was gone, the artist remained in sleepy comfort, looking like a timid lover, at the canvases he had begun a year before, at his neglected palette, saying with false energy, "This is the last day. To-morrow I will begin." And the next day, noon came, and with it luncheon, before Renovales had taken up a brush. He read foreign papers, magazines on art, looking up, with professional interest, what the famous painters of Europe were exhibiting or working on. He received a call from some of his humble companions, and in their presence he lamented the insolence of the younger generation, their disrespectful attacks, with the surliness of a famous artist who is getting old and thinks that talent has died out with him and that no one can take his place. Then the drowsiness of digestion seized him, as it did Cotoner, and he submitted to the bliss of short naps, the happiness of doing nothing. His daughter--all the family he had--would receive more than she expected at his death. He had worked enough. Painting, like all the arts, was a pretty deceit, for the advancement of which men strove as if they were mad, until they hated it like death. What folly! It was better to keep calm, enjoying your own life, intoxicated with the simple animal joys, living for life's sake. What good were a few more pictures in those huge palaces filled with canvases, disfigured by the centuries, in which hardly a single stroke was left as the author had made it? What good did it do the human race, which changes its dwelling place every dozen centuries and has seen the proud works of man, built of marble or granite, fall in ruins,--if a certain Renovales produced a few beautiful toys of cloth and colors, which a cigar stub could destroy, or a puff of wind, a drop of water leaking through the wall, might ruin in a few years? But this pessimistic attitude disappeared when some one called him "Illustrious Master," or when he saw his name in a paper, and a pupil or admirer manifested an interest in his work. At present he was resting. He had not yet recovered from the shock. Poor Josephina! But he was going to work a great deal; he felt a new strength for works greater than any that he had thus far produced. And after these exclamations, he would be seized with a mad desire for work and would enumerate the pictures he had in mind, dwelling upon their originality. They were bold problems in color, new technical methods that had occurred to him. But these plans never passed the limits of speech, they never reached the brush. The springs of his will, once vibrant and vigorous, seemed broken or rusted. He did not suffer, he did not desire. Death had taken away his fever for work, his artistic restlessness, leaving him in the limbo of comfort and tranquillity. In the afternoon, when he succeeded in throwing off his comfortable torpor, he went to see his daughter, if she was in Madrid, for she very frequently went with her husband on his automobile trips. Then he ended the afternoon at the Albercas', where he often stayed till midnight. He dined there almost every day. The count, accustomed to his society, seemed as eager to see him as his wife. He spoke enthusiastically of the portrait which Renovales was painting of him to go with Concha's. He would make more progress when he secured some insignia of foreign orders that were still lacking in his catalogue of honors. And the artist felt a twinge of remorse as he listened to the good gentleman's simplicity, while his wife, with mad recklessness, caressed him with her eyes, leaned toward him as if she were on the point of falling into his arms. Then, as soon as the husband went away, she would throw her arms about him, hungry for him, defying the curiosity of the servants. Love that was threatened with dangers seemed sweeter to her. And the artist took pride in letting her worship him. He, who at first was the one who implored and pursued, assumed now an air of passive superiority, accepting Concha's homage. Lacking enthusiasm for work, in order to keep up his reputation Renovales took refuge in the official honors which are granted to respected masters. He put off till the next day the new work, the great work that was to call forth new cries of admiration over his name. He would paint his famous picture of Phryne on a beach, when summer came, and he could retire to the solitary shore, taking with him the perfect beauty to serve as his model. Perhaps he could persuade the countess. Who knows! She smiled with satisfaction every time she heard from his lips the praise of her beauty. But meanwhile the master demanded that people should remember his name for his earlier works, that they should admire him for what he had already produced. He was irritated at the papers, which extolled the younger generation, remembered him only to mention him in passing, like a consecrated glory, like a man who was dead and had his pictures in the Museo del Prado. He was gnawed with dumb anger, like an actor who is tortured with envy, seeing the stage occupied by others. He wanted to work; he was going to work immediately. But as time passed, he felt an increasing laziness, which incapacitated him for work, a numbness in his hands, which he concealed even from his most intimate friends, ashamed when he recalled his lightness of touch in the old days. "This will not last," he said to himself with the confidence of a man who does not doubt his ability. In one of his fanciful moods, he compared himself with a dog, restless, fierce and aggressive when he is tormented with hunger, but gentle and peaceable when he is surrounded with comforts. He needed his periods of greed and restlessness, when he desired everything, when he could not find peace for his work, and in the midst of his marital troubles attacked the canvas as if it were an enemy, hurling colors on it furiously, in slaps of light. Even after he was rich and famous, he had had something to long for. "If I only were free! If I were master of my time! If I lived alone, without a family, without cares; as a true artist should live!" And now his wishes were fulfilled, he had nothing to hope for, but he was a victim of laziness that amounted to exhaustion, absolutely without desire, as if only wrath and restlessness were for him the internal goad of inspiration. The longing for fame tormented him; as the days went by and his name was not mentioned, he believed that he had come to an obscure death. He fancied that the youths turned their backs on him, to look in the opposite direction, storing him away among the respected dead, admiring other masters. His artistic pride made him seek opportunities for notoriety, with the guilelessness of a tyro. He, who scoffed so at the official honors and the "sheepfold" of the academies, suddenly remembered that several years before, after one of his successes, they had elected him a member of the Academy of Fine Arts. Cotoner was astonished to see the importance he began to attach to this unsolicited distinction, at which he had always laughed. "That was a boy's joking," said the master gravely. "Life cannot always be taken as a laughing matter. We must be serious, Pepe; we are getting on in years, and we must not always make fun of things that are essentially respectable." Besides, he charged himself with rudeness. Those worthy personages, whom he had often compared with all kinds of animals, no doubt thought it strange that the years went by without his caring to occupy his seat. He must go to the academic reception. And Cotoner, at his bidding, attended to all the details, from taking the news to those worthies, in order that they might set the date for the function, to arranging the speech of the new Academician. For Renovales learned with some misgiving that he must read a speech. He, accustomed to handling the brush and poorly trained in his childhood, took up the pen with timidity, and even in his letters to the Alberca woman preferred to represent his passionate phrases with amusing pictures, to embodying them in words. The old Bohemian got him out of this difficulty. He knew his Madrid well. The secrets of the world which are detailed in the newspapers had no mysteries for him. Renovales should have as magnificent a speech as any one. And one afternoon he brought to the studio a certain Isidro Maltrana,[A] a diminutive, ugly young fellow with a huge head, and an air of self-satisfaction and boldness that disgusted Renovales from the very first. He was well dressed but the lapels of his coat were dirty with ashes, and its collar was strewn with dandruff. The painter observed that he smelt of wine. At first he pompously styled him master, but after a few words he called him by name with disconcerting familiarity. He moved about the studio as if it were his own, as if he had spent his whole life in it, indifferent to its beautiful decorations. It would not be any trouble for him to undertake the preparation of a speech. That was his specialty. Academic receptions and works for members of Congress were his best field. He understood that the master needed him--a painter! And Renovales, who was beginning to find this Maltrana fellow attractive in spite of his insolence, drew himself up to his full height in the majesty of his fame. If it was a question of doing a picture for admission, he was the man. But a speech! "Agreed: you shall have the speech," said Maltrana. "It's an easy matter, I know the recipe. We shall speak of the holy traditions of the past, we shall despise certain daring innovations on the part of the inexperienced youth, which were perfectly proper twenty years ago, when you were beginning, but which now are out of place. Do you care for a thrust at modernism?" Renovales smiled, enchanted at the frankness with which this young fellow spoke of his task, and he moved one hand to suggest a balance. "Man alive! Like this. A just mean is what we want." "Of course, Renovales; flatter the old men and not quarrel with the young. You are a real master. You will be pleased with my work." With the calmness of a shopkeeper, before the artist had a chance to speak of the charge, he broached the matter. It would be two thousand _reales_; he had already told Cotoner. The low tariff; the one he set for people he liked. "A man must live, Renovales. I have a son." And his voice grew serious as he said this; his face, ugly and cynical, became noble for a moment, reflecting the cares of paternal love. "A son, dear master, for whom I do anything that turns up. If it is necessary I will steal. He is the only thing I have in the world. His mother died in misery in the hospital. I dreamt of being something, but you can't think of nonsense when you have a baby. Between the hope of being famous and the certainty of eating--eating is the first." But his tenderness was not of long duration. He recovered the cold, mercenary expression of a man who goes through life in an armor of cynicism, disillusioned by misfortune, setting a price on all his acts. They agreed on the sum; he should receive it when he handed over the speech. "And if you print it, as I hope," he said as he went away, "I will read the proof without any extra charge. Of course that is a special favor to you, because I am one of your admirers." Renovales spent several weeks in the preparations for his reception, as if it were the most important event in his life. The countess also took a great interest in the matter. She would see to it that it was a distinguished function, something like the receptions of the French Academy, described in the papers or in novels. All of her friends would be present. The great painter would read his speech, the cynosure of a hundred interested eyes, amid the fluttering of fans and the buzz of conversation. An immense success which would enrage many artists who were eager to get a foothold in high society. A few days before the function, Cotoner handed him a bundle of papers. It was a copy of the speech,--in a fair hand; it was already paid for. And Renovales, with the instinct of an actor anxious to make a good show, spent an afternoon, striding from studio to studio, with the manuscript in one hand and making energetic gestures with the other, while he read the paragraphs aloud. That impudent Maltrana was gifted! It was a work that filled the simple artist with enthusiasm, in his ignorance of everything except printing, a series of glorious trumpet blasts, in which were scattered names, many names; appreciations in tremulous rhetoric, historical summaries, so well rounded, so complete that it seemed as though mankind had been living since the beginning of the world with no other thought than Renovates' speech, and judging its acts in order that he might give them a definite interpretation. The artist felt a thrill of elevation as he repeated in eloquent succession Greek names, many of which were mere sounds to him, for he was not certain whether they were great sculptors or tragic poets. Again, he experienced a sensation of self-satisfaction when he encountered the names of Dante and Shakespeare. He knew that they had not painted, but they ought to appear in every speech which was worthy of respect. And when he came to the paragraphs on modern art, he seemed to touch terra firma, and smiled with a superior air. Maltrana did not know much about that subject; superficial appreciation of a layman; but he wrote well, very well; he could not have done better himself. And he studied his speech, till he could repeat whole paragraphs by heart, paying particular attention to the pronunciation of the difficult names, taking lessons from his most cultured friends. "It is for appearance's sake," he said naïvely. "It is because I don't want people to poke fun at me, even if I am only a painter." The day of the reception he had luncheon long before noon. He scarcely touched the food; this ceremony, which he had never seen, made him rather worried. To his anxiety was added the irritation he always felt when he had to attend to the care of his person. His long years of married life had accustomed him to neglect all the trivial, everyday needs of life. If he had to appear in different clothes than usual, the hands of his wife and daughter deftly arranged them for him. Even at the times of greatest ill-feeling, when he and Josephina hardly spoke to each other, he noticed around him the scrupulous order of that excellent housekeeper who removed all obstacles from his way, relieving him of the ordinary cares of life. Cotoner was away; the servant had gone to the countess's to take her some invitations which she had asked for, at the last minute, for some friends. Renovales decided to dress alone. His son-in-law and daughter were going to come for him at two. López de Sosa had insisted on taking him to the Academy in his car, seeking, no doubt, by this a little ray of the splendor of official glory that was to be showered on his father-in-law. Renovales dressed himself, after struggling with the many difficulties that arose from his lack of habit. He was as awkward as a child without his mother's help. When at last he looked at himself in the mirror, with his dress coat on and his cravat neatly tied, he heaved a sigh of relief. At last! Now the insignia--the ribbon. Where could he find those honorary trinkets? Since Milita's wedding he had not had them on, the poor departed had put them away. Where could he find them? And hastily, fearing the time would go by and his children would surprise him before he finished the decoration of his person, out of breath, swearing with impatience, wandering around in hopeless confusion, unable to remember anything definitely, he entered the room his wife had used as a wardrobe. Perhaps she had put away his insignia there. He opened the doors of the great clothes-closets with a nervous pull. Clothes! Nothing but clothes. The odor of balsam, which made him think of the silent calm of the woods, was mingled with a subtle, mysterious perfume, a perfume of years gone by, of dead beauties, of forgotten memories, like the fragrance of dried flowers. This odor came from the mass of clothes that hung there, white, black, pink and blue dresses, with their colors dull and indistinct, the lace crumpled and yellow, retaining in their folds something of the living fragrance of the form they once had covered. The whole past of the dead woman was there. With superstitious care, she had stored away the gowns of the different periods of her life, as if she had been afraid to get rid of them, to tear out a part of her life. As the painter looked at some of these gowns, he felt the same emotion as if they were old friends who had suddenly appeared like an unexpected surprise. A pink skirt recalled the happy days in Rome; a blue suit brought to his memory the Piazza di san Marco, and he thought he heard the fluttering of the doves and the distant rumble of the noisy _Ride of the Valkyries_. The dark, cheap suits that belonged to the cruel days of struggle hung at the back of the closet, like the garb of suffering and sacrifice. A straw hat, bright as a summer wood, covered with red flowers and with cherries, seemed to smile to him from a shelf. Oh, he knew that too! Many a time its sharp edge of straw had stuck into his forehead, when at sunset on the roads of the Roman Compagna he used to bend down, with his arm around his little wife's waist, to kiss her lips that trembled softly, while from the distance in the blue mist came the tinkle of the bells of the flocks and the mournful songs of the drivers. That youthful perfume, grown old in its confinement, which poured from the closets in waves, with the rush of an old wine that escapes from the dusty bottle in spurts, spoke to him of the past, calling up the joys that were dead. His senses trembled, a subtle intoxication crept over him. He fancied he had fallen into a sea of perfume that buffeted him with its waves, playing with him as if he were an inert body. It was the scent of youth that came back to him; the incense of the happy days, fainter, more subtle with the regret of dead years. It was the perfume of her beauty which one night in Rome had made him sigh admiringly. "I worship you, Josephina. You are as fair as Goya's little _Maja_. You are the _Maja Desnuda_." Holding his breath like a swimmer, he delved into the depths of the closets, reaching out his hands greedily, yet eager to get out of there, to return, as soon as he could, to the surface, to the pure air. He came upon card-board boxes, bundles of belts and old lace, without finding what he was seeking. And every time that his trembling arms shook the old clothes, the swinging of the skirts seemed to throw in his face a wave of that dead, indefinable perfume which he breathed more with his fancy than with his senses. He wanted to get out as soon as possible. The insignia were not in the wardrobe. Perhaps he would find them in the chamber. And for the first time since the death of his wife, he ventured to turn the door key. The perfume of the past seemed to go with him; it had penetrated through all the pores of his body. He fancied he felt the pressure of a pair of distant, enormous arms, that came from the infinite. He was no longer afraid to enter the chamber. He groped his way, looking for one of the windows. When the shutters creaked and the sunlight rushed in, the painter's eyes, after a moment of blinking, saw, like a sweet, faint smile, the glow of the Venetian furniture. What a beautiful artistic chamber! After a year of absence, the painter admired the great clothes-press with its three mirrors, deep and blue as only the mirror-makers of Murano could make them and the ebony of the furniture inlaid with tiny bits of pearl and bright jewels, a specimen of the artistic genius of ancient Venice in contact with Oriental peoples. This furniture had been for Renovales one of the great undertakings of his youth; the whim of a lover, eager to bestow princely honors on his companion after years of strict economy. They had always had their luxurious bedroom wherever they were, even at the time of their poverty. In those hard days when he painted in the attic and Josephina did the cooking, they had no chairs, they ate from the same plate; Milita played with rag-dolls; but in their miserable, whitewashed alcove were piled up with sacred respect all that furniture of the fair-haired wife of some Doge, like a hope for the future, a promise of better times. She, poor woman, with her simple faith, cleaned it, worshiped it, waiting for the hour of magic transformation to move them to a palace. The painter glanced about the chamber calmly. He found nothing unusual there, nothing that moved him. Cotoner had prudently hidden the chair in which Josephina died. The princely bed, with its monumental head and foot of carved ebony and brilliant mosaic, looked vulgar with the mattresses piled in a heap. Renovales laughed at the terror which had so often made him stop in front of the locked door. Death had left no trace. Nothing there reminded him of Josephina. In the atmosphere floated that smell of closeness, that odor of dust and dampness which one finds in all rooms that have long been closed. The time was passing, the insignia must be found, and Renovales, already accustomed to the room, opened the clothes-press, expecting to find them in it. There, too, the wood seemed to scatter, as he opened the door, a perfume like that of the other room. It was fainter, more vague, more distant. Renovales thought it was an illusion of his senses. But no; from the depths of the clothes-press came an invisible vapor wrapping him in its caressing breath. There were no clothes there. His eyes recognized immediately in the bottom of a compartment the boxes he was looking for; but he did not reach out his hands for them; he stood motionless, lost in the contemplation of a thousand trivial objects that reminded him of Josephina. She was there, too; she came forth to meet him, more personal, more real than from among the heap of old clothes. Her gloves seemed to preserve the warmth and the outline of those hands which once had run caressingly through the artist's hair, her collars reminded him of her warm ivory neck where he used to place his kisses. His hands turned over everything with painful curiosity. An old fan, carefully put away, seemed to move him in spite of its sorry appearance. Among its broken folds he could see a trace of old colors--a head he had painted when his wife was only a friend--a gift for Señorita de Torrealta who wanted to have something done by the young artist. At the bottom of a case shone two huge pearls, surrounded by diamonds; a present from Milan, the first jewel of real worth which he had bought for his wife, as they were walking through the Piazza del Duomo; a whole remittance from his manager in Rome invested in this costly trinket which made the little woman flush with pleasure while her eyes rested on him with intense gratitude. His eager fingers, as they turned over boxes, belts, handkerchiefs and gloves, came upon souvenirs with which her person was forever connected. That poor woman had lived for him, only for him, as if her own existence were nothing, as if it had no meaning unless it were joined with his. He found carefully put away among belts and band-boxes--photographs of the places where she had spent her youth; the buildings of Rome; the mountains of the old Papal States, the canals of Venice--relics of the past which no doubt were of great value to her because they called up the image of her husband. And among these papers he saw dry, crushed flowers, proud roses, or modest wild flowers, withered leaves, nameless souvenirs whose importance Renovales realized, suspecting that they recalled some happy moment completely forgotten by him. The artist's portraits, at different ages, rose from all the corners, entangled among belts or buried under the piles of handkerchiefs. Then several bundles of letters appeared, the ink reddened with time, written in a hand that made the artist uneasy. He recognized it; it was dimly associated in his memory with some person whose name had escaped him. Fool! It was his own handwriting, the laborious heavy hand of his youth which was dexterous only with the brush. There in those yellow folds was the whole story of his life, his intellectual efforts to say "pretty things" like men who write. Not one was missing; the letters of their early engagement when, after they had seen and talked to each other, they still felt that they must put on paper what their lips did not venture to say; others with Italian stamps, exuberant with extravagant expressions of love, short notes he sent her when he was going to spend a few days with some other artists at Naples, or to visit some dead city in the Marcha; then the letters from Paris to the old Venetian palace, inquiring anxiously for the little girl, asking about the nursing, trembling with fear at the possibility of the inevitable diseases of childhood. Not one was lacking; all were there, put away like fetishes, perfumed with love, tied up with ribbons like the balsam and swathings of a mummified life. Her letters had had a different fate, her written love had been scattered, lost in the void. They had been left forgotten in old suits, burned in the fireplaces, or had fallen into strange hands, where they provoked laughter at their tender simplicity. The only letters he kept were a few of the other woman's and, as he thought of this, he was seized with remorse, with infinite shame at his evil doings. He read the first lines of some of them, with a strange feeling, as if they were written by another man, wondering at their passionate tone. And it was he who had written that! How he loved Josephina then! It did not seem possible that this affection could have ended so coldly. He was surprised at the indifference of the last years; he no longer remembered the troubles of their life together; he saw his wife now as she was in her youth, with her calm face, her quiet smile and admiration in her eyes. He continued to read, passing eagerly from letter to letter. He wondered at his own youth, virtuous in spite of his passionate nature, at the chastity of his devotion to his wife, the only, the unquestionable one. He experienced the joy, tinged with melancholy, which a decrepit old man feels at the contemplation of his youthful portrait. And he had been like that! From the bottom of his soul, a stern voice seemed to rise in a reproachful tone, "Yes, like that, when you were good, when you were honorable." He became so absorbed in his reading that he did not notice the lapse of time. Suddenly he heard steps in the distant hallway, the rustle of skirts, his daughter's voice. Outside the house a horn was tooting; his haughty son-in-law telling him to hurry; trembling with fear at the prospect of being discovered, he took the insignia and the ribbons out of their cases and hastily closed the door of the clothes-press. The reception of the Academy was almost a failure for Renovales. The countess found him very interesting, with his face pale with excitement, his breast starred with jewels and his shirt front cut with several bright lines of colors. But as soon as he stood up amid general curiosity, with his manuscript in his hand, and began to read the first paragraphs, a murmur arose which kept increasing and finally drowned out his voice. He read thickly, with the haste of a school-boy who wants to have it over, without noticing what he was saying, in a monotonous sing-song. The sonorous rehearsals in the studio, the careful preparation of dramatic gestures was forgotten. His mind seemed to be somewhere else, far away from that ceremony; his eyes saw nothing but the letters. The fashionable assemblage went out, glad they had gathered and seen each other again. Many lips laughed at the speech behind their gauze fans, delighted to be able to scratch indirectly his friend the Alberca woman. "Awful, my dear! Insufferably boring!" II As soon as he awoke the next day, Renovales felt that he must have open air, light, space, and he went out of the house, not stopping in his walk, up the Castellana, until he reached the clearing near the Exhibition Hall. The night before he had dined at the Albercas'--almost a formal banquet in honor of his entrance into the Academy, at which many of the distinguished gentlemen who formed the countess's coterie were present. She seemed radiant with joy, as if she were celebrating a triumph of her own. The count treated the famous master with greater respect than ever; he had just advanced another step in glory. His respect for all honorary distinctions made him admire that Academic medal, the only distinction he could not add to his load of insignia. Renovales spent a bad night. The countess's champagne did not agree with him. He had gone home with a sort of fear, as if something unusual was awaiting him which his uneasiness could not explain. He took off the dress clothes which had been torturing him for several hours and went to bed, surprised at the vague fear that followed him even to the threshhold of his room. He saw nothing unusual around him, his room presented the same appearance it always did. He feel asleep, overcome by weariness, by the digestive torpor of that extraordinary banquet, and he did not awake at all during the night; but his sleep was cruel, tossed with dreams that perhaps made him groan. On awakening, late in the morning, at the steps of his servant in the dressing room, he realized by the tumbled condition of the bed-clothes, by the cold sweat on his forehead and the weariness of his body what a restless night he had passed amid nervous starts. His brain, still heavy with sleep, could not unravel the memories of the night. He knew only that he had had unpleasant dreams; perhaps he had wept. The one thing he could recall was a pale face, rising from among the black veils of unconsciousness, around which all his dreams were centered. It was not Josephina; the face had the expression of a person of another world. But as his mental numbness gradually disappeared, while he was washing and dressing, and while the servant was helping him on with his overcoat, he thought, summoning his memories with an effort, that it might be she. Yes, it was she. Now he remembered that in his dream he had been conscious of that perfume which had followed him since the day before, which accompanied him to the Academy, disturbing his reading, and which had gone with him to the banquet, running between his eyes and Concha's like a mist, through which he looked at her, without seeing her. The coolness of the morning cleared his mind. The wide prospect from the heights of the Exhibition Hall seemed to blot out instantly the memories of the night. A wind from the mountains was blowing on the plateau near the Hippodrome. As he walked against the wind, he felt a buzz in his ears, like the distant roar of the sea. In the background, beyond the slopes with their little red houses and wintry poplars, bare as broomsticks, the mountains of Guadarrama stood out, luminously clear against the blue sky, with their snowy crests and their huge peaks which seemed made of salt. In the opposite direction, sunk in a deep cut, appeared the covering of Madrid; the black roofs, the pointed towers--all indistinct in a haze that gave the buildings in the background the vague blue of the mountains. The plateau, covered with wretched, thin grass, its furrows stiffly frozen, flashed here and there in the sunlight. The bits of tile on the ground, broken pieces of china and tin cans reflected the light as if they were precious metals. Renovales looked for a long while at the back of the Exhibition Palace; the yellow walls trimmed with red brick which hardly rose above the edge of the clearing; the flat zinc roofs, shining like dead seas; the central cupola, huge, swollen, cutting the sky with its black curves, like a balloon on the point of rising. From one wing of the Palace came the sound of bugles, prolonging their warlike notes to the accompaniment of the hoofbeats amid clouds of dust. Beside one door swords were flashing and the sun was reflected on patent-leather hats. The painter smiled. That palace had been erected for them, and now the rural police occupied it. Once every two years Art entered it, claiming the place from the horses of the guardians of peace. Statues were set up in rooms that smelt of oats and stout shoes. But this anomaly did not last long; the intruder was driven out, as soon as the place was beginning to have a semblance of European culture, and there remained in the Exhibition Palace the true, the national, the privileged police, the sorry jades of holy authority which galloped down to the streets of Madrid when its slothful peace was at rare intervals disturbed. As the master looked at the black cupola, he remembered the days of exhibitions; he saw the long-haired, anxious youths, now gentle and flattering, now angry and iconoclastic, coming from all the cities of Spain with their pictures under their arms and mighty ambitions in their minds. He smiled at the thought of the unpleasantness and disgust he had suffered under that roof, when the turbulent throng of artists crowded around him, annoyed him, admiring him more because of his position as an influential judge than because of his works. It was he who awarded the prizes in the opinion of those young fellows who followed him with looks of fear and hope. On the afternoon when the prizes were awarded, groups rushed out to meet him in the portico at the news of his arrival; they greeted him with extravagant demonstrations of respect. Some walked in front of him, talking loudly. "Who? Renovales? The greatest painter in the world. Next to Velásquez." And at the end of the afternoon, when the two sheets of paper were placed on the columns of the rotunda, with the lists of winners, the master prudently slipped out to avoid the final explosion. The childish soul that every artist has within him burst out frankly at the announcement. False pretences were over; every man showed his true nature. Some hid between the statues, dejected and ashamed, with their fists in their eyes, weeping at the thought of the return to their distant home, of the long misery they had suffered with no other hope than that which had just vanished. Others stood straight as roosters, their ears red, their lips pale, looking toward the entrance of the palace with flaming eyes, as if they wanted to see from there a certain pretentious house with a Greek façade and a gold inscription. "The fossil! It is a shame that the fortunes of the younger men, who really amount to something, are entrusted to an old fogey who has run out, a 'four-flusher' who will never leave anything worth while behind him!" Oh, from those moments had arisen all the annoyances of his artistic activity. Every time that he heard of an unjust censure, a brutal denial of his ability, a merciless attack in some obscure paper, he remembered the rotunda of the Exhibition, that stormy crowd of painters around the bits of paper which contained their sentences. He thought with wonder and sympathy of the blindness of those youths who cursed life because of a failure, and were capable of giving their health, their vigor, in exchange for the sorry glory of a picture, less lasting even than the frail canvas. Every medal was a rung on the ladder; they measured the importance of these awards, giving them a meaning like that of a soldier's stripes. And he too had been young! He too had embittered the best years of his life in these combats, like amoebæ who struggle together in a drop of water, fancying they may conquer a huge world! What interest had eternal beauty in these regimental ambitions, in this ladder-climbing fever of those who strove to be her interpreters? The master went home. The walk had made him forget his anxiety of the night before. His body, weakened by his easy life, seemed to acknowledge this exercise with a violent reaction. His legs itched slightly, the blood throbbed in his temples, it seemed to spread through his body in a wave of warmth. He exulted in his power and tasted the joy of every organism that is performing its functions in harmonious regularity. As he crossed the garden, he was humming a song. He smiled to the concierge's wife who had opened the gate for him and to the ugly watchdog who came up with a caressing whine to lick his trousers. He opened the glass door, passing from the noise outside into deep, convent-like silence. His feet sank in the soft rugs; the only sounds were the mysterious trembling of the pictures which covered the walls up to the ceiling, the creaking of invisible wood-borers in the picture frames, the swing of the hangings in a breath of air. Everything that the master had painted; studies or whims, finished or unfinished, was placed on the ground floor, together with pictures and drawings by some famous companions or favorite pupils. Milita had amused herself for a long time before she was married, in this decoration which reached even to poorly lighted hallways. As he left his hat and stick on the hat-rack, the eyes of the master fell on a nearby water-color, as if this picture attracted his attention among the others which surrounded it. He was surprised that he should now notice it of a sudden, after passing by it so many times without seeing it. It was not bad; but it was timid; it showed lack of experience. Whose could it be? Perhaps Soldevilla's. But as he drew near to see it better, he smiled. It was his own! How differently he painted then! He tried to remember when and where he had painted it. To help his memory, he looked closely at that charming woman's head, with its dreamy eyes, wondering who the model could have been. Suddenly a cloud came over his face. The artist seemed confused, ashamed. How stupid! It was his wife, the Josephina of the early days, when he used to gaze at her admiringly, delighting in reproducing her face. He threw the blame for his slowness on Milita and determined to have the study taken away from there. His wife's portrait ought not be in the hall, beside the hat-rack. After luncheon he gave orders to the servant to take down the picture and move it into one of the drawing-rooms. The servant looked surprised. "There are so many portraits of the mistress. You have painted her so many times, sir. The house is full." Renovales mimicked the servant's expression. "So many! So many!" He knew how many times he had painted her! With a sudden curiosity before going to the studio, he entered the parlor where Josephina received her callers. There, in the place of honor, he saw a large portrait of his wife, painted in Rome, a dainty woman with a lace mantilla, a black ruffled skirt and, in her hand, a tortoise-shell fan--a veritable Goya. He gazed for a moment at that attractive face, shaded by the black lace, its oriental eyes in sharp contrast to its aristocratic pallor. How beautiful Josephina was in those days! He opened the windows the better to see the portrait and the light fell on the dark red walls making the frames of other smaller pictures flash. Then the painter saw that the Goyesque picture was not the only one. Other Josephinas accompanied him in the solitude. He gazed with astonishment at the face of his wife, which seemed to rise from all sides of the parlor. Little studies of women of the people or ladies of the 18th century; water-colors of Moorish women; Greek women with the stiff severity of Alma-Tadema's archaic figures; everything in the parlor, everything he had painted, was Josephina, had her face, or showed traces of her with the vagueness of a memory. He passed to the adjoining parlor and there, too, his wife's face, painted by him, came to meet him among other pictures by his friends. When had he done all that? He could not remember; he was surprised at the enormous quantity of work he had performed unconsciously. He seemed to have spent his whole life painting Josephina. Afterwards, in all the hallways, in all the rooms where pictures were hung, his wife met his gaze, under the most varied aspects, frowning or smiling, beautiful or sad with sickness. They were sketched, simple, unfinished charcoal drawings of her head in the corner of a canvas, but always that glance followed him, sometimes with an expression of melancholy tenderness, sometimes with intense reproach. Where had his eyes been? He had lived amid all this without seeing it. Every day he had passed by Josephina without noticing her. His wife was resurrected; henceforth, she would sit down at table, she would enter his chamber, he would pass through the house always under the gaze of two eyes which in the past had pierced into his soul. The dead woman was not dead; she hovered about him, revived by his hand. He could not take a step without seeing her face on every side. She greeted him from above the doors, from the ends of the rooms she seemed to call him. In his three studios, his surprise was still greater. All his most intimate painting, which he had done as study, from impulse, without any desire for sale, was stored away there, and all was a memory of the dead woman. The pictures which dazzled the callers were hung low, down on the level of the eyes, on easels, or fastened to the wall, amid the sumptuous furniture; up above, reaching to the ceiling were arranged the studies, memories, unframed canvases, like old, forgotten works, and in this collection at the first glance Renovales saw the enigmatic face rising towards him. He had lived without lifting his eyes, accustomed as he was to everything about him, and looking around, without seeing, without noticing those women, different in appearance but alike in expression, who watched him from above. And the countess had been there several afternoons, to see him alone in the studio! And the Persian silk draperies, hung on lances before the deep divan, had not hidden them from that sad, fixed gaze which seemed to multiply in the upper stretch of the walls. To forget his remorse, he amused himself by counting the canvases which reproduced his wife's dainty little face. They were many--the whole life of an artist. He tried to remember when and where he had painted them. In the first days of his love, he felt that he must paint her, with an irresistible impulse to transfer to the canvas everything he delighted to see, everything he loved. Afterwards, it had been a desire to flatter her, to coax her with a false show of affection, to convince her that she was the only object of his artistic worship, copying her in a vague likeness, giving to her features, marred by illness, a soft veil of idealism. He could not live without working and, like many painters, he used as models the people around him. His daughter had carried to her new home a load of paintings, all the pictures, rough sketches, water-colors and panels which represented her from the time she used to play with the cat, dressing him in baby clothes, until she was a proud young lady, courted by Soldevilla and the man who was now her husband. The mother had remained there, rising after death about the artist in oppressive profusion. All the little incidents in life had given Renovales an occasion to paint new pictures. He recalled his enthusiasm every time he saw her in a new dress. The colors changed her; she was a new woman, so he would declare with a vehemence which his wife took for admiration and which was merely the desire for a model. Josephina's whole life had been fixed by her husband's hand. In one canvas she appeared dressed in white, walking through a meadow with the poetic dreaminess of an Ophelia; in another, wearing a large, plumed hat covered with jewels, she showed the self-satisfaction of a manufacturer's wife, secure in her well-being; a black curtain served as a background for her bare neck and shoulders. In another picture she had her sleeves rolled up; a white apron covered her from her breast to her feet, on her forehead was a little wrinkle of care and weariness, and in her whole mien the carelessness of one who has no time to attend to the adornment of her person. This last was the portrait of the bitter days, the image of the courageous housekeeper, without servants, working with her delicate hands in a wretched attic, striving that the artist might lack nothing, that the petty annoyances of life might not come to distract him from his supreme efforts for success. This portrait filled the artist with the melancholy which the memory of bitter days inspires in the midst of comfort. His gratitude toward his brave companion brought with it once more remorse. "Oh, Josephina! Josephina!" When Cotoner arrived, he found the master lying face down on the couch with his head in his hands, as if he were asleep. He tried to interest him by talking about the function of the day before. A great success; the papers spoke of him and his speech, declaring that he was a great writer and could win as marked a success in literature as in art. Had he not read them? Renovales answered with a bored expression. He had found them, when he went out in the morning, on a table in the reception-room. He had cast a glance at his picture surrounded by the solid columns of his speech but he had put off reading the praises until later. They did not interest him; he was thinking of something else--he was sad. And in answer to Cotoner's anxious questions, who thought he must be ill, he said quietly: "I am well enough. It's melancholy. I'm tired of doing nothing. I want to work and haven't the strength." Suddenly he interrupted his old friend, pointing to all the portraits of Josephina, as if they were new works which he had just produced. Cotoner expressed surprise. He knew them all; they had been there for years. What was strange about them? The master told him of his recent surprise. He had lived beside them without seeing them, he had just discovered them two hours before. And Cotoner laughed. "You are rather unsettled, Mariano. You live without noticing what is around you. That is why you don't know of Soldevilla's marriage to a rich girl. The poor boy was disappointed because his master was not present at the wedding." Renovales shrugged his shoulders. What did he care for such follies? There was a long pause and the master, pensive and sad, suddenly raised his head with a determined expression. "What do you think of those portraits, Pepe?" he asked anxiously. "Is it she? I couldn't have made a mistake in painting them, I couldn't have seen her different from what she really was, could I?" Cotoner broke out laughing. Really, the master was out of his mind. What questions! Those portraits were marvels, like all of his work. But Renovales insisted with the impatience of doubt. His opinion! Were those Josephinas like his wife! "Exactly," said the Bohemian. "Why, man alive, their fidelity to life is the most astonishing thing about your portraits!" He declared this confidently, but a shadow of doubt worried him. Yes, it was Josephina, but there was something unusual, idealized about her. Her features looked the same, but they had an inner light that made them more beautiful. It was a defect he had always found in these pictures, but he said nothing. "And she," insisted the master, "was she really beautiful? What did you think of her as a woman? Tell me, Pepe,--without hesitating. It's strange, I can't remember very well what she was like." Cotoner was disconcerted by these questions, and answered with some embarrassment. What an odd thing! Josephina was very good--an angel; he always remembered her with gratitude. He had wept for her as for a mother, though she might almost have been his daughter. She had always been very considerate and thoughtful of the poor Bohemian. "Not that," interrupted the master. "I want to know if you thought she was beautiful, if she really was beautiful." "Why, man, yes," said Cotoner resolutely. "She was beautiful or, rather, attractive. At the end she seemed a bit changed. Her illness! But all in all, an angel." And the master, calmed by these words, stood looking at his own works. "Yes, she was very beautiful," he said slowly, without turning his eyes from the canvases. "Now I recognize it; now I see her better. It's strange, Pepe. It seems as if I have found Josephina to-day after a long journey. I had forgotten her; I was no longer certain what her face was like." There was another long pause, and once more the master began to ply his friend with anxious questions. "Did she love me? Do you think she really loved me? Was it love that made her sometimes act so--strangely?" This time Cotoner did not hesitate as he had at the former questions. "Love you? Wildly, Mariano. As no man has been loved in this world. All that there was between you was jealousy--too much affection. I know it better than anyone else; old friends, like me, who go in and out of the house just like old dogs, are treated with intimacy and hear things the husband does not know. Believe me, Mariano, no one will ever love you as she did. Her sulky words were only passing clouds. I am sure you no longer remember them. What did not pass was the other, the love she bore you. I am positive; you know that she told me everything, that I was the only person she could tolerate toward the end." Renovales seemed to thank his friend for these words with a glance of joy. They went out to walk at the end of the afternoon, going toward the center of Madrid. Renovales talked of their youth, of their days in Rome. He laughed as he reminded Cotoner of his famous stock of Popes, he recalled the funny shows in the studios, the noisy entertainments, and then, after he was married, the evenings of friendly intercourse in that pretty little dining-room on the Via Margutta; the arrival of the Bohemian and the other artists of his circle to drink a cup of tea with the young couple; the loud discussions over painting, which made the neighbors protest, while she, his Josephina, still surprised at finding herself the mistress of a household, without her mother, and surrounded by men, smiled timidly to them all, thinking that those fearful comrades, with hair like highwaymen but as innocent and peevish as children, were very funny and interesting. "Those were the days, Pepe! Youth, which we never appreciate till it has gone!" Walking straight ahead, without knowing where they were going, absorbed in their conversation and their memories, they suddenly found themselves at the Puerta del Sol. Night had fallen; the electric lights were coming out; the shop windows threw patches of light on the sidewalks. Cotoner looked at the clock on the Government Building. "Aren't you going to the Alberca woman's house to-night?" Renovales seemed to awaken. Yes, he must go; they expected him. But he was not going. His friend looked at him with a shocked expression, as if he considered it a serious error to scorn a dinner. The painter seemed to lack the courage to spend the evening between Concha and her husband. He thought of her with a sort of aversion; he felt as if he might brutally repel her constant caresses and tell everything to the husband in an outburst of frankness. It was a disgrace, treachery--that life _à trois_ which the society woman accepted as the happiest of states. "It's intolerable," he said to dissipate his friend's surprise. "I can't stand her. She's a regular barnacle, and won't let me go for a minute." He had never spoken to Cotoner of his affair with the Alberca woman, but he did not have to tell him anything, he assumed that he knew. "But she's pretty, Mariano," said he. "A wonderful woman! You know I admire her. You might use her for your Greek picture." The master cast at him a glance of pity for his ignorance. He felt a desire to scoff at her, to injure her, thus justifying his indifference. "Nothing but a façade. A face and a figure." And bending over toward his friend he whispered to him seriously as if he were revealing the secret of a terrible crime. "She's knock-kneed. A regular swindle." A satyr-like smile spread over Cotoner's lips and his ears wriggled. It was the joy of a chaste man; the satisfaction of knowing the secret defects of a beauty who was out of his reach. The master did not want to leave his friend. He needed him, he looked at him with tender sympathy, seeing in him something of his dead wife. When she was sad, he had been her confidant. When her nerves were on edge, this simple man's words ended the crisis in a flood of tears. With whom could he talk about her better? "We will dine together, Pepe; we will go to the _Italianos_--a Roman banquet, _ravioli_, _piccata_, anything you want and a bottle of Chianti or two, as many as you can drink, and at the end sparkling Asti, better than champagne. Does that suit you, old man?" Arm in arm they walked along, their heads high, a smile on their lips, like two young painters, eager to celebrate a recent sale with a gluttonous relief from their misery. Renovales went back into his memories and poured them out in a torrent. He reminded Cotoner of a _trattoria_ in an alley in Rome, beyond the statue of Pasquino, before you reach the Via Governo Vecchio, a chop house of ecclesiastical quiet, run by the former cook of a cardinal. The shelves of the establishment were always covered with the headgear of the profession, priestly tiles. The merriment of the artists shocked the sedate frugality of the habitues, priests of the Papal palace or visitors who were in Rome scheming advancement; loud-mouthed lawyers in dirty frock-coats from the nearby Palace of Justice, loaded with papers. "What _maccheroni!_ Remember, Pepe? How poor Josephina liked it!" They used to reach the _trattoria_ at night in a merry company--she on his arm and around them the friends whose admiration for the promising young painter attracted them to him. Josephina worshiped the mysteries of the kitchen, the traditional secrets of the solemn table of the princes of the Church, which had come down to the street, taking refuge in that little room. On the white table cloth trembled the amber reflection of the wine of Orvieto in decanters, a thick, yellow, golden liquid, of clerical sweetness, a drink of old-time pontiffs, which descended to the stomach like fire and more than once had mounted to heads covered with the tiara. On moonlit nights, they used to go from there and walk to the Colosseum to look at the gigantic, monstrous ruin under the flood of blue light. Josephina, shaking with nervous excitement, went down into the dark tunnels, groping along among the fallen stones, till she was on the open slope, facing the silent circle, which seemed to enclose the corpse of a whole people. Looking around with anxiety, she thought of the terrible beasts which had trod upon that sand. Suddenly came a frightful roar and a black beast leaped forth from the deep vomitory. Josephina clung to her husband, with a shriek of terror, and all laughed. It was Simpson, an American painter, who bent over, walking on all fours, to attack his companions with fierce cries. "Do you remember, Pepe?" Renovales kept saying, "What days! What joy! What a fine companion the little girl was before her illness saddened her!" They dined, talking of their youth, mingling with their memories the image of the dead. Afterwards, they walked the streets till midnight, and Renovales was always going back to those days, recalling his Josephina, as if he had spent his life worshiping her. Cotoner was tired of the conversation and said "Good-by" to the master. What new hobby was this? Poor Josephina was very interesting, but they had spent the whole evening without talking of anything else, as though memory of her was the only thing in the world. Renovales started home impatiently; he took a cab to get there sooner. He felt as anxious as if some one were waiting for him; that showy house, cold and solitary before, seemed animated with a spirit he could not define, a beloved soul which filled it, pervading all like perfume. As he entered, preceded by the sleepy servant, his first glance was for the water-color. He smiled; he wanted to bid good-night to that head whose eyes rested on him. For all the Josephinas who met his gaze, rising from the shadow of the walls, as he turned on the electric lights in the parlors and hallways, he had the same smile and greeting. He no longer was uneasy in the presence of those faces which he had looked at in the morning with surprise and fear. She saw him; she read his thoughts; she forgave him, surely. She had always been so good! He hesitated a moment on his way, wishing to go to the studios and turn on the lights. There he could see her full length, in all her grace; he would talk to her, he would ask her forgiveness in the deep silence of those great rooms. But the master stopped. What was he thinking of? Was he going to lose his senses? He drew his hand across his forehead, as if he wanted to wipe these ideas out of his mind. No doubt it was the Asti that led him to such absurdities. To sleep! When he was in the dark, lying in his daughter's little bed, he felt uneasy. He could not sleep, he was uncomfortable. He was tempted to go out of the room and take refuge in the deserted bed-chamber as if only there could he find rest and sleep. Oh, the Venetian bed, that princely piece of furniture which kept his whole history, where he had whispered words of love; where they had talked so many times in low tones of his longing for glory and wealth; where his daughter was born! With the energy which showed in all his whims, the master put on his clothes, and quietly, as if he feared to be overheard by his servant who slept nearby, made his way to the chamber. He turned the key with the caution of a thief, and advanced on tiptoe, under the soft, pink light which an old lantern shed from the center of the ceiling. He carefully stretched out the mattresses on the abandoned bed. There were no sheets nor pillows. The room so long deserted was cold. What a pleasant night he was going to spend! How well he would sleep there! The gold-embroidered cushions from a sofa would serve as a pillow. He wrapped himself in an overcoat and got into bed, dressed, putting out the light so as not to see reality, to dream, peopling the darkness with the sweet deceits of his fancy. On those mattresses, Josephina had slept. He did not see her as in the last days,--sick, emaciated, worn with physical suffering. His mind repelled that painful image, bent on beautiful illusions. The Josephina whom he saw, the Josephina within him, was the other, of the first days of their love, and not as she had been in reality but as he had seen her, as he had painted her. His memory passed over a great stretch of time, dark and stormy; it leaped from the regret of the present to the happy days of youth. He no longer recalled the years of trying confinement, when they quarreled together, unable to follow the same path. They were unimportant disturbances in life. He thought only of her smiling kindness, her generosity, and submissiveness. How tenderly they had lived together for a part of their life, in that bed which now knew only the loneliness of his body. The artist shivered under his inadequate covering. In this abnormal situation, exterior impressions called up memories--fragments of the past that slowly came to his mind. The cold made him think of the rainy nights in Venice, when it poured for hour after hour on the narrow alleys and deserted canals in the deep, solemn silence of a city without horses, without wheels, without any sound of life, except the lapping of the solitary water on the marble stairways. They were in the same calm, under the warm eider-down, amid the same furniture which he now half saw in the shadow. Through the slits of the lowered blind shone the glow of the lamp which lighted the nearby canal. On the ceiling a spot of light flickered with the reflection of the dead water, constantly crossed by lines of shadow. They, closely embraced, watched this play of light and water above them. They knew that outside it was cold and damp; they exulted in their physical warmth, in the selfishness of being together, with that delicious sense of comfort, buried in silence as if the world were a thing of the past, as if their chamber were a warm oasis, in the midst of cold and darkness. Sometimes they heard a mournful cry in the silence. _Aooo!_ It was the gondolier giving warning before he turned the corner. Across the spot of light which shimmered on the ceiling slipped a black, Lilliputian gondola, a shadow toy, on the stern of which bent a manikin the size of a fly, wielding the oar. And, thinking of those who passed in the rain, lashed by the icy gusts, they experienced a new pleasure and clung closer to each other under the soft cider-down and their lips met, disturbing the calm of their rest with the noisy insolence of youth and love. Renovales no longer felt cold. He turned restlessly on the mattresses; the metallic embroidery of the cushions stuck in his face; he stretched out his arms in the darkness, and the silence was broken by a despairing cry, the lament of a child who demands the impossible, who asks for the moon. "Josephina! Josephina!" III One morning the painter sent an urgent summons to Cotoner and the latter arrived in great alarm at the terms of the message. "It's nothing serious," said Renovales. "I want you to tell me where Josephina was buried. I want to see her." It was a desire which had been slowly taking form in his mind during several nights; a whim of the long hours of sleeplessness through which he dragged in the darkness. More than a week before, he had moved into the large chamber, choosing among the bed linen, with a painstaking care that surprised the servants, the most worn sheets, which called up old memories with their embroidery. He did not find in this linen that perfume of the closets which had disturbed him so deeply; but there was something in them, the illusion, the certainty that she had many a time touched them. After soberly and severely telling Cotoner of his wish, Renovales felt that he must offer some excuse. It was disgraceful that he did not know where Josephina was; that he had not yet gone to visit her. His grief at her death had left him helpless and afterward, the long journey. "You always know things, Pepe! You had charge of the funeral arrangements. Tell me where she is; take me to see her." Up to that time he had not thought of her remains. He remembered the day of the funeral, his dramatic grief which kept him in a corner with his face buried in his hands. His intimate friends, the elect, who penetrated to his retreat, clad in black, and wearing gloomy faces, caught his hand and pressed it effusively. "Courage, Mariano. Be strong, master." And outside the house, a constant trampling of horses' feet; the iron fence black with the curious crowd, a double file of carriages as far as the eye could see; reporters going from group to group, taking down names. All Madrid was there. And they had carried her away to the slow step of a pair of horses with waving plumes, amid the undertaker's men in white wigs and gold batons--and he had forgotten her, had felt no interest in seeing the corner of the cemetery where she was buried forever, under the glare of the sun, under the night rains that dripped upon her grave. He cursed himself now for this outrageous neglect. "Tell me where she is, Pepe. Take me. I want to see her." He implored with the eagerness of remorse; he wanted to see her once, as soon as possible, like a sinner who fears death and cries for absolution. Cotoner acceded to this immediate trip. She was in the Almudena cemetery, which had been closed for some time. Only those who had long standing titles to a lot went there now. Cotoner had desired to bury Josephina beside her mother in the same inclosure where the stone that covered the "lamented genius of diplomacy" was growing tarnished. He wanted her to rest among her own. On the way, Renovales felt a sort of anguish. Like a sleep-walker he saw the streets of the city passing by the carriage window, then they went down a steep hill, ill-kempt gardens, where loafers were sleeping, leaning against the trees, or women were combing their hair in the sun; a bridge; wretched suburbs with tumble-down houses; then the open country, hilly roads and at last a grove of cypress trees beyond an adobe wall and the tops of marble buildings, angels stretching out their wings with a trumpet at their lips, great crosses, torch-holders mounted on tripods, and a pure, blue sky which seemed to smile with superhuman indifference at the excitement of that ant, named Renovales. He was going to see her; to step on the ground which covered her body; to breathe an atmosphere in which there was still perhaps some of that warmth which was the breath of the dead woman's soul. What would he say to her? As he entered the graveyard he looked at the keeper, an ugly, dismal old fellow, as pale and yellow and greasy as a wax candle. That man lived constantly near Josephina! He was seized with generous gratitude; he had to restrain himself, thinking of his companion, or he would have given him all the money he had with him. Their steps resounded in the silence. They felt the murmuring calm of an abandoned garden about them, where there were more pavilions and statues than trees. They went down ruined colonnades, which echoed their steps strangely; over slabs which sounded hollow under their feet,--the void, trembling at the light touch of life. The dead who slept there were dead indeed, without the least resurrection of memory, completely deserted, sharing in the universal decay,--unnamed, separated from life forever. From the beehive close by, no one came to give new life with tears and offerings to the ephemeral personality they once had, to the name which marked them for a moment. Wreaths hung from the crosses, black and unraveled, with a swarm of insects in their fragments. The exuberant vegetation, where no one ever passed, stretched in every direction, loosening the tombstones with its roots, springing the steps of the resounding stairways. The rain, slowly filtering through the ground, had produced hollows. Some of the slabs were cracked open, revealing deep holes. They had to walk carefully, fearing that the hollow ground would suddenly open; they had to avoid the depressions where a stone with letters of pale gold and noble coats-of-arms lay half on its side. The painter walked trembling with the sadness of an immense disappointment, questioning the value of his greatest interests. And this was life! Human beauty ended like this! This was all that the human mind came to and here it must stop in all its pride! "Here it is!" said Cotoner. They had entered between two rows of tombs so close together that as they passed they brushed against the old ornaments which crumbled and fell at the touch. It was a simple tomb, a sort of coffin of white marble which rose a few inches above the ground, with an elevation at one end, like the bolster of a bed and surmounted by a cross. Renovales was cold. There was Josephina! He read the inscription several times, as if he could not convince himself. It was she; the letters reproduced her name, with a brief lament of her inconsolable husband, which seemed to him senseless, artificial, disgraceful. He had come trembling with anxiety at the thought of the terrible moment when he should behold Josephina's last resting place. To feel that he was near her, to tread upon the ground in which she rested! He would not be able to resist this critical moment, he would weep like a child, he would fall on his knees, sobbing in deadly anguish. Well, he was there; the tomb was before his eyes and still, they were dry; they looked about coldly in surprise. She was there! He knew it from his friend's statement, from the declamatory inscription on the tomb, but nothing warned him of her presence. He remained indifferent, looking curiously at the adjoining graves, filled with a monstrous desire to laugh, seeing in death only his sardonic buffoon's mask. At one side, a gentleman who rested under the endless list of his titles and honors, a sort of Count of Alberca, who had fallen asleep in the solemnity of his greatness, waiting for the angel's trumpet-blast to appear before the Lord with all his parchments and crosses. On the other, a general who rotted under a marble slab, engraved with cannon, guns and banners, as though he hoped to terrify death. In what ludicrous promiscuity Josephina had come to sleep her last sleep, mingled with, forms she had not known in life! They were her eternal, her final lovers; they carried her off from his very presence and forever, indifferent to the pressing concerns of the living. Oh, Death! What a cruel mocker! The earth! How cold and cynical! He was sad and disgusted at human insignificance--but he did not weep. He saw only the external and material--the form, always the concern of his thoughts. Standing before the tomb he felt merely his vulgar meanness, with a sort of shame. She was his wife; the wife of a great artist. He thought of the most famous sculptors, all friends of his; he would talk to them, they should erect an imposing sepulcher with weeping statues, symbolical of fidelity, gentleness and love, a sepulcher worthy of the companion of Renovales. And nothing more; his thought went no farther; his imagination could not pass beyond the hard marble nor penetrate the hidden mystery. The grave was speechless and empty, in the air there was nothing which spoke to the soul of the painter. He remained indifferent, unmoved by any emotion, without ceasing for a single moment to see reality. The cemetery was a hideous, gloomy, repulsive place, with an odor of decay. Renovales thought he could perceive a stench of putrefaction scattered in the wind which bent the pointed tops of the cypresses, and swayed the old wreaths and the branches of the rose bushes. He looked at Cotoner with a sort of displeasure. He was to blame for his coldness. His presence was a check on him which prevented him from showing his feelings. Though a friend, he was a stranger, an obstacle between him and the dead. He interfered with that silent dialogue of love and forgiveness of which the master had dreamed as he came. He would come back alone. Perhaps the cemetery would be different in solitude. And he came back; he came back the next day. The keeper greeted him with a smile, realizing that he was a profitable visitor. The cemetery seemed larger, more imposing in the silence of the bright, quiet morning. He had no one to talk with; he heard no human sound but that of his own steps. He went up stairways, crossed galleries, leaving behind him his indifference, thinking anxiously that every step took him farther from the living, that the gate with its greedy keeper was already far away and that he was the only living being, the only one who thought and could feel fear in the mournful city of thousands and thousands of beings, wrapped in a mystery which made them imposing amid the strange, dull sounds of the land beyond that terrifies with the blackness of its bottomless abyss. When he reached Josephina's grave, he took off his hat. No one. The trees and the rose bushes trembled in the wind among the cross paths. Some birds were twittering above him in an acacia, and the sound of life, disturbing the rustling of the solitary vegetation, shed a certain calm over the painter's spirit, blotted out the childish fear he had felt before he reached there, as he crossed the echoing pavements of the colonnades. For a long time he remained motionless, absorbed in the contemplation of that marble case obliquely cut by a ray of sunlight, one part golden, the other blue in the shadow. Suddenly he shivered, as if he had awakened at the sound of a voice,--his own. He was talking, aloud, driven to cry out his thoughts, to stir this deathly silence with something that meant life. "Josephina. It is I. Do you forgive me?" It was a childish longing to hear the voice from beyond that might pour on his soul a balm of forgiveness and forgetting; a desire of humbling himself, of weeping, of having her listen to him, smile to him from the depth of the void, at the great revolution which had been carried out in his spirit. He wanted to tell her--and he did tell her silently with the speech of his feelings--that he loved her, that he had resuscitated her in his thoughts, now that he had lost her forever, with a love which he had never had for her in her earthly life. He felt ashamed before her grave; ashamed of the difference of their fates. He begged her forgiveness for living, for still feeling vigorous and young, for now loving her without reality, in a wild hope, when he had been cold and indifferent at her departure, with his thoughts on another woman, hoping for her death with criminal craving. Wretch! And he was still alive! And she, so kind, so sweet, buried forever, lost in the depths of eternal, ruthless death! He wept; at last he wept those hot, sincere tears which compel forgiveness. It was the weeping which he had so long desired. Now he felt that they approached each other, that they were almost together, separated only by a strip of marble and a little earth. His fancy saw her poor remains and in their decay he loved them, he worshiped them with a calm passion that rose above earthly miseries. Nothing which had once been Josephina's could cause him repugnance or horror. If he could but open that white case! If he could kiss her, take her ashes with him, that they might go with him on his pilgrimage, like the household gods of the ancients! He no longer saw the cemetery, he did not hear the birds nor the rustling of the branches; he seemed to live in a cloud, looking only at that white grave, the marble slab,--the last resting place of his beloved. She forgave him; her body rose before him, such as it had been in her youth, as he had painted it. Her deep eyes were fixed on his, eyes that shone with love. He seemed to hear her childish voice laughing, admiring little trifles, as in the happy days. It was a resurrection,--the image of the dead woman was before him, formed no doubt by the invisible atoms of her being which floated over her grave, by something of the essence of her life which still fluttered around the material remains, reluctant to say farewell before they started on the way that leads to the depths of the infinite. His tears continued to fall in the silence, in sweet relief; his voice, broken by sobs, stilled the birds with fear. "Josephina! Josephina!" And the echo answered with dull, mocking cries, from the smooth walls of the mausoleums, from the invisible end of the colonnades. The artist could not resist the temptation to step over the rusted chains which surrounded the grave. To feel her nearer! To overcome the short distance which separated them! To mock death with a loving kiss of intense gratitude for forgiveness! The huge frame of the master covered the slab of marble, his arms encircled it as if he would pick it up from the ground and carry it away with him. His lips eagerly sought the highest part of the stone. He wished to find the spot which covered her face and he began to kiss it, moving his head as if he were going to dash it against the marble. A sensation of stone, warmed by the sun, on his lips; a taste of dust, insipid and repulsive in his mouth. Renovales sat up, rose to his feet as if he had awakened, as if the cemetery, until then invisible, was suddenly restored to reality. The faint odor of decay once more struck him. Now he saw the grave, as he had seen it the day before. He no longer wept. The immense disappointment dried his tears, though within him he felt the longing for weeping increased. Horrible awakening! Josephina was not there; only the void was about him. It was useless to seek the past in the field of death. Memories could not be aroused in that cold ground, stirred by worms and decay. Oh, where had he come to seek his dreams! From what a foul dunghill he had tried to raise the roses of his memories! In fancy he saw her beneath that repugnant marble in all the repulsiveness of death, and this vision left him cold, indifferent. What had he to do with such wretchedness? No; Josephina was not there. She was truly dead, and if he ever was to see her it would not be beside her grave. Once more he wept--not with external tears but within; he mourned the bitterness of solitude, the inability to exchange a single thought with her. He had so many things to tell her which were burning his soul! How he would talk with her, if some mysterious power would bring her back for an instant. He would implore her forgiveness; he would throw himself at her feet, lamenting the error of his life, the painful deceit of having remained beside her, indifferent, fostering hopes which had no fulfillment, only to groan now in the torment of irreparable loss, with a mad, thirsting love which worshiped the woman in death after scoring her in life. He would swear a thousand times the truth of this posthumous worship, this desire aroused by death. And then he would lay her once more in her eternal bed, and would depart in peace after his wild confession. But it was impossible. The silence between them would last forever. He must remain for all eternity with this confession of his thoughts, unable to tell it to her, crushed beneath its weight. She had gone away with rancor and scorn in her soul, forgetting their first love, and she would never know that it had blossomed once more after her death. She could not cast one glance back; she did not exist; she would never again exist. All that he was doing and thinking, the sleepless nights when he called to her in loving appeal, the long hours when he stood gazing at her pictures,--all would be unknown to her. And when he died in his turn, the silence and loneliness would be still greater. The things which he had been unable to tell her would die with him and they would both crumble away in the earth, strangers to each other, prolonging their grievous error in eternity, unable to approach each other, or see each other, without a saving word, condemned to the fearful, unbounded void, over whose limitless firmament passed unnoticed the desires and griefs of men. The unhappy artist walked up and down enraged at his impotence. What cruelty surrounded them? What dark, hard-hearted, implacable mockery was that which drove them toward one another and then separated them forever, forever! forbidding them to exchange a look of forgiveness, a word to rectify their errors and to permit them to return to their eternal sleep with new peace? Lies--deceit that hovers about man, like a protecting atmosphere that shields him in his path through the void of life. That grave with its inscription was a lie; she was not there; it contained merely a few remnants, like those of all the others, which no one could recognize, not even he, who had loved her so dearly. His despair made him lift his eyes to the pure, shining sky. Ah, the heavens! A lie, too! That heavenly blue with its golden rays and fanciful clouds was an imperceptible film, an illusion of the eyes. Beyond the deceitful web which wraps the earth was the true heaven, endless space, and it was black, ominously obscure, with the sputtering spark of burning tears, of infinite worlds, little lamps of eternity in whose flame lived other swarms of invisible atoms, and the icy, blind, and cruel soul of shadowy space laughed at their passions and longings, at the lies they fabricated incessantly to protect their ephemeral existence, striving to prolong it with the illusion of an immortal soul. All were lies which death came to unmask, interrupting men's course on the pleasant path of their illusions, throwing them out of it with as much indifference as their feet had crushed and driven to flight the lines of ants which advanced amid the grass that was sowed with bony remains. Renovales was forced to flee. What was he doing there? What did that deserted, empty spot of earth mean to him? Before he went away, with the firm determination not to return again, he looked around the grave for a flower, a few blades of grass, something to take with him as a remembrance. No, Josephina was not there; he was sure, but like a lover, he felt that longing, that passionate respect for anything which the woman he loves had touched. He scorned a cluster of wild-flowers which grew in abundance at the foot of the grave. He wanted them from near the head and he picked a few white buds close to the cross, thinking that perhaps their roots had touched her face, that they preserved in their petals something of her eyes, of her lips. He went home downcast and sad, with a void in his mind and death in his soul. But in the warm air of the house, his love came forth to meet him; he saw her beside him, smiling from the walls, rising out of the great canvases. Renovales felt a warm breath on his face, as if those pictures were breathing at once, filling the house with the essence of memories which seemed to float in the atmosphere. Everything spoke to him of her, everything was filled with that vague perfume of the past. Over there on the graveyard hill was the wretched perishable covering. He would not return. What was the use? He felt her around him, all that was left of her in the world was enclosed in the house, as the strong odor remains in a broken, forgotten perfume bottle. No, not in the house. She was in him, he felt her presence within him, like those wandering souls of the legends who took refuge in another's body, struggling to share the dwelling with the soul which was mistress of the body. They had not lived in vain so many years together--at first united by love and afterward by habit. For half a lifetime, their bodies had slept in close contact, exchanging through their open pores that warmth which is like the breath of the soul. She had taken away a part of the artist's life. In her remains, crumbling in the lonely cemetery, there was a part of the master and he, in turn, felt something strange and mysterious which chained him to her memory, which made him always long for that body--the complement of his own--which had already vanished in the void. Renovales shut himself up in the house, with a taciturn air and a gloomy expression which terrified his valet. If Señor Cotoner came, he was to tell him that the master had gone out. If letters came from the countess, he could leave them in an old terra-cotta jar in the anteroom, where the neglected calling cards were piling up. If it was she who came, he was to close the door. He did not want anything to distract him. Dinner should be served in the studio. And he worked alone, without a model, with a tenacity which kept him standing before the canvas until it was dark. Sometimes, when the servant entered at nightfall, he found the luncheon untouched on the table. In the evening the master ate in silence in the dining-room, from sheer animal necessity, not seeing what he was eating, his eyes gazing into space. Cotoner, somewhat piqued at this unusual régime which prevented him from entering the studio, would call in the evening and try in vain to interest him with news of the world outside. He observed in the master's eyes a strange light, a gleam of insanity. "How goes the work?" Renovales answered vaguely. He could see it soon--in a few days. His expression of indifference was repeated when he heard the Countess of Alberca mentioned. Cotoner described her alarm and astonishment at the master's behavior. She had sent for him to find out about Mariano, to complain, with tears in her eyes, of his absence. She had twice been to the door of his house and had not been able to get in; she complained of the servant and that mysterious work. At least he ought to write to her, answer her letters, full of tender laments, which she did not suspect were lying unopened and neglected in a pile of yellow cards. The artist listened to this with a shrug of the shoulders as if he was hearing about the sorrows of a distant planet. "Let's go and see Milita," he said. "There isn't any opera to-night." In his retirement the only thing which connected him with the outside world was his desire to see his daughter, to talk to her, as if he loved her with new affection. She was his Josephina's flesh, she had lived in her. She was healthy and strong, like him, nothing in her appearance reminded him of the other, but her sex bound her closely with the beloved image of her mother. He listened to Milita with smiles of pleasure, grateful for the interest she manifested in his health. "Are you ill, papa? You look poorly. I don't like your appearance. You are working too much." But he calmed her, swinging his strong arms, swelling out his lusty chest. He had never felt better. And with the minuteness of a good-natured grandfather he inquired about all the little displeasures of her life. Her husband spent the day with his friends. She grew tired of staying at home and her only amusement was making calls or going shopping. And after that came a complaint, always the same, which the father divined at her first words. López de Sosa was selfish, niggardly toward her. His spendthrift habits never went beyond his own pleasures and his own person; he economized in his wife's expenses. He loved her in spite of that. Milita did not venture to deny it; no mistresses or unfaithfulness. She would be likely to stand that! But he had no money except for his horses and automobiles; she even suspected that he was gambling, and his poor wife lived without a thing to her back, and had to weep her requests every time she received a bill, little trifles of a thousand pesetas or two. The father was as generous to her as a lover. He felt like pouring at her feet all that he had piled up in long years of labor. She must live in happiness, since she loved her husband! Her worries made him smile scornfully. Money! Josephina's daughter sad because she needed things, when in his house there were so many dirty, insignificant papers which he had worked so hard to win and which he now looked at with indifference! He always went away from these visits amid hugs and a shower of kisses from that big girl who expressed her joy by shaking him disrespectfully, as if he were a child. "Papa, dear, how good you are! How I love you!" One night as he left his daughter's house with Cotoner, he said mysteriously: "Come in the morning, I will show it to you. It isn't finished but I want you to see it. Just you. No one can judge better." Then he added with the satisfaction of an artist: "Once I could paint only what I saw. Now I am different. It has cost me a good deal, but you shall judge." And in his voice there was the joy of difficulties overcome, the certainty that he had produced a great work. Cotoner came the next day, with the haste of curiosity, and entered the studio closed to others. "Look!" said the master with a proud gesture. His friend looked. Opposite the window was a canvas on an easel; a canvas for the most part gray, and on this, confused, interlaced lines revealing some hesitancy over the various contours of a body. At one end was a spot of color, to which the master pointed--a woman's head which stood out sharply on the rough background of the cloth. Cotoner stood in silent contemplation. Had the great artist really painted that? He did not see the master's hand. Although he was an unimportant painter, he had a good eye, and he saw in the canvas hesitancy, fear, awkwardness, the struggle with something unreal which was beyond his reach, which refused to enter the mold of form. He was struck by the lack of likeness, by the forced exaggeration of the strokes; the eyes unnaturally large, the tiny mouth, almost a point, the bright skin with its supernatural pallor. Only in the pupils of the eyes was there something remarkable--a glance that came from afar, an extraordinary light which seemed to pass through the canvas. "It has cost me a great deal. No work ever made me suffer so. This is only the head; the easiest part. The body will come later; a divine nude, such as has never been seen. And only you shall see it, only you!" The Bohemian no longer looked at the picture. He was gazing at the master, astonished at the work, disconcerted by its mystery. "You see, without a model. Without the real before me," continued the master. "_They_ were all the guide I had; but it is my best, my supreme work." _They_ were all the portraits of the dead woman, taken down from the walls and placed on easels or chairs in a close circle around the canvas. His friend could not contain his astonishment, he could not pretend any longer, overcome by surprise. "Oh, but it is---- But you have been trying to paint Josephina!" Renovales started back violently. "Josephina, yes. Who else should it be? Where are your eyes?" And his angry glance flashed at Cotoner. The latter looked at the head again. Yes, it was she, with a beauty that was not of this world,--uncanny, spiritualized, as if it belonged to a new humanity, free from coarse necessities, in which the last traces of animal descent have died out. He gazed at the numerous portraits of other times and recognized parts of them in the new work, but animated by a light which came from within and changed the value of the colors, giving to the face a strange unfamiliarity. "You recognize her at last!" said the master, anxiously following the impressions of his work in the eyes of his friend. "Is it she? Tell me, don't you think it is like her?" Cotoner lied compassionately. Yes, it was she, at last he saw her well enough. She, but more beautiful than in life. Josephina had never looked like that. Now it was Renovales who looked with surprise and pity. Poor Cotoner! Unhappy failure--pariah of art, who could not rise above the nameless crowd and whose only feeling was in his stomach! What did he know about such things? What was the use of asking his opinion? He had not recognized Josephina, and nevertheless this canvas was his best portrait, the most exact. Renovales bore her within him, he saw her merely by retiring into his thoughts. No one could know her better than he. The rest had forgotten her. That was the way he saw her and that was what she had been. IV The Countess of Alberca succeeded in making her way, one afternoon, to the master's studio. The servant saw her arrive as usual in a cab, cross the garden, come up the steps, and enter the reception room with the hasty step of a resolute woman who goes straight ahead without hesitating. He tried to block her way respectfully, going from side to side, meeting her every time she started to one side to pass this obstacle. The master was working! The master was not receiving callers! It was a strict order; he could not make an exception! But she continued ahead with a frown, a flash of cold wrath in her eyes, an evident determination to strike down the servant, if it was necessary, and to pass over his body. "Come, my good man, get out of the way." And her haughty, irritated accent made the poor servant tremble and at a loss to stop this invasion of rustling skirts and strong perfumes. In one of her evolutions the fair lady ran into an Italian mosaic table, on the center of which was the old jar. Her glance fell instinctively to the bottom of the jar. It was only an instant, but enough for her woman's curiosity to recognize the blue envelopes with white borders, whose sealed ends stuck out, untouched, from the pile of cards. The last straw! Her paleness grew intense, almost greenish, and she started forward with such a rush that the servant could not stop her and was left behind her, dejected, confused, fearful of his master's wrath. Renovales, alarmed by the sharp click of heels on the hard floor, and the rustling of skirts, turned toward the door just as the countess made her entrance with a dramatic expression. "It's me." "You? You, dear?" Excitement, surprise, fear made the master stammer. "Sit down," he said coldly. She sat down on a couch and the artist remained standing in front of her. They looked at each other as if they did not recognize each other after this absence of weeks which weighed on their memories as if it were of years. Renovales looked at her coldly, without the least tremble of desire, as if it were an ordinary visitor whom he must get rid of as soon as possible. He was surprised at her greenish pallor, at her mouth, drawn with irritation, at her hard eyes which flashed yellow flames, at her nose which curved down to her upper lip. She was angry, but when her eyes fell on him, they lost their hardness. Her woman's instinct was calmed when she gazed at him. He, too, looked different in the carelessness of the seclusion; his hair tangled, revealing the preoccupation, the fixed, absorbing idea, which made him neglect the neatness of his person. Her jealousy vanished instantly, her cruel suspicion that she would surprise him in love with another woman, with the fickleness of an artist. She knew the external evidence of love, the necessity a man feels of making himself attractive, refining the care of his dress. She surveyed his neglect with satisfaction, noticing his dirty clothes, his long fingernails, stained with paint, all the details which revealed lack of tidiness, forgetfulness of his person. No doubt it was a passing artist's whim, a craze for work, but they did not reveal what she had suspected. In spite of this calming certainty, as Concha was ready to shed the tears which were all prepared, waiting impatiently on the edge of her eyelids, she raised her hands to her eyes, curling up on one end of the couch, with a tragic expression. She was very unhappy; she was suffering terribly. She had passed several horrible weeks. What was the matter? Why had he disappeared without a word of explanation, when she loved him more than ever, when she was ready to give up everything, to cause a perfect scandal, by coming to live with him, as his companion, his slave? And her letters, her poor letters, neglected, unopened, as if they were annoying requests for alms. She had spent the nights awake, putting her whole soul into their pages! And in her accent there was a tremble of literary pique, of bitterness, that all the pretty things, which she wrote down with a smile of satisfaction after long reflection, remained unknown. Men! Their selfishness and cruelty! How stupid women were to worship them! She continued to weep and Renovales looked at her as if she were another woman. She seemed ridiculous to him in that grief, which distorted her face, which made her ugly, destroying her smiling, doll-like impassibility. He tried to offer excuses, that he might not seem cruel by keeping silent, but they lacked warmth and the desire to carry conviction. He was working hard; it was time for him to return to his former life of creative activity. She forgot that he was an artist, a master of some reputation, who had his duty to the public. He was not like those young fops who could devote the whole day to her and pass their life at her feet, like enamored pages. "We must be serious, Concha," he added with pedantic coldness. "Life is not play. I must work and I am working. I haven't been out of here for I don't know how many days." She stood up angrily, took her hands from her eyes, looked at him, rebuking him. He lied; he had been out and it had never occurred to him to come to her house for a moment. "Just to say 'Good morning,' nothing more. So that I may see you for an instant, Mariano, long enough to be sure that you are the same, that you still love me. But you have gone out often; you have been seen. I have my detectives who tell me everything. You are too well known to pass unnoticed. You have been in the Museo del Prado mornings. You have been seen gazing at a picture of Goya's, a nude, for hours at a time, like an idiot. Your hobby is coming back again, Mariano! And it hasn't occurred to you to come and see me; you haven't answered my letters. You feel proud, it seems, content with being loved, and submit to being worshiped like an idol, certain that the more uncivil you are, the more you will be loved. Oh, these men! These artists!" She sobbed, but her voice no longer preserved the irritated tone of the first few moments. The certainty that she did not have to struggle with the influence of another woman softened her pride, leaving in her only the gentle complaint of a victim who is eager to sacrifice herself anew. "But sit down," she exclaimed amid her sobs, pointing to a place on the couch beside her. "Don't stand up. You look as if you wanted me to go away." The painter sat down timidly, taking care not to touch her, avoiding those hands which reached out to him, longing for a pretext to seize him. He saw her desire to weep on his shoulder, to forget everything, and to banish her last tears with a smile. That was what always happened, but Renovales, knowing the game, drew back roughly. That must not begin again; it could, not be repeated, even if he wanted to. He must tell her the truth at any cost, end it forever, throw off the burden from his shoulders. He spoke hoarsely, stammering, with his eyes on the floor, not daring to lift them for fear of meeting Concha's which he felt were fixed upon him. For several days he had been meaning to write to her. He had been afraid that he might not express his ideas clearly and so he had put off the letter until the next day. Now he was glad she had come; he rejoiced at the weakness of his valet, in letting her enter. They must talk like good comrades who examine the future together. It was time to put an end to their folly. They would be what Concha once desired, friends--good friends. She was beautiful; she still had the freshness of youth, but time leaves its mark, and he felt that he was getting old; he looked at life from a height, as we look at the water of a stream, without dipping into it. Concha listened to him in astonishment, refusing to understand his words. What did these scruples mean? After some digressions, the painter spoke remorsefully of his friend, the Count of Alberca, a man whom he respected for his very guilelessness. His conscience rose in protest at the simple admiration of the good man. This daring deceit in his own house, under his own roof, was infamous. He could not go on; they must purify themselves from the past by being good friends, must say good-by as lovers, without spite or antipathy, grateful to each other for the happy past, taking with them, like dead lovers, their pleasant memories. Concha's laugh, nervous, sarcastic, insolent, interrupted the artist. Her cruel spirit of fun was aroused at the thought that her husband was the pretext of this break. Her husband! And once more she began to laugh uproariously, revealing the count's insignificance, the absolute lack of respect which he inspired in his wife, or her habit of adjusting her life as her fancy dictated, with never a thought of what that man might say or think. Her husband did not exist for her; she never feared him; she had never thought that he might serve as an obstacle, and yet her lover spoke of him, presented _him_ as a justification for leaving her! "My husband!" she repeated amid the peals of her cruel laughter. "Poor thing! Leave him in peace; he has nothing to do with us. Don't lie; don't be a coward. Speak. You've something else on your mind. I don't know what it is; but I have a presentiment, I see it from here. If you loved another woman! If you loved another woman!" But she broke off this threatening exclamation. She needed only to look at him to be convinced that it was impossible. His body was not perfumed with love; everything about him revealed calm peace, without interests or desires. Perhaps it was a whim of his fancy, some unbalanced caprice which led him to repel her. And encouraged by this belief, she relaxed, forgetting her anger, speaking to him affectionately, caressing him with a fervor in which there was something at once of the mother and of the mistress. Renovales suddenly saw her beside him with her arms around his neck, burying her hands in his tangled hair. She was not proud; men worshiped her, but her heart, her body, all of her belonged to the master, the ungrateful brute, who returned so ill her affection that she was getting old with her trouble. Suddenly filled with tenderness, she kissed his forehead generously and purely. Poor boy! He was working so hard! The only thing the matter was that he was tired out, distracted with too much painting. He must leave his brushes alone, live, love her, be happy, rest his wrinkled forehead behind which, like a curtain, an invisible world passed and repassed in perpetual revolution. "Let me kiss your pretty forehead again, so that the hobgoblins within may be silent and sleep." And she kissed once more his _pretty_ forehead, delighting in caressing with her lips the furrows and prominences of its irregular surface, rough as volcanic ground. For a long time her wheedling voice, with an exaggerated childish lisp, sounded in the silence of the studio. She was jealous of painting, the cruel mistress, exacting and repugnant, who seemed to drive her poor baby mad. One of these days, master, the studio would catch on fire together with all its pictures. She tried to draw him to her, to make him sit on her lap, so that she might rock him like a child. "Look here, Mariano, dear. Laugh for your Concha. Laugh, you big stupid! Laugh, or I'll whip you." He laughed, but it was forced. He tried to resist her fondling, tired of those childish tricks which once were his delight. He remained indifferent to those hands, those lips, to the warmth of that body which rubbed against him without awakening the least desire. And he had loved that woman! For her he had committed the terrible, irreparable crime which would make him drag the chain of remorse forever! What surprises life has in store! The painter's coldness finally had its effect on the Alberca woman. She seemed to awaken from the dream, in which she was lulling herself. She drew back from her lover, and looked at him fixedly with imperious eyes, in which a spark of pride was once more beginning to flash. "Say that you love me! Say it at once! I need it!" But in vain did she show her authority; in vain she brought her eyes close to him, as if she wished to look within him. The artist smiled faintly, murmured evasive words, refused to comply with her demands. "Say it out loud, so that I can hear it. Say that you love me. Call me Phryne, as you used to when you worshiped me on your knees, kissing my body!" He said nothing. He hung his head in shame at the memory, so as not to see her. The countess stood up nervously. In her anger, she drew back to the middle of the studio, her hands clenched, her lips quivering, her eyes flashing. She wanted to destroy something, to fall on the floor in a convulsion. She hesitated whether to break an Arabic amphora close by, or to fall on that bowed head and scratch it with her nails. Wretch! She had loved him so dearly; she still cared for him so, feeling bound to him by both vanity and habit! "Say whether you love me," she cried. "Say it once and for all! Yes or no?" Still she obtained no answer. The silence was trying. Once more she believed there was another love, a woman who had come to occupy her place. But who was it? Where could he have found her? Her woman's instinct made her turn her head and glance into the next studio and beyond into the last, the real workshop of the master. Warned by a mysterious intuition, she started to run toward it. There! Perhaps there! The painter's steps sounded behind her. He had started from his dejection when he saw her fleeing; he followed her in a frenzy of fear. Concha foresaw that she was going to know the truth; a cruel truth with all the crudeness of a discovery in broad daylight. She stopped, scowling with a mental effort before that portrait which seemed to dominate the studio, occupying the best easel, in the most advantageous position, in spite of the solitary gray of its canvas. The master saw in Concha's face the same expression of doubt and surprise which he had seen in Cotoner's. Who was that? But the hesitation was shorter; her woman's pride sharpened her senses. She saw beyond that unrecognizable head the circle of older portraits which seemed to guard it. Ah! The immense surprise in her eyes; the cold astonishment in the glance she fixed on the painter as she surveyed him from head to foot! "Is it Josephina?" He bowed his head in mute assent. But his silence seemed to him cowardly; he felt that he must cry out in the presence of those canvases, what he had not dared to say outside. It was a longing to flatter the dead woman, to implore her forgiveness, by confessing his hopeless love. "Yes, it is Josephina." And he said it with spirit, going forward a step, looking at Concha as if she were an enemy, with a sort of hostility in his eyes which did not escape her notice. They did not say anything more. The countess could not speak. Her surprise passed the limits of the probable, the known. In love with his wife,--and after she was dead! Shut up like a hermit in order to paint her with a beauty which she had never had. Life brings surprises, but this surely had never been seen before. She felt as if she were falling, falling, driven by astonishment and, at the end of the fall, she found that she was changed, without a complaint or pang of grief. Everything about her seemed strange--the room, the man, the pictures. This whole affair went beyond her power of conception. Had she found a woman there, it would have made her weep and shriek with grief, roll on the floor, love the master still more with the stimulus of jealousy. But to find that her rival was a dead woman! And more than that--his wife! It seemed supremely ridiculous, she felt a mad desire to laugh. But she did not laugh. She recalled the unusual expression she had noticed on the master's face, when she entered the studio; she thought that now she saw in his eyes a spark of that same gleam. Suddenly she felt afraid; afraid of the man who looked at her in silence as if he did not know her and toward whom she felt the same strangeness. Still she had for him a glance of sympathy, of that tenderness which every woman feels in the presence of unhappiness, even if it afflicts a stranger. Poor Mariano! All was over between them; she took care not to speak intimately to him; she held out her gloved hand with the gesture of an unapproachable lady. For a long time they stood in this position, speaking only with their eyes. "Good-by, master; take care of yourself! Don't bother to come with me. I know the way. Go on with your work. Paint----" Her heels clicked nervously on the waxed floor as she left the room, which she was never to enter again. The swish of her skirts scattered their wake of perfumes in the studio for the last time. Renovales breathed more freely when he was left alone. He had ended forever the error of his life. The only thing in this visit that left a sting was the countess's hesitation before the portrait. She had recognized it sooner than Cotoner, but she too had hesitated. No one remembered Josephina; he alone kept her image. That same afternoon, before his old friend came, the master received another call. His daughter appeared in the studio. Renovates had divined that it was she before she entered, by the whirl of joy and overflowing life which seemed to precede her. She had come to see him; she had promised him a visit months ago. And her father smiled indulgently, recalling some of her complaints when he last visited her. Just to see him? Milita pretended to be absorbed in examining the studio which she had not entered for a long time. "Look!" she exclaimed. "Why, it's mamma!" She looked at the picture with astonishment, but the master seemed pleased at the readiness with which she had recognized her. At last, his daughter! The instinct of blood! The poor master did not see the hasty glance at the other portraits which had guided the girl in her induction. "Do you like it? Is it she?" he asked as anxiously as a novice. Milita answered rather vaguely. Yes, it was good; perhaps a little more beautiful than she was. She never knew her like that. "That is true," said the master, "You never saw her in her good days. But she was like that before you were born. Your poor mother was very beautiful." But his daughter did not manifest any great enthusiasm over the picture. It seemed strange to her. Why was the head at one end of the canvas? What was he going to add? What did those lines mean? The master tried to explain, almost blushing, afraid to tell his intention to his daughter, suddenly overcome by paternal modesty. He was not sure as yet what he would do; he had to decide on a dress to suit her. And in a sudden access of tenderness, his eyes grew moist and he kissed his daughter. "Do you remember her well, Milita? She was very good, wasn't she?" His daughter felt infected by her father's sadness, but only for a moment. Her strength, health and joy of life soon threw off these sad impressions. Yes, very good. She often thought about her. Perhaps she spoke the truth; but these memories were not deep nor painful. Death seemed to her a thing without meaning, a remote incident without much terror which did not disturb the serene calm of her physical perfection. "Poor mamma," she added in a forced tone. "It was a relief for her to go. Always sick, always sad! With such a life it is better to die!" In her words there was a trace of bitterness, the memory of her youth, spent with that touchy invalid, in an atmosphere made the more unpleasant by the hostile chill with which her parents treated each other. Besides, her expression was icy. We all must die. The weak must go first and leave their place to the strong. It was the unconscious, cruel selfishness of health. Renovales suddenly saw his daughter's soul through this rent of frankness. The dead woman had known them both. The daughter was his, wholly his. He, too, possessed that selfishness in his strength which had made him crush weakness and delicacy placed under his protection. Poor Josephina had only him left, repentant and adoring. For the other people, she had not passed through the world; not even his daughter felt any lasting sorrow at her death. Milita turned her back to the portrait. She forgot her mother and her father's work. An artist's hobby! She had come for something else. She sat down beside him, almost in the same way that another woman had sat down, a few hours before. She coaxed him with her rich voice, which took on a sort of cat-like purring. Papa,--papa, dear,--she was very unhappy. She came to see him, to tell him her troubles. "Yes, money," said the master, somewhat annoyed at the indifference with which she had spoken of her mother. "Money, papa, you've said it; I told you the other day. But that isn't all. Rafael--my husband--I can't stand this sort of life." And she related all the petty trials of her existence. In order not to feel that she was prematurely a widow, she had to go with her husband in his automobile and show an interest in his trips which once had amused her but now were growing unbearable. "It's the life of a section-hand, papa, always swallowing dust and counting kilometers. When I love Madrid so much! When I can't live out of it!" She had sat down on her father's knees, she talked to him, looking into his eyes, smoothing his hair, pulling his mustache, like a mischievous child,--almost as the other had. "Besides, he's stingy; if he had his way, I'd look like a frump. He thinks everything is too much. Papa, help me out of this difficulty, it's only two thousand pesetas. With that I can get on my feet and then I won't bother you with any more loans. Come, that's a dear papa. I need them right away, because I waited till the last minute, so as not to inconvenience you." Renovales moved about uneasily under the weight of his daughter, a strapping girl who fell on him like a child. Her filial confidences annoyed him. Her perfume made him think of that other perfume, which disturbed his nights, spreading through the solitude of the rooms. She seemed to have inherited her mother's flesh. He pushed her away roughly, and she took this movement for a refusal. Her face grew sad, tears came to her eyes, and her father repented his brusqueness. He was surprised at her constant requests for money. What did she want it for? He recalled the wedding-presents, that princely abundance of clothes and jewels which had been on exhibition in this very room. What did she need? But Milita looked at her father in astonishment. More than a year had gone by since then. It was clear enough that her father was ignorant in such matters. Was she going to wear the same gowns, the same hats, the same ornaments for an endless length of time, more than twelve months? Horrible! That was too commonplace. And overcome at the thought of such a monstrosity, she began to shed her tender tears to the great disturbance of the master. "There, there, Milita, there's no use in crying. What do you want? Money? I'll send you all you need to-morrow. I haven't much at the house. I shall have to get it at the bank--operations you don't understand." But Milita, encouraged by her victory, insisted on her request with desperate obstinacy. He was deceiving her; he would not remember it the next day; she knew her father. Besides, she needed the money at once,--her honor was at stake (she declared it seriously) if her friends discovered that she was in debt. "This very minute, papa. Don't be horrid. Don't amuse yourself by making me worry. You must have money, lots of it, perhaps you have it on you. Let's see, you naughty papa, let me search your pockets, let me look at your wallet. Don't say no; you have it with you. You have it with you!" She plunged her hands in her father's breast, unbuttoning his working jacket, tickling him to get at the inside pocket. Renovales resisted feebly. "You foolish girl. You're wasting your time. Where do you think the wallet is? I never carry it in this suit." "It's here, you fibber," his daughter cried merrily, persisting in her search. "I feel it! I have it! Look at it!" She was right. The painter had forgotten that he had picked it up that morning to pay a bill and then had put it absent-mindedly in the pocket of his serge coat. Milita opened it with a greediness that hurt her father. Oh, those woman's hands, trembling in the search for money! He grew calmer when he thought of the fortune he had amassed, of the different colored papers which he kept in his desk. All would be his daughter's and perhaps this would save her from the danger toward which her longing to live amid the vanities and tinsel of feminine slavery was leading her. In an instant she had her hands on a number of bills of different denominations, forming a roll which she squeezed tight between her fingers. Renovales protested. "Let me have it, Milita, don't be childish. You're leaving me without a cent. I'll send it to you to-morrow; give it up now. It's robbery." She avoided him; she had stood up; she kept at a distance, raising her hand above her hat to save her booty. She laughed boisterously at her trick. She did not mean to give him back a single one! She did not know how many there were, she would count them at home, she would be out of difficulty for the nonce, and the next day she would ask him for what was lacking. The master finally began to laugh, finding her merriment contagious. He chased Milita without trying to catch her; he threatened her with mock severity, called her a robber, shouting "help," and so they ran from one studio to another. Before she disappeared, Milita stopped on the last doorsill, raising her gloved finger authoritatively: "To-morrow, the rest. You mustn't forget. Really, papa, this is very important. Good-by; I shall expect you to-morrow." And she disappeared, leaving in her father some of the merriment with which they had chased each other. The twilight was gloomy. Renovales sat in front of his wife's portrait, gazing at that extravagantly beautiful head which seemed to him the most faithful of his portraits. His thoughts were lost in the shadow which rose from the corners and enveloped the canvases. Only on the windows trembled a pale, hazy light, cut across by the black lines of the branches outside. Alone--alone forever. He had the affection of that big girl who had just gone away, merry, indifferent to everything which did not flatter her youthful vanity, her healthy beauty. He had the devotion of his friend Cotoner, who, like an old dog, could not live without seeing him, but was incapable of wholly devoting his life to him, and shared it between him and other friends, jealous of his Bohemian freedom. And that was all. Very little. On the verge of old age, he gazed at a cruel, reddish light which seemed to irritate his eyes; the solitary, monotonous road which awaited him--and at the end, death! No one was ignorant of that; it was the only certainty, and still he had spent the greater part of his life without thinking of it, without seeing it. It was like one of those epidemics in distant lands which destroy millions of lives. People talk of it as of a definite fact, but without a start of horror, or a tremble of fear. "It is too far away; it will take it a long time to reach us." He had often named Death, but with his lips; his thoughts had not grasped the meaning of the word, feeling that he was alive, bound to life by his dreams and desires. Death stood at the end of the road; no one could avoid meeting it, but all are long in seeing it. Ambition, desire, love, the cruel animal needs distracted man in his course toward it; they were like the woods, valleys, blue sky and winding crystal streams which diverted the traveler, hiding the boundary of the landscape, the fatal goal, the black bottomless gorge to which all roads lead. He was on the last days' march. The path of his life was growing desolate and gloomy; the vegetation was dwindling; the great groves diminished into sparse, miserable lichens. From the murky abyss came an icy breath; he saw it in the distance, he walked without escape toward its gorge. The fields of dreams with their sunlit heights which once bounded the horizon, were left behind and it was impossible to return. In this path no one retraced his steps. He had wasted half his life, struggling for wealth and fame, hoping sometimes to receive their revenues in the pleasures of love. Die! Who thought of that? Then it was a remote, unmeaning threat. He believed that he was provided with a mission by Providence. Death would take no liberties with him, would not come till his work was finished. He still had many things to do. Well, all was done now; human desires did not exist for him. He had everything. No longer did fanciful towers rise before his steps, for him to assault. On the horizon, free from obstacles, appeared the great forgotten,--Death. He did not want to see it. There was still a long journey on that road which might grow longer and longer, according to the strength of the traveler, and his legs were still strong. But, ah, to walk, walk, year after year, with his gaze fixed on that murky abyss, contemplating it always at the edge of the horizon, unable to escape for an instant the certainty that it was there, was a superhuman torture which would force him to hurry his steps, to run in order to reach the end as soon as possible. Oh, for deceitful clouds which might veil the horizon, concealing the reality which embitters our bread, which casts its shadows over our souls and makes us curse the futility of our birth! Oh, for lying, pleasant illusions to make a paradise rise from the desert shadows of the last journey! Oh, for dreams! And in his mind the poor master enlarged the last fancy of his desire; he connected with the beloved likeness of his dead wife all the flights of his imagination, longing to infuse into it new life with a part of his own. He piled up by handfuls the clay of the past, the mass of memory, to make it greater that it might occupy the whole way, shut off the horizon like a huge hill, hide till the last moment the murky abyss which ended the journey. V Renovales' behavior was a source of surprise and even scandal for all his friends. The Countess of Alberca took especial care to let every one know that her only relation with the painter was a friendship which grew constantly colder and more formal. "He's crazy," she said. "He's finished. There's nothing left of him but a memory of what he once was." Cotoner in his unswerving friendship was indignant at hearing such comment on the famous master. "He isn't drinking. All that people say about him is a lie; the usual legend about a celebrated man." He had his own ideas about Mariano; he knew his longing for a stirring life, his desire to imitate the habits of youth in the prime of life, with a thirst for all the mysteries which he fancied were hidden in this evil life, of which he had heard without ever daring till then to join in them. Cotoner accepted the master's new habits indulgently. Poor fellow! "You are putting into action the pictures of 'The Rake's Progress,'" he said to his friend. "You're going the way of all virtuous men when they cease to be so, on the verge of old age. You are making a fool of yourself, Mariano." But his loyalty led him to acquiesce in the new life of the master. At last he had given in to his requests and had come to live with him. With his few pieces of luggage he occupied a room in the house and cared for Renovales with almost paternal solicitude. The Bohemian showed great sympathy for him. It was the same old story: "He who does not do it at the beginning does it at the end," and Renovales, after a life of hard work, was rushing into a life of dissipation with the blindness of a youth, admiring vulgar pleasures, clothing them with the most fanciful seductions. Cotoner frequently harassed him with complaints. What had he brought him to live at his house for? He deserted him for days at a time; he wanted to go out alone; he left him at home like a trusty steward. The old Bohemian posted himself minutely on his life. Often the students in the Art School, gathered at nightfall beside the entrance to the Academy, saw him going down the Calle de Alcalá, muffled in his cloak with an affected air of mystery that attracted attention. "There goes Renovales. That one, the one in the cloak." And they followed him out of curiosity--in his comings and goings through the broad street where he circled about like a silent dove as if he were waiting for something. Sometimes, no doubt tired of these evolutions, he went into a café and the curious admirers followed him, pressing their faces against the window-panes. They saw him drop into a chair, looking vaguely at the glass before him; always the same thing: brandy. Suddenly he would drink it at one gulp, pay the waiter and go out, with the haste of one who has swallowed a drug. And once more he would begin his explorations, peering with greedy eyes at all the women who passed alone, turning around to follow the course of run-down heels, the flutter of dark and mud-splashed skirts. At last he would start with sudden determination, he would disappear almost on the heel of some woman always of the same appearance. The boys knew the great artist's preference: little, weak, sickly women, graceful as faded flowers, with large eyes, dull and sorrowful. A story of strange mental aberration was forming about him. His enemies repeated it in the studios; the throng which cannot imagine that celebrated men lead the same life as other people, and like to think that they are capricious, tormented by extraordinary habits, began to talk with delight about the hobby of the painter Renovales. In all the houses of prostitution, from the middle class apartments, scattered in the most respectable streets, to the damp, ill-smelling dens which cast out their wares at night on the Calle de Peligros, circulated the story of a certain gentleman, provoking shouts of laughter. He always came muffled up mysteriously, following hastily the rustle of some poor starched skirts which preceded him. He entered the dark doorway with a sort of terror, climbed the winding staircase which seemed to smell of the residues of life, hastened the disrobing with eager hands, as if he had no time to waste, as if he was afraid of dying before he realized his desire, and all at once the poor women who looked askance at his feverish silence and the savage hunger which shone in his eyes, were tempted to laugh, seeing him drop dejectedly into a chair in silence, unmindful of the brutal words which they in their astonishment hurled at him; without paying any attention to their gestures and invitations, not coming out of his stupor till the woman, cold and somewhat offended, started to put on her clothes. "One moment more." This scene almost always ended with an expression of disgust, of bitter disappointment. Sometimes the poor puppets of flesh thought they saw in his eyes a sorrowful expression, as if he were going to weep. Then he fled precipitously, hidden under his cloak in sudden shame, with the firm determination not to return, to resist that demon of hungry curiosity which dwelt within him and could not see a woman's form in the street, without feeling a violent desire to disrobe it. These stories came to Cotoner's ears. Mariano! Mariano! He did not dare to rebuke him openly for these shameful nocturnal adventures; he was afraid of a violent explosion of anger on the part of the master. He must direct him prudently. But what most aroused his old friend's censure was the people with whom the artist associated. This false rejuvenation made him seek the company of the younger men and Cotoner cursed roundly when at the close of the theater he found him in a café, surrounded by his new comrades, all of whom might be his sons. Most of them were painters, novices, some with considerable talent, others whose only merit was their evil tongue, all of them proud of their friendship with the famous man, delighting like pigmies in treating him as an equal, jesting over his weaknesses. Great Heavens! Some of the bolder even went so far as to call him by his first name, treating him like a glorious failure, presuming to make comparisons between his paintings and what they would do when they could. "Mariano, art moves in different paths, now." "Aren't you ashamed of yourself!" Cotoner would exclaim. "You look like a schoolmaster surrounded by children. You ought to be spanked. A man like you tolerating the insolence of those shabby fellows!" Renovales' good nature was unshaken. They were very interesting; they amused him; he found in them the joy of youth. They went together to the theaters and music halls, they knew women; they knew where the good models were; with them he could enter many places where he would not venture to go alone. His years and ugliness passed unnoticed amid that youthful merry crowd. "They are of service to me," the poor man said with a sly wink. "I am amused and they tell me lots of things. Besides, this isn't Rome; there are hardly any models; it is very difficult to find them and these boys are my guides." And he went on to speak of his great artistic plans, of that picture of Phryne, with her divine nakedness, which had once more risen in his mind, of the beloved portrait which was still in the same condition as his brush had left it when he finished the head. He was not working. His old energy, which had made painting a necessary element in his life, now found vent in words, in the desire to see everything, to know "new phases of life." Soldevilla, his favorite pupil, found himself a target for the master's questions when he appeared at rare intervals in the studio. "You must know good women, Soldevilla: You have been around a great deal in spite of that angel face of yours. You must take me with you. You must introduce me." "Master!" the youth would exclaim in surprise, "it isn't yet six months since I was married! I never go out at night! How you joke!" Renovates answered with a scornful glance. A fine life! No youth, no joy! He spent all his money on variegated waistcoats and high collars. What a perfect ant! He had married a rich woman, since he couldn't catch the master's daughter. Besides, he was an ungrateful scamp. Now he was joining the master's enemies, convinced that he could get nothing more out of him. He scorned him. It was too bad that his protection had caused him so much inconvenience! He was no artist. And the master went back with new affection to his companions, those merry youths, slandering and disrespectful as they were. He recognized talent in them all. The gossip about his extraordinary life reached even his daughter, with the rapid spread which anything prejudicial to a famous man acquires. Milita scowled, trying to restrain the laughter which the strangeness of this change aroused. Her father becoming a rake! "Papa! Papa!" she exclaimed in a comic tone of reproach. And papa made excuses like a naughty, hypocritical little boy, increasing by his perturbation his daughter's desire to laugh. López de Sosa seemed inclined to be indulgent toward his father-in-law. Poor old gentleman! All his life working, with a sick wife, who was very good and kind, to be sure, but who had embittered his life! She did well to die, and the artist did quite as well in making up for the time he had lost. With the instinctive freemasonry of all those who lead an easy, merry life, the sport defended his father-in-law, supported him, found him more attractive, more congenial, as a result of his new habits. A man must not always stay shut up in his studio with the irritated air of a prophet, talking about things which nobody would understand. They met each other in the evening during the last acts at the theaters and music halls, when the songs and dances were accompanied by the audience with a storm of cries and stamping. They greeted each other, the father inquired for Milita, they smiled with the sympathy of two good fellows and each went back to his group; the son-in-law to his club-mates in a box, still wearing the dress suits of the respectable gatherings from which they came--the painter to the orchestra seats with the long-haired young fellows who were his escort. Renovales was gratified to see López de Sosa greeting the most fashionable, highest-priced _cocottes_ and smiling to comic-opera stars with the familiarity of an old friend. That boy had excellent connections, and he regarded this as an indirect honor to his position as a father. Cotoner frequently found himself dragged out of his orbit of serious, substantial dinners and evening-parties, which he continued to frequent in order not to lose his friendships which were his only source of income. "You are coming with me to-night," the master would say mysteriously. "We will dine wherever you like, and afterwards I will show you something." And he took him to the theater where he sat restless and impatient until the chorus came on the stage. Then he would nudge Cotoner, who was sunk in his seat, with his eyes wide open, but asleep inside, in the sweet pleasure of good digestion. "Listen, look! the third from the right, the little girl--the one in the yellow shawl!" "I see her. What about her?" said his friend in a sour voice. "Look at her closely. Who does she look like? Who does she remind you of?" Cotoner answered with a grunt of indifference. She probably looked like her mother. What did he care about such resemblances. But his astonishment aroused him from his quiet when he heard Renovales say he thought her a rare likeness of his wife, and was indignant at him because he did not recognize it. "Why, Mariano, where are your eyes?" he exclaimed with no less sourness. "What resemblance is there between that scraggly girl with her starved face and your poor, dead wife. If you see a sorry-looking bean pole you will give it a name, Josephina,--and there's nothing more to say." Although Renovales was at first irritated at his friend's blindness, he was finally convinced. He had probably deceived himself, as long as Cotoner did not find the likeness. He must remember the dead woman better than he himself; love did not disturb _his_ memory. But a few days later he would once more besiege Cotoner with a mysterious air. "I have something to show you." And leaving the company of the merry lads who annoyed his old friend, he would take him to a music hall and point out another scandalous woman who was kicking a fling or doing a _danse du ventre_, and revealed her anemic emaciation under a mask of rouge. "How about this one?" the master would implore, almost in terror as if he doubted his own eyes. "Don't you think she looks something like her? Doesn't she remind you of her?" His friend broke out angrily: "You're crazy. What likeness is there between that poor little woman, so good, so sweet and so refined, and this low creature?" Renovales, after several failures which made him doubt the accuracy of his memory, did not dare to consult his friend. As soon as he tried to take him to a new show, Cotoner would draw back. "Another discovery? Come, Mariano, get these ideas out of your head. If people found out about it, they would think that you were crazy." But defying his wrath, the master insisted one evening with great obstinacy that he must go with him to see the "Bella Fregolina," a Spanish girl, who was singing at a little theater in the low quarter, and whose name was displayed in letters a meter high in the shop windows of Madrid. He had spent more than two weeks watching her every evening. "I must have you see her, Pepe. Just for a minute. I beg you. I am sure that this time you won't say that I am mistaken." Cotoner gave in, persuaded by the imploring tone of his friend. They waited for the appearance of the "Bella Fregolina" for a long time, watching dances and listening to songs accompanied by the howls of the audience. The wonder was reserved till the last. At last, with a sort of solemnity, amid a murmur of expectation, the orchestra began to play a piece well known to all the admirers of the "star," a ray of rosy light crossed the little stage and the "Bella" entered. She was a slight little girl, so thin that she was almost emaciated. Her face, of a sweet melancholy beauty, was the most striking thing about her. Beneath her black dress, covered with silver threads, which spread out like a broad bell, you could see her slender legs, so thin that the flesh seemed hardly to cover the bones. Above the lace of her gown her skin, painted white, marked the slight curve of her breasts and the prominent collar bones. The first thing you saw about her were her eyes, large, clear, and girlish, but the eyes of a depraved girl, in which a licentious expression flickered, without, however, hurting their pure surface. She moved like an overgrown school-girl, arms akimbo, bashful and blushing and in this position she sang in a thin, high voice, obscene verses which contrasted strangely with her apparent timidity. This was her charm and the audience received her atrocious words with roars of delight, contenting themselves with this, without demanding that she dance, respecting her hieratic stiffness. When the painter saw her appear he nudged his friend. He did not dare to speak, waiting for his opinion anxiously. He followed his inspection out of the corner of his eye. His friend was merciful. "Yes, she is something like her. Her eyes,--figure,--expression; she reminds me of her. She is very much, like her. But the monkey face she is making now! The words! No, that destroys all likeness." And as if he were angry that that little girl without any voice and without any sense of shame, should be compared to the sweet Josephina, he commented with sarcastic admiration on all the cynical expressions with which she ended her couplets. "Very pretty! Very refined!" But Renovales, deaf to these ironical remarks, absorbed in the contemplation of "Fregolina," kept on poking him and whispering: "It's she, isn't it? Just exactly; the same body. And besides, the girl has some talent; she's funny." Cotoner nodded ironically: "Yes, very." And when he found that Mariano wanted to stay for the next act and did not move from his seat, he though of leaving him. Finally he stayed, stretching out in his seat with the determination to have a nap, lulled by the music and the cries of the audience. An impatient hand aroused him from his comfortable doze. "Pepe, Pepe." He shook his head and opened his eyes ill-naturedly. "What's the matter?" In Renovales' face he saw a honeyed, treacherous smile, some folly that he wanted to propose in the most pleasing manner. "I thought we might go behind the scenes for a minute: we could see her at close range." His friend answered him indignantly. Mariano thought he was a young buck; he forgot how he looked. That woman would laugh at them, she would assume the air of the Chaste Susanna, besieged by the two old men. Renovales was silent, but in a little while he once more aroused his friend from his nap. "You might go in alone, Pepe. You know more about these things than I do. You are more daring. You might tell her that I want to paint her portrait. Think, a portrait with my signature!" Cotoner started to laugh, in sheer admiration of the princely simplicity with which the master gave him the commission. "Thank you, sir; I am highly honored by such a favor, but I am not going. You confounded fool. Do you suppose that girl knows who Renovales is or has ever even heard of his name?" The master expressed his astonishment with childlike simplicity. "Man alive. I believe that the name Renovales--that what the papers have said--that my portraits---- Be frank, say that you don't want to." And he was silent, offended at his companion's refusal and his doubt that his fame had reached this corner. Friends sometimes abuse us with unexpected scorn and great injustice. At the end of the show the master felt that he must do something, not go away without sending the "Bella Fregolina" some evidence of his presence. He bought an elaborate basket of flowers from a flower vendor who was starting home, discouraged at the poor business. She should deliver it immediately to Señorita--"Fregolina." "Yes, to Pepita," said the woman with a knowing air, as if she were one of her friends. "And tell her it is from Señor Renovales--from Renovales, the painter." The woman nodded, repeating the name. "Very well, Renovales," just as she would have said any other name. And without the least emotion she took the five dollars which the painter gave her. "Five dollars! You idiot," muttered his friend, losing all respect for him. Good Cotoner refused to go with him after that. In vain Renovales talked to him enthusiastically every night about that girl, deeply impressed by her different impersonations. Now she appeared in a pale pink dress, almost like some clothes put away in the closets of his house; now she entered in a hat trimmed with flowers and cherries, much larger, but still something like a certain straw hat which he could find amid the confusion of Josephina's old finery. Oh, how it reminded him of her! Every night he was struck with some renewed memory. Lacking Cotoner's assistance, he went to see the "Bella" with some of the young fellows of his disrespectful court. These boys spoke of the "star" with respectful scorn, as the fox in the fable gazed at the distant grapes, consoling himself at the thought of their sourness. They praised her beauty, seen from a distance; according to them she was "lily-like"; she had the holy beauty of sin. She was out of their reach; she wore costly jewels and according to all reports had influential friends, all those young gentlemen in dress clothes who occupied the boxes during the last act, and waited for her at the stage door to take her to dinner. Renovales was gnawed with impatience, unable to find a way to meet her. Every night he sent his little baskets of flowers, or huge bouquets. The "star" must be informed whence these gifts came, for she looked around the audience for the ugly elderly gentleman, deigning to grant him a smile. One night the master saw López de Sosa speak to the singer. Perhaps his son-in-law was acquainted with her. And boldly as a lover, he waited for him when he came out to implore his help. He wanted to paint her; she was a magnificent model for a certain work he had in mind. He said it blushingly, stammering, but López laughed at his timidity and seemed disposed to protect him. "Oh, Pepita? A wonderful woman, in spite of the fact that she is on the decline. With all her school-girl face, if you could only see her at a party! She drinks like a fish. She's a terror!" But afterwards, with a serious expression, he explained the difficulties. She "belonged" to one of his friends, a lad from the provinces who, eager to win notoriety, was losing one-half his fortune gambling at the Casino and was calmly letting that girl devour the other half,--she gave him some reputation. He would speak to her; they were old friends; nothing wrong--eh, father? It would not be hard to persuade her. This Pepita had a predilection for anything that was unusual; she was rather--romantic. He would explain to her who the great artist was, enhancing the honor of acting as his model. "Don't stint on the money," said the master anxiously. "All that she wants. Don't be afraid to be generous." One morning Renovales called Cotoner to talk to him with wild expressions of joy. "She's going to come! She's going to come this very afternoon!" The old painter looked surprised. "Who?" "The 'Bella Fregolina.' Pepita. My son-in-law tells me he has persuaded her. She will come this afternoon at three. He is coming with her himself." Then he cast a worried glance at his workshop. For some time it had been deserted; it must be set in order. And the servant on one side and the two artists on the other, began to tidy up the room hastily. The portraits of Josephina and the canvas with nothing but her head were piled up in a corner by the master's feverish hands. What was the use of those phantoms when the real thing was going to appear. In their place he put a large white canvas, gazing at its untouched surface with hopeful eyes. What things he was going to do that afternoon! What a power for work he felt! When the two artists were left alone, Renovales seemed restless, dissatisfied, constantly suspecting that something had been overlooked for this visit, toward which he looked with chills of anxiety. Flowers; they must get some flowers, fill all the old vases in the studio, create an atmosphere of delicate perfume. And Cotoner ran through the garden with the servant, plundered the greenhouse and came in with an armful of flowers, obedient and submissive as a faithful friend, but with a sarcastic reproach in his eyes. All that for the "Bella Fregolina"! The master was cracked; he was in his second childhood! If only this visit would cure him of his mania, which was almost madness! Afterwards the master had further orders. He must provide on one of the tables in the studio sweets, champagne, anything good he could find. Cotoner spoke of sending for the valet, complaining of the tasks which were imposed on him as a result of the visit of this girl of the guileless smile and the vile songs, who stood with arms akimbo. "No, Pepe," the master implored. "Listen--I don't want the valet to know. He talks afterward; my daughter probes him with questions." Cotoner went away with a resigned expression and when he returned an hour later, he found Renovales in the model's room arranging some clothes. The old painter lined up his packages on the table. He put the confectionery in antique plates and took the bottles out of their wrappers. "You are served, sir," he said with ironical respect. "Do you wish anything else, sir? The whole family is in a state of revolution over this noble lady; your son-in-law is bringing her; I am acting as your valet; all you need now is to send for your daughter to help her undress." "Thanks, Pepe, thanks ever so much," said the master with naive gratitude, apparently undisturbed by his jests. At luncheon time Cotoner saw him come into the dining-room with his hair carefully combed, his mustache curled, wearing his best suit with a rose in the buttonhole. The Bohemian laughed boisterously. The last straw! He was crazy; they would make sport of him! The master scarcely touched the meal. Afterwards he walked up and down alone in the studio. How slowly the time went! At each turn through the three studios he looked at the hands of an old clock of Saxon china, which stood on a table of colored marble, with its back reflected in a tall, Venetian mirror. It was already three. The master wondered if she was not going to come. Quarter past three,--half-past three. No, she was not coming; it was past the time. Those women who live amid obligations and demands, without a minute to themselves! Suddenly he heard steps and Cotoner entered. "She is here; here she comes. Good luck, master. Have a good time! I guess you have imposed on me long enough and will not expect me to stay." He went out waving him an ironical farewell and a little later Renovales heard López de Sosa's voice, approaching slowly, explaining to his companion the pictures and furniture which attracted her attention. They entered. The "Bella Fregolina" looked astonished; she seemed intimidated by the majestic silence of the studio. What a big, princely house, so different from all those she had seen! That ancient, solid, historic luxury with its rare furniture filled her with fear! She looked at Renovales with great respect. He seemed to her more distinguished than that other man whom she had seen indistinctly in the orchestra of her little theater. He was awe-inspiring, as if he were a great personage, different from all the men with whom she had had to do. To her fear was added a sort of admiration. How much money that old boy must have, living in such style! Renovales, too, was deeply moved when he saw her so close at hand. At first he hesitated. Was she really like the other? The paint on her face disconcerted him--the layer of rouge with black lines about the eyes--visible through the veil. The _other_ did not paint. But when he looked at her eyes, the striking resemblance rose again, and starting from them he gradually restored the beloved face under the layers of pomade. The "star" examined the canvases which covered the walls. How pretty! And did this gentleman do all that? She wanted to see herself like that, proud and beautiful in a canvas. Did he truly want to paint her? And she drew herself up vainly, delighted that people thought she was beautiful, that she would enjoy the emotion until then unknown of seeing her image reproduced by a great artist. López de Sosa excused himself to his father-in-law. She was to blame for their being late. You could never get a woman like that to hurry. She went to bed at daybreak; he had found her in bed. Then he said good-by, understanding the embarrassment his presence might cause. Pepita was a good girl, she was dazzled by his works and the appearance of the house. The master could do what he wanted with her. "Well, little girl, you stay here. The gentleman is my father; I told you already. Be sure and be a good girl." And he went out, followed by the forced laugh of them both, who greeted this recommendation with uneasy merriment. A long and painful silence followed. The master did not know what to say. Timidity and emotion weighed on his will. She seemed no less disturbed. That great room, so silent and imposing with its massive, superb decorations, different from anything she had seen, frightened her. She felt the vague terror which precedes an unknown operation. Besides, she was disturbed by the man's glowing eyes fixed on her, with a quiver on his cheeks and a twitching of his lips, as if they were tormented by thirst. She soon recovered from her timidity. She was used to these moments of shamefaced silence which came with the lone meeting of two strangers. She knew these interviews which begin hesitatingly and end in rough familiarity. She looked around with a professional smile, eager to end the unpleasant situation as soon as possible. "When you will. Where shall I undress?" Renovales started at the sound of her voice, as if he had forgotten that that image could speak. The simplicity with which she dispensed with explanations surprised him likewise. His son-in-law did things well; he had brought her well coached, callous to all surprises. The master showed her the way to the model's room and remained outside, prudently, turning his head without knowing why, so as not to see through the half-opened door. There was a long silence, broken by the rustle of falling clothes, the metallic click of buttons and hooks. Suddenly her voice came to the master, smothered, distant with a sort of timidity. "My stockings too? Must I take them off?" Renovales knew this objection of all models when they undressed for the first time. López de Sosa, carrying his desire of pleasing his father to the extreme, had spoken to her of giving her body wholly and she undressed without asking any further explanations, with the calm of accepted duty, thinking that her presence there was absurd for any other purpose. The painter came out of his silence; he called to her uneasily. She must not stay undressed. In the room there were clothes for her to put on. And without turning his head, reaching his arm through the half open door he pointed out blindly what he had left. There was a pink dress, a hat, shoes, stockings, a shirt. Pepita protested when she saw these cast-off garments, showing an aversion to putting on those underclothes which seemed worn and old. "The shirt, too? The stockings? No, the dress is enough." But the master begged her impatiently. She must put them all on; his painting demanded it. The long silence of the girl proved that she was complying, putting on these old garments, overcoming her repugnance. When she came out of the room she smiled with a sort of pity, as if she were laughing at herself. Renovales drew back, stirred by his own work, bewildered, feeling his temples throbbing, fancying that the pictures and furniture were whirling about him. Poor "Fregolina"! What a delightful clown! She felt like laughing at the thought of the storm of cries which would burst out in her theater if she should appear on the stage dressed in this fashion, of the jests of her friends if she should come into one of their dinners in these clothes of twenty years ago. She did not know these styles, and to her they seemed to belong to a remote antiquity. The master leaned over the back of a chair. "Josephina! Josephina!" It was she, such as he kept her in his memory--as she was that happy summer in the Roman mountains, in her pink dress and that rustic hat which gave her the dainty air of a village girl in the opera. Those fashions at which the younger generation laughed were for him the most beautiful, the most artistic that feminine taste had ever produced; they recalled the spring of his life. "Josephina! Josephina!" He remained silent, for these exclamations were born and died in his thoughts. He did not dare to move or speak, for fear this apparition of his dreams would vanish. She, smiling, was delighted at the effect her appearance had on the painter and seeing her reflection in a distant mirror, recognized that in this strange costume she did not look at all badly. "Where shall I go? Sitting or standing?" The master could hardly speak; his voice was hoarse, labored. She could pose as she wished. And she sat down in a chair adopting a posture which she considered very graceful--her cheek on one hand, her legs crossed, just as she was wont to sit in the green room of the theater, showing a bit of open-work pink silk stocking under her skirt. That too reminded the painter of the other. It was she! She sat before his eyes in bodily form, with the perfume of the form he loved. From instinct, from habit, he took up his palette and a brush stained with black, trying to trace the outlines of that figure. Ah, his hand was old, heavy, trembling! Where had his old time skill fled, his drawing, his striking qualities? Had he really ever painted? Was he truly the painter Renovales? He had suddenly forgotten everything. His head seemed empty, his hand paralyzed, the white canvas filled him with a terror of the unknown. He did not know how to paint; he could not paint. His efforts were useless; his mind was deadened. Perhaps,--some other day. Now his ears hummed, his face was pale, his ears were red, purple, as if they were on the point of dripping blood. In his mouth he felt the torment of a deathly thirst. The "Bella Fregolina" saw him throw down his palette and come toward her with a wild expression. But she felt no fear; she knew those distorted faces. This sudden rush was no doubt part of the program; she was warned when she went there after her friendly conversation with the son-in-law. That gentleman, so serious and so imposing, was like all the men she knew, as brutal as the rest. She saw him come to her with open arms, take her in a close embrace, fall at her feet with a hoarse cry, as if he were stifling; and she, gently and sympathetically encouraged him, bending her head, offering her lips with an automatic loving expression which was the implement of her profession. The kiss was enough to overcome the master completely. "Josephina! Josephina!" The perfume of the happy days rose from her clothes, surrounding her adorable person. It was her form, her flesh! He was going to die at her feet, suffocated by the immense desire that swelled within him. It was she; her very eyes--her eyes! And as he raised his glance to lose himself in their soft pupils, to gaze at himself in their trembling mirror, he saw two cold eyes, which examined him, half closed with professional curiosity, taking a scornful delight from their calm height in this intoxication of the flesh, this madness which groveled, moaning with desire. Renovales was thunderstruck with surprise; he felt something icy run down his back, paralyzing him; his eyes were veiled with a cloud of disappointment and sorrow. Was it really Josephina whom he had in his arms? It was her body, her perfume, her clothes, her beauty, pale as a dying flower. But no, it was not she! Those eyes! In vain did they look at him differently, alarmed at this sudden reaction; in vain they softened with a tender light, trained by habit. The deceit was useless; he saw beyond, he penetrated through those bright windows into the depths; he found only emptiness. The other's soul was not there. That maddening perfume no longer moved him; it was a false essence. He had before him merely a reproduction of the beloved vase, but the incense, the soul, lost forever. Renovales, standing up, drew away from her, looking at that woman with terror in his eyes, and finally threw himself on a couch, with his face in his hands. The girl, hearing him sob, was afraid and ran toward the models' room to take off those clothes, to flee. The man must be mad. The master was weeping. Farewell, youth! Farewell desire! Farewell dreams; enchanting sirens of life, that have fled forever. Useless the search, useless the struggle in the solitude of life. Death had him in his grasp, he was his and only through him could he renew his youth. These images were useless. He could not find another to call up the memory of the dead like this hired woman whom he had held in his arms--and still, it was not she! At the supreme moment, on the verge of reality, that indefinable something had vanished, that something which had been enclosed in the body of his Josephina, of his _maja_, whom he had worshiped in the nights of his youth. Immense, irreparable disappointment flooded his body with the icy calm of old age. Fall, ye towers of illusion! Sink, ye castles of fancy, built with the longing to make the way fair, to hide the horizon! The path still remained unbroken, barren and deserted. In vain would he sit by the roadside, putting off the hour of his departure, in vain would he bow his head that he might not see. The longer his rest, the longer his fearful torment. At every hour he was destined to gaze at the dreaded end of the last journey--unclouded, undisturbed--the dwelling from which there is no return--the black, greedy abyss--death! FOOTNOTE: [A] The life of this character is the theme of _La Horda_, by the same author. 
41184	----	Whither Thou Goest By William Le Queux Published by Herbert Jenkins Ltd, 3 York Street, St James's, London. This edition dated 1920. Whither Thou Goest, by William Le Queux. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ WHITHER THOU GOEST, BY WILLIAM LE QUEUX. PREFACE. WHAT THIS STORY IS ABOUT. The Earl of Saxham was vastly annoyed when his son, Guy, fell in love with a "penniless nobody," and announced that he would marry her against all opposition. He determined to separate the lovers; to which end he persuaded an influential friend in the Foreign Office to secure an appointment for Guy in the Embassy at Madrid. He little knew that he was sending his son into the centre of a hotbed of anarchism, that Guy's footsteps were to be dogged by a vindictive and revengeful woman, that his life was to hold many a thrilling moment and not a few narrow escapes. Mr Le Queux has written a thrilling story of anarchism and its deadly secret plotting, a story through which there runs, nevertheless, a rich vein of romance. PROLOGUE. A hot July evening on the calm Biscayan coast of Spain. The sun had disappeared like a globe of molten metal into the sapphire sea, and now, in the breathless blood-red afterglow which tinged the unruffled glassy waters away to the Atlantic, the whole populace of the peaceful old-world town of Fonterrabia had come forth from their houses to breathe again after the intense heat and burden of the blazing day. Dusty green sun-shutters were being opened everywhere, while upon the golden beach the clear waters hardly rippled, for the summer tide was upon the turn. Across the bay lay a cluster of gaily-painted sardine boats in reds and greens, awaiting a breeze, and along the sea-front, so fiercely swept in winter, stood the quaint mediaeval houses, crumbling and sun-blanched, with their wide overhanging roofs and many balconies, palpitating with the heat, now rapidly receding. It had been a scorching day in Spain. In the stunted tamarisks which sprang, dust-covered and twisted, from the yellow, shifting sands the grasshoppers still chirped merrily, though it was sunset, and from the sun-blanched sea-front came of a sudden the high, tuneful twanging of a mandoline, and a man's tenor voice singing that ancient love-song which one hears everywhere in the wine lands of the Guipuzcoa. _Pase cantivo amor entus prisones_. From the houses came forth the many mixed odours of the evening _cena_, the appetising smell of rich _ollas_, mostly flavoured with garlic, be it said, while from the shops which sold eatables there emanated that faint and peculiar perfume which only those who have lived in hot climates can know, and can justly appreciate. Of a sudden the ancient bells of Santa Gadea, the old incense-laden, Gothic church above the town, clanged forth again, as they had done so many times a day through centuries, summoning the good people of Fonterrabia to kneel before the high dark altar, with those long candles and the wonderful brass chandelier above. Now as the bells jangled forth an observer might, perhaps, have noticed two men meet, as though entirely by accident, close to that obscure little cafe "The Concha," which faces the sea. On the pavement before the little place sat several men in their blue _berets_, drinking wine and gossiping as all Spaniards must do. The pair who had met were of quite different stamp. One, who was about forty, of a refined but rather parvenu type, was dressed in a well-cut suit of thin, dark grey material, and wore a straw hat much ripened by the sun. He was idly smoking a long _valenciano_, and betrayed surprise, though feigned, at the meeting. The other was a typical fisherman in the blue blouse and blue _beret_, the national headdress of all the Basque people. He still wore his heavy sea-boots, in which, however, he walked jauntily, for his age was not more than thirty, and his dark, handsome countenance was bright, enthusiastic, and well bronzed. On meeting, the man in the sun-ripened straw hat, and of much superior class, turned quickly and walked beside him. As he did so a tall Jesuit priest, a man with a swarthy, sinister face and a long, rather shabby cassock--Father Gonzalo by name--chanced to pass. Carlos Somoza, the fisherman, saluted him reverently, but beneath his breath he exclaimed in Spanish: "May the Holy Madonna curse him for ever!" "Why?" inquired the man in grey, whose name was Garcia Zorrilta, a native of Toledo, who had come in secret from Madrid in order to meet his fisherman friend. "Because he may recognise you. There may be a hitch." "Bah! There will be no hitch. There cannot be. You people here in the country are so often faint-hearted. We in the capital are not. All goes well, and success must be ours. It is but a simple matter of waiting--waiting in patience." "Yes--but Father Gonzalo is a man whom I do not like." "Why? He looks really quite harmless. Who is he?" "Nobody exactly knows," was the fisherman's reply, as they turned up the narrow Calle Mayor, that old-world street of high, handsome houses, mostly adorned with the crumbling coats-of-arms of the ancient proprietors, and with balconies of wrought iron, and wide, projecting roofs across the narrow footway. "He has been here for about four months, yet he is not attached to Santa Gadea. Sometimes he visits the sick, and all speak well of him. But both Cardona and Cienfuegos agree with my suspicions that he is a Government agent, and that he is here to find out all he can." His companion grunted. "_Dios_! If that is really so, then we must discover more about him," he said. "I trust, however, you are wrong, for, as you say, he might recognise me again. And that would certainly be most awkward in my position--as Deputy-Governor of the Province of Navarre." "Yes, Excellency, that is why I cursed him," replied the intelligent fisherman, with a smile. "At our meeting last Thursday, we discussed whether Father Gonzalo should not meet with--well, meet with an accident." "No, no!" replied the other quickly, raising his voice because at the moment a heavy cart, with its great wood disc wheels, drawn by two white bulls and laden with wine barrels, rumbled past them slowly over the cobbles. "Not here--that would never do, never! It would upset all our plans! We must be cautious--_always cautious_. Watch him, and report to me in the usual way--a letter to the Poste Restante in Madrid. I will at once inquire all about this mysterious Father, and the reason he has come to Fonterrabia. He may, as you suspect, be an agent of the Ministry in disguise." "We are quite certain that he is." "If so, he must not remain here," declared the stranger decisively. "It would certainly be extremely dangerous for you, and for all your friends. The success of our _coup_ depends upon entire secrecy. Your little circle here have ever been loyal and undaunted. There must be no betrayal, as there was, you recollect, in Barcelona before the war." "Barcelona is a city, Fonterrabia is only a little town, and hence it should escape suspicion," was the educated young fisherman's remark. "Ours we know to be a just and honest cause, and we all, as sons of Spain, are each of us prepared willingly to sacrifice our lives if necessary." "Well said, Carlos! Our gallant leader, Ferdinand Contraras, who has lately sacrificed most of his great fortune to secure the salvation of Spain, is aware of your loyalty," Zorrilta assured him. "A little time ago I was with him at one of our secret sessions at Toledo, and he mentioned you, and your friends here--and praised you for your patriotism as a true son of Spain." "But the Englishman! What of him?" asked Carlos, as, strolling slowly, they were approaching the great old church. "That Englishman? Oh, yes, I know. You have serious and perhaps foolish apprehensions in that direction," was the reply of the Deputy-Governor of Navarre. "But, Carlos, you can rest assured that we shall have no real trouble from that quarter. He will die--as the others have done. And he will die very soon!" "_You are quite certain of that_?" asked the fisherman eagerly. "Quite. It is all arranged--an accident--a mystery--and nothing more," laughed the man from Madrid. "The Englishman is our most serious enemy," declared Carlos, as yet only half convinced. "One by one the enemies of our own Spanish people have been swept away. He will very soon follow them--rest assured. _De los enemigos los menes_--the fewer enemies the better." "But he may go back to England. We discussed it all here at our secret meeting last Thursday." "Well, and suppose he is in England, it does not matter. The avenging hand of our great Contraras--who may _Dios_ protect--will strike him there, never fear. Wherever he is, he cannot escape us. He will die, and his death will be a mystery to the English police--as so many deaths have been." At that moment the pair found themselves passing the great old Gothic door of Santa Gadea, which the sacristan had thrown open to the air for an hour to clear the atmosphere of incense before closing for the night. In the deep, cavernous silence the eternal red lamp showed before the figure of the Virgin crowned, while far beyond were the long candles burning before the altar, with its many steps. The sight of those candles impelled the pious and enthusiastic Carlos to suggest that they should enter the church, and there pray for the success of their plans. The Deputy-Governor of Navarre in the shabby straw hat smiled, and at once agreed. In all Latin countries the lower class have a habit of kneeling before their favourite altar and craving blessings of the most paltry character. In Italy, the _contadini_ ask that the winning numbers of the _lotto_ or Government lottery may be revealed to them, or beg that their attempt at theft may be successful. In Spain they implore divine grace for a big catch of fish, or a fat harvest, so that they may enrich themselves. Cupidity is, alas, the mainspring of most of the prayers of Southern Europe. Garcia Zorrilta, political adventurer and wire-puller, who by reason of his cunning and unscrupulousness had risen from clerk in a flour-mill in Toledo to be Deputy-Governor of the Province of Navarre, knew how pious was his friend the young fisherman, and, mock piety being part of his profession, he was compelled to enter that great dark, over-ornamented church, and there kneel with his companion before the altar. What Zorrilta, one of the lieutenants of the great Contraras, prayed for one does not know, but the prayer of Carlos the fisherman was for the speedy death of the one man he most greatly feared, the man to whom he had referred as "the Englishman." But as he rose from his knees, he whispered under his breath: "_Cuando no puede uno vestirse la piel del leon, vestase de la vulpeja_--when you cannot clothe yourself in the lion's skin, put on that of the fox." CHAPTER ONE. The evening shadows were falling softly as the Earl of Saxham stepped into one of the small drawing-rooms of that palatial residence, Ticehurst Park, in the county of Sussex. Ticehurst Park was a magnificent domain, deeply mortgaged. Out of its fair revenues, there were two or three heavily-pensioned dowagers who had to be provided for, there were a heap of relations who had to draw their small annual stipends. On paper, the Earl of Saxham was a very wealthy nobleman. When he had deducted the interest on mortgages, and the yearly stipends and marriage settlements, he was quite poor. Out of every sovereign he received, he retained about ten shillings. A less even-tempered man would have cursed his bad luck, that he should have been saddled with three dowagers, and a host of other cormorants. Archibald, tenth Earl of Saxham, was a delightful optimist. He had come into the title by a series of fortunate accidents, and he was disposed to think that, on the whole, Providence had arranged things very agreeably. Before he took up the mantle of his fathers he had been trying to make both ends meet on a small private fortune of seven hundred a year, with but indifferent success. He had now, those irksome deductions apart, several thousands a year--in fact, a still very considerable income. He fitted into the position as easily as a glove. His wife, a woman of noble birth like himself, assisted him ably. They speedily became the most popular couple in Sussex, a county which boasts of many noble families. He came into his inheritance at the age of thirty. Ten years after his beautiful and beloved wife died, leaving him with three children, Eric Viscount Ticehurst, Guy Rossett, and Mary Rossett. He was so devoted to the memory of his wife that he did not marry again. Mary Rossett, the youngest of the three, was sitting in the small drawing-room when he entered this particular evening. She was a handsome young woman of about twenty-five years, tall and slender. Her demeanour was a little staid, suggesting a woman some five years her senior. Truth to tell, Mary Rossett had experienced a bitter romance when she was at the age of twenty. Her heart was buried in the grave of a young officer of the Guards, who had died suddenly a few days before the date of their wedding. From that fatal day, she had said good-bye to love, in a measure to youth. No other man would ever charm back the lovelight into the eyes of Mary Rossett. But fate, which had stricken her so sorely, did not deprive her of her sweet and womanly qualities. She was the beloved companion of her brothers, the idol of her widowed father; and she was adored by all the villagers on the estate, to many of whom she was often a ministering angel. The Earl of Saxham, as he entered the small drawing-room, was smiling in a peculiar manner. His daughter recognised that peculiar smile. Her father was very pleased with himself over something. But she knew what that something was. "So Guy has come," he cried cheerfully. "Well, Mary, don't you give it away when he tells us the good news, or it will spoil it all." Lady Mary rose, and laid an affectionate hand on his arm. "No need to caution me, dearest. You know I never give myself away. Keep a guard on yourself. Don't smile too much, or look at me too meaningly when he is telling us, or he'll spot it. You know, you are a little indiscreet at times." The Earl smiled genially. "I know, I know, Mary. There is no fool like an old fool, they say. But this is really a great thing. I wrung it out of old Greatorex. And, once in Spain, we shall get him out of the reach of that young minx, Isobel Clandon." Mary's brows contracted into a slight frown: Love had left her stranded, but she was still very sympathetic to young lovers. "Why are you so hard on poor Isobel, father?" she asked in her clear, kind voice. "I know she is poor, but she is a lady and well-born." Her voice faltered a little, as she added, "Hugh was poor, when you gave your consent that I should marry him. Why do you make this distinction with Guy?" The Earl looked a little embarrassed. "My dear Mary, you are a sensible girl, and you must see that the circumstances are totally dissimilar. Hugh was the younger son of a house as noble as our own. True he was poor, but I could have helped you." "And if you were ready to help me, you can help Guy and Isobel," flashed Lady Mary quickly. The Earl spoke a little irritably. "It is very strange you can't see it. Isobel Clandon is, I admit, quite a lady in the technical sense of the term. But Guy must look beyond that. He must marry in his own rank. Failing that, he must marry a woman with money." Lady Mary spoke with an equal irritation. "You are unjust, father, unjust both to Guy and Isobel. You have no right to ruin these two young lives with your prejudices and your old-world notions." Her voice dropped into a half-sob as she concluded. "What is there in the world better than real love? And these two love each other devotedly." The Earl was about to reply angrily, for he was a somewhat obstinate old man, and hated being thwarted. But, before he could utter a word, the door opened to admit Guy Rossett. Guy was a very handsome young fellow, with a winning and genial expression. He advanced and shook his father's hand warmly, and kissed his sister with equal affection. The Earl beamed upon him. Guy was his favourite of the two sons. Ticehurst was a languid young man about town, who did not appeal greatly to his more robust father. "Well, Guy, my dear boy, delighted to see you. Have you brought us any news?" Mary shot a warning glance at her father. Lord Saxham was always preaching reticence to other people, but he never observed it himself. If Guy had been just a little more subtle than he was, he would have smelt a rat at once. Guy spoke in his frank, almost boyish voice. "Splendid news, sir, but so good that I want to keep it to myself for a little bit. Shall we say till after dinner, when the servants have gone, and we are quite by ourselves." "By all means." It was Mary's sweet, gentle voice that answered. "I am sure I should like to keep very good news to myself for a time; hug it as it were. After dinner, Guy!" Later on, they went into the dining-room. The meal was a somewhat tedious and long repast. Lord Saxham, who was a bit of a gourmet, liked to take a small portion of several dishes. Guy was a hearty trencherman. Poor Lady Mary, whose thoughts inclined towards a convent, would have been satisfied with a cup of tea and a slice of bread and butter, but she had to preside over these prolonged meals. When the ponderous banquet--no lesser word could describe it--had drawn to a close, the footman withdrew. It was a family party, the two men sat round the table and smoked. Lady Mary waited to hear the great news. And then Guy unburthened himself. "The biggest stroke of luck in the world, sir. After fooling about in the Foreign Office for all these years, Greatorex sent for me to go into his private room. A very short interview: Greatorex doesn't waste words. I am to go to the Embassy at Madrid." Lady Mary preserved her sweet calm. The Earl did not move an eyelid. He lifted his glass of port. "Success to you, my boy. You have got a chance now. And I am sure you will make good." The young man drained his glass also. "Yes, I think I shall make good. What I just wanted was a chance." Mary shot a warning glance at her father. It was just on the cards that he might have blurted out something that would have hurt his son's pride, led him to understand that it was his father's secret influence that had got him this post. But, fortunately, at this stage the Earl's mental faculties were not very acute. He was already beginning to nod over his port. A few moments later, Lord Saxham's somnolent faculties became more fully developed. Mary pointed to the terrace which was approached by the dining-room windows. She leaned across the table and whispered. "Shall we take a stroll? I would like to talk all this over with you." Guy nodded and rose. They went noiselessly to the terrace, and sat down on one of the numerous seats, overlooking the lovely gardens beneath. Mary opened the conversation at once. "Is this--this good news--going to make any difference to you, Guy?" There was just a note of anxiety in her voice. Guy looked at her squarely. "What do you mean, Mary? Difference in what way?" "Difference between you and Isobel?" answered Mary, in a voice that shook a little. "You love each other so dearly. I would hate to think that anything could come between you." Guy laughed his hearty, boyish laugh. "Dear old girl, you know I have always told the truth to you. I would sooner go to the devil with Isobel Clandon, than to heaven with some delightful bride that our dear old dad had chosen for me. As soon as I am on my feet, Isobel will be my wife." Mary patted his hand affectionately. "I am so delighted to hear you say that. But one never quite knows men. There is father, in a way sentimental, but on certain things he can be as hard as granite." Guy Rossett frowned. "Oh, I know. He hates the idea of my marrying Isobel. I suppose when I do he will forbid me the house, and cut me off with a shilling, eh?" Mary looked at him, with a soft gleam in her kind, beautiful eyes. "Oh, no, he will not do that. And if he wanted to, I should not let him. You know, I have more influence over him than anybody." "Except, perhaps, Ticehurst?" suggested Guy, in a tone that was not quite free from bitterness. He was not over-fond of his elder brother. Mary shook her head. She was fond of both her brothers, but she was not oblivious of Ticehurst's faults. "Don't worry about that, dear old boy. Eric has no influence over him at all. And when the dreadful deed is done, and Isobel is your wife, dear old dad will rage and fume, and all that. But he will come round in the end, and finish by loving Isobel as much as he does me. Don't worry. Go on with it." Guy kissed her. "By Jove, you are a pal, Mary. Then I can count on you to back me up." "Of course," was Mary's confident reply. There was silence between them for a little while, while Guy puffed at his cigarette, and his sister was cogitating as to her next method of attack. Brought up in a household of three men, she knew it was somewhat difficult to storm the masculine citadel. Presently she spoke. "And what about finance, Guy? Are things easy there?" The boyish look disappeared from the young man's face. Her question had seemed to disturb his equanimity. He was quite frank. "That's the devil of it, Mary. You know my old friend Jackson?" Mary gave a little sigh. Yes, she had heard of Jackson from both brothers. He was a high-class moneylender, who accommodated young men of good family. "Yes, I know all about Jackson. How much do you owe him?" Her brother reflected. "Something between five and six hundred," he said, after a pause. Mary spoke decidedly. "You must clear that off before you go to Spain--you must have a clean sheet." She reflected also, before she spoke again. "I can let you have two hundred and fifty out of what I have saved." Guy interrupted. "You sweet little soul, you never spend anything except in charities." "I know," answered his sister quietly. "Anyway, there is my two hundred and fifty, and I must coax the rest out of dad. You must go to Spain with a clean sheet. That is absolutely essential." Guy answered with his boyish laugh and with his boyish exuberance. "It is too awfully dear and kind of you, and you can guess how I appreciate it. But I am not going to let my sister waste her money on two graceless scamps like Ticehurst and myself. And I don't sponge on my father, either." Mary protested gently. "Oh, Guy, how unjust of both yourself and Eric. You know that is not my opinion of either of you." Guy took her slender hand in his own. "You dear old girl, you are only just a little bit lower than the angels; you have always had wings growing since you were a wee toddler. But I am going to see this thing through on my own. Jackson is an old scoundrel of course, but he never presses one very hard. I shall square him all right." Mary said no more on the subject. Both her brothers inherited the paternal obstinacy. When they had once made up their minds, nothing could move them. But she sighed a little. It would have been so much better if Guy could have got rid of this odious moneylender, and have landed in Spain with a clean sheet. He would have been free from any pecuniary worries, and, therefore, in a better mood to attend to his work. Jackson was done with, but there was another subject which she wanted to broach before this interview was ended. And it was a rather delicate one. It was some little time before she spoke again. "And how about that woman, Violet Hargrave? Are you quite clear of her? It is not fair to Isobel that you should keep up even a semblance of friendship with such an odious person." Guy laughed, but this time his laugh did not ring clear and boyish; it betrayed uneasiness. "Oh, come, Mary, you are a bit uncharitable, aren't you. Violet Hargrave is generally considered a charming, not an odious, person." His sister spoke a little sternly for her. "I don't pretend to have a man's knowledge of the world, but I have not been brought up in a nursery. I know her type, and it is one from which any pure woman, and any decent man, ought to shrink. Have you given her up?" Guy looked her squarely in the face. "Honestly, Mary, I have, just after I met Isobel. Of course, a man can't throw a woman over in a second, but I have cooled down gradually. At the present moment, I think the fascinating widow hates me." Mary rose and spoke decidedly. "I am glad to have your assurance of that. If it had not been so, I might have felt it my duty to warn Isobel. She is too sterling a girl to be played with." Her brother rose too, half resentful, half admiring. It was not the first time that Lady Mary had spoken salutary words of wisdom to him. "By Jove, Mary, you are uncompromising. Do you mean to say you would give me away to Isobel--me, your own brother?" "Of course," answered Mary firmly. "To Isobel, or any other woman, if I thought you were unworthy of her." Admiration conquered. He tucked her arm in his, as they returned to the house. "You dear old girl, you are one out of a million. But you know you are a little uncomfortable at times, and when you are inclined that way, you have a knack of making a fellow feel a bit of a worm." Mary laughed pleasantly. "So good for you feeling that, dear old boy, and equally good for Eric. I expect dad has woken up by now, and wondering where we have got to." They found the Earl wide-awake. The doze of a few minutes over his port had refreshed him immensely. He fell at once to discussing Spain, a country he knew well. In his youth, Lord Saxham had been an attache at the Spanish Court, and he knew the ropes. Guy listened respectfully to his father. The old man concluded his somewhat rambling remarks with a final exhortation. "And remember, my dear boy, always to keep on the right side of Greatorex. He _is_ the Foreign Office. Secretaries, mere figure-heads, come and go with different Governments. Greatorex remains there, permanent, unchangeable. Get into his good graces, and your fortune is made." Guy promised that he would do his best to propitiate the all-powerful Greatorex. Two days later he left. He undertook to pay them a farewell visit before he started for Spain. The Earl and his daughter watched the car flying down the avenue. The old man turned to his daughter with a grunt. "Might have given us another couple of days, I think. But I know what's in his mind. He is running down to Eastbourne after that minx." He always alluded to Isobel Clandon as "that minx," owing to his unreasonable prejudice against her. Mary spoke with spirit. "Very natural under the circumstances, I should think. He would want to see something of the girl he loves before he left." Lord Saxham turned on her angrily. "Mary, I have always thought you a sensible woman. Do you mean to tell me you are going to aid and abet him in his folly." Lady Mary answered him in a few words. "I don't call it folly, father." She walked out of the room, with a resolute expression on her face, and uplifted chin. She would have been the last to admit it, but she had inherited no small share of the family obstinacy. CHAPTER TWO. Mrs Hargrave sat in her pretty flat in Mount Street, absorbed in deep thought. On her lap lay an open letter, and it was a passage in that letter just received which accounted for her preoccupation. She was a pretty woman, _petite_ and slender, with clear-cut, refined features and delicate colouring. She had soft, candid blue eyes, and a wealth of fair hair which was always arranged in the most becoming fashion. In a strong and searching light, a keen judge would have guessed her real age, just a little over the wrong side of thirty. But she was quite a clever person, and she always avoided strong lights as much as possible. Under favourable conditions, most people took her to be at least four or five years younger. She owned herself to twenty-six. There was no getting at the truth of the matter. Since she first came to London, four years ago, having been married abroad to her husband, Jack Hargrave, a young man of good family, but a bit of a _mauvais sujet_, she had made many acquaintances. But she appeared to have no old friends who could throw any light on her real age or her antecedents. Her husband's relatives received her with scant cordiality, there was too much reticence about her previous history to incline them in her favour. As a matter of fact, they were not over-fond of Jack himself. There had been certain early episodes in his career which had not endeared him to right-thinking persons. It was well-known that he was in no sense of the word a wealthy man. Yet he kept an expensive flat, he was always immaculately dressed, and his wife, to judge by her costly costumes, must have had a very liberal allowance. They entertained a great deal, and they had bridge parties every night when they were at home. Knowing people whispered amongst themselves that it was their winnings at bridge which enabled them to make such a brave show. They were certainly both very skilful players. Not a few persons thought they were a bit too skilful, too uniformly successful. Two years after their marriage, Jack Hargrave died suddenly of pneumonia, the result of a neglected chill. Strange to say, he left no will. His widow explained this by the fact that he had made all his property over to her, by deed of gift, soon after their marriage, as he did not want her to be burdened with death duties. Things were not altered in any way by Jack's death. His widow kept on the expensive flat in Mount Street. When a decent period of mourning had elapsed, she appeared in her usual tasteful costumes, and resumed her bridge parties. There was nothing to wonder at in this. If Jack Hargrave had made over all his property to her, she was as well-off after his death as before. Rather better, as there was only one to spend the income instead of two. A certain thing, however, did occur which made some people suspicious. Her husband's relatives, who had never been more than coldly civil during Jack's lifetime, now dropped her altogether. Jack, who was a few years younger than his wife, had been at Eton and Oxford with Guy Rossett, and they were old friends. When Hargrave returned from abroad with his pretty bride, he had hunted up Guy and induced him to become a frequent visitor in Mount Street. Guy was considerably attracted by the young hostess. Of course, he knew that his friend was looked at askance by many people, and he knew nothing more than the rest about Mrs Hargrave's antecedents. When the fair young widow resumed her normal existence, and her bridge parties, young Rossett again became a frequent visitor. And now that there was no obstacle in the shape of a husband, he allowed her to see that her attraction for him had grown very considerably. She met him more than half-way. There was no doubt that the attraction was mutual. But there were other reasons that weighed strongly with her. Guy had a small allowance from his father, but it was supplemented by a very handsome one from his great-aunt, an old lady of eighty, who would also leave him her very considerable private fortune. In every sense, he was a most eligible person. He was handsome, distinguished-looking and charming, with the perfect manners of the young diplomatist. And one day, and it could not be a very long one now, he would be a rich man by the death of Lady Henrietta. For many months, Guy Rossett went to the flat in Mount Street, losing a considerable sum of money at bridge to his hostess and various members of her circle. There was a certain strain of caution in him, a certain recognition of the fact that he would require to know a good deal more than he did about the charming widow's past, before he committed himself definitely, that kept the sense of attraction on his side within reasonable bounds. Still, there is no knowing what might have happened, but for the occurrence of a certain event. Mrs Hargrave was very charming, very subtle, equipped with all the wiles of a clever and experienced woman. One day, his self-control might have given way, her fascination might have overpowered his prudence, and he would have committed himself beyond recall. Then something happened which switched away his thoughts for ever from the flat in Mount Street and its fascinating owner. At a certain country house he met Isobel Clandon, the daughter of a retired general, a widower who lived at Eastbourne. He took her in to dinner the first night of his arrival, and he knew he had found the woman of his dreams. Isobel was a lovely girl of twenty-two, a little above the middle height, a vision of beauty and grace. Her fresh and virginal charm, her spontaneous gaiety, drove out all recollection of the more artificial attractions of the older woman. The one suggested the brightness and freshness of spring, the other fading tints of summer. It was love at first sight on both sides, and Guy knew that he had never really loved before. And Isobel had not even flirted with a man before she saw him. She came to him whole-hearted, and he came as little scarred as a man might be who has lived twenty-seven years in the world, and seen and known many women. Mrs Hargrave roused herself from her reverie, and took up the letter for the second time. It was from an intimate acquaintance, and the envelope bore the Eastbourne post-mark. Again she read that particular paragraph which had so perturbed her. "I have at last succeeded in meeting your Miss Clandon at a garden-party. I made myself as pleasant as I could, and you know I can make myself pretty well liked when I try. I think she has taken a fancy to me, and that we shall be great friends presently. I am going to tea with her to-morrow, and will let you know if I can get anything definite out of her. "She is twenty-two, and certainly a lovely girl, also a very charming one. I introduced Mr Rossett's name, of course, and she just looked a little shy. But I could not get her to say much, only this, that he is coming down to Eastbourne directly, and that he has just secured an important appointment abroad, at the British Embassy in Spain. "She wears no engagement ring, so they are not publicly betrothed. But I am sure there is a very good understanding between them." The widow threw the letter down on her lap, with a fierce exclamation. "Twenty-two, and a lovely girl," she muttered angrily. "Some pink and white beauty, I suppose, immature, knowing nothing of life. And these are the women who catch men of the world with their youth and innocence." Her face grew hard, she looked almost plain, and for the moment her thirty years showed themselves unmistakably. She tore the offending note into fragments, and threw them into a dainty little waste-paper basket--everything about the flat was dainty. "But I will get even with Mr Guy Rossett before long," she cried vindictively, as she returned to her seat. It was somewhere about ten o'clock in the morning when she indulged in these bitter reflections, when she had to admit, in the face of that letter, that her ambitious schemes had gone astray. At the same hour, a tall and corpulent gentleman, attired in an elegant morning coat and silk hat, descended the steps of his house at Walton, stepped into the Rolls-Royce car waiting for him, drove to the station, and took the train to London. He was known in his business, and in the neighbourhood, as Mr Jackson, although his foreign appearance and swarthy complexion gave the direct lie to his English name. Not for him the easy bowler or soft hat, and the lounge suit. He had an idea that to be successful in business it was necessary to preserve the old traditions. Financial stability was suggested by the frock coat and the topper. He described himself as a financier, and so in a certain sense he was. But in spite of the name of Jackson, he was a Spaniard by birth, and his real cognomen was Juan Jaques. As regards his business, he was a moneylender, pure and simple. He had a spacious suite of offices in one of the most private-looking houses in Dover Street. His staff was small, consisting of a confidential woman secretary who typed his letters, generally suave, but occasionally menacing; an equally confidential clerk who kept his accounts; and a smart office boy. From this agreeable point of vantage, he accommodated young men of good family, and equally good prospects, when they were temporarily hard up. He had a very select _clientele_, and, to do him justice, for a moneylender, he was not extortionate. "Treat your clients fairly, and they will come again. You make regular customers of them. They don't go buzzing off to Tom, Dick, and Harry." These were the principles on which he conducted his very lucrative business. He was in a very good humour this morning, as he got out of the taxi which had brought him from Waterloo to his office. There were very few letters, but their contents pleased him; they suggested good business. The last one was from Guy Rossett, who intimated that he would call about twelve o'clock, as he wanted to have a short chat. The astute Spaniard, known to all but a very few as the naturalised Englishman, Jackson, smiled. He had not enjoyed the pleasure of Guy's acquaintance very long. Mrs Hargrave had brought the two men together, and the introduction had been effected through the following circumstances. At a certain period, Guy had found himself very short of money, practically due to bridge losses at the flat in Mount Street. He had rather hesitatingly asked the charming widow if she knew of any decent moneylender, who would finance him at a rate of interest that was not too extortionate. Violet had raised her candid blue eyes--they were her best asset--to his, with a world of pity in them. "Oh, Mr Rossett, I am so sorry to hear of this. It is all this horrible bridge. I always seem lucky, but such a lot of my friends have bad luck. I think I shall give up these parties, if they are going to embarrass the people I like." There was a soft mist in her eyes, as she gave utterance to these noble sentiments. Guy felt a little thrill pass through him. She was not a mere worldling, she had her full share of real kindness, of real womanliness. "One's own fault, you know," he answered lightly. "I suppose I ought to be old enough to take care of myself. I needn't play bridge if I don't want to, need I?" Mrs Hargrave did not answer for a moment. She seemed struggling with her remorseful thoughts. Then, after a brief space, inspiration came to her, and she played a strong and winning card. She laid her hand upon his arm, and her voice trembled ever so little as she spoke. "Mr Rossett, we have been very good friends, have we not? And you were a pal of dear old Jack's long before I met him." Rossett nodded. At the moment he had no idea what she was driving at, or what she was leading up to. And he was pretty quick too. "Then I want you, for the moment, to think of me as a pal. Fancy for the time I am Jack, your old friend. What I want to say is this, don't go to these horrible people. They are sure to rook you. I have a little money put by--dear old Jack left me comfortably off--and I make quite a small income out of my winnings. Let me be your banker. Now, don't be proud." Guy was profoundly touched, and he thanked her in no measured terms. But the idea of borrowing money from a woman, even if she were a dear friend, was too horrible to contemplate for a second. Had there been no alternative, he would sooner have blown his brains out. He told her this, and she sighed regretfully, as one amazed at the obstinacy of a certain type of man. She knew, could she once have got him to accept this loan, she would be sure of him. "You see, it is quite impossible," he ended, rather awkwardly. It is not a pleasant thing to refuse the kindness thrust upon you in the most graceful way by a charming woman. "Do you happen to know of any of these sharks?" Frustrated in her clever little scheme, the fair Violet reflected for a few seconds. Then she spoke in a hesitating voice, as if she were trying to recall certain memories of the past. "Yes, I do know a man who, I believe, is a decent specimen of his kind. You know, a lot of people wonder that Jack was so well-off. Well, in the first place, he was awfully clever, and he had two or three good friends in the City who gave him tips. But he wanted a bit of capital. He found out this man Jackson, who has offices in Dover Street. Jackson believed in him, and financed him, of course taking a good share. That was only natural." Rossett pricked up his ears. The thing that had puzzled so many people was already partly explained. Jack had been, as his wife said, a clever fellow, and a bit of a dark horse. He had been making money in the City in a subterranean way, with the help of the philanthropic Mr Jackson, who, no doubt, had looked after his own share of the profits. But why the deuce had not Jack Hargrave told this openly to his intimates? Then all _innuendos_ and suspicions would have been silenced at once. Mrs Hargrave went on in her sweet, low voice. "I don't think I have ever told this to a soul. You will respect my confidence. I always thought it a little silly of Jack, but he made a point of keeping the secret to himself." "Need you ask the question?" queried Guy Rossett reproachfully. "No, I am sure I can trust you. Well, this man Jackson; by the way, that is not his real name, he is a naturalised Spaniard. I see him sometimes on a few matters in which he is still interested, and which he looks after for me. I will give you a note to him, and ask him to treat you very gently." But, before she moved to her writing-table, she again looked pleadingly at him. "Are you sure you will not reconsider my suggestion? Surely you would rather be indebted to me than to a mere sordid moneylender?" Again Guy repeated his thanks. But on this point he was adamant; nothing would move him. He took the letter of introduction to Mr Jackson. This gentleman was affability itself. Mrs Hargrave's introduction was quite sufficient. Guy was too much a gentleman to put searching questions as to Jackson's private knowledge of the Hargraves, husband and wife. On his side, Mr Jackson had the private _dossier_ of every eligible young man, from the moneylender's point of view, entered in his reference book. He knew all about the Earl of Saxham, and the Lady Henrietta. Young Mr Rossett was quite a desirable client. He was pleased to add him to his list. As a matter of fact, the loan was quite a small one, and was granted on reasonable terms. There was no speculative element in the transaction. Guy was a young man who might make a mistake now and again, but he would never kick over the traces for long, and he was as straight as a die. On this particular morning, Mr Jackson received him with the greatest affability. "Delighted to see you, Mr Rossett. Too early for a drink, I am afraid, but have a cigar." He pushed across a box of cigars that even a Spanish Jew could not have bought under half a crown apiece. "Now, what is it, Mr Rossett? Just a little more ready, I suppose?" Guy bit off the end of the very excellent cigar with a composed air. He had not the appearance of a suppliant for financial favours. "Not quite as bad as that, Mr Jackson. But I have a bill for six hundred due next month. It would be a great convenience to me if you would renew half when it falls due, of course on the usual terms." For a moment, Mr Jackson's face fell. He had hoped he was going to get deeper into the young man's ribs, looking forward to that blessed day when Lady Henrietta's fortune would wipe off all arrears. Then, the next moment, he cheered up. Guy was not going to be a very big customer, but he was a safe one. A young man who could pay off half of his indebtedness was to be trusted. Not much waiting, just quick profits. It took them a few moments to discuss the details of the extension of the loan. When these had been settled, Mr Jackson consulted his watch. "I think, Mr Rossett, we might venture upon a small bottle now, what do you think?" Guy really did not want anything to drink at this comparatively early hour of the morning. But, in view of further favours, it would not be politic to check his host's hospitable impulses. The moneylender produced a very excellent small bottle of _veuve cliquot_. The two men sat chatting for some time. Suddenly, the telephone bell rang. What was whispered down it seemed to agitate Mr Jackson a little. Rossett could, of course, only catch his disjointed replies. "Actually left the house, you say, on the way. Ought always to give me notice. Might be too busy. Well, it can't be helped. Good-bye." As a matter of fact, it was Mrs Hargrave's maid who had rung up to tell him that her mistress was on her way to his office. He knew enough to be sure that a meeting between Violet and Rossett would be very disturbing to both, hence his discomfiture. Mount Street to Dover Street in a taxi is not a very far cry. If Guy Rossett did not swallow his champagne and clear out in a few seconds, the meeting was inevitable. The only apartments were the outer office, the waiting-room, and his own sanctum, and they all led into each other. Guy, not being thirsty, drank his wine very leisurely. Then he rose to go, but some minutes had elapsed, and at the moment he rose the office boy brought in a slip of folded paper, on which was written Mrs Hargrave's name. "Many thanks for meeting me in this little matter, Mr Jackson. Well, for the present, good-bye." And poor Guy Rossett, fondly thinking that he had laid the ghosts of the past, emerged from Jackson's room to be confronted with Violet Hargrave, seated in one of those luxurious easy chairs which the hospitable foreigner provided for his waiting clients. He put the best face he could on the situation, and advanced with outstretched hand. "An unexpected pleasure, Mrs Hargrave," he cried in a very uncertain voice. A more embarrassed specimen of a budding diplomatist could not have been observed. The pretty widow ignored the outstretched hand. She looked at him steadily, and the blue eyes were no longer soft and limpid, but hard as steel. "I think," she said in a voice that was as hard as her glance, "you are indulging in the language of diplomacy, which is usually used to disguise one's real thoughts." Rossett turned red, and began, in his agitation, to stammer forth lame and foolish excuses. "I have been awfully busy lately, you know, not had time for anything in the social line. The truth is, Mrs Hargrave, I have just woke up to the fact that I have been wasting a good part of my life. I am really going in now for work, hard work, and ambition." She swept him with a contemptuous glance. "Is this supposed to be an apology for your despicable conduct as regards myself?" "As you please to take it, Mrs Hargrave." Knowing he was utterly in the wrong, he took refuge in a sort of sullen dignity. Her voice grew more scornful as she answered in her clear, vibrant tones. "I should not like to detain you even for a moment, when you have such a laudable object in view. If you are going to atone for those wasted years, you will have a tremendous lot of leeway to make up. You cannot spare a second. Good day." He could not rally under her sharp tongue and keen woman's wit. He bowed, and was about to move away when she stopped him with an imperious gesture. "One moment of your valuable time, if you please, Mr Rossett. You are fond of running away when the situation becomes a little inconvenient to yourself. But on this, I hope, our last meeting, I wish to say a few words to you, which it is well you should hear. May I presume to trespass on your time for a few seconds longer?" There was still in her tones the same bitter note of sarcasm. But by this time, Guy had recovered himself a little, and was able to muster a remnant of dignity. "My time is at your disposal," he replied quietly. "You have not acted the part of a gentleman, Mr Rossett. You were supposed to be my husband's friend; you pretended to be mine. Certain events occurred, the nature of which it is easy to guess, which caused you to think my friendship was no longer desirable. That is the truth, is it not? Be frank for once, if a diplomatist can ever be frank." She dominated the situation. Rossett could only stammer forth a shamefaced admission that it was the truth. "You admit it. Would you not have played a more manly part, if you had come to me with a frank and proper explanation of those events?" "That is just what I ought to have done," said Guy Rossett humbly. He had never admired her more than now. Up to the present moment he had no idea that this dainty, slender woman, more or less of a butterfly, had such spirit in her fragile frame. "Instead of that," pursued Violet Hargrave in her inflexible, vibrating tones, "you adopt a device pursued by many men I know, by the type of man who lacks moral courage. I am afraid I shall hurt you a little now, but I don't mind because you have hurt me, and I want to cry quits. You adopted the coward's device of running away from the woman to whom you were afraid to tell the truth." Rossett was utterly beaten. He could not say a word in self-defence. He stood speechless under the lash of her scorn, her not unjustifiable indignation. She dismissed him with a wave of her hand. "I will keep you no longer, Mr Rossett. For some years we were rather intimate friends. To-day we are strangers. As a stranger, I will bid you good-bye." And Guy Rossett was happy to escape. He had never felt more humiliated in his life. He put himself into a taxi, and drove straight to the St James's Club, beloved of diplomatists. He ruminated ruefully over his discomfiture at the hands of the sharp-tongued Mrs Hargrave. "Some women have the knack of making a man feel like a worm," he thought bitterly. "Mary has it in her quiet, incisive way. Violet has it to perfection." The young widow entered the sanctum of the moneylender. Outwardly, her demeanour was calm, but in her breast a volcano was raging. Her pride had been humbled, her hopes ruthlessly crushed. She was raging with all the resentful impotence of the woman scorned. Jackson met her with outstretched hands, and took both of hers. "My poor little Violet," he said kindly. "I can see you are very upset; at least, it is plain to me who have known you from a baby. If you had only told your maid to 'phone me up before you started, I would have delayed you, and prevented this." She sank down on a chair with a little weary sigh. "You have always been my best friend, Juan. Heaven knows what I should have done or where I should have been without you." "Tut, tut." The "financier" was very human where women were concerned. "And you are fond of this fellow, eh, apart from other considerations?" "I was, Juan, but now I hate him," was the uncompromising reply. "Still, on the whole, I am not sure I would have missed that little talk with him. Clever young man of the world as he is, ready and quick as he was, I cut him to the quick. I made him feel very small." Jackson chuckled. "I will wager you gave him a good dressing down, when you once started. Well now, my child, I guess you want to see me on something important." "Something very important," was the reply. The two drew their chairs closely together, and conversed in low tones, using the Spanish language. CHAPTER THREE. To a man of Lord Saxham's ancient lineage and broad acres, although those same broad acres were somewhat heavily encumbered, General Clandon was a mere nobody. He was just one of the many thousands of persons who are entitled to be called gentlemen, as a matter of courtesy, but have no claim to rank in the same category with pure aristocracy. All the same, the General came of very respectable stock, from that section of the small landowning class which is the backbone of the territorial interest. His forbears had been settled in Kent for some six generations. His eldest brother, Hugh Clandon, who had ruled over Clandon Place, had a rent roll of some five thousand a year clear. To an ordinary person, in a lower walk of life, this would seem by no means a despicable income. But Clandon Place was a large house, and cost a good deal to keep up, even on an economical scale. And all the Clandons, with the solitary exception of the General himself, were exceedingly prolific. His brother Hugh had eight children. He was one of ten. Daughters had to be portioned off, sons had to be educated and started in the world. Geoffrey Clandon inherited a few thousands on his father's death; he always thought his father must have been a wonderful man to leave so much, considering the calls upon him. The General contrived to live upon the modest income derived from this small capital, plus his half-pay. He now lived at Eastbourne upon the somewhat slender revenue. When he died, his only child, Isobel, would have a few hundred pounds a year to call her own. In his youth, he had been exceedingly handsome, and, had he been of a more worldly turn of mind, he might easily have married money. Instead, he married for love, and never repented it. His wife brought him no fortune, but she brought him other things beyond price. Mrs Clandon died when Isobel was sixteen, and all the intense love which the General had borne his wife was transferred to his daughter, who fully reciprocated her father's devotion. She was a very sweet and lovable girl, perhaps just a little wiser and older than her actual years, as is often the case with only children, who have been brought up in close companionship with their parents. She looked after his house admirably, saw that his meals were well cooked and daintily served. As for herself, thanks to an admirable figure, and a knack of knowing how to wear her clothes, she always looked smartly turned out on a most slender allowance. They lived on the outskirts of Eastbourne, in an unpretentious house, a cottage which had been turned into a half villa. All the added rooms were spacious, with the original low ceilings, which gave a picturesque effect. There was over an acre of garden, and half of that was devoted to the cultivation of flowers. Isobel adored flowers, and loved to see bowls of them in the different rooms. She was no mean gardener herself, and often worked hard in conjunction with the rather ancient person who attended to the small domain. County society did not have anything to say to General Clandon and his daughter, they were too small fry, but in the selecter circles of strictly Eastbourne residents they were considerable figures. The General had preferred not to settle down in his native place, near his brother. His means were too small to allow him to compete on equal terms with the local magnates who were his contemporaries. He was a very proud man, and he was still more sensitive on Isobel's account. From all she had heard of small county society, of which her uncle was a specimen, she did not think she had missed much. She was quite happy in her little circle at Eastbourne; it was more amusing, and not at all stiff or pretentious. Once a year, since she was eighteen, she had a brief glimpse of a more fashionable world. The General had kept up a life-long intimacy with an old and wealthy friend, Sir William Glanville, who owned a large estate in Kent. Every autumn an invitation came for the shooting, and in that invitation Isobel was included. Here she met people, men and women of quite a different calibre, spoiled children of the world, used to luxury from their cradle. Yet she was not sure that she enjoyed these visits very greatly. The profusion of wealth contrasted too sharply with their own daily mode of life. If her father by some miracle should come into a fortune, and she smiled at the absurd thought, no doubt she would bear herself as bravely as these other girls she met. But that last visit, that delicious last visit, she had thoroughly enjoyed. Guy Rossett had taken her into dinner, and danced attendance on her for the best part of a delightful week. At last she had met a man who seemed to stand a head and shoulders above his fellows. But for a little time much sadness was mingled with her joy. On more than one night, when Guy's glance had thrilled her, when Guy's gentle pressure of the hand, as he bade her good night, had set her heart fluttering, she had cried herself to sleep. She had heard all about him from her hostess, a kind-hearted, gossiping soul. He was the second son of a wealthy peer of ancient lineage. With his father's influence, he would be sure to obtain eminence in the diplomatic field. And he would inherit a big fortune from his grand-aunt, the Lady Henrietta. Poor Isobel felt a very lonely maiden as she listened to this splendid recital. As a mere man, with his good looks and charm, he could choose where he liked. With these advantages in addition, he could pick from the noblest in the land. Of course, she was a little fool, and the sooner she said good-bye to her vain dreams the better. Guy Rossett was attracted by her for the moment, no doubt. But it was impossible a man in his position, with his prospects, could mean anything serious. Could a man, in whose veins ran the blood of a dozen earls, choose for his wife the descendant of paltry squires? And then had come that wonderful day, a day in her life ever to be marked with a white stone, when Guy had overtaken her as she was indulging in a solitary ramble in the now leafless park. In impassioned words he had told her how he loved her, how she was the one woman in the world he wanted for his wife. He loved her. Did she care for him? Dazed, and overjoyed with her happiness, her lovely dark eyes half suffused with tears, she faltered forth a trembling yes. He took her in his arms, and gave her her first lover's kiss. Then, when her brain had ceased to whirl, when she could recover from the great shock of her newly-found joy, she began to think. "But it is all a dream," she murmured. "It is impossible." "Impossible!" repeated Guy. "Why do you use the word?" "But, of course, you can see. You are the son of an aristocrat, big even amongst aristocrats. I am a nobody. Lady Glanville tells me you are going to be an ambassador, or something dreadfully big and awe-inspiring." Guy laughed genially. "Oh, you sweet little soul. Has that dear old woman been filling you with all that sort of stuff? Haven't brains enough, my darling. And, if it should turn out true, and I do become an ambassador, you will grow up with me, and you'll find the part of ambassador's wife fit you like a glove." But, presently, after the first rhapsodies had passed, they began to talk soberly. Guy had to state that his father, splendid old fellow as he was, none better, was very prejudiced and, as his son put it with more than filial frankness, "as obstinate as a mule." Isobel nodded her pretty dark head. "I understand quite. He will want you to marry in your own station of life, choose a girl who has been brought up in the same world." Guy nodded. "You've hit it. A sort of girl who would know, by inherited instinct, all the sort of tricks that are expected from an ambassador's wife. You see, I take it for granted I am going to be an ambassador." Isobel looked at him fondly. In her present rapturous mood, she thought he could be anything he liked, if he gave his mind to it. Then Guy spoke quite gravely and seriously. "Now, we have got to consider the two fathers, yours and mine. We will take yours first, because I think he'll do whatever you tell him." "He generally does," replied Isobel, with a smile that showed all her dimples. "Good. I leave to-morrow, you are off the day after. Don't tell him anything till you get back to Eastbourne. Then let him know exactly what has passed between us to-day, that I have admitted frankly I shall have a hard job on my part. I want to get my father's consent, because I wish you to be welcomed by the family. Dear old Aunt Henrietta will never interfere with me, she's too good a sort." "Yes," answered Isobel happily. "I will tell him all that." "And please add that I should wish to come down to Eastbourne, as soon as convenient to him, and put all the facts before him. I want first to get his consent, and I know I am asking it under peculiar circumstances." A slight cloud gathered over the girl's lovely face. "I am quite sure of my darling old dad," she said. "I'm a little afraid of yours." "There's nothing to be frightened of, sweetheart," said her lover confidently. "Whether he gives his consent or not, you are going to be my wife. I'm quite independent of him. But, as I said just now, I would prefer to bring him round before, instead of after." "But do you think that possible?" inquired Isobel anxiously. Guy reflected. "It's a pretty even chance," he said presently. "And, you see. I've got Mary on my side." Isobel lifted questioning eyes. "You have never spoken of Mary before. Who is she? I suppose your sister?" "Yes, my sister, and the sweetest, dearest girl in the wide world. Just an angel without the wings, and they are growing, I believe. Not that she is meek and mild, and all that sort of thing. She can hit out as straight from the shoulder as a man when she chooses. But tell her a tale of two true lovers, and she will never be happy till she brings them together." "What a darling!" cried Isobel, in deep admiration. "How I should love to meet her." "No difficulty about that," answered Guy easily. "As soon as I have arranged matters with the General, we will fix up a little lunch in London. You bring your father up; I'll bring Mary up." "How lovely!" sighed Isobel. Truly, a new world, a delightful world, was opening to her. The Clandons returned to their modest little nest at Eastbourne. On the first evening of their return, Isobel, sitting on a low footstool close to the General's chair, told him the wonderful story of Guy Rossett's love for her, of her love for Guy. Her father listened sympathetically. He was intensely proud that his beloved daughter had chanced upon a wooer worthy of her. He had never dared to hope for such an alliance. Isobel was deserving of any Fairy Prince, but where was the Fairy Prince to come from? But he was wise and experienced. It would not be all fair sailing, there were rocks ahead. Guy had himself admitted that the Earl of Saxham would prove a formidable obstacle. The General agreed that, were he in Lord Saxham's place, he would not give his consent too readily. He kissed his daughter tenderly, half pleased, half regretful to see the intense lovelight in her eyes as she spoke of her adored lover. "Yes, tell Guy to come and see me as soon as he likes, and we will talk over the difficulties," he said kindly. "I liked the young fellow very much, from the little I saw of him. I am sure he is a gentleman, and I believe him to be straight." Isobel looked up a little reproachfully. Her father's guarded words seemed to convey very faint praise of her peerless lover. "Oh, dad," she cried reproachfully. "Guy is the soul of honour." Rossett came down, and had a long interview with General Clandon. He was quite frank and manly. He would marry Isobel whether his father consented or not; so far as financial matters stood, he was perfectly independent. Still, for many reasons, it was better to exercise a little prudence, and coax the Earl into agreement. The General agreed. "Much better, Rossett. The question of her being received by your family or not will make a great difference to her at the start. In the years to come, it may make a great difference to you. You don't want to cut yourself off from your kith and kin." Rossett was of the same opinion. The General agreed to a private engagement. Guy gave his betrothed a beautiful ring which she did not dare openly to display. She looked at it several times a day, and kissed it every night before she went to sleep. Guy had lost no time in approaching his father, and the Earl had received the news in the worst spirit. He had stormed, and broken out into one of his furious, ungovernable rages. "You are simply an idiot. With my influence with the Government, there is no knowing where I can push you to." He seemed to take it for granted that his son could not help himself. "You must marry a woman in your own class, a woman who can help you in your career. And then you propose to me some obscure chit of a girl, who lives in a cottage at Eastbourne." Guy argued calmly that Isobel was a lady, and of good family. Certainly her father was not a rich man, this much he had to admit. The Earl would not listen to reason. He brushed aside all his son's pleadings. He recovered from his first rage, but he wound up the discussion in a voice of deadly calm. "You can do as you choose, Guy. You are quite independent, and I daresay if you married a shop girl it would make no difference to your aunt. But please understand this. From the day you make Isobel Clandon your wife, all is over between us. I wash my hands of you. Not a penny of my money, not an atom of my influence. You understand." "I quite understand, sir. You force me to choose between yourself and Isobel. Well, if you persist in your determination, I shall choose Isobel. But I am in hopes you will change your mind." "Never," snapped out the Earl viciously. "Go to the devil your own way, as soon as you like. Fancy a manlike you being caught by a baby face." But Guy smiled to himself. Lord Saxham was a very obstinate man, also a very irritable one. But his bark was worse than his bite. He had often climbed down before. And there was Lady Mary to be reckoned with, who, as a rule, could twist her father round her little finger, even if the process involved some time. Lord Saxham betook himself next day to the all-powerful Mr Greatorex. He hinted to that impassive gentleman that he wanted to get his son abroad. Mr Greatorex elevated his finely arched eyebrows. "The usual thing, I suppose? An entanglement of some sort?" "Wants to marry a woman who will ruin his career," answered the Earl tersely. "A chorus-girl or something of that sort?" queried Greatorex. He knew that Guy Rossett had mixed in a somewhat fast set, and was prepared to expect the worst of him. "Or, perhaps, a doubtful widow?" He had heard rumours of him and Violet Hargrave. Lord Saxham shook his head. "No, neither; but just as bad from my point of view. A girl, technically a lady, but no family to speak of, no fortune. He'd marry for love, and tire of her in six months, misery for her as well as for him." The Honourable Rupert Greatorex was the scion of a very ancient family himself. He had a proper detestation of mesalliances. "I will do my best," he said cordially. "He shall have the first thing going." He had watched the career of young Rossett, as he had watched the career of every young man in the Foreign Office. Guy had not shown himself, up to the present, very zealous. He was more inclined to play than to work, and he foregathered with some very queer people. But he did not lack brains. From some of the strange people with whom he associated, he had gleaned some rather valuable information which he had placed at Mr Greatorex's disposal. If he was sent to Spain, he might turn out a useful member of the vast diplomatic corps, and he would be separated from this charming young woman, of no family to speak of, and no fortune. And Greatorex would be obliging a staunch supporter of the Government. Hence the appointment which Guy fondly believed he had secured through his own merits. While his father was scheming to thwart what he considered his son's ill-advised wooing, Guy had enlisted Mary for an ally. Mary, the friend of all true lovers, only asked two questions. First, Was she a lady? Second, Were they quite sure they really loved each other? Her brother was able to answer both questions in the affirmative. And she was sure, this time, he was in earnest. She had been the recipient of previous confidences, hence a little caution on her part. "I should like to meet her, and judge for myself," said Mary decidedly. She knew, of course, of her father's obstinate refusal to entertain the idea. She would like to meet Isobel, to be sure if she was justified in opposing the Earl. For Mary was, above all things, conscientious. She adored Guy, but she also loved her father, and she had a duty towards him. She must be certain that Isobel was worthy, no mere adventuress, luring a sorely love-stricken man. Guy unfolded his cunning little plan. "Run up to London one day for some shopping. I'll get up Isobel and her father, and we can all lunch together. Where shall we go? The Ritz for preference, but we should meet too many people we knew, and it might get to the Governor's ears. We'll lunch at the Savoy." So that was arranged. There came that delightful day when the General and his daughter travelled up from Eastbourne, and met Guy and his sister in the vestibule of the famous London restaurant. Isobel was dreadfully nervous, but quite excitedly happy. What a lovely new life! The tepid gaieties of Eastbourne paled their ineffectual fires in comparison with the present festivity. The two women took to each other at once. It did not take the shrewd Mary long to discover that this beautiful girl was genuinely in love with the equally good-looking Guy, that here was no artful and designing maiden. The General, simple and dignified, made an equally good impression upon her. In manner and bearing he was the true type of aristocrat, as much so as Lord Saxham himself. Fortunately for others, he lacked the Earl's somewhat explosive qualities. They lingered in the lounge some time after lunch, and here the two women had a little private chat together, with the view of cementing their acquaintance. Mary promised to be their friend, and to use all her influence to wear down her father's opposition. Isobel thanked her warmly. "It seems an unkind thing to say," she added, at the conclusion of her little outburst of gratitude. "But I almost wish that Guy were a poor man." Mary looked at her questioningly; she did not, for the moment, catch the drift of her thoughts. "There couldn't, then, be all this fuss and trouble," explained Isobel, with a little catch in her voice. "People wouldn't be able to think that I had run after him, they would know I only cared for him for himself. Now, whatever happens, they will always think the worst of me." Mary whispered back the consoling answer, "There are two people who will never think that, myself and Guy." The happy hours passed. They all saw Mary off by her train, and a little later the General and his daughter went back to Eastbourne. There were many delightful days to follow, days when Guy ran down, dined with the General, and put up for the night at the "Queen's." And then the time drew near for Guy to take up his new post, to leave London for Madrid. Still, things were not any further advanced. In spite of Lady Mary's powerful and persistent advocacy, the Earl remained as obdurate as ever. If Guy insisted upon making Isobel Clandon his wife, all friendly relations between father and son would be suspended. On the night preceding the young diplomatist's departure, there was a farewell dinner, this time at a less public restaurant than the Savoy. The party was the same, Guy and his sister, Isobel and her father. Lady Mary would have to stay the night in London. This she had arranged to do with an old girl friend, now married, Lady May Brendon. The Earl, with that uncanny sense which distinguishes some people, suddenly had an inkling of the truth. Guy had said good-bye to them the day before. "I believe it's all a blind," he burst out angrily, a few minutes before Mary's departure. "You may be staying with May Brendon for the night, but she is not the reason of your visit. You are going to meet that wretched girl." Mary could never bring herself to tell a lie. She had already admitted she had made the acquaintance of Isobel Clandon, and had taken a great liking to her. "To tell the truth, I am. Guy is giving a dinner to-night, in order to bid her farewell. It is only right he should have the support of some member of his family." "You deliberately go against my wishes," thundered her father, in his most irate tones. "In this instance, I fear I must," replied his daughter very quietly and firmly. "I love you very dearly, but I love Guy too. He has chosen for himself, and in my opinion he has chosen wisely." "I love Guy too," said the Earl in a less aggressive tone. "I would like also to see him happy. But a man in his position must marry according to the traditions of his family. You are a weak sentimentalist, Mary." A rather sad smile crept over the sweet face. "Perhaps I am, too much for my own peace of mind. But, what I do feel strongly is this--you have no right to dictate to Guy in this matter. He is a second son, he is independent of you. With Ticehurst, it may be different. He has to transmit the family honours, to maintain the family traditions as you call them. In his case, interference may be justifiable. In Guy's case, I say emphatically not." The Earl began to splutter again. "My word, the world is coming to something. You talk as if a father had no right, no authority over his children. Look what I have done for him. I wrung this appointment from Greatorex, with my own personal influence." Lady Mary laid a light, cool kiss upon his inflamed cheek. "Dearest father, do try and be just for once. You did not get this appointment solely for Guy's benefit. You know you don't care a straw whether he succeeds in his profession. Your real motive was to drive him out of England, so that he should be separated from Isobel Clandon." This was too much for Lord Saxham. He burst into volcanic language, inveighing against ungrateful sons and undutiful daughters, and stamped from the room in a blind rage. Lady Mary smiled a little when he left. How many of these domestic storms had she witnessed! Her father would give way in the end. But there would be a long period of waiting. She got into the car, and drove to the railway station. The dinner-party was a great success, even if it was slightly overcast with the sadness of farewell. Two people alone can be quite comfortably sad; there is a luxury in woe. But melancholy cannot be permanently maintained amongst four persons. The lovers would not see each other for some time, but, as Mary cheerfully reminded them, Madrid was not quite as far as the Antipodes, and they could write to each other every day, if they wished. Half-way through the meal, two men entered and took their seats at a small adjoining table; they were both in evening dress. One was a tall, slim Englishman of the well-groomed type. His companion was short and swarthy, evidently a foreigner. Isobel was the first to observe them. She leaned across the table, and addressed the General in a low voice. "Maurice has just come in, father. Just there, on your left, with a foreign-looking man." The General looked in the direction indicated, and caught the eye of the tall young man, who rose, and advanced hesitatingly to their table. He shook hands with Isobel and her father. The General effected a hasty introduction. "My nephew, Mr Farquhar, Lady Mary Rossett, Mr Rossett." Lady Mary bowed. Guy half rose and bowed. He felt a little bit churlish. He was of a very jealous disposition. He fancied Isobel's reception of her cousin was perhaps a little too cordial. Her smile was very welcoming, as she murmured, "Fancy meeting you here, Maurice." Farquhar looked at the young diplomatist steadily, as if he were trying to recall a memory. Then he recollected. "Rossett, Guy Rossett, of course, I remember you now perfectly. You were with me at Harrow for one term. You came into Brogden's House just as I was leaving." And then Guy remembered too. "Of course, I recollect now. I thought your face was familiar to me. You were the head of the house, and I was your fag. A graceless little cub, I fancy." Farquhar laughed genially. "No, I fancy you were an awful decent little chap while I was there. I can't vouch for you after my restraining influence was removed." There was a little more conversation, and then Mr Farquhar returned to his foreign friend. "Who the deuce has he got with him?" growled the General, almost under his breath. "Maurice is an awfully clever fellow, and they say is one of the most rising members of the junior bar, but he is awfully fond of Bohemian society. That long-haired chap he has got with him. Well, he looks like an anarchist." Guy Rossett laughed. "I fancy I know who he is, General; in the Foreign Office, like your nephew, we get to know some queer people. He is a Spaniard by birth, but English by adoption. He is a well-known journalist in Fleet Street. But he is by no means an anarchist; he is dead against them." The General ruminated. He was the most insular of insular Britons. He hated all persons of other nations. It annoyed him that his nephew should be in the company of this long-haired foreigner. "It is time this old country of ours closed its doors to this kind of gentry," he said, in a decided voice, as he drained his glass of champagne. Lady Mary smiled. How very much he resembled her own father. The same obstinate views, with, at bottom, the same kind heart. The next morning, the little party of three saw the young diplomatist off at the station. Guy held his sweetheart very close when he gave her his farewell kiss. "I say, dearest, you will write every day, won't you?" And Isobel nodded her dark head. "Of course, dear, pages and pages." "And I say, that good-looking cousin of yours we met last night! He has never made love to you, has he?" Isobel laughed gaily. "Dear old Maurice! Why he used to carry me about when I was a baby. And dad and I are awfully fond of him. He is just a big, dear elder brother." "I don't quite know that I like a big, dear elder brother, when he happens to be a cousin," replied Guy, a little grimly. Isobel smiled her most delightful smile. "Oh, Guy, I believe you are really jealous, and of poor old Maurice, of all people. My dear boy, he only lives for his work; he is a barrister, you know, and is made up of parchment." "He looked very human when he shook hands with you," remarked Guy drily. "I fancy there's not much parchment where you are concerned." "Silly boy, to even think of such things. And what about me, when you get to Madrid? I am told the Spanish ladies are very fascinating. What chance shall I have against them." So she turned the tables on Guy, and he had to defend himself against disloyalty in the future. Then the train steamed off. With a hearty handshake from the General, with the kisses of his sweetheart and sister warm upon his lips and his cheeks, Guy Rossett set out on his journey to Spain. Little could he foresee the adventures that were in store for him. CHAPTER FOUR. "And you think mischief is brewing, eh?" The speaker was Maurice Farquhar. The man he addressed was Andres Moreno, the black-browed Spaniard who had dined with him on the previous evening at the restaurant where they had met Guy Rossett and his party. Maurice, a member of the junior bar, with a daily increasing practice, rented a charming suite of rooms in one of the most cloistered courts of the Temple. Certainly, this suite was on the top floor, and it was a stiff climb up those stairs. But Maurice was young and healthy, and the ascent of those few steep stairs did not trouble him in the least. Apart from his own special legal business, which absorbed his best faculties, he was a man of many interests. During the lean years, when he had waited for briefs, he had supplemented his modest patrimony by journalism. He became a somewhat well-known figure in Fleet Street, specialising more or less upon foreign politics. Then, when the briefs began to flow in, he had gradually dropped journalism. Now and again, at the earnest request of a persistent editor, he would write an article or a letter on some burning question, in which he could display his particular knowledge of affairs. In those old journalistic days, happy, careless days, when a dinner at the old "Cheshire Cheese" was accounted something of a luxury, when he never entered the portals of the Ritz or Carlton, save as the guest of some rich friend or relation, he had struck up a great comradeship with Andres Moreno, son of a Spanish father and an English mother, an adroit and clever journalist, who could turn his hand to anything. Nothing came amiss to Moreno; he was the handy man of journalism. He could write a most flamboyant description of a fashionable bazaar. He could, in a sufficiently well-paid article, penetrate the subtle schemes of European monarchs and statesmen. His knowledge of London and every other foreign capital was illuminating. He knew every prominent detective, he enjoyed the acquaintance of not a few members of the criminal classes. He was hail-fellow-well-met with staunch monarchists and avowed anarchists. But it was always difficult with this man, who had friends in so many camps, to discover what were his real opinions. Maurice who, perhaps, knew him better than anybody, on the mental side, always declared that he had no fixed opinions. "When you are with the good old-fashioned Tory," he had said once to him laughingly, "you are all for King and Church and State and good Government. When you are with the anarchist, your sympathies go with the poor devils who have got nothing, and want to blow up everybody, in the hopes of getting a bit out of the wreck." And Moreno, in the same jocular spirit, had admitted there was a certain element of truth in the description. "I am so infernally sympathetic, you know, Farquhar. I am like a straw blown by the wind. Any man who can talk to me earnestly for five minutes makes me see eye to eye with him. When I have left him, when the magnetism of his presence is removed, the cold fit succeeds, and I see with the eye of Andres Moreno. On the whole, I think I may say I am on the side of law and order." And Farquhar had replied in the same half-jocular vein. "Better stick on that side, old man. Otherwise they will end by taking from you even that little which you have." Since those days of early friendship, the two men had prospered exceedingly. Moreno was a very highly paid journalist. Farquhar was one of the rising members of the junior bar. The young barrister repeated his question. "And you think mischief is brewing, eh?" Moreno raised himself from what appeared to be a deep reverie. It was a peculiarity of the man that suddenly he would relapse into deep meditation, and for the moment seem oblivious of what was going on around him. Then, in a flash, his keen intellect would assert itself, and he would pick up, in a very easy fashion the dropped threads of the previous conversation. "Very serious mischief, old man," he said, in his deep, rather husky tones. He spoke English perfectly, by the way, without the slightest trace of foreign accent. As a matter of fact, he had been born and bred in the country of his mother. "Is it a great secret?" questioned Farquhar. Moreno looked at him kindly. He was very greatly attached to this quiet Englishman, who had taken him by the hand in those early days when some of the brethren of the pen had regarded him as an outsider, and shown their dislike very plainly. "It is to everybody else, but not to you, my old and tried friend. I can trust you not to suck another man's brains. Besides, you are out of the business now. Yes, there are great things going on, in Madrid, Barcelona and Seville. There are also great things going on in a little corner in London, I can assure you." Farquhar lifted his eyebrows, but he made no comment. Moreno would talk when it pleased him. The Spaniard laughed softly, and leaned back in his chair. He was a man of deep and subtle humour, and was continually smiling at the ironies and incongruities of life. "I am going to astonish you now, my good Maurice. To-morrow night I am going to be inducted as a member of an anarchist society in Soho." Farquhar, disturbed in his well-balanced mind, gave a violent start. "Are you mad, Andres? Have you any idea of what you will commit yourself to?" Moreno shrugged his broad shoulders indifferently. "I shall know, and size it all up the day after to-morrow; I am a soldier of fortune, my friend. I am an enterprising journalist-- anything for sensation, anything for `copy.' I shall put my anarchist friends to good use." "And they will kill you while you are doing it, or after you have done it," said Farquhar grimly. "You do not pay a very high compliment to my intelligence, my friend. I think I may say that I am clever. Anarchists are very stupid people. They will suspect each other long before they suspect Andres Moreno." He was a small man, but he looked quite important as he made this boast. Whatever his failings, a want of confidence in himself was not one of them. But Farquhar still appeared dubious. "I was a little doubtful till last night when I saw your friends at the restaurant," went on Moreno, in his slightly husky voice. "You did not introduce me, there was no opportunity for that. I recognised one of them, Guy Rossett, who, I take it, is the fiance of that charming young lady who, you say, is your cousin." Farquhar frowned a little. How quick these foreigners were to guess things. "I have no idea," he said stiffly. "General Clandon is my uncle, and I have been on very intimate terms with him and his family since I was a child. If there were any engagement, I think I should have been informed." Moreno noticed the frown, the stiffness in the tone. He went on smoothly. "I may be jumping at conclusions rather too hastily, but I will tell you how I arrived at them. I happen to know that Guy Rossett is appointed to the Embassy at Madrid. With his sister, he dines with this charming girl and a man, obviously her father. It looks to me like a farewell dinner, and at a restaurant which is excellent, but certainly not fashionable. They wanted to escape observation, otherwise a man in Rossett's position, and he was certainly the host, would have been at the Ritz." "And what do you deduce from these profound observations, worthy of Sherlock Holmes himself?" asked Farquhar a little testily. Moreno answered slowly. He could see that his friend was troubled, but he had gone too far to recede. "I should say there was a secret understanding between the young people, approved of by the girl's father, and the man's sister. Probably they are still waiting for the Earl's consent to an open engagement." Farquhar, to hide his agitation, swallowed his whiskey and soda in one draught, and chewed viciously at the end of his cigar. "You may be right," he said, speaking with forced calm. "Well, let us get back to your anarchists. What has made you join them?" Moreno reflected a moment before he spoke. "I happen to know that young Rossett was in possession of some very exclusive information about this particular plot. That is one of the reasons why he has been sent to Spain." "And where do you come in?" questioned Farquhar. Moreno smiled. "It is as much curiosity as anything. The anarchists know that Rossett knows a good deal about them. Now, I want to find out how they are going to act when Rossett finds himself in Madrid, you see." "And you'll find it out before you are many hours older, cunning old devil that you are," said Farquhar, with an appreciative smile. "Well, let me know how you get on. Isobel Clandon is my cousin, and I can't help feeling interested in all this, especially if what you suggest about her and Rossett is true." When Moreno had left, the ambitious young barrister sat thinking deeply. He had loved his cousin for years, not perhaps with any great overmastering passion, but with that steady affection which might be expected from a man of his grave and cautious temperament. He was prepared to speak when the time was ripe, when his prospects and circumstances permitted him to offer Isobel a proper home. Moreno's words troubled him, and he had an uneasy suspicion that the Spaniard, with his swift intelligence, had accurately gauged the situation. The fruit which might have been his for the mere stretching out of the hand--had it been plucked by somebody more impetuous, more energetic than himself? This he must learn as soon as possible. Moreno's words had suddenly roused him to action. He was now blaming in his mind, those very traits on which he had been wont to pride himself, his scrupulousness, his excessive caution. He had always thought that Isobel liked him, that she would not be reluctant to entertain his advances, when he had judged the time was right to make them. And, of course, he had been a fool. He had not looked at the position from the girl's point of view. A girl, however much she may be inclined towards a man, is not disposed to wait indefinitely while he is making up his mind, nicely balancing pros and cons. He had never thought of anybody else for his wife. But he had reckoned too surely on the fact that she was waiting quietly in that little home at Eastbourne, till he chose to make love to her. He wired to General Clandon the next morning, explaining that he had a couple of days' leisure; might he run down? There came back the cordial reply, "Come at once. Delighted." Truth to tell, the General was both proud and fond of his nephew, the son of his favourite sister. He might have thought at times that the young man was a little too grave and serious for his years, he had always seemed singularly free from the follies of youth. But he had the greatest respect for his sterling qualities, for his high principles and character. Father and daughter met him at the station. Isobel liked him very much. There was a time when liking might have been converted into a warmer feeling. But, speaking in vulgar parlance, Maurice had failed through his over-scrupulousness, his too nice weighing of possibilities and probabilities, to strike while the iron was hot. And then Guy Rossett, ardent, impetuous, the beau ideal of a lover, had carried her off her feet, and her cousin was hardly a memory, so much did she live in the radiance of the present. He had a most dainty dinner. Isobel was a wonderful housekeeper, and could accomplish wonders on a very limited income. Maurice, his desire sharpened by his forebodings, thought what a perfect wife she would make, uniting the decorative with the practical. After dinner she left the men alone to their wine and cigars. Farquhar was not long in coming to the point. It was typical of his rather staid and old-fashioned way of regarding things that, even in the delicate matter of love, the correct method was to approach the parent first. "I wonder, uncle, if you have ever thought of me in the light of a future son-in-law?" The General looked a little embarrassed. Not very long ago, that aspect of his nephew had presented itself to him, and the prospect was not unpleasing. He had a shrewd notion that Maurice was very attached to his pretty cousin, and was marking time for some quite honourable and justifiable reasons. Of Isobel he was not at all sure. Maurice had every good quality from a man's point of view, but he was not quite the stuff out of which romantic and compelling lovers are made. And her father was certain that Isobel was full of romance. The General answered slowly, and with a caution worthy of Maurice himself. "I might have thought about it some time ago, my boy. I fancied then that you were greatly attached. Let me see, it was some three or four years ago that I formed that opinion, I think." "Yes," said Maurice, speaking with a quiet bitterness. "I suppose it was about then that I showed my feelings, as far as I am capable of showing them, plainly. But there were reasons why I did not speak then, reasons that I still think good ones." "I am sure of that, my dear boy," said the uncle kindly. He guessed now the reason of this visit, that sudden telegram. "At that time I was making headway, it is true, but my position was by no means assured. You know the smallness of my patrimony, and what I earned outside was inconsiderable. I did not feel justified in asking a girl to wait, on the chance of prospects that might never come to fruition." "Quite right, quite honourable!" murmured the poor General, dreading the inevitable end of this discourse. Maurice was stating the case, rather as if he were addressing a jury, but there was no doubt he meant business. Even a man of his cautious temperament could now safely allow himself the luxury of matrimony, that was evident from this preamble. "It has always been my one thought to marry Isobel, assuming that she would have me, the moment I was in a position to take a wife. That moment has now arrived; I have no fears of the future. The question arises, am I too late?" The General was terribly embarrassed by this direct question. He was a most straightforward man, he loathed subterfuge. But what was he to do? The engagement of his daughter to Guy Rossett was a secret one. He was, in honour bound, to give neither of them away. He temporised weakly. "Have you spoken to Isobel about this?" "No," came the answer. "I thought it was right to approach you first." "Exactly, exactly," stammered the poor father. "Very right and proper, of course. But you had better put it to Isobel, and see what she says. Of course, you understand there is no opposition on my part." Farquhar looked at him keenly. Yes, Moreno's suspicions were justified. There was a secret engagement. The General had thrown the onus on his daughter. She could tell as much or as little as she pleased. "Thanks," he said quietly. "I will speak to Isobel to-morrow morning." The next day, in a little sheltered arbour in the not too extensive garden, he asked his cousin to marry him. He explained to her, as he had explained to her father, the reasons which had held him back. She listened to him with composure. She was dimly aware that, a few years ago, this declaration of love would have set her cheeks aflame, her heart beating. To-day, it left her regretful, but cold. "I am dreadfully sorry, Maurice. I am very, very fond of you, but not in that way. I look upon you as a brother, a very dear brother." There was decision and finality in the low, gentle tones. It was a bitter disappointment. He had always fancied in his masculine optimism that Isobel was waiting ready to fall into his arms, when he had made up his mind to ask her. It was a bitter disappointment, but he bore it with his usual stoicism. Ambition was the greater factor in his life; love would always play a subordinate part. Still, Isobel's refusal had taken something away that could never be replaced. There was a long pause. He was the first to break the silence. "Your affections are engaged. You are in love with somebody else?" A vivid flush overspread the fair face. "It is quite true, I love somebody else." "The man you were dining with, Guy Rossett?" replied Farquhar quietly. "Ah, you have guessed! But it is quite a secret. My father knows. His sister knows. His father is obstinate and prejudiced; he wants him to marry a woman in his own world. We are waiting for his consent." "I quite understand," said Farquhar gloomily. "I am too late, I can see. Honestly, Isobel, had I asked you, say, a year ago, would your answer have been different?" Her frank and candid gaze met his steadfast glance. "I fancy I should have said yes, Maurice. But I am not certain it would have been real love; you see, I have known so few men. Guy has revealed a new world to me." Farquhar sighed. He was eloquent enough in the courts, but he was dumb in the presence of women. This handsome young diplomatist had spoken to her in a language that she readily understood. He silently said good-bye to his dream, the fair dream of the future which was to be glorified by Isobel Clandon's gracious presence. "So that is all over. Well, Isobel, I hope you will always allow me to be your very good friend." She reached out her hand impulsively and laid it on his. "Oh, yes, please, Maurice. You will always be a dear, kind brother, won't you?" "Perhaps some day I may be able to help you. I have just learned there is some danger threatening Guy Rossett." Her face blanched. She turned to him an imploring glance. "Danger threatening Guy. Oh, please tell me, quickly." With a bitter pang, he realised in that anguished utterance a full sense of the love which he had lost, of the youthful heart which he had allowed another man to capture. In a few brief sentences, he told her what Moreno had related to him. CHAPTER FIVE. At the period at which this story opens, there stood in Gerrard Street, Soho, a small, unpretentious restaurant, frequented almost exclusively by foreigners. Over the front was written the name of Maceda. Luis Maceda, a tall, grave man of dignified aspect, with carefully trimmed beard and moustache, was the proprietor. He was a Spaniard, with the suave and courteous manners of that picturesque nation. The majority of his customers were his compatriots. The few Englishmen who found their way there spoke highly of him and the cuisine. At the same time, one or two of the prominent officials of the Secret Service kept a wary eye upon Maceda and his friends. It was about half-past six on the evening following the interview between Moreno and Farquhar that Maceda, grave, upright, and dignified, looking younger than his fifty years, stood near the entrance door of the small restaurant, awaiting the arrival of early diners. He was one of the old-fashioned type of restaurant keepers who kept a vigilant eye on his subordinates, went round to every table, inquiring of his patrons if they were well served. In short, he made his customers his friends. Through the open doors entered Andres Moreno. He lunched and dined at a dozen different places, but usually twice a week he went to Maceda's. The cuisine was French, to suit all tastes, but there were always some special Spanish dishes, to oblige those who were still Spaniards at heart. The pair were old friends. Moreno extended his hand. "How goes it, Maceda? But it always goes well with you. You look after your patrons so well." For a few moments the two men conversed in Spanish, which Moreno, through his father, could speak perfectly. Then, after a pause, the journalist spoke a single word--it was a password, that Maceda understood instantly. A sudden light came into the proprietor's eyes. He smiled genially, but gravely, as was his wont. "So you are with us, at last," he said. "A thousand welcomes, my friend. We want men like you. I was told there would be a new member to-night, but the name was not divulged. This way." The restaurant keeper led him up a narrow staircase--the house was a very old one--to a big room on the second floor. A long table stood in the middle of the apartment, on which were set bowls of flowers and dishes of fruit. Moreno looked around gratefully. As far as creature comforts went, he was going to have a pleasant evening. Maceda was evidently going to do his best. Maceda pointed to a little side-room. "It is there the initiation will be performed at seven. At half-past, dinner will be served. After dinner, the business of the meeting will take place. You are a bit early. I know this much, that you are here on the introduction of Emilio Lucue." "Quite right," answered Moreno easily. "It was Lucue who persuaded me to the right way." Maceda raised his hands in admiration at the mention of that name. "Ah, what a man, what a genius!" he cried in fervent tones. "If our cause ever triumphs, if the world-wide revolution is ever brought about--and sometimes, my friend, I feel very disheartened--it is men like Lucue who will make it a possibility." "Trust to Lucue," answered Moreno, in his easy way. "If he can't do it, nobody can." Maceda moved towards the door. "Excuse me that I can no longer keep you company. But business is business, you know. I must be there to welcome my patrons. Maceda's restaurant is nothing without Maceda. You know that. My subordinates are good, and do their best, but it is my personality that keeps the thing going. If I am away for ten minutes, everything hangs fire." Moreno waved a cheerful hand at him. "Do not stand upon ceremony, my good old friend. I shall be quite happy here till the others arrive. No doubt I shall see you later." The proprietor walked to the door, with his long, slow stride. "The three will be here at seven to initiate you. I shall run up for a few moments now and again during the dinner. The two men who will wait upon you are, of course, members of our society. I shall hope to be present, if only for a brief space, at the meeting. Once again, a thousand welcomes." Maceda shut the door carefully. Moreno was left alone, in the long, narrow room. He gave vent to a low whistle, when Maceda was out of earshot. "The old boy takes it very seriously," so ran his reflections. "I suppose they will all take it quite as seriously. Anyway, they intend to do themselves well. I wonder where the money comes from? And I further wonder if I shall meet anybody whom one would the least expect to find in such a venture." On the stroke of seven Lucue arrived, a fine, handsome man of imposing presence. He was accompanied by two men, one an Italian, the other a Russian. It was evidently going to be a meeting of many nations. Lucue greeted the journalist with a friendly smile. "Ah, my friend, you are before us. That is a good sign. I hope you do not feel nervous." Moreno answered truthfully that he did not. The whole thing appealed greatly to his sense of humour. Here were a dozen anarchists, meeting in a small restaurant in Soho, and pluming themselves upon the idea that, from their obscure vantage-ground, they could blow up the world into fragments and overpower the forces of law and order, to bring it into accordance with their wild dreams. The four men went into the ante-room. Here the solemn rights of initiation were performed with perfect seriousness. Afterwards, when he reflected on the subject, Moreno remembered that he had taken some very blood-curdling oaths. His gay and easy temperament was not greatly affected by the fact. He had been in the pay of the Secret Service before; he was in its pay now. A man must take risks, if he wanted to make a good living. Besides, he loved adventure. If the apparently genial Lucue ever had cause to suspect him, then Lucue would stick a knife into his ribs without the slightest compunction. But he felt sure he was the cleverer of the two, and that Lucue would suspect every member of the fraternity before himself. The somewhat tedious initiation over, the four men went into the dining-room. Most of the members had arrived. The two waiters were bringing up the soup. Moreno recognised with a start the portly form of Jackson, otherwise Juan Jaques, the moneylender of Dover Street. Lucue had told him that the common language was French, in order to accommodate all nationalities. Moreno addressed him. "I don't think you remember me, Mr Jackson. I had the pleasure of introducing young Harry Mount Vernon to you some months ago, when he was wanting a little of the ready. He has always spoken in the highest terms of you." Mr Jackson, always suave and genial, bowed and smiled. But it was evident he was searching the recesses of his memory. Moreno helped him out of his difficulty. "I am Andres Moreno, a Fleet Street journalist, who mixes with all sorts and conditions of men." "Ah, I remember now." Jackson, to call him by his assumed name, shook him cordially by the hand. "And so, you are one of us?" "Yes, very much so," replied Moreno quietly. "Our friend Lucue converted me to the good cause. He is a wonderful man." Jackson repeated the enthusiasm of Maceda. "A genius, my dear friend, an absolute genius. If the great cause triumphs, it will be due to him." Another worshipper, thought Moreno, with a quiet, inward chuckle. They were all certainly very serious, with a whole-hearted worship of their leader. The great leader looked round the room with his broad, genial smile. "All here, except the two ladies," he said. "We must wait for the ladies. It is their privilege to be late. We must exercise patience." As he spoke, two women entered the room, one obviously a Frenchwoman, the other as obviously an Englishwoman. Jackson darted across the apartment, a somewhat grotesque figure, bowed to the foreigner, and shook the Englishwoman cordially by the hand. "Always late, my dear Violet," he said, "but better late than never." Then Lucue bustled up, and took the situation in hand. "Now, Jackson, you mustn't monopolise one of the two charming young women in the room. I want my new friend, Moreno, to sit next his half-compatriot, because, as you know, although his father was Spanish, his mother was English." The pretty Englishwoman bowed, and they took their seats together at the flower and fruit-laden table. Lucue, probably through inadvertence had not mentioned the woman's name. Moreno stole cautious glances at his companion. She was certainly very charming to look at; her age he guessed at anything from five and twenty to thirty. Where had he seen her before? Her face was quite familiar to him. And then recollection came back to him. A big bazaar in the Albert Hall, stalls with dozens of charming women. And one particular stall where this particular woman was serving, and he had been struck with her, and inquired her name of a brother journalist, who was a great expert on the social side. He turned to her, speaking in English. "Our good friend Lucue was rather perfunctory in his introduction. He mentioned my name, but he did not give yours. Am I not right in saying that I am speaking to Mrs Hargrave?" Violet Hargrave shot at him a glance that was slightly tinged with suspicion. "I think we had better talk in French, if you don't mind--it is the rule here. It might annoy others if we didn't. Where did you know me, and what do you know about me?" Moreno felt on sure ground at once. He was dealing with a woman of the world. In two minutes, he could put her at her ease. "I am a journalist, rather well-known in Fleet Street." "Yes, I know that," answered Violet a little impatiently. "Lucue mentioned your name, and it is, as you say, a well-known one. But you have not answered my question. Where did you first know me?" Moreno explained the little incident of the Albert Hall Bazaar. "I see, then, you rather singled me out from the others," said Mrs Hargrave, and this time the glance was more coquettish than suspicious. "But I am more interested in this--what do you know about me?" Moreno put his cards on the table at once. "We journalists pick up a lot of odd information. I know that you are an intimate friend of our friend Jackson, otherwise Juan Jaques, and one of us; and that to a certain extent you help him in his business, by introducing valuable clients." "Oh, you know that, do you?" Mrs Hargrave's tone was quite friendly. She respected brains, and this dark-faced young Anglo-Spaniard was not only good-looking, but very clever. "Tell me some more." "Well, I know that you still live in Mount Street, that you married Jack Hargrave, who was never supposed by his friends to have any visible means of subsistence. Also that at one time, you were a great friend of Guy Rossett, the man who has just been appointed to Madrid." "Oh, then you know Guy Rossett?" "No," answered Moreno quietly. "I don't move in such exalted circles. But I always hear of what is going on in high society, through my influential friends." She looked at him quizzically. "Have you many influential friends?" she asked, with just a touch of sarcasm in her pleasant, low-pitched voice. A slight flush dyed Moreno's swarthy cheek at what he considered her impertinent question. "More perhaps than you would think possible," he answered stiffly. She read in his nettled tone that she had wounded his _amour propre_. She hastened to make amends. She was always a little too prone to speak without reflection. "Oh please don't think I meant to be rude. But we soldiers of fortune, and all of us here are that, are not likely to have many friends in high places." The journalist paid her back in her own coin. "Not real friends, of course. But still, we swim about in many cross currents. You yourself have a certain position in a certain section of what we might call semi-smart society." Violet Hargrave laughed good-humouredly. She was liberal-minded in this respect, that she seldom resented a thrust at herself when she had been the aggressor. "Very neatly put. I have no illusions about my actual position. I am not sure that my particular circle is even semi-smart, except in its own estimation." So peace was restored between them, and they chatted gaily together during the progress of the meal. She had taken a great liking to the brainy young journalist. And Moreno, on his side, was forced to admit that she was a very attractive woman. The grave and dignified Maceda, looking more like a nobleman than the proprietor of an obscure restaurant, came up a few times, and talked in confidential whispers with the principal guests. He chatted longest with Lucue and the handsome young Frenchwoman, Valerie Delmonte, who, Moreno learned afterwards, stood high in the councils and the estimation of the society. After dinner, the waiters withdrew, the men smoked, and the two ladies produced dainty cigarette cases. Then the business of the evening began. The genial Lucue, who looked the least ferocious of anarchists, opened the proceedings. He gave a brief but lucid survey of what was going on abroad, of the methods by which the great gospel of freedom was being spread in different capitals. The young Frenchwoman, Valerie Delmonte, who had dined well on the most expensive viands, delivered a fiery and passionate harangue against the great ones of the earth, the parasites and bloodsuckers who existed on the toil of their poorer brethren. Her speech roused the assembly to enthusiasm, Mr Jackson being particularly fervent in his applause. No doubt, he believed himself to be a philanthropist, insomuch as he levied his exactions on the leisured classes; thus, in a measure, redressing the balance of human wrongs. Moreno applauded with hardly less fervour than the moneylender, and he was pleased to note that the eloquent Valerie shot a grateful glance at him. He had already gained the confidence of Lucue. He felt sure, from the reception accorded her, that she was only second to the great man himself. If he could secure her good graces, his position would be safe. Some business, not of great importance, was discussed. Certain projects were put to the vote. On one subject, Lucue and Mademoiselle Valerie dissented from the majority. Moreno decided with the two, and the majority reversed its verdict. Violet Hargrave was, perhaps, the least enthusiastic of the party. Truth to tell, she was studying the young journalist very intently. He interested her greatly. The proceedings ended. A meeting was arranged for next week at the same place, when two members of the brotherhood were expected to arrive from Barcelona with the latest reports of what was happening in Spain. After a little desultory chatting in groups, Maceda's guests prepared to depart. Moreno held out his hand to Mrs Hargrave. He bore the air of a man who had thoroughly enjoyed himself, as in truth he had. "A most delightful evening. I can only hope you will sit beside me next week. But that I fear is too much to hope for. I expect our good friend Lucue arranges these things with a sense of equity." Mrs Hargrave smiled. "I expect next time he will put you next to Mademoiselle Delmonte." Ignoring his outstretched hand, she added abruptly, "Are you doing anything after this?" "I was only going on to my club for an hour or two. We journalists are not very early birds." Mrs Hargrave spoke with her most charming smile. "Then get me a taxi, and drive with me to my flat in Mount Street. I should like to have a little chat with you." Moreno was delighted to accompany her. He was eager to know more of this fascinating and enigmatical woman. He was puzzled by her. How did she live; on what did she live? Was she at heart an anarchist? Or, sudden thought, was she playing the same game as himself? He had noticed her lack of enthusiasm over the events of the evening. Arrived in Mount Street, she produced her latchkey, and ushered him into her luxurious flat, the abode of a well-off woman. She turned into the drawing-room, and switched on the electric light. She threw her cloak on a chair and rang the bell. When the maid appeared in answer, she ordered her to bring refreshment. She mixed a whiskey and soda for Moreno with her own slender dainty hands. She mixed a very small portion for herself, to keep him company. "I very rarely take anything of this sort, just a glass of very light wine at lunch or dinner," she explained. "But to-night is a somewhat exceptional one. To your health, Mr Moreno. I hope we may meet often." The journalist responded in suitable terms. He was very attracted by her, but he was not quite sure that he desired a close acquaintance. He had heard from his young friend Mount Vernon of her bridge parties, and the fact that people lost large sums of money there. She was evidently of a most hospitable nature, but she might prove a very expensive hostess. They chatted for some time on different topics. Then, after a brief space, she suddenly burst out with a question. "What do you know of Guy Rossett?" Moreno shrugged his shoulders. "Next to nothing. I only know what everybody knows, that he has been sent to Madrid." Question and answer followed swiftly. "Do you know why he has been sent to Madrid?" "No. I suppose it is owing to his family influence." "Has Lucue told you nothing?" "Up to the present nothing." She looked at him keenly. Was he fencing? No, she felt sure he was speaking the truth. "Then I will tell you. Guy Rossett is being sent to Spain because he has obtained some very important information about the brotherhood. They want him on the spot, as just now Madrid and Barcelona are two very active centres." Moreno leaned forward, and looked at her steadily. He could not, at present, make up his mind about her. She was an Englishwoman living in fairly luxurious conditions. What had she in common with this anarchist crew. "Have you got any idea who gave him the information?" Violet Hargrave returned his keen glance with equal steadiness. "Not the slightest. But there are always traitors in any association of this kind." "And when they are discovered, the penalty is death." Moreno spoke quietly, but he felt an inward shiver. After all, was he so certain he was going to outwit Lucue and his brother fanatics. "The penalty is death. You have been initiated to-night, and you know that," was Violet Hargrave's answer. The journalist felt a little uneasy. He had suspected her. Did she, in turn, suspect him? But he preserved an unbroken front. "They deserve it," he said, with unblushing audacity. Mrs Hargrave bent forward, and spoke with intensity. "Guy Rossett may prove very dangerous. I think Lucue and Mademoiselle Delmonte, from the few words I have exchanged with them to-night, have resolved on a certain course of action." "Ah!" The journalist also bent forward, in an attitude of simulated eagerness. When Mrs Hargrave spoke again, she looked a different woman. Over her face came a hard, vindictive look. The dainty, almost doll-like prettiness had disappeared. "Guy Rossett must be got out of the way, before he can do much mischief." And Moreno, with his swift intuition, at once grasped the situation. This slender, feminine thing, with her soft ways and graces, was a revengeful and scorned woman. She had loved Rossett, and he had refused to accept her love. He shuddered in his soul to think that the spirit of revenge could carry a woman to such lengths. But he had only to play his part. It would never do to let her know that he suspected, or the tigress's claws would rend himself. "A regrettable but inexorable necessity," he said calmly. "If Rossett menaces the schemes of the brotherhood, he must be got out of the way." CHAPTER SIX. "You got all this information from perfectly reliable sources, Rossett?" The question was asked by the Honourable Percy Stonehenge, His Majesty's Ambassador to the Spanish Court, as the two men sat together in the Ambassador's private room. "Perfectly reliable, sir. I have given you in strict confidence the names of my informants. They are not the sort of men who make mistakes." Mr Stonehenge, true type of the urbane and courteous diplomatist, a man of old family, knitted his brow, and pondered a little before he spoke again. "I had a private letter from Greatorex about this matter. There is no doubt great activity everywhere, but especially in this country. Well, the information you have collected is most valuable. It will be given to the King and his advisers, and they must take the best measures they can." Stonehenge shook his head sadly, after a prolonged pause. "Revolution, my dear fellow, is in the air all over Europe. Even in our commonsense and law-abiding country, there are ominous growlings and mutterings. Everywhere, the proletariat is getting out of hand. Sometimes I feel grateful that I am an old man, that what I dread is coming will not come in my time." Rossett assented gravely. He was taking himself quite seriously now. His deep love for Isobel Clandon had purified him of light fancies. His promotion to this post at Madrid had suggested to him that he might bid adieu to frivolous pursuits, and do a man's work in the world, prove himself a worthy citizen of that vast British Empire of which he was justly proud. Personally, he would have preferred Paris or Rome, or even Vienna. But, at the same time, he was greatly attracted by Spain. A small nation now, it had once been a great one, attaining its zenith under the reign of Ferdinand and Isabella. It had produced great geniuses in the immortal domain of the arts--Cervantes, Lopez de Vega, Murillo. Once it had lain prostrate under the iron heel of the Conqueror. Napoleon, who had overrun all Europe, had subjugated the once invincible Spain, crushing her and governing her through the puppet King, his brother, Joseph Bonaparte. Then had come the time of liberation, and the thunder of the British guns, under the leadership of Wellington, had freed her from the foreign yoke. Rossett was very delighted with his chief, one of those sane men of affairs, a perfect aristocrat with just sufficient business instinct, who can safely be appointed to an important post. A man who thought clearly, saw far ahead, and made few mistakes, a man at once calm, temperate, and equable. This Ambassador, on his side, had welcomed him warmly. With the natural prejudice of his class, he always preferred his colleagues to come from the old governing families; they thought his thoughts, they spoke his language. If sometimes they lacked a little in brains and initiative, they had a large balance on the right side in deportment and integrity, two very important assets, especially in a monarchical country. Besides, he was an old friend of Lord Saxham. They had been colleagues together in their youth. Lord Saxham was of a too violent and volcanic temperament to rise high in the diplomatic or any other profession. Had he possessed a little more balance, he might have sat in many cabinets. But no Prime Minister who knew his business could run the risk of including him. But, none the less, he exercised a certain outside influence. Rossett wrote every day to his beloved Isobel; if he had time, long letters; if diplomatic affairs were pressing, short ones, assuring her of his unalterable affection. Isobel wrote every day also, most voluminous epistles, covering six or eight sheets of the flimsy notepaper. He wrote once a week to his dear sister, Mary, only second in his heart to Isobel. And Mary also replied at great length, but she was not quite so voluminous as Isobel. Her letters were generally taken up with reviewing, with her kind, gentle humour, the tantrums of her father, who appeared to be growing more explosive than ever. Rossett had exchanged one letter with his father, to which he got a reply. Lord Saxham was not a great letter-writer, he kept to the point, and used as few words as possible. "Glad to hear you are getting on with Stonehenge--a very good fellow! Stick to it, my dear boy, and I will work for you at this end with Greatorex. We shall see you an Ambassador yet." Guy smiled when he got this brief reply. He knew as well as Mary that his father did not care twopence as to whether he got on in his profession or not. He was only glad his son was out in Spain, because his sojourn in that country separated him from Isobel Clandon. How frightfully obstinate he was! He often longed for his sweetheart, but still the days were very pleasant. He speedily found himself popular in the society of Madrid. He had been received graciously by the King, who knew England well, equally graciously by the Queen, in her maidenhood a Princess of our own British stock. One man in particular had sought to attach himself to him, a man a few years older than himself, a certain Duke del Pineda. Pineda was a handsome-looking fellow who bore himself well, dressed immaculately, and was received at Court and by the best society. Unquestionably, so far as birth and antecedents were concerned, he was a Spanish Grandee of the first water. And his manners were charming. But, all the same, there were certain whispers about him. To begin with, it was well-known that he was impecunious. And a Spanish duke, like an English one, is always looked at askance when he is suspected of impecuniosity. A Duke has no reason to be short of ready money. Stonehenge, who had watched the growing intimacy between the two men, spoke to Rossett one day about it. "You seem very great friends with Pineda, I observe, Guy." The Ambassador had fallen into the habit of calling him by his Christian name. Rossett looked at his chief squarely. "Yes, sir, we go about a good deal together. Of course, you have a reason in putting the question." "He is not on the list of `suspects' you gave me." Guy smiled quietly. "No, but I think he will be very soon." Mr Stonehenge gave a sigh of relief. "I see you know your business. I don't know that Pineda has yet definitely decided, but he will swim with the tide. If there is a revolution he will try to lead it, like Mirabeau. In the meantime, he keeps in with both parties." "I have led him on to a few disclosures already," observed Rossett. "Ah, that is good. I can see that if you stick to it, you will fly high. Of course, you know he is as poor as a church mouse." There was a little grimness in Rossett's smile as he answered: "I am quite sure of that." Stonehenge looked at him keenly. "Ah, I don't want to be curious, but he has borrowed money of you?" The other nodded. "A trifle, sir. I thought it was worth it. I shall lose it, of course, and although I have done it in the interests of my country, I don't suppose the Government will make it up to me." The Ambassador laughed. "Virtue is its own reward in this profession, my dear Guy. They can subscribe any amount to the party funds, but they won't give an extra penny to the men who serve them well. Anyway, I am glad you have taken the measure of Pineda. He has really no brains." "An absolute ass," corrected Rossett, "an absolute ass, with more than a normal share of vanity." "A most accurate description," assented the chief. "But, with his birth and connections, he might temporarily make a decent figurehead. Monarchies have had their _rois faineants_. Revolutions when they start have upper class and middle-class puppets to lead them. Afterwards, as we know, these are displaced by the extreme element." Rossett had found no difficulty in financing the impecunious Spanish grandee. For Great-Aunt Henrietta, on hearing of his promotion, had forwarded him a very substantial cheque. Out of this, he had paid off Mr Jackson, and was able to take up his new post with a clean sheet. Needless to say that his sister Mary, the most honourable of women, was delighted at the position of affairs. While events were progressing in Spain, Moreno the journalist had called on his old friend Farquhar at the familiar chambers in the Temple. It was a few days after Moreno's initiation into the brotherhood by Lucue-- the initiation which had been followed by that very significant interview with Violet Hargrave. The visitor's keen glance detected at once that his old friend looked gloomy and depressed. And, in truth, Farquhar was in no jubilant mood. His rejection by his pretty cousin, Isobel, the knowledge that another man had secured what he so coveted, was weighing upon him heavily. He pulled himself together on Moreno's entrance, and extended a cordial hand. He was a very reticent man, and always hid his feelings as much as possible. "Great things have happened since I last saw you, my friend," cried the journalist gaily. "I am now a full-fledged member of the brotherhood, the great brotherhood. You remember I told you I was going to be initiated?" Yes, Farquhar remembered. Moreno had mentioned the fact, and he had been interested. He had thought at the time his friend was running great risks, but no doubt the journalist was playing his own game in his own subtle way. Since that conversation, his own affairs had made him forgetful of everything save the daily duties of his profession, duties which he never neglected. He smiled genially. "When are you going to blow us all up? You haven't brought a bomb in your pocket by any chance?" Moreno shook his head. "Much too crude, my good old friend. We work in a more subtle way than that, by peaceful and pacific means." He knew Maurice Farquhar well enough, so sure was he of the sterling character of the man, to trust him with his life. This reserved, somewhat priggish barrister would no more reveal a confidence than a Roman Catholic priest would betray the secrets of the confessional. At the same time a man in his delicate and dangerous position must be doubly and trebly cautious. He must put even Farquhar off the scent, till the day arrived when he could speak freely. He spoke a moment after, in a rather abrupt tone. "Forgive me for putting a certain question to you, and, believe me, it is not dictated from any spirit of impertinent curiosity. You remember our meeting your cousin and Guy Rossett? I told you I formed certain conclusions with regard to their relationship. Have you by any chance had an opportunity of testing the accuracy of the opinion I formed?" For a moment Farquhar was at the point of telling this most inquisitive journalist to mind his own business, and not to pry into matters that, to all appearances, were no concern of his. Then he remembered that he had known the man for many years, and during the period of a very intimate acquaintance he had never known him guilty of a breach of good taste. Moreno had expressly stated he was animated with no spirit of impertinent curiosity. In short, he had apologised for putting the question. He then had some subtle and convincing reason for putting it. Farquhar spoke more frankly than he had at first thought would be possible under the circumstances. "After what you said, I made it my business to inquire. I am very greatly attached to my uncle and cousin. Whatever affects the welfare of either is deeply interesting to me." He paused a few seconds. It was hard to admit to Moreno that his suspicions were justified. And he was gaining a little time by expressing himself in these cautious and judicial words, words of course which told the keen young journalist what he wanted to know, without need of further speech. "It is, as you surmised, an absolute secret to all but a very few," resumed Farquhar, after that brief pause. "You diagnosed the situation perfectly. Rossett's father is, at the present moment, the stumbling-block." "Thanks for your perfect frankness," answered Moreno easily. The next question was one still more difficult to put, for he had guessed the situation as regards Farquhar quite easily. The barrister was in love with Isobel Clandon himself, had delayed too long in his wooing, and too late learned the bitter truth, that a more enterprising lover had carried her off. "I take it that since you are greatly attached to your cousin, as well as your uncle, you would be disposed to help Rossett, in the event of his needing a friend?" There was no reserve in the voice that replied. "Yes, any man whom my cousin loves, whether he is her lover or husband, will find in me a friend." Moreno nodded his head. He could not say how much he appreciated this attitude, for he was sure that Farquhar was genuinely in love with Isobel. And he was sure now of what he had known all along, that the man was perfectly straight and honest, devoid of any petty or dishonouring meanness. Self-sacrifice could go no further than this--to assist Isobel's lover. "I am very glad to hear that, Farquhar. For the moment, my lips are sealed. Even to you, my greatest friend, I cannot tell all. But the day may come when danger will threaten Guy Rossett. It will be well then to know who are the friends on whom he can rely. It may be, when that day comes, you can help, perhaps you cannot. But, if you can, I shall count upon you." "I have given you my promise," replied Farquhar simply. "For the sake of Isobel Clandon, I will help Guy Rossett, if my assistance is of any use." A couple of hours later, Moreno left his friend's chambers, after talking on other and impersonal subjects. Shortly after that interview between the two men, there was a meeting at Maceda's restaurant. It was a special function, convened especially by the great Lucue himself. There were only six people present, the chief himself, Maceda, who, on this very particular occasion, had delegated the conduct of his establishment to his second in command, Jackson, otherwise Jacques the moneylender, the Frenchwoman, Valerie Delmonte, Violet Hargrave, and Andres Moreno, the latest recruit. The repast this time was of a much simpler nature. It lacked the elegance and profusion characteristic of the ordinary assemblages, when the affairs of the brotherhood was discussed in a general fashion. It was evident from these symptoms, concluded Moreno, that something of importance, some stern business was in the air. When the comparatively simple meal had been finished; Lucue opened the proceedings, speaking as usual in French. "I had hoped that our brother from Barcelona, Jaime Alvedero, would have been with us to-night," he explained to his fellow-conspirators. "But grave affairs have detained him. He is, as you know, technically my superior, but he has written to me, authorising me to act with full authority in this very important matter of Guy Rossett. For the benefit of our latest member, Andres Moreno, I will just explain how, at the present moment, this young Englishman is a serious menace to the brotherhood." Moreno looked expectantly in his chief's direction. He already knew a great deal of what Lucue was going to explain at length for the journalist's benefit, but he was too wide-awake to betray this. He appeared profoundly moved by his chief's disclosures. He assumed an expression of the greatest gravity when Lucue had finished, for he knew that this apparently genial and most astute person was watching him narrowly. "It is a very serious menace, his appointment to the Court of Spain, as he will be on the spot," he commented quietly at the conclusion of the long harangue. "It must be counteracted in some way and speedily. As the newest member of this association, it does not become me to offer suggestions. I leave these to wiser and more experienced heads." He looked meaningly at the other three men, who he knew were the acknowledged chiefs of this particular section of the great brotherhood. Lucue indulged in a smile of approval. Like most great men, he was not a little vain, and easily won by judicious flattery. "Our brother Moreno is very modest," he said pleasantly. "But I have no doubt in a short space we shall find him one of our wisest counsellors. Well, ladies and gentlemen, we have a short way with people who try to thwart our well-laid plans." Moreno played splendidly. He knew that, as the newest recruit, and with English blood running in his veins, he had to justify himself. "That is true statesmanship," he said, in a voice of deep conviction. "For although, for the time, we do not hold the reins of power, I am convinced that we are better and more far-seeing statesmen than those whom at the moment misgovern and oppress the world." There was loud applause at this speech. The good-looking Frenchwoman clapped her hands loudly. Jackson and Maceda grunted audible approval. Lucue's aspect grew more benign. Violet Hargrave smiled her charming smile, which might mean anything, approval or disapproval. At least, so Moreno thought. He was not quite sure of her yet. Was she, through some inexplicable warp of temperament, devoted heart and soul to the schemes of this infamous association, or was she, like himself, playing a double game? "Since we are all united on our policy," broke in Lucue's bland tones, "it only remains to settle the means." There was a stir in the small assembly. The Frenchwoman leaned forward eagerly; Moreno did the same. He had no doubt of her fidelity to the cause. He could not follow a safer guide. But after a longer discussion, they were unable to form any settled plan. They all felt it was almost impossible to engineer the matter from England. Finally, they agreed to refer it back to Alvedero, who had the advantage of being on the spot. Then Lucue made a suggestion. "I propose that our comrades, Violet Hargrave and Andres Moreno, set out for Spain to confer with the leaders there. I suggest them for this reason--being partly English, they will be able to move about more freely, be less liable to suspicion on account of that fact." Moreno and Violet Hargrave nodded their heads in confirmation of their acceptance of the task assigned them. Moreno shuddered inwardly, as he recalled the blood-curdling oaths which had been administered to him. On Violet Hargrave's face had come a sudden expression which he could not quite define. He was inclined to think that it reflected a certain happiness in the prospect of doing harm to Guy Rossett. The meeting broke up, and they went down the stairs together. When they reached the door, Violet spoke. "Come to my flat to-night, as you did when you were first initiated," she said, in the voice that sounded so sweet and womanly. "It is evident that you and I are going to be very closely associated,"--she shot at him a coquettish glance--"whether you desire it or not." A man wholly Spanish on his father's side was not likely to be deficient in gallantry. "There is nothing I desire more, Mrs Hargrave. Apart from the importance of our common aims and aspirations, there is nothing in our brief association with the brotherhood that has given me greater pleasure than the fact that I have been enabled to make your acquaintance." They hailed a passing taxi, stepped in, and drove to the flat in Mount Street. CHAPTER SEVEN. Two men sat at a small table in an inferior restaurant in one of the lower quarters of Madrid. One was dressed in the rough garb of a working-man. This was Andres Moreno, who, in his adventurous life, had played many parts. With his sardonic humour he was enjoying this particular role. The danger that he ran added a spice to his enjoyment. The other man, Guy Rossett, was disguised also, but not quite so successfully. Moreno, due to his birth, could never be mistaken for anything but a Spaniard. On the other hand, Rossett could be easily recognised as a member of the bulldog race, a typical Englishman. That morning, at the Embassy, a note had been delivered by a trusted messenger. It was a very brief one, and ran thus: "Dear Mr Rossett,--You will remember a certain evening at the Savoy, when you were dining with your sister, a young lady whose name I will not mention, and her father. My host came over and spoke with you all for a few seconds. I am in Spain on important business. I should like to have a brief chat with you this afternoon." The writer had suggested the meeting in one of the unfashionable quarters of the town. He had appended his initials in a scrawling fashion. But at once recollection had come to Guy Rossett. He remembered that evening distinctly, when Maurice Farquhar had come over to their table, when General Clandon had expressed his displeasure at his nephew's associate, a man of whom Guy had some recollection. The scrawling initials might have stood for anything. But Rossett deciphered them at once. The writer was Andres Moreno, a member of the Secret Service, also often in the pay of Scotland Yard. Guy called for a bottle of wine. Not trusting to the cigars of the country, he produced his own case, and proffered it to the pretended working-man. Moreno waved it away. "We will have cigarettes, if you please," he said, in a low voice. "Very keen eyes are watching us here. If you dangle that case much longer, they will put you down as a rich English milord. We may have to meet here often, and we want to avoid that. You see, I pose as a humble and unprosperous working-man." Rossett bowed to his companion's superior judgment. Moreno knew the ropes better than he did. Cigarettes were called for, and then the Spaniard opened the ball. He spoke in French, in very low tones. "Your friends did not do you a very good service in sending you here, Mr Rossett. At the present moment, yours is a very dangerous post." Rossett did not reply without reflecting. He knew enough of this man to know that he was a trusted member of the Secret Service. But he was intelligent enough to know that, in spite of certain walks in life, nobody can be entirely trusted. "Do you mind explaining a little more fully," he said cautiously. Moreno smiled pleasantly. He appreciated the other's caution. Rossett had a frank, open countenance, but he was not so innocent as he looked. "My dear sir, I will lay my cards on the table with pleasure. I know a good deal about the Foreign Office and its ways. Greatorex sent you over here because you happen to have come into possession of a good deal of useful information about the anarchist business in this country. Am I right?" Guy nodded. "So far, you are right." It was a long time before Moreno spoke again. He wanted to touch upon a delicate question, and he was not sure how far he might venture. If he said what he wanted to say, he was making use of the private information that was given him by Maurice Farquhar. Of course, Moreno, with his swift intuition, had arrived at the conclusion that family influence had been at the back of Rossett's promotion, for certain private reasons. "I take it also that your father, Lord Saxham, had something to do with this appointment." Rossett flushed, and spoke haughtily. He thought this cosmopolitan was presuming. "I am not aware that my father had anything to do with the matter." Moreno assented blandly. "Perhaps, but excuse me for saying that your family might desire to remove you from the society of a certain very charming young lady, in whose company I saw you that night at the Savoy." "What do you know, or guess?" asked Rossett angrily. "Please, Mr Rossett, do not be irate with me. Believe me I am your friend and well-wisher. I cannot tell you as much as I would wish, for, in the double role I am playing, I have to be very cautious." "Please go on," said Rossett, a little mollified by the evident sincerity of his companion. "For certain reasons which I am not at liberty to divulge, I take an interest in the young lady, who, I am sure, is devoted to you, and to whom I am sure you are equally devoted. I should also be pleased to be of service to yourself. You know that I am a member of the Secret Service, and that I regard every Englishman as under my care." "Yes, I know that," assented Rossett a little grudgingly. Like his chief, Mr Stonehenge, he had a rooted distrust of all foreign nations. Was this man playing a double game? Anyway, he seemed to be remarkably well informed. "I suppose you would think it impertinent if I proffered you some very good advice?" was the Spaniard's startling question. Rossett stared at him. Andres Moreno was most certainly a very extraordinary person. And yet there was a certain fascination about the man which enabled him to take extraordinary liberties. "I will tell you when you have offered it," answered the young diplomat curtly. A greasy-looking waiter came up and hovered about the table. Evidently he was wanting to listen to the conversation. Moreno waved him angrily away, speaking in Spanish. "One of the gang," he whispered to Rossett. "The city is honeycombed with them. Perhaps he understands French; we will speak English." He paused a moment before he spoke again. "My advice to you is to clear out of this as quickly as you can, on some pretext or another. Write a private note to Greatorex to recall you; mention my name, he knows me well. Tell your father to pretend to be ill, and get leave of absence to go to his bedside. You understand." "Why should I do this?" queried Guy sharply. Moreno looked at him steadily. "Go home as I advise you, and marry the girl you love. Stay here, and this country, fair as it looks to outward seeming, is likely to provide you with a grave." For a second, Rossett's face blanched. He was young, and death seemed far distant. The ominous words of his companion had brought it very near. "Why, why?" he stammered. His glance sought the sinister figure of the eavesdropping waiter hovering in the background. Moreno looked in the same direction. "You see that scoundrel yonder, whom I chased away just now. He carries a knife always with him; so do hundreds of his fellow ruffians. You are in the black books of the brotherhood. There are several looking out for an opportunity to put you out of the way, because you know too much of them and their doings. Take my advice, and clear out. If you stop here, you have only a dog's chance." Rossett spoke slowly and distinctly, the sturdy bulldog breed asserting itself. "I am sure you mean well. But do you think I would run away before this cowardly pack? Let them do their worst." "Think of the girl you love," pleaded Moreno pensively. He thought the young man was a bit of a fool, but he could not help admiring him. A spasm of pain crossed Rossett's face. On the one hand, home and love, Isobel Clandon for his wife. On the other, flight before the dagger of the anarchist assassin. Was there any doubt as to the choice, to a man of his breed? "I will stay," he said doggedly. "And, if I put the issue to her, Isobel would say the same. I will stay, and, with your help, I will win through to safety." Moreno at this juncture could not help swaggering a little. "You have the best brains of the Secret Service at your disposal," he said, "but you are a heavy charge, Mr Rossett. I should be much happier if you were back in England." "I go back in honour, not as a fugitive," answered Guy quietly, as the two men walked together out of the restaurant. "If that man had known who you were," observed Moreno, as they passed the waiter, "he would have slipped the knife into your ribs. Adieu, my friend. As you have chosen to stay here, we shall meet often. I shall let you know how things are going on." And then, as they were parting, Rossett suddenly arrested him with a question. "But, I say, how do you justify your existence here? What does Fleet Street say to your absence?" Moreno smiled his subtle smile. "My dear friend, I am sending weekly articles up to Fleet Street on this delightful country, and its equally delightful population. In short, I am `booming' Spain. I am the innocent journalist, out on a much needed holiday." Rossett smiled. "You are a very wonderful man. _Au revoir_." That night three letters were written to London. One was from Guy addressed to his sister, and it contained the important question, had his father anything to do with his appointment to Madrid; in other words, did he owe his promotion to anything except his own merits? Mary's reply came back in due course. It was distinctly conciliatory and diplomatic. But, as Mary was not very adapt at telling a lie, the truth peeped through. It was evident to Guy that Lord Saxham had exercised his influence to get his son to Spain, with the view of separating him from Isobel; Guy felt very bitter towards his father. He felt it was something in the nature of a dirty trick, diplomatic perhaps, but none the less of a questionable nature. Moreno wrote two letters. The first was to Lady Mary Rossett. He had not even been introduced to that charming young woman, but such an elementary fact as that did not deter him. He explained who he was, he recalled the evening at the Savoy. He pointed out that her brother was in great danger, and that she should use all the influence of her family to get Guy recalled on some pretext or another. He added that he had met Guy in Madrid and urged this course upon him, that Guy on scenting danger, with the stubborn pride of the Englishman, had refused to abandon his post. The second letter he sent to the head of the English Secret Service with a request that it should be shown to Greatorex. The motive of the second letter was the same as the first, that Guy Rossett should be got out of harm's way, before an anarchist knife should be dug in his ribs. Mary took the letter to her father. She was very genuinely alarmed; she also had a faint recollection of the swarthy young Spaniard who had sat at an adjoining table on that well-remembered evening at the Savoy. He had mentioned in his letter that he was a member of the Secret Service. She was disposed to trust him. She thrust the letter into Lord Saxham's hand with an almost tragic gesture. "Now, father, you can see what you have done by sending him over to Spain. That wily old Greatorex wanted to use him just for his own purpose, and you fell in pat with his scheme." Lord Saxham read the letter, and his face blanched. "Oh, my poor boy," he groaned. His daughter loved him, but at the bottom of her heart there was always a little good-humoured contempt. He was so terribly weak. Headstrong, violent, and explosive, but always weak. Lady Mary spoke irritably; she was tender and compassionate, but not in the least weak. "We have got to act, father, and act immediately. Guy must come back at once. You must see this artful old Greatorex to-morrow." Saxham promised that he would see Greatorex to-morrow. He 'phoned up that important personage, and fixed an appointment. The two men met. By that time Greatorex had received Moreno's letter from the head of the Secret Service. He knew, therefore, exactly what his old friend Lord Saxham had come about. The Earl began in his usual explosive manner. "By God, Greatorex, you haven't treated me well in this matter. You have sent my poor boy to his death." If Lord Saxham had been a less important member of the aristocracy, the imperturbable Greatorex would have shown him the door. But under the circumstances forbearance had to be exercised. "Softly, softly, if you please, my dear Saxham. It was at your request I sent your son to Spain, to get him out of an unfortunate entanglement." "I know, I know," spluttered the Earl, never very great in argument, "but I didn't know he was going to his death." "No, more did I," replied Greatorex, speaking with his usual calm. "Now let us be reasonable and avoid indulging in mutual recriminations which irritate both parties. What do you want me to do?" "Recall him at once," thundered Lord Saxham. "One moment, if you please," said Greatorex quietly. "We have got to consider Guy's views on this matter. I have here a confidential communication from a very trusted member of our Secret Service. He has warned Guy of his danger, put all the possibilities and probabilities before him, and Guy refuses to budge. In short, he declines to run away. What have you got to say to that?" "Then I say he is a most infernal fool," cried Lord Saxham in his most explosive manner. Greatorex's lip curled a little. "Perhaps from your point of view. Shall I give you mine?" "If you like," said Saxham sullenly. He was not so dense that he could not see what was in the other man's mind. "He is a very brave young Englishman of the true bulldog breed, who is going to stick to his post oblivious of the consequences. It is that breed that makes the British Empire what it is. Do you still want me to recall him?" "Yes," spluttered the Earl. "I want him recalled. I don't intend him to be done to death by a dirty Spanish anarchist." Greatorex's look was very disdainful. "I will be on the wires all day with Stonehenge and Guy. If he consents to be recalled on any pretext, I will recall him. But please understand me, Saxham; he shall only be recalled with his own consent. I will go no further." The tall, lean man stood up, and towered over the somewhat blustering Lord Saxham. "You can recall him, whether he consents or not," cried the angry father, "if you choose." "In this case I am not going to exercise my prerogative. It is no use arguing, Saxham. On this point my mind is made up. I will only add that I greatly admire your son's attitude. If he sticks to this business, he will have a great career before him." "Unless he is murdered to-morrow," commented Saxham bitterly, as he walked out of the room. The poor old Earl went back to Ticehurst Park in a very agitated frame of mind. Lady Mary was his favourite child, but Guy was his best beloved son. Ticehurst would inherit the lands and the title, but for Ticehurst he had only a very mild liking. Mary met him in the hall. She was only a little less perturbed than her father. "What news?" she cried eagerly. "Have you induced Greatorex to recall him?" Lord Saxham had to confess to failure. He went with her into the morning-room, and related at full length the details of his interview with Greatorex. That powerful personage was ready to fall in with his views--but the stumbling-block was Guy himself. If Guy stuck to his resolution not to seek safety in flight, Greatorex would not move. Mary's sweet eyes filled with tears. She had already abused Greatorex, but she was too just not to understand his attitude. At the bottom of his heart, Greatorex approved of Guy's resolution to stick to his post, whatever the consequences. "I am sorry I said harsh things of Greatorex," she said in a broken voice. "Of course Guy himself could take no other course, and his chief admires his indomitable spirit. But, all the same, we must move heaven and earth to get him away." The Earl sank wearily into a chair. Presently he began to cry and moan. "Oh, my poor boy. To think I have exposed him to this danger by my ill-advised action." Poor Lady Mary was on the verge of hysteria herself, but the senile grief of the old Earl made her strong and self-reliant. Her brain was working quickly. Could she not turn this moment to advantage? "You are sorry for what you have done, father? You recognise that, but for your unfortunate intervention, Guy would never have gone to Spain." "I know, I know," replied poor old Lord Saxham in quavering accents. "I would cut off my right hand if, by doing so, I could undo that morning's work with Greatorex. I was very proud of it at the time." Mary spoke very slowly, very calmly. "Guy has got in him the Rossett obstinacy, and, after all, he is only acting as a brave man should. We are less brave for him than he is for himself." The Earl stretched out his shaking hands. "Mary, will you write and implore him to let Greatorex recall him. Greatorex has given me his promise to do so, if Guy consents." Mary shook her head. "Guy is very fond of me, I know. In many things I could influence him, but not in this. It is no use your writing to him, you have less influence over him than I. If he would not listen to me, he will not listen to you." "Then he is doomed." The poor old Earl's head sank on his breast, and he surrendered himself to despair. And now had come Mary's great opportunity, and she took advantage of it. She was no mean diplomatist at any time. "I shall not move him, you will not move him. And you say you cannot move Greatorex. There is just one person in the world who might persuade him. I am not quite sure even about her." Lord Saxham was very subdued, very penitent, but there was still some of the old Adam left in him. He answered quickly; the voice was still quavering, but there was in it a querulous note. "You mean that--" Lady Mary lifted a warning finger; she knew he was going to say "minx." "Father, please, this is no time for old and foolish animosities. Guy's life is at stake, through his noble, perhaps exaggerated, sense of honour. You and I are powerless to alter his determination. There is just a chance that Isobel will be more successful. Will you put your pride in your pocket and ask her to plead with him?" It was a hard struggle, but in the end Lord Saxham's affection for his son won. The old aristocrat gave in. "Do what you like, Mary. I will consent to anything to get Guy back." Mary moved swiftly to the writing-table. "I shall ask her and her father to come to us to-morrow for a visit with the view of your sanctioning her engagement to Guy. I shall ask her to wire their acceptance." The Earl sat as in a dream, while she wrote; dimly he realised that events had taken a turn which he could not approve. But there was no other course left. Mary's letter was brief. "My Dearest Isobel,--My father has consented to approve your engagement to Guy. We shall both be delighted if you and General Clandon will pay us a visit. Please come to-morrow, if possible. In that case, send me a wire on receipt of this note. "Yours affectionately, "Mary Rossett." Isobel received that letter next morning. She carried it to her father with shining eyes. The General read it, and kissed her. "Good news, indeed, my dear little girl. Lady Mary seems a witch, and able to work miracles." "Oh, isn't she a darling?" cried Isobel enthusiastically. "Shall I send the wire at once?" The wire was sent. Poor Isobel was a little distressed about the scantiness of her wardrobe. But she took heart of grace when she reflected that this was sure to be quite a private visit. It was not likely there would be other guests on such an especially family occasion. Lady Mary met them at the station. She kissed Isobel affectionately, and shook the General, who looked very aristocratic and dignified, warmly by the hand. "How did you manage it, you darling?" whispered Isobel as they sat together in the car. "Circumstances went in my favour; it is not quite entirely due to my own diplomacy," answered Mary a little shyly. She knew that, in a way, she had struck a bargain with her aristocratic and obstinate old father, the chance of saving Guy against his indomitable pride. And she knew also that Isobel's faithful heart would be very wounded when she learned the fact of her sweetheart's peril. "You will know all about it after dinner to-night," she added evasively. "You must rein in your impatience till then." Isobel smiled happily. The world was rose-coloured to-day. Was not the last obstacle to her happiness removed? Would not her beloved Guy marry her in the sight of the whole world? His world as well as her own? Lord Saxham was awaiting them in the big hall, having now fully reconciled himself to the situation. He had many faults; he was choleric, obstinate, and a good deal of an opportunist. But whatever line of action he took, even if he somewhat stultified himself in the process, he always bore himself with a certain dignity. His meeting with the Clandons was expressive of his methods. He held out his right hand cordially to the General. With his left he drew Isobel towards him, and printed a fatherly kiss upon her forehead. "Welcome to Ticehurst, my dear child, which henceforth you must look upon as a second home. If Guy were here to-day our happiness would be complete." The warm-hearted Isobel was ready to burst into tears. The Earl was behaving like a gentleman; she forgave him his former obduracy. After all, was it not natural that he should wish Guy to marry a woman in his own world? They had a very elaborate dinner, to which the host and the General did full justice. Isobel was too happy to care about food. Lady Mary ate just enough to keep her alive, according to her usual custom. After dinner they went into one of the small drawing-rooms. Here Lord Saxham, in very happy phrases, expressed his cordial consent to the engagement between Guy and Isobel. The men shook hands, the two girls kissed each other. It was a charming family scene. And then, in a manner, the real business of the evening began. Lady Mary began to explain things in a low and hesitating voice, that often faltered. She felt just a little ashamed of her task. Isobel was quite innocent, but she was not without brains. The General, she was sure, was quite keen. When she finished her recital, she knew both father and daughter would attribute the Earl's sudden conversion to its proper cause. But Mary had not quite finished, when the Earl broke in, in his usual impetuous way. "You see, Isobel,"--he had by now taken quite whole-heartedly to the idea of her as his daughter-in-law--"we must have Guy back as quickly as possible. At the present moment, you are the person who has the greatest influence over him. No doubt, at a word from you he will come." Isobel indulged in a rather forced smile; it struck Mary that there was something a little enigmatic in that smile. Of course, Lord Saxham had blundered as usual, he had revealed the truth just a little too nakedly. Isobel was reckoning up her welcome at its true value, so far as her host was concerned. This, of course, Isobel did, so did her father. But she was too sensible a girl to be offended. She, was, perhaps, a little disappointed that she did not owe this swift change of policy to her true friend. Lady Mary. She thought a little before she spoke. "Are you quite sure that Guy would come back, if I implored him to do so," she said at length. She turned towards Lord Saxham with a pleasant smile that robbed her words of any subtle impertinence. "Guy has always told me that there is a strong vein of obstinacy in the Rossett family. Perhaps,"--and here a proud light came into her eyes--"I could influence him more than anybody else in the world." Mary looked imploringly at her. "And, Isobel, you will use that influence of course?" "I will tell you something that, up to the present, I have only told my father," replied the girl quietly. "I knew of all this some little time ago. My cousin, Maurice Farquhar, has a great friend, half Spanish, half English, who is also a journalist. He told my cousin that danger was threatening Guy. Maurice told me. You can guess what I felt. Guy is as dear to me as he is to you." "Of course, there is no need to tell us that," cried Lady Mary hastily. "My first impulse was to write to Guy, tell him what I had heard, and implore him to leave this dangerous country. I consulted my father. I did not write that letter. Many a night I have lain awake, and in the morning resolved to write it. It is still unwritten." The Earl's face bore a puzzled expression. Lady Mary seemed somewhat bewildered too. General Clandon alone displayed no emotion. "I don't understand," breathed Mary softly. "Oh, can't you see?" cried Isobel quickly. "Suppose Guy yielded to my prayers, and seized some excuse to come back! Might he not in after years reproach me for having induced him to play a coward's part? Surely you can understand what I feel." And, in one swift moment of comprehension, the worldly and opportunist Earl and his far nobler daughter understood. Lady Mary looked at her father with a triumphant smile. She had gauged Isobel aright from the first. Gone for ever the dishonouring suspicions of a designing young woman seeking to make her fortune by a wealthy marriage. It was all too obvious. With Guy's departure from Spain, Isobel had everything to gain. With his sojourn in that dangerous country she stood to lose everything. "Whether I marry Guy or not," went on the low, sweet voice, breaking at the end into a little sob, "his honour is my first consideration." The General's deep tones broke the intense silence that succeeded those few words. "Lord Saxham, Lady Mary, I most heartily approve Isobel's attitude. I am sure Mr Rossett feels as I do in this matter. If he deserted his post at this juncture, he would be like the soldier who runs away on the battlefield." Lord Saxham looked at the beautiful, slender girl, so noble in her self-sacrificing love. "My dear," he said, in tones that were a little unsteady, "you are a wonderful woman. Guy could not have chosen more wisely. I am sorry-- very sorry--" He broke off. It was not perhaps precisely the moment to apologise for his previous obstinacy, his rancour against "the little girl who lived in a cottage at Eastbourne." Lady Mary went round the table, put her arms round her, and kissed her warmly. "You are a brave and beautiful darling," she said, with a woman's enthusiasm. "You have taught both my father and myself a lesson in unselfishness. God grant that our dear Guy comes back to us safe and sound." CHAPTER EIGHT. A tall, lean man of about sixty years of age, of dignified appearance, came out of a house in Fitzjohn's Avenue, Hampstead, and walked slowly in the direction of the station at Swiss Cottage. He was a very aristocratic-looking person; you might have taken him for a retired ambassador, except for the fact that retired ambassadors do not live in the neighbourhood of Finchley Road. At the first glance you might have thought he was an Englishman, with his clear complexion, his short, pointed beard. A closer inspection revealed the distinguishing traits of the foreigner. But even then you would have been inclined to put him down as a Frenchman, rather than a Spaniard. Ferdinand Contraras, such was his name, was one of the principal leaders of the world-wide anarchist movement. A man of learning and education, he had worked it out to his own satisfaction that anarchy was the cure for all social evils. A man of considerable wealth, he had devoted the greater portion of his possessions to the spreading of this particular propaganda. His zeal in the great cause burnt him with a consuming fire. One is confronted with these anomalies in all countries--men of family and refinement, reaching out sincere hands to the proletariat, and welcoming them into a common brotherhood. Mirabeau led the French Revolution in its first steps, an aristocrat of the first water. Tolstoi, equally an aristocrat, preached very subversive doctrines. Ferdinand Contraras, from conviction, sentimentality, or some other equally compelling motives, hated his own order, and devoted himself heart and soul to the service of the masses as against the classes. He had spent much more than half his very considerable fortune on the necessary propaganda of his principles. From the house in Fitzjohn's Avenue he, in conjunction with a few other enthusiastic spirits, controlled the policy which was directed to upset an old and effete world and construct a new and perfect one on the ruins of the old. He waited outside the station for quite five minutes, tapping his stick impatiently the while. He was, by temperament, a very impatient and autocratic person, like most people who aspire to sovereign power. The burly and imposing figure of Lucue appeared through the gloom of the station. The two men shook hands. Contraras grumbled a little. "My friend, punctuality was never your very special virtue. You were to be at my house by a quarter-past six. It is now a quarter to seven, half an hour late, and I am meeting you at the station. It would take another five minutes to get to my house." "That would mean I should be quite thirty-five minutes late, eh?" queried Lucue in his usual easy, genial fashion. He had the greatest respect for the great leader, Ferdinand Contraras; he fully recognised his single-mindedness, his devotion to the cause. But he was also aware of his little weaknesses of temper, his proneness to take offence at trifles. "I am honestly very sorry I have kept you waiting, but it was impossible to get away before." Lucue surveyed the neighbourhood around him with some contempt, and added: "Besides, if you will live in an out-of-the-way spot like this, you can't blame your friends if they find it a bit difficult to get to you." Lucue himself lived in lodgings in a mean street in Soho. In spite of his reverence for his chief, he did not quite relish the fact that Contraras was living in a lordly pleasure house, that he fared every day on the daintiest food, and was very particular as to vintages. Contraras, in spite of his sacrifices to the great cause, was not exactly practising what he preached. Lucue himself was poor. Hence, perhaps, these profound meditations. It would not be going too far to say that Lucue was already anticipating the day when Contraras would be required, under the new dispensation, to hand over the remainder of his wealth for the common benefit. But things had not got so far as this at the moment. Law and order were still in the ascendant, and anarchy had not yet got its foot into the stirrup, much less was it mounted in the saddle. The two men walked up to the house in Fitzjohn's Avenue, where Contraras lived in some sort of state. A butler opened the door, a footman hovered in the background. There would be a dinner of many courses, there would be wines of the first quality. For the leader of the great anarchist movement did himself and his friends very well. Poor Contraras! He often failed to notice the envious eyes of his friends, the humble friends who left his hospitable house to return to their dingy lodgings in Soho, or the mean streets off Tottenham Court Road. He took Lucue into his private sitting-room. A decanter of whiskey, soda-water, and glasses were ready on the table, placed there by the thoughtful butler. In the best of all possible worlds there would be no butlers thought Lucue grimly, as he helped himself at his host's invitation. "What of Guy Rossett?" asked Contraras abruptly, when the two men were seated. "He knows a great deal. He knows too much." "My section is dealing with his affair," replied Lucue smoothly. "Violet Hargrave and Andres Moreno are over in Spain, as of course you know." Contraras grunted. He was not in a very good mood to-night; he had not yet forgiven Lucue for his lack of punctuality. "Violet Hargrave I know, of course, a friend and protegee of our staunch old comrade Jaques. Moreno I know nothing about. Who is he, what is he?" Lucue explained. Moreno was a journalist, his father pure Spanish, his mother an Englishwoman. His principles were sound. He was a revolutionary heart and soul. Contraras was still in the grunting stage. He helped himself to another whiskey. "You are a judge of men, Lucue; you seldom make mistakes," he said, in rather a grudging voice. "I don't quite like the idea of the English mother. You have thought that all out?" "Quite," was the swift reply. "Moreno comes to us with settled convictions. He is, like yourself, a philosophical anarchist." It certainly said a good deal for Moreno's powers of persuasion that he had succeeded in convincing the suspicious Lucue of his sincerity. The gong sounded for dinner. Contraras kept to his gentlemanly habits; his house was ordered in orthodox fashion. His wife, a faded-looking woman, who had once been a beauty, sat at the head of the table. His daughter, a comely, dark-eyed girl, his only child, faced the guest. Neither wife nor daughter had the slightest sympathy with the peculiar views of the head of the household. As a matter of fact, they thought he was just a trifle insane on this one particular point. They detested the strange-looking men, some of them in very shabby raiment, who came to this well-appointed house in Fitzjohn's Avenue, to partake of their chief's hospitality and drink his choice wines. They marvelled between themselves at the blindness of Contraras. Could he not see that these shabby creatures hated him for his wealth, for the hospitality which they regarded as a form of ostentation? Several times both mother and daughter had tried to point this out to him. "Live in a little forty-pound-a-year house, without a maid, with Inez and me to scrub and cook, and they might believe in you," his wife had remarked bitterly on one occasion when her nerves had been more than usually upset by the intrusion of some very shabby looking guests. "Of course, now they reckon you up at your true value. You are making the best of the present order of things, getting the best you can out of it. Bah! What do you expect if your dreams come to pass? They will not leave you a sixpence, these wretches whom you have put into power. They will strip you at once." The visionary had smiled condescendingly. He had a poor opinion of the mental capacity of women. They had no initiative, no foresight. But he was very tolerant to the weaker vessel. He patted the faded cheek of his once beautiful wife, a daughter of the old Spanish nobility. He was a kind husband, a fond father. "You do not understand these difficult matters, my dear," he replied in his loftiest tones. "The world will always be governed by brains, whether under a just or an unjust regime." He tapped his broad forehead significantly. "When it comes to brains, Ferdinand Contraras will not be found wanting." Madame shrugged her shoulders and glanced at her pretty daughter, who made a signal of assent. Certainly, Contraras, great as was his power in anarchist circles, was not held in high esteem in his own family. Towards Lucue the two women did not exhibit the same signs of aversion which they usually displayed to the other guests. The reason was obvious. He was a self-seeking, grasping fellow. He loved the flesh-pots, the good things of life. If he got into power with his chief, they would take the best for themselves and let their poor dupes feed on the husks. The difference between the two men was that Contraras was troubled with an almost ridiculous sentimentality. Lucue, big, genial, and humorous, was as callous as any human being could be. And he, moreover, had no conscience. The meal was finished. Although in a way Lucue despised his chief's ostentatious mode of living, he was very fond of good wine and food. There might come a time when, through Contraras' brains, he would be in a similar position. The two men adjourned to the private sitting-room, where the great man produced some special brandy and choice cigars. "Drink, my friend," said the host genially. "We shall think none the less wisely because we take an excellent glass of brandy and smoke an equally excellent cigar." Lucue assented, but after a brief pause he spoke a little bluntly. "You will not think I am taking a liberty, my good comrade, if I say a few words to you. We have a difficult team to drive. Many of our brotherhood, most, alas, are very poor. Exception is taken by some of them to your mode of living. They think the great Contraras should bring himself more on a level with his less fortunate brethren." Contraras frowned. By nature he was more autocratic than the most despotic monarch who even subjugated a docile people. But he recognised that Lucue's words conveyed a warning. "What would they have? My wife has said the same thing to me, and at the time I fancied it was the foolish babbling of a woman. Now I see that there was some wisdom in her remarks." "Equality is our watchword," observed Lucue with a rather subtle smile. "Of course," agreed Contraras smoothly. "That is our aim, our goal. But, under present conditions, we cannot practise it. I have, as you know, given the greater portion of my money to the cause. I have proved my sincerity. You will say I have left some for myself. True, but that is a wise policy. I live here in a certain sort of comfort. The position I keep up helps me to remain unsuspected. Nobody will think I am such a fool as to embrace anarchy. With these trappings, I can work better for the cause than if I hid myself in a back street in Soho." Lucue agreed. The chief had a long head. Lucue might envy, but he could not refrain from admiring him. Contraras broke away from the embarrassing topic of inequality in fortune. He spoke brusquely. "To return to this Englishman, Rossett. You think you can settle his hash?" Lucue nodded his big head. "It is settled, as I told you. I am working in conjunction with Alvedero and Zorrilta." "No two better men, they are staunch to the core, true sons of Spain," said Contraras approvingly. "One thing I would love to know, Lucue. Who supplied Rossett with his information?" "That I am also keen to know. There are always traitors in every camp. Perhaps some day I may find out." The two men talked till it was time for Lucue to catch his train. Contraras walked with him to the station. The chief wrung him by the hand. "If you ever find that traitor, no half measures, you understand." Lucue smiled a grim smile. "You can never accuse me of sentimentality. The penalty for every traitor is death." CHAPTER NINE. It had been a very hot August day. The old-world town of Fonterrabia had glowed in the torrid heat. With the sinking of the sun had come a sudden breath of comparative coolness. In a small room facing the sea, in the obscure little cafe "The Concho" there sat four people. They were respectively, Zorrilta, Jaime Alvedero, two of the most trusted lieutenants of the great Contraras-- Contraras who directed his world-wide campaign from the safe and sheltered precincts of Fitzjohn's Avenue, Hampstead--Andres Moreno, journalist, trusted agent of the English Secret Service, ostensibly sworn anarchist, and lastly Violet Hargrave, now domiciled in Spain in the interests of the brotherhood, in England a somewhat well-known member of the semi-smart set. Moreno, as we know, was the son of a purely Spanish father and an English mother. Violet Hargrave was not greatly given to confidences. But the pair had been thrown much together. In spite of their mixed nationality, Spain was, to a great extent, a foreign land to them. Violet had been born in Spain and lived there up to the age of ten, but her memories of the country were faint and fragmentary. Moreno had been born in England, brought up and educated there. He spoke Spanish perfectly since his father had taught him the language, and conversed in it with him from childhood. In that father's company he had made some dozen trips to what was really his native country, he had visited every important town--Barcelona, Toledo, Seville, Granada, Segovia, not to mention Madrid. Still, they were both more English than foreign, and there was an unconscious sympathy between them arising from this fact. Moreno's heart ached for the familiar haunts of Fleet Street, for the restaurants where the odour of garlic was not always greatly in evidence. And Violet sighed for the elegant flat in Mount Street, with its perfect appointments. She had grown to loathe this sun-baked Biscayan coast. Being thrown so much in each other's society, caution had been a little relaxed on the woman's side--Moreno had never for a moment relaxed his. Violet Hargrave was still an enigma to him. He was not prepared to trust her in the smallest degree. But in his peculiar position he could trust nobody. One day she had been very confidential. It had been after a good dinner, followed by one or two potent liqueurs. On such an occasion even the most cautious woman of the world may find her tongue loosened. She had confided to Moreno a considerable portion of her family history. Her father, a ne'er-do-well, a soldier of fortune--she frankly gave this description of her male parent--had fallen in love with and married her Spanish mother, a beautiful young girl, a professional dancer, not, however, occupying a _Very_ high position in her profession. It peeped through the narrative, told in a rather staccato fashion, that her father had lived chiefly on his wife's small earnings, that he did no regular work, but acted as her agent. When she was ten years of age, her mother died, and her father was thrown on his own resources. They had come to London. James Wheeler, such was her father's name, had at once sought out a rich financier known in business circles as Mr Jackson. His real name was Juan Jaques, he was a Spaniard, and he had at one time been desperately in love with her mother. For the sake of that old affection, he had befriended the derelict father and the helpless child. He had set Wheeler on his legs, so far as it was possible to help such a weak and incapable creature. But Wheeler was addicted to drink and was cursed with a feeble constitution. In a few years, the drink carried him off. Violet, at the age of eighteen, was left alone in the world. Her mother, no doubt, had relatives in Spain, but she knew nothing of them. Of her father's relations, if he had any, she had never heard him speak. Whatever the failings of the moneylender in certain directions, he behaved with rare generosity and tenderness to the daughter of his old sweetheart. He advanced money to secure her a good education. He did his best to secure for her eligible posts. Still, on the whole, she had experienced a rough time. She could do a little of everything fairly, but nothing very well. She had tried the concert hall, the stage, and been a failure on both. She had not even inherited her mother's talent for dancing. But poor old Jaques was always patient and kind. He kept her going with an allowance that might be called handsome. At the back of his mind he felt pretty sure that Violet would prove a winner in the end. She had been very seedy. Jaques had summoned her to his private room, thrust a hundred pounds worth of notes into her hand, and ordered her to take herself off to the most expensive hotel in Scarborough, to pick up health and strength. They would map out together some fresh plan of campaign when she came back. At the expensive hotel in Scarborough, she met Jack Hargrave, a personable young fellow, who seemed to have plenty of money, and was of good family. At that time Violet was a very thrifty young woman--she learned expensive habits later on--she reckoned that she would stay at Scarborough for a fortnight, and return with a handsome balance out of the hundred pounds. Then the kind Jaques, to whom she was genuinely grateful, would not have to put his hand in his pocket for some little time. She met Jack Hargrave, who was staying at the same hotel. He fell violently in love with her, with her blonde prettiness. At the end of the first week he proposed. Violet was attracted by him, perhaps a little bit in love. She accepted him on the spot, and went off the next morning to London to consult Jaques, in whom she placed her full confidence. There was here a little break in the story, as told to Moreno. Evidently her guardian approved. She married Jack Hargrave, and they had taken the flat in Mount Street, of which she was still the tenant. Here Moreno had interrupted. "You say that Jack Hargrave was well-off. How did he make his money? Flats in Mount Street are not run on credit." "Oh, don't you know? It was Jaques who put him into good things in the City, out of friendship for me." "But, one moment," pursued Moreno. "He was well-off when he met you. How was he making money when our good old friend Jaques had not appeared on the scene?" Violet, under the influence of the liqueurs, was a little off her guard. "Oh, don't be silly. Jack was a very expert bridge-player." Moreno nodded. "I think I understand. We won't go into details. Under his instructions, you became a very expert bridge-player too. It used to be whispered that you were just a little bit too lucky." Violet Hargrave admitted that many rumours had been flying about, and that the flat in Mount Street had become a little suspect. "And how did you get into this?" had been Moreno's next question. Violet had been very frank. "It was dear old Jaques who drew me into it. You know I have told you how grateful I was to him, how indebted. When he asked me, could I refuse, after all the benefits he had showered upon me?" "Impossible," said Moreno in his quiet, easy tones. He added, after a pause, "I wonder if your heart is in it?" She flashed at him a swift glance of interrogation. "I wonder if yours is?" Moreno smiled. They were then each suspecting the other, on account of their mixed parentage. "Absolutely," he answered in a tone of deep conviction. "I am nine-tenths Spaniard, one-tenth Englishman. You are one-tenth Spaniard and nine-tenths Englishwoman. I very much doubt if your heart is in it." Violet spoke in a low, hard voice. And she also felt there was need of caution. "I have lived a very hard life, depending upon charity, generous charity I admit, for many years. I think I do not love the present order of things. I am really an anarchist; I think I may truly say my heart is in it." Moreno accepted her statement. She was still an enigma to him. She had spoken of Jaques with a genuine sense of gratitude, she had alluded to her late husband in terms of sincere affection. The woman had her sentimental moments. Then he remembered that she was the daughter of a drunken and derelict father--this much she had told him. Her mother was a Spanish dancer of unknown origin. Out of this peculiar blend, was it possible to fashion an honest woman. Moreno doubted it. He remembered the night in the flat at Mount Street, when she had vindictively declared that Guy Rossett had to be got out of the way. He had looked at the still very pretty woman, her fair cheeks just a little flushed with the after results of the good dinner. She had, perhaps, her good points, but was she not an absolute degenerate? Daughter of the wastrel father and the Spanish dancer! He had been very sympathetic through the recital. He had helped her on with an encouraging word or two in the pauses of her narrative, for at times she had evidently pulled herself up with the recollection that she was being too frank. But he had learned a good deal about Violet's past. He still had his suspicions. Perhaps another dinner or two might get more out of her. The four conspirators sat in the little room facing the sea. Violet Hargrave, by the way, was dressed in a peasant costume. Alvedero spoke in his deep voice. "I think, for the present, we will make Fonterrabia our headquarters. It is a quiet little town, and, for the moment, not suspect." The Deputy-Governor of Navarre assented. They could do great things from this comparatively obscure quarter. Alvedero spoke again. "Now, first, there is the question of Guy Rossett. Contraras and Lucue are agreed that he should be removed speedily." Moreno hastened to corroborate. He knew that Violet Hargrave was watching him narrowly. "The sooner the better," he said heartily. "He knows too much." "A great deal too much!" burst in Zorrilta angrily. "The question is, where did he get his information from? Some traitor, of course." Moreno glanced at Violet Hargrave. He had his suspicions of her, but not a muscle of her countenance moved. His suspicions of her then were not confirmed. But Violet said nothing in reply to Zorrilta's angry outburst. There came a diversion. Father Gonzalo passed the window of the small sitting-room. His hawklike eye peered through the window. "_Dios_!" cried Zorrilta, jumping up. "That accursed priest again! He roves about here like an evil spirit." "Who is he, this priest?" cried Moreno eagerly. He had seen the lean figure of the father passing the window, and had noted the keen, inquisitive glance. Zorrilta explained what he had learned from the intelligent fisherman Somoza. Father Gonzalo was a Jesuit, not attached to the Church of Santa Gadea. He was suspected of being a spy in the pay of the Government. Moreno rose. "Shall I go and sample this gentleman?" he said. "I can play the role of the devout Catholic very well." Zorrilta and Alvedero grinned. They were both nominal Catholics, but their religion did not trouble them very much. They were pleased with the enterprising spirit of their new recruit. "Go my friend, come back and report to us." Moreno, well pleased, strode out, and soon overtook the priest, who was walking leisurely. "Good evening, Father," he said pleasantly. He also added a few Spanish words which were a password. When he heard those magic words, the priest's lean, ascetic face changed at once. "You are one of us?" he asked briefly. "Of course. My name is Moreno. I am attached to the English Secret Service, and I am helping your Government to beat the anarchists." "Good," said Father Gonzalo. "Those people I saw you with in the little sitting-room at the `Concha,' I know the two well, Zorrilta and Alvedero; the woman I do not know. I take it they are all anarchists. You are joining up with them for your own purposes." "Precisely," answered Moreno. "Keep your eyes open too. This is, at present, the headquarters of the conspiracy." "My son, good night," said the wily Jesuit in his most paternal tones. "We shall meet again. You have, of course, made a good excuse for leaving your friends, and running after me." Moreno smiled. "When I return I shall give the best report of you, a report that I trust will disarm suspicion. But it is as well to put you on your guard. You have a very keen enemy here, one Carlos Somoza, a fisherman. Conciliate him, if you can." The Jesuit's dark eyes flashed. "I know him. The dirty dog. I will be on my guard. I will go to Santa Gadea, and pray for my sins." The unctuous priest stole away. Moreno watched his departure with a contemptuous smile. He did not seem a very valiant member of the church militant. Moreno joined his companions. He addressed them in his usual easy fashion. "Couldn't get much out of him. I should say he was quite a harmless old chap, full of good works. He seemed very concerned that I should be drinking at a place like the `Concha.' He gave me some very good advice. I don't think he has brains enough to be a spy." The other two men laughed. Moreno had carried the affair off so well that they believed him implicitly. Then Alvedero spoke seriously. "This affair of Guy Rossett was very pressing." He turned to Moreno and Violet Hargrave. "I daresay you know that Lucue has delegated this matter to me, as being on the spot." The two members of this conclave of four bowed; they had gathered this much before they left England. "Yesterday, however, I had instructions from our great leader, Contraras," pursued Alvedero; he uttered the name of his chief in accents of profound reverence. "The affair of Guy Rossett has, for the moment, sunk into comparative insignificance. There is bigger game afoot." "Ah!" breathed Moreno eagerly. True to his histrionic instinct, he was playing the role of enthusiast very well. Violet Hargrave, who was never very enthusiastic, thought it well to imitate him, and leaned forward as if eager to catch the next words from the great man's lips. Alvedero spoke slowly. "As you know, in difficult times, we have to proceed with great caution--I cannot divulge all that Contraras has entrusted me with to-day. To-morrow Valerie Delmonte will be over here! We will meet at the same place and the same hour." He paused, and then lifted his hands to the low roof of the mean sitting-room in which the four were assembled. "The brain of that man is stupendous, gigantic," he cried, in tones of the deepest admiration. "My friends, he has planned a great _coup_, and Valerie Delmonte is going to carry it out! She is devoted, she is fearless, she will not blench. To-morrow at this hour and this place I will take you into the secret; it is possible one of you may be called upon to assist." A few minutes later the meeting broke up. There would be an exciting day to-morrow, thought Moreno, as he strolled away. CHAPTER TEN. If Lord Saxham had been, in his heart, disappointed that he could not induce Isobel to cajole her lover away from his post, he was too much a gentleman to go back on his word. Besides, he recognised that in this instance the girl was right, and he wrong, that she had displayed a nobility of spirit which was lacking in himself and his daughter. He had given his consent to the engagement without imposing conditions, and he could not in honour take that consent back. In addition, he could not but feel a whole-hearted admiration for a woman who could sacrifice her own feelings, not to mention her own interests, in such an unselfish fashion. The immediate result of the brief visit to Ticehurst Park was the despatch of a paragraph to the various papers announcing the engagement of Mr Guy Rossett, second son of the Earl of Saxham, to Miss Clandon, daughter of General Clandon. When father and daughter arrived at their modest home in Eastbourne, the news was public property. Letters of congratulation came by every post from the numerous friends and acquaintances whom they had made during their long sojourn in the town. Isobel could now openly wear that beautiful ring which hitherto she had only dared to look upon in secret--that expensive ring which, as a matter of fact, had been purchased from money supplied by the obliging Mr Jackson. For, at the actual moment when the General had given his consent to the engagement, Guy had been extremely hard up. So now all was plain sailing. Isobel was very proud of her lover, naturally very delighted at her adoption into the Saxham family. But, as there is no happiness without alloy, the knowledge of that lover's danger weighed terribly upon her spirits, and caused her to shed many bitter tears. Her little world which congratulated and fussed around her, of course, knew nothing of this. To the girls of her own age, girls moving in respectable but middle-class circles, who knew nothing of the aristocracy except through the fashionable papers, she was greatly to be envied. There was one amongst the numerous letters of congratulations which had touched her very deeply. It was written by her cousin, Maurice Farquhar. It was couched in rather stiff, sometimes stilted phraseology, but sincerity was in every line. And, if Maurice was a bit priggish and old-fashioned, he was always a gentleman. He had made no allusion to his own disappointed hopes. He had congratulated her heartily on her engagement, expressed his conviction that she would adorn any station to which she was called. And the letter had concluded with these words. "I know the danger that is threatening your fiance. Moreno has promised to let me know if I can help him. I do not fancy it will ever be in my power to render any valuable assistance; our paths in life do not seem to meet anywhere. Still, if the time does come, I shall do my best, from my own cousinly affection for you." It was put frankly but gracefully. He did not care twopence for Guy Rossett. It was not to be expected that he would. But he would be a friend to Rossett, because he still loved Isobel. She laid down the letter with a little sigh. So short a time as two years ago, Maurice might have satisfied her maiden dreams, she was not quite sure. She was so wrapped in the present that she could hardly see the past in its proper proportions. Anyway, she could reckon on her cousin in the future as a true and loyal friend. Her heart was very much with Guy in that dangerous post at Madrid, her thoughts ever. One night when the two were sitting alone in the General's cosy little den, a little cry escaped her. "Somehow, I seem to hate Eastbourne! It is very ungrateful, considering how happy I have been here. But I do so long to be near Guy." The General was very moved by that pathetic cry. He stirred uneasily in his chair. "Of course you wish it, my darling. I daresay Lady Mary wishes the same. But, if you were both there, neither of you could do him the least good, nor avert any danger that is threatening him." "Oh, I recognise that," said Isobel, wiping the tears from her eyes. "It is the suspense that is so horrible. If one were near, one might know something of what is going on." The General thought for a moment or two before he spoke. He had indulged every whim, forestalled every wish of his dear wife. He had done the same with his daughter since the day when he had found himself a widower, and they had been all in all to each other. He smiled a little sadly. "I am afraid we old men become a sad burden on our dutiful children, exact too much from them," he said presently. "Lady Mary would love to be near Guy, and she cannot leave her father. And you, my poor little girl, are in the same plight." Isobel laid her soft cheek against his. "Oh, Daddy, dearest Daddy, it is not very kind to say that. However great my love for Guy, it can never supersede my love for you." The General patted her head fondly. "Ah, my dear, the curse of a small family; we have always been all too much to each other." Then he spoke briskly; he waited to make her happier than she was. "I see no reason, though, why we could not go to Madrid together. We could do it by easy stages, and, by gad, Madrid would be a change. I am very fond of Eastbourne, but we have had a good bit of it. I think I will go and see our old Doctor Jones to-morrow." But Isobel would not hear of it. Her father had suffered from heart affection in his youth. During the last five years it had become very acute. He must live a quiet, well-ordered life, avoid any undue exertion. His daughter had gathered from Dr Jones that the General's life held by a very frail thread. The summons might come at any moment. Nevertheless, General Clandon was round at the doctor's door by ten o'clock the next morning. He was bent upon falling in with Isobel's desire. The doctor stared at him. He had always been summoned to the General's house; not half a dozen times had his patient come to him. "What's up?" he inquired tersely. "The heart not troubling you more than usual, I hope?" To look at General Clandon, as he stood in the surgery, a fine upstanding figure of a man, you would have said he was free from all human ailments. Nobody could have guessed that he carried in that stalwart frame the seeds of a mortal disease that, at any moment, might lay him low. "No, no more than usual. But yes, I think the palpitations are a little more frequent the last week or two." "Let me run the rule over you." Doctor Jones produced his stethoscope. "Why didn't you send for me before?" "Just a moment, my good old friend, before you begin. Isobel particularly wants to go to Spain for reasons you can guess--her fiance's there. I can't let her go without me, unless I could lay my hands upon a suitable chaperon. I want you to tell me if you will give me permission to go with her myself. I should take the journey in easy stages, of course." There was a very wistful look in the old man's eyes as he uttered the last words; it seemed as if he were pleading for permission to gratify his daughter's wish. "Isobel, of course, won't hear of it, after what you have told me; she did not know I was coming here. But if you could give your sanction, it would make us both very happy," he added hastily, as he began to unbutton his coat. Jones had been an army doctor, and he was very sympathetic. It was very pathetic, this poor old father with almost two feet in the grave, begging a little further respite from death. "I will see what we can do, as soon as I have examined you," he said kindly. "If it is humanly possible for you to go, I will let you go, for Isobel's sake." The examination was a searching and lengthy one. When it was finished, Doctor Jones laid down his stethoscope with a little sigh. "My dear General, it is impossible. You are a brave man, you have faced death more than once on the battlefield, and you have always asked me to tell you the truth. If you undertake that voyage, you are committing suicide." "You don't give me very long then?" asked the General quietly. The doctor shrugged his shoulders and turned his head away. He could not quite put it in words. "You have had some extra excitement lately? Great inroads have been made since I last examined you." "Yes," answered General Clandon quietly, "there has been a good deal of excitement lately." It was true. The uncertain position of Isobel as regards her engagement, the hurried visit to Ticehurst Park, the danger overhanging Guy Rossett had agitated him very much. He returned home very crestfallen. He had hoped against hope for the doctor's favourable verdict. He had longed to be able to say to her: "It is all right, I will take you to Spain myself." But in the face of those grave words it was impossible to say it. It would be no benefit to her to take her out, and die before they got to the end of the journey. Isobel met him in the hall of their pretty little home, half villa, half cottage. "Why, where in the world have you been?" she cried, "running away at this early hour of the morning?" They lived such an intimate and domestic life, that it was almost a point of honour to give notice of each other's movements. The General was a bad dissembler. He blurted it all out at once. "To tell you the truth, I wanted to take you out to Spain. I went round to see Jones, to learn what he said about it. He forbids it." She looked at him anxiously. Yes, he seemed to have aged even the last week. A spasm of reproach shot through her that she had not been quicker to notice his failing health. Guy had usurped her thoughts too much. "But I don't think it will be difficult to arrange. I can soon get hold of some female dragon, some elderly chaperon who will take you." The girl's eyes filled with tears. Not for the first time did she appreciate that unselfish parental love, the love that gives everything, and asks so little in return. She kissed him very tenderly. "No, no, a thousand times no, you kindest of all kind fathers. Until you get well and strong again, I would not leave you for a thousand lovers." He patted her hand. He was the most unselfish of men, but it pleased him very much to hear her say that much. The stranger who had come into her life was not going to oust the old father from his place in her heart. "We have been so much to each other, little girl, since your dear mother died, have we not?" he asked gently. "More than so much," she whispered back. "Oh, more than so much. We have been everything to each other." At that moment even her lover was almost forgotten. A few hours later, she stole out of the house, and called on the doctor. "My father is worse," she said impetuously, when she entered the consulting-room. Doctor Jones looked very grave. "My dear child, he is as bad as he can be. I have warned you before. The end may come at any moment." "And yet it only seems yesterday that he was out shooting--of course I know it is months ago--and when he came back, I used to ask him if he was tired, and he always told me he never felt more fit in his life. And a big, strong man in appearance! A few weeks ago he did not look his age." "It is frequently the way with this particular disease," was the doctor's reply. "They hang on for years, with a sort of spurious energy, and then, all of a sudden, they go--snap." "Will he suffer much, do you think?" asked Isobel, bravely keeping back the tears. "Don't trouble yourself about that. He will go out like the snuff of a candle. Take my word for it, he will not suffer." He accompanied her to the door; he had become very attached to the pair--the charming girl devoted to her father, the elderly man who worshipped his daughter. "Keep a brave heart, my child. It may come to-night, to-morrow. He is worse than I thought." And three days after that interview with the kindly doctor the end came. The housemaid went into his room with his morning cup of tea. The poor old General was lying on his side, his face quite placid. But the girl knew that the pallor on it was the hue of death. She ran sobbing to Isobel's room. "Miss, miss! Come at once to the General." Isobel guessed immediately what that summons meant. She sprang out of bed and went to her father's room. One glance at the white, placid face confirmed her worst fears. She sent the frightened girl for the doctor. He came, and was able to ease her mind in one respect--her beloved father had died peacefully, without a struggle. The charming little home which had sheltered her for so many years was a house of mourning. She thought tearfully of his loving kindness, of the many self-sacrifices he had made to give her some small comfort, some little luxury. Even from a devoted husband, would she ever have such a disinterested love as that?--the love that gives all and asks nothing. But she was a soldier's daughter, and she braced herself to go through the ordeal, the most trying of all ordeals to affectionate hearts, the removal of the beloved dead. She first sent a wire to Maurice Farquhar, asking him to come to her. Then she sent another wire to the General's elder brother, the owner of the small family estates. In two hours came back her cousin's answer. "Am catching an early train." The Squire's answer came back about the same time. "Will be with you to-morrow morning." And then she thought of a quite new, but very sincere friend. Lady Mary Rossett. She wired to her the sad news. To Guy she wrote a long letter. If she had sent him a wire, he might have rushed over, and neglected his duties. That would have rendered no service to the dead. Lady Mary arrived first in her car--it was not a very long run from Ticehurst Park to Eastbourne. She explained that she had taken rooms at the "Queen's" for herself and her maid, and would see Isobel through this trying ordeal. The two girls clung together. Mary said she would like to look upon the General for the last time. Isobel led her into the darkened chamber, and Mary imprinted a kiss upon the waxen brow. "He was a most perfect gentleman," she said. "You will always be proud to remember that you were his daughter." "He was the dearest and the best. He was--" But Isobel could say no more, for fear she should break down. A few moments after Mary's arrival came Farquhar, lumbering up from the station in a somewhat antiquated taxi. Isobel welcomed him warmly. "How good of you, Maurice, to come so soon, and of course you are frightfully busy. I am afraid grief makes one very selfish." "I don't think you were ever very selfish, Isobel," replied Farquhar in his grave, quiet tones. "I am, as you say, frightfully busy, but I have handed over all my briefs to a friend, and I am going to see you through all this sad business. I suppose you have wired to the Head of the Family?" Isobel's lip curled a little. "Yes, I have wired to the Head of the Family. I have got his answer. He is coming down to-morrow. My true friends are here to-day, yourself, and Lady Mary Rossett. By the way, how remiss of me not to have introduced you." Lady Mary rose, and held out her hand to the rising young barrister. "But, dear Isobel, we have met before, on that well-remembered evening at the Savoy. You will no doubt recollect, Mr Farquhar, you were dining with a very dark-complexioned gentleman, evidently a foreigner." "Of course, I remember perfectly. The man who was my guest is my old friend Andres Moreno, a very capable journalist." Lady Mary looked approvingly at the grave young barrister. Her heart was, of course, buried in the grave of the young Guardsman, but she felt a pleasurable thrill in this new acquaintance. There was something in his sedate demeanour that appealed to her practical and well-ordered nature--a nature that was apt occasionally to be disturbed by tempestuous and romantic moods. "Where are you putting up?" asked Lady Mary casually. "At the `Queen's,'" answered Farquhar. "Oh, so am I. I have taken a suite of rooms for myself and maid, while I am looking after dear Isobel. But it will be a little bit dull. Are you dining in the general room?" "I certainly shall--unless--" Farquhar looked towards Isobel. Poor Isobel looked very distressed. "You are both such darlings," she said, in her candid, impulsive way. "I should like to put you both up, to ask you to stay. But I shall be such poor company for you." They both understood. The bereaved girl wanted to be left alone with her dead, for that day at least. She welcomed their sympathy, but they could not mourn with her whole-hearted mourning. Farquhar and Lady Mary drove back in the car to the "Queen's." Farquhar suggested tea. Lady Mary accepted the invitation willingly. There was something about this serious young barrister that attracted her. Over the teacups they chatted. "Tell me, are you going to be Lord Chancellor some day? You have plenty of time." It was Lady Mary who put the question. Farquhar caught the spirit of her gay humour. "Oh, no, nothing so stupendous as that. In my wildest dreams, I have never aspired to be anything higher than Solicitor or Attorney-General. I shall probably end by being a police magistrate, and cultivate a reputation for saying smart things." "Oh, but I shall be quite disappointed in you if you don't become Lord Chancellor," persisted Lady Mary, in her most girlish vein. "How dreadfully ancient we shall both be when you reach that exalted position. And then, think of your wife, she will be the first female subject in the kingdom. The Archbishop of Canterbury's wife doesn't count at all, although the Archbishop goes before you. Isn't it comical?" Farquhar fell in with her humorous mood. They had come from the house of mourning, but the poor old General had been very little to them. It was Isobel who stirred a generous chord of sympathy in their hearts. And Isobel was young, she had a lover, and she would recover shortly. The young do not mourn for ever after the old. Such is the inexorable law of nature. They met again at dinner. The good understanding, begun at tea, was further cemented. "You are going to be a sort of relation, in addition to being at least Attorney-General, or a police magistrate, or something of that sort," said Lady Mary at the conclusion of the meal. "Do you shoot?" "I can account for a few," replied Farquhar, in his usual modest and cautious manner. "Then you must come to Ticehurst Park in the autumn. I shall send you the invitation." "And your friends will be welcomed by Lord Saxham?" Lady Mary smiled quite a brilliant smile. "I may tell you in confidence that my dear old father is as wax in my hands. Are you satisfied with that?" Yes, Farquhar felt quite satisfied. But he thought of the grief-stricken girl keeping her lonely vigil in that quiet home, and his heart was very sore for her. Still the world went on, and here was a very charming woman, not perhaps quite so youthful as Isobel, who was showing very plainly that she had taken an interest in him. The world was a very pleasant place. CHAPTER ELEVEN. The Head of the Family arrived next day. He was a very stolid and bucolic-looking person, a breeder of prize oxen and fat sheep. He commiserated with poor Isobel in a heavy fashion. "Strange thing going off like that," he commented. "We are a very long-lived family. But your father was always a little bit different from the rest of us when he was a boy." Isobel said nothing in reply. She had seen several members of her father's family at rare intervals, and she had not been greatly impressed by them. The only one she had really liked was Mrs Farquhar, the mother of her Cousin Maurice. She was a sweet, charming woman, the favourite sister of her dead father. Mr Clandon fingered his moustache a little nervously. "I suppose you know all about his affairs, my dear? He has left you comfortably off, eh? He came into quite a tidy little bit when my father died." Isobel smiled faintly. Mr Clandon wanted to be assured that he was not going to have a penniless niece thrust upon his hands. She knew all about her father's affairs. Had not the dear old General spent hours in instructing her as to the careful management of her small patrimony, when anything happened to him? "Quite comfortably off, uncle, thanks to his loving care. With my simple wants, I shall be rich." "Very relieved to hear it," said the bucolic Mr Clandon. "And, of course, you are going to marry a rich man. Lord Saxham, I understand, is one of the wealthiest peers in England." "Reported to be," corrected Isobel gently. "The estates are very heavily encumbered, and there are living three dowagers, and other pensioners who draw their portions." "God bless me," said Mr Clandon, who was a very thrifty person. "What a frightful incubus! Then I take it your fiance won't get very much from that quarter?" "Very little, I expect. But he will inherit a large fortune from his great-aunt, Lady Henrietta, a very old lady, over eighty." The Head of the Family looked relieved. He gazed with a certain respectful admiration at his good-looking niece. He had always recognised that she was a very pretty girl. At the present moment, grief had made great inroads on her good looks. But he thought somewhat sorrowfully of his own large family of girls, who were rather of the dumpling-faced order. They would have to seek their mates amongst the small squirearchy. "I suppose my poor brother made a will?" was Mr Clandon's next question. "Oh, yes, he made his will years ago, after my mother's death," was Isobel's answer. "He left her everything. When she died, he left me everything." "Quite right and proper," observed Mr Clandon. He was very dull, but quite an upright and just person. He was relieved to find that his brother was more business-like than he thought. "And he has appointed executors, I suppose?" "Yes, two--a very old friend, and my cousin, Maurice Farquhar." "Ah, Maurice Farquhar, Anne's son! Yes, of course, your father and Anne were always great comrades. Maurice is getting on very well at the bar, I hear. You have seen a lot of him, I suppose. Somehow, we seemed to lose sight of Anne. We were such a big family, you know; and big families get scattered." Uncle Clandon had not the delicacy of Maurice or Lady Mary. He cordially accepted Isobel's invitation to put him up. He was a very thrifty and careful person, and had no fancy to waste his money in expensive hotels, now that he knew his niece was left comfortably off. The General was buried amongst his forbears in the family vault. When the sad business was over, Lady Mary took Isobel away to Ticehurst Park. Guy Rossett had rushed over for the funeral, but he was so engrossed in diplomatic affairs that he had to leave immediately after. The lovers had little time to say anything to each other. But Isobel was very much touched with Guy's delicate feeling. "Wasn't he a darling to come over?" she said to Lady Mary. "I should have forgiven him if he hadn't, but I love him ever so much more because he did." To which somewhat incoherent declaration Mary had replied with her usual air of experience and worldly wisdom. "All men have something bad in them, and most women. But I think dear old Guy has the least bad in him that a man can have." Lord Saxham was very kind, very gentle, very paternal to his son's betrothed. He had only seen General Clandon once, and he could not pretend to feel any great interest in him. But that sudden death reminded him that he also was nearing the goal. The remembrance of that fact softened, at least temporarily, his asperities, curbed his explosive temper. The two girls were sitting in Mary's cosy little boudoir. It was a very charming room, reflecting in every detail the delicate and discriminating taste of the young _chatelaine_. "Mary, I can never go back to Eastbourne. I loved that little home so much while he was there. But now it would be torture. I should see him in every room, and I should want to cry out to him and he could not speak to me. Oh, I don't think you can guess what we were to each other." "Have you thought of anything, dear?" asked Mary in her kind, gentle voice. She knew the girl was half hysterical with her sorrow. "I should so love to go to Spain to be near Guy. Did I tell you dear father wanted to take me himself, only a few days before he died, and the doctor forbade him. Oh, Mary, if you could only come too?" "I would love to," said Mary slowly. "But you know as well as I do that my duty lies here. My father is old, I dare not leave him, and, in spite of his little faults of temper, he has been a dear, kind parent." "I understand perfectly," was Isobel's answer. "But, you see, nothing now ties me to England. All the world meant to me only two people, my father and Guy. Now, only Guy is left. I would love to be near him, even if he did not know." Mary pondered a little. "I wonder if that nice cousin of yours could help in the matter?" Isobel caught at the suggestion at once. "Yes, he is very clever. I will go up and see him to-morrow." "No need for that, dear. I will send him a wire at once, asking him to come down to-morrow to see you." "But he is always so frightfully busy," cried Isobel. "Bah!" said the more practical Lady Mary. "I know he is going to do wonderful things in the future, but he has plenty of time. When I send him that wire, he will come." Lady Mary sent off the telegram. It was quite a little excitement in her usually placid life. Farquhar came down as quickly as he could. He had handed over his briefs to a friend. Lord Saxham greeted him kindly, being apprised by his daughter of his arrival. The poor old Earl was very subdued by now; he was quite prepared to make any amount of new acquaintances. His daughter had affairs well in hand. Lady Mary plunged into matters at once. "Isobel doesn't want to go back to Eastbourne--that is quite natural. She is eager to go to Spain, to be near Guy. Of course nothing binds her to this country now." Mr Farquhar was not to be hurried. His judicial mind, if it worked a little slowly, also worked very surely. "I should not say that, at the present moment, Spain was a very desirable country for anybody, still less so for a young and unprotected woman." He looked rather disapprovingly at Isobel for having harboured such daring thoughts. "I shall take a maid, one of the servants we had at Eastbourne," said Isobel, in a rather quaking voice. She had sense enough to see that, at the best, it was a wild venture. Lady Mary shot at him an appealing glance. "Don't you think you had better let Isobel have her way? And I expect she will have it whether you approve or not." There was also a little something more in that glance than Mary was quite conscious of. And the little something was this: Why was Maurice Farquhar so foolishly in love with Isobel, while Isobel was so devoted to Guy Rossett? Farquhar looked from the younger to the elder girl. Lady Mary was very comely, she had behind her a long line of illustrious ancestry. She had been very sweet and gracious to him. "Do you approve this rather daring scheme, Lady Mary?" "On the whole, I think I do. Of course, I recognise the objections to it. But Isobel cannot go back to Eastbourne. If she stays in England she will be eating her heart out." Farquhar was, perhaps unconsciously, swayed by Lady Mary. He made up his mind to regard the suggestion with some degree of favour. "I will do all I can to help. Unfortunately, I know next to nothing of Spain. But I have a friend who knows it from A to Z. I will write to him and see how I can get her planted there." Of course, Lady Mary knew that Moreno was the friend. Isobel thanked him warmly. "How sweet and dear of you," she said. "Of course you understand, now my dear father is gone, there is nothing left but Guy." Farquhar understood. His cousin had spoken with the unconscious cruelty of the self-centred lover. She had not considered Maurice's feelings at all. Farquhar rose. "I will write the letter at once, if you will permit me." He turned to Lady Mary, who led him to a small morning-room, and spread paper and envelopes before him. "You are very fond of Isobel?" he asked, before he began his letter, a rather long one, to Moreno. "I love her like a younger sister, Mr Farquhar," replied Mary enthusiastically. "And, of course, she very soon will be my sister. And, moreover, being a woman, I love all true lovers. She and Guy are so absorbed in each other." "Ah!" said the youthful barrister shortly. "And you love your brother too?" "Dear old Guy! I simply adore him. He is one of the most lovable of men." Farquhar looked at her a little quizzically. "You have, I should say, a most beautiful nature; you see good in everything and everybody, don't you?" Lady Mary shook her head. "No. I am more discriminating than you think. I fancy I can always tell the false from the true." "I wonder how you would reckon me up?" "I will tell you, if you really wish," was Mary's candid answer. "Yes, I do wish, honestly." "You are frightfully, painfully just. You are terribly cautious. And--" She paused, and a faint blush spread over her cheek. "Don't spoil it, please. Finish what you were going to say. I can see you are a very discerning critic." Mary was a long time before she would answer. Then she turned away, and her blush deepened. "I should say loyalty and honesty were your greatest characteristics. That you would be a sincere friend and a very generous enemy." She was leaving the room, but Farquhar darted up and detained her. "I say, you know, that is the very greatest compliment I have ever had paid me," he said, roused from his usual impassivity. "Will you think I am taking a liberty if I suggest that we shake hands on it?" "Oh, not at all," said Mary, in a rather fluttering way, as she put her hand in his. She left the room, and he set about to write his letter to Moreno. But the disturbing vision of Lady Mary, with that faint flush on her cheek, appeared several times between the sentences of the rather lengthy epistle. That letter went out by the evening post. About the same time that these events were happening at the Park, Ferdinand Contraras was taking farewell of his family. He explained to them that he was going to Spain, he could not say how long he would be away. It might be a few days, it might be weeks. He had left plenty of money in the bank for their needs. His wife and daughter watched him out of the house without any signs of emotion. To these two, who should have been his nearest and dearest, he had long appeared as a man out of touch with realities. When the car rolled out of sight, Madame Contraras turned to her daughter. "I have a presentiment, Inez, he will never come back. He is going to give his life as well as his fortune to this insane cause." Inez, who was rather callous, shrugged her shapely shoulders. "Why did you marry him, mother? He must have been mad then." "The madness of strong, impetuous youth, my child. I never thought it would last through middle and old age." CHAPTER TWELVE. Contraras embarked on his great mission. Elderly man as he was, the fire of his convictions kept him alert and youthful. He stayed a day in Madrid; from thence he travelled to Barcelona. And then he went on to Fonterrabia. In the same little cafe, the "Concha," he met several members of the brotherhood, Zorrilta, specially summoned, Alvedero, Andres Moreno, Violet Hargrave, and Mademoiselle Delmonte. He opened the proceedings in his sharp, autocratic way. "You have already had a meeting about this particular _coup_ which I planned in London." The young Frenchwoman spoke eagerly. If ever there was an enthusiast in the sacred cause, she was one. Ready to be burned or hanged for her principles, she had the spirit of the early Christian martyrs. "We know all about it, Contraras." In the spirit of true democracy, they addressed each other by no formal prefix. "I have undertaken it. It probably means death to me, I can only escape by a miracle, but it also means death to our enemies." Contraras looked at her approvingly from under his bushy eyebrows. "There spoke a true daughter of the Revolution which is to remake the world. If years had not come upon me, if my eyesight were more keen, my hand more sure, I would not delegate this task to another, less especially to a woman." Zorrilta hastened to observe obsequiously, "We cannot afford to hazard your precious life, Contraras. You are the head and brain of this organisation. The general directs the battle from safe ground. He does not go into the firing-line like the common soldier." Contraras smiled, well pleased. Like most great men, he was very susceptible to flattery, as easily susceptible as the most despotic monarch that ever ruled. "I appreciate your devotion to the cause, your loyalty to myself," he said in his most gracious manner. "When this great blow is struck, when we make a most terrible example, the echoes of it will reverberate through the world. The downtrodden population will arise, the world-revolution will be in being." There was a subdued murmur of applause at the conclusion of his speech. Moreno applauded the loudest; somehow Violet Hargrave could never force herself to be very enthusiastic. Moreno was watching her very narrowly. Mademoiselle Delmonte spoke. "I cannot say how proud I am to have had this task deputed to me." She looked very brave and resolute. The meeting lasted for over half an hour. Details of the great _coup_ were settled. Contraras had a powerful and logical brain. He never allowed digressions or diversions, he always kept everybody to the point. When the meeting broke up two people were very radiant, Contraras, who had planned the _coup_, the enthusiastic Valerie Delmonte, who had undertaken to carry it into execution, with or without assistance, as might be determined. They strolled out from the obscure little cafe one by one. Moreno presently overtook Mrs Hargrave, in her peasant dress. They lodged near each other; it was natural they should stroll along together in the direction of their respective homes. Behind them came Contraras, and the two other men who had joined forces after leaving the cafe. Contraras looked after the two young people with those keen eyes which age had not very greatly dimmed. "The Englishwoman I know well," he whispered to Alvedero. "She is a protegee, almost an adopted daughter, of our staunch comrade Jaques. What about this Moreno? Is he to be trusted?" "You know that Lucue vouches for both." "Ah!" sighed Contraras. "Lucue is a keen judge of men. I have never known him make a mistake. But I do not like the English mother." "And, in the case of Violet Hargrave, you have the English father. And yet, you have no suspicion of her." Contraras nodded his massive head, the head with the broad, deep brow of the thinker. "Your remark is just, my friend. I chose Violet Hargrave myself, on the recommendation of my friend Jaques; that, of course, prejudices me in her favour. Moreno was chosen by Lucue. Perhaps I am a little bit jealous of Lucue. And I am growing old." "No," cried Alvedero, with whole-hearted admiration. "Give you another ten years yet, and you will still be the brains and leading spirit of this organisation. Zorrilta is good, Lucue has a touch of genius. But there is only one Contraras. Ten years hence you will be our leader, as you are to-day." And while Contraras and Alvedero were exchanging these confidences, Moreno was talking to Violet Hargrave. "We seem to be engaged in a pretty bloodthirsty business, don't you think, Mrs Hargrave? Not much in common with Fleet Street, or the flat in Mount Street, eh?" Violet Hargrave smiled. "We have both come out here to find adventure. Spain is a land of surprises. We shall have plenty of adventure before we have done with it." There was a grim note in the journalist's tones, as he answered: "On this particular _coup_, engineered by our great leader, Contraras, it seems to me as likely as not that you and I shall meet our deaths. The one person who seems perfectly happy over the business is Mademoiselle Delmonte. By the way, she went out the first. She must have flown along like the wind. The others are behind. I can see them through the back of my head. I can wager they are just discussing whether we can be trusted--you, with your English father, I, with my English mother." He shot at her a penetrating glance, but she did not move a muscle. "The southern blood in both is stronger than the northern," she answered calmly. "And we are each a true son and daughter of the Revolution." He came to the conclusion that, for the moment, Violet Hargrave was impenetrable. Would he ever be able to disturb that _sang-froid_? When he reached his humble lodgings, for it was a part of his role to live plainly, he found a long letter from his old friend, Maurice Farquhar. It was the letter that had been written from Ticehurst Park. It explained at great length that Isobel Clandon had lost her father, that there were no longer any ties to bind her to England, that she wanted to be near her lover, in view of the danger that threatened him. Above all, that she did not wish Guy to know, at any rate for the present. Could Moreno help? The young man knitted his brows. His first impulse was to write back and strongly oppose the scheme. Then his subtle mind began to work, half unconsciously. Isobel Clandon over in Madrid could do no harm. He would not prophesy that she would do any good. But there was no knowing what might happen with this bloodthirsty brotherhood. She might be useful. He knew an English couple living in Madrid, old connections of his mother; he was sure they would willingly take in Isobel as a boarder. They were not rich people, only just in comfortable circumstances, they were elderly and childless. They would welcome a young girl as a member of their household. He would go to Madrid to-morrow and interview them. And he could kill two birds with one stone while he was there. He interviewed the elderly couple; they would be delighted to receive Miss Clandon. Afterwards, in response to a letter received at the Embassy, Guy Rossett met the young journalist in the same obscure restaurant in Madrid, where he had met him previously. "Things are humming a bit, eh?" queried Moreno, as they sat at a small table, quaffing a bottle of light wine. "Looks like it," answered Rossett, speaking with the usual English phlegm. "I've had some very important information over to-day." "Most of which, I expect, has been supplied by me, not but what I admit there are two or three very good men out on the job." Moreno was dreadfully conceited, but he could be generous when he chose. He would sometimes allow that there were other people who might be--well, nearly as clever as himself. "Well, Moreno, you wanted to see me. I take it, you have a reason?" "Of course I have. I know you ultimately hear everything from headquarters. But that takes time, and I am on the spot." "I know all that," said Rossett. "Besides, I have instructions from headquarters to keep in touch with you, because you _are_ on the spot." "That is really awfully good of them, when you come to think of it," said Moreno in his quiet, sarcastic way. "Fancy them relaxing red tape to that extent! I fancy there is a new spirit abroad." "Well, what is it?" asked Rossett a little impatiently. Moreno puffed at his cigar a little time before he answered. "I am going to put a very direct question to you. Some time ago you gave some very important information to the Secret Service about this anarchist movement. It is due to that that you are here." "Yes, I did," answered Guy shortly. "You know we are both practically in the same service," said Moreno slowly, "and we might be frank with each other. Was that information given under the seal of secrecy?" Guy nodded. "Yes, it was, absolutely." "As an honourable man, you could not reveal the name of your informant? I can give you my word, it is very important." Guy thought for a few seconds. "No, I cannot give you the name of my informant. It was done absolutely under the seal of secrecy." "I understand," said Moreno. "And a very considerable price was paid to the man--or woman--I am convinced it was a woman, who sold you this information." "Quite right. But why do you say it was a woman?" asked Guy Rossett quickly. "If I had not already been sure it was a woman, my friend, I should be quite sure of it by your sudden question. You English people are not quite so subtle as we who have southern blood in our veins." Rossett bit his lip. He felt he had given himself away to this quick-witted foreigner, nine-tenths Spanish and one-tenth English. There was a long pause. Moreno shifted his point of attack. "Do you know that Mrs Hargrave is over in Spain, in Fonterrabia?" "What!" almost shouted Guy in his astonishment. Moreno looked at him steadily. "Ah, you have not heard that from headquarters. Well, you see, they don't know the little side-currents as well as I do. They do not know, for instance, that she is a sworn and apparently zealous member of the brotherhood." "Violet Hargrave, of all people!" cried Rossett. He was in a state of bewilderment. "You know, I daresay, that Mrs Hargrave is no friend of yours now, whatever she may have been once," said Moreno, speaking in his quiet, level tones. "Yes, I think I can understand that." "Come, Mr Rossett, throw off a little of that insular reserve, and let us talk together quite frankly. Believe me, I am speaking entirely in your own interests. There is no doubt that, at one time, you paid Mrs Hargrave very marked attention, that you fed her hopes very high." "I was a bit of a fool, certainly," admitted Guy. "And then, pardon me for speaking quite frankly, you threw her over rather abruptly, because you had fallen in love with somebody else--a woman, of course, a thousand times superior to the discarded one." "You seem to know all about it, Mr Moreno." "It is my business to know things," replied the journalist quietly. "Well, it is a case of the `woman scorned,' you know. I should say the fair Violet hated you now as much as she once loved you." "It may be possible. I have a notion that you know women better than I do." "Bad women perhaps," said Moreno quietly. "My experience has lain rather in their direction. I think I have only known three good women in my life, two of whom were my mother and a girl I was once engaged to--she died a week before our wedding day." Rossett regarded him with a sympathetic gaze. So this swarthy, black-browed young Spaniard had had his romance. His voice had broken as he spoke of his dead sweetheart. "I am sorry for your experience. Most of the women I have known have been very good, the fingers of one hand would count the bad. But tell me more about Violet Hargrave. She hates me, you say?" "I should say with a very bitter and malignant hatred," was Moreno's answer. "All arising, of course, from jealousy or disappointment. How far is this hatred going to lead her?" "I should say to the furthest point." Rossett recoiled. "You mean to say she can have so changed that she would contemplate that?" Moreno did not mince his words. "You will take my word for it that it is revenge she seeks, and she will not hesitate. Her position in the brotherhood will give her a very plausible excuse." For a moment, Guy Rossett lost his head. "Yes, you told me just now, I remember, she belonged to the brotherhood. But I always understood--" He paused; Moreno noted that sudden pause. Rossett had been on the point of saying something that would have revealed much. The young man leaned forward and whispered. "Mr Rossett, do you still refuse to give me the name of your informant?" "I am afraid I cannot," was the firm reply. "My word was given, you understand." Again he seemed on the point of saying something further, and refrained. Moreno shrugged his shoulders. "I admire your scrupulousness, but I still think you are very foolish in your own interests. Still, I know what you Englishmen are. If my suspicions had been confirmed by your positive evidence, my hands would have been very much strengthened. I could have dealt with the matter in a very positive and speedy way." Rossett kept silence. It was the safest method with the subtle young Spaniard, who took notice of every word and every glance, and rapidly constructed a theory out of the most slender facts. "There is no more to be said, so far as that is concerned," said Moreno quietly. "You could have made it very easy for me; as it is, I shall have to expend more time and trouble. But trust me, I shall get the information I want in good time. I shall find people in your own walk of life less scrupulous than you are yourself." "Perhaps," replied Rossett briefly. "I am keeping watch and ward over you, as you know," went on Moreno in lighter tones. "And I promise you I will give you plenty of notice of danger." "It is pretty near, eh?" queried Rossett. "Not very far off, I can assure you. I am seeing the Chief of the Spanish police to-morrow. I have some very important information to give him." The next day Moreno had a long interview with the Chief of Police, and also with the Head of the Spanish Secret Service. Both the officials made copious notes at the respective interviews. When he left them Moreno felt he had done good work. He was sure that he could outwit Zorrilta, Alvedero, even the great Contraras himself. He took a flying visit to England after this, having two objects in view. First, he wanted to see Isobel to arrange the details of her journey to Madrid. He lunched with her and Lady Mary at a quiet little restaurant in Soho. He promised to meet her on her arrival at Madrid and conduct her to her friends. He would say nothing to Guy Rossett till he had her permission. For at the eleventh hour Isobel's heart a little failed her. From what point of view would Guy contemplate this rather wild adventure? Would he take it as a proof of her devoted love, or would he frown at the escapade, as a little unwomanly? Men of the straightforward English type like Rossett are apt to be a little uncertain in their judgment of what is seemly in their womenkind, and what is the reverse. After luncheon, he went to keep an appointment with one of the chiefs of the English Secret Service. This gentleman received him very graciously. Moreno stood high in his estimation. He had rendered very valuable service in the past and the present. "Delighted to see you, Mr Moreno. But I should have thought at the moment you could hardly be spared from Spain, more especially the neighbourhood of Fonterrabia, and Madrid." "I never take a holiday, sir, unless I feel I am justified. In this instance I am. It is true I had a little private business on in England at this particular time, which does not concern your department. But I have sandwiched that in." The grey-haired gentleman listened politely. Moreno, as he knew by experience, did not make many mistakes. "Some little time ago, Mr Guy Rossett, at present attached to Madrid, gave you some very important information about the anarchist movement in Spain." "Ah, you know, do you?" was the cautious answer. "Of course, I have known it for a long time. For very special reasons I want to know the name of the man or woman who gave that information to Rossett. I will give you my reasons presently." The other man thought a moment. "Yes, I remember the details perfectly. Rossett handed us certain memoranda which he had obtained from somebody, whose name he would not disclose." "That is exactly like Rossett. I have attacked him direct and he still keeps silence. As an honourable Englishman he remains staunch to his promise. One cannot blame him, although in his own interests it would be better if he were a little less scrupulous." The grey-haired man began to get interested. "Give me a few more details, Mr Moreno, so that I can see what you are driving at." Moreno unfolded his suspicions briefly. He finished his story with the words, "If you could not make Rossett speak, I cannot. But you have those memoranda in your archives. Will you show them to me so that I may see if I recognise the handwriting." The other thought for a moment before he replied. Even in the Secret Service everything is conducted with the most scrupulous fairness, although their opponents are destitute of the elementary principles of honesty. Then he made up his mind. "From what you have told me, I think it is wise that I should show you these memoranda, with a view to strengthening your hand. Kindly wait a few minutes and I will fetch them." He was only away a very short time, but Moreno's nerves were on the rack during the brief absence. Were his suspicions going to be absolutely confirmed, or still left in the region of mere conjecture? The grey-haired man came back, and placed half a dozen closely covered sheets before him. They were in a small, clear, feminine handwriting. Triumph glared in Moreno's dark eyes. "As I guessed. She wasn't clever enough to disguise her hand. I can understand she could not run the risk of having them copied. Why didn't she get Rossett to write them out at her dictation?" The other man made no reply to this ebullition on the part of the young Spaniard. "Of course you can't part with these, or any one page of them?" asked Moreno. "Out of the question," came the expected answer. "I quite agree. But you can get photographs taken of them, and then I shall have this woman in the hollow of my hand." "That shall be done, Mr Moreno. You are going back to Spain to-day. They shall be sent to you to-morrow at whatever address you leave with me." And Moreno walked out of the cosy little room well pleased with himself. Guy Rossett might have saved him all this trouble if he had chosen to open his mouth. Still, he had got the information he wanted. And, above all, what a fool Violet Hargrave had been, to let those memoranda go out in her own handwriting! Moreno, who thought of every detail, would not have done that. CHAPTER THIRTEEN. The great anarchical association of which Ferdinand Contraras was the leading spirit did not differ greatly in essential features from those tyrannical and effete institutions which it was striving to supersede. There was still the wide gulf between the classes, bridged over speciously by the fact that they addressed each other as "comrade," waiving all distinctive titles. The chief addressed the educated young fisherman as Somoza shortly, which was natural. And, on the other hand, Somoza addressed him, though always very respectfully, as Contraras, which would not have been at all natural, under ordinary circumstances. Still, Somoza did not slap him on the back, or take liberties, as he would have done with an elderly fisherman in his own rank of life. The gulf of class could not quite be crossed by dropping titles, and calling each other comrade. And then there was the question of wealth. Contraras, in spite of his numerous donations to the cause, was still rich; so was Jaques. Zorrilta was moderately well-off. Alvedero and Lucue were poor. The sharing out had not begun yet. Lucue, as we know, lived in humble lodgings in Soho, which galled him somewhat, as he was fond of comfort and the flesh-pots. Contraras, after a brief sojourn at Fonterrabia had come back to Madrid, where he had many friends in his own sphere of life. Although not of noble birth himself, he had married a woman, a member of a family poor but boasting of the proudest blood of Spain in its veins. At Madrid he had engaged a suite of rooms at the Ritz Hotel in the Plaza de Canovas, near the Prado Museum. Democrat and anarchist as he was in theory, the man delighted in displaying a certain amount of ostentation, whether at home or abroad. A little aware of his weakness in this direction, he consoled himself by the thought that in doing this he was throwing dust in the eyes of people of his own class--that he could more successfully carry on his propaganda, because nobody would ever suspect him of seeking to overthrow the regime under which he had prospered so exceedingly. The young Frenchwoman, Valerie Delmonte, was in Madrid at the same time also as Contraras. She was staying at an equally luxurious hostelry-- the Grand Hotel de la Paix in the Puerta del Sol. She also had a suite of rooms, imitating her illustrious chief. She chose to be known by her maiden name of Mademoiselle Valerie Delmonte. It did not suit her emancipated notions that a woman should sink her identity in that of a husband. She had borne with the infliction for three short years of married life. When her elderly husband, a rich Paris financier, died she found herself a very wealthy woman. Monsieur Varenne had no near kith or kin. With the exception of a few handsome legacies, he had left all his money to this young woman who was very handsome and still young, only in the late twenties. Contraras was an anarchist by profound and philosophical conviction. He had persuaded himself that revolution, open and brutal revolution, was the only cure for a rotten and diseased world. Valerie had arrived at the same conclusion from a merely personal standpoint--from the point of view of her own feelings. Naturally of a morbid temperament, absolutely a child of the gutter, the offspring of drunken and dissolute parents who had starved and beaten her, she had suffered no illusions as to what existence meant for the impoverished. She was a sharp-witted child, with plenty of brain-power, and a marvellous capacity for self-education. At the age of twelve her parents had sold her for a paltry sum to the proprietor of a travelling circus. This man had perceived at once that there was plenty of grit in the precocious child. He had got her very cheap. If he trained her carefully he might make a good deal of money out of her. The precocious little Valerie left her parents without the slightest regret--her life had been one long torture with them. The circus-proprietor was a big, burly man, not destitute of a rough geniality. There was a hard look in his eyes, a dogged squareness of the jaw that suggested a latent brutality. On the whole, however, he was a welcome relief from her former torturers, who had never thrown a kind word to her from the day of her birth. Sometimes he was generous, sometimes he was brutal, as the mood took him. Often he swore at her till she trembled in every limb. Occasionally, in his cups, he beat her. But he was always sorry the next day, and did his best to make amends. In short, he was a ruffian with a certain amount of decent feeling, and an uncertain temperament. She stayed with him till she was seventeen. She might have stayed with him for ever, had not a sudden severance been put to their relations, by the man's sudden death, brought about prematurely by his constant indulgence in alcohol. Valerie could never recall the years that succeeded without a shudder. The circus was broken up, she was left helpless and friendless. It was during those terrible years that the iron entered her soul, when she experienced the keen, cruel suffering of the really poor, when she went to bed night after night, cold and hungry, after tramping the streets in vain for work. A weaker spirit would have succumbed to the temptation that was always at hand, for she was a very attractive girl. But she was resolved, with her indomitable grit, to keep herself pure. She turned away disdainfully from the leering old men, the callous young ones who accosted her as she paced the streets in her restless tramp for an honest living. Better the river than that! After many vicissitudes, she came to anchor at last. She was then about twenty-two. She was very clever at educating herself. She had taught herself to sing, she had taught herself to play the piano, she had taught herself to dance. She got an engagement at one of the minor halls in Paris to do a turn which combined singing and dancing. She was very pretty and attractive. In a small way she made a name. At the end of three months the manager trebled her salary. To this minor music hall came one night the rich financier, a somewhat shady one, if the truth must be told, Monsieur Varenne, a man of about fifty-five who had never married. He was greatly attracted by this elegant young girl. Her voice was small, her dancing was nothing great. But there was an indefinable charm about her that appealed to his somewhat jaded senses. He obtained an introduction through the manager, who was only too anxious to oblige such a well-known personage. He invited her to supper. She accepted the invitation graciously, but coldly. Her coldness inflamed him the more. When they met, he was surprised at her cleverness, the correctness with which she expressed herself. This was certainly no ordinary girl of the music halls. "Tell me something about yourself, my dear," he said, as they sat over their coffee. "I did not expect to find you such a charming companion." Valerie smiled a little bitterly. "I have not very much to tell. I expect my lot has been like that of many thousands in this delightful world. I am a child of the gutter. My father and mother beat and starved me, and sold me for a paltry sum to the proprietor of a travelling circus. It wasn't exactly a rosy life then, but it was paradise to where I had been. He died; I was thrown on my beam ends. I can't tell you what I have been through for the last few years. I couldn't bear to talk of it--I have suffered everything that the poor have to suffer in such profusion--cold, hunger, the most absolute misery. And, at last," she looked round at the luxurious appointments of the restaurant a little disdainfully, "I find myself in receipt of a decent salary, and the guest of a rich man who has pressed upon me every dainty. And I have so often wanted a meal!" Varenne was a very kindly man, in spite of his somewhat sharp ways in business. Those last few pathetic words had gone straight to his heart. She had often wanted a meal, and she was a most attractive girl! Many would have called her beautiful. "It is a sad history, my poor child," he said sympathetically. He paused a moment before he put the delicate question. "And during those terrible years, when you suffered hunger and privation, you kept yourself straight? It would have been so easy to go wrong, so excusable under the circumstances." "Of course," she answered, and there was a note of wounded pride, of indignation, in her voice. "I am not that sort of woman--better the river than that. I might give myself to a man out of love or gratitude, but never merely for money." It was a new experience for the wealthy financier. Here was a girl who had just stepped off the platform of a music hall, where she was, no doubt, earning a very modest salary, who had grit and backbone in her, and, moreover, a proper pride and self-respect. He had, of course, with the easy confidence of a man of the world, imagined the usual termination to such an adventure. But he recognised at once that he could not make any proposition of the kind he meditated. He pressed her hand tenderly at parting, and arranged a further meeting. They met several times, and Varenne went through agonies of indecision. But the attraction was too strong, and at last he asked her to marry him. It was that or losing her altogether. And did it matter much? His world would laugh at him as a matter of course, say he had got into his dotage. And a girl who was young enough to be his daughter! There is no fool like an old fool, he told himself rather ruefully. But she had so subjugated him that he was quite a humble wooer in spite of the enormous advantages he was offering her. "Of course I am an old man, I cannot expect you to have any real affection for me," he said. She met his glance quite frankly. "I have never been in love with anybody; my life has been too hard to permit me to indulge in the softer emotions. But I like you very much. I have always hated rich men; they think they can buy anything with their gold. You are a rich man, I know, you have told me so yourself, but you have a kind nature and a good heart." "And can you overlook the disparity of years?" he questioned, still very humble. "I am twenty-two, but I don't think I am very young; I am old in experience and bitterness. Well, if you care to risk the experiment, I will be your wife. I will do my best to make you happy." They were married. And this marriage was the turning point in Valerie's life. If everything had gone smoothly, she might have forgotten those bitter experiences, outlived her still more bitter rancour against the prosperous and well-to-do. Unfortunately the friends of Monsieur Varenne would not forgive him for this false step, so unpardonable in a man of his intelligence and position. He was a fool, that was clear, but they were not going to abet him in his mad folly. Their doors were shut against his wife, this creature of the music halls, to whom he was going to leave his fortune. After this bitter experience, the iron entered even deeper into her soul. Her husband was kindness and tenderness itself. In his devotion to his young wife, he paid no attention to the fact that he had cut himself off from his old friends, his old social life. He was ready to comply with her slightest wish. He showered on her the most costly gifts, his purse was absolutely at her disposal. She had everything that wealth could give, except the one thing she craved, to mix on equal terms with these people who despised her. When the kindly old man died, she mourned him sincerely. If she had never loved him, in the true sense of the word, she had felt for him a very warm and grateful affection. On his death-bed, she had faltered forth a few words of self-reproach, had blamed herself for taking advantage of his generosity, for not having sufficiently counted the cost to himself. On this point he had reassured her. "I have been very happy, my dear, happier than I ever expected to be. I would not have anything changed." She came into that considerable fortune which was of so little use to her. During her few years of married life she had educated herself into a woman of considerable accomplishments, for she had a very quick and acute intelligence. Her socialist proclivities were now fully developed, after the scurvy treatment at the hands of her husband's friends. The circles where these doctrines were preached readily opened their doors to an attractive and enthusiastic young woman, whose wealth would be very useful for propaganda. She was more than the equal of these purse-proud parvenus, who would not accept her acquaintance, in intellect and behaviour. She felt it bitterly. Very soon she came under the influence of Contraras, who was possessed of great personal magnetism. His reasoned arguments, his fiery eloquence, quickly led her a step further--from socialism to anarchy. In a very short space she became one of the leading spirits of the brotherhood. As the old regime would not receive her, she would do her best to overthrow it, and assert the doctrine of absolute equality. Contraras came frequently to the Grand Hotel de la Paix to visit his young colleague. He had very charming manners, this elderly enthusiast, and Valerie liked him very much, apart from his principles. He was one of the few rich men she had ever known, her late husband being another, whom she did not despise. He was no mere hoarder of wealth, using it as a means to enslave his less fortunate fellow-creatures. Contraras came in one afternoon in a very cheerful mood. She looked at him eagerly. She could read his countenance pretty well by now. "You have something to tell me, Contraras?" The old man smiled. "Yes, my dear, I have got what we wanted. You can walk in boldly. There will be no smuggling through the back door, although we could have managed that, if the other had failed." "Did you get it in the quarter you expected?" "Yes; I had a little tussle with del Pineda, but I overcame his scruples. Besides, he is considerably in my debt. I assured him that he would never be accused of complicity, that I would take all the blame on my own shoulders." He rubbed his hands and chuckled softly. "What does Contraras, a man of means and position, with powerful connections in Spain, know of the secret sentiments of Mademoiselle Delmonte, a charming young lady of wealth, whom he has met abroad? Mademoiselle Delmonte asks for his good offices in a certain matter of a most, apparently, innocent nature. He places himself at her disposal, and secures what she wants through the agency of a certain Duke who is equally ignorant of her real purposes." A dreamy look stole into the young woman's eyes. She spoke in a low voice, as if she were muttering to herself. "A week to wait, only just one little week. And then, if all goes as we think and hope--the dawn of the new era! But I shall not live to see it." CHAPTER FOURTEEN. Moreno met Isobel and her maid at the railway station, and drove them to the home of his friends, the Godwins, who lived in a respectable but not particularly fashionable quarter of Madrid. Mrs Godwin, a buxom and kind-faced woman, received the girl with open arms. Mr Godwin had discreetly absented himself during the first meeting of the two women. "So delighted to see you, Miss Clandon. I was a very intimate friend of Andres' mother. Any friend of his is very welcome. I shall do my best to make you happy during your stay here. I am afraid the accommodation is not what you have been used to. We are a little cramped for room." A dear good honest _bourgeoise_ creature. Isobel took to her at once. She felt the _milieu_ was not quite what she could have desired, but Moreno had done all he could, most probably out of his old friendship for Farquhar. Whatever discomforts she might have to endure, well--she had brought them on herself by embarking on this daring adventure. Mr Godwin came in presently, a large, heavy man, who greeted her with great gravity. She learned afterwards that he had been connected with the wine trade, and had retired from active business on a respectable competence. Moreno took his departure as soon as he could. He had several matters on hand, besides looking after a wandering maiden of a romantic turn of mind. Isobel stayed him at the door. "When am I going to see Guy?" she whispered. The young journalist looked at her kindly. He remembered his own too short-lived romance. That whisper had come straight from her heart. "Ah, that is for you," he said. "You know, you confessed you were a little doubtful about how he would look upon it. Will you ask Lady Mary to write him the news, or would you rather that I should?" Isobel interrupted him eagerly. "Oh, would you? Lady Mary is a darling, and devoted to us both. But if I write to her, and she has to write to Guy, it may be ages before we meet. And, besides," she added with the unconscious guile of a woman, "in certain things, men are so much better diplomatists than women. I am sure you could put everything from a reasonable point of view, present everything in quite a favourable light. I do not want him to think I am a masculine sort of person, an enlightened female who goes tearing about all over the world after a man she loves." Moreno was a very kind-hearted fellow. He could not resist that wistful look in the beautiful dark eyes. The girl was alone in the world. She had just lost her father; Guy was now her sheet-anchor. "I say, if you want to see him quickly, why not send a note round to the Embassy, just giving him your address, and saying simply, `I am here'?" But Isobel rather shrank from that. It seemed too bold, perhaps a little unmaidenly. She had always been educated in the belief that a woman should never make advances. Advances might be made through a third party, perhaps, if they were made with discretion. "But you could explain it all so much better than I could, Mr Moreno, how the whole thing was led up to by your letter to Lady Mary." Moreno looked at his watch. "I was going to leave Madrid in half an hour. Well, I can catch a train three hours later, it won't make much difference. I will be off at once to the Embassy, and catch Rossett there, if not, at his flat. You, of course, can see him at any time, to-day or to-morrow?" "A thousand thanks," replied Isobel, with her charming smile. "Yes, I shall not stir out much anyway. But I will keep in the two whole days." "Mrs Godwin, I warn you, will insist on showing you the sights of Madrid." "I will resist her," said Isobel firmly. Moreno smiled, and said good-bye. It was a little pathetic, he thought, the patient, loving woman ready to wait the man's convenience. Ever the way with true love. A brief drive to the Embassy in the Calle Fernando el Santo, a hastily pencilled note sent up to Rossett. Half an hour later, the two men were seated at a different rendezvous, for this time Moreno was not in his working-man's dress. He had to be very cautious. Moreno went to the point at once. "I have news that will startle you, Mr Rossett. Your fiancee Miss Clandon, is in Madrid at this moment." He named the respectable but unfashionable quarter in which the girl had taken up her abode. "What?" shouted Guy Rossett in his astonishment. It was just the same ejaculation he had used when he learned that Violet Hargrave was in Spain. The vocabulary of the average Englishman is very limited when he has to express sudden emotion. And Guy was quite the average type. "Of course you are very surprised. Well, I am afraid it is all due to me. You remember some time ago I begged you to get out of this place. You refused. I took it on myself to write to your sister to use your father's influence to get you recalled. That fell through too." "It was very kind of you to interfere in my private affairs, Mr Moreno," observed Rossett stiffly. "You are a bit of responsibility to me, Mr Rossett," replied the journalist in his usual imperturbable fashion. "I will tell you frankly I should be very glad to see the back of you to-morrow, for your own sake--" He added in a lower voice, "Still more for the sake of the girl who loves you as much as you love her." "Forgive me," cried Rossett hastily. "I quite appreciate that you mean very well to both of us." "Thank you," said Moreno. "Well, to get on with my story. I have a very old chum, one Maurice Farquhar who happens to be a cousin of your fiancee. One night, in his chambers, I hinted that danger was threatening you here. It seems he told Miss Clandon. As I have stated, I wrote to your sister. The two women put their heads together. Miss Clandon's father died. She had no longer any ties binding her to England. She was mad to come out here to be near you. As men of the world, we might say, the unreasoning caprice of a very loving woman." "It was very sweet and dear of her," said Guy. There was a little break in his voice as he spoke. "But I am interrupting you in your story. Please go on." "There is not much more to tell. As I have said, the two women put their heads together. Lady Mary sent for Farquhar to consult him as to how Miss Clandon could get to Spain. She felt if she consulted you, you would, under the circumstances, have vetoed the project altogether." "I don't think there is the slightest doubt I should," said Rossett, quite frankly. "I agree. Well, they were not going to give you the chance. They took matters into their own hands. Farquhar knew nothing about Spain; he wrote to me to ask me if I could help them. Well, I helped them. I went over to London, saw your sister and Miss Clandon, and arranged for the journey. I met her at the station to-day, took her to the house of some very respectable English people whom I have known from my boyhood, not people of your class, nor of Miss Clandon's. But I think there she will be very quiet and comfortable." Guy Rossett leaned across the table and held out his hand. "A thousand thanks, Mr Moreno. After this, we must be firm friends. My brave little Isobel, how plucky and daring of her. And you took all this trouble!" There was no suspicion in his frank tones, but Moreno liked to clear up everything as he went on. "Yes, it took up a good deal of my time, but I didn't grudge it. I saw your fiancee and sister dining one night with you at the Savoy, but had never spoken to them in my life. But Farquhar is an old chum of mine; he has done me some very good turns. I was pleased to return the compliment." There was a brief pause, before Moreno spoke again. "I left Miss Clandon a little time ago. She is longing to see you. I suggested she should send round a note to you. She seemed a little fearful of what you might think of her hasty action. She begged me to come round and explain matters. That is why I am here. Here is her address." "Again a thousand thanks." Rossett looked at his watch. "Unfortunately, I have to dine at the Embassy to-night, and there is no getting out of that. We are the slaves of duty. I have only just time to get back and dress. I will leave as soon after dinner as I decently can, and go round to her." "Away with you, duty calls," said Moreno, rising briskly. "I will send a note round to her saying I have seen you, and that you will be there to-night." It was late when Rossett, hurrying as fast as he could, entered the small drawing-room of the flat tenanted by the respectable Godwins. Isobel was alone; the worthy couple, with commendable tact, had absented themselves. Moreno had told them just as much as it was well for them to know, and they were not very inquisitive people. It was a very delightful meeting. They had been longing for each other since they last parted. They exchanged their vows of love all over again. "And you are sure you are not angry with me, Guy?" asked Isobel, as they sat hand in hand on the rather hard sofa. "Angry, my brave little darling. Why should I be? But I say, this is not the sort of place for you, you know. Have you brought a maid with you?" "Yes, our old parlourmaid, Ethel. I don't suppose you remember her." "Yes, I do. Well, you must go the Ritz, or one of the good hotels." "Oh, please no, dearest. I have no chaperon, you see, and it might look queer. Besides, I don't want to meet a lot of people, and have to explain things. I would much prefer to stay here _incognita_. Dear Mrs Godwin is quite a motherly old soul, and knows nothing of what is going on in the great world except what she learns from the newspapers. And I am not so far off, after all. You can come and see me sometimes." "Every day, darling," cried Rossett. On reflection, he was inclined to think that, under the very peculiar circumstances, Isobel's course of action was the right one. If she blossomed forth at a fashionable hotel, a great deal would have to be explained. In a censorious and conventional world, young women, however pure in heart, cannot afford to be adventurous. As they sat on the sofa, she told him at great length of her visit to Ticehurst Park, and the Earl's consent to their engagement, of his endeavour to get her to use her influence to lure Guy from his post, of her refusal, in which she had been staunchly supported by her father. She had told him briefly of this at the funeral, but he had been so pressed for time that she had only supplied him with the barest details. "The old dad, he was always great at a bargain, but this time you got the better of him, my darling." Then he put his hand in his breast pocket, and drew forth a letter. "By Jove, I had very nearly forgotten--a letter received this morning from that dear old Aunt Henrietta. I won't read you all of it, there are yards, but I'll just run through a passage that concerns us." This was the passage he read. "I hear a great deal from Mary, who as you know is a most indefatigable correspondent, about your fiancee, Isobel Clandon. She describes her as a most sweet and lovable girl. There were always the two types in the Rossett family, the practicable and the romantic. You, Mary, and myself belong to the latter. I married for love, Mary would have done, and you are going to. "I hear also your post is rather a dangerous one, and that they have tried to get you recalled, but that you will not hear of it. Well, I admire your spirit and sense of duty. Still, as soon as you can retire with honour, do so. "Now that your father has given his consent, there is nothing to wait for. I shall make the way easy for you, as I have always tried to do. Bring your Isobel to see me at the first opportunity. I am longing to make her acquaintance." "What a darling!" cried Isobel enthusiastically. "Well, anyway, there are three dear people in the present Rossett family, your Aunt, Mary, and yourself. And Lord Saxham is not so bad after all." In her happiness she freely forgave the old gentleman his former hostility, his attempt to drive a bargain with her. "No, he's by no means so bad, when you get to know him, to pierce through the crust as it were. He is a sort of cross between the practical and romantic Rossetts," said Guy. They talked for a long time about their future plans. When Isobel laid her head upon her pillow that night, she was happier than she had ever been since the day her dear old father died. CHAPTER FIFTEEN. A week had passed since the conversation between Valerie Delmonte and Contraras had taken place. A great function was on at the Royal Palace to-night. All the elite of Madrid would be there. For this special occasion, the leading members of the Spanish section had shifted from Fonterrabia to the capital--Zorrilta, Alvedero, Violet Hargrave, Andres Moreno. Contraras and Valerie Delmonte had already taken up their residence there. It was the night of the great _coup_, on the successful development of which depended the dawn of the new era. Moreno had a busy day. Thanks to the noble-spirited action of Mademoiselle Delmonte, who had taken the entire execution of the _coup_ upon herself, he was spared any active participation in it. Violet Hargrave, who had been originally named as an assistant, was also dispensed with. At eleven o'clock in the morning, he was seated in the private room of the Head of the Spanish Secret Service. There was also present the Head of the Police. The three men talked together for a very considerable time. Moreno was attired in his shabby workman's garb; he had on also a false beard and moustache. When the interview was terminated, Moreno rose; and turned to the Chief of Police. "You have thought it all out then? You know she will come with the Duchess del Pineda." "She will be watched from the moment she enters the Palace to the moment she leaves it," was the chief's confident reply. "And you say that the Duchess is quite ignorant of her intentions?" It was the Chief of the Secret Service who spoke. "I will swear to the innocence of the Duchess, also to that of the Duke. They are simply tools. They have been made use of by a superior intelligence, by a man who has a strong hold over the Duke." "I wish, Mr Moreno, you were able to take us a little more into your confidence. Would it not be possible to bag the whole lot to-night?" The Chief of the Police rubbed his hands at the thought. "Ah, that would be a fine idea. And I suppose, Mr Moreno, you have it in your power to enable us to do so?" "Gently, gentlemen, if you please. Don't be ungrateful. I am helping you somewhat to-night. And because I am doing this, you want to rush things," answered the young journalist in his usual quiet way. "Now, look you, much as I desire to serve you, I have a very tender regard for my own skin." "Naturally," cried the Secret Service man. And the Chief of Police echoed him. "The secret of this project to-night has been entrusted to a good many people," continued Moreno. "If it fails, as you promise me it will fail, two things will occur to the mind of the Chief--one that the brotherhood has been betrayed by one in their counsels, the other that your spies noticed something suspicious in the behaviour of the woman, and that she was arrested on the strength of that suspicious behaviour." The two men nodded their heads. They began to see the drift of his observations. "I was at first designed to take part in this project, but the original programme was altered. Had it been adhered to, I think I could have enabled you to bag the whole lot, at any rate, most of them, and yet escaped scot free myself, of course with your co-operation." "We dare not ask you to disclose your plan?" insinuated the Secret Service man gently. Moreno shook his head. "I think not. But if this _coup_ fails, there will be another planned shortly. By that time my ideas will be perfected, and I trust I shall be able to do what you want, and escape with a whole skin. Only one member of the brotherhood will be here to-night. The others are scattered about. Suspicion would at once fall upon me if every one except myself were taken." "We could work that out pretty easily, could we not?" queried the Chief of Police eagerly. "I think not," was Moreno's answer. "You would have got this lot out of the way, but there are a few members of the brotherhood left in London, and every man has a knife handy. I must show a clean sheet to those who remain at large. Please trust me, and I will shortly do it in my own way." Moreno left after cordial hand-shaking. Both the Chiefs were men of considerable astuteness, and great experience. But they agreed that there was a certain subtlety about this young man, a certain suggestion of strength and confidence, that won their admiration. Moreno perhaps did not repose quite so much confidence in them as they did in himself. "I hope to heaven they won't bungle it at the last minute," he said to himself as he walked along. "If I were dealing with the French police, I shouldn't have a doubt." He walked down the Puerta del Sol, past the Grand Hotel de la Paix. He saw the tall form of Contraras enter the vestibule. He shrugged his shoulders, and a look of regret stole over his face. "He is going to hearten her up for this night's work, the old devil, while he stands safely outside, and looks on. Poor little woman! I wish I could save her. But how can you save a fanatic?" So ran his thoughts. "Why in the name of wonder does a woman who has got everything in the world she requires want to mix herself up with this wretched and bloodthirsty crew? She must lie on the bed she has made, and it will be a pretty hard one, I should wager." Moreno walked swiftly in the direction of a poor quarter of the town. He entered the humble abode of an inferior member of the Spanish Secret Service, where he doffed his working-man's garb and assumed his ordinary clothes. Later on, he saw Violet Hargrave, who was living close to him. Violet seemed very restless and perturbed. "This is the great night," she said by way of greeting. "I wonder if it will come off all right." "I should say there is every chance it will, unless Valerie's nerve fails her at the last moment," was Moreno's diplomatic answer. Mrs Hargrave gave a little shudder. Her pretty delicate face went a shade paler. "I cannot help feeling glad that I wasn't brought into it." Moreno bent upon her his keen glance. "And yet I should not put you down as a very tender-hearted person." "I don't know that I am, or should be under certain circumstances. But I have no grudge against these people, no particular wrong to avenge. Aren't you really glad you are out of it?" "I suppose, in a way, I am. Still, one feels a bit of a coward in letting Valerie take all the risk. It seems taking advantage of her bravery, to snatch at the chance of avoiding all danger for oneself." "I shall sit up very late, on the chance of hearing the news." "On the contrary, I think I shall go to bed early," said Moreno. "We shall hear nothing to-night in this distant quarter. And in the morning there will be the news, or no news at all. The Chief will let us know." The great Contraras, very upright and vigorous for his age, was shown into Mademoiselle Delmonte's sitting-room. She sprang up eagerly at his entrance. "I am so glad you have come. You are a little late, are you not? Luncheon will be served in a few moments." He could see she was very restless, and her cheeks were pale; there was a strange, almost unnatural brilliance in her dark eyes. Her voice was jerky. He took both her hands in his and pressed them tenderly. "You are not afraid, Valerie?" He was a fanatic, bold, brutal, and ruthless in his fanaticism, ready to sacrifice anything and everybody to the one absorbing idea. But at the sight of those pale cheeks, that quivering mouth, a momentary regret assailed him. He was a father, and this beautiful young woman was young enough to be his daughter. "We ought to have had a man for this job," he said, speaking a little hoarsely. "But you know you chose it yourself; you would not even have another associated with you." "I know." She tried to laugh lightly, but there was a quaver in the laugh. "I do not regret. I am not really afraid. But I suppose every soldier on his first battlefield has inward tremors that he cannot repress. I am a soldier of the Revolution, and to-night is my first battlefield." "And you feel those tremors, eh?" "Just a little, although I blush for them. But don't let us think of this. Ah, here comes lunch." They sat down to the meal. She was a very abstemious woman, and rarely partook of stimulants. But, in honour of Contraras' visit, she had ordered a bottle of champagne. Under its exhilarating influence, her jangled nerves readjusted themselves, and she became her natural self. The colour returned to her cheeks. She raised her glass and nodded to her guest. "To the new world, born upon the ruins of the old." "Amen to that wish!" cried Contraras fervently, as he drank his wine in one long draught. There was a long pause, which she broke abruptly. "I think I have told you I made my will in London last year." Contraras nodded. "Yes, you told me that." "But I did not tell you the details. I have left all my money in the hands of the Public Trustee, to divide amongst certain charities. As private fortunes go, it is a fair one--but what a small sum to go to the alleviation of this vast amount of human misery!" "You could not have made a better use of it," said Contraras appreciatively. "To you, my dear friend, I have left twenty thousand pounds to devote to whatever purpose you think fit. Of course you will apply that money to the spreading of the propaganda." "I much appreciate your kind thought, my dear Valerie; it is just like you. But may the day be far distant when--" She raised her hand. "We will speak no more of that, please. I wonder what will be the result of to-night?" "Success!" cried Contraras confidently. "Success!" A few minutes later he rose to go. "The Duchess will call for you in her carriage. Once arrived at the Palace, keep under her wing for some time, so as to avoid suspicion. Then seize your time and opportunity. Would you like me to come round and see you before you start? But I shall look out for you at the Palace." For a moment she did not answer him, she was pursuing the train of her own thoughts. "I never told you I had my fortune told by a gipsy when I was sixteen. Would you like to know what she predicted?" "If you wish," replied Contraras politely. He had no respect for gipsies or their prophecies. "Ah, I see it won't interest you. I don't think you believe much in the spiritual side of existence. Still, I will tell it; it will not take a moment. Up to the present, it has come remarkably true. This gipsy, she was a very old woman, predicted that I should have a very hard life for some years, then would come some years of great good fortune, and then--equally great tribulation." Contraras smiled. "My dear child, she probably predicted precisely the same things hundreds of times to her clients. The veil of the future is not to be lifted by a wandering beggar-woman." "Of course, I knew you would not be impressed, or perhaps you just say it to cheer me." She had forgotten his question--should he come and see her again before she started for the Palace? He repeated it. "No, my good friend, I would rather not. If all goes well, we shall meet again often. If not, we will say good-bye here. A thousand thanks for your friendship and kindness." Could fanaticism go further? She was thanking this hardened old schemer for his friendship and kindness--friendship and kindness that were ready to sacrifice her at any moment for his own ends. CHAPTER SIXTEEN. Moreno had declared to Violet Hargrave that he proposed to go to bed early, and wait till to-morrow for the news. When he spoke that had been his original intention. But, as the evening drew on, he began to feel a certain restlessness stirring in him. Certain things were about to happen, or, as he hoped, to be frustrated. He could hardly compose himself to sleep under the unusual circumstances. He would go out, and form one of the undistinguished crowd that clustered round the Palace gates. If anything dramatic happened, he could not fail to be aware of it. The news would spread like wildfire. On his arrival, he caught sight of a woman closely veiled standing close beside him. He recognised her at once. It was evident that Mrs Hargrave could no more endure to stay indoors than he could. He moved up a few paces and spoke to her in English, practically their native tongue. "The same sudden impulse seized both of us," he whispered. "Well, it is a very orderly crowd. I don't think we shall be pushed or knocked about. We shall enjoy the sight of the grandees arriving. By the way, it is a pity we were not sent an invitation, then we could have seen it from the inside." Violet Hargrave whispered back. "I simply couldn't stay indoors. My nerves seem on edge to-night." "Mine are a bit out of time, too," answered Moreno in a low voice. And, while they were waiting, Moreno indulged in several philosophical reflections. A curious and not ill-natured crowd was gathered round the Palace, something like the throng that gathers round a wedding. There was no harm in these good-humoured, laughing persons, mainly of the lower order. They were not envious of the people who went inside, these men in Court costume, these women of another world, daintily attired. They discussed and admired the good looks of the men, the exquisite costumes of the women. If the Court Chamberlain had suddenly appeared, and in the name of their Majesties, bade them enter the Royal precincts in a spirit of perfect equality with the other guests, they would have been very embarrassed and, save for a few adventurous spirits, have declined the invitation. They would have felt out of place. From what causes arose this antagonism amongst the clever extremists of the proletariat toward the more fortunate ones of the earth? Moreno was puzzled to find a solution. Envy perhaps was the contributing cause. And yet the ordinary man who dines at a common eating-house is not always envious of the man who eats a sumptuous luncheon at the Ritz or Carlton. The middle-class prosperous professional man does not always gnash his teeth when he thinks of a nobleman, possibly his client, who has a rent roll of a hundred thousand a year. Moreno was very just. There was a time when he had had to fare very frugally, and he had not complained. Things had improved. When the fancy took him, he would indulge in a good dinner, a bottle of champagne, and an excellent cigar. Was he hurting the toiling millions very much if he occasionally indulged in these luxuries? Were the few fortunate ones of the earth, and after all they were very few, hurting him if they indulged in them every day? Night was slowly settling over the city. Far away from this scene of revel and display, some thousands of humble workers had eaten their frugal suppers, and were preparing for bed. If all the money that was to be spent upon this function had been shared between them, would they have been much the richer? Champagne, excellent cigars, and good dinners could not be given to every creature on God's earth. That was an inexorable economic law, which no revolutionist could alter. He was raised from his reveries by a light touch on his arm. "Who are these two men?" It was Violet Hargrave who spoke. "Somehow, they look people of importance." Moreno recognised them at once, as they drove slowly through--the Chief of the Secret Service, the Head of the Police. He was glad that they were on the scene early. They might not have quite the perfect methods of the corresponding French organisations, but perhaps they would justify themselves before the night was over. "I don't know them from Adam, but, as you say, they certainly look persons of importance, especially the fat one." Always suspicious, he wondered if Mrs Hargrave was trying to draw him, herself knowing who they were. Anyway, she had failed. He was not to be caught by a leading question like that. Then presently she nudged him. "Look, look, the Chief!" Yes, it was Contraras, driving in a humble cab. His fine, lined face showed clear against the waning light. "Wonderful man! The brains of sixty, the fire and energy of twenty!" said Moreno glibly. He spoke with all the enthusiasm of a true son of the Revolution. Mrs Hargrave made no comment. Equipage after equipage rolled up, containing fair women and brave men. The Palace was one blaze of light. The crowd grew closer, enjoying the spectacle of the arriving guests, and it seemed a crowd that was at once good-humoured and appreciative, if at times critical. Moreno turned to his companion. "I say, it's a bit of a shame that you and I are not inside instead of here, eh? I think Contraras might have worked that while he was about it." Mrs Hargrave smiled back; she was very attracted by this black-browed young Spaniard. "My dear friend, under the new regime, we shall all go to Court." "To the Court of Contraras, I suppose?" "Something of that sort," answered Violet, letting herself go a little. "And Madame Contraras, more aristocratic than any queen, will smile condescendingly, and the pretty daughter will turn up her nose at us." The conversation was getting dangerous. Mrs Hargrave must be checked in her impulsive moods, which, he honestly admitted, were very rare. "Ah, if I could see dear old Contraras in that position I would die happy," he exclaimed, with a splendid mendacity. Mrs Hargrave stole a quiet glance at him. "Yes, he is very wonderful, is he not? But I can't honestly say I like his womenkind. They have no sympathy with his aspirations." As they were speaking, a very gorgeous carriage rolled up. It contained the Duchess del Pineda and Valerie Delmonte. The Duke had not accompanied them. He had pleaded indisposition, but probably prudence had dictated his absence. Anyway, if certain things happened, it would be possible for him to plead a successful _alibi_. "Look, look!" cried Violet Hargrave, a little excitedly for her. "Valerie Delmonte!" Moreno, the kindly-hearted, felt a spasm of pity as he gazed on the face of the handsome, fanatical young Frenchwoman, whom that wily old Contraras had subjugated to his evil will. "Poor child!" he said aloud, for the benefit of his companion, "I can only hope she will not lose her nerve. It was a man's job, but she would insist upon having it." There was a little lull in the procession of carriages. And then there drove up one conveying Guy Rossett and a colleague. The Ambassador had already arrived, with his wife. Moreno stole a glance at his companion. She was heavily veiled, but he could see that her face had grown pale, that a sad look had come into her eyes. "Our admirable young diplomatist!" whispered the young man. "Well, Madrid is not a very safe place for him." "But he is in no danger to-night I take it?" came back the answer in a whisper as low as his own. "I should say not. For the present, we have left him out of our calculations; we are flying at higher game. He will hardly come within the sphere of Valerie's operations. His Chief may--I doubt even that." Mrs Hargrave made no comment. Presently Moreno spoke in the same low whisper. "You have no great affection for Mr Rossett, I take it?" "No, I have not any great affection for Mr Rossett." "And yet you were once very good friends." Mrs Hargrave stiffened a little. "You seem to know a great deal of my private affairs. Yes, we once were very good friends. He knew my husband long before I married him. I fancy I have told you that." Moreno was not to be daunted by her aloof attitude. He was never wanting in enterprise. "I should not be surprised if, at the present moment, you hated him." "Perhaps you are right," was the curt answer. Moreno indulged in a quiet inward chuckle. If she had known that Isobel Clandon was established so close to her lover, that through his adroit manipulation of affairs they were meeting every day, her hatred must have expressed itself more heartily. Valerie Delmonte, under the wing of the unsuspecting Duchess, was now within the Palace. She had only once before looked upon a scene approaching this, and it had been much less brilliant. Once, early in their married life, her husband had taken her to one of the President's receptions in Paris. It was easy, in his position, to secure the entree for himself and wife. She remembered that evening well. Never had she felt more humiliated. Half a dozen times kind old Monsieur Varenne had introduced her to some of his acquaintances. There was a formal bow interchanged, and nothing beyond; one and all they had sheered off. Even in a republican and democratic country, these purse-proud citizens would have nothing to do with the girl who had come from the music halls. She recalled how, when she had reached home that night, she had burst into a fit of wild sobbing, and her kindly, elderly husband had tried to comfort her. "Calm thyself, _ma cherie_, we will not go to these hateful places again. We will lead our own life." To-night, how different. A Court, one of the oldest in Europe, reflecting that atmosphere of pomp and state associated with long descended Royalty. The kindly young King, his British-born Queen, chatting graciously with their favoured guests. Men in resplendent uniforms and orders, great ladies of the highest Spanish nobility, what a contrast to the homely reception of the President in those far-off days! Then she had been escorted by a very wealthy but somewhat shady financier, whose influence had not been sufficient to enable her to scale the social heights to which she had aspired. To-night she was under the wing of a popular chaperon, in whose veins ran the proudest blood of Spain. The Duchess, acting according to instructions, introduced her to everybody she came across. Mademoiselle Delmonte, handsome, brilliant, and vivacious, was an immediate success. This aristocratic assemblage, ignorant of her antecedents, only recognising that she was under the wing of the popular Duchess, took her at her real valuation. Being a woman, she was naturally pleased with her momentary success. But she was sensible enough to know to what she owed it. If these people who were flattering her now had known of her lowly origin, how she had graduated through the circus and the music hall to the possession of wealth, they would have turned their backs on her, as the purse-proud parvenus had done in the democratic salons of the French President. These bitter reflections rather tended to harden than soften her resolution. To-night she was an avenging angel, bent upon the task of making these insolent people atone for the insults heaped upon the lowly-born. Once in her triumphant progress she came near to Contraras, who was standing alone, surveying the brilliant scene with his keen, deep-set eyes. She disengaged herself from the arm of her companion, a handsome young man of some standing in Spanish Society. "Excuse me a moment. I see an old friend, to whom I must say a few words." "What do you think of it all?" she whispered, as she held out her hand. "What I have always thought of such spectacles as these," he whispered back. "These besotted creatures feast and dance and make merry, without a thought of their oppressed and toiling fellow-creatures." He spoke intensely, in the most bitter spirit of his gloomy fanaticism. She could not linger, "My nerves are in perfect order," she assured him as she turned away. He smiled kindly at her as she passed on. The amiable and innocent Duchess had performed the duties of chaperon so well, had introduced her to so many people, that it was a long time before Valerie could shake herself free. It was a very crowded assemblage. If she could once break away, she would be free to roam where she pleased. The moment came at last, close upon midnight. She was alone and mistress of her own movements. Her thoughts were no longer distracted by the idle chatter of some companion forced upon her. Slowly, she edged her way towards the Royal circle. Progress was a little difficult, but at last she stood within a few feet of the King and Queen. She stood for a few moments, perhaps summoning up her courage. Then her hand stole towards her pocket. Before she could reach it, a little cordon was formed round her, a cordon of six men in ordinary evening dress. The hand of one of the men gripped hers, and held it in a grasp of iron. "Come quietly, mademoiselle," whispered a voice in her ear. "We have followed you round all the evening, we fancied there was something suspicious about you. We may, of course, be mistaken, but in these troublous times we have to be very careful. We will take you to a private room, and have you searched. Of course, if nothing is found upon you, you will go free, and we will make you handsome amends." Valerie gave a little choking sob. The gipsy's prophesy had come true-- several years of hard life, a few years of good fortune, and then great tribulation. "I came here with the Duchess del Pineda," she said in a broken voice, hardly knowing what she was saying. "Do you dare to suspect--" It was the Head of the Police who held her wrist in that iron grasp. He spoke in a suave voice. "Mademoiselle, we always suspect in our profession. For the Duchess del Pineda I have the highest respect. Will you consent to come quietly? If we are in the wrong, you have nothing to fear." She turned with them without a word. She had failed miserably. The upholders of law and order had scored signally over the scattered and imperfect organisation of the brotherhood. Between them, she walked through the long, brilliantly-lit rooms. The Chief of Police tucked her arm under his, keeping a tight hold on her wrist. The other five men accompanied them. There was nothing in the general attitude to suggest that she was not a very charming woman being escorted by a bevy of admirers. Contraras was standing by the door as the procession passed out. Agitated as she was, she saw him, and flashed at him an agonised glance. He flashed back at her a glance equally eloquent. He knew the Chief of Police by sight, and he understood what had happened. Poor little Valerie had failed! They would take her to some room, and search her. In her pocket they would find those cunning little bombs that, once launched, would have sent tyrants and oppressors hurling into space, and proclaimed the dawn of the new era. Poor little Valerie! His eyes grew misty. As she had failed, it would have been better if he had left her alone. If ever he felt remorse in his life, he felt it that night. His first impulse was to leave the Palace at once. But wiser thoughts prevailed. The Chief of Police had recognised him, he was sure. If he left immediately, it might give cause for suspicion. Valerie had failed. For the moment the Cause had suffered a set-back. But his resolution was still undaunted, his brain still active. Because he had failed to-day, it did not follow that he would not be successful to-morrow. He sought out the Duchess del Pineda, who was, as usual, surrounded by a group of chattering friends. "Good evening, Duchess. What has become of our young friend, Mademoiselle Delmonte?" "I really cannot tell you. She broke away from me a long time ago. She has been a tremendous success, I can assure you. I hope she intends to make a long stay in Madrid. She will be most popular." "I really cannot tell you. I know nothing of her plans," answered Contraras in his grave, quiet tones. "As I told the Duke, I met her in France and England, where she appeared to move in the best circles." "Naturally," said the innocent Duchess. Nobody would suspect the highly respected Contraras of telling a deliberate lie. Outside the Palace, the crowd had thinned, but Moreno and Violet Hargrave still waited. Midnight had struck and all was quiet. There were no signs that heralded the happening of a tragedy. A few belated arrivals passed through to the Palace. The crowd began to melt away. And then there was a little stir. A carriage drove up outside the Palace doors. Two men and a woman stepped into it, the woman was in evening dress. The carriage passed the two watchers. Mrs Hargrave peered into the slowly-moving vehicle. "Valerie Delmonte," she whispered excitedly. "There is a man sitting beside her, one of those two men I noticed driving in--don't you remember I said they looked people of importance, and you said you did not know them from Adam. What does it mean? Valerie alone with those men?" "It looks as if the _coup_ had failed," replied Moreno quietly. "I should say that Valerie has been caught, and those two men are members of the police." Mrs Hargrave grew a little hysterical. "Thank God, it was not myself," she added, after a pause. "I am glad it was not you." Moreno was about to reply when another carriage drove through, the occupant of which was Contraras. His tall form seemed huddled up; he was evidently in a state of extreme dejection. Moreno tucked Mrs Hargrave's arm under his own. "Come along! Evidently the _coup_ has failed; the police have been one too many for us. Valerie Delmonte going away with those two men, poor old Contraras huddled up in that carriage, his attitude expressing that all is lost, at any rate, for the moment! We have nothing to wait for. We shall hear all about it to-morrow." They walked along arm in arm, both occupied with their own thoughts. Mrs Hargrave broke the long silence. "He is a wonderful man. If he is dejected to-night, he will be full of energy and vigour to-morrow." Moreno agreed. "Yes, he will think of more _coups_. I suppose the next one will be the removal of Mr Rossett." Violet made no answer immediately. Then, presently she said. "I fancy he is considered a rather dangerous person from our point of view." Moreno shrugged his shoulders. "And yet I fancy his removal would not greatly hasten the new era, do you? He is really a quite insignificant person. If Valerie had brought it off to-night, well and good--but I must confess these minor developments don't interest me greatly. Do they interest you?" "A little, I think," answered Mrs Hargrave, in a somewhat faint voice. Moreno looked at her steadfastly. Her nerves were a bit out of order to-night. That long vigil outside the Palace had told on them--that waiting for the crash of the bombs which Valerie Delmonte had carried in her pocket, the bombs which now had been appropriated by the Chief of Police. He gave her arm a tender pressure. "I believe at bottom you are really a womanly woman. The end justifies the means, of course, but some of the means are very bloodthirsty, don't you think?" "I thought so to-night, when I was waiting to hear the crash of those devilish, cunning little bombs, the latest invention of science, as our good old Contraras assures us." Moreno pulled himself up; perhaps he had been a little too frank. But he knew that the photographed letter always gave him the whip-hand of Violet Hargrave. "Still, we must not be squeamish. Revolutions are not made with rose-water, and you must break eggs to make omelettes." "Absolutely true." Mrs Hargrave, looking provokingly pretty under her veil, sighed a soft assent to these platitudes. He fancied her arm gave a responsive pressure to his. When he went to bed that night, Moreno was disturbed with remorseful thoughts of Valerie Delmonte. If the Chief of Police had found those bombs in her pocket, it was he who had told that somewhat slow-moving official he would find them there. Then he comforted himself. If he had betrayed Valerie, he had prevented her from hurling to destruction a dozen or more innocent people. His conscience was quite clear. If she had been a very ugly woman, instead of a very pretty one, perhaps his conscience might not have been troubled at all. "I didn't think much of that Chief of Police at first," he murmured drowsily, as he turned on his pillow. "But he seems to have managed it all right. Still, on the whole, I would rather deal with Scotland Yard, or the Surete in Paris." CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. Lord Saxham and his daughter had left Ticehurst Park. They were in their town house in Belgrave Square. They were neither of them very fond of London. The Earl, in his youth and middle age, had experienced all the fleeting joys of the Metropolis. Mary, after the experience of her unfortunate love-affair, had definitely resolved that she would retire into a convent and devote herself to good works as soon as her father died. Belgrave Square was even a little duller than Ticehurst Park. They were in the midst of a crowd that had forgotten them. Lord Saxham was, to put it vulgarly, a back number, and was quite out of the modern whirl. Lady Mary, during her brief season, had fallen head over ears in love with the handsome young Guardsman, and had buried her heart in his grave. The only thing that had drawn them up from the sylvan shades of Ticehurst Park was this--they wanted to be near Greatorex, that they could know what was happening to Guy at first hand. The eldest son of the house. Viscount Ticehurst, dropped in occasionally, and deigned to spare them a few moments of his valuable time. As a matter of fact, at the present moment he was occupied with a particularly pretty chorus-girl, whom he was half inclined to marry. Mary was fond of both her brothers, but she recognised the difference in them. Eric was as weak as water and destitute of brains. He was capable of marrying any chorus-girl on the sly, and then rushing her down home and presenting her as his wife, to the terrible consternation of his poor old father, who thought that people should always marry in their own class. Guy was different--there was just a little bit of common sense in him. He had fallen violently in love with Isobel Clandon--a girl not quite in his own world, from the Earl's point of view--but a sweet and lovable girl, and above all a lady. And Guy had waited for the parental consent, which had been wrung under somewhat false pretences. But he had been content to wait until his future wife would be received under proper auspices. He would not rush her down and take his father by storm, as Ticehurst would do when the time came for him to present his chorus-girl to a justly offended parent. Father and daughter sat at luncheon in the dining-room of the house in Belgrave Square. Very terribly did Lady Mary miss her beautiful gardens, her flowers, her dogs, her aviary of little songsters. She was essentially a country girl. She hated any city, with its cramped and narrow streets. Even Paris had no attractions for her. Vienna and Berlin left her cold. "You have seen Greatorex this morning, father?" she questioned when the servants had withdrawn. Lord Saxham frowned. He had realised, in this his latest visit to the Metropolis, that he was a back number. He remembered the years long ago when he was the most golden of the gilded youth. Then his name was one to conjure with. He led the revels; if it pleased him, he painted the town red. Now, except for a few ancient cronies, nobody recognised him. "Yes, I saw Greatorex," he answered gloomily. "He was always as close as wax. He is closer than ever. He comes of an infernally close family. That family has never been anything great." He was getting into his explosive vein. "Always underlings and jackals--always content to serve." "What did he say about Guy?" asked Mary softly. "Only that he was quite happy and well. He did vouchsafe to volunteer the information that some great anarchist _coup_ had failed." "Well, that was about as much as you could expect," said Mary in her quiet, gentle tones. "He is not going to give information to everybody." "To everybody?" spluttered the Earl, in his most fiery mood. "Am I everybody? I have supported this Government through thick and thin. I have backed them up through everything. Why do they withhold their confidence from me, at this important moment?" Lady Mary used all her _finesse_. She knew too well why Greatorex did not trust him. He was an open sieve. All news would filter through him in five minutes, at all his clubs, to the first acquaintance he met. "You must not blame Greatorex, dear; he carries a very heavy burden. He dare not give an incautious confidence, drop a random word." "But why this reticence to me, of all people?" thundered Lord Saxham, in his most indignant tones. "Am I not the soul of discretion? Should I betray a confidence?" Mary made no answer. She knew her father well. Privately he was the soul of honour. He would not betray a confidence wilfully. But he was loose of speech, and he was quite vain. He would drop a few hints, perhaps unconsciously, from which attentive listeners might gather much. She let the stormy ebullition pass. Then she spoke. "I wish we could hear some really authentic news of dear old Guy." The Earl grunted. "You hear daily from Isobel?" "Of course, but Isobel is a woman. She tells me what she is allowed to know. Because she is a woman, Guy and Moreno keep everything from her. They make out the path is strewn with roses. They will not tell her the truth, for fear of frightening her." "Then where are you going to get your information from?" asked the Earl querulously. There was a long pause. When she spoke, a faint colour dyed Lady Mary's cheek. "I wonder if that young barrister would know anything; I almost forget his name--you remember, Isobel's cousin who came down to Ticehurst and arranged her journey to Spain. Yes, I remember, Maurice Farquhar. He is a bosom friend of that Spanish man, Moreno, who, I fancy, is trying his best to defeat the anarchists." The Earl was, fortunately, very unobservant to-day. "Yes, I remember him quite well, a perfectly decent sort of young fellow. A rather forlorn hope, eh?" The flush had died away from Mary's cheek. She had regained her self-control. She spoke quite calmly. "Yes, I agree, but drowning people catch at a straw. Let me ask him to dinner, and find out if he knows anything." Lord Saxham was certainly in his most benignant mood. "By all means. He might be useful." Lady Mary wrote a note to Farquhar, addressed to his chambers in the Temple. It was a somewhat formal letter--when she put pen to paper, Mary was always formal--inviting him to dine in Belgrave Square. Farquhar's first impulse was to refuse. He had no wish to mingle with the aristocracy on unequal terms. When he became Lord Chancellor, it would be a different matter. Then he thought of Lady Mary's winsome appearance, and he altered his mind. He sent a note accepting the invitation. But of course he knew why he was being asked. They wanted to know if he could give any reliable information about Guy Rossett. He presented himself at Belgrave Square on the tick of the clock. Not for him the _mauvais quart d'heure_ consecrated to meaningless conversation in the drawing-room. Lord Saxham shook him kindly by the hand. Lady Mary was graciousness itself. Could she ever be anything but kind, even if there was, at the back, a little subtle feminine diplomacy. It was a party of three, waited on in solemn state by the butler and two footmen. There was not even a fourth to make matters even. Farquhar smiled inwardly. These two guileless persons, father and daughter, must have desired his company exceedingly! Well, he would learn all about it later on. The servants had withdrawn. The men smoked. Lady Mary did not leave the room. It was an informal party. Farquhar puffed leisurely at his cigar. He was awaiting developments. Saxham opened the ball. He was a most undisciplined person. He was always like a bull in a china shop, charging with blind fury. "It's about Guy, we're awfully anxious, you know," he said in his loud, resonant tones. "I wonder if you can help us at all. My daughter and Isobel tell me you are a great friend of Moreno." Beneath his somewhat pachydermatous exterior; Farquhar had a certain vein of sensitiveness. He was now sure of what he had suspected. He had been asked to dine for the purposes of being pumped for the information he could or could not give them. Lord Saxham, in his blunt, vulgar fashion, had so unsuccessfully masked his hospitality. Then he caught Lady Mary's pleading, almost shamefaced glance. "I can quite guess what is in your mind, Mr Farquhar, but I beg you to forgive our anxiety. We are very pleased to see you here for your own sake. If you can help us with Guy, we shall be doubly pleased." She leaned across, and said, in a whisper that did not reach Lord Saxham's ears, dulled with age: "My father will, unfortunately, always take the lead, but he is not always happy in his way of expressing himself." The rather stiff-backed young lawyer forgot his momentary resentment under the kind words of this charming young woman who could so graciously pour oil on the troubled waters. "Please, Lady Mary, tell me in what way I can serve you." There was no stiffness in his tones. Lord Saxham had subsided now. He gathered, in a dim sort of way, that he had put his foot in it, for about the thousandth time in his long career. He was going to leave it all to his capable daughter. Mary drew her chair closer to the guest. Lord Saxham, for the moment, was out of the picture. Besides, he was nodding over his second glass of port. It was better so, he was now incapable of mischief. Mary put her cards frankly on the table. "As I told you just now, we are very pleased to see you for yourself, as a cousin of dear Isobel, at least _I_ am certainly very pleased." A faint colour suffused her cheek. Farquhar bowed. No barrister can blush, but into his rather cold eyes there came a softer light which might be taken to express emotion. "Lady Mary, I am certain you are not a woman who would ever say anything you did not mean." "Of course, there was an ulterior motive," continued Mary, with her usual frankness. The flush on her cheek had not quite died away; it had rather been revived by a compliment that she felt was meant to be sincere. "There was an ulterior motive, as I have candidly admitted. We are very anxious about Guy. Greatorex will tell us nothing, my father has been to him this morning, and he keeps his mouth shut. We hear nothing from Guy, of course, he does not wish to alarm us. Isobel writes short, chatty letters; naturally Guy does not tell her anything; she knows no more than we do. The question is, Mr Farquhar, do you know anything? You can easily understand how anxious we are." Farquhar smoked on steadily. It was some time before he spoke. Lord Saxham was now slumbering peacefully after his heavy dinner and his third glass of port. He looked just a little contemptuously at the somnolent figure. At Lord Saxham's age, he expected to be Lord Chancellor, alert and vigorous. When he spoke, he did not answer her question. Rather, he pursued the train of his own thoughts. "It seems to me. Lady Mary," he said, speaking very softly, so that he should not disturb the slumbers of his host, "that in a measure you bear upon your shoulders--very capable shoulders, I will admit--the entire burden of your family." Mary protested feebly. "Oh, no, don't think that for a moment. My father is very vigorous as a rule. Eric is quite a nice boy, just a little wild, perhaps. And Guy has got lots of grit; he will make good yet. I cannot thank Isobel enough for teaching us how cowardly we were for wanting to have him recalled." "Isobel has tons of grit," said Farquhar shortly. "She comes from a fighting line." "Yes, Isobel, as you say, has tons of grit." Lady Mary looked at him curiously. "You are very fond of your cousin, are you not, Mr Farquhar?" "I am very fond of Isobel," said the young barrister quietly. "We were brought up as children together. I was a few years her senior. I used to carry her about as a little child." Mary looked at him again, and for a second time a faint flush dyed her fair cheek. "Will you think it very impertinent of me, Mr Farquhar, if I suggest that you were very much in love with your pretty cousin?" Farquhar shook his head. "I don't deny it for a moment. I was very much in love with Isobel. I always wanted her for my wife, but the consideration of ways and means prevented. When I did ask her, I learned that she had accepted your brother--" "And you are still in love with her?" questioned Mary, a little eagerly. "It is no use being in love with a girl who is betrothed to another man. It is one of those vain dreams that a sensible man dismisses. Isobel Clandon is to me now a dear cousin, a good friend." Somehow, Lady Mary looked relieved. She spoke lightly. "You will get over it, and one day you will marry. And when you are Lord Chancellor, your wife will be the first female subject in the kingdom." "And Isobel will be the wife of an Ambassador," said Farquhar. "We shall run each other close, shall we not?" Mary laughed. "Oh, Guy will never have stamina enough to become an Ambassador. When he comes into dear old Aunt Henrietta's money, he will throw it all over, and lead his pleasant old idle life. I know Guy too well." "Don't you think Isobel will put grit into him?" "Isobel is a loving woman. She will always see eye to eye with Guy. Whatever he determines, she will acquiesce in." Farquhar sighed. Ambition was always with him the dominating note. He regretted its absence in others. "A pity," he said. "With your family influence, he might go far." "He doesn't want to go far, Mr Farquhar," she whispered. She pointed at the slumbering figure of Lord Saxham. "My father has plenty of brains; if he had worked, he might have been Prime Minister, or very near it. In the Rossett family, there is a certain amount of grit, but not quite enough to bring them to the foremost place." Farquhar leaned across the table. This was certainly one of the most charming women he had ever met. "I say, Lady Mary, what a pity you are not a man. If you had been, I am sure you would have put the Rossett family in their right place." He cast a cautious glance at the still slumbering host. Lady Mary smiled pleasantly. She was not ill-pleased with the genuine compliment. "Yes, perhaps, if I had been born a man. I should certainly have been better than Eric, perhaps a shade better than Guy." She broke off suddenly. "But it is idle to talk of these things. I am a woman, and must be contented with my lot, my humble sphere. Now, can you tell me anything of my brother?" "You want me to tell you the truth, and you will not be afraid to hear it?" "No, I shall not be afraid." She spoke very bravely, but he noticed that her hands were trembling. "I had a letter from Moreno this morning. He tells me that the design against your brother has temporarily dropped into abeyance. They had a very great _coup_ on--that has failed. He has reason to suspect that they will now turn their attention to Mr Rossett." The tears coursed slowly down Mary's face. The Earl slumbered on peacefully. Then she raised her head. Her eyes flashed. She looked angrily at her sleeping father. "Oh, our poor Guy. And it is his fault,"--she pointed at the somnolent Earl--"his fault entirely. He wanted to separate him from Isobel, because he thought she was not good enough for him. He went to Greatorex, and with his influence he got this post at Madrid--and he has sent him to his death." Farquhar felt very sympathetic. No man can very properly appreciate his successful rival. But he was forced to admit that there was something in Guy Rossett that appealed alike to men and women. "Now listen, Lady Mary! Moreno tells me a lot, because to a certain extent I have been in it from the beginning. I won't bore you with details. Anyway, Moreno says he is quite certain he can save your brother. Perhaps Moreno may be a little too cocksure, he is a very vain sort of fellow. He goes so far as to hint that he might require my assistance." Mary looked puzzled. "Your assistance! But where do you come in, in this awful mix-up?" "It is perhaps a little difficult to explain." It was one of the few occasions in his life on which the self-possessed young barrister had felt embarrassed. "It is, perhaps, a little difficult to explain," he repeated. "Moreno and I are very old friends. He was one night in my chambers. He extracted a promise from me that, if he called upon me, I would help your brother." Mary shot at him a swift and penetrating glance. "I can understand, Mr Farquhar, that you and Mr Moreno are old friends, that you owe many a good turn to one another. But my brother is nothing to you. Why should you put yourself out of the way for him?" Farquhar temporised. "One sometimes gives promises rather rashly, Lady Mary." There was a long pause before the woman spoke. "I think I can understand," she said. "You gave that promise not because you cared for my brother, but because you wanted to help Isobel Clandon." Farquhar did not beat about the bush. "Yes, I wanted to help Isobel. Naturally, I do not love your brother, but she loves him. And her happiness is my first consideration." Mary looked at him with her soft, kindly eyes. "I think of all the lovers I have heard or read of, you are the truest," she said, "and also the kindliest. If our positions had been reversed, I rather doubt if I could have done that." But Farquhar shook his head. "Oh, you are one of God's good women. In any situation you would act a thousand times better than I should." Suddenly the somnolent Earl woke up, in full possession of his faculties. "Well, Farquhar, what do you know about Guy?" He took the matter up from the point where it had been left in abeyance. Farquhar explained patiently that, in his opinion, Guy Rossett was in a position of considerable danger. Naturally, at this point, Lord Saxham went off at a violent tangent. "Then why the devil doesn't Greatorex recall him, as I have begged him to do. Good heavens! I have been supporting this wretched Government through thick and thin. Can't they grant me this little favour? My poor boy! He doesn't want their infernal promotion. He will inherit a big fortune from his great-aunt. He can snap his fingers at Greatorex and the rest of them." Suddenly he began to sob, and buried his head in his hands. "My poor murdered boy," he moaned. "And Greatorex sent him to his death." Farquhar smoked on stolidly. He did not feel greatly attracted towards his host. Lady Mary shot a somewhat contemptuous glance at her penitent parent, who was seeking to throw the blame on Greatorex. "Pay no attention to him," she whispered across the table. "The Foreign Office is not to blame. He got Guy transferred abroad in order to separate him from Isobel. I have told you." Farquhar understood and nodded. He had already come to the conclusion that Lord Saxham was a very poor and weak creature--not a good specimen of his order. How had he become possessed of such a daughter, so gentle, so high-minded? There must have been some virility on the female side of the family. He drove back to his chambers in a rather exhilarated frame of mind. Lady Mary was very charming. He had quite got over that first feeling that he was to be exploited for the benefit of the Rossett family. Mary had put that all right, in her gentle, persuasive way. She had expressly laid emphasis on the fact that she, at any rate, was pleased to welcome him for himself. He dismissed his taxi, and climbed up the steep stairs to his suite of rooms in one of the most cloistered courts of the Temple. To his surprise, the light in the hall was burning. What had happened? He went into the dining-room, a blaze of electric light. Stretched on the sofa, puffing at a long cigar, was Andres Moreno, awaiting his arrival. "The devil!" cried Farquhar shortly, sharply, and decisively. Moreno waved a genial hand. "Not exactly, old man, but one of his ambassadors. I say, I suppose you can give me a shake-down." "Of course, but why are you here? Why are you not in Spain?" "All will be unfolded in good time, my boy. But what about a drink? I could do with one." "You know where the things are. Surely you could have helped yourself?" said Farquhar. "Never care to drink alone, old man. By the way, I see you are in evening togs. Have you been dining with the aristocracy?" "You've just hit it," replied Farquhar, as he went to the sideboard and fetched out a decanter of whiskey. "I have been dining in Belgrave Square with the Earl of Saxham and his daughter. Lady Mary Rossett." "Good heavens, this might be called a coincidence," cried Moreno, as he drained the refreshing draught offered to him. Farquhar was rather impatient at any exhibition of humour. He frowned a little. "Now, Moreno, out with it. What has brought you here? I am delighted to see you, of course, but you have not come all this long journey for nothing." But Moreno was still in high spirits that were not to be abruptly quenched. "What a splendid Lord Chancellor you will make, always with both eyes on the practical, intolerant of anything that disturbs the even course of justice. Perfect embodiment of the legal mind. _A votre sante, mon ami_!" He drained his glass. Farquhar looked at him critically. "You're a bit of an ass to-night, aren't you?" "Not at all, most noble Festus. Never was I saner than I am at the present hour. Well, perhaps just at the moment I am suffering a little from swollen head. I, the poor Fleet Street journalist--you remember, Farquhar, how they used to despise me in the early days--have outwitted the keenest brains of the anarchists. I have made abortive their great _coup_." "I know," said Farquhar generously. "My hearty congratulations, old man. But still, you have not come all this way to tell me that. You have something behind." Moreno's manner changed at once. He sat down in an easy chair and became the solemn and grave personage who had important interests at stake. "You remember an interview in these chambers a little time ago, when you gave me a certain promise?" Farquhar remembered the incident well. "Yes, I gave you a certain promise. You have come to remind me of it?" "Are you overwhelmed with briefs?" "I cannot exactly say I am overwhelmed with them, but I have enough to keep me going." "I see," said Moreno quietly. He had cast aside his gay and chaffing mood; he was quite serious. "Can you depute those to somebody?" "If it were imperative, I could." Moreno rose and laid his hand on his friend's shoulder. "Good! Then I claim your promise. Pack your bag to-morrow morning and come with me to Spain. I am going to outwit them again. I might do it single-handed, but your assistance will be invaluable. Will you come?" "It is to help Guy Rossett?" "It is to help Isobel Clandon through Guy Rossett. I will explain everything as we travel together to-morrow." "I adhere to my promise," said Farquhar. "I will make all my arrangements in the morning. I shall be at your disposal after twelve. How long will you want me for?" "A week at the outside." Moreno stifled a yawn. In spite of his vigorous constitution, he was very tired. "Let us turn in, old man. I feel as if I could sleep the clock round." CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. Contraras paid a flying visit to London. It was a secret visit, that is to say he stayed in an obscure hotel in the East of London, not venturing to his house in Fitzjohn's Avenue. His wife and daughter believed him to be still in Spain, from where he wrote letters to them at irregular intervals. He was far too busy to attend closely to domestic correspondence. Moreover, like many great reformers, he had little in common with his family. His wife openly sneered at his doctrines; privately she thought he was a hypocrite who lacked the courage to practise what he preached, to lead the simple life which he was inculcating upon others. Their only child fully endorsed the mother's sentiments. Moreover, she was in love with a young man who had been attracted to her by the report of her father's wealth. He was a poor cadet of an old and aristocratic family, and conservative to the backbone. The slightest word of this somewhat empty-headed young man outweighed the most profound arguments of the intellectual Contraras. She was very dissatisfied with her parent, with what she considered his nonsensical theories of perfect equality. Miss Contraras was quite content to take the world as she found it. She did not trouble her head about the woes of the humbler classes. As long as she could live softly and have plenty of new frocks, she was happy. Why should people with brains trouble to keep those who could not keep themselves? Contraras came over to be present at a special meeting of the English section of the brotherhood, held, as usual, at Maceda's restaurant. The great _coup_ had failed, but he was still undaunted, still full of resolution. There were only about half a dozen choice spirits present. Maceda, for this special occasion, had delegated to his manager the task of looking after his comfortable little establishment. Both Lucue and the restaurant keeper greeted their Chief with a sorrowful air. Maceda voiced their mutual sentiments. "The iron must have entered into your soul, comrade. So near to success, and then to fail. And then, the fate of poor Valerie, so bright, so clever, so full of enthusiasm for the cause!" The leader's voice broke a little as he answered: "Alas, poor Valerie--a fate worse than death. How she will eat out that brave heart of hers in their loathsome dungeons!" He passed his hand across his brow, as if in that action he was trying to brush away a painful reminiscence. But the next moment he was again the man of action, of indomitable resolve. "I think never again will I sanction the use of women in enterprises of this character, however willing they may be to take the risk and pay the penalty of failure. And now to our immediate business. How are things progressing in this country?" Both Lucue and Maceda, but especially the former, who had only the business of the propaganda to attend to, gave him a most encouraging report. There was great dissatisfaction amongst the masses, a growing hatred of the class that neither toils nor spins. Many of the most influential leaders were in secret sympathy with their doctrines, and only waited for a favourable moment to come out into the open. The fanatical Contraras rubbed his hands; his brow cleared. He had forgotten Valerie Delmonte, that too responsive instrument upon whose warped feelings he had so skilfully played. She was only a martyr in a righteous cause. He listened eagerly to the details with which Lucue supplied him. He could see already the dawn of that universal revolution which, if it came to pass, would claim him for one of the earliest victims. And then, when Lucue had finished, the elder man spoke a little impatiently. "But why did we fail in Madrid? Have you suspicions of anybody? After all, the secret was very carefully guarded. How many of us knew?" Lucue shrugged his shoulders. "Is it much use going into that? We might all suspect each other. Moreno was over here a short time ago. We conversed together on the subject." "Ah, Moreno was over here, was he?" The Chief's brows knitted; he spoke in a suspicious voice. "Do you know on what business?" "Purely private affairs, I understand. Something connected with his journalistic profession. But we were discussing the matter, and he suggested a very reasonable theory." "And what was that?" interrupted Contraras. "His opinion was, to start with, that women should never be employed in enterprises of this character, because they had not sufficient nerve. His theory is that there was no treachery from our side, because if there had been they would never have allowed her to get inside the Palace, they would have arrested her at the entrance." "It seems feasible," interrupted the Chief. "He thinks that Valerie got nervous and overstrung, that she detached herself too early from her chaperon, that the numerous spies who were watching got suspicious of her movements, and arrested her on the off-chance." Contraras nodded his head, as he added, "It might be so, and it is quite true that women lose their heads more quickly than men, when things are not running exactly in the beaten track." "Of course, as you may or may not know, our friend Moreno, although a very excellent fellow, is one of the vainest of men. He boasted that if you had given him the job he would have done it successfully. And I have sufficient faith in him to believe he would." Lucue spoke quite warmly. It was not a little to the journalist's credit that he had succeeded in persuading this rather suspicious man both of his ability and his _bona fides_. Contraras reflected for a few moments. "I have great confidence in your judgment, Lucue. You have known this man for a long time, eh?" "For six or seven years, I should say." It was perfectly true. Moreno had been coquetting with Lucue and the brotherhood, and half a dozen other things, for quite a period. "And you trust him implicitly? He is making much money?" "A little more than he used. But he tells me he is miserably paid, that the capitalists he works for suck his brains to swell their own enormous profits." Contraras smiled. "He has brains, and he is poorly paid--in a word, he enriches the drones. He seems just our man, Lucue." "I am sure of it," answered the other warmly. "Good! I shall be seeing him in Madrid very shortly. We will try his mettle. He shall have the management of the next _coup_." "And that, I take it, is the removal of that busy marplot, Guy Rossett?" "Yes," said Contraras shortly. "But keep it to yourself and Maceda as much as possible. I won't have too many people in the know this time." Lucue and Maceda promised to observe silence. The other members of the fraternity had drawn respectfully aside while the three chiefs conversed together. Jaques, otherwise Mr Jackson, arrived presently, and was informed of the conversation. He was always to be trusted. He was as great an enthusiast as Contraras himself. "How is my little Violet getting on?" he asked. "So far she has done good quiet work," was the chief's answer. "Of course, she never had the grit of poor Valerie, nor, I think, the enthusiasm." "Possibly, possibly," agreed Jaques, who was very fond of his pretty protegee. "But still, if she is a bit slow, she is certainly very sure. And, although we must all make sacrifices in the great cause when we are called upon, I am glad to think she is not in the position of poor Valerie. Ah, what a fate!" The cunning old rogue, who was making money hand over fist, sighed in real or pretended sorrow for the unhappy young Frenchwoman whose ardent sympathies had landed her in such a plight. Jaques had given plenty of money to the cause, but, like Contraras, he had never greatly risked his precious skin. The next day Contraras returned to Madrid. He could safely leave Jaques and Lucue to look after affairs in England. After the failure of the great _coup_, there had been a little re-shuffling. Somoza, the educated young fisherman, a burning and a shining light in the brotherhood, and Alvedero were stationed at Fonterrabia. Zorrilta was superintending affairs at Barcelona. Contraras, the wealthy and magnificent, still maintained his quarters in the palatial hotel in the Plaza de Canovas. Moreno and Violet Hargrave were in Madrid also, but they had lodgings in a humbler quarter of the city. Moreno often smiled when he thought what humbug it all was, this profession of democracy and equality. Because they were, comparatively speaking, humble members of the brotherhood, they were stowed away in poky lodgings. Contraras had a suite of rooms at the best hotel in the city, and went occasionally to Court. "What a gigantic farce," he thought. "As if you could alter the primeval instincts of human nature by a carefully adjusted system of labels. And, as for tyranny and oppression, if I were a Spanish citizen, I would rather live under the rule of Alfonso than that of Contraras. If the old man got into the saddle, there would be plenty of shooting. He would make short work of those who didn't agree with him, without the formality of a trial." Contraras was a wary old schemer. He had many visitors at his hotel-- men of light and leading in the city, the aristocratic connections of his wife. But he never allowed his anarchist subordinates to come near him. He was much too clever for that. He went to them. On the evening of the day on which he returned to Madrid, he met Moreno and Violet Hargrave at the journalist's modest lodgings, by appointment. Moreno, who was always fond of indulging in humorous jokes, would have liked to apologise to the wealthy Contraras for receiving him in such humble surroundings, with some caustic allusion to the time when all men would be equal. But he forbore. Contraras was too serious a person to indulge in humour himself, or tolerate it in others. Besides, Moreno had special reasons for ingratiating himself with his Chief, whom he privately stigmatised as a "silly old visionary," and whose chances against the organised forces of law and order he was not prepared to back. Contraras was very gracious to his two subordinates. Whatever his defects, he had the true note of Spanish courtesy. He turned first to Violet Hargrave. "I have just come from London, where I met our dear friend Jaques. He inquired most tenderly after you, and sent through me his kindest remembrances." Violet looked very pleased. If there was a tender spot in her heart, it was for the old moneylender, who had been a father to her. She flushed a little; quite a soft light came into her eyes. "That was very sweet of him. He really has a heart of gold, dear old Juan," she said softly. Moreno looked at her curiously. He had not got to the bottom of her yet. A hardened adventuress, pure and simple--that was how he had first judged her. But her kindly mention of Jaques, "an old shark of the first water," as the young journalist classed him in his own mind, revealed something that he had not credited her with. Had she, after all, a capacity for emotion, did she possess any real womanly instincts? Contraras next addressed himself to Moreno. "I also met in London our comrade Lucue, the man who introduced you to the brotherhood." "Ah, what a great man!" cried Moreno, with the fervour of a new and enthusiastic recruit. "The only man, in my opinion, who would ever be worthy to wear your mantle, if ever it should drop from your shoulders. May that day be far distant!" he added piously. Contraras, ever pleased with a little judicious flattery, became more amiable than ever. The glance he bent upon the young journalist was almost a benevolent one. "Lucue speaks very highly of you, and I have always had the greatest confidence in his judgment. He tells me, and, as he did not say it in confidence, I can repeat it, you expressed your opinion that we made a mistake in allowing Valerie to undertake the great _coup_. You added that if you had been entrusted with it, you would have brought it off." The question was a supreme test of Moreno's modesty, but he was not taken aback. He turned the situation lightly, and with his usual assurance. "I am certain I should have done," he said composedly. Contraras frowned a little. He had been very fond of Valerie Delmonte; he rather resented any criticism of her. "Why are you so sure, comrade Moreno? Valerie was very clever, very subtle. Are you more so?" The young man looked at his chief calmly. "I daresay she was much more clever, much more subtle than I am, but she lacked my nerve." "Ah, there is something in that," agreed the older man. "A woman may have the brains of a man, I agree, that is to say, an exceptional woman, but come to a crucial moment, and the brain will be dominated by the nerves. It is the penalty of the sex." The Chief ruminated over these remarks a few seconds before he spoke again. "Well, Moreno, I am going to give you a chance to prove your mettle. You know the next item on our programme is the removal of Guy Rossett." Moreno nodded. He had shot a side glance at Violet Hargrave, but she had betrayed no sign of emotion. And yet, in the flat at Mount Street, she had alluded to the project in a spirit of exultation. "It was the first item on the programme, and was shelved in favour of the later one. What do you mean precisely by the term `removal'?" Contraras shrugged his shoulders. "That I have not yet quite decided upon. The first thing is to get hold of him." "That is quite easy," said Moreno in his usual quiet way. Contraras looked at him sharply. "You speak very confidently, Moreno. You appreciate the difficulties in the way? To get him either out of the Embassy or his flat will be a tough job. He is well guarded, you may depend." "I appreciate all the difficulties, Contraras. To get him out of the Embassy is well nigh impossible. To get him out of the flat is the easier job of the two. Well, I will undertake to bring him to any place you like." "Your methods?" queried Contraras, in the same sharp tone. Moreno bowed with great courtesy to his titular Chief. "Pardon me for declining to answer that question at present. I am a very new member of the brotherhood, I have my spurs to win, I have to justify your confidence in me, or I should rather say the confidence of Lucue, for you know next to nothing of me. I want to show you that I am a little more clever, a little more subtle than perhaps you imagine. When I deliver him to you, I will possibly explain my methods, not before." "You will undertake to deliver him to us?" questioned Contraras, still speaking a little doubtfully. He was, however, very much impressed by the young man's confident manner. "On any day, at any hour you like to name," was the reassuring reply. "I will settle the details later on," said Contraras, his voice betraying a note of agitation. "Anyway, I depute you and Violet Hargrave to see that this thing is carried out." Moreno looked at the woman. "You will be my assistant in this?" he asked. Her voice was very low. "Of course, if the Chief wishes it." Contraras spoke in his most authoritative tones. "You have no choice. You took a solemn oath to obey the orders of the Chiefs of the organisation. As your Chief, I call upon you to do this." Violet Hargrave bowed her head submissively. She remembered there was a terrible penalty attached to hesitation or disobedience. She also recalled the fate of Valerie Delmonte, and her face went white. Moreno thought to himself, "Infernal old scoundrel, he doesn't care whom he sacrifices. And in the meanwhile he is living in luxury, and getting us poor devils to run all the risk." Aloud he said: "And what will you do with Guy Rossett when I deliver him to you?" Contraras reflected before he spoke. "As I told you just now, I have not quite made up my mind." He paused, and struck an imposing attitude. "You know, Moreno, it has always been my policy to strike at the head and heart of this effete system. The humbler members, mere tools of their superiors--well, I would be inclined to show them mercy." "I know that has always been your generous inclination," replied Moreno, masking his loathing of this fanatical creature. "Well, I should say Rossett was quite a tool, very poor game." "I am inclined to agree with you. Still, he is active and dangerous, and a menace to the Cause. He knows too much about many of us." "Quite true, quite true," said Moreno. He had an object in humouring this venerable visionary. He wanted to know what was at the back of his mind, what dark scheme he was working out in his subtle brain! Contraras spoke in a meditative voice. "These Englishmen are strange people; they have a great respect for their word." "It is one of their peculiarities," admitted Moreno drily. "If he would take a solemn oath to resign his post, and withdraw himself from any further opposition to the brotherhood, I think I would accept that, and let him go free." "And that, I am afraid, is just the thing you will never induce an Englishman to do," said Moreno bluntly. "I know the type too well. Better death than dishonour, all that sort of thing, you know. It's in their blood." Contraras smiled oddly. "In that case, I think there is only one course. It is regrettable, it is repugnant to me. But the safety of the brotherhood is my first consideration." Moreno had learned all he wanted to know. He knew now what was working in that fanatical brain. "I understand," he said quietly. He added with the most apparent sincerity. "The safety of the brotherhood must always be the first thought. I quite agree." Shortly after, Contraras left to return to his luxurious hotel. He parted from the two with many expressions of good-will. He was disposed to confirm Lucue's high opinion of Moreno. There was a confident bearing about the young man that impressed him. He was sure that he would prove a valuable recruit to the brotherhood. They were left alone--the man quite young, the woman still comparatively youthful. Moreno spoke first. "We have been assigned a post of honour, but it is also a post of danger. Don't you think so?" Mrs Hargrave shivered. "When I remember poor Valerie Delmonte, I must confess I don't feel very brave. But you spoke very confidently of being able to snare Rossett." "I am quite confident of being able to do that." "I suppose you won't tell me why you are so confident of the fact?" Moreno shook his head. "No, I certainly won't. In this business, never let your left hand know what your right hand doeth." She shot at him a rather coquettish glance, which thrilled him just a little. She was certainly a very pretty and fascinating woman. "I am to be trusted, really, you know," she pleaded. "I can be as close as wax." "I will tell you some day," he answered. He thought, as he spoke, the day might be a very long one. "But you will tell Contraras and everybody then," she pouted. "I thought we had been such pails." It suddenly dawned upon him that this adventuress, as he had always looked upon her, was falling in love with him. He was not quite certain that he was not falling in love a little bit with her. If he were only certain that in her were the makings of a good woman! But he would require great proofs of that. He broke a rather embarrassed silence. "Well, now you will get your revenge on Guy Rossett." "I am not quite so certain that I want it now." She spoke in a very low voice. "But this is a very different mood from that of a certain night at Mount Street." "I know, I know." Violet spoke a little wildly. "I was very bitter then. Things seemed changed somehow." "You know that Guy Rossett has to be `removed,' in obedience to the orders of our revered chief?" "I know, I know." Suddenly she burst into bitter sobbing. Presently she lifted her tear-stained face. "You think I am a very bad woman, don't you? I am not really, only hard and embittered with my early life. If I could only find somebody who really cared for me!" It was a clear invitation. Moreno took her hand in his; he could not disguise from himself that he was attracted. But, at the same time, he did not lose his head. Could he trust her--would she be useful for his purpose? "Suppose that I said I cared?" Violet sobbed afresh. "No, no, it is impossible. You would never believe in me, you could never trust me." And then Moreno leaned forward and spoke to her, very gravely. "I think, before you leave, we must have a little conversation together. When it is finished, I will tell you whether I trust you or not." CHAPTER NINETEEN. It was a long time before Moreno spoke. It was evident that, in her present mood, Violet Hargrave was perfectly prepared to be made love to. It was not the first time it had occurred to him that this woman of mixed nationality like himself was more than usually attracted by him. But although he was one of the vainest men living in certain respects, notably in the high estimate in which he always held his own capacity and mental qualities, still in other matters he was fairly modest. Every man can get some woman to fall in love with him, or, at any rate, to profess affection. Some day he would come across a woman whom he could impress sufficiently to justify him in asking her to marry him. For the time would come when, like other men, even of the most roving disposition, he would want to say good-bye to adventure and settle down quietly. As regards his personal appearance, he was quite a just and dispassionate critic. He could look in the glass and sum up the general verdict that would be passed by the opposite sex. In appearance he was rather short and squat. His features, somewhat irregular, were redeemed from plainness by a pair of very brilliant dark eyes, and a perfect set of strong white teeth. Still, he had not the makings of a Don Juan in him; he was not the sort of man whose path was likely to be strewn with conquests; not the type of man, like Guy Rossett, for instance, on whom most women looked with a kindly eye, even on their first acquaintance. Under ordinary circumstances, Violet's attitude could hardly be misinterpreted. The misty eyes raised appealingly to his, the soft inflections in her voice said as plainly as words could speak that here was a woman fully ready to respond at the first hint from him. But he was very cautious; he felt he must proceed warily. He must never forget that this woman had been, more or less, an adventuress from her girlhood, the associate of desperate and callous men, who hesitated at nothing in the attainment of their objects. Not so very long ago, she had exulted in the prospect of obtaining a terrible revenge, through others, on the man she had once professed to love. Why had she turned, so suddenly, as it seemed, from this vengeance, had almost said that she no longer desired revenge? In an ordinary woman, the explanation would have been simple. Rossett now no longer aroused her love or hate because she had found a new lover in Moreno himself. Always severe to himself in these purely personal matters, he asked himself the candid question if a woman so attractive as she undoubtedly was could turn from a man of Rossett's physical advantages to himself? Years ago, he had loved devotedly a simple little girl with no pretensions to beauty or great charm, possessing only average intelligence. He had loved her for her sweet nature, her good qualities. And she had loved him in return. But this was an entirely different matter. That poor little dead girl, still a very tender memory, had never had any other lover but himself. Violet Hargrave, with her powers of fascination, her blonde prettiness, her quick mentality, must have had many men at her feet. Did the foreign element in him attract the foreign element in her? It might be so, but he could not be sure of that. In many things he was more Spanish in thought and feeling than English, but she was more English than Spanish in everything, of that he was convinced. Had he been a few years younger, had he enjoyed less experience in life, have thought less over social problems, anarchist doctrines might have appealed to him very strongly. He was sure they would never appeal to her, the English strain in her was too strong. When he spoke, he put a very leading question. "I have often wondered whether you are really greatly interested in the Cause? Whether the methods we have to adopt are not somewhat repugnant to you?" He looked at her very steadfastly. He judged her to be an admirable actress, but he noticed she did not meet his glance. Perhaps if she was really attracted by him, as she seemed to be, it was not so easy to act. She spoke a little nervously. "What on earth has made you think that? Why should I be here if I were not sincere? I joined the organisation of my own free will. Juan Jaques, who was my sponsor, explained everything very clearly to me." Moreno spoke lightly. "You have been comfortably off for many years, and you are more English than foreign. Anarchist principles don't take deep root in English soil." "My father was a revolutionary at heart, although not an active one," she said hastily. "Of course, I don't suppose my mother thought about such things." Moreno was too polite to say he did not believe in that little fiction about her father. This derelict parent might not have had a very great love for the social institutions from which he did not derive much benefit. But from a natural dissatisfaction with his own lot to professed anarchy was a long step. "It runs in the blood naturally, then, that I can understand. Still, it puzzles me. Women don't think very seriously about these matters--or, at any rate, only a very few of them. And women of means are hardly likely to be keen on upsetting a world in which they are fairly comfortable, in favour of a new dispensation, the results of which are highly problematical." She fenced with him a little longer. "Why are you so sure I was comfortably off?" she queried. "I think you must have forgotten what you told me. Your husband made money through the good offices of Jaques, and that money became yours. That flat in Mount Street was not run on a small income." She became a little agitated under his rather ruthless cross-examination and suggestions. "The money that was left me was not enough to support me comfortably. I had to turn to other means of support." "You would not care to tell me what they were?" Of course he had heard rumours about that Mount Street establishment, that the host and hostess were suspiciously lucky at cards. The man, at any rate, had always suffered from a shady reputation. She became more agitated. "Yes, it is quite simple. I have been well-paid for my services by Jaques." "Then it was simply money that induced you to join the brotherhood?" "Money, combined with my natural sympathy with their objects." Moreno appeared to accept the explanation. Jaques seemed, then, to have paid her handsomely for her services. But evidently he had not paid her enough, or she would not have trafficked with Guy Rossett and sold him important secrets. It was some little time before he spoke again, and then he played his trump card. He left the personal question altogether, and spoke of the affairs of the brotherhood. "There must be traitors amongst us," he said presently, "although I do not think they are to be found in Spain--so many things have leaked out." "Yes." She spoke very quickly. "There was the failure of poor Valerie Delmonte. Do you think there was treachery there?" "I rather doubt it," answered Moreno easily. "My theory has always been that she drew suspicion on herself by her inexperience, her amateurish methods, her suspicious movements when she got inside the Palace. If the job had been entrusted to me, with my steady nerves, I think I should have been successful. I boasted as much to Contraras, and I suppose that is the reason he has given me this job." Violet was silent. Moreno went on smoothly. "But with regard to that affair of Guy Rossett, the information he got which, for the moment, frustrated our plans--that was clearly the work of a traitor. That happened just before I came on the scene, but Lucue has told me all about it." He was looking at her very steadfastly. She was trying to avoid his gaze, but those dark, brilliant eyes of his drew her lighter ones with a certain mesmeric power. She was not acting well to-night, he thought. There crept into her troubled glance a shadow of fear. She tried to speak lightly, indifferently, but her voice broke and faltered, in spite of her efforts at self-control. "It seems like it. Have you any idea of who the traitor was?" Moreno rose and walked over to the little shabby sofa, typical furniture of the mean lodgings, where she sat. He flung at her the direct challenge. "It is not a question of having an idea. _I know_." She laughed hysterically; she hardly knew what she was saying. "You think you know, perhaps. Probably you have been led to suspect the wrong person." "Not when I have seen the actual memoranda, not when I have a photograph of that memoranda in my possession, to show, if necessary, to Contraras." For a moment she seemed paralysed. All the colour left her cheeks. She could only clasp her hands together and moan piteously. Moreno spoke quite gently. "Violet Hargrave, you haven't an ounce of fight left in you. Give in and own you sold those secrets to Guy Rossett. I expect he paid a handsome sum for them--and probably because you sold them, you lost your lover." She burst into a fit of wild sobbing, and threw herself at his feet. She had not the heroic spirit of Valerie Delmonte. She was only a very commonplace adventuress, with a well-defined streak of cowardice in her. Like Madame Du Barri, she would have gone shrieking to her death. "Are you going to denounce me?" she cried wildly. Moreno was a kind-hearted man. To an extent he despised her, although he was half in love with her. But he could not but feel pitiful at the spectacle of her abject terror. "That depends," he said quietly. "It is quite possible we may drive a bargain." Reassured by those conciliatory words, the woman speedily recovered her self-control. She rose from her kneeling attitude, brushed the tears from her eyes, adjusted her disordered hair. As long as she escaped with life, she would consent to any bargain. What a mercy she had not been found out by Contraras, or some equally implacable and fanatical member of the brotherhood! In that case, her shrift would have been very short. This black-browed young man, born of a Spanish father and an English mother, had this much of the English strain in him, that he leaned to the side of mercy. "How did you find out? How did you suspect?" were her first words when she had recovered herself. "What first led me to suspect. I cannot quite explain--it was a sort of intuition. When I once suspected, the rest was easy." "It was Guy Rossett who gave me away?" she cried, and an angry gleam came into her eyes. Moreno looked at her a little contemptuously. "And you have known this man well, and loved him! Are you not a shrewder judge of human nature than to harbour such a suspicion? Why, Rossett is just that dogged type of Englishman who would rather be put to death than betray a confidence." Violet looked a little ashamed. "But if not from him, how did you obtain your information?" "That is my affair. When I have quite assured myself that I can trust you, I may tell you. It suffices that I hold in my possession the photograph of that document. By the way, you lost your head when you gave yourself away like that, because your handwriting is known to several. Why did you not dictate your notes to Rossett and let him take them down? Then you might never have been found out." "I know I was a fool," answered Mrs Hargrave bitterly. "I suppose all criminals make mistakes at times. I was terribly hard up at the time; I was in desperate want of money. I pitched a plausible tale to Guy, which I believe he swallowed at the time." "Ah!" said Moreno. Then it was not on account of this transaction that Rossett had broken off his relations with the pretty widow. The cause was no doubt to be sought in Isobel Clandon. "I pretended that a Spaniard whom I had known in my youth was ready to turn traitor for a handsome consideration. He had confided these notes to me, and I had taken them down from his dictation. Of course, I ought to have done as you said. I was so eager for the money that I did not stop to think." "And you are quite sure that Rossett did not suspect you of being a member of the brotherhood?" "Positive. He is not naturally a suspicious man, not like yourself, for instance. I pretended that this man, the imaginary man, was an old friend of my father's, that he hated the whole business and wanted to get out of it." Moreno pondered a little. In spite of her physical attraction for him, she was a pretty bad character on her own admissions. She had owned her great obligations to Jaques, who, rascal that he was, had been her benefactor. And yet she was ready to sell Jaques and the Cause he held so dear at heart for ready money. Was it possible a woman with this unscrupulous and predatory temperament could ever become a reformed character? And, if so, was he a likely man to bring about the miracle? Passionate love might work wonders, but was she not a little past the age of passionate love? "Let us come to the point," he said abruptly. "I take it you no longer desire what we politely term the `removal' of Guy Rossett." "Certainly not. I don't know that I ever really desired it." Moreno raised his hand. "Don't forget that night at the flat in Mount Street." "I know, I remember perfectly. I gave you a very bad impression of myself. I was angry, humiliated, bitterly jealous of a younger woman who had taken him from me." Moreno thought he understood. "And the Spanish side came uppermost then. You could have run a dagger into the pair of them at the moment, and perhaps after you had done it, sat down and wept because you had killed the man. I don't suppose you would have shed a tear over the woman--she would have deserved her fate." Violet was recovering herself fast. The colour had come back into her cheeks. She looked at him admiringly. "You seem to know something of my delightful sex," she said, with a faint smile. Then, after a pause, she added, "And you want to drive a bargain with me, don't you, in return for not denouncing me?" Moreno assented. "You are quite right. You say you now don't desire the removal of Rossett. To be quite frank, no more do I." She looked at him sharply out of her tear-dimmed eyes, red and swollen with the violent weeping of a few seconds ago. "But why do you wish to spare Guy Rossett? You say you are a true son of the Revolution." "I am," replied Moreno composedly. "I am with certain reservations." He felt he could not trust her too implicitly yet. "When they attack the Heads, the great ones of the earth, I am in the heartiest sympathy with them--that is the way to obtain our ends. But I draw the line at making martyrs of the small fry, the mere instruments, the humble tools of the despotic system. I think it brings justly deserved odium on us. To remove an inoffensive person like Rossett is worse than a crime, it is a blunder. If the great Revolution is coming, how can a feeble person like him stop its impetuous course?" Violet Hargrave listened attentively. When was he going to suggest the terms of the bargain? "Will you help me to save young Rossett? It is the price of my silence. You can do nothing against me. Whatever innuendos or suggestions you might make, if such occur to you, would not weigh a moment against the damning evidence in my possession. They would only regard it as the frantic action of a guilty woman, trying to save herself from their vengeance." He thought it wise to rub this in. He did not believe she was very clever, but she was cunning. He wanted to divert her from any idea of attempting to readjust the situation to her own advantage. "You show me very plainly you don't trust me, by that somewhat unnecessary warning," she said a little bitterly. She was hardened enough, heaven knows, but the distrust of the man she had grown to care for hurt her more than she liked to admit. "I am not quite a fool," she added. "You have the whip-hand of me, I admit frankly. If I thought to match myself against you, and bluff it out, I recognise I have not a dog's chance. Yes, I am willing to help you to save Guy Rossett. But I would like you to tell me why you want so particularly to save him." But Moreno was not going to satisfy her curiosity. He gave her one of his reasons. "Because I hate and loathe unnecessary bloodshed," was his answer. There was a long pause, during which Violet's mind worked rapidly. "Are you very sure in your own mind how you are going to save him?" she asked presently. "I mean, so that we can go scot free." Self would always be the predominating note, he thought. Well, perhaps that was natural. He tapped his forehead significantly. "I have pretty well worked it out here; there are just a few details to be filled in. With regard to our own personal safety, I feel pretty confident I shall be unsuspected. As for you, I will guarantee it. I will see you every day, as my plans develop." Violet rose to say good night. There was genuine admiration in her glance, as she held out her hand. "I believe you are a very wonderful man," she said, in a tone of conviction. Moreno smiled, well pleased with the delicate flattery. He always had a kindly feeling towards anybody who praised his mental qualities. He saw her to the door. As they parted, she lifted up her face. "You would not care to kiss a woman of my type--bad, selfish and unscrupulous as you know me to be?" she said boldly. For a second he hesitated. Then he kissed her lightly on her pale cheek. He could not bring himself yet to touch her lips. "Anyway, you are going to do a good thing now," he said, as she passed out. CHAPTER TWENTY. During these hot summer days, poor Isobel lived in alternate fits of hope and despair. Guy visited her every day. He always seemed very cheerful, full of optimism. The forces of law and order must prevail; these mad anarchists, well organised as they were, and led by a most subtle brain, would be defeated very shortly. Once the Heads were taken, the movement would suffer a speedy eclipse. But at times it seemed to her quick woman's ears that there was a false note in his cheerful tones, that he was not so certain of the ultimate result as he pretended to be. Moreno came to see her every day too. She had conceived a strong liking for the black-browed young journalist. Moreover, she had great faith in him. Guy, of course, was her king amongst men. But she was not so hopelessly in love that she could not distinguish between the mental qualities of the two. Guy was very intelligent; he could snatch at the hints of others, and shape his course of conduct on them. But Moreno had a subtle and penetrating intellect, a touch of genius. And he combined inspiration with prudence. If Guy talked cheerfully when he was with her, her fears and doubts revived on his departure. Could he look all round and accurately weigh the chances? When Moreno told her to cheer up, and promised that all would be well, she felt fortified. There was a sureness, a quiet power about the man that raised her drooping spirits. "You are sure that you will beat them, you are sure you will save Guy?" she had asked him one day, when he had paid her a brief visit. He spoke very deliberately. "I have outwitted them once before." He looked a little gloomy as he spoke. It went to his kind heart to recall that on that occasion he had been compelled to sacrifice that charming young Frenchwoman, Valerie Delmonte. "I shall outwit them again, believe me." His tone was very confident, Isobel thought. "I am sure you will lay your plans very well, Mr Moreno, but there is many a slip between the cup and the lip." "The cup will be carried to the lip this time without a falter." He spoke with his usual assurance. "Guy always speaks cheerfully too," said Isobel in her simple, straightforward way. "But I am always doubtful when he leaves me." "Mr Rossett does not know what is in my mind, Miss Clandon. And I dare not tell him, for reasons of my own. An incautious confidence might utterly frustrate my plans. I have many helping me, but I have close at hand a man who is going to be my ablest lieutenant. Strange to say, you know that man well." Isobel lifted up to him startled eyes. "You bewilder me. I know so few people." "It will surprise you to know that your cousin, Maurice Farquhar, is in Madrid at the present moment and waiting to receive my instructions." "Maurice Farquhar in Madrid," she repeated. "But why, but why?" "Because I wanted to have a clear-brained, resolute Englishman at my right hand when the supreme moment came. I can't tell you everything. I daren't tell you much. Would you like to see your cousin? I can manage it easily." "Oh, I would love to," replied Isobel promptly, speaking according to the dictates of her open, generous nature. Then she suddenly remembered that Guy had expressed a certain jealousy of her cousin. "But perhaps at the moment it might not be prudent. I am here _incognita_, in a rather difficult situation. Later on, perhaps." From those few halting phrases Moreno guessed accurately enough what was passing in her mind. She had a sincere affection, for her cousin, who came over here to assist her at the greatest personal inconvenience, but she would not see him, in case his visit might give offence to her lover. It is ever thus that self-sacrifice in love is rewarded. "I quite understand," he said. "Well, Farquhar is a white man, a man in a thousand. I wrung a promise from him some time ago that he would come over here to help me to save Mr Rossett. You can guess why he gave me that promise." "Yes," answered Isobel in a low voice. "I can guess why he gave that promise. He wanted to help me. You cannot tell how mean I felt. Oh, I think I will risk it. Please ask him to come and see me." Moreno shook his head. "No, better perhaps not to risk it. Farquhar is content to do good by stealth. We cannot be quite sure of the view the other gentleman might take of it, if it came to his ears." Isobel felt a frightful coward, but she was relieved by Moreno's words. Guy was very impetuous, and terribly jealous. She could not afford to rouse his suspicions. He left her feeling a little miserable and self-reproachful. Why could not men take a broad-minded view of things? Even if a girl were engaged, it did not follow that she should not be allowed to have a faithful friend. She had grown very weary of Madrid. She hated the place and the people, under these most unhappy circumstances. The good-natured Mrs Godwin had done her best to amuse her. She had taken her to the Museo del Prado, and pointed out to her the masterpieces of Velazquez, Murillo, Ribera, and other great masters. She had conducted her down the animated plaza of the Puerta del Sol. She had shown her the view from the Campillo de las Vistillas. They were too late for the Carnivals, and to a bull-fight Isobel would not go. Moreno betook himself to the quarters of Farquhar. He found the self-contained young barrister stretched on a sofa, reading a French novel. Farquhar was already a bit tired of it. On reflection, he was not quite certain if he had not been a little foolish in giving that promise. He had rushed over to Spain to help a man whose only claim to consideration lay in the fact that he had taken away from him the woman he wanted for his wife. Then he thought of the charming Lady Mary, her warm praise and flattering words. When he got back to England and recounted his exploits to her, he was sure he would receive a very warm welcome. Farquhar threw down his book, and lighted a cigar. "Well, my good old friend, things seem devilish slow just now. Is anything going to happen shortly?" Moreno nodded. "Things will happen the evening after to-morrow. Curb your impatience till then." "You have got it all cut and dried, then?" "I think so. To-morrow morning I will take you to my excellent friend, the Chief of Police, and tell him that you represent me. We will spend an hour or two afterwards in discussing our plans. I have just come from Miss Clandon." "Ah," said Farquhar, with affected carelessness--that name had still power to thrill him in spite of Lady Mary. "Did you find her quite well?" "Perfectly, so far as her health is concerned, but naturally full of doubts and fears. I told her you were here; she was, of course, greatly surprised. She expressed a wish to see you." This, of course, was not the strict truth, but Moreno always wanted to make everybody feel happy and comfortable. A pleased expression stole over the man's face. "Oh, she said that, did she?" Moreno did not answer the question directly. "I pointed out to her that, in my opinion, such a meeting might be extremely dangerous, and that it is essential you should lie very low." Farquhar accepted the glib explanation. Moreno had one of the greatest qualities of a diplomatist, that he could impress nearly everybody with his sincerity. Next morning the two men interviewed the Chief of Police, or rather the Chief of Police, by appointment, interviewed them at the journalist's modest lodgings. In the course of that interview many things were explained at length. Moreno, always cautious, always on the look out for accidents, stood by the window, keeping a vigilant eye on passers-by. Farquhar and the Chief sat at the far end of the room. Suddenly he espied the tall form of Contraras nearing the house. He bundled his guests into his bedroom. "The old devil! I had a suspicion he might turn up. It is quite safe here. If I give a loud whistle, get under the bed." But Contraras did not pay a long visit; he did not even sit down. He had only strolled round to ascertain that things were going right. Moreno, resolutely avoiding details, assured him that everything was in train. On the evening after to-morrow Guy Rossett would be delivered into the hands of the brotherhood, to be dealt with as they thought fit. Contraras left well pleased. Moreno was certainly a great acquisition to the organisation. When he was well out of sight the two men were brought out of the bedroom. The Chief of Police shook his fist vindictively in the direction of the vanished figure. "I was itching to take the old scoundrel straight away, Mr Moreno," he remarked. The journalist smiled. "Impetuosity never pays, senor. You could have proved nothing if you had. A most respectable old gentleman, highly connected, through his wife, with some of the best families in the country, pays me a visit to inquire after my health, or perhaps to ask me to dinner at his hotel. You would not have made much out of it." The Chief cooled down immediately under this sensible speech. "You are a very wonderful man, Mr Moreno. You never allow yourself to be carried away by your feelings." He turned with his gracious foreign manner to Farquhar. "I understand, sir, you are an old and trusted friend. I have no doubt that you have the same faith in his judgment that I have." On the afternoon of that same day Moreno went to see Violet Hargrave. He found her restless and agitated. "You are sure that it will take place to-morrow night?" was her first question. "I am as near sure as can be. Unless a miracle happens he will be brought up for judgment before the brotherhood," was the answer. Violet shuddered; her face went pale. "I have never been at one of their so-called trials, but it must be very horrible." "Neither have I," said Moreno. "I see, like myself, you don't anticipate much pleasure from it." "But you are going to save him, and I am going to help you," she cried a little wildly. "You have not yet told me where I come in. The time is very short; you will have to speak soon. Why not speak now?" The young man hesitated for a few seconds. How far should he trust her? Caution whispered not too far. He spoke in a gloomy tone. "To tell you the truth, I am not so sure of saving him as I was. Certain things have happened which I had not taken into my calculations." He was watching her narrowly as he spoke, to note the effect upon her of his words. She clasped her hands together and her voice faltered. "I am so in the dark, you tell me nothing, you keep everything to yourself." She betrayed great agitation, but it was evident she believed his statements implicitly. As a matter of fact, nothing had occurred to upset Moreno's plans in the slightest degree. But there was something about which he had been a little careless. He had pretty well secured his own safety, but he had not secured hers. "I cannot enter into a lot of explanations, when circumstances alter from hour to hour," he said rather brusquely. "On the whole, I believe I have a better chance of saving him without your co-operation. Now, please don't ask me why I think so!" "I won't, if you don't wish it," she answered submissively. "I wish you could have been more frank with me, have given me some hint of what you intend to do. It will be very terrible for me to be there, waiting on the turn of events." "You no longer desire revenge on Guy Rossett?" he asked, looking at her intently. "Not that sort of revenge," she answered truthfully. "For I suppose murder is in their thoughts." "I had a brief talk with Contraras this morning; he came round to my rooms. He was more frank than he usually is with his subordinates. I suppose he was pleased with the way in which I have, so far, conducted the affair. He thought there would be great difficulty in getting hold of Guy Rossett." "Will you tell me, some day, why you found it easy?" "Some day, perhaps; but not now. To return to our chief, Contraras. He explained to me that he has no desire to remove this particular man, if he will fall into line with him. He frankly admits that he is too small game, that he would willingly avoid the odium that such a deed would bring on the brotherhood." "Ah!" Violet was very interested now. "If he falls in line with him. What does that mean? Or perhaps," she added bitterly, "this is another secret that is to be hidden from me." "Not at all," was the quiet answer. "I usually keep my own secrets, but I am not always so scrupulous with regard to the secrets of others. Contraras is going to offer him two alternatives. The first is--that he resigns from the Embassy on some plausible pretext, and takes a solemn oath to do nothing to thwart the brotherhood. The other alternative you can guess." "Death," whispered Violet in a hollow voice, and her face went as pale as death itself. "And you can guess what Rossett's answer will be?" said Moreno, breaking the long silence that ensued between them after those significant words. "I know, I know. He will choose death unless you can save him." The woman in her came suddenly to the surface, and she broke down, sobbing bitterly. Moreno looked at her steadily, but not unkindly, for a long time. Her emotion was genuine enough, he was sure. When the dastardly project had only been in the air, so to speak, she had not realised the full horror of it. Now that it was so near to accomplishment, she was stricken with remorse for having harboured such revengeful thoughts. And presently he spoke again, in his quiet, deliberate accents. "By a miracle, it may be possible for me to save him, if I can outwit them." "But cannot I help you? I know you do not believe much in the capacity of women, but I am not a fool, and in a crisis I believe my nerves are steady." "If it is fated for me to succeed, I shall work better alone. But I would like to ask you this. It will be a cruel ordeal for you to be present at this scene, especially at the moment when you will be called upon to record your vote as a member of the tribunal. Would you be grateful to me if I could save you from that ordeal?" "Very, very grateful," sobbed the now sorely stricken woman. "But it is impossible. I have seen Contraras to-day also. He has arranged for Alvedero to fetch me to-morrow evening, and to conduct me to that awful house where we are to receive Guy Rossett. It is impossible." "There are very few things in this world that are impossible," said Moreno, a little impatiently. "The first idea I had was that you would frankly throw yourself on the compassion of Contraras, tell him that this man was once your lover, and that you must be excused from taking part in the proceedings on the ground of common humanity. The question is, would that work? It might, because I know he is still remorseful about the fate of Valerie Delmonte. But we are not sure. He is a fanatic of the deepest dye." "Absolutely a fanatic," corroborated Mrs Hargrave. "To him the welfare of the brotherhood is the one supreme thing. All human emotions must be subjugated, all consideration of friends and kindred swept aside, in pursuance of the one object." "I am disposed to agree," said Moreno. "Contraras' sense of compassion is a doubtful factor. We will discard that idea. Will you put yourself in my hands?" She looked intently into the dark, brilliant eyes, and what she read there reassured her. He was stubbornly secretive, but he was kind and sympathetic. He was ready to do his best to serve her. "Yes, I will," she said bravely. "I trust you." "Good! Then that is settled. Alvedero will call for you to-morrow evening as arranged, but you will not accompany him. He will come alone." "How are you going to do it?" she cried breathlessly. Her admiration for the man had grown intensely during the last few days. He seemed able to work miracles. "I shall keep that a secret too till to-morrow morning, when I shall be round at eleven o'clock. If I told you now, you would not get a wink of sleep all night." "I shall not get a wink of sleep as it is," she answered. But, secretive to the last, Moreno was not to be tempted into frankness. "Oh, yes, you will. Anyway, you have promised to leave yourself in my hands. To-morrow morning, at eleven o'clock." They shook hands without another word. Moreno walked back to his lodgings reflecting deeply. Was this attractive young woman really as bad as he had once thought? Was she not rather a creature of strong passions, of impulses at times ungovernable? Were there not in her womanly feelings that could be cherished and fostered by sympathetic companionship? Anyway, if she followed his instructions, as she had agreed to do, he had secured her safety as well as his own. And that would be a result that would gratify him exceedingly. CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. Save for a little impatience when his judgment was impugned, or somebody questioned the soundness of his opinions, Moreno was a person of the most equable temperament, and singularly light hearted. Still, when he rose early on the morning of this most eventful day, he was in a very grave and thoughtful mood. He was playing a most difficult and dangerous game. Even if he outwitted the Heads of the brotherhood in Spain, as he believed he had, there were left Lucue and Jaques in London to deal with. To save Guy Rossett was easy enough; he had laid his plans very surely for that. But he had to save himself; also to save Violet Hargrave. In the plausible explanations that he would have to give in London, there must be no loopholes. Very early in the morning he again saw the Chief of Police, in company with Farquhar, who, now that the game was really afoot, was manifesting a keen interest in the chase. They rehearsed the whole programme all over again. "He is cleverer than I thought him at first," whispered Moreno to his friend, when the somewhat stout man had withdrawn for a moment to consult one of his lieutenants. "But I am relying on you to be constantly at his elbow. You are not the sort of chap to get flurried." And Farquhar, although quite a modest kind of fellow, agreed that he could keep his head in a crisis. At eleven o'clock, as arranged, Moreno presented himself at the lodgings of Mrs Hargrave. She looked very pale and there were dark rings round her eyes. It was easy to see that her night had been a perturbed one, that she had enjoyed little or no sleep. "You don't look in the best of health and spirits," he said kindly. "Well, you have got to pluck up your courage. You will want plenty of it for the next twenty-four hours." She shivered. "If I had known what I was going in for, I would never have yielded to Jaques' entreaties," she said. "You never quite know what you will be landed in when you embark in these enterprises," answered the young man lightly. "Well, now to business. You still want to be absent from that meeting to-night?" "If it is possible." "It is quite possible, but you will have to rely on me, and you will also have to be very brave." He drew out of his pocket a small, dark-coloured phial, and held it to the light. "You see that?" he asked. "Well, this is going to be your salvation." She shivered again; her nerves were very much out of order this morning, but she began to have an idea of what he was driving at. "This is the secret, then, that you would not tell me last night. I have got to drink that." Moreno nodded. "Yes, if you are still in the same mind as you were yesterday. In my very early youth I was apprenticed to a chemist. I very soon began to acquire a wide knowledge of drugs, and their properties." They had been standing up to the present. Moreno pointed to a sofa. "We can talk more easily if we sit. I have mixed you here a perfectly safe compound, which I want you to drink before I leave, so that I can take away the bottle; I would prefer it was not left lying about, you understand." She looked at him with eyes that expressed a great dread. "What effect will it have?" "I tell you frankly, about six or seven o'clock you will feel very ill, very faint. Those effects will last for the best part of twelve hours. A few hours after that, you will be yourself again." She looked at him narrowly. A dark wave of suspicion had suddenly flowed over her mind. She was sure, with a woman's certain intuition, that he was greatly attracted by her. Still, she knew nothing of him. He had always said he was a true son of the Revolution, although she had somewhat distrusted the sincerity of that statement. Had he, out of loyalty to the Cause, revealed her perfidy to the others, and was he deputed by them to poison her, under the specious pretext of falling in with her wishes? He read her dark, suspicious thoughts as easily as he would have read an open book. He spoke very gently, very tenderly. She had never appealed to him more than at this moment, with her pallid cheeks, the haunting dread in her eyes. "My dear, you do not trust me, I can see. Your mind is full of doubt. Well,"--he stooped and kissed her--"I can only swear by everything I hold holy and sacred that I would not harm a hair of your head." No man could lie so convincingly as that. She reached out her hand for the phial, then quickly drew it back. "I am afraid, dreadfully afraid," she murmured in a low voice. "I don't know which to choose--to do as you tell me, or to go to that dreadful place." "You must do as you please." He was still very patient, but she noticed there was certain coldness in his tones. She rose and walked about the room, wringing her hands. Her faith in him had come back, but she was still terribly afraid. "It is early yet," said Moreno presently. "You have plenty of time to send round for Contraras and throw yourself on his compassion. Implore him not to compel you to assist at the condemnation, perhaps the execution, of a man who was once your lover. He might give way." "The last thing he would do. He would think it a grand opportunity to show my fidelity to the Cause. He would let nothing stand in the way if it were his own case." "I agree with you now, as I agreed before when we discussed the same subject. Well, you must make up your mind. Take this, or wait here and come with Alvedero to-night." She was still wavering, torn between faith and doubt. "But you said you could save Guy Rossett? Is there any doubt of that?" And Moreno, out of his pity for the woman, out of the attraction she possessed for him, spoke more plainly than he had intended. "There is great doubt of it. But even if I could save Guy Rossett, I doubt if I could save you. I might just manage to save myself." And then, in a flash, she understood, and she doubted him no longer. "I think I see it all now. You are no more a true son of the Cause than I am a true daughter. I sold their secrets for money. You would betray them for the same or other reasons." Moreno did not answer the question directly. He simply held out the phial towards her. "Will you drink this or not?" She took it from him with a hand that no longer trembled. "Yes. I believe you now. I will drink it. Tell me what I am to do, how I am to act when it begins to take effect!" "Do nothing; just go to the sofa and lie down. In a few minutes you will be in a stupor, unconscious of everything and everybody. Your landlady may come up; she can act as she pleases; send for a doctor or not. Probably nobody will come near you till Alvedero arrives. When he sees you there he can act as he pleases too. Anyway, he cannot stay long, because he will be due at the brotherhood, to whom he will bring the report of your sudden indisposition." "And if the doctor comes, will he not guess?" "_Dios_!" cried Moreno, relapsing for a moment into Spanish. "You will be all right again long before the doctor has picked out your complaint from a dozen others that present similar symptoms." She pulled the cork from the phial, and sniffed the contents. "There is no odour about it," she said. "Not the slightest," said Moreno quietly. "I took very good care of that. I think if the doctor does come, he will be a bit puzzled." She drank it down at a draught, then handed the bottle back to her visitor. "I am an adventuress, and you are--well--a sort of adventurer," she said, with a half smile. "Well, you see, I have given you a proof of my faith in you." Moreno put the phial into his pocket, and held out his hand. "Good-bye, for the present." "Shall I see you to-morrow?" asked Violet, as she walked with him to the door. "You say after about twelve hours I shall be myself again." "Certainly," answered Moreno in his gayest tones. Yes, whatever betided, he would certainly see her to-morrow. Her trust in him had made her more attractive than ever. On the whole, he thought he had done the best for her. Once he had thought of getting the Spanish police to arrest her on some false charge, with the view of letting her go as soon as all danger was past. But this method did not appeal to him very greatly. The police would be glad enough to get her into their clutches, but they might not care to let her go so easily. Too much explanation might be necessary, in the first instance. And he always had to adapt his policy to the view of what questions might be asked in London. The tale she could tell now would be a very simple one. She had been attacked in the evening by a sudden seizure, had relapsed into unconsciousness, and been oblivious of everything till the next day. That evening, at a few minutes past nine, Alvedero knocked at the door of the mean house. When the landlady opened it, he perceived that she was in a great state of agitation. "Oh, senor, something terrible has happened. I went up to madame's room some twenty minutes ago to take her her light supper. She was lying unconscious on the sofa, and she has not stirred since." Alvedero bounded up the stairs, entered the room, and gazed on the motionless form. At first he thought she was dead, but, on placing his hand on her heart, he could feel it beating. "She looks as if she were dying. Have you sent for a doctor?" "Yes. After I found that I could not pull her round, I sent my husband to fetch the first one he could find." Alvedero reflected as to his course of action. Humanity suggested that he should stay by the side of the insensible woman till the doctor arrived and gave his opinion as to her condition. But humanity was not a particular trait of the brotherhood, and Alvedero had less of it than most of his colleagues. He had arrived five minutes late, he had spent another five minutes here. If he left at once, he would still be keeping his colleagues waiting. Besides, what good could he do? If the woman were not dying, as he believed she was, it must be hours before she recovered. The tribunal must sit without her. The sooner he went and informed them of that fact, the better. He turned towards the door, and spoke a few parting words to the landlady. "Don't leave her till the doctor comes. Obey whatever instructions he gives promptly. I will see that you are rewarded for your trouble. I will look in again, in two or three hours from now. Please sit up for me." He walked a few yards down the street, where a cab was waiting. He entered it, and was driven rapidly towards an obscure portion of the town. Half an hour later, Isobel was sitting in the drawing-room alone. Her host and hostess had gone on a visit to some friends who lived near. Guy had not been able to see her during the day, as he had been too busily engaged with his official duties. He had sent round a note telling her he would be round in the evening. She was expecting him every minute. There was a tap at the door. The maid entered with a letter. The gentleman who had brought it was waiting in the hall for an answer. She recognised the handwriting on the envelope at once as that of her cousin Maurice Farquhar. She tore it open and read the few pencilled words: "I want to see you at once. It is about Mr Rossett." She rushed out into the hall, and almost pulled him into the room. "What is it?" she panted in terrified tones. "Something has happened to Guy." "Yes, something has happened, but you must be brave and not give way. He has been trapped by the anarchists, but all will be well. Moreno assures me that he has foreseen this, and will save him. I am now on my way to do my share in the rescue." "Can I come with you?" pleaded Isobel. "I shall go mad if I stop here." For a moment Farquhar hesitated. He had a rooted dislike to women mixing themselves up in dangerous or turbulent scenes. But her pleading eyes overcame his scruples. "Yes, if you wish. I have a cab waiting. Leave a note for these people here explaining your absence. Then put on your things and come with me. I will explain everything as we go along." A few minutes later they were seated side by side, driving to the same obscure quarter of the town which had long ago been reached by the Spanish anarchist Alvedero. CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. In a shabby room of a shabby house in one of the most obscure quarters of Madrid, five men were sitting. They were Contraras, Zorrilta, Alvedero, Moreno, and Somoza, the fisherman of Fonterrabia. "Guy Rossett is here, in the next room." It was Moreno who spoke. He turned to the fisherman. "Has he recovered sufficiently, Somoza?" The fisherman answered: "He was still a little bit dazed a minute ago when I left him. The handkerchief I flung over his face contained a pretty strong dose. I should give him another ten minutes before he is ready to face the tribunal." The capture had been easy. Guy Rossett, reckless of danger, had left his flat to pay his visit to Isobel Clandon. Two members of the Secret Police were ready to accompany him. Fearful of compromising Isobel, he had rather roughly dispensed with their services. Reluctantly, they had obeyed him. They agreed between themselves that an Englishman was always pig-headed, a bit of a dare-devil, and inclined to take risks. Guy walked carelessly along. He was in rather good spirits. He had received that day a cheerful note from Moreno that everything was going well, that very soon the heads of the anarchist movement in Spain would be laid by the heels. Of course, in this letter, Moreno did not explain his methods. If he had done so, Guy might not have been in quite such high spirits. For at this moment, playing his very difficult game of saving Guy Rossett, saving himself and Violet Hargrave, and also snaring the anarchists, Moreno could only give his full confidence to one man, his old friend and companion, Maurice Farquhar. As a matter of fact, Rossett never knew what had really taken place that night. He was never told that Moreno knew of his projected visit to Isobel that evening, from a random remark of hers dropped in the afternoon--that he had set Somoza and another tall Biscayan fisherman to follow him, for the purpose of bringing him to the house where the heads of the anarchist movement were assembled in solemn conclave. Rossett walked gaily along. He would have a precious hour with Isobel. In a dark street two men came up behind him. One pinioned his arms from behind. Somoza pressed a saturated handkerchief over his face. In a few seconds the unfortunate young diplomatist was drugged and helpless. A cab, driven by a member of the brotherhood, had crawled slowly after the two men. As soon as the driver saw what had happened, he drove rapidly up. The two powerful men lifted the inert body into the vehicle. He was partially recovered when they halted at the house where the tribunal of five was sitting to pronounce judgment on the man who had dared to thwart their plans. They locked him in a room adjoining that in which Contraras was presiding over the deliberations of his five trusted lieutenants. After locking him in securely, Somoza went to report the matter to Moreno. His colleague, the other Biscayan fisherman, remained on guard outside the closed door, for fear of untoward accidents. Rossett was a powerful man. Contraras, with his fine intellectual face, his hair in places turning from iron-grey to white, looked the embodiment of dignified justice. Perhaps, in his warped and fanatical mind, he believed he was. He spoke in his most judicial accents. "Nobody shall ever say that he has not had a fair trial, when brought up before the tribunal of the brotherhood. We will wait an hour, if it is necessary, for this misguided young man to recover his senses." Moreno, who had arrived the last of the party, looked round with a sudden start. "Where is our comrade, Violet Hargrave?" Contraras hastened to explain. "Ah! of course you have not heard. Alvedero went to bring her here, according to arrangement. He found her stretched on the sofa, motionless and inanimate. He thinks she is in a dying condition. He is going round to inquire after these proceedings are over." "This is very sad," said Moreno, in his gravest manner. "And she is such a nice woman personally, and so devoted to the Cause, through the influence of Jaques. I wonder,"--he cast an inquiring look at Alvedero--"if, by any chance, she drinks or drugs. Many apparently nice women do!" Alvedero shook his big head. "I doubt it. I should say a seizure of some sort. Perhaps her heart is weak. She looks a little fragile." Moreno, for obvious reasons, did not pursue the subject. Violet Hargrave's absence had evidently excited no comment, no suspicion. A quarter of an hour had elapsed. Somoza was deputed to enter the locked room and ascertain the condition of the prisoner. Contraras was resolved to proceed justly, according to his interpretation of the word justice. Somoza returned after his inspection, and reported that the effects of the saturated handkerchief had worn off. Guy Rossett was in a sense clothed in his right mind. He was fit to face the tribunal. The members of the conclave assumed masks. Somoza had worn a mask when he had entered the locked room. Whatever happened, it was essential that Guy Rossett should not be able to identify any one of them. The prisoner, or captive, whatever he might be called, was brought in. In the cab he had been bound securely round the legs and wrists, but not painfully. He was assisted to a chair by the masked Somoza, where he sat facing his judges. His face was a little pale, due to the effects of the chloroform, but his demeanour was firm. He felt himself in a very tight corner, but he had been assured so often by Moreno that he need never despair. A good angel, in the shape of Moreno himself, was watching over him. He cast his glance rapidly over the masked men confronting him. Where was the black-browed young journalist whom he had known in old days? Yes, there on the right, nearest to the door. Had that position been chosen by accident or design? He recognised at once the short, squat figure. Through the holes of the mask, he could see the gleam of those dark eyes. His demeanour would be more indomitable than ever. Contraras opened the proceedings in his most judicial manner. "Mr Rossett, you will recognise that you are now at the mercy of the brotherhood, against whom for some time you have directed your activities." "Quite true," replied Guy Rossett in his curtest manner. Whatever fate was in store for him, he was not going to knuckle under to this crew of bloodthirsty ruffians. Contraras continued in his calm, imperturbable manner. "I cannot say that, up to the present, you have done us very much harm, but still you are a menace to our schemes, our aspirations." "I am pleased to hear that I am of sufficient importance to justify this mock tribunal." Rossett waved his hand contemptuously at the masked men sitting in judgment on him. The eyes of Contraras flashed through his mask. He took his position very seriously. "Mr Rossett, let me advise you, in your own interests, not to carry matters with too high a hand. Kindly recognise your position. If you were seated in the Calle Fernando el Santo, I admit you would be top dog. At the present moment the brotherhood, here in this obscure house, in this obscure quarter of the city of Madrid, is in that enviable situation." A bitter retort was on Rossett's lips, but he thought he perceived an almost imperceptible gesture of warning from the short, squat figure in the corner near the door. He temporised. "The fortunes of war, I admit, are with you, sir. I am sorry I have not the advantage of knowing whom I have the honour to address." Contraras was, at heart, a gentleman. He felt the sting of the rebuke. "Mr Rossett, if you come into line with us to-night, I may deal with you quite frankly. Before we separate, you may know as much about me as I do about you." There was an obvious movement on the part of Zorrilta and Alvedero. They evidently thought their chief was going too far. Contraras hushed the incipient rebellion with an authoritative wave of his hand. "Gentlemen, kindly leave me to deal with this matter. Mr Rossett and I will understand each other in a very few moments." He turned towards the young diplomatist, still undaunted in the midst of this hostile crowd. "Mr Rossett, you have much to lose by opposing us--perhaps life itself. By withdrawing from this unequal contest--and, believe me, it is unequal--you have much to gain." "I am not so sure it is unequal," answered Guy Rossett stubbornly. He had perceived too late the warning signal of Moreno, anxious that the somewhat uncertain Contraras should not be deflected from his present calm, judicial mood. But Contraras kept his temper. "Mr Rossett, you are a young man, with life, a happy and prosperous life, before you. I know a great deal about you; it is my business to know much about other people. You are engaged to a very charming girl, you will inherit a great fortune from a wealthy aunt." "And, if you could establish your principles," broke in Guy, speaking with some heat, "you might take away from me my fiancee--you would certainly rob me of my fortune." But Contraras was still patient. He was trying to reason with this obstinate young man, whose bold bearing moved his admiration. "We cannot tell how the great Revolution will shape itself ultimately. But let us deal with present facts. A charming girl is waiting for you, longing for the moment when she can be your wife." A shadow of pain passed over Guy's face. To-night, he had set out to visit his beloved Isobel, and he had been snared. Contraras watched him narrowly through the holes of his mask. "And a big fortune will be yours very shortly. Are you prepared to give up these advantages for the sake of thwarting the brotherhood?" "I rather think I am. But tell me what you propose. I admit you are arguing in a most temperate fashion. But you have something up your sleeve all the time." "I have," admitted Contraras frankly. "Mr Rossett, believe me, I have no personal animosity against you, except as the tool of a decaying and effete system. Come into line with me, and your bonds shall be loosed, and you shall go forth a free man." "Your conditions?" queried Rossett, in a hard voice. "Take your solemn oath, no, give me your word as an English gentleman--I will accept that--that you will resign your position at the Embassy, and take no further action against the brotherhood." He rose, and pointed at the door. "Give me that promise, Mr Rossett, and you can walk out a free man." If Guy hesitated a moment, his hesitation must be pardoned. In that swift instant he thought of Isobel, anxiously waiting his arrival, his dear sister Mary, anxious and troubled also, even his father, whose maladroit interference in his affairs had sent him into this hotbed of disaffection. Then he spoke slowly and deliberately. "You invite me to dishonour myself, in order to secure my own personal safety. My answer is, _No_. Do your worst." "You will not reconsider that decision, Mr Rossett?" Guy shook his head. "No, a thousand times, no. Do what you like with me. I am a defenceless man. You can murder me here, and probably hush up your crime. But I shall be avenged--you can reckon on that." Contraras rose, and paced the room in great agitation. He was a brave man himself; he admired the quality of bravery in others. Fanatical and resolute as he was, it went against the grain to condemn this young Englishman to death, because he would not accept the dishonourable terms offered to him. "Mr Rossett, I wish to spare you. The brotherhood does not condemn in haste." He turned to Somoza. "Take this gentleman to his room, and bring him here in a quarter of an hour. Perhaps, by that time, he will take a more reasonable view of his position." "Come, senor, if you please," said the obedient Somoza, speaking through his mask in the most polite accents. A Spaniard is always courteous, even if he is about to murder you. The fisherman bent down to assist his prisoner to rise, but before Rossett was firmly on his legs, the short, squat figure of Moreno got up from his chair. He laid his finger to his lips and looked round at the assembly. "Silence, gentlemen, for a moment! I am sure I heard the sound of a whistle. Yes, there is another one. Did you catch it?" No, nobody had caught it, except Moreno. He stole gently to the window, and pulled the blind an inch aside. He dropped it hastily, and staggered back in a state of extreme agitation. In that apparently unconscious movement he had drawn nearer to the door. "_Dios_!" he cried, in a shrill voice. "The house is surrounded. There are dozens of men outside." The pulling aside of the blind was a signal he had arranged with his friend, the head of the Police. The pretence of the whistle was a blind. There was a heavy trampling on the stairs. Almost before he had ceased speaking, the locked door was burst open to admit the members of the police, with levelled revolvers covering the masked men. Two of the unwelcome visitors seized Somoza and handcuffed him. A third cut the secure but not painful ropes that bound Rossett, and conducted him down the narrow staircase. A cab was waiting; his guardian bundled the young man in. Was it a dream? Isobel's soft arms were round him, Isobel's soft voice was whispering to him. "My darling, you are safe. Moreno has kept his promise." Rossett was bewildered. No wonder! He had hardly yet recovered from the effects of the drug which had been administered by Somoza. His head fell back on her shoulder. "Isobel, my dear sweetheart! You here! What does it mean?" "It means that you are saved through Moreno, and my cousin Maurice Farquhar." She felt it was no time to palter with the truth. "Your cousin, Maurice Farquhar! What has he to do with it all?" She was pleased to note that there was no suspicion in his tones, only the expression of bewilderment. "Oh, it would take hours to explain, but I will cut it as short as I can. My cousin and Moreno are great friends. Maurice has come over here to help him. I was expecting you to-night, as you will remember. Maurice came round to explain that you had been kidnapped. He was coming on here, as Moreno's lieutenant, to help the police. I implored him to take me along, to welcome you when you escaped from them. He consented, and here I am." Guy clasped her in his arms. "You darling! And where is Mr Farquhar? I would like to thank him." Isobel beckoned to a man standing a little way in the shadow. He advanced. "Maurice, Guy wishes to thank you for all your share in this night's work." The two men exchanged a cordial handshake. Guy muttered his thanks. "I would like to tell you to drive off straight away," said Farquhar. "But you must wait a minute or two. There will be a third occupant of this vehicle--our friend Moreno, who is going to pass the night at the house of the Chief of Police. To-morrow he will go to England." In the room from which Rossett had been conducted to his friendly guardian, the head of the police was taking the situation in hand. "Masks off, if you please, gentlemen," he cried out in stentorian tones. The men turned hesitatingly to each other. But the levelled revolvers had an eloquence that was very appealing. They tore off their masks and flung them on the floor. The chief scrutinised them in turn, offering audible comments. "Ah, Contraras, the dark horse of the conspiracy, connected with the Spanish nobility through your wife. I think I have met you at the Court. Alvedero--ah, for some time you have been suspect. Zorrilta, I know you well. Governor of the Province of Navarre." He pointed to Somoza. "This gentleman I do not know. We shall find something about him later on." He turned to Moreno, who preserved an impassive demeanour. "I have not the honour of knowing this gentleman, either," he said with a splendid disregard of the truth, for which Moreno admired him immensely. "But no doubt I shall shortly atone for my ignorance. I shall have something to say to him later on." He turned to his subordinates. "Handcuff them and take them along." Moreno all the time had been edging nearer to the door. Suddenly he pulled out a knife, and hurled himself at the man who was guarding it. The man went down before the apparently savage onslaught. Moreno rushed down the stairs. "After him," yelled the Chief. "Don't let that man escape." Three of the waiting men clattered down the stairs after the flying Moreno. They returned a few moments later, crestfallen. They explained that he had flown like the wind, that they had lost him in the darkness. The Chief swore roundly, and cursed them. "Dolts, idiots!" he cried fiercely. "You have let him slip through your fingers. I believe he is the most dangerous man of the lot." He was certainly playing his part splendidly. It had, of course, all been rehearsed. The man on whom Moreno had sprung had fallen down of his own accord. The men who had been dispatched to pursue him had lost him on purpose. Farquhar met him at the door of the shabby house and piloted him to the cab in which Guy Rossett and Isobel were seated. "Here is the third passenger," he said. Moreno got in and looked triumphantly at the two. "Well, what do you think of the English Secret Service?" he cried in exultant tones. "Mr Rossett is saved, I have escaped without suspicion, and my good friend the Chief of Police will make a splendid haul upstairs. He played up splendidly. Well, I think, after to-night the anarchist movement will have a big set-back in Spain." The cab drove along. Isobel was deposited at the Godwins'. Rossett was put down at his own flat. Moreno was conveyed to the residence of the Chief of Police, where he was to pass the night. A telegram was awaiting Guy. It was from his sister Mary. "I was summoned to Aunt Henrietta this morning. She had passed away before I arrived." CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. The next morning Guy Rossett and Farquhar were admitted to a private audience of the King. A gracious message had been transmitted to Moreno through the agency of the Chief of Police. It would not have been very politic on the part of that enterprising young man to show himself at the Palace. His Majesty thanked them both warmly for their services, and was very interested in the details which they gave him of that eventful evening. "I know England well, and love it," he said. "As long as she breeds such sons as you, she will always remain the first of great nations. Last night's work was good. My poor country will have a more peaceful time now that we have laid these bloodthirsty scoundrels by the heels." Moreno's overpowering impulse was to get back to England as quickly as possible. But there was a certain duty to perform first. He must pay his promised visit to Violet Hargrave. He called about eleven o'clock. He found her looking pale and languid from the effects of the powerful mixture he had given her. "Pulling round?" he inquired as they shook hands. "I can see you are, but you won't be quite yourself for a few hours. Well, tell me what happened. I arrived late at the meeting, and simply heard from Contraras that Alvedero had reported you were indisposed. But I learned no details, and, of course, did not press for any. Did they fetch a doctor to you? If so, what is his verdict?" A faint smile spread over her pale face. "He has only left a few minutes ago. He came to the conclusion that I dosed myself with drugs. I allowed him to believe that I did. Of course, I have never drugged in my life." "A very clever man, an ornament to his profession," remarked Moreno drily. "Still, how the devil should he guess, being totally ignorant of the circumstances? And the symptoms were precisely those which would have been produced by a long course of drugging." Mrs Hargrave laid her hand upon his arm, and spoke in a serious voice. "What of last night? There is nothing in the papers this morning. I have sent out for half a dozen. Tell me what happened." "The brotherhood has been defeated again." He rehearsed the scene for her benefit, and came to the concluding portion. "Just as they were about to remove Rossett, I distinctly heard a low whistle, that was repeated a few seconds later. I just pulled aside the curtain, and saw that the house was surrounded. I had hardly put the blind back when the door was burst open and the police swarmed in. They cut Rossett loose and took him downstairs. They covered us with revolvers, and made us take off our masks. The Chief who was with them recognised Contraras, Zorrilta, and Alvedero. Myself and Somoza he did not recognise." "Ah!" Violet Hargrave drew a long breath. "You were the only one who escaped, then? How did you manage it?" "By a miracle. I always keep my head in a crisis. As soon as I heard them rushing up the stairs, I drew near to the door, hoping to escape in the confusion. It was, of course, a thousand to one chance. While all the attention was being concentrated on Contraras and the others--of course the Chief didn't expect to bag such a big game--I drew my knife, plunged it into the breast of the man guarding the door--I fear I killed him, poor fellow--flew down the stairs, knocked over another chap, and dodged through them." Violet Hargrave surveyed him critically. "I am afraid you haven't a very high opinion of my intelligence. That is the story you will tell to Lucue, Maceda, and Jaques when we meet again in London. It does not impose upon me. You have escaped right enough, but you escaped with the connivance of the police." Moreno bit his lip; he had presumed a little too much upon feminine incredulity. "At any rate, you are not in their clutches," he said quietly. "I saved you. Don't forget that." She reached out her hand. "Please forgive me. I am very grateful for what you have done. Of course, if I had gone there you could not have saved me. I should have been taken with the others. You could save Guy Rossett and yourself, even your clever brain could not have taken in a third. I repeat, I am very grateful." Moreno retained her hand in his. Secretive as he was by nature, he felt that the time for dissimulation was past. "When we get to London--I am leaving to-night, and the sooner we make tracks the better--we will respect each other's secrets. I have still in my possession the photographed copy of that document which you sold to Guy Rossett." She drew away her hand from his with an indignant gesture. "Oh, you think I am utterly, irretrievably base!" she cried bitterly. "You think I would betray you, after what you have done for me, saved me from death or a life-long imprisonment." She broke into wild sobbing. He put his arm round her, and drew her gently towards him, till her crying ceased. "My poor little Violet," he whispered gently. "Let us speak together quite frankly. You are, on your own showing, an adventuress, with, I believe, some very womanly instincts. Well, I am not quite sure that I am very much better. You sold the Cause for money. I sold it for money, too, plus conviction. I wonder if we could turn over a new leaf, lead a new life together?" "If I could find somebody who really cared for me," cried the pretty little blonde woman, still tearful. "Jaques loves me, I am sure, but just with the love of a father." "Well, I care for you," said Moreno, and this time he spoke without any reservation. Violet lifted her face to his, and their lips met. Then she shivered. "But how can we escape from this horrible brotherhood? Lucue and Jaques are left. They will exact their pound of flesh. They will snare us into equally dangerous enterprises." Moreno snapped his fingers. "Bah! If I have outwitted Contraras and the others, I will soon settle Lucue's hash. As to poor old Jaques, it won't take long to convince him that he is more safely employed in earning a hundred per cent, on his capital than in trying to blow up respectable people who have certainly never injured him. The fate of the others will frighten him." Violet drew herself from his protecting arm, and dried her eyes. "I think, dear, I can really turn into a good woman," she said plaintively. "You see, I have never had a proper chance. When I married Jack, and I was genuinely fond of him, I thought I had met a gentleman. Can you guess what he really was?" "A card-sharper?" suggested Moreno, with his uncanny facility of guessing conundrums. Mrs Hargrave nodded her blonde head. "You have hit it. A week after we were married he told me all about himself. We were to take an expensive flat in Mount Street, and he would bring people there. He spent three weeks in teaching me an elaborate system of signalling. As a rule, we played together, but he had another couple of confederates to ward off suspicion." "Did you tell Jaques of this?" "No, I was too ashamed. Jaques is, of course, a rogue in his own way, but not that way. He was opposed to the marriage at first, and I was keen on it. I made out that Jack was a man of good family, and well-off. I believed all he told me at the start. I didn't want to own that I had been taken in." "I quite understand," replied Moreno. "By the way, of course you didn't know that poor old Contraras is dead." "Contraras dead? How did he die?" "It appears that he always carried some poisoned tablets in his pocket in case of accidents. Before they handcuffed him--they are a bit slower here than in Paris or London--he swallowed one of them, and died as they took him downstairs. Poor old man! He was a terrible fanatic, but he was more honest than most of them. I don't suppose there will be much mourning in Fitzjohn's Avenue. I expect his family will be glad to have got rid of him." He kissed her very tenderly, as he bade her good-bye. "A new life, little woman, from to-day?" "A new life from to-day," she repeated softly, "as long as I am sure that you really care." "I do care," replied Moreno, speaking with unusual fervour for a man of his cautious temperament. Of the London section of the brotherhood little remains to be told. Shortly afterwards Lucue was stabbed to death in a violent quarrel with a brother anarchist. Jaques and Maceda, alarmed at the fate of their Spanish colleagues, took but a perfunctory part in further propaganda. In twelve months' time the London section had ceased to exist as an active force. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ On a mellow October day, a few months after those thrilling events in Madrid, Isobel was married in the quiet little church on her uncle's estates. It was in this church that her father had been christened. Her bridesmaids were Lady Mary and two cousins. Her uncle, the head of the family, gave her away. For the Head of the Family and his wife had behaved quite properly on the occasion. They had insisted that she should be married from their house, that she should have the whole-hearted support of her kindred. Such an arrangement suited her very well. Her bereavement had been so recent that the idea of a fashionable wedding would have been repugnant to her. Here in this quiet little church, where generations of Clandons had been christened, many of them married, she gave herself to the man of her choice. With the advent of his great-aunt's considerable fortune, Guy's brief fit of ambition died out. And it must be admitted that, although he had stuck gallantly to his post, and refused to show the white feather, his experience of diplomatic life had been more exciting than pleasant. So he severed his connection with the Foreign Office, having made up his mind to lead the easy and agreeable life of a man of wealth and position. They were to spend their honeymoon in Italy. On their return, they would renovate Aunt Henrietta's charming country residence in Hampshire and take a house in London, where they intended to spend a good deal of their time. For Guy was very proud of his beautiful Isobel, and he could see a time when she would become a very charming and popular hostess. The young couple drove away amidst the cordial greetings of the small company assembled. Only a few intimate connections of the two families were present. Moreno had been invited, but he had excused himself on some plausible pretext. He had no desire to thrust himself into an aristocratic _milieu_, to which he was unaccustomed. He sent the bride a very handsome present, with a card on which was written: "From Andres Moreno, as a souvenir of thrilling times in Spain." While Lord Saxham was saying good-bye to the Clandons, Maurice Farquhar conducted Lady Mary to the car which was to drive them back to Ticehurst Park, a distance of about fifty miles. "You will not forget that you are due to us on the twenty-fifth," she reminded him as they shook hands. "Is it likely? I have been looking forward to it ever since you sent me the invitation." "I am looking forward to it, too," said Mary softly, and a rather becoming colour swept over her cheek, making her look quite attractive. The Earl joined them and mounted the car. He waved his hand cheerfully as they drove off. "Not good-bye, but _au revoir_, Farquhar. See you on the twenty-fifth." He watched the car drive out of sight, thinking of many things. He had loved Isobel with all the fervour of first love, but Isobel was gone from him. And Mary was very sweet and attractive, and took no pains to conceal that she took great pleasure in his society. Well--perhaps some day! But even in his secret thought the young and ambitious barrister could hardly bring himself to believe that a girl of Mary's birth and long descent would give herself to a man who had only his brains to recommend him. Still, this younger generation of the Rossetts had a strange democratic strain in them. Guy had chosen his bride from the small squirearchy. It was openly rumoured in the clubs that, having come into a snug little income from great-aunt Henrietta, Lord Ticehurst had made up his mind to marry his chorus-girl, and defy his father. Lady Mary had also been well provided for from the same kind source. She might prove as democratic as the others. And, while Farquhar was ruminating over all these things, Isobel and her husband had set out on the first stage of their journey to the enchanted land of wedded romance. The End. 
38411	----	FROTH =Heinemann's International Library.= =Edited by EDMUND GOSSE.= _Crown 8vo_, _in paper covers_, 2_s._ 6_d._, _or cloth limp_, 3_s._ 6_d._ _IN GOD'S WAY._ By BJÖRNSTJERNE BJÖRNSON. Translated from the Norwegian by Elizabeth Carmichael. _PIERRE AND JEAN._ By GUY DE MAUPASSANT. Translated from the French by Clara Bell. _THE CHIEF JUSTICE._ By KARL EMIL FRANZOS. Translated from the German by Miles Corbet. _WORK WHILE YE HAVE THE LIGHT._ By COUNT LVOF TOLSTOÏ. Translated from the Russian by E. J. Dillon, Ph.D. _FANTASY._ By MATILDE SERAO. Translated from the Italian by Henry Harland and Paul Sylvester. _FROTH._ By ARMANDO PALACIO VALDÉS. Translated from the Spanish by Clara Bell. _THE COMMODORE'S DAUGHTERS._ By JONAS LIE. Translated from the Norwegian by H. L. Brækstad and Gertrude Hughes. Other Volumes will be announced later. Each Volume contains a specially written Introduction by the Editor. London: WILLIAM HEINEMANN, 21 BEDFORD ST., W.C. FROTH A NOVEL BY ARMANDO PALACIO VALDÉS TRANSLATED FROM THE SPANISH BY CLARA BELL LONDON WILLIAM HEINEMANN 1891 (_All rights reserved_) INTRODUCTION. According to the Spanish critics, the novel has flourished in Spain during only two epochs--the golden age of Cervantes and the period in which we are still living. That unbroken line of romance-writing which has existed for so long a time in France and in England, is not to be looked for in the Peninsula. The novel in Spain is a re-creation of our own days; but it has made, since the middle of the nineteenth century, two or three fresh starts. The first modern Spanish novelists were what are called the _walter-scottistas_, although they were inspired as much by George Sand as by the author of _Waverley_. These writers were of a romantic order, and Fernan Caballero, whose earliest novel dates from 1849, was at their head. The Revolution of September, 1868, marked an advance in Spanish fiction, and Valera came forward as the leader of a more national and more healthily vitalised species of imaginative work. The pure and exquisite style of Valera is, doubtless, only to be appreciated by a Castilian. Something of its charm may be divined, however, even in the English translation of his masterpiece, _Pepita Jimenez_. The mystical and aristocratic genius of Valera appealed to a small audience; he has confided to the world that when all were praising but few were buying his books. Far greater fecundity and a more directly successful appeal to the public, were, somewhat later, the characteristics of Perez y Galdos, whose vigorous novels, spoiled a little for a foreign reader by their didactic diffuseness, are well-known in this country. In the hands of Galdos, a further step was taken by Spanish fiction towards the rejection of romantic optimism and the adoption of a modified realism. In Pereda, so the Spanish critics tell us, a still more valiant champion of naturalism was found, whose studies of local manners in the province of Santander recall to mind the paintings of Teniers. About 1875 was the date when the struggle commenced in good earnest between the schools of romanticism and realism. In 1881 Galdos definitely joined the ranks of the realists with his _La Desheredada_. An eminent Spanish writer, Emilio Pardo Bazan, thus described the position some six years ago: "It is true that the battle is not a noisy one, and excites no great warlike ardour. The question is not taken up amongst us with the same heat as in France, and this from several causes. In the first place, the idealists with us do not walk in the clouds so much as they do in France, nor do the realists load their palette so heavily. Neither school exaggerates in order to distinguish itself from the other. Perhaps our public is indifferent to literature, especially to printed literature, for what is represented on the stage produces more impression." This indifference of the Spanish reading public, which has led a living novelist to declare that a person of good position in Madrid would rather spend his money on fireworks or on oranges than on a book, has at length been in a measure dissipated by a writer who is not merely admired and distinguished, but positively popular, and who, without sacrificing style, has conquered the unwilling Spanish public. This is Armando Palacio Valdés, who was born on the 4th of October, 1853, in a hamlet of Asturias, called Entralgo, where his family had at one time a mansion which has now disappeared. The family spent only the summer there; the remainder of the year they passed in Avilés, the maritime town which Valdés describes under the name of Nieva in his novel _Marta y Maria_. From Asturias he went, when still a youth, up to Madrid to study the law as a profession. But even in the lawyer's office, his dream was to become a man of letters. His ambition took the form of obtaining at some university a chair of political economy, to which science he had, or fancied himself to have, at that time, a great proclivity. Before terminating his legal studies, the young man published several articles in the _Revista Europea_ on philosophical and religious questions. These articles attracted the attention of the proprietor of that review, and Valdés presently joined the staff. Next year he became editor. He was at the head of the _Revista Europea_, at that time the most important periodical in Spain from a scientific point of view, for several years. During that time he published the main part of those articles of literary criticism, particularly on contemporary poets and novelists, which have since been collected in several volumes--_Los Oradores del Ateneo_ ("The Orators of the Athenæum"); _Los Novelistas Españoles_ ("The Spanish Novelists"); _Un Nuevo Viaje al Parnaso_ ("A New Journey to Parnassus"), sketches of the living poets of Spain; and, in particular, a very bright collection of review articles, published in conjunction with Leopoldo Alas, _La Literatura_ en 1881 ("Spanish Literature in 1881"). These gave Valdés a foremost rank among the critics of the day. He wrote no more criticism, or very little; he determined to place himself amongst those whose creative work demands the careful consideration of the best judges. Soon after he took the direction of the _Revista_, Valdés wrote his first novel, _El Señorito Octavio_, which was not published until 1881. In 1883 he brought out his _Marta y Maria_, a book which, I know not why, is called "The Marquis of Peñalta" in its English version. This novel enjoyed an extraordinary success, and had more of the graphic and sprightly manner by which Valdés has since been distinguished, than the books which immediately followed it. Spanish critics, indeed, remembering the wonderful freshness of _Marta y Maria_, still often speak of it as the best of Valdés' stories. In this same year, 1883, he married, on the day when he completed his thirty years, a young lady of sixteen. His marriage was a honeymoon of a year and a half, of which _El Idílio de un Enfermo_ ("The Idyl of an Invalid"), a short novel of 1884, portrays the earlier portion. His wife died early in 1885, leaving him with an infant son to be, as he says, "my illusion and my fascination." His subsequent career has been laborious and systematic. He has published one novel every year. In 1885 it was _José_, a shorter tale of sea-faring life on the stormy coast of the author's native province. About the same time appeared a collection of short stories, called _Aguas Fuertes_ ("Strong Waters"). It was not until 1886, however, that Valdés began to rank among the foremost novelists of Europe. In that year he published his great story, _Riverita,_ one of the characters in which, a charming child, became the heroine of his next book, _Maximina,_ 1887. Of this character he writes to me: "My Maximina in these two books is but a pale reflection of that being from whom Providence parted me before she was eighteen years of age. In these novels I have painted a great part of my life." A Sevillian novice, who has helped to care for Maximina in Madrid, reigns supreme in a succeeding novel, _La Hermana San Sulpício_ ("Sister San Sulpicio"), 1889. But between these two last there comes a massive novel, describing the adventures of a journalist who founds a newspaper in the provincial town of Sarrió, by which Santander seems to be intended. This book is called _El Cuarto Poder_ ("The Fourth Power"), and was published in 1888. To these must now be added _La Espuma_ ("Froth"), of which a translation is here given. When these words are published, the original will just have appeared in Madrid. It is by the kindness of the author, in supplying us with a set of proof-sheets, that I am able to speak of a book which even the critics of Madrid have not yet seen in Spanish. In _La Espuma_ Valdés has reverted from those country scenes and those streets of provincial cities which he has hitherto loved best to paint, and has given us a sternly satiric picture of the frothy surface of fashionable life in Madrid. From the illusions of the poor, pathetic and often beautiful, he has turned to the ugly cynicism of the wealthy. With his passion for honesty and simplicity, his heart burns within him at the parade and hollowness which he detects in aristocratic and bureaucratic Madrid. One conceives that, like his own Raimundo, he has been invited to enter it, has taken his fill of its pleasures, and has found his mouth filled with ashes. His talent for portraiture was never better employed. If he is occasionally tempted to commit the peculiarly Spanish fault of exaggeration--scarcely a fault there, where the shadows are so black and the colours so flaring--he has resisted it in his more important characters. The brutality of the Duke de Requena, the sagacity and urbanity of Father Ortega, the saintly sweetness of the Duchess, the naïveté of Raimundo, the sphinx-like charm of Clementina de Osorio, with her mysterious sweetness and duplicity, these are among the salient points of characterisation which stand out in this powerful book. _La Espuma_ is a cry from the desert to those who wear soft raiment in kings' palaces. It is the ruthless tearing aside of the conventions by a Knox or a Savonarola. It is stringent satire, yet tempered with an artist's moderation, with a naturalist's self-suppression. Those exquisite descriptions of Nature in which Valdés sparingly illuminates the pages of his country-novels, must not be looked for here. There is nothing in _La Espuma_ like the splendid approach to Seville in _La Hermana San Sulpício_, or the noble picture of the Asturian sea-board, ravaged by the ocean, in _José_. The desolation of the mining district, at the close of the book, is all that we can compare with these. But one descriptive gift of Valdés, his power of rendering with sustained vivacity a varied social scene, was never better exemplified than by the dinner-party at the Osorios', by Salabert's ball to Royalty, in which Clementina ejects the _demi-mondaine_, or by the scene in Pepe's dressing-room when the mad Marquis wants to shoot him. The absence of sensational emphasis of every kind is notable. This is the result of severe self-training on the novelist's part. He has confessed himself displeased with the end of his own _Riverita_ as too theatrical, and in the prologue to _La Hermana San Sulpício_, he wears a white sheet, and holds a penitential candle for a too stagey episode in _El Cuarto Poder_. No charge of this kind can be brought against _La Espuma_. It is closely studied from life, and is careful not to affront the modesty of nature, which loves an occasional tragic catastrophe, but loathes the artifice of a smartly constructed plot. Of the author of so many interesting books but little has yet been told to the public. In a private letter to myself, the eminent novelist gives a brief sketch of his mode of life, so interesting that I have secured his permission to translate and print it here:--"Since my wife died," Señor Valdés writes, "my life has continued to be tranquil and melancholy, dedicated to work and to my son. During the winters, I live in Asturias, and during the summers, in Madrid. I like the company of men of the world better than that of literary folks, because the former teach me more. I am given up to the study of metaphysics. I have a passion for physical exercises, for gymnastics, for fencing, and I try to live in an evenly-balanced temper, nothing being so repugnant to me as affectation and emphasis. I find a good deal of pleasure in going to bull-fights (although I do not take my son to the Plaza dressed up like a miniature _torero_, as an American writer declares I do), and I cultivate the theatre, because to see life from the stage point of view helps me in the composition of my stories." EDMUND GOSSE. FROTH CHAPTER I. DRAMATIS PERSONÆ At three in the afternoon the sun was pouring its rays on the Calle de Serrano, bathing it in bright orange light which hurt the eyes of those who went down the left-hand side where the houses stood closest. But as the cold was intense the pedestrian was not eager to cross to the other pavement in search of shade, preferring to face the sunbeams which, though blinding, were at any rate warming. At this hour, tripping slowly and daintily along, her muff of handsome otter-skin held up to shade her eyes, an elegantly dressed woman was making her way down the street, leaving behind her a wake of perfume which the shopmen standing at their doors sniffed up with enjoyment, as they gazed in rapture at the being who exhaled such a delightful fragrance. For the Calle de Serrano, albeit the widest and handsomest in Madrid, has an essentially provincial stamp; little traffic, shops devoid of display, and dedicated for the most part to the sale of the necessaries of life, children playing in front of the houses, door-keepers seated in committee and discussing matters at the top of their voices with the unemployed butchers' boys, fishmongers, and grocers. Hence a well-dressed woman could not pass unremarked, as she might in the more central parts of the town. The glances of the passers-by, as well as of the loungers, rested on her with pleasure; the women commented on the quality of the clothes she wore, and horrible jests were uttered by the dreadful apprentices, provoking their companions to outbursts of brutal glee. One of the most ruffianly and greasy looking threw out as she passed one of those coarse remarks which would bring the colour to the smooth cheek of an English Miss, and make her call the policeman, and almost exact an apology. But our valiant Spanish lady, her soul above prudery, did not even wince, but went on her triumphant way with the dainty and hesitating step of a woman who rarely sets foot in the dust of the highway. For that hers was a triumphant progress there could be no doubt; no one could look at her without admiration, not so much of her luxurious attire, as of the severe beauty of her face and the distinction of her figure. She was five-and-thirty at least. There was something extremely original in the type of her features. Her complexion was clear and dark, her eyes, blue, her hair coppery red. Such a strange mingling of different races is rarely seen in a face: if it showed a stronger dash of one than another, it was of the Italian. It was one of those faces which suggest an English lady burnt under a Neapolitan sun. In some of Raphael's pictures we see heads which may give some notion of our fair pedestrian. Her predominant expression at the present moment was one of proud disdain, to which perhaps the sun contributed by making her knit her smooth and delicate brows. There was not, it must be confessed, any sweetness in this face; its firm and regular lines betrayed a haughty spirit devoid of tenderness; those blue eyes had not the limpid serenity which lends perfect harmony to a certain virginal style of countenance, occasionally seen and admired in Spain, but more frequently in the north of Europe. They were made to express the tumult of vehement and violent passions, among which ardent love might, perhaps, have its turn, but never that humble and silent devotion which would consent to die unspoken. She wore a high red hat, and a short thin veil, also red, reaching only to her lips. The hue of this veil contributed to lend her face that singular tinge which caught the eye of every one who met her. Her wrapper was a handsome fur cloak, over a dress of the same shade as her hat, with an overskirt of lace or grenadine such as was then the fashion. She held up her muff, as has been said, to shade her eyes, and kept her eyes fixed on the ground as one who does not care to see or heed anything which may come in her way. Consequently, till she came to the Calle de Jorge Juan, she did not detect the presence of a young man, who, keeping pace with her on the opposite side of the way, gazed at her with even more admiration than curiosity. But on reaching the corner, without knowing why, she raised her head, and her eyes met those of her admirer. A very perceptible shade of annoyance clouded her face; she frowned with greater severity, and the haughty expression of her eyes was more marked than before. She walked a little faster, and, on reaching the Calle de Villanueva, she stood still, and looked down the street, hoping, no doubt, to see a tramcar. The youth dared not do the same; he went on his way, not without sending certain eager and significant glances after the graceful figure, to which she vouchsafed no notice. The car at last arrived; the lady stepped in, showing, as she did so, a pretty foot shod in a kid boot, and took her seat in the farthest corner. Finding herself safe from indiscreet observation, her eyes by degrees grew more serene, and rested with indifference on the few persons who were with her in the vehicle; still the cloud of anxious thought did not altogether disappear from her face, nor the touch of disdain which lent dignity to her beauty. Her youthful admirer had not resigned himself to losing sight of her. He went on confidently down the Calle de Villanueva; but as the tramcar went by he nimbly caught it up, and got on the step without being observed. And contriving to place himself where the lady could not see him, behind other persons standing on the platform, he was able to gaze at her by stealth, with an enthusiasm which would have made any looker-on smile. For the difference between their ages was considerable. Our young friend looked about eighteen; his face was as beardless, as fresh and as rosy as a girl's, his hair red, his eyes blue, gentle, and melancholy. Though he wore an overcoat and a felt hat, his appearance was that of a gentleman; he was in the deepest mourning, which contrasted strongly with the fairness of his complexion. Under the magnetic influence of a firm gaze, which we all have experienced, our heroine ere long turned her eyes to the spot whence the young man fired darts of passionate admiration. Her face grew dark again, and her lips twitched with impatience, as though the poor boy's adoration was an aggression. And she began to show signs of feeling ill at ease in the coach, turning her pretty head now this way and now that, with an evident desire to escape. However, she did not alight till they reached the church of San José, where she stopped the car and got out, passing her persecutor with a look of proud disdain, which might have annihilated him. He must have been a very bold man, or quite devoid of shame, to jump out after her as he did, and follow her along the Calle del Caballero de Gracia, taking the opposite side-walk to be able to stare more at his ease on the face which had so taken possession of him. The lady proceeded at a leisurely pace, and every man who passed her turned to gaze. Her step was that of a goddess who condescends to quit her throne of clouds for an hour, to rejoice and fascinate mortal men, who, as they behold her, are enraptured and stumble in their walk. "Merciful Virgin, what a woman!" exclaimed a young officer in a loud voice, clinging to his companion as if he were about to faint with surprise. The fair one could not help smiling very slightly, and the flash of that smile seemed to light up her exceptional loveliness. Presently two gentlemen in an open carriage bowed respectfully to her, and she responded with an almost imperceptible nod. When she reached the corner where the streets part by San Luis she hesitated and paused, looking in every direction, and again catching sight of the red-haired youth, she turned her back on him with marked contempt, and went on at a more rapid pace down the Calle de la Montera, where her appearance caused the same excitement in the passers-by. Three or four times she stopped in front of the shop windows, though evidently she did so less out of curiosity than in consequence of the nervous state into which the youth's unrelenting pursuit had plunged her. Near the Puerta del Sol, to avoid him no doubt, she made up her mind to go into Marbini's jewel shop. Seating herself with an air of indifference, she raised her veil a little, and began to examine without much attention the latest importations in gems which the shopman displayed before her. She could not have done worse by way of releasing herself from the observations of her boyish admirer, since he could pursue them at his leisure and with the greatest ease through the plate glass windows, and did so with a persistency which enraged her more and more every minute. In point of fact, the elegantly decorated shop, glittering in every corner with precious stones and metals, was a worthy shrine for her beauty, the setting best fitted for so delicate a gem. And so the youth was thinking, to judge from the impassioned ecstasy of his eyes and the statue-like fixity of his attitude. At last, unable any longer to control her irritation, the lady abruptly rose, and with a brief "Good morning" to the attendant, who treated her with extraordinary deference, she quitted the shop, and set off as fast as she could walk, towards the Puerta del Sol. Here she stopped; then she went a little way towards a hackney cab, as though intending to take it; but, suddenly changing her mind, she turned with a determined step towards the Calle Mayor, still escorted by the youth at no great distance. Half-way down the street she vanished into a handsome house, not without sending a hasty but furious glance at her follower, who took it with perfect and wonderful coolness. The porter who was standing in the portico, gravely clipping his bushy black whiskers, hastily pulled off his braided cap, made her a low bow, and flew to open the glass door to the staircase, pressing, as he did so, the button of an electric bell. She slowly mounted the carpeted steps, and by the time she reached the first floor the door was already open, and a servant in livery was awaiting her. The house was that of the Excellentisimo Señor Don Julian Calderón, the head of the banking firm of Calderón Brothers, who occupied the whole of the first floor, with a staircase apart from that which led to the rest of the apartments, let to other persons. This Calderón was the son of another Calderón, well known, in the commercial circles of Madrid, as a wholesale importer of hides and leather, by which he had made a good fortune, and in the later years of his life he had greatly augmented it by devoting himself, not to trade alone, but also to circulating and discounting bills of exchange. He being dead, his son Julian followed in his footsteps, without deviating from them in any particular, managing with his own property that of his two sisters--both married, one to a medical man, and the other to a landowner of La Mancha. He, too, had been married for some years to the daughter of a wealthy merchant of Zaragoza, Don Tomas Osorio by name; the father of the well-known Madrid banker, whose house in the Salamanca quarter of the town, Calle de D. Ramon de la Cruz, was kept upon a princely footing. The handsome lady who had just entered the Calderón's house was this banker's wife, and consequently the sister-in-law of Señora de Calderón. She passed in front of the servant without waiting to be announced, walking on as one who had a right there; crossed three or four large, elegantly decorated rooms, and, pulling aside with her own hand the rich velvet curtain with its embroidered fringing, entered a much smaller drawing-room where several persons were sitting. In the seat nearest to the fire reclined the mistress of the house; a woman of some forty years, stout, with regular features, and large black eyes, but devoid of sparkle; her skin was fair, her hair chestnut, and remarkably soft and fine. By her, in a low easy chair, sat another lady, a complete contrast in every respect; brunette, slight, delicate, and full of excessive vivacity, not only in her keen, bright eyes, but in her whole person. This was the Marquesa de Alcudia, of one of the first families in Spain. The three young girls, who sat in a row on straight chairs, were her daughters, all very like her in physique though they did not imitate her restlessness, but remained motionless and silent, their eyes cast down with such an affectation of modesty and composure that it was easy to see in what severe order they were kept by their lively and nervous mamma. To one of them every now and then the daughter of the house spoke in an undertone. She was a child of thirteen or fourteen, with round cheeks, small eyes, a turn-up nose, and scars in the throat which argued a delicate constitution. Her hair was plaited into a long tail tied at the end with a ribbon, as was that of the youngest Alcudia, with whom she carried on a subdued and intermittent conversation. This young lady and her sisters wore fanciful hats, all alike, while Esperanza Calderón sat with her little round head uncovered, and wore a blue morning frock much too short for a girl of her age. Facing the Señora, and lounging, like her, in an arm-chair, was General Patiño, Conde de Morillejo. He was between fifty and sixty years of age, but his eyes sparkled with all the fire of youth; his grey hair was carefully dressed, and large moustaches à la Victor Emmanuel, a pointed beard and aquiline nose, gave him a gallant and attractive appearance. He was the ideal of a veteran aristocrat. By him sat Calderón, a man of about fifty, stout, with a fat florid face, graced with short grey whiskers, his eyes round, vacant, and dull. Not far from him was an elderly woman, his mother-in-law, but quite unlike her daughter in face and figure; so thin, that she was no more than skin and bone, dark, and with deep-set, penetrating eyes, every feature stamped with intelligence and decision. Talking to her was Pinedo, the occupant of the third-floor rooms. His moustache showed no grey hairs, but it was easy to see that it was dyed; his face was that of a man verging on the sixties; a good-humoured face too, with prominent eyes full of eager movement--those of an observant character; he was dressed with care and elegance, his whole person exquisitely clean. On seeing the beautiful lady in the doorway, the whole party showed some excitement; all rose, excepting the mistress of the house, on whose placid face a faint smile of pleasure showed dimly. "Ah! Clementina! What a miracle to see you here!" The lady in question went forward with a smile, and, while she embraced the ladies and shook hands with the gentlemen, she replied to her sister-in-law's affectionate reproach. "Come, come. Fit the cap to your own head--you who never come to my house above once in six months." "I have my children to think of, my dear." "What an excuse; I ask you! I, too, have children." "Yes, at Chamartin." "Well, but having sons does not hinder you from going to the opera or out driving." Clementina seated herself between her sister-in-law and the Marquesa de Alcudia; the rest resumed their seats. "Oh, my dear!" Señora de Calderón went on, "if you could have seen what a cold I caught at the play the other night. It was all the fault of that goose Ramon Maldonado; with all his bowing and scraping he could not manage to shut the door of the box. The draught pierced my very bones." "Happy was that draught!" remarked General Patiño with a gallant smile. Every one else smiled, excepting the lady addressed, who gazed at him in amazement, opening her eyes very wide. "How--happy?" said she. The General had to explain that it was a covert compliment, and not till then did she reward him with a smile. "And was not Gayarre delightful?" said Clementina. "Admirable, as he always is," replied Señora de Calderón. "He seems to me to want style of manner," the General suggested. "Oh no, General, I beg your pardon----" And they went off into a discussion as to whether the famous tenor had or had not the actor's art, whether he dressed well or ill. The ladies were all on his side; the men were against him. From the tenor they went on to the soprano. "She is altogether charming," said the General, with the confidence and conviction of a connoisseur. "Oh! delicious," exclaimed Calderón. "Well, for my part I regard the Tosti as extremely commonplace. Do you not think so, Clementina?" Clementina agreed. "Do not say so, pray, Marquesa," the General hastened to put in, glancing as he spoke at Señora de Calderón. "The mere fact that a woman is tall and stout does not make her commonplace if she holds herself proudly and has a distinguished manner." "I do not say so, General; do not make such a mistake," replied the Marquesa, with some vehemence. But she proceeded to criticise the grace and fine figure of the soprano with much humour and some little temper. The argument became general, and the issue proved the reverse of the former discussion; the men were favourable to the actress and the ladies adverse. Pinedo summed up by saying in a grave and solemn tone, which, however, betrayed some covert meaning, "A fine figure is more essential to a woman than to a man." Clementina and the General exchanged significant glances. The Marquesa frowned sternly at the dandy, and then hastily looked at her daughters, who sat with their eyes downcast, in the same rigid and expressionless attitude as before. Pinedo himself was quite unmoved, as though he had said the most natural thing in the world. "For my part, friend Pinedo, it seems to me that a man too should have a good figure," said slow-witted Señora de Calderón. As she spoke a faint gasp was heard as of laughter hardly controlled. It was the youngest of the Alcudia girls, at whom her mother shot a pulverising look, and the damsel's face immediately resumed its original expression of timidity and propriety. "That is a matter of opinion," replied Pinedo with a respectful bow. This Pinedo, who occupied one of the apartments on the third floor of the house, the whole belonging to Señor de Calderón, held a place of some importance in one of the public offices. The changes of political administration did not affect his tenure; he had friends of every party, and had never thrown himself into the scale for either. He lived as a man of the world; was received at the most aristocratic houses in the metropolis; was on terms of intimacy with almost every one who figured in finance or politics; was an early member of the Savage Club (_Club de los Salvajes_), where he delighted in making fun every evening with the young aristocrats who assembled there, and who treated him with a familiarity which not rarely degenerated into rudeness. He was a genial and intelligent man, with considerable knowledge and experience of the world; tolerant towards every form of vanity from sheer contempt for all; and nevertheless, under the exterior of a courteous and inoffensive creature, he had in the depths of his nature a power of satire which enabled him to take vengeance quite gracefully, by some incisive and opportune phrase, for the impertinence of his young friends the juveniles of the club, who professed an affection for him mingled with contempt and fear. No one knew whence he had sprung, though it was regarded as beyond doubt that he was of humble birth. Some declared that he was the son of a butcher at Seville; others said that in his youth he had been a waif on the beach at Malaga. All that was positively known was that, many years since, he had come to Madrid as hanger-on to an Andalucian of rank, who, after dissipating his fortune, blew his brains out. Under his protection Pinedo had made a great many useful acquaintances; he came to know and be known by everybody who was anybody, and was popular with all. He had the tact to efface himself when he crossed the path of a pompous and overbearing man, letting him pass first; he gave rise to no jealousies, and this is a certain means of exciting no hostility. At the same time his cleverness, and his caustic wit, which he always kept within certain bounds, were a constant amusement at social meetings, and sufficed to give him a certain importance which he otherwise would not have enjoyed. His family consisted of one daughter aged eighteen, and named Pilar. His wife, whom no one had known, had died many years before. His salary amounted to forty thousand reals,[A] on which the father and daughter lived very thriftily in the third-floor rooms which Calderón let to them for twenty-two dollars a month. Pinedo's chief outlay was on "appearances"; that is to say, as he moved in a rank of society above his own he was obliged to dress well and frequent the theatres. Understanding the necessity for keeping up his acquaintances--the pillars on which his continuance in office rested--he indulged in such expenses without hesitation, pinching himself in other departments of domestic economy. Thus he lived in a state of stable equilibrium; his position enabled him to move in the society of the great, while they unconsciously helped to keep him in his position. No Minister could venture to dismiss a man whom he would inevitably meet at every evening party and ball in the capital. As Pinedo had occasionally had the honour of speaking with Royalty, certain sayings of his were current in fashionable drawing-rooms, where they enjoyed a fame out of all proportion to their merits, since, as a rule, there is a conspicuous lack of wit in most drawing-rooms; he was a good shot with pistol or rifle, and possessed a voluminous library on the culinary arts. The very highest personages were flattered when they heard that Pinedo had praised their cook. "How long is it since you were at the Colegio, Pacita?" asked Esperanza of the youngest de Alcudia, in an undertone. "On Friday last. Do not you know that mamma takes us to confession every Friday? And you?" "It is at least three weeks since I was there. Mamma and I confess once a month." "And is Father Ortega satisfied with that?" "He says nothing about it to me. I do not know whether he does to mamma." "He would say nothing to her; he knows better than to put his foot in it. Have you seen the Mariani girls?" "Yes; I met them in the Retiro Gardens a few days ago." "Do you know that Maria is engaged?" "She did not tell me." "Yes. In the cavalry, a son of Brigadier Arcos. Such a queer-looking fellow; not ugly, but his legs tremble when he walks, as if he had just come out of the hospital. You see, as the brigadier is her mamma's most devoted--it is all in the family." "And you? Do you keep it up with your cousin?" "I really cannot tell you. On Monday he went off in a huff and has not been to the house since. My cousin is not what he seems; he is no simpleton, but a very presuming fellow; if you give him an inch he takes an ell. If I did not keep a very sharp look out there is no knowing to what lengths he would go at the pace he makes. Do you know that the other day he insisted on kissing me?" Esperanza gazed at her, smiling and curious. Pacita put her mouth close to Esperanza's ear and whispered a few words. "Mercy!" exclaimed the girl, turning scarlet. "As I tell you, child. Of course I told him he was a horrid wretch, and I would not touch him with a pair of tongs. He went off very much nettled, but he will come back." "Your cousin rides very well. I saw him on horseback yesterday." "It is the only thing he can do. Books make him idiotic. He has been examined six times already in Roman law, and has failed to pass every time." "What does that matter!" exclaimed Esperanza, with a scorn which might have made Heinecius turn in his grave. And she went on, "Did Madame Clément make those hats?" "No. Mamma had them bought in Paris by Señora de Carvajal, who arrived on Saturday." "They are very pretty." "Yes, prettier than any Madame Clément makes." Little Esperanza de Calderón, though plain enough, was nevertheless not without attractions, consisting partly perhaps in her youth, and partly in her mouth, on which, with its full fresh lips and even white teeth, sensuality had already set its seal. The youngest of the Alcudias was a delicate creature, all bones and eyes. At this point another lady was shown in--a woman of forty or more, pretty still, though painted, and marked with lines left by a life of dissipation rather than by years. "Here is Pepa Frias," said Mariana--the Señora de Calderón--with a smile. "Quite right; here is Pepa Frias," said the lady so named, with an affectation of bad humour. "A woman who is not in the very least ashamed to set foot in this house." The company all laughed. "You would suppose by my appearance that I had come out of the workhouse? That I had no home of my own? But I have. Calle de Salesas, Number 60--first floor. That is to say, the landlord has--but I pay him, which is more than all your tenants do, I am very sure. Oh! Pinedo, I beg your pardon, I did not see you. And I am at home on Saturdays--it is not so hot as you are here, oof! And I give chocolate and tea and conversation and everything--just as you do here." And while she spoke she went from one to another shaking hands with a look of fury. But as every one knew her for an oddity they took it as a joke and laughed. She was a woman of substantial build, her hair artificially red, her eyes rather prominent, but handsome, her lips rosy and sensual--a decidedly attractive woman, in short, who had had, and, in spite of advancing years, still had, many devoted admirers. "What there is not at my house," she went on to Señora de Calderón, giving her a sounding kiss on each cheek, "is a woman so graceless and so insignificant as you. For, of course, I am not come to see you, but my dear Señor Don Julian, who now and then comes to wish me good evening, and tell me the latest prices of stocks. And _à propos_ to prices, Clementina, tell your husband to hold his hand till I give him notice. No, you had better say nothing about it. I will call at your house this evening." "But, child, how you are always loaded with papers about shares and stocks!" exclaimed Mariana. "And so would you be if you had not such an energetic husband, who heats his head over them that you may keep yours cool and easy." "Come, come, Pepa, do not be calling me names, or you will make me blush," said Calderón. "I am saying no more than the truth. You may imagine that it is pure joy to be always thinking whether shares are going up or down, and writing letters and endorsements, and walking to and from the bank." "I imagine, Pepa," said the General, with a gallant smile, "that, from all I hear, you have a perfect talent for business." "You imagine! That is an event!" "I have not so much imagination as you, but I have some," retorted the General, somewhat put out by the laugh Pepa's speech had raised. Pepa enjoyed the reputation in society of being a very funny person, though, in fact, her wit was hardly to be distinguished from audacity. Speaking always with an affectation of anger, calling things bluntly by their names, however coarse they might be, saying the most insolent things without respect of persons--these were the characteristics which had won her a certain popularity. She had been left a widow while still young, with two children, a boy who had entered the navy and was at sea, and a girl who had now been married about a year. Her husband had been a merchant, and in his later years had gambled successfully on the Bourse. At that time Pepa had caught the same passion, and, as a widow, she had cultivated it. Prudence, or more probably the timidity which generally hampers a woman in such a business, had hitherto saved her from the ruin which, as a rule, inevitably overtakes gamblers. She had somewhat impaired her fortune, but still enjoyed a very enviable competency. "Pepa, the matter is going on famously," said Pinedo. "Zaragoza wishes to have one volcano, and at Coruña the authorities have decided on making two, one on the east and one on the west of the town." "I am glad; I am delighted. So that the shares will not be put on the market?" "No; the syndicate has ample security that they will be at three hundred before the month is out." The few who were in the joke laughed at this. The rest stared at them with intense curiosity. "What is all this about volcanoes, Pepa?" asked Señora de Calderón. "Señora, a society has been formed for establishing volcanoes in various districts." "Indeed. And of what use are volcanoes?" "For warming, and as decorative objects." Every one understood the joke excepting the lymphatic mistress of the house, who still inquired into the details of the affair with continued interest, her friends laughing till Calderón, half amused and half annoyed, exclaimed: "Why, my dear, do not be so simple. Do you not see that it is a joke between Pepa and Pinedo?" The couple protested, affecting the greatest gravity. But Pepa whispered in her friend's ear: "Mariana is such a simpleton that for the last three months that carpet-knight, the General, has been making love to her and she has never found it out." Pepa was not far wrong in styling General Patiño a carpet-knight. In spite of his swagger, his somewhat damaged features and his martial airs, Patiño was but a sham veteran. He had got his promotion without losing a drop of blood--first as military instructor to one of the princes, then as member of various scientific committees, and finally as holding a place under the Minister of War; cultivating the favour of political personages; returned as deputy several times; senator at last and a member of the Supreme Court of Naval and Military Jurisdiction, he had never been on the field of battle excepting in pursuit of a revolutionary general, and then with the firm determination never to come up with him. As he had travelled a little and boasted of having seen every implement in the arts of war, he passed for an accomplished soldier. He subscribed to two or three scientific reviews; when his profession was under discussion he would quote a few German authorities, and he spoke in an emphatic tone and a deep chest voice which impressed his audience. But in fact the reviews were always left to lie open on his table, and the German names, though correctly pronounced, were no more than empty sounds to him. He piqued himself on being a soldier of the modern school, and for this reason he was never seen in his uniform. He was fond of the arts, especially of music, and was a regular subscriber to the Opera House and the Conservatorium Quartetts. He was fond of flowers, too, and of women--more especially of his neighbour's wife; insatiable in tasting the fruits of other men's gardens. His life glided on in simple contentment, in watering the gardenias in his little garden--Calle de Ferraz--and making love to his friends' wives. This he did as one who makes it his business, and in the most business-like way. He devoted all his mind to it, and all the powers of his considerable intelligence, as a man must who means to achieve anything great or profitable in this world. His strategical knowledge, which he had never had occasion to display in the battle-field, served him a good turn in storming the fair ones of the metropolis. First he established a blockade with languishing glances, appearing at the theatre, in the parks, in the churches frequented by the lady; where-ever she went Patiño's shining new hat, gleaming in the air, proclaimed the ardent and respectful passion of its owner. Then he narrowed the _cordon_, making himself intimate in the house, bringing bonbons to the children, buying them toys and picture-books, taking them out to breakfast occasionally and bribing the servants by opportune gifts. Then came the attack; by letter or by word of mouth. And here our General displayed a daring, an intrepidity, which contrasted splendidly with the prudence and skill of the siege. Such a combination of talents have always characterised the great captains of the world: Alexander, Cæsar, Hernan Cortés, Napoleon. Years did not avail to cool his ardour for great enterprises, nor to diminish his extraordinary faculties; or, to be accurate, what he lost in energy he gained in art; thus the balance was preserved in this privileged nature. But since fortune--as many philosophers have taught us--refuses her aid to the old, in spite of his skill the General had of late experienced certain repulses which he could not ascribe to any defect of foresight or courage, but only to the vagaries of fate. Two young wives in succession had snubbed him severely. But, as is always the case with men of real genius, in whom reverses do not produce any womanly weakness, but, on the contrary, only prompt them to concentrate and brace their spirit and power, Patiño did not weep like Augustus over his legions. But he meditated, and meditated long. And his meditations were rich in results; a new scheme of tactics, wonderful as all his schemes were, rose up from the labour of his lofty thoughts. Taking stock very accurately of his means of attack, and calculating with admirable precision the amount of resistance which the fair foe could offer, he perceived that he could no longer besiege new citadels, where the fortifications were always comparatively recent, but only those which, being ancient, were beginning to show weak spots. Such keen penetration in planning the attack and such skill in execution as the General could bring to bear, promised him certain victory. And in fact, as a result of this new and sure plan of action, first one and then another of the most seasoned and mature beauties of the capital surrendered to his siege, and at the feet of these silver-haired Venuses he won the reward due to his prudence and courage. Like Hannibal of Carthage Patiño could vary his tactics as circumstances required, according to the position and temperament of the enemy. Certain strongholds demanded severity, a display of the means of coercion; in other cases craftier measures were needed, a stealthy and noiseless approach. One fair enemy preferred the martial and manly aspect of the conquering hero: she would listen with delight to the history of the famous days of Garrovillas and Jarandilla, when he was in pursuit of the rebels. Another took pleasure in hearing him discourse in his highest style of oratory and richest chest notes on political and military problems. A third, again, went into ecstasies over his interpretation of some famous melody of Mozart's or Schumann's, on the violoncello. For our hero played the 'cello remarkably well, and it must be confessed that this elegant instrument had helped him considerably in his most successful achievements. He brought out the notes in a quite irresistible manner, revealing very clearly that, in spite of his dashing and bellicose temperament, he had an impressionable heart, alive to the blandishments of love. And lest the long-drawn notes should not express this with absolute clearness, they were corroborated by eyes upturned till they disappeared in their sockets at each impassioned or pathetic point of the melody--eyes which really could not fail of their effect on any beauty, however stony-hearted. Pepa's malicious insinuation was not unfounded. The gallant general had for some time past been turning his guns on Señora de Calderón without her showing any signs of being aware of it. Never in the course of his many and brilliant campaigns had he met with a similar case. To bombard a citadel for several months, to pelt it with shell as big as your head--and to see it as undisturbed, as sound asleep, as though they had been pellets of paper! When the General came out, point-blank, with some perfervid address Mariana smiled complacently. "Hush, wretch! A nice specimen you must have been in your day!" Patiño would bite his lips with annoyance. In his day! He who fancied his day was still at its noon! But his amazing diplomatic talent enabled him to dissimulate, and smile in bland reply. "How much did you give for that bracelet?" Pacita inquired of Esperanza, who was wearing a very pretty and fanciful trinket. "The General gave it me a few days ago." "Indeed! The General evidently makes you a great many presents then?" said her friend, with a slightly ironical tone which the girl did not understand. "Oh, yes. He is very kind. He is always giving us things. He gave my little sister a beautiful locket to wear at her neck." "And does he make presents to your mamma?" "Yes, sometimes." "And what does your papa say?" "Papa!" exclaimed Esperanza, opening her eyes in surprise, "What should he say?" Pacita, without replying, called the attention of one of her sisters. "Mercedes, look what a pretty bracelet the General has given to Esperanza." The second of the Alcudias abandoned her rigidity for a moment, and taking Esperanza's arm examined the bracelet with interest. "It is very pretty. And the General gave you that?" she asked, exchanging a meaning glance with her sister. "Here comes Ramoncito," said Esperanza, looking towards the door. "Ah! Ramoncito Maldonado." A tall young man, slight and thin, very pale, with black whiskers which encroached on his nose, in the style adopted by his Majesty the King, and, following his example, by many of the youthful aristocracy, came into the room with a smile and proceeded to greet the company without any sign of shyness, taking their hands with a slight shake, and pressing them to his breast in the affected style which, a few years since, was the correct thing among the coxcombs of Madrid society. As he came in he filled the room with some penetrating scent. "Heavens, what a poisonous atmosphere!" Pepa exclaimed in an undertone, after shaking hands with him. "What a puppy that fellow is!" "Hallo! Old boy!" exclaimed this youngster, coolly taking Pinedo by the beard. "What were you doing yesterday? Pepe Castro called on you----" "Pepe Castro called on me! So much honour overwhelms me!" Such familiarity on Maldonado's part to a man already of mature age and venerable appearance was somewhat startling. But all the gilded youth of the Savage Club treated Pinedo in the same way without his taking offence at it. "And here is Mariana," Pinedo went on, "who has just been abusing you; and with reason." "Indeed." "Do not believe him, Ramoncito," exclaimed Señora de Calderón, much surprised. "Oh, and Pepa too." "You, Pepa?" asked the youth, trying to appear indifferent, but in fact somewhat uneasy; for Pepa de Frias was very generally feared, and not without cause. "I? Oh yes, and I will have it out with you. What do you mean by soaking yourself with scent? Do you hope to subdue us all through our olfactory organs?" "I only wish I could subdue you through any organ, Pepa." The retort was generally acceptable. There was a spontaneous burst of laughter, led by Pacita. Her mother bit her lip with rage and whispered to the daughter next her to tell the second, to communicate to the youngest that she was a shameless minx, and that she would hear more of it when she got home. "Well said, boy! Shake hands on it!" exclaimed Pepa, holding out her hand to Ramoncito. "That is the first sensible speech I ever heard you make. Generally you only talk nonsense." "Thank you very much." "There is nothing to thank me for." "We have just read the question you put in the Assembly, Ramoncito," said Señora de Calderón, trying by amiability to discredit Pinedo's accusation. "Pshaw! Half a dozen words!" "Every one must make a beginning, young man," said Calderón, with a patronising air. "No, no. That is not the way to begin," said Pinedo, gravely, "You begin by dissentient murmurs; next come interruptions"--"That is inaccurate; prove it, prove it; you are misinformed"--"Then you go on to appeals and questions. Next comes the explaining of your own vote, or the defence of some incidental motion. Finally a speech on some great financial question. So you see Ramon is at the third stage, that of appeals and questions." "Thanks, Pinedito, thanks!" replied the young man, somewhat piqued. "Then, having reached that stage, I appeal to you not to be so devilish clever." "I declare! That too is not so bad," exclaimed Señora de Frias in a tone of surprise. "Why Ramoncito, you are sparkling with wit!" The youthful deputy found himself a seat between the daughter of the house and Pacita de Alcudia who parted reluctantly to make room for his chair. Maldonado, a man of good family, not altogether devoid of fortune, and recently elected member of the Chamber, had for some time been paying his addresses to Esperanza de Calderón. It was in the opinion of their friends a very suitable match. Esperanza would be richer than Ramoncito, since Don Julian's business was soundly established on an extensive scale; still, the young man, who was by no means a beggar, had begun his political career with credit. The young girl's parents neither opposed nor encouraged his advances--Calderón, with the dignity and superiority which money gives, hardly troubled himself as to who might profess an attachment to his daughter, satisfied with the certainty that when the time came for marrying her she would have no lack of suitors. Indeed, five or six young fellows of the most elegant and superfine society in Madrid buzzed in the parks, at evening parties, and at the theatre, round the wealthy heiress, like drones round a beehive. Ramon had many rivals, some of them men of position. But this did not trouble him so greatly as that the damsel, by nature so subdued, and usually so silent and shy, with him was saucy and at her ease, allowing herself sundry more or less harmless little jests, and blunt answers, and grimaces, which amply proved that she did not take him seriously. And for this reason, Pepe Castro, his friend and confidant, constantly told him that he should make himself more scarce, that he should seem less eager and less anxious, that a woman was the better for being treated with a little contempt. Now Pepe Castro was not merely his friend and confidant, but his model for every action of social or private life. The verdicts he pronounced on persons, horses, politics--of which however he rarely spoke at all--shirts and walking-sticks were to the young deputy incontrovertible axioms. He copied his dress, his walk, his laugh. If Castro appeared on a Spanish mare, Ramon sold his English cob to buy such another as his friend's; if he took to a military salute, raising his hand to the side of his head, in a few days Ramon saluted like a recruit; if he set up a flirtation with a shop-girl, it was not long before our youth was haunting the low quarters of the city, in search of her fellow. Pepe Castro combed all his hair forward to hide a patch that was prematurely bald; Ramon, who had a fine head of hair, also combed his hair forward; nay, he would very willingly have imitated the baldness to appear more _chic_. However, in spite of all this devout imitation of his model, he could not obey him in the matter of his incipient passion. And for this reason: strange as it may seem, Ramoncito was beginning really to care for the girl. Love is but rarely a single-minded impulse; various other passions often contribute to suggest it and vivify it: vanity, avarice, sensuality, and ambition. Still it is hardly to be distinguished from the real thing; it inspires the same watchful care, and causes the same doubts and torments; the touch-stone lies in unselfishness and constancy. Else it is very easy to mistake them. Ramon believed himself to be sincerely in love with Esperanza, and perhaps he was justified, for he admired her and thought of her night and day, he sought every opportunity of pleasing her, and hated his rivals mortally. However he might try to follow the advice of the infallible Pepe and to conceal his devotion, or at any rate the ardour of his feelings, he could not succeed. He had begun to court her out of self-interest with all the unconcern of a man whose heart is free, and the young lady's disdainful indifference had quickly brought him to thinking of her constantly, and feeling himself confused and fascinated in her presence. Then the rivalry of other suitors had fired his blood and his desire to win her hand as soon as possible. And in deference to the truth it must be said that he had _almost_ forgotten Calderón's thousands, and was _almost_ disinterested in his attachment. "So you really made a speech in the Chamber, Ramon?" asked Pacita. "And what did you say?" "Nothing! Half a dozen words about the service of the bridges," replied the young man, with an air of affected modesty. "Can ladies go to the Chamber?" "Why not?" "Because I should so much like to hear a debate one day. And Esperanza, too, I am sure." "No, no. Not I," Esperanza hastily put in. "Nonsense, child; do not make any pretence. Do not you want to hear your lover speak?" Esperanza turned as red as a poppy and burst out: "I have no lover, and do not wish for one." Ramon, too, coloured scarlet. "Paz, what horrible things you say," Esperanza went on, in indignant confusion. "If you say any such thing again I will go away and leave you." "I beg your pardon, my dear," said the malicious little thing, enchanted at having put her friend and the deputy to such confusion. "I quite thought--so many people say--Well, if it is not Ramon it is Federico." Maldonado frowned. "Neither Federico nor any one else. Leave me in peace. Look, here comes Father Ortega. Get up!" CHAPTER II. MORE OF THE ACTORS. A tall priest, still young, with a full, pale face, blue eyes, and the vague gaze of short sight, was standing in the doorway. Every one rose. The Marquesa was the first to come forward and kiss his hand. After her, her daughters did the same, and then Mariana and the other ladies. "Good-evening, Father." "Delighted to see you, Father." "Sit here, Father." "No, no, not there; come near the fire, Father." The men shook hands with him affectionately and respectfully. The priest's voice, as he returned their greetings, was sweet and very low, as though there were a sick person in the adjoining room; his smile was grave, patronising, and insinuating. He had an air of having been dragged from his cell and his books with extreme difficulty--of coming hither much against his will, simply to do some good to the Calderóns, whose spiritual director he was, by the mere contact of his learned and virtuous person. His clothes and robe were fine and well cut; his shoes of patent leather with silver buckles; his stockings of silk. Every one complimented him enthusiastically on a sermon he had delivered the day before at the Oratory Del Caballero de Gracia. He merely smiled, and murmured sweetly: "I am only glad, ladies, if you derived any benefit from it." Padre Ortega was no common priest--at any rate, in the opinion of the fashionable society of the metropolis, among whom he had a large following. Without being a meddler, he was a constant guest in the houses of persons of distinction. He did not love to make a noise, or attract the attention of the company to himself; he neither made jokes nor allowed joking; he had none of the frank, gossiping temper which is commonly found in those priests who are addicted to social intercourse. If he had any love of intrigue it must have been of a different type to that usually seen in the world. Discreet and affable, modest, grave, and silent in society, effacing himself completely and mingling with the crowd, he stood out in full relief when he mounted the pulpit, as he very frequently did. Then he expressed himself with amazing ease and fluency; he did not move his audience to emotion, and never attempted it, but he displayed very remarkable talents, and a distinction rare among his order. For he was one of those very few ecclesiastics who are--or who at any rate seem to be--up to the mark of modern science. Instead of the moral platitudes, the empty and absurd declamation, which are hurled by his brethren against science and logic, his sermons boldly rose to the level of the literature of the day; he invariably ended by proving directly or indirectly that there is no essential incompatibility between the advance of science and the dogmas of the Church. He would discourse of evolution, of transmutation, of the struggle for existence; would quote Hegel sometimes, allude to the Malthusian theory of population, to the antagonism of Labour and Capital; and from each in turn would deduce something in support of Catholic doctrine; to meet new modes of attack new weapons must be employed. He even confessed himself an advocate, in principle, of Darwin's theories--a fact which surprised and alarmed some of his more timid friends and penitents, although at the same time it enhanced their respect and admiration. When he addressed himself to women only, he avoided all erudition which might bore them, adopted a worldly tone, spoke of their little parties and balls, their dress and their fashions like an adept, and drew similes and arguments from social life. This delighted his fair audience, and brought them to his feet. He was the director of many of the principal families of Madrid, and in this capacity he showed exquisite discretion and tact, treating each one with due regard to his or her temperament and past and present position. When he met with a woman like the Marquesa de Alcudia, devout, enthusiastic, and fervent, the shrewd priest pressed the keys firmly, was exacting and imperious, inquired into the smallest domestic details, and laid down the law. In the Alcudia's household not a step was taken without his sanction; and in such cases, as though he enjoyed exerting his power, he adopted a stern and grave demeanour which, under other circumstances, was quite foreign to him. If he had to do with a family of worldlings, indifferent to the Church, he played with a lighter hand, was benign and tolerant, requiring them only to conform outwardly, and refrain from setting a bad example. He did all he could to consolidate the beautiful alliance which in our days has been concluded between religion and fashion; every day he found some new means to this end, some derived from the French, some the offspring of his own brain. On certain days of the year he would collect an evening congregation of ladies of his acquaintance in the chapel or oratory of some noble house. Then there were delightful _matinées_, when he would extemporise a prayer, some accomplished musician would play the harmonium, he himself would speak a short friendly address, and then discuss religious questions with the ladies present; those who chose might confess, and, to conclude, the party would adjourn to the dining-room, where they took tea,--and changed the subject. When any member of one of these families died, Padre Ortega had his name inserted on the letters of formal announcement, as Spiritual Director, requesting the prayers of the faithful for the departed soul; and then he would distribute printed pamphlets of souvenirs or memoirs, with prayers in which he besought the Supreme Redeemer, in persuasive and honeyed words, that by this or that special feature of His most Holy Passion, he would forgive Count T---- or Baroness M---- the sin of pride or avarice, or what not; but, as a rule, not the sin to which the deceased had been most prone, for the worthy father had no mind to cause a scandal or hurt the feelings of the family. He also undertook the business of arranging for the acquisition of the greatest possible number of indulgences, for the Papal benediction _in articulo mortis_, for the prayers of any particular sisterhood, and so forth. Those who were his friends and of his flock, might be quite certain of not departing for the other world unprovided with good introductions. What we do not know is how far they proved useful in the sight of God: whether He passed them with a superscription in blue pencil as an ambassador does, or whether, like the lady in the story, He asked: "And you, Padre Ortega--who introduces you?" When he had exchanged a few polite words with every person present, with such courtesy as was due to the position of each, the Marquesa de Alcudia took possession of him, carrying him off into a corner of the room, where, seated face to face in two armchairs, they began a conversation in an undertone, as though she were making confession. The priest, his elbow resting on the arm of his seat, and his shaven chin in his hand, listened to her with downcast eyes, in an attitude of humility; now and then he put in a measured word to which the lady listened with respect and submission; though she immediately returned to the charge, gesticulating vehemently, but without raising her voice. Soon after the ecclesiastic, a youth had made his appearance--a fat youth, very round and rosy, with little whiskers which came but just below his ears, his eyes deep set in flesh, and a fine fresh colour in his cheeks. His clothes looked too tight for him; his voice was hoarse, and he seemed to produce it with difficulty. Ramon Maldonado's face clouded over as he came in. This new-comer was the heir of the Conde de Casa-Ramirez, and one of the suitors for the first born of the house of Calderón. Jacobo--or Cobo Ramirez, as he was generally called, was regarded as a comic personage for the same reasons as Pepa Frias, but with less foundation. He too displayed great freedom of speech, cynical disrespect of persons, even of the most respectable, and an almost incredible degree of ignorance. His jests were the coarsest and grossest which decent people could by any means endure. Sometimes, indeed, they hit the nail on the head, that is to say, he had a happy thought; but as a rule his sallies were purely and unmitigatedly indecent. And yet the company were pleased to see him. A smile of satisfaction lighted up every face but that of Ramoncito. "I say, Calderón," he exclaimed as he came in, without any sort of preliminary greeting; "how do you manage to have such good-looking boys for your servants? As I came in, in the dim light, by the mezzo-soprano voice I heard, I took one of them for a girl." "Nonsense, man," said the banker, laughing. "I tell you I did, man, not that I care if you have as many Romeos as you please. Is your friend Pinazo coming this evening?" All understood the allusion; almost every one burst out laughing. "No, no, he is not coming," replied Calderón, choking with laughter. "What are they laughing at, Pacita?" asked Esperanza, in a low voice. "I do not know," she replied with perfect sincerity, shrugging her shoulders; "Cobo has said something horrid no doubt. I will ask Julia by-and-bye; she will be sure to know." They both looked at the eldest of the three sisters, but she sat unmoved and stiff, with downcast eyes as usual; nevertheless the corners of her mouth quivered with a faint smile of comprehension which showed that her youngest sister's confidence in her profound intuition was amply justified. "Hallo! Ramoncillo!" said Cobo, going up to Maldonado, and patting him familiarly on the cheek. "Always the same sweet and seductive youth?" The tone was half affectionate and half ironical, which the other took very much amiss. "Not to compare with you; but getting on," replied Ramoncito. "No, no, you are the beauty of the two--let these young ladies decide. You are a little too thin perhaps, especially of late, but you will double your weight as soon as you have got over this." "I have nothing to get over. And after all, no one can run to as many pounds as you," retorted Ramon, much nettled. "You have more graces." "Come, that will do; do not come talking such nonsense here, for it is very bad form, especially in the presence of these young ladies." "Why must you two always be quarrelling?" exclaimed Pepa Frias. "Have done with this squabbling, or the world will not be wide enough to hold you both." "No, the place that is not wide enough for these two, is Calderón's house," said Pinedo, in an undertone. "Nothing of the kind," Cobo exclaimed, in a cheerful voice "friends who quarrel are the best friends--eh old fellow?" And taking Ramoncito's head between his hands, he shook it affectionately. Maldonado pushed him away crossly. "Have done, have done; you are too rough." Cobo and Maldonado were intimate friends. They had known each other from infancy, they had been at school together; then in the world of fashion they had kept up a close acquaintance, chiefly at the club which both frequented regularly. As they followed the same profession, that, namely, of "men about town," on horseback, on foot, or in a carriage, as they visited the same houses, and met everywhere and every day, their mutual confidence was unlimited. At the same time, they were always on terms of mild hostility, for Cobo had a true contempt for Ramon, and Ramon, suspecting the fact, was constantly on his guard. This hostility did not exclude liking; they were insolent to each other, and would quarrel for hours on end, but afterwards they would drive out together, just as if nothing had occurred, and arrange to meet at the theatre. Maldonado took everything Cobo said quite seriously, and Cobo delighted in contradicting him whenever he spoke, till he had succeeded in putting him out of patience. But all affection vanished from the moment when they had both cast their eyes on Esperanza de Calderón; hostility alone remained. Their relations were apparently the same as before, they met every day at the club, often walked out, and went hunting together, but at the bottom of their hearts they hated each other. Each spoke ill of the other behind his back; Cobo, of course, with more wit than Ramon, because, with or without good reason, he had a real and sincere contempt for his rival. "Come, you are just like my daughter and her husband," said Señora de Frias. "Not so bad, not so bad, Pepa!" Ramirez put in, with affected horror. "What a shameless fellow you are!" exclaimed the lady, trying to control her laughter, which ill-matched her affectation of wrath. "They are just like you two, for they are always squabbling and making it up again." And then she went on to describe in racy terms her daughter's married life. She and her husband alike were a couple of children, dear children, but quite insupportable. If he did not hand her a dish as quickly as she expected, or had not poured her out a glass of water; if his shirt-buttons were off, or his clothes not brushed; or if there was too much oil in the salad, there were frightful rows. They were both equally susceptible and touchy. Sometimes they did not exchange a word for a week at a time, and to carry on the affairs of life they would write little notes to each other in the most distant terms: "Asuncion has asked me to go with her to the play at eight o'clock. Is there any objection to my going?" she would write, and leave the note on his study-table. "You may go wherever you choose," he would reply in the same way. "What will you have for dinner, to-morrow; do you like pickled tongue?" "You ought to know by this time that I never eat tongue. Do me the favour to order the cook to get some fish; but not fresh anchovies, as we had them the other day; and desire her not to burn the fritters." Neither of them chose to give way to the other, so that this nonsense would go on indefinitely, till she, Pepa, took them both by the ears, gave them a piece of her mind and obliged them to make it up. Then they went to the other extreme in their reconciliation. "Do you know, Pepa, that I should not care to be there at the moment of reconciliation?" said Cobo, with another outburst of malignant vulgarity. "Nor I, my friend," she replied with a sigh of resignation, that was very laughable. "But, what can I do? I am a mother-in-law, which is the lowest function one can fill in this world, and I must endure that penance and many more of which you know nothing." "I can imagine them." "You cannot possibly imagine them." "But then, my dear, it would be a great joy to me, to see my children friends once more," said the gentle Mariana, in her slow, drawling, lethargic way. "There is nothing more odious than a quarrelsome couple." "And to me, too--when the scene is over," replied Pepa, exchanging smiles with Cobo Ramirez and Pinedo. "How gladly would I make friends with you, Mariana, on the same terms," said the insinuating general, in a low voice, taking advantage of a moment when Calderón's wife stooped down to stir the fire with an enamelled iron poker. At the same time, as if he wished to take it from her, and save her the trouble, the General's fingers were laid on the lady's, and without exceeding the truth, may be said to have lightly pressed them. "Make friends?" said she, in her usual voice. "But first we should have to quarrel, and thank God we have not done that." The old beau did not venture to reply; he laughed awkwardly with an uneasy glance at Calderón. If he persisted, this simpleton was capable of repeating aloud the audacious speech he had just made. "Of course," Pepa went on, "I interfere as little as possible in their disputes. I hardly ever go to their house even--Pah! I loathe playing the part of mother-in-law." "Well, Pepa, I only wish you were my mother-in-law," said Cobo, with a meaning look into her eyes. "Good! I will tell my daughter; she will be much flattered." "No, it has nothing to do with your daughter! It is that--that I should like you to interfere in my concerns." "Stuff and nonsense! Cease your compliments," replied the lady, half vexed. But a symptom of a smile which curled her lips showed nevertheless that the speech had pleased her. Ramoncito now brought the conversation back to the opera--the hare which runs in every fashionable meeting in Madrid. The opera is, indeed, to the subscribers, no mere amusement, but an institution. It is not, however, a love of music which makes it a constant subject of discussion, but the fact that they have nothing else to think about. To Ramoncito Maldonado, to Señora de Calderón, and to hundreds of others, the world is divided into two classes: those who subscribe to the opera and those who do not. The former alone really and completely represent the essential part of humanity. Gayarre and Tosti once more came under discussion. Those of the party who had just come in gave their opinion on the merits as well as on the physical advantages or defects of the two singers. Ramoncito began to tell Esperanza and Paz in a low voice how that he had last evening been presented to La Tosti in her dressing-room. A very amiable and refined woman; she had received him with wonderful graciousness and friendliness. She had heard much of him--Ramoncito--and had been most anxious to know him personally. When she was told that he was a member of the Assembly she was amazed to think of his having risen to such a position while still so young. "So absurd you know; it would seem that in other countries it is the custom only to elect old men.--She is even handsomer near than from a distance--a skin like velvet, exquisite teeth; then a splendid figure--a noble bust, and such arms!" Vanity had made the young man not only a blunderer--for it is a well-known rule that in courting one woman it is never wise to praise another too vehemently--but a little over free in speaking to two such young girls. They looked at each other and smiled; their eyes sparkling with mischievous fun, which the young deputy did not detect. "And tell me now, Ramon, did you not make her a declaration on the spot?" Pacita inquired. "Certainly not," replied he, seeing through the ironical meaning of the question. "Then you will." "Never! I love another lady." And as he spoke he shot a languishing glance at Esperanza. The young girl suddenly turned serious. "Really? Tell me, tell me----." "It is a secret." "Well, we can keep a secret. You will not tell, will you, Esperanza?" And the mischievous little thing looked slily at her friend, enjoying her vexation and Ramoncito's discomfiture. "I do not want to know anything about it." "There, Ramon, do you hear? Esperanza does not want to hear anything about your love affairs. I know why, though I shall not say." "What a silly thing you are, child," exclaimed Esperanza, now really angry. The young man, flattered by these hints from an intimate friend, nevertheless thought it well to change the subject, for he saw that Esperanza was seriously annoyed. "But you must not believe that it would be so very difficult to make a declaration to La Tosti, and for her to respond to it. Ask Pepe Castro; you can depend on what he says about it." "But Pepe Castro is not you," said Esperanza, with marked disdain. Maldonado fell from the celestial spaces where he had been soaring. This pointed speech, uttered in a tone of contempt, touched him to the quick. For, as it happened, the transcendent superiority of Pepe Castro was one of the few truths which dwelt in his mind as absolutely indisputable. There might be doubts as to Homer's, but as to Pepito's--none. The certainty of never rising, however much he might try, to the supreme height of elegance, indifference, contempt, and sovereign scorn of all creation, which characterised his admired friend, humiliated him and made him miserable. Esperanza had laid her finger on the wound which was threatening his existence. He could not reply; the shock was so great. Clementina was depressed and uneasy. As soon as she had entered her sister-in-law's drawing-room, she had sought a pretext for leaving; but she could find none. She was compelled to let some little time elapse; the minutes seemed ages. She had chatted for a few moments with the Marquesa de Alcudia, but that lady had quitted her when Father Ortega had come in. Her sister was appropriated by General Patiño, who was giving her an elaborate account of the mode of rearing and feeding nightingales in captivity. The two Alcudia girls, who sat next to her, might have been wax dolls, they were so stiff and motionless, answering only in monosyllables to the few questions she addressed to them. By degrees a sort of obscure irritation took possession of her; to a woman of her temperament it was a matter of minutes only before she would cast all conventionality to the winds and take an abrupt departure. But on hearing the name of Pepe Castro, she looked up eagerly, and listened with keen interest. At Ramoncito's abrupt allusion to him she suddenly turned pale; however, she immediately recovered herself, and, joining in the conversation with a smile, she said: "Nay, nay, Ramon, do not be malignant. We poor women, if you begin to talk of us----!" "I speak ill of none who do not deserve it, Clementina," replied the youth, encouraged by the rope thus thrown out for him. "You men discuss us all. It strikes me that your friend Pepe Castro is not a man to bite his tongue out rather than sully a woman's reputation." "But, indeed, Clementina, I never yet found him out in a falsehood. All Madrid knows him for a favourite with women." "I cannot imagine why!" exclaimed the lady, with a disdainful pout. "I am no connoisseur in male beauty," said the young man, laughing at his own phrase, "but everybody says that Pepito is handsome." "Pshaw! That is a matter of individual taste. Pacita, who is his relation, will excuse me--but I, who am one of the 'everybody' do not say so." "It is quite true," said Esperanza timidly, "that Pepito is not considered bad-looking. Besides he is very elegant and _distingué_. Do you not think so?" And she turned to Pacita, colouring slightly as she spoke. Clementina glanced at her with a penetrating and singular expression which deepened the blush. "What are you talking about?" asked Cobo Ramirez, joining the little circle. He hardly ever sat down. He liked wandering from group to group, breathing as hard as an ox, and firing some audacious remark at each in turn. Ramoncito's brow darkened at his rival's approach. Cobo did not fail to perceive it and looked at him with a slight sneer. "Well, Ramoncito? Tell me, how do you contrive to keep these ladies so well amused? I was just saying to Pepa that you really sparkle with wit." "No, indeed. How should I sparkle when you monopolise it?" said the deputy, with some irritation. "Well, well, my son, if you are afraid of me I will go." An ironical smile, both bitter and triumphant, beamed on Ramoncito's sharp features. He had the enemy in a trap. It should be said that, a few days since, a learned discussion had given rise to a decision by an expert philologist that _afraid_ was wrong and _afeard_ alone was right. "My dear Cobo," he exclaimed, throwing himself back in his chair and gazing at him with ironical amazement. "Before you talk in the presence of persons of quality you might learn to speak your mother-tongue. I mean--it seems to me----" "Well?" said the other, in surprise. "That no one now says _afraid_ but _afeard_, my dear Cobo. I give you the information for your satisfaction and future guidance." Ramon's manner as he spoke was so arrogant, and his smile so impertinent that Cobo, disconcerted for a moment, asked in a fury: "And why afeard rather than afraid?" "Because it is so--because I say so! That is why," replied the other, not ceasing to smile with increasing sarcasm, and casting a triumphant look at Esperanza. The two rushed into an animated and violent discussion. Cobo held his own, maintaining with great spirit that no one ever said _afeard_, that he had never heard the word in his life, and that he was in the habit of talking to educated persons. The young and scented deputy answered him briefly, still smiling impertinently, and sure of his triumph. The more angry Cobo became, the more Ramon gloated over his humiliation in the presence of the damsel to whom they both were paying court. But the tables were turned when Cobo, thoroughly provoked and seeing himself beaten, called General Patiño to the rescue. "Come here, General; you who are eminent as an authority--Do you think it correct to say _afeard_?" The General, greatly flattered by this opportune mouthful of honey, replied, addressing Maldonado in a tone of paternal instruction: "No, Ramoncito, no. You are mistaken. Such a word as _afeard_ was never heard of." The young man jumped in his chair. Suddenly abandoning all irony, and his eyes flashing, he began to exclaim that they did not know what they were talking about, that it would seem that the best authorities were liars, and so on, and so on--that he was quite certain he was right, and that he wanted a dictionary forthwith. "To tell you the truth," said Don Julian, scratching his head, "the dictionary I used to possess has disappeared. I do not know who can have taken it. But it seems to me--I agree with the General--that we say afraid and not afeard." This fresh blow was too much for Maldonado; pale already, and tremulous with vexation, he uttered a last cry of despair. "But _afeard_ is derived from _fear_, gentlemen!" "Fear or small beer, it is all the same!" exclaimed Cobo, with an insolent peal of laughter. "Confess now that you have put your foot in it, and promise not to do it any more." Maldonado's disgust and rage knew no bounds. He struggled on a few minutes with incoherent words and gestures; but as the only reply to his energetic protests were laughter and sarcasm, he resigned himself to an attitude of dignity and scorn, chewing the cud of bitterness, his lips quivering, his looks grim, a snort of indignation now and again inflating his nostrils. Cobo remained unmoved, taking every opportunity that offered for shooting a poisoned dart of repartee at the foe, which enchanted the girls and made their elders smile soberly. No one in this world ever hungered and thirsted for justice as did Ramoncito at this moment. The arrival of another visitor ended, or at any rate, suspended, his torments. The Duke of Requena was announced. His entrance produced an agitation which sufficiently indicated his consequence. Calderón went forward to receive him, offering him both hands with much effusion. All the men rose in haste, and left their seats to meet him with smiles and gestures expressive of the reverence he inspired. The ladies turned their heads to greet him with curiosity and respect, and Pepa Frias rose to shake hands with him. Even Father Ortega deserted his Marquesa and went forward with a submissive and engaging bow, smiling at him with his bright eyes behind the strong spectacles for short sight which he wore. For a few minutes the only words to be heard in the room were "Señor Duque," "Señor Duque"--"Oh Señor Duque!" The object of all these attentions was a short, stout man with a lividly-pale face, prominent squinting eyes, white hair, and a grizzled moustache as stiff and harsh as the quills of a porcupine. His lips were thick and mobile, stained by the juice of a cigar which he held, not lighted, between his teeth, incessantly passing it from one corner of his mouth to the other. He might be about sixty years of age, more rather than less. He was wrapped in a magnificent loose fur coat, which he had not removed in the ante-room, having a cold. But on setting foot in the little drawing-room, the heat struck him as unpleasant, and hardly replying to the greetings and smiles which hailed him from all sides, he only muttered rudely, in the hoarse, thick voice characteristic of men with a short neck: "Poof! a perfect furnace!" And he added a Valencian expletive more vehement than choice. At the same time he unbuttoned his overcoat. Twenty hands were laid on it to help him to take it off, which somewhat hindered the process. And now, in the Calderón's drawing-room, was repeated the scene which has oftener than any other been performed in this world, of the Israelites in the desert worshipping the Golden Calf. The new-comer was no less a person than Don Antonio Salabert, Duke of Requena--the famous Salabert, the richest of the rich in Spain, one of the colossal figures of finance, and, beyond a doubt, the most famous for the extent and importance of his transactions. He was a native of Valencia. No one had ever heard of his family. Some said he had been a mere waif in the streets; others that he had begun as a footman to some banker, and had risen to be a sort of messenger and errand man, others that he had been an adventurer under Cabrera in the first civil war, and that the origin of his fortunes was a valise full of gold, of which he had robbed a traveller. Some even went so far as to credit him with having belonged to one of the notorious troops of banditti who infested Spain just after the war. He, however, explained the growth of his fortune--which amounted to no less than four hundred millions of reales[B]--in the simplest and most graphic way. When he was angry with any of his clerks--as very frequently happened--and found that they took offence at his gross abuse, he would say to them, shouting like a possessed creature: "Do you know how I came by my money? By taking many a kick behind. Nothing but kicks will ever help you up the ladder. Do you understand?" It must be confessed that there was something a little vague about this explanation, but the authority with which it was delivered gave it irrefragable value. Assuming it as the basis of the inquiry, we might perhaps be able to form a just estimate of the character and the achievements of the wealthy banker. "Hallo, little lady," said he, going up to Clementina and taking her by the chin as if she were a child. "You here? I did not see your carriage below." "No, Papa; I came on foot." "You are a wonder. You can take mine if you like." "No, I would rather walk. I have been out of spirits lately." The duke had turned his back on all the company, and was talking to his daughter with as much affability as he was capable of. He rarely saw her. Clementina was his natural daughter, the child of a woman of the lowest type, as he himself had probably been. Afterwards, when he was already beginning to be rich, he had married a young girl of the middle class, by whom he had no family. This lady, whose health since her marriage had been extremely delicate, had agreed, or to be exact, had herself proposed that her husband's daughter should come to live with her. Clementina had therefore been brought up at home, and was loved as a daughter by her father's wife, whom she loved and respected as a mother. Since her marriage she had paid her frequent visits; but as her father was always busy, she did not go into his rooms, but left her mother's--for so she called her--only to quit the house. Excepting on days when there was some great dinner or reception, or when she met him by chance in the street or at a friend's house, they never talked together. After inquiring for her husband and sons, the duke, without sitting down, turned to talk to Calderón and Pepe Frias. He was a man of common and provincial appearance; he rarely smiled, and when he did, it was so faintly as to be hardly perceptible. He was in the habit of calling things by their names, and addressing every one without any formula of courtesy, saying things to their face which might have seemed grossly rude, but that he knew how to give them a tone of friendly bluntness which deprived them of their sting. He was not loquacious; he generally stood silently chewing the end of his cigar and studying his interlocutor with his squinting and impenetrable eyes. When he talked it was with a factitious and cunning simplicity which was not unattractive, but through it pierced the old man, the Valencian foundling, shrewd, sarcastic, crafty and uncommunicative. Pepa Frias began to talk of money matters; on this subject the widow was inexhaustible. She wanted to know everything, was afraid of being taken in, always greedy of large profit, and comically terrified at the idea of a depreciation of the Stocks she held. She would have every detail repeated to satiety. "Should she sell Bank Stock and buy Cubas? What was the Government going to do about entailed estates? She had heard rumours! Would money be dearer at the next settlement? Would it not be better to sell at once, and make thirty centimes, than to wait till the end of the month?" To her Salabert's words were as the Delphic oracle; the banker's fame acted like a charm. But, unluckily, the Duke--like every oracle, ancient or modern--was wont to answer ambiguously. Often his only reply was a grunt, which might mean assent, dissent, or doubt; while the words, which now and then made their way between the cigar and his moist, stained lips, were obscure, brief, and frequently unintelligible. Besides, every one knew that he was not to be trusted, that he loved to put his friends on the wrong track, and see them get a tumble in some bad speculation. Nevertheless, Pepa persisted in hoping to wring from that great mind the secret of the hidden Pactolus, playfully taking him by the lapels of his coat, calling him old fellow, old fox, Sphinx, glorying in her audacity, which amounted to a flirtation. But the banker was not to be cajoled. He humoured her mood, answering her with grunts, or with some coarse joke at which Calderón would laugh, though he felt in no laughing mood as he noted the frequency of the duke's expectorations on his carpet; for the munching of his cigar gave rise to the necessity, and he was not accustomed to note what he was doing. Calderón was as much irritated, and annoyed as if his visitor had spit in his face. The third time it happened he could contain himself no longer; with his own hands he fetched a spittoon. Salabert gave him a mocking glance and winked at Pepa. Calderón, now easier in his mind, became quite loquacious, and endeavoured to reply instead of the Duke, and advise Pepa as to her investments; but though he was a man of prudence and experience in such matters, the widow did not value his counsels, nor would she listen to them. When all was said and done, there was an enormous gulf between him and Salabert--the one an ordinary stock-broker, the other a genius of banking. The Duke, no doubt, assented inarticulately to the opinions of the master of the house, but Pepa would none of them. Salabert presently left them to themselves, and seated himself on the arm of a chair in a lounging attitude, which he alone would have ventured on. Instead of being disliked for his coarse rudeness, his bad manners contributed not a little to his prestige and to the idolatrous reverence which was paid him in society. Having left the spittoon behind him, he again expectorated on the carpet with a malicious pleasure which was visible through his imperturbable mask of good humour. Calderón on his part frowned gloomily once more, till at length, with a heroic determination to ignore the conventionalities, he once more fetched the spittoon, but less boldly than before, for he only pushed it along with his foot. Pepa, meanwhile, seated herself on the other arm, and went on coaxing the Duke till at last he paid more attention to her. He glanced at her several times from head to foot, dwelling with satisfaction on her figure, which was round and shapely. Altogether Pepa was a fresh-looking and attractive woman. In a few minutes the banker leaned over her without much delicacy, and, putting his face so close to hers, that he almost seemed to touch her cheek with his lips, he said in a whisper: "Have you many Osuñas?" "A few--yes----" "Sell at once." Pepa looked him straight in the eyes, and, taking the advice as meant, she said no more. A few minutes later it was she who put her face across to the banker's, and asked him mysteriously: "And what shall I buy?" "Entailed estate," he replied in the same tone. Just now a lady and gentleman came in, a young couple, both under the middle height, smiling, and lively. "Here are my young people," said Pepa. They were, in fact, a pleasing pair; well matched, with attractive, candid faces, and so young that they really looked like a couple of children. They shook hands with every one in turn, and every face beamed with the affectionate protecting feeling which they could not fail to inspire. "Here is your mother-in-law, Emilio. What a vexatious meeting, eh?" said Pepa to the young man. "Mother-in-law! No, no. Mamma, mamma," replied he, pressing her hand affectionately. "Heaven reward you!" replied the lady, with a comical sigh of gratitude. Once more the company settled into their seats. The young couple sat down by the mistress of the house. Clementina had left her seat, and was talking to Maldonado; Pepe Castro's name recurred frequently in their conversation. Meanwhile Cobo was improving the opportunity, and making Pacita laugh with his impertinence; but although he hoped that Esperanza might receive his jests with equal favour, this was not the case. The young lady was grave and absent-minded, and evidently trying to overhear what Ramoncito and Clementina were saying; Pinedo had remained standing, and was doing the civil to the Duke; and the General, seeing his adored one in eager conversation with the new comers--tired, too, of finding that his elaborately disguised compliments were not understood, nor even his poetical allusions--followed his example. The Marquesa and the priest still sat whispering vehemently to each other in a corner, she more and more humble and insinuating, sitting at the very edge of her chair, and bending forward to make herself heard; he every minute more grave and rigid, closing his eyes from time to time as if he were in the confessional. "What a pair of babies!" said Pepa to Mariana, alluding to the young couple. "Is it not a shame to think of such children being married? How much better they would be playing with their tops!" The young people in question laughed, and looked lovingly at each other. "They play with them still, at spare moments," said Cobo Ramirez in a childish squeak. "Don't talk nonsense!" cried Pepa, turning on him fiercely. "Have they told you what they play at?" Cobo and Mariana exchanged a significant look. Irenita, the young wife, coloured deeply. "You are growing old, Pepa. Remember you are a grandmother," said Mariana. "And such a grandmother!" exclaimed Cobo in an undertone, intended to be heard only by the lady concerned. She glanced at him, half smiling and half vexed, showing that she had heard, and was on the whole pleased. Cobo affected innocence. "Is your quarrel over?" said the widow, turning to her children. "And how long will peace last? Mercy, what a squabbling pair. Look here, I will go to your house no more, for when I find you sulking I long to take a broomstick and break it over your shoulders." The whole company turned round to look at the husband and wife, who were smiling beatifically. This time they both blushed. But in spite of the gravity which remained stamped on Emilio's features, it was clear that his mother-in-law's free and easy sallies did not altogether displease him. General Patiño, at Señora de Calderón's request, pressed the button of an electric bell. A servant came in to whom his mistress gave a sign, and five minutes later he reappeared with two others, carrying trays with cups, tea, cakes and biscuits. There was a stir of satisfaction; a change of attitude in all the party, and the sparkle in their eyes of the animal pleased to satisfy a craving of nature. Esperanza hastened to leave her friend and Ramirez, and proceeded to help her mother in the task of pouring out tea for the company. Ramoncito took advantage of the moment when the young girl offered him a cup, to observe in an aside that he was much surprised at her finding any pleasure in listening to the nonsensical or unseemly speeches of Cobo Ramirez. Esperanza looked at him somewhat abashed, but she replied that she had heard no nonsense; that Cobo was very pleasant and amiable. Ramoncito, in his lowest and most pathetic tones, protested against such an opinion, and persisted in running down his friend, till Cobo's suspicions were aroused, and he came up, jesting as usual. On this our illustrious deputy grew sullen once more, and drew in his horns; it only remained for Cobo to bring out some piece of insulting nonsense to turn the laugh against his rival. This was the moment for discussing literature; a stage which always supervenes in every afternoon or evening party in Madrid. General Patiño mentioned a new play which had just been brought out with great success, and raised some objections to it, chiefly on the ground of certain scenes being too highly coloured. Mariana declared that on no account, then, would she go to see it; and all agreed in anathematising the immorality which nowadays is the delight of play-writers. Naturalism was becoming a curse. Cobo Ramirez, who had taken tea and then more tea, and had eaten a fabulous quantity of sandwiches and biscuits, told the company that he had lately read a novel entitled "Le Journal d'une Dame"--in French of course--which was precious, charming, the most delightful thing he had ever read. For in literature Cobo--strange to say--was all for refinement, spirituality and delicacy. It was of no use to talk to him of those dreary books which dwell on the number of times a bricklayer stretches himself when he gets out of bed--or of biscuits and cakes a young gentleman can eat at afternoon tea--or describe the birth of a child and other such horrors. Novels ought to deal with pleasant things since they are written to give pleasure. And all this he pronounced with decision, snorting like a war-horse as he talked. All the audience agreed with him. But this literary lecture was prematurely cut short by the arrival of another visitor, a man, neither tall nor short, nor stout nor thin, square shouldered and dapper, sallow, and wearing a black beard so thick and curly that it looked like a false one. This was no less a personage than the Minister of Public Works, a member of the Cabinet. He carried his head so high that the back of it was almost lost between his shoulders, and his half-closed eyes flashed self-confident and patronising gleams from between his long black lashes. Till the age of two-and-twenty he had carried his head as nature intended; but from the day when he had been made vice-president of the section of Civil and Canon Law in the Academy of Jurisprudence, he had begun to hold it higher and higher, by slow and majestic degrees, as the moon rises over the sea on the stage at the opera-house, that is to say by slight and frequent jerks with a rope. He was elected a provincial member--a little jerk; then deputy to the Cortes--another little jerk; Governor of a district, and another little jerk; Director General of a department--another; President of the Committee of Ways and Means--another; Member of the Cabinet--yet another. But now the rope was at an end. If they had made him heir to the throne, Jimenez Arbos could not have held his large head a tenth of an inch higher. His entrance on the scene produced some little sensation, but not such as that of the Duke of Requena. He, whose puffy, sensual face could not conceal the scorn he felt for the Assembly, nevertheless hurried to greet him with a deference and servility which amazed every one, all the more by comparison with the rough discourtesy he usually displayed in social intercourse. The Minister, on his part, distributed hand-shakings with an air of abstraction which was positively offensive. It was only when he greeted Pepa Frias that he showed any signs of animation. The widow asked him in a familiar tone: "How is it that you are in evening dress?" "I am on my way to dine at the French Embassy." "And then home?" "Yes." This dialogue, carried on very rapidly in a low voice, was noticed by the Duke, who went up to Pinedo and asked him mysteriously, with an expressive sign: "I say--Arbos and Pepa Frias?" "These two months past, at least." The gaze which the banker now bestowed on the widow was widely different from his former glances. He was more attentive, more respectful, keener, and presently somewhat meditative. Calderón had approached the Minister and was talking to him with polite attention; Salabert joined them. But the great man was not inclined to talk of business, or perhaps he was afraid of the financier; the press had thrown out some malevolent hints as to Requena's transactions with the Government. So in a few minutes the Duke attached himself, instead, to Pepa Frias, and stood chatting with her in a corner of the room. Clementina was growing more and more impatient, longing vehemently to get away. Still, she would not go, for fear her father should insist on accompanying her. The Minister was the first to depart, taking leave with the same impressive absent-mindedness, never looking at the person he addressed, but up at the ceiling. The Duke meanwhile had quite taken possession of the widow, displaying such effusive gallantry that he might have been about to make her a declaration of love. The General, observing this, said to Pinedo: "Look how eager the Duke has become! He is certainly making love to Pepa." "No," replied the other very gravely. "He is making love to the transfer of the Riosa Mining Company." At this moment Pepa Frias announced in a loud voice that she was going. "Where are you off to, next?" asked the banker. "To Lhardy's shop, to buy some Italian sausages." "I will take you there." "Do--and I will treat you to some little tarts." The Duke was delighted to accept the invitation. "Come along, too, child?" she added to her daughter. Clementina waited only five minutes longer. As soon as she felt sure of not overtaking her father on the stairs, she rose, and, under the pretext of having forgotten some commission, she also took leave. CHAPTER III SALABERT'S DAUGHTER. Clementina descended the stairs in some anxiety, and on setting foot in the street, breathed a sigh of relief. She went off at a brisk pace down the Calle del Siete de Julia, across the Plaza Mayor, and on through the Calle de Atocha. On reaching this, she suddenly remembered the youth who had previously followed her, and turned her head in anxiety. No one. There was nothing to alarm her. No one was in pursuit. At the door of one of the best houses in the street she stopped, looked hastily and stealthily both ways, and went in. A hardly perceptible sign of inquiry to the porter, was answered by his hand to his cap. She flew to the back staircase, to escape any unpleasant meeting no doubt, and ran up in such a hurry that on reaching the second floor she was quite breathless, and pressed one hand to her heart. With the other, she knocked twice at one of the doors, which was instantly and noiselessly opened; she rushed in as if the enemy were at her heels. "Better late than never," said a young man who had opened it, and who carefully shut it again. He was a man of eight-and-twenty or thirty, above the middle height, slightly built, with delicate and regular features, a colour in his cheeks, a moustache curled up at the ends, a pointed chin-tuft, and black hair carefully parted down the middle. He looked like a toy soldier--that is to say, he was of the effeminate military type. His face was not unlike those of the dolls on which tailors display ready-made clothing, and was not less unpleasing and repulsive. He wore a pearl-grey velvet morning jacket, elaborately braided, and slippers of the same material and colour, with initials embroidered in gold. It was evident at a glance that he was one of those men who care greatly for the decoration of their person; who touch up every detail with as much finish and attention as a sculptor bestows on a statue; who believe that curling and gumming their moustaches is a sacred and bounden duty; who accept the fact that the Supreme Creator has bestowed on them a fascinating presence, and do their best to improve on His work. "How late you are!" he exclaimed once more, fixing on her face a conventional gaze of sad reproach. The lady rewarded him with a gracious smile, saying at the same time in a tone of raillery, "It is never too late if luck comes at last." She took his hand and pressed it fondly; then, still holding it, she led him along the passages to a small room which seemed to be the young man's study. It was a luxurious den, artistically decorated; the walls were hung with dark blue plush curtains, held up by rings on a bronze rod under the cornice; there were arm-chairs of various shapes and sizes, a writing-table in walnut-wood ornamented with wrought-iron, and by the side of it a book-stand with a few books--about two dozen perhaps. Suspended by silken cords from the ceiling, and against the walls, were horse-trappings and several saddles, common and military, with their stirrups hanging down; curbs of many ages and lands, whips, fine woollen horse-cloths richly embroidered, gold and silver spurs, all very handsome and in perfect order. The hippic tastes of the owner of this "study" were no less evident in the corridor which led to it from the door; everywhere there were portraits of horses saddled or stripped. Even on the writing-table, the inkstand, paper-weights, and paper-knife were decorated with horse-shoes stirrups, or whips. Through an arch with columns, only half-closed by a handsome tapestry curtain representing a youth in powder kneeling to a lady _à la Pompadour_, a handsome mahogany bedstead with a canopy was visible. On reaching this little room the lady let herself drop gracefully into a pretty little lounging chair, and went on in a light jesting tone: "So you are not glad to see me?" "Very. But I should have been glad to see you sooner. I have been waiting for you above an hour and a half." "And what then? Is it such a sacrifice to wait an hour and a half for the woman who adores you? Have you not read how Leander swam every evening across the Hellespont to see his beloved? No, you have never read that nor anything else. Well, I believe that knowledge would not suit you. Books would spoil that pretty colour in your cheeks, and undermine the strength and agility with which you ride and drive. Besides, some men were born only to be handsome and strong and to amuse themselves, and you are one of them." "Come, come. It seems to me that you regard me as an idiot ignorant even of my alphabet?" exclaimed the young man somewhat piqued and distressed, as he stood in front of her. "No, my dear, no!" she replied, laughing, and seizing one of his hands she kissed it with a sudden impulse of tenderness. "Now you are insulting me. Do you think I could love an idiot? Take this," she went on, taking off her hat. "Put my hat on the bed with the greatest care. Now come here, wretch that you are. You are so touchy that you forget you began by being rude to me. An hour and a half! What then? Come close; kneel down; wait till I pull your hair for you." But the young man, instead of obeying her, drew up a smoking chair, and perched himself on it in front of her. "Do you know what kept me? Why that tiresome boy who followed me again." And as she spoke she suddenly grew serious: a well-defined frown puckered her pretty brows. "It is insufferable," she went on. "I do not know what to do. Whenever I stir, morning or evening, this shadow haunts me. I had to take refuge at Mariana's; then, having gone there I had no choice but to stay a little while. Papa came in, and to avoid his escorting me home I had to wait till he went first. So you see." "A pretty fellow is that boy!" exclaimed the man, with a laugh. "Very much so! It would be very amusing if he found out where I come, and every one were to hear of it, and it were to reach my husband's ears. Laugh away, laugh away!" "Why not? Who but you would think of objecting to so platonic an admirer? Have you had any note from him? Has he ever spoken a word to you?" "That would not matter in the least. It is the persecution which jars on my nerves. He is just such a boy as would be capable out of mere spite, if he detected me entering this house, of writing an anonymous letter. And you know the peculiar position in which I stand with regard to my husband." "There is not a chance of it. Those who write anonymous notes are not admirers, but envious women. Shall I meet him face to face and give him a fright?" "How can you ask such a question!" exclaimed Clementina, indignantly. "Listen Pepe, you are a man of feeling, and have plenty of intelligence, but you sadly lack a little more delicacy to enable you to understand certain things. You should give rather less time to your club and your horses, and cultivate your mind a little." "Is that your opinion?" cried Pepe, angered extremely by this reproof. "Well, if you wish that I should not tell you such things, there are others which you should not say." Pepe Castro shrugged his shoulders scornfully, and rose from his chair. He paced the room two or three times with an air of abstraction, and stopped at last in front of a little picture which he took down to dust it with his handkerchief. Clementina watched him with anger in her eyes. She suddenly started to her feet as if moved by a spring; but then, controlling her petulance, she quietly went into the adjoining room, took her hat off the bed, and began to put it on in front of a looking-glass, very deliberately, though the slight trembling of her hands still betrayed the annoyance she was repressing. "There," she presently exclaimed, in a tone of indifference, "I am going. Do you want anything out?" The young man turned round, and exclaimed with surprise: "Already!" "Already," replied she with affected determination. Castro went up to her, put his arm round her neck, and raising the red veil with the other hand, kissed her on the temple. "It is always the same," said he. "I get the broken head and you want to wear the bandage." "What is that you are saying?" she replied in some confusion. "I am going because I have another visit to pay before dinner." "Come Clementina, you cannot make believe, even if you wish it. You must understand that I cannot listen to insults and laugh, and you insult me at every moment." "I really do not understand you; I do not know what insults or make believe you allude to," she replied, with affected innocence. Pepe tried coaxingly to take her hat off again, but she repelled him with an imperious gesture. He then put his arm round her waist and led her to the sofa; he sat down and taking her hands kissed them again and again with passionate affection. She stood upright and would not be softened. However, he was so vehement and so humble in his endearments, that at last she snatched away her hands and exclaimed, half laughing, but still half vexed: "Have done, have done: I am tired of your whining--like a Newfoundland dog! You are abject. I would be torn in pieces before I would humiliate myself like that." She took her hat off, and went herself to place it on the bed. "When a man is as much in love as I am," replied the youth somewhat abashed, "he does not regard anything as a humiliation." "Really and truly, boy?" said she, smiling and taking him by the chin with her slender pink fingers; "I do not believe it. You are not the stuff that lovers are made of. Well, I will put you to the proof. If I told you to do a thing that might cost you your life, or, which is worse, your honour--a few years in prison--would you do it?" "I should think so!" "Well then--well then, I want you to kill my husband." "How barbarous!" he exclaimed in dismay, opening his eyes very wide. The lady looked at him steadily for a few minutes with scrutinising, sarcastic eyes. Then with a sharp laugh, she exclaimed: "You see, miserable man, you see! You are a fine gentleman of Madrid, a member of the _Savage Club_. Neither for me nor any other woman would you exchange your dress-coat and white waistcoat for a prison uniform." "You have such strange ideas." "Well, well. Go on in the way which your pusillanimous nature points out to you, and do not get into mischief. You will understand that I only spoke in jest; but it has confirmed me in the opinion I had already formed." "But if you have so poor an opinion of my devotion, I do not know why you should love me," said the young man, again somewhat piqued. "Why I love you? For the same reason for which I do everything--Caprice. I saw you one day in the Park of the Retiro, breaking in a horse splendidly, and I took a fancy to you. Then, two months later, I saw you at the fencing gallery at Biarritz, crossing foils with a Russian, and that finally bewitched me. I got you introduced to me, I did my best to please you--I did in fact please you--and here we are." Pepe made up his mind to endure with patience her half cynical tone of raillery, and by dint of talking she presently dropped it. Clementina when she was content, was affectionate and gay, and ready to yield to impulses of generosity; her face, as singular as it was beautiful, never indeed softened to sweetness, but it had a kind, maternal expression which was very attractive. But if her nerves were irritated, and her opinions or wishes were crossed, the under-current of pride, obstinacy and even cruelty, which lay beneath, came to the surface, and her blue eyes shot flashes of fierce sarcasm or fury. Pepe Castro, who was neither illustrious nor clever, had nevertheless the art of amusing her with the gossip of society, and innuendoes against those persons for whom she had a marked antipathy. The means were coarse but the effect was excellent. The Condesa de T----, a lady whom Clementina hated mortally for some displeasure she had once done her, was desperately hard up; she had gone to borrow of Z---- the old banker, who had granted the loan, but at a percentage which had made the lady stare. The Marqués de L----, and his wife, for whom also she had an aversion, had, before he was in office, given entertainments to the electors at their country house, with splendid banquets; but as soon as he was made Minister, though they still gave parties there was no _buffet_. Julita R----, a very pretty girl who, again, was no favourite with the haughty lady, had been turned out of doors by the M---- s for having been found in their son's room--a lad of fifteen. This and much more of the same kind fell from the lips of the generous youth, with a scornful humour which put the fair one into a better temper. This was Pepe Castro's sole talent of an intellectual character; his other accomplishments were purely physical. The clouds had cleared from Clementina's brow. She was now loquacious, smiling, and lavish of caresses; during the hour she remained with her lover, he was amply indemnified for the stabs she had given him on first arriving, as happy as their _tête-à-tête_ could make him. It had already long since become dusk. The youth lighted the two lamps on the chimney-piece, without calling the servant--his only servant, and the only living soul with him in his rooms. Pepe Castro was the son of a noble house of Arragon; his elder brother bore a well-known title, and his sister had married into a family of rank. He had been educated at Madrid; at the age of twenty he lost his father. For a time he lived with his elder brother, but it was not long before they quarrelled, since the elder, who was economical to avarice, could not endure Pepe's wasteful extravagance. He then tried living under his sister's roof, but at the end of a few months incompatibility of temper between himself and his brother-in-law led to such violent disputes, that it was said in the Madrid clubs and drawing-rooms that they had cuffed and cudgelled each other soundly; a duel was only prevented by the interference of some of the more respectable members of the family. Then, after living for some time at an hotel, he decided on furnishing rooms. He engaged a servant, had his breakfast brought in from an eating-house, and dined sometimes at Lhardy's and sometimes with one or another of his numerous friends. His stables were in the immediate neighbourhood, Calle de las Urosa, and were not ill-furnished: two saddle horses, one English and one cross-bred; two teams, one foreign and one Spanish; a Berline, a cart, a mail-phaeton, and a break; it was a channel through which his fortune was rapidly running away, though it was not the principal one. He had, in fact, left the greater portion on the gaming-tables at the club, and by no means a small part bad been grabbed by certain smart damsels, whom he had promoted in a few hours to the rank of fashionable courtesans. This, however, was a fact he always denied, thinking it might diminish his prestige as a lady-killer; but it is nevertheless a fact, like everything else herein set down. All this is as much as to say that Pepe Castro was at this moment a ruined man; nevertheless, he went on living in the same comfort and style. His losses and his borrowing cost him a great deal: loans from his brother on the mortgage of estate he could not sell, post-obits to merciless usurers on his prospects from an old and infirm uncle, accepted for three times their cash value; jewels given him by his sister, who could not give him money; exorbitant charges run up by the importers of carriages and horses; bills with the tailor, the perfumer; with Lhardy, the restaurant-keeper, with every one in short. It seemed impossible that a man could live easy in such a tangle of toils and nets. And nevertheless, our young gentleman enjoyed the same beautiful serenity of mind and lightness of heart as many others of his comrades and acquaintances, who, as we shall have occasion to see, were no less ruined, though less fascinating. "I have a surprise in store for you," said Clementina, as she again put on her hat and tidied her hair in front of the glass. The handsome puppy sniffed the air, like a hound that scents game, and he went up to Clementina. "If it is a pleasant one let me see it." "Yes, and no less if it is an unpleasant one, rude boy. Everything I can do ought to be pleasant to you." "No doubt, no doubt.--Let me see," he went on, trying to conceal his eagerness. "Very well; bring me my muff." Castro flew to obey. Clementina, when she had it in her hands, sat down on the sofa with an affectation of calm, and flourishing it in the air, she exclaimed: "Now you will not guess what I have in this muff?" Her eyes were bright with glee and pride at the same time. Castro's sparkled with anxiety; the colour mounted to his cheeks, and he replied in a tone between assertion and inquiry: "Fifteen thousand pesetas."[C] The lady's triumphant expression instantly changed to one of wrath and disgust. "Go--go away--Pig!" she furiously cried, giving him a hard box on the ear with the handsome muff. "You think of nothing but money. You have not a grain of delicacy." "I thought----" The change in Pepe's face was no less marked; it was more gloomy than night. "Of money, yes; I tell you so. Well then, no. Nothing of the kind. Nothing but a little tie-pin, which--fool that I am--I bought at Marbini's as I came along, to show you that I am always thinking of you." "And I thank you from the bottom of my heart, my sweet pigeon," said the young man, making a supreme effort to recover from his sudden dejection, and producing, as a result, a forced and bitter smile. "Why do you fly into such pets? Give it me. But I know what a bad opinion you have of me." Clementina would not give him her present. Pepe begged for it humbly; still there was in his entreaties a shade of coldness, which to the keen intuition of a woman, betrayed very plainly the disappointment at the bottom of his soul. "No, no! My poor little pin that you despise so--I can see it in your face. It shall go into the box where I keep memorials of the dead." She rose from her seat and pulled down her veil. Pepe was pressing in his endeavours to be attentive, and to mollify her wrath. At last, when she had almost reached the door, she suddenly turned about and drew out of her muff a neat little jewel-box, which she gave to her lover, looking him straight in the face meanwhile. The young man's eyes opened, resting on the box with an expression of delight; then they met those of his mistress. They gazed at each other for a minute, she with a look of mischievous triumph, he with gratitude and suppressed joy. "I always said so! No one in the world knows what love means, but you, my darling. Come here; let me thank you, let me worship you on my knees." He dragged her to the sofa, made her sit down, and falling on his knees, kissed her gloved hands with rapture. "Mercy, what madness!" cried the lady quite bewildered. "What a whirlwind round a trifle." "It is not for the money, my darling, not for the money; but because you have such an original way of doing things. Because you are such a trump, such an angel!" He clasped her knees, he grovelled before her, and kissed her feet--or, to be exact, her boots. "What an abject thing you are, Pepe!" said she, laughing. "I don't care what you call me; I am yours, your slave till death. I owe you not only happiness, but honour. You cannot think what I have gone through these two days, over that cursed debt!" he said, in a voice of genuine emotion. "And will you go and gamble any more, eh? Gamble, and lose it all, you wretch," said she, tumbling his hair and spoiling the beautiful parting down the middle. "No--I swear it on my word of honour." "On your word, and on your money, wretched man? Well, I am off," she added, with a fond little pat, and she went to look at the clock on the chimney-piece. "Mercy! How late it is--I must fly. Good-bye." She ran to the door, waving her hand to her lover, without looking at him. He could only clutch it, and kiss the tips of her fingers. He rushed to open the door for her, but her hand was already on the lock; indeed, she was in a fury, because her feeble efforts would not turn it. "By-bye--till Saturday!" said she, in a whisper. "Till the day after to-morrow." "No, no--till Saturday." She ran downstairs with the same cautious haste as she had used in coming up, nodded imperceptibly to the porter, and went out. She walked as far as the Plaza del Angel; there she took a hackney coach to drive home. * * * * * It was now past six; the lights in the shops had been blazing for an hour or more. She sat as far back in the corner as she could and gazed without interest or curiosity at the streets she passed through. Her face had resumed its characteristic expression of scornful haughtiness, qualified by a certain degree of disdain and absent-mindedness. Her refined elegance, her arrogant mien, and, above all, the severe majesty of her exceptional beauty stamped Clementina beyond question as one of the most _distinguées_ women of Madrid. At the same time, though she was recognised as such, figuring in all the drawing-rooms of the aristocracy, in all the lists of fashionable persons which the papers publish on the day after a ball, a race, or any other entertainment, by birth-right she was far from belonging to such a set. Her origin could not have been more humble. Her mother had been an Irish girl, the mistress of a cooper, who had landed at Valencia in search of work. Her name was Rosa Coote; she was extraordinarily handsome, and would have been even more so if she had cared for dressing or adorning her person; but the squalor in which the illicit home was kept had made her neglectful and dirty. The Valencia waif and the handsome Irish girl came to an understanding behind the cooper's back. Salabert was quite young and a brisk youth; he was not, like the girl's present protector, a victim to drunkenness. Rosa abandoned her former lover to go off with him. Within a few months, Salabert, who saw an opening for going to Cuba as steward on board a steamboat, in his turn deserted her. The Irishwoman, expecting then the birth of the offspring of this connection, wandered about for some time without any protector or means of living till she became acquainted with a carpenter, who ultimately made her his lawful wife. Clementina grew up as an intruder in this new home. Her mother was a violent and irascible creature, with bursts of tenderness which she kept exclusively for her legitimate children. Clementina she seemed to hate, and avenged on her her father's offence with cruel injustice. A fearful childhood was that of Clementina. If some details of it could but have been known in Madrid; if, only in some brief vision, the scenes through which this proudest and most arrogant of dames had passed could have been placed before the eyes of her fashionable acquaintance, who would have envied her? What tortures, what refinement of cruelty! At the age of four or five she was made the watchful nurse of two brothers younger than herself, and if she neglected the smallest particular of her duties the punishment followed at once, but not such punishment as was due--a slap, or her ears pulled. No, it was premeditated to hurt her as much and as long as possible; after flogging her with a strap the wounds were washed with vinegar, she was made to tread for hours on hard peas, to wear shoes that pinched her feet, to go without water, she was thrashed with nettles. More than once, on hearing the hapless child's outcries, the neighbours had intervened and had remonstrated with the unnatural mother. But nothing ever came of it beyond a noisy discussion, in which the passionate Irishwoman, in sputtering Valencian, poured out her wrath on the gossips of the quarter, and afterwards vented her fury on the cause of the squabble. She was always declaring that she would send the child to the workhouse, but this was opposed by the carpenter, who prided himself on being a kind-hearted and merciful man, and who sometimes interfered to mitigate her punishment, though he generally left it to his wife "to correct her daughter," as he said to the neighbours who blamed him. His educational notions clashed with his more kindly instincts, and when they got the upper hand, alas, for the poor little girl! Certain details of these horrible torments were sickening. On one occasion Clementina had been to the well and broken the pitcher. It was the third within a month. The child dared not go home, and sought refuge with a neighbour. The woman took her to her mother, but did not leave her till she had extorted a promise that she should not be punished. And in point of fact her mother did not punish her by any ordinary process of chastisement; her cries might have led to a disturbance. She formed the diabolical idea of holding the girl's head over a foul sink, till she was half asphyxiated and fainted away. The worst days for the wretched child were when she had dropped asleep at her prayers. The cruel Irishwoman was a bigot, and this offence she never forgave. On one occasion, she beat her so mercilessly for repeating her prayers half asleep before going to bed, that the carpenter, who was peacefully eating his supper in the kitchen, heard her cries, and went up to the bedroom, where he rescued her from her mother, who would otherwise perhaps have been the death of her. This course of incredible cruelties ended at last in one which led to the interference of justice. The unnatural mother, at her wit's end how to torture the girl, burnt her legs with a candle. A neighbour happening to hear of it told others, and the scandal in the quarter produced a stir; they appealed to justice, informed against the Irishwoman, and the crime being proved, she was condemned to six months' imprisonment, while the girl was placed in an asylum. About a year later Salabert came to Valencia, not yet a potentate, but with some money. On hearing what had occurred he went to see his daughter at the school for poor girls, whence he removed her to one where he paid for her education, and at long intervals went to see her. His generous deed was highly lauded, and he knew how to make it tell, setting himself up in the eyes of those who knew him as a living model of paternal devotion, in shining contrast to the brutality of his deserted mistress. Not long after, he married, and settled in Madrid. His wife was the daughter of a dealer in iron bedsteads and spring mattresses, in the Calle Mayor. She was plain and sickly, but gentle and affectionate, with fifty thousand dollars for her portion. At the end of three or four years of married life, finding her health increasingly delicate, Doña Carmen lost all hope of having any children, and knowing that her husband had an illegitimate daughter in a Convent at Valencia, she proposed, with rare generosity, to have her at home and treat her as their child. Salabert accepted gladly; he went to fetch Clementina, and thenceforward a complete change came over the girl's fate. She was at this time aged fourteen, and already a marvel of beauty, a happy combination of the refined and delicate northern type with the severer beauty of the Valencian women. Undeveloped as yet, in consequence of the cruel experiences of her childhood followed by the quiet routine of a convent, under this change of climate and mode of life she acquired in two or three years the commanding stature and majestic proportions we have seen. Her moral nature left much more to be desired. Her temper was irritable, obstinate, scornful, and gloomy. Whether she was born with these characteristics or they were the result of the misery and sufferings of her wretched infancy it would be hard to decide. In the convent, where she was never ill-treated, she was not much loved by her teachers or her companions; her character was suspicious, and her heart devoid of tenderness. Her companions' troubles not only did not touch her; but brought a cruel smile to her lips, which filled them with aversion. Then, from time to time, she had fits of fury, which made her both feared and hated. On one occasion, when a young girl had spoken to her in offensive terms, she had clutched her by the throat and nearly strangled her. And it was quite impossible afterwards to induce her to beg pardon, as the mother superior required her to do; she preferred a month of solitary confinement rather than humble herself. The first months of her life in her father's house were a period of trial for kind Doña Carmen. Instead of a bright young creature, grateful for the immense favour she had done her, she found herself confronted with a little heartless savage, devoid of affection or docility, extravagant and capricious to the last degree, who never laughed heartily excepting when a servant had an accident, or a groom was kicked by a horse. But the good woman did not lose courage. With the unfailing instinct of a generous heart she understood that if no love could spring from the soil it was because nothing had been sown in it but the seeds of hate. The softer affections exist in every human soul, as electricity exists in every body; but to detect them, to rouse a response, they must be treated for a length of time with a strong current of kindness. This was what Doña Carmen did to her stepdaughter. For six months she kept her in a warm atmosphere of affection, a close net of delicate thoughtfulness, and unfailing proofs of lively and loving interest. At last Clementina, who had begun by being first disdainful and then indifferent, who would pass hours together locked in her own room and never go near her stepmother but when she was sent for, who never had made any advances, but lived in absolute reserve, suddenly succumbed, feeling the vital and mysterious throb which binds human beings to each other, as it does all the bodies of the created universe. The change was strange and violent, like everything else in that strangely compounded temperament. At the most unlooked-for moment she fell on her knees before Doña Carmen, professing such deep respect, such passionate affection, that the good woman was amazed, and had great difficulty in believing in her sincerity. The revelation of lovingkindness had burst at length on the girl's soul; her icy heart had melted under the motherly warmth of the large-hearted woman; the divine essence of love henceforth had a home where hitherto the essence of Satan alone had dwelt. It was a perfect miracle. Instead of spending her life in her room, she would never leave her stepmother's; she now called her "Mamma" with a fervour, a joy, a determination, such as are only to be seen in the devout when they appeal to the Virgin. And Clementina's feeling for her father's wife was in truth devotion. Amazed to find that so gentle, so tender a being could exist in this world, she was never tired of gazing at her, as though she had dropped from heaven. She would read her thoughts in her eyes, anticipate her smallest wishes, let no one serve her but herself; and, like every lover, insisted on the exclusive possession of the object of her affection. The slightest sign of disapproval on Doña Carmen's part was enough to disconcert her and plunge her into the deepest grief. The haughty creature, who had made herself generally odious, would humble herself with intense satisfaction before her stepmother. It was the humiliation of the mystic prostrated by an irresistible spiritual impulse. When she felt the good woman's hand caress her face she fancied it was the touch of God Himself, and hardly dared to touch those thin, transparent fingers with her lips. But it was only to her stepmother that she had so entirely changed. To all else, including her father, she still displayed the same scornful coldness, the same proud and obstinate temper. If now and again she seemed sweeter and more tractable, it was due, not to her own will, but to some express command of Doña Carmen's; and as soon as this command was at an end, or forgotten, she was the same malevolent being once more. The servants hated her for the insufferable pride which she showed as soon as she realised her position as her father's heiress, and for her total lack of compassion if they did wrong. The greatest sufferer was the English governess whom her father had engaged for her. She was an elderly woman, but she had a mania for dressing and tricking herself out like a girl. This harmless weakness was so constantly the theme of Clementina's mockery, that only necessity could have made the poor woman endure it. All the secrets of her toilet were mercilessly revealed for the amusement of the servants, and her physical defects, mimicked by the young lady's waiting-maid, were the laughing-stock of the kitchen. On a certain grand occasion, a day when there was a dinner-party, Clementina hid the old maid's false teeth, which she had left on the dressing-table after washing them. Her discomfiture may be imagined. But she took an innocent revenge by calling her "_Señorita Capricho_" and setting her as an exercise to translate from English into French certain maxims and aphorisms of scorching application, as: "Pride is the leprosy of the soul; a proud girl is a leper whom all should avoid with horror." "Those who do not respect their seniors can never hope to be respected," and the like. Clementina laughed at these innuendoes; sometimes she would even dare to substitute some phrase of her own for that of her governess. Where she should have translated: "There is nothing so odious and contemptible as haughtiness in the young," she would write: "There is nothing so ridiculous and laughable as presumption in the old." Miss, as she was called, took offence, and complained to Doña Carmen, who would appeal to her stepdaughter, reproving her gently, and Clementina, seeing her grieved and annoyed, would smoothe her brow and kiss her lovingly. And all was well till next time. In fact Miss Anna and the servants were no doubt in the right when they said that the Señora would be the ruin of the girl. Doña Carmen, living in fearful solitude of soul, was so captivated and gratified by the warm affection her stepdaughter was always ready to lavish on her that she had no eyes for her faults, and even if she had, would not have found the courage to correct them. At eighteen Clementina was one of the loveliest and wealthiest women of Madrid. Her father's fortune grew like the scum of yeast. He was regarded as one of the great bankers of the city, and was not known to have any other heir, nor was it likely that he would have one. The young aristocrats of family or wealth--the best known members of the _Savage Club_--began to flutter about her with the most pressing and eager attentions. If she appeared at a party a group of men fenced her round; if she went to church, another and a larger party stood in a row awaiting her exit; if she drove out in the Castellana Avenue, a cavalcade of admirers galloped beside her carriage as a guard of honour; at the theatre pairs of opera-glasses were invariably fixed upon her. The name of Clementina Salabert was to be heard in all the conversations of the gilded youth of Madrid, to be seen in print in every drawing-room chronicle, and was registered in the capital as that of one of the brightest stars of the firmament of fashion. She took up and dropped one lover after another without a thought, thus earning the reputation of a flirt and feather-brain. But this never interferes with a girl's chance of adorers; on the contrary, the self-love of men prompts them to pay great attentions to women of that stamp, in the hope, born of vanity, of being the nail to fix the weather-cock. Nor did she suffer any serious damage from a coarse and malignant rumour which, all through Madrid, connected her in a strange friendship with a young and famous bull-fighter. In this affair Doña Carmen's simplicity and weakness played a leading part. Not only did the good lady allow the man to visit at her house, and sit at her table, but she even accompanied the pair in public on more than one occasion. This, and her having cheered him at the death of several bulls, gave scandal--as busy in the capital as in the provinces--sufficient pretext for an attack on the envied beauty. But as it could bring forward nothing but bold suspicion and vague conjecture, and as, on the other side, there were positive facts which far outweighed them, the calumny did not diminish the number of her adorers. Its only use was as an outlet for the bile of some rejected one. At this age, and often after, Clementina's manners betrayed a strong infusion of Bohemianism--of the free and easy airs and sarcastic coolness of the adventuresses of Madrid. A similar tendency may be observed, in a more or less exaggerated form, in all the upper circles of Madrid Society; it is a mark which distinguishes it from that of other countries. And in this tendency, which is everywhere conspicuous from the palace to the hovel, there is some good; it is not wholly evil. In the first place it implies a protest against the perpetual falsehood which the increasing refinement and complication of social formalities inevitably entail. Propriety of conduct and moderation of language are highly praiseworthy no doubt, but in an exaggerated form they result in the cold courtesy of a _diplomate_ at a foreign Court. Men and women, crushed under the weight of so much formality, become artificial beings, puppets, whose acts and words are all set forth in a programme. To exclude liberty and familiarity from society is to undermine human nature; to prohibit frankness of speech is to destroy the charm which ought to exist in all human intercourse. Moreover, an instinct of equality underlies this assertion of freedom, and cannot fail to make it attractive to every lover of Nature and truth. A lady is not a bundle of fine clothes, of foregone conclusions and ready-made phrases; she is, above all else, a woman in whom culture has, or ought to have, tempered impetuosity of character and impulses of vanity, but not to have impaired the genuineness of Nature by transforming her in society into a cold dry doll, devoid of grace and originality. It must not be supposed that the perfect refinement and elegance proper to the scenes where the upper classes meet are unknown in Madrid. They are constantly observed by almost every Spanish woman of family; but, happily, they are united with the vivacity, grace, and spontaneity of the Spanish race, making our fair ones, in the opinion of impartial observers, the most accomplished, gracious, and agreeable women in Europe--excepting, perhaps, the French. Clementina had a somewhat exaggerated taste for this freedom of word and action. She had acquired it no one knows how--by contagion in the atmosphere perhaps--since women in her position are not in the habit of spending their time with the commoner sort. She had had a waiting maid, born and brought up in Maravillas, and it was from her, in her moments of excitement, that Clementina picked up the greater part of her slang and sayings. Then came her friendship with the _torero_ above-mentioned; an acquaintance with various young men who cultivated that style; the lower class of theatres, where the manners and customs of the lower classes of the Madrid populace are set on the stage--not without grace; and her intimacy with Pepe Frias, and some other fast women of fashion, finally gave her the full Bohemian flavour. She was an enthusiast for bull-fights. It was a perfect marvel if she missed one, sitting in her private box with the orthodox white mantilla and red carnations. And she would discuss the chances, and fulminate criticisms, and bestow applause; and was regarded by the _habitués_ as a keen and eager connoisseur. The national sport, exciting and bloody, was quite after her mind, violent and indomitable as she was by nature. When she saw other women covering their eyes or showing weakness over the fortunes of the arena, she laughed sardonically, as doubting the genuineness of their horror. Among the many adorers and suitors who successively and rapidly rose and fell in her favour, there was one who succeeded in securing her notice, at any rate, for a rather longer time than the rest. His name was Tomas Osorio. He was a young man of twenty-eight or thirty, rich, small and delicate, with a pleasing face and a lively, determined temper. Either of deliberate purpose, or from genuine independence of character, he made a deeper impression than his peers. When he first paid attention to her he did not cringe nor completely abdicate his own will. In some differences on important points in the course of his long courtship--for it lasted not less than two years--he firmly maintained his dignity. He was, like her, irritable, haughty and scornful; purse-proud too, and with a spiteful wit which stood him in good stead with women. Thanks to these qualities, Clementina did not tire of him so soon as of the rest. But at the end of the two years, within a few days of the marriage, it was broken off in a very public and almost scandalous manner. All Madrid was talking of it, and commentary was endless. The conclusion arrived at was that it was the gentleman who had taken the first steps towards the rupture, and this report, whether true or false, reached Clementina's ears, and was such a stab to her pride that she was almost ill with rage. Another year went by. She had other suitors, off and on, and Osorio, on his part, courted other damsels. But in both, notwithstanding, the memory of the past survived. She was burning for revenge. So long as that man was going about the world, so perfectly content as he seemed, she felt herself humiliated. He, on the contrary, in spite of his affected indifference, was still consumed by love, or rather by desire. Clementina had captivated his senses, had pierced his flesh, and, do what he would, he could not extract the dart. She was always in his thoughts, always before his eyes, provoking his passion. The longer the time that elapsed the fiercer the fire burned within him, and the greater were the effort and the anguish of keeping up a haughty and indifferent demeanour when they happened to meet. Clementina, with a penetration common in women, had no difficulty in guessing that her former love still cherished a secret passion for her, and felt a malicious joy. Thenceforward she dressed and adorned herself for him alone--to bewitch him, to fascinate him, to make him drain the bitter cup of jealousy. From this moment dated her fame as an elegant woman. Clementina was indeed, in this matter, a great artist. She knew how to dress so that her clothes should never by their colour or quality attract attention to the prejudice of her face. Understanding that what a woman wears should be not a uniform, but an adornment to set off the perfections which nature has bestowed upon her, she was no blind slave of fashion; when she thought it unbecoming to her beauty she boldly defied it or modified it. She avoided glaring hues, a profusion of trimmings, and elaborate styles of hair-dressing; she regarded and treated her person as a statue. Hence a certain tendency, constantly evident in her costume, towards drapery, and amplitude of flowing folds. Her fine, majestic figure gained greatly by this style of dress, which, though it became rather pronounced after her marriage, was never exaggerated beyond the limits of good taste. She was fond of wearing white, and this, with a simple manner of dressing her hair like that of the Milo Venus, made her appear in the drawing-rooms of Madrid like a beautiful Greek statue. One thing she did which, though highly censurable from a moral point of view, is not so as a matter of art. She wore her dresses very low. Her bust was superb; it might have been moulded by the Graces to turn the head of a god. The vain desire to display her beauty, unchecked by the wholesome control of a mother, led her on more than one occasion to incur the severest comments of society. Poor Doña Carmen, besides knowing nothing of social custom, was so lenient to her stepdaughter's fancies and caprices, that she accepted them as quite reasonable, and as undoubted evidence of her indisputable elegance and taste. However, her vanity brought its own punishment. On one occasion when she made her appearance at a ball given by the Alcudias, the Marquesa said as she greeted her: "Very pretty, very nice, Clementina. Your dress is lovely; but it is too low, my dear. Come with me and let us set it right." She took the girl up to her room and, with motherly kindness, arranged some gauzy material to cover what really ought not to be displayed. Clementina managed to conceal her mortification, ascribing the fault to the dressmaker; but she felt so humiliated by the lecture, and the pitying smile which accompanied it, that she never again could endure to see the prudish Marquesa. Under this constant fanning Osorio's flame waxed fiercer and fiercer, and he could no longer keep it to himself. At last he confided in his sister, who was fairly intimate with the young lady; he begged her to sound the way, and ascertain whether he might once more make advances without fear of a rebuff. Mariana undertook the commission. Clementina heard her with ill-disguised triumph, but sat demure until Señora de Calderón had poured out all her story, and assured her that Tomas was burning with devotion. Then she replied ambiguously, and with laughter: "She would think it over. She was deeply aggrieved by the reports that had been spread as to their rupture, but at any rate, he was not to give up all hope." She did reflect seriously as to the means of satisfying the demands of her wounded pride, and at the end of a few days she announced to Mariana her ultimatum. If she was to consent to give her hand to Osorio, he must beg it of her parents on his knees, in the presence of such witnesses as she might choose. Such a preposterous idea would never have occurred to any Spanish woman of pure race, and only the admixture of British blood could have led her to conceive of such a monstrous refinement of arrogance. When Osorio was informed of the conditions imposed by his ex-_fiancée_ he flew into a violent rage, and swore defiantly that he would be cut in pieces before he would suffer such degradation. The matter dropped, and things went on as before. But as, in spite of his utmost efforts, the serpent of desire gnawed at his heart with increasing virulence, the poor wretch at the end of two months had fallen into utter dejection; he was really dying of love; he could not tear himself from Madrid, and once more he besought his sister to open negotiations. Clementina, quite sure of having him in her power, was inflexible; either he must pass beneath these strange Caudine forks, or there was no hope. And Osorio submitted. What could he do?--The extraordinary ceremony was carried out one evening at the lady's residence. On reaching the house Osorio found assembled about a score of women whom Clementina had chosen from among the most envious of her acquaintances, or those who had been most malignant as to the cause of their former quarrel. He adopted the best conduct he possibly could in such a case: grave and solemn, with a certain ease of language and manner, betraying a suspicion of irony, as if he were performing a comedy for the benefit of a crazy person. He gave a brief preliminary sketch of their former engagement; confessed himself to blame; praised Clementina in extravagant terms--with so little moderation indeed that he seemed to be speaking sarcastically--and professed himself unworthy to aspire to her hand. Finally declaring that as she was so worthy to be adored, and the joy of winning her so great, he thought it but a small thing to ask her of her parents on his knees. At the same time he fell on one knee. Doña Carmen hastened to raise him, and embraced him effusively. Clementina even pressed his hand, better pleased by the grace and dignity with which he had got through the ordeal, than gratified in her conceit. In truth, on this occasion she felt for him, what she never felt again, a tiny spark of love. If any one suffered humiliation from this scene it was she herself, from the light and easy dignity with which her lover carried it off. But this was a trifle; a woman enjoys nothing more keenly and deeply than the superiority of the man who mollifies her. Clementina was happy that evening. But though Osorio had come so well out of the ordeal, he never forgave her the intention to humiliate him; he was as proud as she. The insane passion she had inspired for a time smothered every other. His honeymoon was as brief as it was delicious. The shock of two such characters, both equally obstinate and proud, was inevitable. It soon came in the form of a series of petty annoyances which instantly extinguished the feeble sparks of affection which her husband had struck in the young wife's heart. In him passion survived longer. The knowledge each had of the other made them cautious, for fear of a more formidable collision which must have led to disaster. But this too came at last. Report said that Osorio, tired of his wife's indifference and scorn, had insulted her beyond forgiveness. Whether or no the story as it was told was true in all its details, their union at any rate was practically at an end for ever. Osorio forfeited his own right to interfere with his wife on the score of conduct, and could only look on while Clementina unblushingly and confessedly accepted the attentions of every man who offered them. He certainly, to parry the ridicule to which he was thus exposed, threw himself into excesses of dissipation, raising women from the lowest ranks to figure as his mistresses. At home the husband and wife spoke no more to each other than was absolutely necessary. To escape the discomfort of a _tête-à-tête_ at table, they always had some guest. In public they made a show of the most natural and friendly relations; Osorio would sometimes go late to fetch his wife from the theatre or party to which she had been. But every one understood the facts of the case. Clementina, as a rule, would go out on her lover's arm; they would stand talking in the lobby in the sight of all the world, while waiting for the carriage; she stepped in; before it drove off they would yet exchange a few confidential and incoherent remarks interrupted by gay laughter. Morality--fashionable morality--was satisfied, so long as the lover did not drive off in the same carriage, though a few minutes later they might meet again at some rendezvous. When Clementina reached home it was half-past six o'clock. The driver whistled; the porter came out of his lodge and opened the gate first, and then the door of the hackney coach. He paid the man. The lady, without uttering a syllable, went through the garden, which though small was exquisitely kept, and up the outside steps of white marble, screened by a verandah, which extended across half the front of the house. The house itself was not very large, but handsome and artistic, of white stone and fine brickwork. It had been built by Osorio about four or five years since. As the plans had been fully discussed and considered, the rooms were well arranged, and this made it more comfortable than his brother-in-law's, though that was three or four times as large. She asked a servant in the anteroom: "Where is Estefania?" "It is some time since I last saw her, Señora." She crossed a magnificent hall, lighted by two large lamps with polished vases borne by bronze statues, went along the corridor, and up the stairs leading to the first floor, meeting no one on her way. At the door of the drawing-room leading to her boudoir, she met Fernando, a page of fourteen in a smart livery. "Estefania?" she asked. "She must be in the kitchen." "Tell her to come up at once." She entered the boudoir, and going up to a long mirror resting on two pillar-feet of gilt wood, she took off her hat. The room was a small one, hung with blue satin bordered with wreaths in _carton-pierre_. On the chimney-piece, covered also with blue satin, stood a clock and two fine candelabra, the work of a silversmith of the last century. The carpet was white with a blue border; in the middle of the room there was a _causeuse_ upholstered in gold colour, the armchairs were gilt, two large feather pillows lay on the floor. In one corner was the mirror, in another a _Pompadour_ writing-table of inlaid wood; in the other two were columns covered with velvet, to support the lamps which now lighted the room. On one side this room opened into Clementina's drawing-room, and then into her bedroom. On the other side, a door led into a small drawing-room, where she was at home to her friends on Tuesday afternoons, and where cards were played at night by an intimate circle. Only a few very confidential friends were ever admitted to her boudoir, calling at the hours when she was "Not at home." Here those long and secret colloquies were held which women so greatly relish, in which they pour out their whole mind, with swift transition from the profoundest depths to the frivolities of the day and details of dress and fashion. Within a few seconds of her taking off her hat Estefania came in. She was a pale young girl, with pretty black eyes; dressed suitably to her rank but with care and finish; over her skirt she wore a holland apron trimmed with white edging. "You might have been ready for me, child. Where had you hidden yourself?" said her mistress, in a tone at once cross and indifferent. "I was in the kitchen. I went to put a few stitches into Teresa's skirt; she had torn it on a nail," replied the girl, with affected servility. Clementina made no reply, absorbed, no doubt, in thought. Standing in front of the mirror to take off her cloak, she gazed at herself with the perennial interest which a pretty woman feels in her own face. "Did you go to Escobar's?" she asked at length. "Yes, Señora." "And what did he say?" "That he has no silk so thick of that colour, but that he would send for it if the Señora wishes." "Turura! That journey won't kill him! And to the milliner's?" "Yes, they will send the caps on Saturday." "Did you inquire after Father Miguel?" "No, I had not time. It is such a long way." "A long way! Why, did you not go in the carriage?" "No, Señora. Juanito said that the mare was not shod." "Then why did he not put in one of the Normandy horses?" "I do not know. Whenever you tell me to take the carriage he finds some excuse." "So it seems. Never mind, child; I will see to it. What next, Señor Juanito, with your masterful airs?" But as she glanced up at the maid's face in the glass she thought she noticed something strange about her eyes, and turned round to see her better. In fact, Estefania's eyes were red with weeping. "You have been crying, child?" "I--no, Señora, no." The denial was evidently a subterfuge. The lady had not to press her much to make her confess even the cause of her tears. "The head cook, Señora," she whimpered out, "who used to take my part--when I say anything he bursts out laughing or says something rude, and the others, of course, as they are jealous because you are good to me, and to flatter the cook--the others laugh too; and because I said I should tell you, he said all manner of horrid things, and turned me out of the kitchen." "Turned you out! And who is he to turn you out?" exclaimed her mistress vehemently. "Tell him to come here. I must give him a rowing, as well as Juanito, it seems! If we do not take care, the servants will rule this house instead of the masters." "Señora, I dare not. If you would send Fernando!" "Do as you please, but bring him here." She had worked herself up into high wrath at the girl's story. Estefania was her favourite, whom she petted above all the other servants, and made the confidant of many of her secrets. The girl's fawning and flattery had won her heart so completely that, without being aware of it, she had allowed a large part of her will to go with it. It was, in fact, Estefania who ruled the house, since she ruled its mistress. The servant who could not win her good graces might prepare sooner or later to lose his place. And what happened was the necessary result in all such cases: the mistress's favourite was hated by all the rest of the household, not only from envy--the disgraceful passion which exists, in a greater or less degree, in every human being--but also because the nature that is hypocritical and time-serving to superiors, is inevitably haughty and malevolent to inferiors. The _chef_, on being called by Fernando, to whom Estefania gave the message, soon made his appearance at the door of the boudoir wearing the insignia of his office, to wit, a clean apron and cap, both as white as snow. He was a man of about thirty, with a fresh and not bad-looking face, and large black whiskers. The frown on his brow and the anxious expression in his eyes betrayed that he knew why he had been sent for. Clementina had seated herself on the ottoman. Estefania withdrew into a corner, and when the cook came in she fixed her eyes on the floor. "I hear, Cayetano, that after behaving very rudely to my maid, you turned her out of the kitchen. I have, therefore, sent for you to tell you that I will not allow any servant to behave badly to another; nor are you permitted to turn any one out so long as you are in my house." "Señora, I did nothing to her. It is she who treats us all badly--teasing one and nagging at another, till there is no peace," the cook replied, with a strong Gallician accent. "Well, even if she teases one and nags at another, you have not any right to insult her. She is to tell me, and there is an end of it," replied his mistress sharply, and mimicking his accent. "But you see----" "I see nothing. You hear what I say; there is an end of it," and she waved her hand imperiously. The cook, with his face scarlet and quivering with rage, stood without stirring for a few seconds. Then, before he withdrew, he boldly fixed his wrathful gaze on the girl, who kept her eyes on the carpet with a bland hypocrisy which betrayed the triumph of her self-importance. "Tell-tale!" he said, spitting out the words rather than speaking them. The lady rose from her seat, and, bursting with rage at this want of respect, she exclaimed: "How dare you insult her before my face? Go, instantly. Get out of my sight!" "Señora, what I say is, that the fault is hers." "So much the better. Go!" "We will all go--out of the house, Señora. We can none of us put up with that impudent minx!" "You go forthwith, as though you had never come! You may find yourself another place, for I will never allow any servant to get the upper hand of me." The cook, in some dismay at this prompt dismissal, again stood rooted to the spot; but, suddenly recovering himself, he turned on his heel, saying with dignity: "Very well, Señora, I will." But when he was gone Clementina still muttered: "An insolent fellow is that Gallician! I don't believe any one but I gets such servants!" Then, suddenly pacified by a new idea, she said: "Come, now, I must dress; it is getting late." She went into her dressing-room, followed by Estefania, who, contrary to what might have been expected, looked grave and gloomy. Clementina hurriedly began to remove her walking-dress and change it for a simple dinner-dress, such as she wore at home to receive a few friends in the evening--always very light in hue, and cut open at the throat, though with long sleeves. At a sign from the mistress the maid brought out a "crushed-strawberry" pink dress from the large wardrobe with mirrors, which lined all one side of the room. Before putting it on she arranged her hair, and exchanged her bronze kid boots for shoes to match the dress. The pale girl meanwhile never opened her lips; her face grew every moment sadder and more anxious. At last, on her knees to put on her mistress's shoes, she raised beseeching eyes to her face and said timidly: "Señora, may I entreat you--not to send Cayetano away?" Clementina looked at her in amazement. "Is that it? After you yourself----" "The thing is," said Estefania, turning as red as her complexion would allow, "if you send him away the others will take offence." "And what does that matter?" But the girl insisted very earnestly with urgent and persuasive entreaties. For a time the lady refused, but as the matter was unimportant, and she perceived, not without surprise, the interest and even anxiety of her favourite for the cook's reprieve, she presently yielded, desiring Estefania to make the necessary explanations. On this the girl's face immediately cleared; she was as bright as a bird, and began to help her mistress to dress very deftly and briskly. Two taps at the door made them both start. "Who is there?" called the lady. "Are you dressing, Clementina?" was asked from outside. It was her husband's voice. Her surprise was not the less; Osorio very rarely came to her rooms when she was alone. "Yes, I am dressing. Is there any one downstairs?" "As usual--Lola, Pascuala and Bonifacio. I want to speak to you. I will wait for you here in the drawing-room." "Very well; I will come." Until her toilet was complete Clementina spoke no more; her expression was one of gloomy anticipation, which her maid could not fail to observe. Her fingers, as she gave the last touches to the folds of her skirt, trembled a little, like those of a young lady dressing for her first ball. Osorio was, in fact, waiting for her in the little drawing-room beyond the boudoir. He was lounging at his ease in an arm-chair, but, on seeing his wife, he rose, and dropped the end of the cigar he was smoking into the spittoon. Clementina saw that he was paler than usual. He was the same neat and dapper little man, with a bad complexion, as when he had married; but in the course of these twelve years his temper had been greatly spoiled. He had many wrinkles on his face, his hair and beard were streaked with grey, and his eyes had lost their brightness. He closed the door which his wife had left open, and going up to her said, with affected ease: "My cashier handed me to-day a cheque from you, for fifteen thousand pesetas. Here it is." He took out his pocket-book, and from it a half-sheet of scented satin paper which he held out to her. She looked at it for a moment with a grave and gloomy face, but did not wince. She said not a word. "A fortnight ago he gave me one for nine thousand. Here it is." The same proceedings, the same silence. "Last month there were three: one for six thousand, one for eleven thousand, and one for four thousand. Here they are." Osorio flourished the handful of papers before his wife's eyes; then, as this did not unlock her lips, he asked: "Do you acknowledge it?" "Acknowledge what?" she said, shortly. "That these documents are correct." "They are, no doubt, if they bear my signature. I have a bad memory, especially for money matters." "A happy gift," he replied with an ironical smile, as he went through the papers in his pocket-book. "I, too, have often tried to forget them. Unfortunately my cashier makes it his business to refresh my memory. Well," he went on as his wife said no more, "I came up solely to ask you a question--namely: Do you suppose that things can go on like this?" "I do not understand." "I will explain. Do you suppose that you can go on drawing on my account every few days such sums as these?" Clementina, who had been pale at first, had coloured crimson. "You know better than I." "Why better? You ought to know the amount of your fortune." "Well, but I do not know," she replied, sharply. "Nothing can be more simple. The six hundred thousand dollars which your father paid over when we were married, being invested in real estate, produce, as you may see by the books, about twenty-two thousand dollars a year. The expenses of the house, without counting my private outlay, amounts to about three times as much. You can surely draw your own conclusions." "If you are vexed at your money being spent you can sell the houses," said Clementina with scornful brevity, her colour fading to paleness again. "But if they were sold I should none the less be responsible for the whole value. You know that?" "I will sign you any paper you like, saying that I hold you responsible for nothing." "That is not enough, my dear. The law will never release me from responsibility for your fortune, so long as I have any money. Moreover, if you spend it in pleasure"--and he emphasised the word--"it may be all very well for you, but deplorable for me, because I shall still be compelled to supply you with--necessaries." "To keep me, in short?" she said with a bitter intonation. "I wished to avoid the word; but it is no doubt exact." Osorio spoke in an impertinent and patronising tone, which piqued his wife's pride in every possible way. Ever since the violent differences which had led to their separation under the same roof, they had had no such important interview as this. When, in the course of daily life, they came into collision, matters were smoothed over with a short explanation, in which both parties, without compromising their pride, used some prudence for fear of a scandal. But the present question touched Osorio in a vital part. To a banker money is the chief fact in life. His personal pride, too, had suffered greatly in the last few years, though he had not confessed it. It was not enough to feign indifference and disdain of his wife's misconduct; it was not enough to pay her back in her own coin, by flaunting his mistresses in her face and making a parade of them in public. Both fought with the same weapons, but a woman can inflict with them far deeper wounds than a man. The misery he suffered from his wife's disreputable life did not diminish as time went on; the gulf which parted them grew wider and deeper. And so revenge was ready to seize this opportunity by the forelock. Clementina looked him in the face for a moment. Then, shrugging her shoulders and with a contemptuous curl of her lips, she turned on her heel and was about to leave the room. Osorio stepped forward between her and the door. "Before you go you must understand that the cashier has my orders to pay you no cheques that do not bear my signature." "I understand." "For your regular expenses I will allow a fixed sum on which we will agree. But I can have no more surprises on the cash-box." Clementina, who had been about to quit the room by the ante-chamber, turned to go to her boudoir. Before leaving the room she held the curtain a moment in her hand, and facing her husband she said, with concentrated rage, "In that you are as mean a cur as your brother-in-law, only he never made believe, like you, to be generous." She dropped the curtain, and slammed the door in his face. Osorio made as though to follow her; but he instantly stopped short and yelled, rather than spoke, so she might hear him: "Oh, yes! I am a mean cur, because I do not choose to maintain a crew of hungry puppies. I leave that to the hags who choose to pet them!" This brutal speech seemed to have eased his mind, for his lips wore a smile of triumphant sarcasm. Five minutes later they were both in the dining-room, laughing and jesting with a small party of guests. CHAPTER IV. HOW THE DUKE DE REQUENA REWARDED VIRTUE. "Let me see, let me see. Explain yourself." "Señor Duque, the matter is as clear as possible. I spoke with Regnault to-day. If the furnaces are altered, a few roads made, and proper machinery set up, the mine can be made to yield half as much again as it now does. It may be as much as sixty thousand flasks of mercury. The outlay needed to produce these results would not exceed a hundred to a hundred and fifty thousand dollars." "That seems to me a great deal." "A great deal for such a result?" "No, that seems to me a great many flasks." "But I have no doubt that what Regnault says is true. He is an intelligent and practical engineer. He worked for six years in California; and, indeed, the English engineer said the same." The persons holding this discourse were Requena and his secretary, or head-clerk, or whatever he called himself, since he had no particular style or title in the household. He was known only by his name--Llera. He was an Asturian, tall and bony, with a colourless, hard-featured face, enormously long arms and legs, and large hands and feet. His manner was rough and awkward; his eyes, which were fine, had a frank, honest look, and were bright with energy and intelligence. He was an indefatigable, an amazing worker. No one knew when he ate or slept. When he made his appearance at eight in the morning, he brought with him as much work ready done as most men get through in a day, and at midnight he might often still be seen in his office, pen in hand. Salabert, having the gift of judging men, without which no one makes a great success in the world, had discovered Llera's intelligence and character after employing him for a short while as an underling, and without giving him any showy position--which was not at all his way--he made him a responsible one, by accumulating in his hands all the most important business of the house. He very soon was the great banker's confidential man, the soul of the business. His laborious industry put all the other employés to shame, and Salabert took advantage of it to load him with work after regular hours. Llera was at the same time his private secretary, his steward, the head clerk of the office, the inspector of all the works he had in construction, and the agent in most of his transactions. And for doing all this inconceivable amount of work--more than four men of average industry would have got through--he paid him six thousand pesetas a year. The man thought himself well paid, remembering that only six years ago he was earning but twelve hundred and fifty. Every day, before taking his morning walk and paying his round of business calls, Requena looked into Llera's office, made inquiries as to things in general, and chatted with him for a longer or shorter time according to circumstances. The Duke's offices were at the top of his palace in the Avenue de Luchana, a magnificent mansion, standing in the midst of a garden which for extent was worthy to be called a park. In the spring the dense foliage of the fine old trees almost hid the white tops of the turrets; in winter the numbers of firs and evergreens which grew there, still gave it a pleasant verdure. It was the meeting-place of all the birds in that quarter of the city. The entrance to the house was up a large flight of marble steps; above the ground floor, where the reception-rooms were, and the dining-room, there were three storeys, and the Duke's offices, which were not large, filled part only of the upper floor. They were large enough for Salabert, who conducted his affairs from thence, with the help of a dozen expert clerks. The luxury displayed in the house was amazing; the furniture and fittings were almost priceless. This was not in keeping with the avarice with which the master was generally credited; but this and other contradictions will be explained as we become better acquainted with his character, which was curious enough to be well worthy of study. The kitchens were in the basement, roomy and well-fitted; the dining-room, at the back of the house, opened into a conservatory of vast dimensions, filled with exotic shrubs and flowers, where water was laid on to form little pools and water-falls of charming effect and imitating nature as closely as possible. The picture-gallery was in a separate building at the end of the garden, and in another some of the servants slept, but not all. The Duke, occupying the only chair in Llera's office, while the secretary stood in front of him twirling a large pair of scissors used for cutting paper, turned his wet cigar three or four times from one corner of his mouth to the other, and made no reply to the clerk's last words. At last he growled rather than said: "Humph! The Ministry grows more pig-headed every day." "What does that matter. You know the secret of making it give way. Telegraph to Liverpool, and within a fortnight the price of mercury will have fallen from sixty to forty dollars the flask." About four years since, Requena, at Llera's suggestion and advice, had formed a company or syndicate for buying up all the mercury which should come into the market. Thanks to these tactics, the price of this product had gone up wonderfully. The company had now an enormous stock in hand at Liverpool; Llera's scheme was to throw this into the market at a given moment and so produce a great fall in the price, which would frighten the Government. This, which was to be done at the moment when the Government was about to repay a loan of fifteen million dollars borrowed ten years since of a foreign house, would reduce them to selling the mines of Riosa. If Requena was then prepared to pull the affair through at the sacrifice of a few thousands, to subsidise the press, and bribe certain individuals, he might be certain of success. This project, conceived of by Llera, and matured by the Duke, had run its due course, and was now near the final _coup_. "Well, we shall see," said the rich man, and after meditating a few minutes he went on: "When the mines are for sale it will be necessary to form another company. The Mercury Syndicate will not serve our turn." "Of course!" "The thing is that I do not want to sink more than eight million pesetas in this concern." "That is a different matter," said Llera, becoming very serious. "It does not seem to me possible to keep the control of such a business with so small a stake in it. The management will slip into other hands, and the profits will soon be reduced to so much per cent., more or less--that is to say, a mere nothing." "Very true, very true," mumbled Salabert, again falling into deep thought. Llera too remained silent and pensive. "I have already explained to you the only way of keeping the concern in your own hands," said he. This way consisted in securing a sufficiently large number of shares in the mine which the company was to purchase, and to go on buying up as many as possible; then to throw them into the market at so low a price as to alarm the shareholders. Thus to buy and sell at a loss for some time was Llera's plan for bringing down the price of the shares, when he could acquire half the shares _plus_ one, for much less money, and be master of the whole concern. To Salabert this was not so clear as to his clerk. His intellect was keen and far-seeing, but he lacked breadth of view and initiative, though those who saw him boldly undertake ventures of vast scope were apt to think that he had them. The first conception, the mother idea, of a new concern scarcely ever originated in his brain. It came to him from outside; but once sown there it germinated and developed as it would have done in no other in Spain. By degrees he analysed it, or rather dissected it, laying bare its inmost fibres, contemplating it from all sides; and once convinced that it would prove advantageous, he launched it with the rare and surprising audacity which had so greatly deceived the public as to his gifts as a speculator. He was perfectly convinced that when once he had made up his mind to an enterprise, vacillation must be fatal. Still, this boldness proceeded not from his temperament but from reflection; it was the outcome of extreme astuteness. Otherwise he was by nature timid, and this weakness, instead of diminishing under the almost invariable success of his undertakings, increased as time went on. Avarice is always suspicious and full of alarms, and Salabert grew more and more avaricious. Also, as a man grows older, it is a rule without exceptions, that pessimism soaks into his mind. Our banker, accustomed to grand results from his speculations, regarded any concern in which the profits were small as altogether deplorable; if by any chance they were _nil_, or he even lost a trifle, he thought it a matter for serious lamentation. Thus, but for Llera, with his bold temperament and fertile imagination, the Duke de Requena would not, for some years past, have ventured on any concern of even moderate extent. On the other hand, what he had lost in dash and resource he had made good by really astounding tact and skill, and a knowledge of men which can be acquired only by years of unremitting study. Thus it may be said that he and Llera complemented each other to perfection. Salabert's sagacity and knowledge of human nature sometimes erred by excess; now and then he was caught in his own trap. In his dealings with men, studying them always from the point of view of substantial interest, he had formed so poor an opinion of them, that it became monstrous, and led him into serious mistakes. Perhaps, after all, what he saw in others was no more than the reflection of himself; to this error we are all liable. To him every man and woman had a price; a cheap conscience or a dear one, but all alike for sale. Of late years his faith in bribery had become a passion. If he came across any one who would not yield to money, he never suspected it could be in good faith, but only supposed the price was higher than his bid. One of Llera's hardest tasks was to get such schemes of bribery out of his master's head when he had to do with men who would have rejected it with indignation. If he were engaged in a law-suit, the first thing he thought of was how much it would cost him to bribe the judge who would decide it; if he were concerned in a government transaction, he calculated the sum to be handed over to the Minister, or the Under-Secretary, or the Councillors of State. Unluckily, he not unfrequently made practical use of the black-lead he had always ready to disfigure the face of humanity with. Requena had absolutely no moral sense, and never had known what it was. His life, as a nameless waif in Valencia, had been characterised by a series of tricks and dodges, and such a lively inventiveness of means for extracting coin from his fellow-creatures, as made him worthy to compare with the favourite heroes of Spanish romance. In fact the name of one of them, _El picaro Guzman_, had actually been bestowed on Salabert as a nickname by some wags of his acquaintance, but they kept it to themselves. It was told of him with apparent truth that when he was in Cuba, whither he went to seek his fortune, he bought a tavern with all its furniture, including a negro woman who managed the business. This negress, for all the time he remained, was his servant, his housekeeper, his slave and his concubine, by whom he had several children. When he had saved some thousands of dollars to return to Spain, he squared his petty accounts by selling the tavern, the furniture, the black woman, and the children. Then he took army contracts, speculated in tobacco, government loans and tenders for roads; these he sometimes sold again at a premium, and sometimes carried out the works without any regard to the conditions of the contract. But in all he did he displayed his wonderful capacity, his practical sagacity, and so large a development of the organ of acquisitiveness, as made him a man of mark among bankers. He was not disagreeable to deal with, though, unlike most men who aspire to wealth or power, his manners were not smooth nor his language choice. He was brusque rather than courteous, but he was keen in the distinction of persons, and could be very civil when he must. The natural abruptness of his manners served him well to disguise the subtle astuteness of his mind. That blunt, straightforward air, that exaggerated freedom and provincial rusticity, could only cover a frank and loyal heart. To the outside world he was the perfect type of the old Castilian school, freespoken, downright and impertinent. He would be loquacious or taciturn as suited his purpose, expressed himself with real or affected difficulty--which, no one ever could discover--could sometimes jest with some wit, but with unfailing coarseness, and was wont to say such detestable things to the face of friend or foe as made him a terror in drawing-rooms. The importance his wealth conferred on him had encouraged this defect: he talked to most people, even to ladies, with a plainness which verged on cynicism and grossness. Nevertheless, when he came across a person of political importance whom he desired to propitiate, this bluntness vanished and became flattery that was almost servile. But the farce, however well played, deceived no one. The Duke of Requena was regarded as a very wily old fox; no one believed a word he said, or allowed himself to be deluded by that blunt _bonhomie_. Those who had dealings with him were on their guard even when feigning confidence and satisfaction. Still, as always happens with a man who has succeeded in raising himself, the faults which every one recognised--or to be exact, his ill-fame--did not hinder his neighbours from respecting him, talking to him hat in hand and with a smile on their lips, even when they had no need of him. Men not unfrequently humble themselves for the mere pleasure of it. Salabert well knew this innate tendency of the human spine to bend, and took unfair advantage of it. Many men in quite independent circumstances not only took from him impertinence which they would have thought intolerable in their oldest friend, but even sought his society. * * * * * "We will see, we will see," he repeated, when Llera recapitulated the scheme for getting sole control of the mines. "You are too full of fancies. Your head is too hot. That does not do in business. We must take care not to get into the same scrape as we did with the granaries." By Llera's advice the banker had constructed granaries in some of the principal towns of Spain, and they had not proved such a success as had been hoped. However, as the undertaking had been on a moderate scale the losses, too, had not been great. But the Duke, who had bewailed them as though they had been enormous, and had not spared his secretary much gross insult, was always reminding him of the disaster. It served him as a weapon when he wished to depreciate Llera's schemes, though he would afterwards avail himself of them, and owed to them considerable additions to his wealth. By such means he kept him in subjection, ignorant of his real value, and ready to undertake any task however disagreeable. Llera, though somewhat mortified by this reminder, still insisted that the transaction now under consideration would infallibly succeed if it were conducted on the lines he had suggested. Salabert abruptly closed the discussion by changing the subject. He briefly inquired into the business of the day. The loss of some money he had advanced for a relation in Valencia put him into a frantic rage; he stamped and fumed like a bull stung by the darts, called himself a thousand fools, and actually had the face to declare, in Llera's presence, that his good nature would be the ruin of him. The whole loss amounted to about four or five thousand dollars. The form of loan which Requena adopted to his most intimate friends was this: he paid the sum usually in paper, demanding six per cent. on the securities deposited, and besides this he himself cut off the coupons, and claimed the dividends. So that the securities, instead of bringing in the net interest, yielded him six per cent. more. These were the dealings to which he was prompted, not by interest, but by kindness of heart! He left Llera's office in a state of fury, went to the counting-room, and learning there that it was necessary to draw on the bank for nine thousand dollars in currency, he himself took charge of the cheque, after having signed it; he would have to go there to a meeting of directors, and it would be no trouble to him as he passed to get it cashed. He went out on foot, as was his custom in the morning. The birds were singing in the beautiful trees which bordered the walks. It was quite clear that they had incurred no bad debts. The Duke cursed their foolish trick of singing, and would not listen to their gleeful trills. He walked on slowly with a gloomy scowl, taking no notice of the greetings of the gardeners and the gate-keeper, biting his huge cigar with more than usual viciousness. In the street, however, his face somewhat recovered its tone. He had a pleasant and useful meeting with the President of the Council of State, who likewise was fond of an early walk, and who bowed to him in the Avenue de Recoletos; they stood talking for a few minutes, and he availed himself of the opportunity of recommending to the President, with the intentional bluntness which he affected, the prospectus of certain salt-marshes in which he was interested. Then, at a deliberate pace, gazing with his prominent, guileless eyes at the passers by, and more especially at the fresh damsels hastening home from market with their baskets loaded, and their cheeks rosy from the effort, he proceeded to the Bank of Spain. Numbers of persons lifted their hats to him, now and again he paused for a moment, shook hands with one or another, and after exchanging a few words with an acquaintance, went on his way. It was still early. Before reaching the Bank, it occurred to him that he would go to see his friend and connection Calderón, whose warehouse and counting-house were in the Calle de San Felipe Neri, still in the state in which his father had left them--that is to say, very poverty-stricken, not to say dirty and squalid. In these quarters, where the light filtered in through panes darkened by dust and protected by clumsy ironwork, and where the smell of hides was perfectly sickening, old Calderón with mechanical regularity had accumulated dollar on dollar, till several piles of a million each had formed there. His son Julian had made no change. Though he was one of the wealthiest bankers in Madrid he had not given up the hide warehouse and the small profits which this business brought in--small as compared with those on securities and stocks which the banking house dealt in. Calderón was a banker of a different type from Salabert. He was of an essentially conservative temper, timid in speculation, always preferring small profits to large when there was any risk. His intelligence was somewhat limited, cautious, hesitating and circumspect. Every new undertaking struck him as madness. When he saw a friend embarking on one he smiled maliciously, and congratulated himself on the superior shrewdness with which he was gifted; if it turned out well he would shake his head, saying with determined foreboding: "Those who laugh last, laugh longest." At home he was parsimonious, nay stingy to a scandal; and though the house was kept on a comparatively luxurious footing, this was partly the result of his wife's entreaties, and the raillery of his friends, but even more of his conviction, slowly formed, that some external prestige was indispensable, if he was to compete with the numbers of skilful financiers established in the capital. But after having bought good furniture, he insisted on such care being taken of it, such refinements of precaution on the part of the servants and his wife and children, that they were really the slaves of these costly possessions. Then with regard to the carriage, it is impossible to imagine the anxieties and agitations without end which it cost him. Every time the coachman told him that a horse wanted shoeing it was a fresh worry. He had a pair of French mares of some value, and he loved them as he loved his children, or more. He drove them out of an evening; but never to go to the theatre for fear of cold; he would rather see his wife walk or take a hired carriage than expose them to any risk. And if one of them really fell ill, there are no words for our banker's state of mind; anxiety and dejection were written in his face. He went frequently to see the animal, patted and petted her, and would often assist the coachman and the vet. in applying the remedies, however unpleasant. Till the invalid had recovered no one in the house had any peace. As a husband he was most officious; but in this he was hardly to blame. His wife's apathy was such that if he had not taken charge of the kitchen accounts and the store-cupboard keys, God knows how the house would have been kept. Mariana did nothing and gave no orders. Any other woman would have felt humiliated by finding herself obliged to refer to her husband at every moment for the most trifling details of domestic life, but she took it quite as a matter of course, and found it most convenient, when Calderón's stinginess did not make itself too pressingly felt. Her part was that of a child in the house, and she was quite content to play it. The person who sometimes dumbly rebelled against the exclusive centralisation of all administrative power in the master's hands was Mariana's mother, the diminutive lady with deep set eyes, of whom mention was made in the first chapter. Her protests indeed were neither frequent nor lengthy. At heart she and her son-in-law were in perfect agreement. The old woman, the widow of a provincial merchant, who herself had helped in saving his capital, was even more devoted to order and economy than Calderón himself--that is to say, more sordidly thrifty. For this reason she never would have endured to live with her son; his expensive tastes, and, yet more, Clementina's extravagance and disreputable caprices enraged her, and would have embittered every moment of her life. In Calderón's house she was inspector or spy over the servants, and she filled the part to admiration. Her son-in-law could rest in confidence, and thanks to this and to his expectation that Mariana would be enriched by her will, he showed far more consideration for her than for his wife. Salabert was at heart not less covetous than Calderón, and hardly less timid; but his intellect was very superior, his cowardice was counterbalanced by a strong infusion of bounce, and his avarice by a profound knowledge of mankind. He knew very well that the paraphernalia and ostentation of wealth have a marked influence on the minds of the most indifferent, and contribute in a great measure to inspire the confidence without which no important enterprise can prosper. Hence the luxury in which he lived--his palace, his servants, and the famous balls he occasionally gave to the fashionable world of Madrid. For Calderón he had a profound contempt, though at the same time his society put him into a good humour. As he contemplated his friend's inferiority he swelled in his own esteem, regarding himself as a greater man than he really was, and deriving from it the liveliest satisfaction. He not only judged himself to have more cleverness and astuteness--the only superior qualities he really possessed--but, to be, by comparison, generous and liberal, almost a prodigy. Panting and puffing he went into the dark warehouse in the Calle de San Felipe Neri, producing the usual effect of amazing, crushing, annihilating the clerks of the house, to whom the Duke de Requena was not merely the greatest man in Spain, but a quite supernatural being. His visit impressed them with the same reverence and enthusiasm, awe and adoration, as the appearance of the Mikado arouses in the Japanese. And if they did not prostrate themselves with their foreheads in the dust, they coloured up to their ears, and for some minutes they could not put pen to paper, nor attend to the requirements of a customer. They looked at each other with awe-stricken eyes, repeating in an undertone, what indeed they all knew: "The Duke!" "The Duke!" The Duke passed in, as usual when he by chance called there, without vouchsafing them a glance, and made his way to the little room where Calderón sat. Long before reaching him, he began shouting: "Caramba, Julian! When do you mean to get out of this hole? This is not a banking-house, it is a stye. Are you not ashamed to be seen here? Poof! Do you skin the beasts here, or what? The stink is intolerable." Calderón's private room was beyond the front office, a mere closet, separated from the rest by a partition of painted wood, with a spring door. Thus he could hear all that his friend was saying, before Salabert reached him. "What do you expect, man?" said he, somewhat nettled at his clerks being made the confidants of this philippic. "We are not all dukes, trampling millions under foot." "Millions! Does it need millions to keep an office clean and comfortable? You had better confess that you cannot bear to spend a peseta in making yourself decent. I have told you many times, Julian, you are poor, and you will be poor all your days. I should be richer with a thousand pence than you with a thousand dollars--because I know how to spend them." Calderón grumbled a protest and went on with his work. The Duke, without taking his hat off, dropped into the only easy chair, covered with white buckskin, or which ought to have been white, for it was of a doubtful hue now, between yellow and greenish-grey, with black patches where heads and hands were wont to rest. There were besides three or four stools covered with the same material, in the same state, a book-case full of bundles of papers, a small cash-box, an ancient walnut-wood writing-table covered with oil-cloth, and behind the table a greasy, shabby arm-chair in which the head of the house sat enthroned. This small room was lighted by a barred window, to ward off the prying looks of passers-by; there were blinds, which, being the cheapest and commonest of their kind, had this peculiarity, that one was much too wide and the other so short that it did not cover the lower pane by at least a quarter. "Why in the world don't you quit this blessed leather-shop, which is not worthy of a man of your position and fortune?" "Fortune--fortune!" muttered Calderón with his eyes still fixed on the paper he was writing on. "People talk of my fortune I know, but if I were compelled to liquidate, who knows what would come of it?" Calderón never confessed his wealth; he loved to crawl; any allusion to his riches annoyed him beyond measure. Salabert, on the contrary, loved to flourish his millions in the face of the world, and play the nabob, at the smallest possible cost of course. "Besides," Calderón went on with some acerbity, "every one looks at what comes in and never thinks of what goes out. Our expenses are greater every day. Have you any idea, now, of what our private expenditure has been this year? Come." "Nothing much," replied Requena, with a depreciating smile. "Nothing much? Why it amounts to more than seventy-five thousand dollars, and we are only in November." "What do you say?" exclaimed the Duke greatly astonished. "Impossible!" "As I tell you." "Come, come; do not try to throw dust in my eyes, Julian. Unless you include in the seventy-five thousand the cost of the house you are building in Calle Homo de la Mata." "Why, of course." At this Salabert burst into such a fit of laughing that he seemed about to choke; the cigar dropped out of his mouth, his face, usually so pale, turned so red as to be alarming, and the fit of coughing which ensued was so violent that it threatened him with congestion. "My dear fellow, I thank you! That is really delicious," he gasped between coughing and laughing. "I never thought of that before. Henceforth I will include in my household expenses all the paper I buy and the houses I build. I shall have accounts like a king's to show." The Duke's hearty and uproarious mirth annoyed and piqued Calderón out of all measure. "I really do not see what you are laughing at. The money goes out of the cash-box under the head of expenditure. And, at any rate, Antonio, a fool knows more of his own affairs than a wise man knows of his neighbours'." The Duke's visits to his friend had of late been somewhat frequent. He had been hovering round him a good deal to tempt him into the mining speculation. The moment was drawing near when the sale must come on, and meanwhile he was anxious to secure the co-operation of some of the more important shareholders. Don Julian was one, not merely by reason of the capital he represented, but by the position he held. He enjoyed the reputation in the financial world of being a very cautious, or indeed suspicious man; thus his name as participator in a speculation was a guarantee of its security, and this was what Salabert required. So he was anxious not to vex him seriously, and changed the subject. With the curious suppleness and cunning which lay beneath his abrupt roughness, he managed to put him in a good humour by praising his foresight in a certain case when he would not be caught, reflecting on the folly of some rival dealers, and implying Calderón's superior skill and penetration. When he had got him into the right frame of mind he spoke, for the third or fourth time, in vague terms, of the mining company. He mentioned it as an unattainable vision, just to whet his friend's appetite. "If they only could buy up the mine one of these days, what a stroke of business that would be! He had never in his life met with a better. Unfortunately the Government were not disposed to sell. However--damn it all! By a little good management and steady perseverance, in time perhaps--meanwhile what was wanted were a few men who could afford to invest a good round sum. If they were not to be found in Spain they must be sought elsewhere." At the mere notion of a speculation Calderón shrank as a snail does when it is touched. And this was so big a thing, to judge from the vague hints the Duke threw out, that he completely disappeared into his shell. Then, when Salabert spoke rather more plainly, he turned gloomy and dull, uneasy and suspicious, as if he expected to be bled there and then of an exorbitant sum. When Requena had finished a long and rather incoherent speech, which was almost a monologue, he abruptly rose: "Ta ta, Julianito, I am off to the Bank." He took out a fresh cigar, and without offering one to Calderón, who did not smoke, he lighted it for form's sake; but he at once let it go out and began chewing it as usual. Don Julian gave a sigh of relief. "Always in a state of feverish activity," said he with a smile, holding out his hand. "Always on the track of money!" Just as he reached the door Calderón remembered that he might make something out of this visit. "I say, Antonio, I have a heap of Londrès. Do you want them? I will let you have them cheap." "No, I don't want any at present. What do you ask for them?" "Forty-seven." "Are there many of them?" "Eight thousand pounds in all." "Well, I really don't want them, but it is a good bargain. Good-bye." He went to the Bank, assisted at the meeting, and after cashing his cheque for nine thousand dollars, went out with his friend Urreta, another of the great Madrid bankers. On reaching the Puerta del Sol they shook hands to part. "Which way are you going?" asked Salabert. "I am going to Calderón's office to see if he happens to be able to help me to some Londrès." "Quite useless," said the other promptly. "I have just bought up all he had." "That is unlucky. What did you give for them?" "Forty-seven ten." "Not very cheap. But I need them badly, so I should have taken them." "Do you really need them?" said Salabert, putting his arm on the other's shoulders. "I do indeed." "Then I will be your Providence. How many do you want?" "A large quantity, at least ten thousand pounds." "Oh I cannot do that, but I can send you eight thousand this evening." Urreta's face beamed with a grateful smile. "My dear fellow, I cannot allow it. You want them yourself." "Not so much as you do, and even if I did, you know my regard for you. You are the only Guipuzcoan of brains I ever met with," and as he spoke he patted him affectionately on the shoulder. They shook hands once more, Urreta pouring out a flood of grateful speeches, to which Salabert replied with the rough frankness which so greatly enhanced the merits of any service he might render; then they parted. The Duke instantly got into a coach from the stand. "Go to Calle de San Felipe Neri, No.----." "Yes, Señor Duque." The Duke raised his head to look at the man. "So you know me?" and without waiting for a reply, he jumped in and shut the door. "Julian, Julian," he shouted to his friend before opening the door into Calderón's office. "I have come to do you a service. You are in luck, you wretch! Send me home those Londrès." "Ha, ha!" exclaimed Julian with a triumphant smile. "So you want them?" "Yes, my dear fellow, yes. I always want the thing you want to get rid of. Good-bye." And without going into the little office, he let go of the spring door he had held open, and left. He desired the coachman to drive to a house in one of the northern quarters of the city, and reclined in a corner, munching his cigar and smoking with evident gratification. For our banker felt as much satisfaction after committing this piece of rascality, after cheating his friend of so many pesetas, as the righteous man knows after doing an act of justice or charity. His imagination, always on the alert when money might be made, wandered over the various concerns in which he was engaged, and the vehicle meanwhile carried him on towards the Hippodrome. More especially he dwelt on the mines of Riosa; the longer he thought of Llera's scheme, the better it pleased him. Still, it had its weak points, and he meditated on the means of fortifying them. It was not yet late. Salabert had time still to pay one of those unavowed visits which form an item in the social round of many a man whose virtues are more conspicuous, and whose vices less blatant than his. He dismissed the coach he had hired, and, his call paid, he walked home. As soon as he found himself in his private room, he put his hand in his pocket to take out his note-book. His face, which had shone with satisfaction at the consciousness of carrying about with him the golden key to every pleasure on earth, suddenly fell. A cloud of anxiety came over it. He felt more thoroughly. The pocket-book was not there. He tried all his other pockets. The same result. "Damnation," he muttered, "I have been robbed. Robbed of ten thousand odd dollars. Curse my ill luck! If a day begins badly--three thousand dollars gone in a bad debt, and now nearly eleven thousand in a lump! A pretty morning's work I must say!" He started to his feet and rang the bell vehemently for Llera. When the factotum appeared, he was walking up and down the room, strangely excited for a man who owned so many millions. He explained the case to the clerk. A torrent of words, growls, foul expletives, poured from his lips, and he flung away his half-chewed cigar, a sign of excessive disturbance. "Possibly, Señor, you have not been robbed," Llera suggested, "you may have lost it. Where have you been?" But this was a question the Duke was not prepared to answer. "Damn it, what concern is that of yours?" he replied. "Do you suppose I am likely to have lost eleven thousand dollars? That is to say, lost them--of course I have. But some one else found them before they touched the ground." "The best thing you can do, Señor Duque, is to let me go over the ground wherever you have been." "I will go myself after luncheon. Go, if you have nothing else to suggest but calling on all my acquaintances." Requena went downstairs, dismaying the house like a bombshell, not indeed of powder or dynamite, since uproariousness was not part of his nature, but of sulphuric acid or corrosive sublimate, which trickled into every corner and annoyed and burnt every one in turn. His wife, his lodge-keeper, his cook, Llera, and almost every one of his clerks, had some coarse insult flung in their teeth, in the tone of cynical brutality which he affected. After luncheon he was about to go out on his quest, when a servant came to tell him that a hackney coachman wished to speak with him. "What does he want?" "I do not know. He said he wanted to see the Duke." Salabert, with a sudden flash of intuition, said: "Show him up." The man who came in was the driver of the coach which had conveyed him from Calderón's office to his mistress's house. The Duke looked at him anxiously. "What is it?" "This, Señor Duque, which is your excellency's no doubt," said the man, holding out the pocket-book. The Duke seized it, hastily opened it, and shaking out the pile of bank notes it contained, counted them with the skill and rapidity of a practised hand. When he had done, he said: "All right; there are none missing." The man, who had no doubt looked for some reward, stood still for a minute or two. "It is all right, my good fellow, quite right. Many thanks." Then the poor man, with angry disappointment stamped on his face, turned to go, muttering good-day. The Duke looked at him with cruel humour, and before he had reached the door called after him with deliberate sarcasm: "Look here, my man, I give you nothing, because to so honest a fellow as you the best reward is the satisfaction of having done right." The coachman, at once puzzled and vexed, looked at him with an indescribable expression. His lips parted as if he were about to speak, but he finally left the room without a word. CHAPTER V. PRECIPITANCY. Raimundo Alcázar--for this was the name of the pertinacious youth who had so provoked Clementina by following her when we first had the honour of making her acquaintance--met the wrathful glance she had fired at him as she went into her sister-in-law's house with perfect and resigned submission. He waited for a moment to see whether she had gone thither merely on a message, and finding she did not come out again, he placidly walked away in the direction of the little Plaza de Santa Cruz. He stopped in front of a flower-stall. The florist smiled as he drew near, recognising him as an old customer, and took up a bouquet of white roses and violets, which no doubt were awaiting him. He then went to the Plaza Mayor, and took the tramcar for Carabanchel. At the turning which leads to the Cemetery of San Isidro he got out and proceeded on foot. On reaching the graveyard he hastily ascended the slope and went into the new enclosure, where, as the law directs, the dead are laid in graves, and not in long vaulted galleries. He went on with a swift step to a tomb covered with a white marble slab, and enclosed by a little railing. There he stopped. For some minutes he stood still, gazing at it. On the stone, in black letters, was the name, _Isabel Martinez de Alcázar_. Below the name, two dates--1842-1883--those, no doubt, of the birth and death of the dead who slept below. A few faded flowers lay there, which Raimundo carefully removed, and untying the bunch he had brought with him, he scattered the fresh blossoms on the grave, and used the string to tie up the dead ones. With these in one hand and his hat in the other he again stood for some minutes contemplating the spot, with tears in his eyes. Then he walked quickly away without a single curious glance at the other sepultures. Raimundo Alcázar had lost his mother eight or nine months ago. He had never known his father, or, rather, he had no recollection of him, since he was but four years old at the time of his parent's death. His name, too, had been Raimundo, and at the time of his death he had filled a professor's chair at the University of Segovia. When he had first married he had been a youth waiting for an appointment. Isabel's father, a dealer in forged iron in the Calle de Esparteros, had in consequence refused his consent, and only sanctioned their union when at last Alcázar won the professorship above mentioned. He was a young fellow of exceptional talents, and published some works on geology, the branch of science to which he had devoted himself. His death, at the age of thirty-two, was much lamented in the small circle to whom men of science are known in Spain. Isabel, with her little son, returned to her father's house in Madrid, and there, three months after her husband's death, she gave birth to a daughter, who was baptised by the name of Aurelia. Isabel was a remarkably handsome woman, and, as the only child of a man who was supposed to be in easy circumstances, she did not lack for suitors. But she refused every offer. Her friends called her romantic, perhaps because she had more mind and heart than they could generally boast of. She appreciated talent, and detested the prosaic beings who almost exclusively constituted her father's social circle. She worshipped the memory of her husband, whom she had adored while he lived, as a man of superior talents; she treasured with the greatest care every eulogy that had appeared in print on his works; the sole desire and aim of her life was that her son should tread in his father's footsteps, and become respected for his talents and eminence. Heaven blessed her aspirations. At first she saw him growing up before her eyes the living image of his father. Not in face only, but in gesture and voice, he was exactly like him. Then the boy's progress at school caused her the keenest joy. He was intelligent and studious. His masters were always entirely satisfied with him. Every word of praise which came to her ears, every mark of approbation written against his name, gave the poor mother the most exquisite delight. Now she had no doubt that he would inherit his father's gifts. She was stricken with remorse sometimes when she reflected how far from equitably she divided her affection between her two children. Whatever efforts she might make to preserve the equilibrium, she could not but confess that she loved Raimundo much the best. Her devoted affection was shown in constant petting and small cares, which pampered the boy and weakened his character. She brought him up with excessive fondness. He, on his part, loved her with such exclusive ardour that at times it was almost a fever. Every time he had to leave the shelter of her petticoats to go to school it cost him some tears. He insisted on her watching him from the balcony, and before turning the corner of the street he looked round twenty times to kiss his hand to her. Even when he was grown up and a science-student, Isabel still kept up the habit of going out on the balcony to wave him an adieu when he went to his lectures. Either by nature, or perhaps in consequence of this rather effeminate education, Raimundo was a timid boy, indifferent to the sports of his companions; and he grew up a melancholy youth, and a serious and uncommunicative man. He had scarcely any friends. At college he joined his fellow-students in a walk before going in to lecture but as soon as it was over he went home, and did not care to go out unless with his mother and sister. Long before that, when he was no more than ten years old his grandfather died. Thus, by the time he was sixteen, he had to play the part of the man in the house. He took his mother to the theatre, accompanied her in paying visits, and sometimes in the evening, when the weather was fine, he took her out for a walk, giving her his arm like her husband or sweetheart. Isabel's beauty did not desert her with years. Those who saw them together never supposed they could be mother and son, but rather sister and brother, if not a married pair. This was the cause of some distress to the lad. As in Madrid men are not remarkable for respect for the fair sex, he used to overhear, in spite of himself, complimentary speeches, or even bold addresses from the passers-by to his mother. And as he heard them, he felt a strange mixture of shame and pleasure, of jealousy and pride; the position of a son in such a case is extremely peculiar and embarrassing. Old Martinez, his grandfather, after retiring from business, had lost all his savings. They had been invested partly in a gunpowder-making company which had failed, and partly in Government stock. All he had to leave was an income of from seven to eight thousand pesetas. On this the three lived very thriftily, though they did not lack the necessaries of life. On a second floor in the Calle de Gravina, Raimundo pursued his scientific studies. He hoped to become a professor, like his father, and, seeing how brilliantly he passed every examination, no one doubted that he soon would attain that position; but, instead of turning his attention to geology, he preferred the study of zoology, and more especially that of butterflies. He began making a collection, and displayed so much eagerness and intelligence that, before long, he was possessed of a very fine one. Before he had left college he was already remarkable as an entomologist. The walls of his room were lined with cabinets, containing the rarest and most precious specimens. For two years he saved up his pocket-money to buy a microscope, and at last was able to purchase a fairly good one, which was as useful as it was delightful. The day he took his doctor's degree, when he was just one-and-twenty, Isabel experienced one of those joys that mothers alone can know. She embraced him, shedding a flood of tears. "Now, mamma," said he, "I am qualified to compete for a professorship. I shall devote myself to preparing for it, and as soon as I succeed I shall renounce anything you may be able to leave me in favour of Aurelia. I have few wants, and can live on my salary." These generous words went to the mother's heart; she found fresh reason every day for adoring this model son. Raimundo now plunged into his studies with ardour, working up the special branches required without neglecting his entomology. Thanks to this, and to the honoured name of his father, he was soon eminent among men of science. He wrote some papers, corresponded with various foreign _savants_, and had the satisfaction of receiving from them the most encouraging praises. He was, it may be said, a happy man. He had no desires for the impossible to devour his soul, no tormenting love-affairs, or intrusive friends; he enjoyed the peace of home-life, the love of his family, and the pure delights of science; his days glided on in tranquillity and happiness. His mother's friends were amazed at such virtuous simplicity. Had Raimundo no love entanglement? Did he not care for women? And Isabel would reply with a smile of evident satisfaction: "I do not know. I believe he has never yet thought of such a thing. He is so tied to my apron-string that he is like a child of three. He would find it hard, to be sure, to meet with a woman who would love him as I do." And it was as she said. She kept him wrapped in such an atmosphere of protection, of warm and loving care, as he could never have found with a wife, however devoted she might be. Only mothers have this gift of absolute and unwearying self-sacrifice, never hoping for or dreaming of a return. Raimundo's every need of a practical kind was satisfied with a refined completeness which few men enjoy. He had never known what it was to have to think how he was fed, clothed, and shod, or to take any care for necessaries such as many women do not understand. Every detail of his life was foreseen and arranged for him. He might devote himself wholly to the exercise of his intellect. If he complained of a taste in his mouth, his mother was at his bedside early in the morning with an effervescing saline draught; if his head ached there was a soothing drink at bed-time. If he coughed in the night, ever so little, Isabel could not rest till she had stolen into his room in her nightshift to see that he had not thrown off his bedclothes. As soon as Aurelia was old enough she too helped her mother in the task of averting every pain and removing even the tiniest thorns from the young entomologist's path. Unhappily--though we might also say very naturally, since happiness cannot last in this world--this blissful course of life came to a sudden end. Isabel fell ill of bronchitis which she could not completely shake off, either because she neglected it or because the physician had hesitated to apply sufficiently severe treatment. It left her with a catarrh of the lungs which weakened her greatly. Then, by the doctor's advice, she went to the baths of Panticosa with Raimundo, leaving Aurelia in the care of some relations. She rallied a little, but fell ill again within a few days of returning to Madrid. She was then visibly failing; so much so that her friends could plainly see that she was dying. Never for a moment did such a notion enter her son's head. His life was so bound up with hers that the two seemed as one. Things went on as they almost always do with the sick who do not know that they are dying. Isabel, though very weak, carried on the housekeeping with her usual care. Raimundo, indeed, had entreated her, and then, taking advantage of his influence over her, had commanded her to rest; but she, evading his vigilance, and prompted by the invincible impulse which busy natures feel to be doing something, would not give up her duties. One day, when she was already almost dying, Raimundo found her on her knees dusting the legs of a table. He was quite horrified, and, chiding her affectionately, helped her up with many kisses. A pious friend, who came to see her, thought proper to hint to her that she ought to confess. Isabel was painfully impressed; her son, coming in, found her weeping, and flew into a rage, breaking out vehemently against all such bigots. However, the sick woman, who was beginning to understand her danger, insisted gently but firmly on the priest being sent for. Raimundo, much annoyed, sent for the doctor to uphold him in his refusal. The physician at first replied evasively, then he said that it was at any rate being on the right side, that if strong people were liable to sudden death much more were the sickly. But even now light did not dawn on the young man's apprehension. After seeing the priest, Isabel went on as before, and this contributed to keep up his delusion. She rose in the morning, ate at table with them, went into the sitting-room on her son's arm, and spent the chief part of the day in an armchair. At the same time she was so excessively thin that those who saw her only at long intervals were quite shocked. And yet she did not lose her beauty; on the contrary, it seemed to have increased, her complexion was clearer and more delicate, and her eyes brighter. One morning she said she would rather not get up. Raimundo sat down by her bed reading a novel. She presently said: "I am uncomfortable. Lift me up a little; I have no strength." He rose to do it, and at that very instant his mother's head drooped on one side and she was dead, without a sigh, without the smallest gesture or sign of suffering--like a bird, to use a vulgar but expressive phrase. The young man's despairing cry brought in the people of the house. Some relations took him and his sister away to their own home; in the state of stupor in which he was, there was no difficulty in getting him to go whithersoever they would. That same evening some of his college friends came to see him and found him in fairly good spirits, which amazed them, knowing the passionate devotion to his mother he had always professed. He discussed scientific matters for a long time, expressing himself with greater volubility than usual. This led them to suspect that he was under the influence of some violent excitement, and the suspicion was confirmed when he proposed to play at cards. They yielded, but presently the young fellow began to talk quite at random. "What do you think of the game, mamma?" he asked of a lady who was playing. All those present looked at each other with consternation and pity. After this he became quite incoherent. His excitement increased, he began laughing so wildly that no one could doubt that it must end in a violent nervous attack. And, in fact, when they least expected it, he started from his seat, ran to the window, threw it open, and would have flung himself from the balcony, if they had not stopped him. This ended in acute hysterics, which happily were soon over, and then to collapse, compelling him to remain in bed three or four days. Time at last exerted its soothing power. At the end of a fortnight he was well again, though a prey to extreme dejection, from which his relations and friends vainly strove to rouse him. His uncle proposed that the brother and sister should continue to live with him, since Raimundo was young to be at the head of a house, and especially to guard and guide Aurelia. He was now three-and-twenty and she eighteen. But neither of them would listen to the plan. They would live alone and together. They took third floor rooms in the Calle de Serrano, very pretty and sunny, and thither they transferred their furniture; once installed there they continued their former life, sadly, no doubt, under the ever present remembrance of their mother, but calmly and contentedly. Raimundo centred all his thoughts and care in Aurelia. Anxious to fulfil his part as father and protector to the young girl, he did for her what his mother had hitherto done for him, surrounding her with kindness, and cherishing her with a tenderness which touched all who saw them. Aurelia was not beautiful nor particularly clever, but for her brother she felt the passionate adoration she had inherited from her mother. Nevertheless, in the details of daily life the young man sorely missed his mother. Aurelia did her utmost to prevent his feeling her absence, but she was far from achieving the same delicate anticipation of his needs. By degrees she became more expert in the management of the house, and Raimundo, on his part, did not look for the refined comfort of a past time. The feeling of guardianship, and the consciousness of his own duties towards his sister, made him think less of himself. If, on the other hand, some little attention from Aurelia came to him as a surprise he accepted it as though from a child. Thus their lives supplemented each other. They lived humbly; their rent came to twenty dollars; they kept a single maid. Thus their little income of twelve hundred dollars was sufficient for their needs. As it was derived from dividends on State securities and shares in a manufactory, it was regularly paid. Raimundo was able to dedicate himself with renewed ardour to his studies; he longed to fulfil to his sister the promise he had made his mother, of renouncing his share of their inheritance, and saving for her a little fortune which might enable her to marry well. Ever since his illness he had gone twice a week to lay flowers on his mother's grave; on Sundays he took Aurelia with him. As a rule he went out very little. The studies requisite to fit him to compete for a professorship on the one hand, and on the other his passion as a collector and naturalist, absorbed almost the whole of his time. It was a wonder indeed if he were seen in a café, and being in mourning he did not go to the play. One day when he happened to be at a bookseller's in the Carrera San Jeronimo, where he frequently amused himself by turning over new works from abroad, an elegantly dressed woman came into the shop. Raimundo's eyes dilated at the vision, resting on her with such a fixed look of admiration, that she was fain to turn away. While she bought a few French novels he contemplated her with rapture and emotion; the book he was holding shook in his hand. As she went out he hastily laid it down to follow her; but a carriage was waiting for her. The man-servant, hat in hand, opened the door, and the horses instantly snatched her from his sight. "What is it, Don Raimundo?" said the bookseller, as he came into the shop again. "Are you struck by my fair customer?" The young man smiled to conceal his agitation, and replied with feigned indifference: "Who could fail to notice such a beautiful creature? Who is she?" "Do not you know her? She is the wife of a banker named Osorio, and Salabert's daughter." "Ah! Salabert's daughter! Then she lives in that palace in the Avenue de Luchana?" "No, Señor. She lives in the Calle don Ramon de la Cruz." He wanted no more. Away he went. This lady bore a singular likeness to his mother. The state of his mind, still grieving and sore, made the resemblance seem to him greater than it really was, and it impressed him vividly. A few minutes later he was walking up and down in front of the Osorios' house; but he did not succeed in catching another glimpse of the lady. The next day he went to walk in the Retiro, and there again he met her. Thenceforth he watched and followed her with a constancy which betrayed the strong hold she had on his feelings. Though he at no time forgot his mother's face, Clementina Salabert brought it yet more vividly before him, and this gave him a pathetic pain in which he revelled, paradoxical as it may seem. But any one who has lost a loved face from the world will understand it; there is a kind of luxury in uncovering the wound, and renewing the pain and regret. Raimundo could not gaze long at Clementina's features without feeling the tears on his cheeks; and this, perhaps, was why he so constantly sought her. In her face there was indeed a hardness and severity which his mother's had never had; but when she smiled and all sternness vanished the resemblance was really amazing. Our young man was well aware of the annoyance his pursuit caused her. At the same time he could not help laughing to himself at her misapprehension of the case. "If this lady could know," he would say to himself, as he saw her lips curl with scorn, "why she fascinates me so much, how great would her astonishment be!" A current of attraction, it might be said of adoration, drew him to her. But for her forbidding dignity, he might very possibly have addressed her, have explained to her the strange consolation he derived from her presence. But Clementina moved in so distant a sphere that he dreaded her contempt. It was enough that she should so evidently scorn him for his joy in beholding her. On the other hand, he had heard rumours greatly to her discredit; but he took no pains to confirm them--in the first place, because they did not concern him, and also because if they proved to be true he would be compelled to think ill of her, and he could not bear that a woman so like his mother should be, in fact, disreputable. He would know nothing, he would be content to indulge, as often as he could, that strange longing to revive his grief and move himself to tears. As he did not live in fashionable society and could not go to the theatre to procure this satisfaction, he had no choice but to haunt her in the streets or the parks when she was out driving. He also attended Mass on Sundays at the Jeronymite church, and there he could contemplate her at his ease and leisure. He had told Aurelia of his discovery, but he had not pointed the lady out to her. He was afraid lest Aurelia should not see the likeness so clearly as he did, and should thus despoil him of his illusion. Clementina went out walking two or three times a week, in the afternoon, as she had done on the day when we made her acquaintance. Raimundo, from the window of his study in the Calle de Serrano spied her approach, as from an observatory, and when he discerned her from afar, down he went to follow her as far as he could. This persecution vexed the lady all the more, as it was at this hour that she went to visit her lover. Not that it was a matter of any particular importance that this new connection should become known, but for a remnant of shame which survived in her. No woman, however unblushing, can bear to be seen entering her lover's dwelling. Moreover, she knew, for she had heard it quite lately, that a husband who, finding out his wife's guilt, kills her on the spot, is held excused. Now, as she knew that Osorio hated her, she was afraid lest he might take advantage of this excuse to get rid of her. These vague terrors, added to that residue of decency, increased her rage against Raimundo. Her violent and imperious temper rose in arms at this unforeseen interference. She had not even paid any particular attention to the young man's appearance. She hated him without troubling herself to look at him. His indifference and submission to the utter contempt which she did not attempt to conceal, was also an offence. It was evident that this youngster was making game of her; if he were love-stricken he could not possibly show so much serene cynicism. No doubt he had discovered that he annoyed her, and meant to insult her out of revenge. And beyond a doubt he succeeded perfectly. The turns she was compelled to take in order to elude him, the visits she paid against her will, and all the terrors his pursuit cost her, rendered him more odious to her every day, and made her blood boil. She went out in the carriage, drove to the Calatravas church, and there dismissed it; but Raimundo, after being deprived for some days of the sight of her, committed the extravagance of taking a hackney coach to keep up with her. This enraged her beyond measure, and she determined to put an end to the intolerable persecution, though she did not know how. At first she asked Pepe Castro to speak to the youth and threaten him; but on seeing how coolly he took the proposal, she indignantly determined never to return to the subject. Then she thought of addressing him herself in the street, and desiring him, in a few words of freezing scorn, to annoy her no more. But when the opportunity offered she dared not--though timidity was not her besetting sin--the predicament seemed too delicate. She was still in this state of doubt and hesitancy, when one day, as she went down the Calle de Serrano, happening to look up, she spied the enemy on the look out, high above her. This suggested to her the idea of asking his name and writing to him. And with the vehemence which prompted all her actions she immediately went in, and inquired of the porter: "Would you be so good as to tell me who lives on the third floor here?" "A lady and gentleman, both quite young; a brother and sister. They have been here only four months; they are orphans. Not long since, it would seem----" The woman, seeing so elegant a lady, was ready to be communicative; but Clementina cut her short by asking: "What is the gentleman's name?" "Don Raimundo Alcázar." "Many thanks." And she hurried away. She went out into the street, but it struck her that writing to him would have its disadvantages, and that a verbal explanation would really be more satisfactory, since no one of her acquaintance could know anything about it. For a moment she paused in doubt; then she abruptly faced about and went in again. She passed the portress without saying a word, and lightly ran upstairs. On reaching the third floor, in spite of her determined spirit, her courage was somewhat dashed, and she was on the point of retreating. But her proud and haughty temper spurred her on, as she reflected that the young man must have seen her come in and would suspect her repentance. There were two doors on the landing. One set of rooms, as Clementina had observed, was to let, so she decided on knocking at the door on the left, since there was a mat outside--plain proof that it was inhabited. A maid answered the summons, and Clementina asked for Don Raimundo Alcázar. "I wish to see him" she added, on learning that he was at home. The girl showed her into the drawing-room, and as the visit struck her as strange, she asked whether she should announce it to the Señorita. "No. Tell Don Raimundo I want to speak to him." He, meanwhile, was sitting in his study, in a state of extreme agitation. On first seeing the lady enter the house, he had been startled without exactly knowing why. He recovered himself on seeing her depart, and was again excited when she came back. The idea that she might be coming up to his rooms flashed across his mind, but he immediately dismissed it as improbable. She must no doubt have come to call on one of the residents on the first or second floor, who were persons of fashion. Still, in spite of all reason, he could not be calm. When he heard the door-bell, he was aghast; he could hardly get so far as the ante-room, and before he could give the maid a sign, she had opened the door, compelling him to beat a hasty retreat. He was tempted to say he was not at home, even though the lady was in the sitting-room; but, after all, he made up his mind to go to her, reflecting that he had no rational motive for refusing. Raimundo had seen very little of the world. His mother's friends had been few--relations and two or three families of acquaintance. He, on his part, had done nothing to extend the circle, and, as has been said, had formed no intimacies with any of his fellow-students, much less had he any familiarity with the public or private entertainments of the capital. His youth and early manhood had been happily spent at home, in studying and arranging his butterflies. He knew life only from books. At the same time Nature had bestowed on him a frank and simple temper, some ease of speech, and a certain dignity of manner, which amply made up for the polish and distinction produced by constant friction with the upper ranks of society. He went into the drawing-room with perfect composure, nay, with a lurking sense of hostility roused by the lady's eccentric proceeding. He bowed low on entering. The situation was, in fact, so strange, that Clementina, in spite of her pride, her experience, and her indifference--it might almost be said her effrontery, was suddenly at a loss. It was only by an effort that she recovered her spirit. "Here I am, you see," she said in a sharp tone, which was strangely inappropriate and discourteous. "To what do I owe the honour of your visit?" replied Raimundo in a rather tremulous voice. "Well--" she paused for a moment, "you owe it to the honour you do me of following me everywhere like my shadow, as you have been doing these past two months. Do you suppose that it can be agreeable to be haunted whenever I appear in the street? In short, you have made me quite nervous, and to avoid injury to my health I have taken the ridiculous step of coming up here to beg you to cease your pursuit. If you have anything interesting to say to me say it at once and have done." She spoke the words impetuously, as feeling herself in a false position, and wishing to get out of it by an exaggerated display of annoyance. Raimundo looked at her in amazement, and this vexed Clementina, and added to her vehemence. "Señora, I am grieved to the soul to think that I should have offended you; nothing could be further from my intentions. If you could only know the feelings your face arouses in me!" he stammered out. Clementina broke in: "If you are about to make me a declaration of love, you may save yourself the trouble. I am married; and if I were not it would be just the same." "No, Señora, I have no such confession to make," said the young entomologist with a smile. "I will explain the matter. I can quite understand your having misunderstood the sentiments which prompt me, and it is natural that you should feel offended. How far you must be from suspecting the truth! I have not fallen in love with you. If I had I should certainly not follow you like a sort of street pirate--above all, under the circumstances----" Here Raimundo looked grave, and paused. Then he added precipitately, in a voice husky with emotion: "My mother died not long since, and you are wonderfully like her." He looked at her, as he spoke, with anxious attentiveness; there were tears in his eyes, and it was only by a great effort that he checked a sob. The confession roused Clementina's surprise and doubts. She stood still gazing at him for her part with fixed inquiry. Raimundo understood what must be passing in her mind, and opening the door into his study, he said: "See for yourself. See if what I say is not the truth." The lady advanced a few steps, and saw on the wall facing her, above the writing-table, an enlarged photograph of an exceptionally lovely woman, who, no doubt, bore some resemblance to herself, though it was not so striking as the young man fancied. The frame was wreathed with immortelles. "We are somewhat alike," said she, after studying the portrait attentively. "But this lady was far more beautiful than I." "No, not more beautiful. Her eyes were softer, and that gave her face an indescribable charm. It was her pure and loving soul which shone through them." He spoke with ardour, not heeding the want of gallantry the words implied. Clementina's pride suffered all the more from the simplicity and conviction of his tone; both contemplated the picture for a few seconds in silence. Tears trembled in Raimundo's eyes. At last the lady asked: "How old was your mother?" "Forty-one." "And I am five-and-thirty," she replied, with ill-disguised satisfaction. Raimundo looked at her once more. "Yes, you are younger and handsomer. But my mother's complexion was finer, though she was some years older. Her skin was as soft as satin, and there was no worn look about her eyes; they were like a child's. It was very natural. My mother's life was calm and uneventful; she had done nothing to wear out her body or soul." He was quite unconscious of implying anything rude to the lady whom he addressed. She was indeed exceedingly nettled, but she did not dare to show it, for the youth's grief and perfect sincerity inspired her with respect. She therefore changed the subject, glancing round the study, with some curiosity. "You collect butterflies it would seem." "Yes, Señora, from my childhood, and I have succeeded in getting together a very respectable number of varieties. I have some very beautiful and curious species--look here." Clementina went to one of the cabinets. Raimundo eagerly opened it and placed a tray in her hand full of lovely creatures of the most brilliant hues. "They really are very pretty and strange. Of what use are they when you have got them? Do you sell them?" "No, Señora," said he with a smile, "my object is purely scientific." "Ah!" And she glanced at him with surprise. Clementina had very little sympathy with men of science, but they inspired her with a vague respect mingled with awe, as beings of another race in whom some people discerned superior merits. "Then you are a naturalist?" she inquired. "I am studying with that view. My father was a naturalist." While he displayed his precious collection--not without the condescension with which the learned explain their labours to the profane--he gave her some insight into his simple existence. As he spoke of his mother's illness emotion again got the better of him, and the tears rose to his eyes. Clementina listened with interest, looking meanwhile at the drawers he placed before her, and speaking a few words of admiration of the martyred insects, or of sympathy as Raimundo related his mother's death. She affected to be cool and at her ease, but she could not quite dissemble her embarrassment in the anomalous situation to which her strange action had given rise. She released herself abruptly, as she did everything. She quite gravely held out her hand to the young man, saying: "Many thanks for your kindness, Señor Alcázar. I am glad to find that I have not been the object of such a pursuit as I had supposed. At the same time, nevertheless, I beg you not to repeat it. I am married, you see; it might be thought that I encouraged it, or had given you some reason----" "Be quite easy, Señora. From the moment when I know that it annoys you it shall cease. Forgive me on the score of the motive," and he pressed her hand with a natural and frank sympathy, which achieved the conquest of the lady. But she did not show it; on the contrary, she looked sternly grave and turned to go. Raimundo followed her, and as he passed her to open the door, he said with a smile of engaging candour: "I am but a nobody, Señora, but if some day you should wish to make use of my insignificant services, you cannot imagine what pleasure it would be to me!" "Thanks, thanks," said Clementina drily, without pausing. As they reached the door opening on the stairs, just as he was about to open it, Raimundo caught sight of his sister's little head peeping inquisitively into the passage. "Come here, Aurelia," said he. But the girl paid no heed and hastily withdrew. "Aurelia, Aurelia!" Very much against her will she came out into the anteroom, and approached smiling and as red as a cherry. "This is the lady of whom I spoke to you as being so like mamma." Aurelia looked at her not knowing what to say, still smiling and blushing. "Do you not think her very like?" "I do not see it," replied his sister after a moment's hesitation. "There, you see!" exclaimed Clementina, turning to him with a smile. "It was only a fancy, an hallucination on your part." There was a touch of annoyance in her tone. Aurelia's advent made her position more false than ever. "Never mind," said Raimundo, "I see the resemblance clearly, and that is enough." The door was standing open. "So pleased," said Clementina, addressing Aurelia without offering her hand, but with one of those frigid and condescending bows by which a woman of fashion at once establishes the distance which divides her from a new acquaintance. Aurelia murmured a few polite words. Raimundo went out on the landing to take leave of her, repeating his polite and cordial speeches, which did not seem to impress the lady, to judge from her grave reserve. She went downstairs, dissatisfied with herself and full of obscure irritation. It was not the first time, nor the second, that her impetuous nature had placed her in such a ridiculous and anomalous position. CHAPTER VI. THE SAVAGE CLUB OF MADRID. At two in the afternoon about a dozen of the most constant habitués of the Savage Club lay picturesquely scattered on the divans and easy chairs of their large drawing-room. In one corner was a group formed of General Patiño, Pepe Castro, Cobo Ramirez, Ramoncito Maldonado, and two other members with whom we have no concern. Apart from these sat Manolito Davalos, alone; and beyond him Pinedo with a party of friends. The attitudes of these young men--for they were most of them young--corresponded perfectly with the refinement which shone in every revelation of the elegance of their minds. One had his head on the divan and his feet on an armchair; another, while he curled his moustache with his left hand, was stroking the calf of his leg below his trousers with his right; one leaned back with his arms folded, and one condescended to rest his exquisite boots on the red velvet seats of two chairs. This _Club de los Selvajes_ is a parody rather than a translation of the English Savage Club. To be accurate, it is a translation of such graceful freedom that it keeps up the true Spanish spirit in close alliance with the British. In honour of its name, all the outward aspect of the club is extremely English. The members always appear in full dress every evening in the winter, in smoking jackets in the summer; the servants wear knee-breeches and powder; there is a spacious and handsome dining-room, a fencing court, dressing-rooms, bath-rooms, and a few bed-rooms; the club has, too, its own stables, with carriage and saddle horses for the use of the members. The Spanish character is revealed in various details of internal management. The most remarkable feature is a general lack of ready money, which gives rise to singular situations among the members themselves, and in their relations to the outer world, producing a complicated and beautiful variety which could nowhere be met with in any other city in Christendom. It more especially leads to an immense and inconceivable development of that powerful engine by which the nineteenth century has achieved its grandest and most stupendous efforts--Credit. Within the walls of the Madrid Savage Club there is as much business done on credit as in the Bank of England. Not only do the members lend each other money and gamble on credit, but they effect the same transactions with the club itself viewed as a responsible entity, and even with the club-porter, both as a functionary and as a man. Outside this narrow circle the _Savages_, carried away by their enthusiasm for credit, bring it into play in their relations with the tailor, the housekeeper, the coach-builder, the horse-dealer, and the jeweller, not to mention transactions on a large scale with their banker or landlord. Thanks to this inestimable element of economical science, coin of the realm has become almost unnecessary to the members of the club. Its function is beautifully fulfilled by an abstract and more spiritual medium--promises to pay, verbal or written. They live and spend as freely as their prototypes in London, without pounds sterling, shillings, dollars, and pesetas, or anything of the kind. The superior advantages of the Madrid Club in this respect are self-evident. Nor are they less in the cool and frank impertinence with which the members treat each other. By degrees they have quite given up the polite and ceremonious courtesy which characterises the solemn British gentleman; their manners have gained in local colour approaching more and more to those of the picturesque quarters of Madrid known as Lavapiés and Maravillas. Nature, race, and opportunity are elements it is impossible to resist, whether in politics or in social amusements. The club always begins to warm up after midnight, the fever is at its height at about three in the morning, and then it begins to cool down again. By five or six every one has gone piously to bed. During the day the place is comparatively deserted. Two or three dozen of the members drop in in the afternoon, before taking a walk, to colour their pipes. Stupefied by sleepiness they speak but little. They need the excitement of night to display their native talents in all their brilliancy. These are concentrated for the time on the noble task of bringing a meerschaum to a fine coffee-colour. If, as some assert, objects of art were once objects of utility, so that the notion of art involves that of usefulness, it must be confessed that, in the matter of their pipes, the members of the Savage Club work like true artists. They have them sent from Paris and London; on them are engraved the initials of the owner with the count's or marquis's coronet, if the smoker has a right to it; they keep them in elegant cases, and when they take them out to smoke, it is with such care and so many precautions that the pipes become more troublesome than useful. A "Savage" has been known to make himself ill by smoking cigar after cigar solely for the pleasure of colouring his mouthpiece sooner than his fellows. No one cares about the flavour of the tobacco; the only important point is to draw the smoke in such a way as to colour the meerschaum equally all over. Now and again taking out a fine cambric handkerchief, the smoker will spend many minutes in rubbing the pipe with the most delicate care, while his spirit reposes in sweet abstraction from all earthly cares. Grave, dignified, and harmonious in grace, the most select of the members of the club sucked and blew tobacco smoke from two till four in the afternoon. There is something confidential and pensive in the task, as in every artistic effort, which induces them to cast their eyes down and fix their gaze so as to enjoy more entirely the pure vision of the Idea which lies occult in every amber and meerschaum cigar-holder. In this elevated frame of mind lounged our friend Pepe Castro, smoking a pipe in the shape of a horse's leg, when the voice of Rafael Alcantara roused him from his ecstasy by calling across the room: "Then you have actually sold the mare, Pepe?" "Some days ago." "The English mare?" "The English mare?" he echoed, looking up at his friend with reproachful surprise. "No, my good fellow, the cross-bred." "Why, it is not more than two months since you bought her. I never dreamed of your wanting to get rid of her." "You see I did," said the handsome dandy, affecting an air of mystery. "Some hidden defect?" "No defect can be hidden from me," replied Alcantara haughtily. And every one believed him, for in this branch of knowledge he had no rival in Madrid, unless it were the Duke de Saites, who had the reputation of knowing more about horses than any other man in Spain. "Want of pace, then?" "No, nor that either." Rafael shrugged his shoulders, and turned to talk to his neighbours; he was a ruddy youth, with a dissipated face and small greenish eyes full of cruelty. Like some others who were to be seen at the club every day, he frequented the company of the aristocracy without having the smallest right. He was of humble birth, the son of an upholsterer in the Calle Mayor. He had at an early age spent the little fortune which had come to him from his father, and since then had lived by gambling and borrowing. He owed money to every one in Madrid, and boasted of the fact. The qualities for which he was still admitted to the best houses in the capital were his courage and his cynicism. Alcantara was really brave; he had fought three or four duels, and was always ready to fight again on the slightest pretext. He was, too, perfectly audacious; he always spoke in a tone of contempt, even to those who most deserved respect, and was disposed to make game of any one and every one. These characteristics had gained him great influence among his fellow "Savages;" he was treated an equal by all, and was indispensable to every ploy; but no one asked him for repayment of a loan. "Well, General, did you like Tosti's singing last night?" asked Ramoncito of General Patiño. "Only in her ballad," replied the General, after skilfully blowing a large cloud of smoke from a pipe made in the image of a cannon on its gun carriage. "You do not mean that she was not good in the duet?" "Certainly I mean it." "Then, Señor, I simply do not understand you; to me she seemed sublime," replied the young man, with some irritation. "Your opinion does you honour, Ramon. It is greatly to your credit," said Cobo Ramirez, who never missed an opportunity of vexing his friend and rival. "So I should think; that is as true as that you are the only person here of any judgment. Look here, Cobo, the General may talk because he has reasons for what he says--do you see? But you had better hold your tongue, for you wear my ears out." "But mercy, man! Why does Ramon lose his temper so whenever you speak to him?" asked the General laughing. "I do not know," said Cobo, with a whiff at his cigar, while he puckered his face into a slightly sarcastic smile. "If I contradict him he is put out, and if I agree with him it is no better." "Of course, of course! We all know that you are great at chaff. You need make no efforts to show off before these gentlemen. But in the present instance you have made a bad shot." "I am of the General's opinion. The duet was very badly sung," said Cobo, with aggravating coolness. "What does it matter what you say, one way or the other?" cried Maldonado, in a fury. "You do not know a note of music." "What then! I have all the more right to talk of music because I do not strum on the piano as you do. At any rate, I am perfectly inoffensive." This led to a long dispute, eager and incoherent on Ramon's part, cool and sarcastic on Cobo's; he delighted in putting his rival out of patience. This afforded much amusement to all present, and they sided with one or the other to prolong the entertainment. "Do you know that Alvaro Luna has a fight on hand this evening?" said some one when they were beginning to tire of "Just tell me," and "Let me tell you," from Cobo and Ramon. "So I heard," replied Pepe Castro, closing his eyes ecstatically as he sucked at his cigar. "In the Escalona's gardens, isn't it?" "I think so." "Swords?" "Swords." "Another honourable scar!" said Leon Guzman from where he was sitting. "Rapiers." "Oh! that is quite another thing." And the whole party became interested in the duel. "Alvaro has but little practice. The Colonel will have the best of it; he is the better man, and he fights with great energy." "Too much," said Pepe Castro, taking out his handkerchief, after throwing away his cigar-end, and wiping the mouthpiece with extreme care. Every one looked at him, for he had the reputation of being a first-rate swordsman. "Do you think so?" "Yes, I do. Energy is a good thing up to a certain point; beyond that it is dangerous, especially with rapiers. With the broadsword something may be done by a rapid succession of attacks; it may at any rate bother the adversary. But with pointed weapons you must keep a sharp look-out. Alvaro is not much given to sword-play, but he is very cool, very keen, and his lunge is perfection. The Colonel had better be careful." "The quarrel is about Alvaro's cousin?" "So it would seem." "What the devil can she matter to him?" "Pshaw! who knows!" "As he is not in love with her I do not understand." "Nothing is impossible." "The girl is a perfect minx! This summer at Biarritz, she and that Fonseca boy behaved in such a way on the terrace of the Casino at night, that they would have been worth photographing by a flash light!" "Why, Cobo, there, before he left, figured in some dissolving views in the garden." "Alas! too true; that girl compromised me desperately," said Cobo in a tone of comical despair. "Well, you had not much to lose. You lost your character by that affair with Teresa," said Alcantara. "Beauty and misfortune always go hand in hand," Ramon added ironically. "_Et tu_, Ramon!" exclaimed Cobo with affected surprise. "Why the time is surely coming when the birds will carry guns." "Well, gentlemen, I confess my weakness," said Leon Guzman. "I cannot go near that girl without feeling ill." "And the damsel cannot be near so sweet and fair a youth as you without feeling ill too," said Alcantara. "Do you want to flatter me, Rafael?" "Yes; into lending me the key of your rooms to-morrow, and not coming in all the afternoon. I want it." "But there is a servant who devotes himself to water-colour painting every afternoon." "I will give him two dollars to go and paint elsewhere." "And a lady opposite who spends all her time in looking out of her window to see what is done or left undone in my rooms." "She will have a real treat! I will shut the Venetians.--I say, Manolito, do you mean to pass the whole of your youth stretched on that divan without uttering a word?" Davalos was in fact lying at full length in a gloomy and dejected manner without even lifting his head to notice his friend's sallies. But on hearing his name, he moved, surprised and annoyed. "If you were in my place you would feel little inclined for jesting, Rafael," said he with a sigh. It should be said that the young Marquis, who had never had a very brilliant intelligence, had now for some time been suffering from a distinct cloud on his brain. He was slightly cracked, as it is vulgarly termed. His friends were aware that this depression was all the result of his rupture with Amparo, the woman who had since thrown herself on the Duke's protection. She had, in a very short space, consumed his fortune, but he still was desperately in love with her. They treated him with a certain protecting kindness that was half satirical; but they abstained from banter about his lady-love, unless occasionally by some covert allusions, because whenever they touched on the subject, Manolo was liable to attacks of fury resembling madness. He was hardly more than thirty, but already bald, with a yellow skin, pale lips, and dulled eyes. His sister-in-law had taken charge of his four little children. He lived in an hotel on a pension allowed him by an old aunt whose heir he was supposed to be; on the strength of this prospect some money-lenders were willing to keep him going. "If I were in your shoes, Manolito, do you know what I would do? I would marry that aunt." The audience laughed, for Manolo's aunt was a woman of eighty. "Well, well," said he, in a piteous voice, "you know very well that you have not had to spend the morning fighting with unconscionable usurers only to end by giving in--in the most shameful way," he added in an undertone. "Don't talk to me! Don't you know, Manolo, that I have to get a new bell for my front door once a month, because my duns wear it out? But I take it philosophically." He went up to Davalos, and laying a hand on his shoulder, he said in so low a voice that no one else could hear him: "Seriously, Manolo, I mean it, I would marry my aunt. What would you lose by it? She is old--so much the better; she will die all the sooner. As soon as you are married, you will have the management of her fortune, and need not count up the years she still hopes to live. What you want, like me, is hard cash. Make no mistake about that. If we had it, we would get as fat as Cobo Ramirez. Besides, if you were rich, you could make Amparo send Salabert packing--don't you see?" Davalos looked wide-eyed at his adviser, not sure whether he spoke in jest or in earnest. Seeing no symptom of mockery in Alcantara's face, he began to be sentimental; speaking of his former mistress with such enthusiasm and reverence as might have made any one laugh. The scheme did not seem to him preposterous; he began to discuss it seriously and consider it from all sides. Rafael listened with well-feigned interest, encouraging him to proceed by signs and nods. No one could have supposed that he was simply fooling him, while from time to time, taking advantage of a moment when Manolo gazed at the toes of his boots, seeking some word strong enough to express his passion, Rafael was making grimaces at the group, who looked on with amusement and curiosity. The door of the room presently opened and Alvaro Luna came in. His friends hailed him with affectionate pleasure. "Bravo! Bravo! Here is the condemned criminal." "How dismal he looks!" "Like a man on the brink of the grave!" The new-comer smiled faintly, and glanced round the room. Alvaro Luna, Conde de Soto, was a man of about thirty-eight or forty, slightly built, of medium height with hard, keen eyes and a bilious complexion. "Have any of you seen Juanito Escalona?" he asked. "Yes," said some one. "He was here half an hour ago. He told me that you expected him, and that he would return punctually at a quarter to four." "Good, I will wait for him," was the answer, and Luna quietly came forward, and sat down among the party. Then the chaff began again. "Here, let me feel your pulse," said Rafael, taking him by the wrist, and pulling out his watch. The Count smiled and surrendered his hand. "Mercy, how frightful! a hundred and thirty. You might think he was condemned to death." It was a pure invention. His pulse was quite normal, and Alcantara shook his head at his friends in denial. The jest did not vex him. Conscious of his own courage, and convinced that no one doubted it, he still smiled as calmly as before. "Well, the funeral is at four to-morrow," said another. "I am sorry, because I had promised to go out hunting with Briones." "And it is a long way to the cemetery at San Isidro," said a third. "No, no, my dear fellow. We will take him to the Great Northern station, and carry him to Soto, the family Pantheon." This joking was not in good taste; however, Alvaro made no demur, fearing perhaps that the least symptom of impatience might suggest a doubt of his perfect coolness. Encouraged by his phlegmatic smile, the "Savages" did not know when to leave off; the jest about the funeral was repeated with variations. In point of fact he was getting tired of it; but they could not move him from his cold and placid smile. He said very little, and when he spoke it was in a few supercilious words. At last, taking out his watch, he said: "It is three o'clock. Three-quarters of an hour yet. Who is for a game of cards?" It was an excuse for releasing himself from these buzzing flies, and at the same time showed his perfect coolness. Three of the men went with him to the card-room. There the banter went on as it had done in the drawing-room. "Look at him! How his hand shakes!" "To think that within an hour he will have ceased to breathe!" "I say, Alvaro, leave me Conchilla in your will." "I see no objection," said Alvaro, arranging his hand. "You hear, gentlemen, Conchilla is mine by the testator's will. What do you call such a will as that, Leon?" "Nuncupatory," said Leon, who had picked up a few law terms in the course of a lawsuit against some cousins. "Conchilla is mine, by nuncupatory bequest. Thank you, Alvaro. I will see that she goes into mourning, and we will respect your memory so far as may be. Have you any instructions to leave me?" "Yes, to give her a dusting every eight or ten days; if she does not get a good cry once a week she falls ill." "Very good, it shall be done." "With a stick. She is used to a stick, and will not take a slapping." "Quite so." The fun grew broader and louder. Alvaro's imperturbability had the happiest effect. He understood that beneath all this banter his friends cared for him and appreciated his bravery. At this moment a servant came in who handed him a note on a silver waiter. He took it and opened it with some interest. As he read it he again smiled and handed it to the man next him. It was from the manager of a Cemetery Company, offering his services and enclosing a prospectus and price list. Some of the youngsters had amused themselves by getting him to do it. But Luna did not take offence, and he seemed greatly interested in his game. At last Juanito Escalona came to fetch him. After settling accounts he rose. They all gathered round him. "Good luck to you, Alvaro!" "I cannot bear to think of your being run through." "Do not be absurd; there is no running through in the case. It will soon be over, with nothing but a scratch." Jesting was now at an end, it was all good fellowship. Alvaro lighted a cigar with perfect coolness, and said quite easily: "_Au revoir_, gentlemen." There was a large infusion of true courage in this demeanour; but there was also a touch of affectation, and deliberate effort. The younger members of the Savage Club, though not much addicted to literature, are nevertheless to a certain extent influenced by it. The class of work they chiefly study is the _feuilleton_, and the fashionable novel. These books set up an ideal of manhood, as the old tales of chivalry did before them. Only in the old romances the model hero was he who attempted achievements beyond his strength, out of noble ideas of justice and charity, while in the modern story it is he who for fear of ridicule abstains from all enthusiasm and generosity. The man who was always risking his life for the cause of humanity is superseded by the man who risks it for empty vanity or foolish pride. Swagger has taken the place of chivalry. The party remained, talking of their friend's coolness. However, he was not for long the subject of their praise, for the first rule of "high tone" is never to show surprise, and the second is to discuss trifles at some length and serious matters very briefly. The company presently broke up, all the illustrious gentlemen going out to diffuse their doctrines throughout Madrid--doctrines which may be summed up as follows: "Man is born to sign I.O.U.'s and cultivate a waxed moustache. Work, education, and steadiness are treason to the law of Nature, and should be proscribed from all well-organised society." Maldonado, as usual, hung on to Pepe Castro's coat-tails. The reader is already aware of the deep admiration he felt for his model. And Pepe allowed himself to be admired with great condescension, initiating his disciple now and then into the higher arcana of his enlightenment on the subject of English horses and amber mouth-pieces. By degrees Ramon was acquiring clear notions, not alone of these matters, but also of the best manner of introducing French words into Spanish conversation. Pepe Castro was a perfect master of the art of forgetting at a proper moment some good Spanish word, and after a moment's hesitation bringing out the French with an air of perfect simplicity. Ramoncito did the same, but with less finish. He was also learning to distinguish Arcachon oysters from others not of Arcachon; Château Lafitte from Château Margaux; the chest-voice of a tenor from the head-voice; and Atkinson's tooth-paste from every imitation. But, as yet, Ramon, like all neophytes, especially if they are prone to exaltation and enthusiasm, exaggerated on the example of the teacher. In shirt-collars, for instance. Because Pepe Castro wore them high and stiff, was that any reason why Ramoncito should go about God's world with his tongue hanging out, enduring all the preliminary tortures of strangulation? And if Pepe Castro, in consequence of a nervous affection he had suffered from all his life, constantly twitched his left eyelid--a very graceful trick no doubt--what right had Ramon to spend his time grimacing at people with his? Then, too, the young civilian scented not only his handkerchief and beard but all his clothes, so that from a distance of ten yards, it was almost enough to give you a sick headache. And there was certainly nothing in the doctrines of his venerated master to justify this detestable habit. But the noblest and loftiest precepts of a great man too often degenerate, or are perverted, when put into practice by followers and imitators. Pepe Castro, though he was aware of his disciple's deficiencies and imperfections, did not cast them in his teeth. On the contrary, with the magnanimity of a great nature, he showed his clemency in pardoning and screening them. In his presence no one dared to make game of Ramoncito's collars or grimaces. It was a little after four when the two "Savages" came out of the club, buttoning their gloves. At the door stood de Castro's cart, which he sent away after fixing an hour for his drive. He was first to pay a visit by Ramoncito's request. They went down the Calle del Principe, where the club was situated, not hurrying themselves, and looking curiously at the women they met. They paused now and then to make some important remark on this one's elegance, or that one's style; not as bashful passers-by who gaze and sigh, but rather as Bashaws, who, in a slave market, discuss the points of those exposed for sale. On the men they bestowed no more than a contemptuous glance, or, as if that were not enough, they shrouded themselves, so to speak, in a dense puff of smoke, to show that they, Pepe and Ramon, belonged to a superior world, and that if they were walking down the street, it was only in obedience to a transient whim. Whenever Castro condescended to be seen on foot, his face wore an expression of surprise that his presence was not hailed by the populace with murmurs of admiration. Maldonado was the more talkative of the two. He expressed his opinion of those who came and went, looking up at Castro with a smile, while his friend remained grave and solemn, replying only in monosyllables and vague grunts. Ramoncito, it may be noted, was as far below his companion physically as mentally. When they walked out together they really looked very like some learned professor shedding the dew of learning drop by drop, and an ardent disciple greedy of knowledge. "By the way, where are we going?" asked Castro, vaguely, when they had gone down three or four streets. "Why, were we not going to call on the Calderóns?" asked Ramon, timidly, and a little disconcerted. "Ah! to be sure; I had forgotten." Maldonado kept silence, wondering in his heart at the singular faculty of forgetfulness possessed by his friend. And they went along the Carrera de San Jeronimo to the Puerta del Sol. "How are you getting on with Esperancita?" Castro condescended to inquire, blowing a cloud of smoke, and stopping to examine a shop-front. Ramoncito suddenly turned very grave, almost pale, and began to stammer a reply. "Just where I was. Sometimes up, sometimes down. One day she is very sweet--well, not sweet--no; but any rate she speaks to me. Another day she is as gloomy as the grave; hardly comes into the room before she is gone again; scarcely notices me--as if I had offended her. Once, I understood, she had some reason to be vexed, for at the opera I often go to the Gamboas' box, and I fancy she had taken it into her head that I was sweet on Rosaura. Can you imagine such folly? Rosaura! But I have not been near them for this month past, and she is just the same, dear boy, just the same. The other day I had her to myself in the little room for a few minutes, and in the greatest haste I just managed to tell her that I wanted to know where we were; for you see I cannot hang on for ever. Well, she listened to me patiently. I must tell you that I was altogether carried away, and hardly knew what I was saying. When I ended, she assured me she had nothing to be vexed about, and fled to the drawing-room. After that, would you not suppose that it was a settled thing? Tell me, would not any man in my place suppose that he was on the footing of a regular engagement? Nothing of the kind; two days after, when I called, I tried to say a few words to her apart, as a lover may, and she snubbed me--she froze me. So there I am. I do not know whether she loves me, or ever will, and I have not the peace of mind to go about my business, or do anything on earth but think of that confounded little slut." "It seems to me," replied Castro, without diverting his attention from the window before which they stood, "that the girl has begun the attack." Ramoncito looked up at him with surprise and respect. "The attack?" said he. "Yes, the attack. In every battle the important point is to be the first to attack. If at the moment when the adversary is about to advance, you attack him with decision, you are almost sure to succeed; if you hesitate, you are lost." As he uttered the last words, he turned away from the shop-window and continued his majestic progress along the side-walk. Ramon did the same; he had very imperfectly understood the application to his case of this simile, derived from the art of fencing, but he abstained from asking any explanation. "So that you think----" "I think that you are preposterously in love with the girl, and that she knows it." "But then, Pepe, what reason can she have for refusing me?" Ramoncito began in a fume, as if he were talking to himself. "What does the girl expect? Her father is rich, but there are several children to divide the money. Mariana is still young, and besides, you know what Don Julian is. He would be torn in pieces sooner than part with a dollar. Honestly, waiting for his death does not seem to me a very hopeful business. I am not a nabob, but I have my own fortune; and it is my own, without waiting for anybody to die. I can give her as much comfort and luxury as she has at home--more!" he added, giving his head a determined shake. "Then I have a political career before me. I may be Under-Secretary or Minister some day when she least expects it. My family is better than hers; my grandfather was not a shop-keeper like Don Julian's father. Besides, she is no goddess; she is not one of those girls you turn round to stare at, you know. Why should she give herself airs when I take a fancy to her? Do you know who is at the bottom of it all? Why, Cobo Ramirez, and such apes as he, who have turned her head for her. The little fool expects a prince of the blood to come courting her, perhaps!" Ramoncito denied his lady's beauty, a sure sign of his being deeply and sincerely in love with her; his affection was not the offspring of vanity. His excess of devotion led him to run her down. Castro reflected that his companion's personal defects might have something to do with his ill-success in this and some other affairs; but he did not express the opinion. He thought it safer, as he closed his eyes and sucked his cigar, to pronounce this general truth: "Girls are such idiots." Ramoncito, agreeing in principle, nevertheless persisted in driving the application home. "She is a little goose. She does not know herself what she wants. I say, Pepe, what would you do in my place?" Castro walked on in silence for a little way, staring up at the balconies, wondering, no doubt, that all the world did not come out to see him pass. Then, after two or three deep puffs at his cigar, he put on a very grave and judicial air, and replied: "My dear fellow (pause), in your place, I should begin by not being in love. Love is _pour les bébés_, not for you and me." "That is past praying for," said the young deputy, looking so miserable that it was quite sad to behold. "Well, then, if you cannot get over the ridiculous weakness, at any rate do not let it be seen. Why do you try to convince Esperancita that you are dying for her? Do you think that will do any good? Convince her of the contrary, and you will see how much better the result will be." "What would you have me do?" asked Ramon anxiously. "Do not make such a show of your devotion, man; don't be so spoony. Do not go to the house so often and gaze at her with eyes like a calf with its throat cut. Contradict her when she talks nonsense; hint that you have seen much nicer girls; give yourself a little consequence, and you will see how matters will look up." "I cannot, Pepe, I cannot!" exclaimed Ramon, wiping his brow in excess of anguish. "At first I could master myself, talk without embarrassment, and flirt with other girls. Now, it is impossible. As soon as I am in her presence, I grow confused and bewildered, and do not know what I am saying, especially if I find her cross; every word she utters freezes me. You cannot imagine how haughty she can be when she chooses. If I try to talk to some one else, Esperanza has only to smile to bring me to her side at once. I did once pass nearly a month, almost without speaking to her; but at last it was too much for me. I would rather talk to her, even when she ill-treats me, than to any one else in the world." The two young men walked on in silence, as though under the burden of some great calamity. Pepe Castro was deep in thought. "You are lost, Ramon," he said at last, throwing away the end of his cigar, and wiping the mouth-piece with his handkerchief, before putting it by. "You are utterly done for. What you say has no sense in it. If you had any notion of managing yourself, you would never have got into such a mess. Women must always be treated with the toe of your boot; then you get on all right." Having given utterance to these few but profound words he again pulled up in front of a shop window. "Look," said he, "what a pretty dog-collar, it would just do for Pert if I bought it." Ramon looked at the collar without heeding, completely absorbed in his melancholy reflections. "Yes, Ramoncito," the young man went on, laying his arm on his companion's shoulder, "you are altogether done for; still, I venture to say that Esperanza will love you yet, if you only do as I tell you. Just try my plan." "I will try; I must come out of this fix one way or another," replied the youth pathetically. "Well, then, for the present you must go to the Calderón's not more than once a week, or less. We will go together or meet there. You must not find yourself alone with her, or in some weak moment you will undo everything. You are not to talk much to Esperanza, but a great deal to the other girls who may be present. Then you should sing the praises of rosy cheeks, tall figures, fair skins--of everything, in short, that is least like her, and be sure you are sufficiently enthusiastic. Contradict her, and without seeming too much grieved. You are very obstinate, and it does not do to discuss matters too much, a tone of mild depreciation is far more effective. You had better glance at me from time to time; I can give you some covert signals, and so you will always be sure of your ground." And thus, by the time they had reached the door of the Calderóns' house, Castro had expatiated on his masterly plan of campaign, with many valuable hints and details. Only a marvellously lucid intellect, joined to wide and rich experience, only the most subtle nature could have entered so completely into the secret struggle to which Esperanza's objection to Ramon had given rise in his soul. At the same time he was the only person who could solve the riddle. Maldonado reached the young lady's home in a state of comparative tranquillity. As to his inmost purpose, it may be said that he had fully determined to assume the utmost dignity he could put on, and to offer a bold resistance to Esperanza's advance and attack. To begin with, he thought proper to put his hands in his pockets and pinch his lips into an ironical and patronising simper. He thus entered the little drawing-room where the banker's family were assembled, gently shaking his head as though he could not hold it up for the weight of many thoughts it contained. From the elegant to the coarse--as from the sublime to the ridiculous--there is but a step, and it would be bold to declare that Ramoncito, at the beginning of his interview with Esperanza, always kept on the right side of the narrow rift. There is some reason for supposing that he did not. What is, at any rate, quite certain, is that the young lady did not immediately detect the change, and when she did, it did not make so deep an impression as he had hoped. In the little sitting-room, when they were shown in, Mariana and Esperancita, with Doña Esperanza, the grandmother, were seated at their needlework; or, to be exact, Doña Esperanza and her grand-daughter were at work, Mariana was lounging in her chair, her eyes fixed on vacancy, and not moving a finger. Pepe Castro and Ramon, as being intimate with the family, were made welcome without ceremony. After shaking hands--excepting that Maldonado did not go through the ceremony with Esperancita--they sat down; Esperanza quite unable to imagine why Ramon intentionally neglected her, by way of a worthy beginning to the grand course of unpleasant discipline by which he hoped to school his beloved. Pepe took a chair next to Mariana, and Ramon next to Doña Esperanza. Before seating himself he had a momentary weakness. Seeing Esperancita sitting at some little distance from her mother, it seemed to him a favourable opportunity for a few private words, and as he moved his chair he hesitated; an expressive frown from Castro brought him to his senses. "The sight of you is good for weary eyes, Pepe," said Esperancita, fixing her smiling glance on the illustrious dandy. "They are beautiful eyes which see him now!" Ramon hastily put in. Castro, instead of replying, looked sternly at his friend, and the deputy much abashed, went on to remedy his blunder. "Fine eyes are the rule in this family." "Thank you, Ramon. But you are beginning to be as false as all politicians," said Mariana. "I do every one justice," replied he, blushing with delight at hearing himself spoken of as a public personage. "Why, how long is it since I was here?" said Pepe to the girl. "A fortnight, at least. It was on a Monday; Pacita was here. And this is Saturday; so you see--thirteen days." No one recollected so precisely when Maldonado had called last. Castro accepted this proof of interest with entire indifference. "I did not think it was so long. How the time flies!" said he profoundly. "Evidently. It flies for you--away from us." The young man smiled affably, and asked leave to light a cigar. Then he said: "No. It flies fastest when I am with you." "Faster than with Clementina?" asked the girl in an innocent tone, which betrayed no malice. But Castro looked at her gravely. His connection with Osorio's wife had hitherto remained more or less a secret; and that it should be known here, in her sister-in-law's house, disturbed him. Esperancita blushed scarlet under his inquiring gaze. "Much the same," he said coolly. "We are very good friends." "Are you going there to-day?" asked Mariana, not observing this by-play. "Yes; Ramon and I are going--Saturday? Isn't it? And you?" "I am not inclined to go out. I have been suffering a little these few days from sore throat." "Do not say you are ill, mamma," said Esperancita, pettishly; "say you would rather go to bed early." Her mother looked at her with large, dull eyes. "I have a relaxed throat, my dear." "How opportune!" exclaimed the girl, ironically. "I have not heard a word about it till this moment." "If you wish to go," said Mariana, understanding at last, "your father will take you." "You know very well that if you do not go, papa will not care to go either." Her voice betrayed her irritation. A gleam of satisfaction lighted up Ramon's face, and he shot a look of triumph at Pepe. It was when she heard that he, too, was going that she had begun to wish to join the party. The conversation now drifted into common-place, dwelling chiefly on the most trivial subjects: the news of the day, or the singers at the opera. Tosti's beauty was again discussed. Ramoncito, in the joy of his triumph, dared to call it in question, and abused tall and, above all, red-haired women. He admired only brunettes, round faces, a medium stature, and black eyes--in short, Esperancita; there was no need to name her. His friend Pepe, alarmed by this outburst, which was directly opposed to all the plans of siege on which they had agreed, made a series of grimaces for his guidance, and presently brought him back into the right way; but he then went so far into the other extreme, and began to contradict himself in so disastrous a manner, that the ladies presently remarked it, and he got bewildered and tied himself into a knot, from which he could not have extricated himself but for a timely rescue by his friend and chief. To remedy the blunder to some extent he entered on a long account of the sitting of the day before, with so many details that Mariana began to yawn, like the simpleton she was, and Doña Esperanza devoted herself to her embroidery, and made no secret of thinking of something else. Esperancita at last made a sign to Castro to come and sit by her. He obeyed, taking a low seat at her side. "Listen, Pepe," said she, in a low and tremulous voice. "Of late you have been very sullen with me. I do not know whether I can have said anything to vex you. If so, pray forgive me." "I do not know what you mean. I could never be vexed by anything that such a sweet little person as you might say," replied the young man, with the lordly smile of a Sultan. "I am glad it was a false alarm on my part. Many thanks for the compliment, if you mean it--which I doubt. It would grieve me to the heart to displease you in any way," and as she spoke she blushed up to her ears. "But I hear you are very apt to be displeasing." "Oh, no!" "So my friend Ramon tells me." Esperancita's countenance clouded, and a deep line marked her childlike brow. "I do not know why he should say so." "Your conscience does not prick you?" "Not in the least." "What a heart of stone!" "Why? If I have hurt his feelings it is his own fault." "So I told him. But I believe his complaint is in a fair way to be cured, and that he will not again expose himself to your thrusts. He has been more cheerful and less absent-minded these last few days." Castro was quite honestly doing his best for his friend. "I should be only too glad to hear it," said the girl, with perfect simplicity. Castro sang the praises of his friend and earnestly recommended him to Esperancita's good graces. But as he poured exaggerated eulogies into the girl's ear, his tone of disdain and the satirical smile which accompanied them somewhat weakened their effect. And even if it had not been so, she would have received them with no less hostility. "Come, Pepe, you want to make a fool of me?" "Indeed, Esperancita, Ramon has a great future before him, and in time may very likely be made Minister." The hero in question, meanwhile, was explaining, with his usual fluency, to Mariana and her mother, how he had discovered an extensive fraud in the custom-house returns on imported meat: three hundred and fifty hams had been brought into the country, a few days since, smuggled in with the cognisance of some of the officials. Ramoncito meant to bring these men to justice without delay. Mariana implored him not to be too severe with them; they were perhaps fathers of families, but she could not mollify him. His sense of municipal rights was more rigid perhaps than the muscles of his neck--to judge by the number of times he turned his head to look where Pepe and Esperancita were talking. He was not jealous; he had absolute confidence in his friend's loyalty; but he wanted his beloved to hear him when he brought out certain phrases: "To the bar of justice;" "I can no doubt obtain an adverse verdict;" "The municipal law requires that they should be prosecuted," and so forth, so that the angel of his heart might fully appreciate the high destiny in store for her if she were united to so energetic an administrator. They now heard steps in the adjoining room, and a cough which they all knew only too well. Doña Esperanza when she heard it hastily handed her work to her daughter, or, to be exact, crammed it into Mariana's hands. When Calderón came in, his wife was stitching with affected diligence, while her mother was sitting with her hands folded, as if she had not stirred from her attitude for a long time. Ramon and Castro had scarcely noticed the manoeuvre. The reason of it was that Calderón could not forgive his wife her apathy and indolence, regarding these faults as positive calamities, and himself as most unfortunate for having married so inert a woman. Not that any work she might do mattered in the household; but his vehemently laborious temperament asserted itself against one so diametrically opposed to it. Mariana's limpness and indifference irritated his nerves and gave rise to sharp discussions and frequent squabbles. She feebly defended herself, declaring that her parents had not brought her up to be a maid-of-all-work, since they had enough to allow her to live like a lady. Whereupon Don Julian would turn furious, and declare that it was the duty of every one to work, or at any rate to do something; that total idleness was incomprehensible; that it was a wife's duty to see that the property of the household was not wasted, even if she could not add to it, &c. &c. And, finally, that the mistress's incurable indolence was at the bottom of their domestic discomfort. Doña Esperanza was very unlike her daughter; by nature she was active, vigilant, and at least as avaricious as her son-in-law; she could never sit a quarter of an hour without something to occupy her hands. In the affairs of the house, indeed, she played no important part, because Calderón took a pleasure in managing and ordering everything himself. And this indicated a contradictory characteristic which must here be mentioned for a full comprehension of his character. He complained that his wife did not undertake the care of the house, and that he consequently was compelled to manage it, but at the same time, though he knew that his mother-in-law was both capable and willing, he would not leave it to her. This gave rise to a suspicion that, even if Mariana had been a prodigy of energy and method, he would no more have entrusted her with the management of domestic affairs than with his business. His suspicious and sordid nature made him prefer toil to rest; he would have liked to possess a hundred eyes to watch over everything that belonged to him. Doña Esperanza also lamented her daughter's incapacity, and eagerly seconded her son-in-law's stinginess, helping him very materially in his close vigilance. But while she herself found fault with Mariana's apathy, she was her mother after all; she hated that Calderón should blame her, and acutely felt their matrimonial differences. Consequently, whenever she could avert one she did so, even at the cost of some sacrifice, concealing Mariana's faults and voluntarily taking them on herself. It was for this reason that she had so precipitately handed to her the cushion she was embroidering. Don Julian came into the room reading the _feuilleton_ of _La Correspondencia_, which he carefully preserved and stitched together. Don Julian, strange as it may seem, was very fond of novels; but he only read those which came out in the _Correspondencia_, or the religious tales he gave his daughter who was at school. He had never been known to go into a bookseller's of his own accord to buy one. And not only did he read them, but he was very prone to weep over them. He was deeply sentimental at the bottom of his heart; it was a weakness of his constitution, like rheumatism or asthma. The misfortunes or poverty of others touched him greatly; if he could have remedied them by any means not involving any loss of money he would no doubt have done so at once. Generous deeds made him shed tears of enthusiasm; but he thought himself incapable of doing them--and he was right. And he made great efforts to do violence to his instincts; he was by no means the least ready to give of the rich men of Madrid. He set aside a fixed sum for the poor, and entered it in his accounts as though they were his creditors. But when once the monthly allowance was spent, he might, perhaps, have left a poor wretch to die of hunger in the street and not have given him a penny; not for want of feeling, but by reason of the strong hold figures had over his mind. The idea of depriving himself of a peseta for any other form of outlay than buying to sell was beyond his ken. Thus far his almsgiving had superior merits to that of other men. As he now entered the little morning-room his face betrayed traces of emotion. After greeting his visitors, he said, as he seated himself in an arm-chair: "I have just read an exquisite chapter in this novel--quite exquisite! I could not resist the temptation of bringing it in to read to these ladies." He paused, not daring to propose it to Castro and Maldonado, though he would have liked to do so. He was very fond of reading aloud, because he did it fairly well, and Mariana took pleasure in hearing him; so far they were well matched. "Read it, by all means, my dear; I do not think that Pepe and Ramon will object," said his wife. Pepe bowed slightly; Ramoncito hastened to express enthusiastic pleasure: he was devoted to fine passages, &c. From the father of his inamorata he would have listened to the reading of a table of logarithms. Don Julian wiped his spectacles, and, in a mild throat-voice which he kept for such occasions, began to read the episode describing the sufferings of a child lost in the streets of Paris. But his eyes instantly grew dim and his voice began to break, till at length he was so choked by emotion that he could scarcely be heard, and Ramon took the paper and read on to the end. Castro, looking on at this absurdity, hid a superior smile behind volumes of tobacco-smoke. The chapter being ended, every one praised it in the most flattering terms. Mariana looked at her work, and observed that she would need a piece of silk for the lining, since the cushion was nearly finished. Doña Esperanza, to whom she made the remark, was of the same opinion. "Ramoncito," said she, "be so good as to ring that bell." The young civilian hastened to comply, and the lady's maid immediately appeared. "I want you to go out and buy me a yard of silk," said her mistress. The girl, having taken her instructions, was about to depart on the errand, when Don Julian, who was listening, stopped her. "Wait a moment," said he; "I will see if I do not happen to have the thing you want." And he briskly left the room. In three minutes he returned with an old umbrella in his hand. "Do not you think the silk of this umbrella might serve your purpose?" he said. "It seems to me to be just the colour." Castro and Maldonado exchanged significant glances. Mariana blushed as she took the umbrella. "It is, no doubt, the right colour," she said; "but it is full of holes; it will not do." Esperancita pretended to be absorbed in her work, but her face was of the colour of a poppy. Doña Esperanza alone took up the question and discussed it seriously. Finally, the silk was rejected, to the chagrin of the banker, who muttered various uncomplimentary remarks on the management and economy of women. Ramon, by this time, could no longer endure the torments of Tantalus, to which his friend's plans had condemned him; he never ceased gazing across to the spot where Pepe and Esperancita were chatting. He began by rising from his chair under pretence of moving about a little, and walked to and fro. By degrees he approached the couple, and stood still in front of them. "Well, Esperancita, is it long since you saw Pacita?" How absurd an excuse for addressing her! He himself was conscious of it, and blushed as he spoke. Pepe flashed an indignant glance at him, but either he did not see it, or he pretended not to see it. The girl frowned, and replied, shortly, that she did not exactly recollect. This would have been enough for most people, but Ramon would not take an answer; on the contrary, he tried to prolong the conversation with vacuous or irrelevant remarks, and even tried to wedge a chair in between them and sit down; but Castro hindered him by covertly giving him a fiercely expressive stamp on the toes, which brought him to his senses. He continued his melancholy walk till, presently, he went back to his seat by the two elder ladies. He was soon engaged in an animated discussion with Calderón as to whether the paving of the streets should be done by contract or managed by a commission. He would have been only too glad to agree with his host; it was his interest to do so, since his happiness or misery lay in his hands, but the obstinate and fractious temper which Nature had bestowed on him led him to continue the argument, though he saw that Calderón was heated, and within an ace of being angry. Fortunately for him, before this point was reached, a servant entered the room. "What is it, Remigio?" asked the banker. "A man, Señor--a friend of Pardo's--Señor Mudela's coachman--has come to say that Señorito Leandro is not very well." "Bless me! What has happened to the boy? He is not accustomed to such dissipation. He has spent all his life at school or tied to his mother's apron-string. He must be taken away from this life of excitement.--And what is the matter with him?" Leandro was Don Julian's nephew, the son of a sister who lived in La Mancha. He had come to pay a visit to Madrid, and was leading a very jolly life in the society of other youths of his own age. He had begged his uncle to lend him his carriage for an excursion into the country. Don Julian, anxious not to offend his sister, to whom it was his interest to be civil, had granted the favour, though sorely against the grain. "The sun and the dinner have upset him a little." "Pooh! an attack of indigestion. He will get over that!" "I think you ought to go to see him, Julian," said Mariana. "If it were necessary, of course I should go; but, so far, I see no necessity. I say, Remigio, is he too ill to come here? Is he in bed?" "Well, Señor," said the man, turning his cap in his hands, and looking down, as conscious that his news was serious, "the fact of the matter is this--one of the mares, Primitiva, is knocked up." Calderón turned pale. "And she could not come home?" "No, Señor; she seems to be pretty bad, from what the Mudela's coachman says. Of course, those youngsters know nothing about it, and they let her drink her fill." Don Julian started up in the greatest agitation, and, without saying another word, he left the room, followed by Remigio. The young men again exchanged meaning looks. Esperancita happened to see this, and turned scarlet. "Papa takes such things so much to heart!" said she. "How should he do otherwise, child?--a thoroughbred which cost him three thousand dollars! It is a shame in Leandrito!" And for some minutes the old lady gave expression to her wrath, which was almost as great as her son-in-law's. Castro and Maldonado presently took leave. Mariana, who had taken the disaster with much philosophy, asked them to dinner. "Stay and dine; it is too late now for a walk." "I cannot," said Castro; "I dine at your brother's." "Ah, to be sure; it is Saturday. I had forgotten. We will look in, if I am no worse, at ten, when the cards begin." "Do you dine with Aunt Clementina every Saturday?" asked Esperancita in a low voice, but with a peculiar intonation. The young dandy looked at her for a moment. "Most Saturdays, since I dine with your Uncle Tomas." "Aunt Clementina is very pretty and very agreeable." "She is considered so," replied Castro, a little uneasy. "She has heaps of admirers. Are not you one of the most ardent of them?" "Who told you so?" "No one; I imagined it." "You imagined rightly. Your aunt is, in my opinion, one of the loveliest and most elegant women of Madrid. Good-bye till this evening, Esperancita." And he held out his hand with a condescending air, which pained the poor child. She showed her annoyance by addressing Ramon, who was standing a little apart. "And you, Ramon, why cannot you stay? Are you, too, going to dine at Aunt Clementina's?" "I? Oh, no." "Then stay with us--do. We will take care not to bore you." "I--bored in your society!" exclaimed he, almost overcome with delight. "Well, you will stay, then--won't you? Let Pepe go if he has other engagements." Ramoncito was about to accept with the greatest rapture, but Castro began to make negative signs at him over the girl's head, and with such vehemence that his hapless friend could only say, in a subdued voice: "No, I cannot either." "But why, Ramon, why?" "Because I have some business to attend to." "I am sorry." The young man was so deeply touched that he could scarcely murmur his thanks, and he left the room almost at a snail's pace. As soon as he was in the street Pepe complimented him eagerly, and assured him that his firmness must lead to the best results. But he received these congratulations with marked coldness, and preserved a stubborn silence till he reached home, where his friend and guide left him, his head full of gloomy presentiments and the blackness of night. CHAPTER VII. DINNER AND CARDS AT THE OSORIOS'. On the day after her visit to Raimundo, Clementina felt even more ashamed and crestfallen at having paid it than at the moment when she came down those stairs. Proud natures feel as much remorse for an action which, in their opinion, has humiliated them, as the virtuous do when they have failed in humility. In her inmost soul she confessed that she had taken a false step. The youth's serenity and courtesy, while they raised him in her eyes, irritated her vanity. What comments must he and his sister have been making since her absurd and uninvited call! She coloured to think of them. Not to see or to be seen by Alcázar from his observatory, she ceased to go out on foot. The young man kept his word; she saw no sign of him. But, why she knew not, his visage constantly rose before her eyes; he was perpetually in her thoughts. Was it aversion that she felt? Or resentment? Clementina could not honestly say that it was. There was nothing in his face or behaviour to make him odious to her. Was it, on the contrary, that his person had impressed her too favourably? Not at all. She met every day other men of more attractive manners and of more amusing conversation. So that it surprised as much as it provoked her to find herself thinking about him. She never ceased protesting to herself against this tendency, and reproaching herself for indulging it. One afternoon, some days after the scene just narrated, she decided on taking a walk. Not to do so seemed to her cowardly; she was doing this boy too much honour. As she passed the house where he lived she glanced up at his window and saw him sitting there, as usual, with a book in his hand. She immediately looked down, and crossed the road with stately gravity; but after going a few steps, she felt a vague sense of dissatisfaction with herself. In fact, not to bow to the young man, not even to return his bow, was unmannerly, after his frank explanation and the politeness with which he had shown her his fine collection of butterflies. Next day she again went out on foot, and repaired her injustice of the day before by looking steadily up at the window. Raimundo made her so respectful a bow, with so candid a smile, that the beauty felt flattered, and could not deny that the young fellow had singularly soft eyes, which made him very attractive, and that his conversation, if not remarkably elegant, showed a solid understanding and cultivated mind. She ought to have seen all this at first, no doubt, but for some unknown reason she had not. From this day forward she went out walking as before. As she passed the house in the Calle de Serrano she never failed to send a friendly nod to the upper window, or he to reply with eager courtesy; and as the days went on these greetings became more and more expressive. Without exchanging a word they were on quite intimate terms. Clementina made an attempt to analyse her feelings towards young Alcázar. She was not in the habit of introspection. She vaguely thought that it was an act of charity to show him some kindness. "Poor boy," she said to herself, "how fond he was of his mother! What happiness to have had so good and loving a son!" One afternoon when these greetings had been going on for more than a month, Pepe Castro asked her: "I say, is it long since that red-haired boy left off following you about?" Clementina was conscious of an unwonted shock, and coloured a little without knowing why. "Yes; I have not seen him for at least a month." Why did she tell an untruth? Castro was so far from imagining that there could be any acquaintance between this unknown devotee and his mistress that he did not notice her blush, and changed the subject with complete indifference. But to the lady herself, this strange shock and rising flush were a vague revelation of what was taking place within her. The first definite result of this revelation was that on quitting her lover's house, instead of thinking of him, she reflected that Alcázar kept his promise not to follow her with singular fidelity; the second was, that as she stopped to look into a jeweller's window and saw a butterfly brooch of diamonds, she said to herself that some of those she had seen in her friend's collection were far more beautiful and brilliant. The third effect came over her suddenly: on going into a book-seller's to buy some French novels, it struck her, as she saw the rows of books, that Pepe had certainly not read and would probably never read, one of them. Hitherto she had admired his ignorance, now it seemed ridiculous. Time went on and Señora de Osorio, tired of her fashionable existence, and having tasted every emotion which comes in the way of a beautiful and wealthy woman, began to find a quite peculiar pleasure in the innocent greetings she exchanged almost every day with the youth at the corner window. One afternoon, having dismissed her carriage to take a turn in the Retiro Gardens, she met Alcázar and his sister in one of the avenues. She bowed expressively; Raimundo saluted her with his usual respectful eagerness; but Clementina observed that the girl bowed with marked coolness. This occupied her thoughts and made her cross for the rest of the day, since she was forced to confess more than ever that this was at the bottom of her _malaise_ and melancholy. By degrees, and owing chiefly to her fractious and capricious nature, this love-affair, which might have died still-born, occupied her mind and became the germ of a wish. Now in this lady, a wish was always a violent desire, above all if there were any obstacle in her way. On a certain morning, after greeting Raimundo with the gesture peculiar to Spanish ladies, of opening and shutting her hand several times and going on her way, an involuntary impulse prompted her to look back once more at the corner window. Raimundo was following her movements with a pair of opera glasses. She blushed scarlet and hurried on, ashamed at the discovery. What had made her guilty of such folly? What would the young naturalist think of her? At the very least he would fancy that she was in love with him. But in spite of the ferment in her brain, while she walked on as fast as she could to turn down the next street and escape from his gaze, she was less vexed with herself than she had been on other occasions. She was ashamed, no doubt, but when she presently slackened her pace, a pleasant emotion came over her, a light flutter at her heart such as she had not felt for a long time. "I am going back to my girlhood," said she to herself, and she smiled. And it amused her to study her own feelings. She was happy in this return to the guileless agitations of her early youth. She was so absorbed in her meditations, that on reaching the Fountain of Cybele, instead of going down the Calle de Alcalà, to go to Pepe Castro, with whom she had an appointment, she turned about, as though she had merely come for a walk. When she perceived it she stood still, hesitating; finally she confessed to herself that she had no great wish to keep the engagement. "I will go to see mamma," thought she. "It is days since I spent an hour with her, poor thing." And she went on towards the Avenue de Luchana. She was in the happiest mood. An organ was grinding out the drinking-song from _Lucrezia Borgia_, and she stopped to listen to it; she who was bored at the Opera by the most famous contralto! But music is the language of heaven, and can only be understood when heaven has found a way into our heart. Coming towards her, down the Avenue de Recoletos, was Pinedo, the remarkable personage who lived with one foot in the aristocratic world and the other in the half-official world to which he really belonged. By his side was a pretty young girl, no doubt his daughter, who was unknown to Clementina: for Pinedo kept her out of the society he frequented, and hid her as carefully as Triboulet hid his. The Señora de Osorio had always treated Pinedo with some haughtiness, which, as we know, was not unusual with her. But at this moment her happy frame of mind made her expansive, and as Pinedo was passing her with his usual ceremonious bow, the lady stopped him, and addressed him, smiling: "You, my friend, are a practical man; you too, I see, take advantage of these morning hours to breathe the fresh air and take a bath of sunshine." Pinedo, against both his nature and habit, was somewhat out of countenance, perhaps because he had no wish to introduce his daughter to this very smart lady. However, he replied at once, with a gallant bow: "And to take my chance of such unpleasing meetings as this one." Clementina smiled graciously. "You ought not to pay compliments even indirectly, with such a pretty young lady by your side? Is she your daughter?" "Yes, Señora--Señora de Osorio," he added, turning to the girl, who coloured with pleasure at hearing herself called pretty by this lady whom she knew well by sight and by name. She was herself pale and slender, with an olive complexion, small well-cut features, and soft merry eyes. "I had heard that you had a very sweet daughter, but I see that reputation has not done her justice." She blushed deeper than ever, and faintly murmured her thanks. "Come, Clementina, do not go on or she will begin to believe you. This lady, Pilar," he continued to his daughter, "takes as much delight in telling pleasant fibs as others do in telling unpleasant truths." "She is, I see, most amiable," said Pilar. "Do not believe him. Any one can see how pretty you are." "Oh, Señora----" "And tell me, tyrant father, why do you not give her a little more amusement? Do you think that you have any right to be seen at every theatre, ball and evening party, while you keep this sweet child under lock and key? or do you fancy we care more about seeing you than her?" Poor Pinedo felt a pang which he tried to hide; Clementina had laid a frivolous finger on the tenderest spot in his heart. His salary, as we know, allowed him to live but very modestly; if he went into a class of society which was somewhat above him, it was solely to secure his tenure of an office which was the sole means of sustenance for himself and his child. She knew nothing of this. Pinedo hoped to be able to marry her to some respectable and hardworking man; she was never to see the world in which she could not live, and which he himself despised with all his heart, although from sheer force of habit perhaps he could not have lived contentedly in any other. "She is still very young; she has time before her," he said, with a forced smile. "Pooh, nonsense! I tell you, you are very selfish. How long is it since you were at the Valpardos?" she went on to change the subject. "I was there on Monday; the Condesa asked much after you, and lamented that you had quite deserted her." "Poor Anita! It is very true." Pinedo and Clementina then plunged into an animated and endless discussion of the Valpardos and their parties. Pilar listened at first with attention; but as the greater number of the persons named were not known to her, she presently amused herself with looking about her, more especially at the few passers-by who were to be seen there at that early hour. "Papa," said she, taking advantage of a pause, "here comes that young friend of yours who maintains his mother and sisters." Clementina and Pinedo looked round both at once, and saw Rafael Alcantara approaching--the scapegrace youth whom we met in the Savage Club. "Who maintains his mother and sisters?" echoed Clementina, much surprised. "Yes, a very good young man, and a friend of papa's, called Rafael Alcantara." The lady looked inquiringly at Pinedo, who gave her an expressive glance. Not knowing what it could mean, but supposing that her friend for some reason did not wish her to speak of Alcantara as he deserved, she held her tongue. The young man as he passed them greeted them half respectfully, half familiarly. Pinedo immediately held out his hand to take leave. "This is Saturday you remember," said the lady. "Are you coming to dinner?" "With much pleasure. My regards to Osorio." "And bring this dear little girl with you." "We will see, we will see," replied the official again, much embarrassed. "If I cannot manage it to-day, some other time." "You must manage it, tyrant father. _Au revoir_ then, my dear." She took the girl by the chin, and kissed her on both cheeks, saying as she did so: "I have long wished to make your acquaintance. I sadly want some nice pretty girls in my drawing-room." And as she walked on, in better spirits than ever, she said to herself: "What on earth can Pinedo be driving at by making a saint of that good-for-nothing Alcantara?" With a light step, a colour in her cheeks, and her eyes sparkling as they had done in her girlhood, she soon reached the gate of the large garden in which her father's house stood. The porter hastened to open it and rang the house-bell. She went in, and, contrary to her usual custom, she smiled at the two servants in livery, who awaited her at the top of the stairs. She went by them in silence, and straight on to her stepmother's rooms, like one who has long been familiar with the place. The Duquesa at that moment was in council with the medical director of an asylum for aged women which she had founded some time since in concert with some other ladies. When the curtain was lifted and her stepdaughter appeared she smiled affectionately. "It is you, Clementina! Come in, my child, come in." Clementina's heart swelled as she saw her mother's pale, thin face. She hastened to her and kissed her effusively. "Are you pretty well, mamma? How did you sleep?" "Very well. But I look ill, don't I?" "Oh, no," her daughter hastily assured her. "Yes, yes. I saw it in the glass. But I feel well, only so miserably weak; and, as I have completely lost my appetite, I cannot get any stronger.--Then, as I understand, Yradier," she went on to the doctor, who was standing in front of her, "you undertake to look after the servants and the sick women, so that there may be no lack of due consideration for the poor old things?" The doctor was a pleasant-looking young man with an intelligent countenance. "Señora Duquesa," said he with decision, "I will do everything in my power to prevent the pensioners having any complaints to make; but at the same time, I must warn you that some may still reach your ears. You cannot imagine the vexatiousness and spite of which some women are capable. Without any cause whatever, simply to insult me and my colleagues, they are capable of heaping insolence on us. And the more attention we show them, the more airs they give themselves. I taste their broth and their chocolate every day, and I have never found it bad, as that old woman declared it to be. The hours are fixed and I have never known the meals to be late. If you will make inquiries you will convince yourself that the persons who have ground for complaint are the poor servants, whom the old women treat shamefully." The doctor had become quite excited and spoke these words in a tone of conviction. The lady smiled gently. "I believe you, I believe you, Yradier. Old women are very apt to be troublesome." "Ah! Señora, that depends." "We are, for the most part. But it is in itself an infirmity, and should excite compassion in those who suffer from it. I need not say so to you, for you have a charitable soul. But I beg of you to entreat those who are less forgiving, in my name, to be gentle and patient with the poor old women." "I will, Señora, I will," replied Yradier, won by the lady's sweetness. "We shall see you on Thursday then?" "I do not know whether my strength will allow of it." "Oh, yes, I will answer for it." And feeling that he was not wanted, the young man then took his leave, pressing the lady's hand with affection and respect which spoke in his eyes, while he bowed ceremoniously to Clementina. As soon as he was gone, she, who had been gazing with pain at her stepmother's worn features, and had been deeply moved by the goodness which was revealed in every word she uttered, rose from her seat and, kneeling down by Doña Carmen, took her thin white hands and kissed them in a transport of feeling. The beauty, who to all the rest of the world was so haughty, had a peculiar joy, not unlike the rapture of a mystic, in humbling herself before her stepmother. Doña Carmen's voice acted like a spell, stirring the dim sparks of virtue and tenderness which still lived in her heart, and fanning them for a moment to reviving heat. Then the elder lady gently removed her daughter's hat, and, laying it on a chair, bent down to kiss her fondly on the forehead. "It is four days since you last came to see me, bad girl" "Yesterday I could not, mamma. I spent the whole day over my accounts, doing sums. Oh, those hateful sums?" "But why do you do them? Is not your husband there?" "It is for fear of my husband that I do them. Do not you know that he has become as stingy and miserly as his brother-in-law?" Doña Carmen knew that Osorio's affairs were not prospering, and that he had lately lost heavily on the Bourse; but she dared not tell his wife so. "Poor, dear child! To have to think of such things when you were born to shine as a star in society." "This alone was wanting to make him absolutely detestable. If one could but live one's life over again!" The tender look had gone out of her eyes, they were gloomy and fierce; a deep frown puckered her statuesque brow, and in a husky tone she poured out all her grievances and related the daily vexations which her husband heaped upon her. To no one in the world but her stepmother would she have confided them; and she could speak of them without a tear, while Doña Carmen's weary eyes shed many as she listened. "My darling child! And I would have given my life to see you happy! How blind we were, your father and I, to entrust you to such a man!" "My father, indeed! A man who has never found out that he has a saint in his own house whom he ought to worship on his bended knees. When I think----" "Hush, hush! He is your father," exclaimed Doña Carmen, laying a hand on her lips. "I am quite happy. If your father has his faults, I have mine; so I have no merit in forgiving him his if he on his part forgives me. Do not let us discuss your father. Talk about yourself. You cannot think how these money difficulties worry me; I am not accustomed to them. I would set them right on the spot if I could; but, as you know, very little money passes through my hands. I have to account to Antonio for all I draw, and he is not easily hoodwinked. I might, to be sure, put aside a few gold pieces for you; but my savings would not help you far. However, I hope your difficulties will soon be over." The good woman paused, gazing sadly into vacancy; then, kissing her daughter, who was still on her knees before her, she spoke into her ear in a low voice, and went on: "Listen, child. I cannot live much longer, and I shall leave all I have to you. Half of your father's fortune is mine, as I understand from the family lawyer." Clementina felt a thrill, a shock, which a psychologist would find it hard to define--a mixture of sorrow and surprise, with an undercurrent of satisfaction. However, sorrow predominated; she kissed her stepmother again and again. "What are you saying? Die! No, you are not to die! I want you much, much more than your money. But for you I should have been a very wicked woman--and I shall be, I fear, the day you cease to live. The only moments when I feel any goodness in me are those I spend with you. I fancy, mamma, that you infect me with some of your exquisite virtue." "There, there--flatter me no more," said Doña Carmen, again stopping her mouth. "You think yourself worse than you are. You have a good heart. What sometimes makes you seem bad is your pride. Is not that the truth?" "Yes, mamma, quite true. You do not know what pride is, or the miseries it brings to those who feel it as I do. To be constantly thinking of things which hurt me--to see enemies on all sides--to feel a look as though it were the point of a dagger in my heart--to catch a word, and turn it over and over in my brain till it almost makes me sick--to live with my heart sore, my mind full of alarms--oh! how often have I envied those who are as good and as humble as you. How happy should I be if I had not a gloomy and suspicious temper and the pride which devours my soul! And who knows," she went on after a pause, "that I might not have been happier in some other sphere of life? If I had been poor, and had married some hard-working and intelligent young fellow, my lot might have been better. Obliged to help my husband, to take care of a business, or attend to the details of the house, like other women who labour and struggle, I might, perhaps, not have come to this. I ought to have had a loving and patient husband--a man of talent, who could guide me. As it is, mamma, accustomed as I am to luxury and the fashionable world, I would gladly give it all up this very day and go to live in some pleasant spot in the country, far from Madrid. I only want a little love, and to keep you with me to teach me to feel and be good." Clementina's present mood was idyllic; she had been pleasantly impressed by the simple home in the Calle de Serrano. In every woman, however hardened, however immersed in love adventures, there remains an eclogue in some corner of her brain which now and again comes to the surface. Good Doña Carmen listened to her and encouraged her by her smiles, and the younger lady's confidences lasted long. She recalled her early life, when she came to tell her stepmother of the declarations made to her at the ball of the night before, and to read her the _billets-doux_ of her adorers. These reminiscences of the past made her happy. She was even tempted to talk about Pepe Castro and Raimundo, and confess the childish feelings which stirred her soul; but a feeling of respect withheld her. Doña Carmen's leniency was indeed so excessive as to verge on folly; it is very possible that, even if her stepdaughter had confessed her worst sins, she would hardly have been scandalised. They breakfasted together, the Duke having gone to breakfast with a Minister. Afterwards, having relieved and refreshed their spirits with this long chat, they went together in the carriage to San Pascual's, where they prayed a while; and then they drove to the Avenue of the Retiro. They went home before dark, as the evening air was bad for Doña Carmen, and Clementina must be home in good time. It was Saturday, the day on which the Osorios kept open house for dinner and cards. Before going up to dress, Clementina looked round the dining-room, studied the arrangement of the table, and ordered some little alterations in the dishes of fruit which decked it. She sent for the packet of _menus_--written on parchment paper with the Duke's monogram stamped in gold--begged her husband's secretary to write the name of a guest on each, and herself laid them in order on the table napkins: herself and her husband opposite each other in the middle; to the right and left of Osorio, two ladies in the seats of honour; to her own right and left, two gentlemen; and then the rest of the party in order of dignity, age, or her own preference for her guests. Then she spoke a few words with the butler, and after giving him her instructions, she went away. At the door she turned to look once more at the table, and added: "Remove those strong-smelling flowers from the Marquesa de Alcudia's place and give her camellias, or something else which has no scent." The pious Marquesa could not endure strong perfumes, being liable to headache. Clementina, who hated her, showed more consideration for her than for any of her friends; her ancient title, severe judgment, and even her bigotry, made her respected, and her presence in a drawing-room lent it prestige. Clementina went to her room, followed by Estefania, the coachman's sworn foe. She put on a magnificent dress of creamy-white, cut low. She usually wore a sort of _demi-toilette_ for these Saturday receptions, with sleeves to the elbow. But this evening she was moved to display her much-praised person in honour of a foreign diplomate who was to dine in the house for the first time. While the maid was dressing her hair, her mind wandered vaguely over the events of the day. She had not kept her appointment with Pepe; he would certainly arrive in a rage. She pouted her under lip disdainfully, and her eyes had a spiteful glitter, as if to say: "And what do I care?" Then she remembered Raimundo's greeting and that ill-starred look backwards, with a feeling of shame to which her cheeks bore witness by a deepening colour. She called herself a fool--heedless, mad. Happily for her, the young man seemed to be simple and unpretending; otherwise he would at once have built wild castles in the air. She thought of him a good deal, and with some tenderness. He was, in fact, attractive and good-looking and had a way of speaking, at once gentle and firm, which impressed her greatly; then his passionate devotion to his mother's memory, his retired life, his strange mania for butterflies, all helped to make him interesting. How many times Clementina had thought over all this during the last few months it would be hard to say, but very often, beyond a doubt. Her spirit, lulled by a slumberous sweetness, was sentimentally inclined. That home on the third floor, that sunny study, that quiet and simple life. Who knows! Happiness may dwell where we least expect to find it. A heap of frippery, a handful of gems, a dish or two more on the table cannot give it. But an odious reflection, which for some little time had embittered all her dreams, flashed through her mind. She was growing old--yes, old. She allowed herself no illusions. Estefania found it more difficult every week to hide the silver threads among her golden hair. Though she firmly resisted every temptation to apply any chemical preparation to her beautiful tresses, she was beginning to think that there would be no help for it. The candid, eager, happy love, of which her adventure with young Alcázar had given her visions, was not for her. Nothing was left for her, nor had been for some time, but the vapid, vulgar inanities of aristocratic fops, all equally commonplace in their tastes, their speech, and their unfathomable vanity. What connection could there be between her and this boy but that of mother and son? She sometimes wondered whether Raimundo's feelings towards her were quite what he had described them in that first interview; but at this moment she was sure that he had spoken the simple truth, that love was impossible between a lad of twenty and a woman of seven-and-thirty--for she was seven-and-thirty though she was wont to take off two years--at any rate such love as she at this moment longed for. These reflections furrowed her brow, and with an effort she determined to think of something else. Looking at her maid in the glass, she noticed that the girl was deadly pale. She turned round to make sure, and said: "Are you ill, child? You are very white." "Yes, Señora," said the girl in some confusion. "Do you feel the old sickness again?" "I think so." "Well, go and lie down, and send up Concha. It is very odd. I will send for the doctor to-morrow, to see if he can do anything for you." "No, no, Señora," the girl hastened to exclaim. "It is nothing, it will go off." A few minutes later the lady made her appearance in the drawing-room, brilliantly beautiful. Osorio was there already, walking up and down the room with his friend and almost daily visitor at dinner, Bonifacio. He was a man of about sixty, solemn and starch, with a bald head, a yellow face and black teeth. He had been Governor in various provinces, and now held the post of chief of a Department of State. He talked little, and never contradicted--the first and indispensable virtue of a man who would fain dine well and spend nothing, and his dress-coat was perennially adorned with the red cross of the order of Calatrava to which he belonged. In his own house, the most conspicuous object was a portrait of himself with a very tall plume in his cap and an amazingly long white cloak over his shoulders. In one corner sat Pascuala, a widow with no perceptible income, whom Clementina regarded partly as a friend, and partly as a companion to be made use of, and with her, Pepa Frias, who had just arrived. As Clementina passed the two men to shake hands with Pepa, her eyes met her husband's in a flash like gloomy and ominous lightning. Osorio's face, always dark and bilious, was really impressive by its ferocity. It was only for an instant. The ladies exchanged a few words, and the men joined them, the banker beginning to jest with his wife about her dress in a tone of affectionate banter. "That is the way my wife wastes my money. My dear, though you may not care to hear it, I may tell you that you grow stout at an alarming rate." "Do not say so, Osorio, Clementina has the loveliest skin of any woman in Madrid," said Pascuala. "I should think so. The enamelling she went through in Paris last spring cost me a pretty penny." Clementina fell in with the jest, but she had great difficulty in acting her part. Through the convulsive smiles which now and then lighted up her face, and her brief enigmatical phrases, it was easy to see her uneasiness, and even a spice of hatred. The door-bell rang frequently, and in a few minutes the drawing-room held fifteen or twenty guests. The Marquesa de Alcudia brought none of her daughters; they were rarely seen at the Osorios'. Then came the Marquesa de Ujo, a woman who had been pretty, but was now much faded; as languid as a South American, though she was a native of Pamplona, somewhat romantic, by way of being _incomprise_, with literary tastes. She had with her a daughter, taller than herself, and who must have been fifteen at least, though her mother made her wear petticoats above her ankles that she might not make her seem old. The poor girl endured the mortification with a fairly good grace, though she blushed when any one happened to look at her feet. Next came General Patiño, Conde de Morillejo; he never missed a Saturday. Then the Baron and Baroness de Rag appeared; it was their first dinner there, and Clementina devoted herself to them, heaping them with attentions. The Baron was plenipotentiary of some great foreign Power. The Minister of Arts and Agriculture, Jimenez Arbos, Pinedo, Pepe Castro, and the Cotorrasos husband and wife--all came in together. At the last moment, when it wanted but a few minutes of seven, Lola Madariaga and her husband arrived. This lady, though much younger than Clementina, was her most intimate friend, and the confidant of all her secrets. She dined with her three or four times a week, and hardly a day passed without their driving out together. She could not be called pretty, but her face was so animated, her eyes sparkled so sweetly, and her lips parted in such a bewitching smile to show her little white teeth, that she had always many admirers. As a girl she had been an accomplished flirt, turning all the men's heads, loving to have them at her feet, prodigal of those insinuating smiles alike to the son of a duke or a humble employé, to the old man with a bald head and a bottle nose, or the slender youth of twenty, to the rich or the poor, the noble or the plebeian. Her coquetry equalised ranks and fortunes, uniting all men in a holy brotherhood to bask in the bright light of her fine black eyes, and adore the delicious dimples which a smile brought into her cheek, with all the other gifts and graces which a merciful Providence had bestowed on her. Since her marriage she still showed the same inexhaustible benevolence towards the human race, but in a less wholesale fashion--that is to say, towards one, or at most two, at a time. Her husband was a Mexican, very rich, with traces of Indian blood in his features. They had been in the room only a minute or two when they were followed by Fuentes, a very lively little man, ugly and lean, and a good deal marked by the small-pox. No one knew what he lived on; he was supposed to have some small investments. He was to be seen in every drawing-room of any pretensions, and had a seat at the best tables. His titles to such preference lay in his being regarded as a brilliant and witty talker, intelligent and agreeable. For more than twenty years he had shone at the dinners and balls of Madrid, playing the part of first funny man. Some of his jests had become proverbial; they were repeated not only in drawing-rooms but in the cafés, and from thence were exported to the provinces. Unlike most men of his stamp, he was never ill-natured. His banter was not intended to wound, but only to amuse the company, and excite admiration for his easy, quick, and subtle wit. The utmost license he allowed himself was to seize on the ridiculous side of some absent friend as the subject for an epigram, but never, or almost never, at the cost of his credit. These qualities made him the idol of his circle. No one thought a party complete unless Fuentes at least put in an appearance in the course of the evening. "Ah, Fuentes! Here is Fuentes!" cried one and another, as he appeared, and a number of hands were extended to greet him. Shaking the first he happened to grasp, he turned to the mistress of the house, saying in a dry voice which in itself had a comic effect: "Pardon me, Clementina, if I am a little late. On my way I was caught by Perales. You know Perales; I need say no more. Then, when I escaped from his clutches, at the corner by the War Office, I fell into those of Count de Sotolargo, and he, you know, is saddled with fifty per cent. handicap." "Why?" asked Lola Madariaga. "He stammers, Señora." All laughed, some loudly, others more discreetly. That the sally was not impromptu was evident a mile off; but it produced the desired effect, partly because it really was droll, and partly because it was a point of honour with every one to laugh whenever Fuentes opened his lips. A moment later a servant in livery opened the door, and announced that dinner was served. Osorio hastened to offer his arm to the Baroness de Rag, and led the way to the dining-room. The Baron closed the procession, leading Clementina. The servants all stood in a row, armed with napkins and headed by the butler. Osorio marshalled each guest to his place, and they soon were all seated. The table was elegantly and attractively laid. The light from two large hanging lamps shone on bright-hued flowers and fruit, on a snowy cloth, sparkling glass, and shining porcelain. This light, however, being somewhat crude, did not do justice to the ladies; it gave everything the sharpness of an image in a camera. To moderate the glare and produce a more diffused light, Clementina had two large candelabra, with coloured shades, placed at each end of the table. All the ladies were in low dresses--some, like Pepa Frias, disgracefully _décolletées_. The gentlemen were in evening dress with white ties. At first the conversation was only between neighbours. The Baroness de Rag, a Belgian, with brown hair and light blue eyes, and rather stout, was asking Osorio the Spanish names for the various objects on the table. She had not been long in Spain, and was most anxious to learn the language. Clementina and the Baron were talking French. Pepa Frias, who was between Pepe Castro and Jimenez Arbos, said to Castro, in an undertone: "What do you think of Lola's husband? Really, not so bad for a Brazilian?" Castro smiled with his characteristic superciliousness. "He must have lassoed many cows in the Pampas?" "Till a cow lassoed him." "But that was not on the Pampas." "I know--in a public garden. That is no news." General Patiño, faithful to military tradition and his own instincts, was laying siege in due form to the Marquesa de Ujo, who sat by him. "Pearls suit you to perfection, Señora. A smooth and slightly olive skin like yours, betraying the warm blood and fire of the South, is peculiarly set off by Oriental splendour." "Flattering me as usual, General. I wear pearls because they are the best gems I happen to possess. If I had emeralds as fine as Clementina's, I would leave my pearls in the jewel case," replied the lady, showing a row of rather faulty teeth when she smiled, heightened with a few bright spots of dentist's gold. "You would be in error. A pretty woman should always wear what becomes her most. The Almighty is surely best pleased to view His finest works at their best. Emeralds suit fair complexions; but you are like the Xeres grape: amber-tinted, with a heady and intoxicating essence at the core." "As it might be a raisin!" "No, no, Marquesa; no." The General eagerly repelled the charge and defended himself as valiantly as though in front of the enemy. Meanwhile the servants were moving about handing various dishes, while others, bottle in hand, murmured in the ear of each guest, "Sauterne, Sherry, Margaux," in a hollow tone like that of a Carthusian monk muttering his _memento mori_. "I drink nothing but iced champagne," Pepa Frias announced to the servant behind her. "You need so much cooling," exclaimed Castro. "You surely knew that," said the widow with a meaning look. "To my sorrow!" "Why, are you tired of Clementina?" Fuentes was not happy under these conditions. It grieved him to lavish his wit in a _tête-à-tête_, so he seized the first opportunity of raising his voice and attracting the attention of the whole party. "I saw you in the Carrera de San Jeromino yesterday morning, Fuentes," said the Condesa de Cotorraso, who sat three or four places lower down. "That depends on what you call the morning, Condesa." "It was about eleven, a little before or after." "Then allow me to dispute your statement. I am never out of bed till two." "Till two!" exclaimed one and another. "That is going to an excess!" cried the Marquesa de Alcudia. "But it is an aristocratic excess. Who gets up earliest in Madrid? The scavengers, porters, scullions. A little later you will see the shopmen taking down their shutters, the old women going to early Mass, grooms airing their masters' horses, and so forth. Next come the men of business and office clerks, who do all the real work of the Government, milliners' girls and the like. By about eleven you may meet a better class, officers in the army, students, civilians of a higher grade, and merchants. At noon you see the larger fry, heads of houses, bankers, and land-owners; but it is not till two that Ministers of State, Directors, Grandees of the realm and distinguished writers are to be seen in the streets." The whole company were listening, greatly edified by this defence of laziness, and feeling themselves in a position to laugh at it, saying in an undertone: "That Fuentes! Oh, that Fuentes can talk any one down!" Then, simply for the pleasure of it, some one contradicted him. "But then, my dear fellow, you do not know the delights of getting up early in the morning to breathe the fresh air and bathe in the sunshine!" "I would sooner bathe in warm water with a little bottle of Kananga." "Can you deny that the sun is glorious?" "Glorious by all means, but just a little vulgar. I do not say that at the creation of the world it may not have been a very striking thing, worth getting up to look at; but you must admit that by this time it is a little played out. Can there be anything more ridiculous in these downright days than to call oneself Phoebus Apollo and drive a golden chariot? And, after all, the sun has no intrinsic merits; it stays blazing where God put it, while gas and the electric light represent the brain-work of men of genius. They are the triumph of intelligence, a record of the power of mind over matter, the sovereignty of intellect throughout the universe. Besides, you can always see the sun for nothing, and I have always had a horror of free exhibitions." The company were all in fits of laughter, and Fuentes, encouraged by their mirth, outdid himself in paradoxes and ingenious quibbles, obviously forcing his own hand now and then. He fell into the mistake of certain over-praised actors: he did not know where to stop, and at last became farcical. From the farcical to the gross is but a step, and Fuentes not infrequently crossed the line. The Conde de Cotorraso persisted in his defence of the sun to encourage his friend's ingenious abuse. It was the sun which gave vitality to all nature, which warmed the earthly globe, and so forth. "As to the sun giving life, I deny it," replied Fuentes. "Madrid is much more alive by night than by day, and, as to warming me, I much prefer coke, which does not give rise to fevers. Come, Count, be frank now. What particular merit can there be in a thing which, under all circumstances, your valet must see before you do?" This was regarded as a final happy hit, and the subject was dropped. From talking of the sun they came to talking of the shade, and of the shade of poisonous trees. The Marquesa de Ujo asked Lola's husband, the Mexican, whose name was Ballesteros, whether the manchineel were a native of his country. He replied that it was not, but that he had seen it growing in Brazil. The lady inquired very particularly into its properties, but she was greatly disenchanted on hearing that the shade of the tree was not pernicious, and that it was only the acrid juice of the fruit which was poisonous. "So that you do not die if you fall asleep under it?" "Señora, I did not fall asleep, don't you see? But I breakfasted under one with a party of friends, and we were none the worse." "Well, then, how does Selika commit suicide in the _Africaine_ by lying down in the shade of a manchineel?" "It is a fable, an invention of the poet's. It is a pretty idea but not true." The Marquesa, quite disappointed by this realistic view of the matter, refused altogether to accept it, and argued that possibly the manchineels of India were not the same as the American kind. "Is it true, Ballesteros," asked Clementina, "that you have eight hundred thousand cows?" "Oh, Señora, that is an exaggeration! My herds number three hundred thousand at most." "If they were mine," said Fuentes, "I would build a tank as large as the Retiro Gardens, and fill it with milk and sail a boat on it." "We make no use of the milk, Señor, nor of the butter. We sometimes dry the meat for exportation, don't you see? But generally we only save the skin. And the horns also are sold for various forms of manufacture." "Plague take him for a bore!" said Pepe Castro in a low voice, but loud enough for Jimenez Arbos to hear where he sat by Pepa Frias, who was taken with a fit of laughter which she had the greatest difficulty in choking down. She addressed herself to Clementina to conceal her mirth as far as possible: "Pass me the mustard, there's a trump," said she. "Trump, trump? What is a trump?" asked the Baroness de Rag, in her eagerness to learn the language, and Osorio explained the use of the word. Pepa addressed herself from time to time to Jimenez Arbos; a few brief sentences in a low tone, which showed that they were on intimate terms, and at the same time revealed a desire to be prudent. Her conversation with Castro on her left was more animated. "Why don't you advise Arbos to eat more meat?" he asked her. "Why should I?" "Because he ought to eat meat to give him strength to endure the fatigues of daily life." "To be sure," said the widow, sarcastically. "But do you take care of yourself and leave others to settle their own affairs as Providence may guide them." "Well, you see I manage to get fed." "Yes, but do not let it go to your brain, or one fine day, when you least expect it, you may find yourself without a dinner." "Have I offended you?" said the young man, laughing as if he had heard something very amusing. "No, my dear fellow, no. I mean what I say. For my part I cannot think how Clementina can bear such a Narcissus as you." "Hush! hush! Be careful, Pepa, pray be careful!" cried Castro, with an alarmed glance at the mistress of the house. "Do you know she is wonderfully artful. She has not looked at you once." Castro, who had been a good deal piqued these few days past by his lady's coldness, smiled a forced smile and then knit his brows. Pepa did not fail to observe this. "Look at the black cloud on Osorio's face; it is enough to frighten one! And you are the guilty cause of it, you wretch!" "I! Oh, dear no! It is more likely to be some question of ready money which makes him look so bilious. I hear he is ruined, or within an ace of it." Pepa started visibly. "Who says so? Where did you hear that?" "Several persons have told me so." The widow turned sharply to Arbos on her other hand, and asked him in a whisper: "Have you heard anything about Osorio's being ruined?" "Yes, I have heard it said that Osorio has for some time been buying for a fall, and the market has gone up steadily," replied the official, with a toss of his head suggesting a peacock, and there was a touch of evident satisfaction in his tone. To a politician, buying for a fall is a crime worthy of any punishment. "I do not know how much he may be let in for at the next account; but if it is anything considerable, he is a ruined man. Consols have gone up one per cent., by the end of the month they may have risen to two." Pepa's good spirits had entirely disappeared. She sat looking at her plate and listlessly using her fork to finish the slice of York ham she had taken. The Minister, observing her gloomy silence, asked her: "Have you by any chance any money in his hands?" "By chance! No, by my own idiocy. Almost everything I possess is in his hands." "The devil it is!" "Everything I have eaten has turned on my stomach; I believe I am going to be ill," said the lady, who was as pale as a sheet. Arbos did his best to tranquillise her; perhaps it was not true: sudden losses, like sudden fortunes, are always greatly exaggerated. Besides, if any deposit were sacred to Osorio, it would surely be that of a lady who had entrusted her money to him out of pure friendship. Though they were talking almost in a whisper, their grave looks and earnest manner attracted the notice of General Patiño, who, turning to the Marquesa de Ujo, said with singular perspicacity: "Just look at Pepa and Arbos, a summer cloud has fallen on them. Love is a beautiful thing even in its transient torments!" Clementina meanwhile, with Lola and the Condera de Cotorraso, had been discussing the effects of arsenic as a drug for beautifying the complexion and skin. It was the first time Lola had heard of it, and she was quite delighted, declaring that she would forthwith try this miraculous elixir. "Good heavens, Lolita!" exclaimed Fuentes, "if, as you are, you cause such havoc in masculine hearts, what will happen after you have followed a regimen of arsenic for a few months? Señor Ballesteros, do not permit her to take it; it is too cruel to the rest of us." "Come, come, friend Fuentes," said the pretty brunette, casting an insinuating glance at Castro, for she had taken it into her head that she would snatch him from Clementina, "are you trying to chaff me?" "Chaff, what is chaff?" the Baroness de Rag asked again. Bonifacio had for some moments been staring, without winking even, at the Belgian lady. A few days since he had purchased a photograph of a figure lounging in a hammock. He fancied that the Baroness strongly resembled this picture, and was anxious to convince himself by a prolonged study of what he could see whether what he could not see was equally like it. The dinner could not end of course without a long discussion of the opera, Gayarre and Tosti. Otherwise the meal could not have been digested. The coffee was served in the dining-room, as was the custom of the house. Then the ladies withdrew to the drawing-room, followed by several of the men; others remained to smoke, but it was not long before they joined the others. The dining-room was intolerably hot. Pepe Castro took advantage of the little stir as they left the dining-room to ask Clementina: "Why did you not come this morning?" Clementina paused a second, and looked at him with a condescending smile. "This morning?" she said. "I don't know." "You don't know?" said the lordly youth with a sovereign frown. "I don't know, I don't know," and she turned away still smiling a little disdainfully. "You will come to-morrow?" "We will see," she replied, walking away. Castro felt that smile like a stab in his breast. He bit his under-lip, muttering: "Coquetting, eh? You shall pay me for this, my beauty!" CHAPTER VIII. AFTER DINNER. There were already some fresh arrivals in the drawing-room, among them Ramon Maldonado, and Pepa's daughter with her husband. In the adjoining room, six tables were laid out for cards, and some of the company sat down immediately to play _tresillo_. Others waited for their usual party to appear. It was not long before the rooms were crowded. Don Julian arrived with Mariana and Esperancita, Cobo Ramirez with Leon Guzman and three or four others of the same kidney, General Pallarés, the Marquis de Veneros, and several others, most of the men being merchants and bankers. One of the last to arrive was the Duke de Requena, who was welcomed with the same eager and flattering deference here as elsewhere. He came in snuffling, smoking, spitting, insolently sure of the respect always paid to his immense fortune. He spoke little and laughed less, expressed his opinions with gross rudeness, and sat to be adored by the crowd of ladies who gathered round him. His cheeks were more flabby, his eyes more bloodshot, his lips blacker than ever. His whole appearance was so hideous that Fuentes, pointing him out, remarked to Pinedo and Jimenez Arbos: "There you see the Devil holding court among his witches at a Sabbath." He was invited to join a party at _tresillo_, as usual, but declined. He had caught sight of two bankers, whom he was eager to secure for the affair of the Riosa Mines, and he also wanted to pay court for a few minutes to Arbos. He had already contrived to get the mine put up to sale by auction with all its lands and plant. A company had been formed to buy it, but there was a difference of opinion among the directors; some wanted to pay for it money down, and among these was Salabert, while others wished to take advantage of the ten instalments allowed by the Government. The difference in interest was of course enormous. The Duke made his way to speak to a Mr. Biggs, the representative of an English house, which was largely interested in the company, and the head of the party who were for payment by instalments. He put his arm over his shoulder, and led him into the recess of a window, saying roughly: "Then you are bent on ruining us!" And he proceeded to discuss the matter with a bluntness which disconcerted the Englishman. He replied to the Duke's brutal attack with mild and courteous argument, and a fixed benevolent smile. The Duke only spoke with added rudeness, which was in point of fact, very diplomatic. "I have no fancy for throwing away my money. It has cost me a great deal of trouble to get it at all, you see; and in the long run I may very likely be obliged to escape with my skin by getting out of the business." "Señor Duque, it is no fault of mine," said Biggs, with a strong English accent, "I must obey orders." "These orders are instigated by an old fox in Madrid that I know of." "Oh, Señor Duque! there is no old fox in the case," said Biggs, laughing. And the banker could not get anything out of the Englishman, though he left him much to think of. Pepa Frias, in great agitation, after ascertaining from various authorities that Osorio's affairs were looking badly, was talking matters over with Jimenez Arbos. Every one was of opinion that Osorio could meet his engagements; he had a large capital, and though he had lost heavily at the last few settlements, it was not supposed that he could be seriously hit. It must, however, be added, that none of these gentlemen gambled, as Osorio did, for differences in the market. With him it had become a vice, and, in spite of the warnings of his friends and colleagues, he could not control the passion which sooner or later must inevitably bring him to ruin. Pepa was watching him closely, and with a woman's keen insight she divined a troubled sea under his cold, quiet demeanour. Arbos was soothing her in stilted and well turned phrases--for not even to his mistress could he throw off the orator--while the widow herself was meditating some means of salvation. Her plan was to give the alarm to Clementina, and extract her promise to snatch Pepa's fortune from the burning, if burning there must be, by pledging her own settlements. Trusting much to her own diplomacy, and to her friend's reckless habits, she grew somewhat calmer, and Arbos took advantage of her restored serenity to exert the exceptional gifts of persuasion which Providence had bestowed on him. Pepa recovered so far, in fact, as to sit down to cards with Clementina, Pinedo, and Arbos. As she crossed the drawing-room, she saw in a corner her daughter and son-in-law, sitting like two devoted turtle-doves. She stopped to speak to them, and as her temper was not entirely pacified, her tone was sharp. "Yesterday you were ready to call each other out, and to-day nothing will part you! Come, children, do not sit together all the evening. You should not be so spooney in company." Emilio was offended by her authoritative tone, the colour mounted to his face, and he was on the point of answering his mother-in-law in the same key, but she was gone into the card-room. So there he was left muttering an oath, and saying that he had never been in the habit of taking a scolding from any one, and he was not going to begin with his mother-in-law, with other equally vehement and incoherent declarations, which made Irenita look very doleful, and would have ended in tears if he had not discovered it in time, and, giving her a loving little nip inside her arm, asked her at the same time to let him have half of the mint-drop she was sucking in her pretty mouth. And hereupon they fell to cooing again, as if they had been in the virgin forest instead of Osorio's drawing-room. A party of five or six young girls, and among them Esperancita, were talking with a group of the younger men. Two of these were Cobo Ramirez and our intelligent friend Ramon Maldonado. It would be difficult to reduce to writing the ideas exchanged by these youthful talkers. They must have been subtle, amusing, and pointed, if we may judge by the mirth they gave rise to. At the same time the keen observer would have detected the fact that the young ladies' gestures, appealing eyes, saucy glances, and insinuating graces, even their shouts of laughter, had no direct connection with what was said. For instance, a bland youth remarked: "I saw you, yesterday, Manolita, at San José's, confessing to Father Ortega." The damsel addressed laughed heartily. "No, Paco, I am sure you did not see me." "Pilar," said another, "Where do you buy such pretty fans?" Pilar went into fits of laughter. "What a joke! And you--where did you buy such a hideous dog as you take trotting at your heels?" "Hideous, yes. But a darling, you must own." Such speeches as these excited the most noisy merriment among the young people. They talked loud, giggled and gesticulated. The girls especially seemed to have swallowed quicksilver. Those who had good teeth showed them incessantly; those who had not laughed behind their fans. But the person who made most noise, and gave rise to most amusement was, beyond a doubt, Leon Guzman. Manolita, a vixenish little thing, with black eyes, and a wide mouth full of beautiful teeth, asked him what o'clock it was. He, drawing out his watch, replied that it was a quarter past ten. Then the Count produced his watch, and it appeared that it was already nearly twelve. This subterfuge amused the girls immensely. Manolita, especially, laughed till she was quite limp; the more she tried to suppress her laughter the more convulsive she became. It was very evident that there was in the speech, and beneath the common-place and even stupid aspect of these gentlemen, a well-spring of humour, as fresh as it was deep, such as only young people of from fifteen to twenty can assimilate and enjoy. When this mirth had somewhat subsided Leon Guzman contrived with some skill to move a little apart, and enter into conversation with Esperancita. This deeply pained and vexed Ramon. For the last ten days he had observed that the Conde de Agreda had cast admiring eyes in the direction of the lady of his adoration. He regarded him as a more dangerous rival than Cobo, being a man of much better position. Cobo, indeed, as he could see, was making no way, and this had comforted him; but now the aspect of affairs had changed. He could take no part in the merriment of the group, but sat making calf's eyes at the damsel in the most lamentable fashion. Esperancita, to his great consolation, was by no means especially amiable to the Count; she seemed bored, indeed, and depressed, looking very frequently towards the spot where Ramon himself was sitting. Behind him, to be sure, were Pepe Castro and Lola, talking with the greatest animation; but of this the young civilian was not aware. When Leon moved, Ramon led him aside, and in a low tone made his plaint. Leon was to know that he, Ramon Maldonado, was also paying attentions to Esperancita, and was, in fact, hopelessly in love with her. It was a blow he could not bear, that so intimate a friend should come in his way. He pathetically reminded him of their childhood; their sports together, their school-life; and ended by beseeching him, in a voice broken by emotion, that unless he were really attached to Esperanza, he would cease to make him jealous. To all this Leon listened, half ashamed, and half impatient; to be rid of Ramon he promised all he asked; and presently among his intimates he had a good laugh at the cost of the low-born deputy. Requena, after explaining his schemes to Biggs, sat down to play cards with the Condesa Cotorraso, the Mexican, and General Pallarés. But in a few minutes he was snorting with rage over his bad hands. In spite of his wealth he always played as eagerly as though it were of the greatest importance to him, whether he lost or gained a few dollars. If luck was against him, he got into a positively infernal temper, grumbling at his antagonists, and almost insulting them. His daughter was not unfrequently obliged to interfere and take his cards to play them in his place. Just now, Clementina was playing at the next table, apparently to her own satisfaction, and laughing at Pepa Frias for being silent and absent-minded. "By the way, Pinedo, I had forgotten," said she, as she sorted the fan of cards she held. "Why on earth did you try this morning to make your little daughter believe that Alcantara, of all men, was a saint of virtue?" "That is my secret," replied Pinedo. "Tell it, tell it!" cried Clementina and Pepa, both in the same breath. He let them beg and pray a little; then, after bidding them promise solemnly that they would never reveal it, he told them that, having observed a marked tendency in girls to fall in love with idlers and evil-minded youths, and to reject those who were steady and hard-working, he reversed the facts when talking of a scapegrace, in order that his daughter might not fall into the hands of one of them. When a well-conducted, hard-working young fellow went past, he always spoke of him as a simpleton or a rogue; if, on the contrary, they met a man like Alcantara, who deserved the worst character, he spoke of him in the highest terms. Pepa, Clementina, and Arbos had paused in their game to smile at this strange explanation. "And has this plan had the desired effect?" asked the Minister. "Admirably, up to the present time. It never occurs to my daughter even to speak of those whom I have praised for their virtues. On the other hand, she will sometimes say, with a smile: 'Do you know, papa, I met that profligate young friend of yours. He is really very pleasant and nice looking, as you must allow, and seems to be intelligent. What a pity that he should not sober down.'" At this instant, Cobo Ramirez, who was wandering about, snorting like a tired ox, came up to the table and asked what they were laughing at. No one could be induced to tell. Pinedo signed to them to be silent, for he was greatly afraid of Cobo's tongue. Pepe Castro, too, tired of trying to rouse Clementina's jealousy by his behaviour to Lola without any visible result, softly approached her table with an air of deep melancholy. He posted himself behind Pepa Frias, resting his arms on the back of her chair. Fuentes came up to say Good night. "Will you not take some chocolate?" asked Clementina, holding out her hand. "How can you expect a man to drink chocolate when he has just had a sonnet fired off in his face?" "Mariscal?" "The very man. In the dining-room--he lay in ambush." Mariscal was a young poet in the Ministry for Foreign Affairs, who wrote sonnets to the Virgin and odes to duchesses. "But I avenged myself like a Barbary Moor. I introduced him to Cotorraso who is giving him a lecture on oils. Look how the poor wretch is suffering!" The gamblers looked round, and saw, in fact, the two men in a corner together. The Count was haranguing vehemently, and holding his victim by the lapel of his coat. The unhappy poet, with a rueful countenance, trying to give signals of distress by glances, stood like a man who is being taken to prison. "Arbos, do you think I am sufficiently avenged?" He turned on his heel and hastily left the room, not to weaken the effect of his sarcasm. Thus, every evening, he made his appearance at two or three houses, where his wit and cleverness were the subject of constant praise. The servants presently came with trays of chocolate and ices. Cobo Ramirez seized a little Japanese table, carried it off into a corner, sat down to it, and prepared to stuff. Pepa Frias looked about her, and seeing General Patiño, called to him. "Here, General, take my cards, I am tired of playing. Hand yours over to Pepe, Clementina, and let us go into the other room." The two gentlemen took their seats, and the ladies went towards the drawing-room; but, on their way, Pepa said: "I want to speak with you on a matter of importance; let us go somewhere else." Clementina stared with amazement. "Shall we go into the dining-room?" "No, we had better go up to your dressing-room." Her friend was more surprised than ever, but, shrugging her shoulders, she said: "Just as you please; it must be something very serious." They went upstairs, Clementina imagining that her friend wished to speak of Pepe Castro, and their relations to each other. And as, to tell the truth, the subject had greatly lost its interest, she walked on feeling very indifferent, not to say considerably bored. When they were alone in the boudoir, Pepa took her hands, and looking her straight in the face, she said: "Tell me, Clementina, do you know how your husband's affairs stand?" It was a home-thrust; Clementina, though she had no exact information, had heard of her husband's losses, and of his increasing and delirious passion for gambling. And in a discussion on money matters they had recently had, he had frightened her in order to obtain her signature; also she could see that he was every day more absent-minded and depressed. But though she could give her thoughts to such matters for a few minutes now and again, the complicated bustle of her life as a woman of fashion, seconded by her dislike of all disagreeable subjects, soon put them out of her head. It never for an instant occurred to her that such losses might seriously affect her comfort or convenience, her ostentatious display, or her caprices. Osorio's conduct gave her every reason to continue in this faith, for he had never desired her to retrench in her extravagance. But the viper was lurking at the bottom of her heart, and at a lash like this from Pepa it began to gnaw. "My husband's affairs?" she stammered, as though she did not understand. "I never heard. I do not inquire." "Well, I am told that he has been losing a great deal of money lately." "I dare say," exclaimed her friend, with a shrug of supreme contempt. "But you may find your hair singed, too, my dear. Is your own money safe?" "I do not know what you are driving at. I tell you I know nothing of business." "But in this case you had better gain some information." "But I tell you I do not trouble my head about it, and beg you will change the subject." In proportion as Pepa was obstinate Clementina was reserved and haughty. Her pride, always on the alert, led her to suppose that this lady had plotted for this discussion on purpose to mortify her. "The thing is, my dear, as I feel bound to tell you, that your husband does not speculate with his own money only," said the widow, driven to bay. "Ah! Now I begin to see! You have a few hundred dollars in Osorio's hands, and are afraid of losing them," said Clementina with a satirical smile, and with difficulty swallowing down her wrath. Pepa turned pale. A surge of rage rose from her heart to her lips, and she was on the point of casting her fortune over-board and simply railing like a market woman--a style for which she was especially gifted--but an instinct of self-interest, of self-preservation, checked the outburst. If she were to quarrel with her friend, or even to offend her, all hope of saving her capital would be lost. She perceived that the better part was not to provoke her implacable nature, but to hope that friendship, or even pride, might prompt her to an act of generosity. With a great effort she controlled her annoyance at Clementina's supercilious and arrogant gaze, and said, dejectedly: "Well, yes; I own it. Your husband has in his hands the whole of my little possessions. If I lose it I shall be absolutely destitute. I do not know what will become of me. I would rather beg than be dependent on my son-in-law." "Beg! No, you need not do that. I will engage you as my companion in the place of Pascuala," said Clementina scornfully, for her pride was by no means propitiated. Pepa was more stung by this than she had ever been before, but still she controlled herself. "Well, my dear," she said, again taking her hands with a caressing gesture, "do not fling your millions in my teeth. If I come to worry you about the matter, it is because I regard you as my best friend. I know, of course, that there is a great deal of exaggeration, and that envy is rampant. More than half that is said about Osorio's losses is probably not true." "And even if it were, it really matters very little to me. Only to-day my stepmother told me that she meant to leave me her whole fortune." Pepa's eyes opened very wide. "The Duchess! And she cannot have less than fifty million francs! Poor soul! I am afraid she is very ill." "Pretty bad." At this moment arrogance had the upper hand in Clementina of every instinct of affection. She spoke the two words "pretty bad" in a tone of freezing indifference. The two ladies had soon come to a perfect understanding. Pepa, still affecting an easy manner, flattered her friend in every possible way: she was beautiful, rich, a model of elegance. Clementina allowed herself to be flattered, inhaling the incense with intense satisfaction. In return she promised Pepa that she should not lose a centime of her capital. They went down the stairs with their arms round each other's waist, chattering like a pair of magpies. As they reached the drawing-room door, before parting, they embraced and kissed. And it did not occur to either of them that the embrace and kiss were those of a corpse--the corpse of a good and generous woman. CHAPTER IX. RAIMUNDO'S LOVE AFFAIRS. Clementina's new love adventure went on in a manner no less childish than pleasing for her. After the inopportune act of heedlessness which had brought her to so much shame, she took care for some days not to look up at Raimundo, though the greetings he waved her were more expressive and affectionate than ever. This fancy--for it deserves no better name--was, however, taking such deep root in her imagination that she determined to indulge it again, and on each occasion she found the young man's opera-glasses directed towards her. Finally, one day, as she turned the corner, she kissed her hand to him. "Really, I have lost all sense of shame!" said she to herself, with a blush. And it was so true that she did the same again whenever she went by. But the situation, though romantic and novel, began to weigh upon her. Her impetuous temperament would never allow her to enjoy the present in peace; it drove her to seek further, to precipitate events; though not unfrequently, instead of procuring her pleasure, they only left her entangled in the ruins of the dream-palace she had raised. On this occasion, however, she had better reason than usual for wishing to get out of the predicament. It was altogether such a false position as to verge on the ridiculous; and she owned as much to herself in her most secret soul. "In point of fact, I am treating this boy like a dancing bear." But though she every day determined to put an end to the adventure by going out no more on foot, or by passing by Raimundo's house without looking up, bowing to him coldly at the utmost, she had not resolution enough to carry out her purpose, nor even to cease sending her greeting up to the corner window. One thing still puzzled her, and that was, that the young man, seeing the evident tokens she had given of her change of mind, and the rather humiliating proofs of her liking for him, had never failed in his obedience--never followed her, nor attempted to meet her out walking. This at last piqued her vanity; she thought he played his new part with too much zeal. And thinking this she was sometimes quite angry with him; but then as she went past and saw him so smiling, so happy, so eager to bow to her, the black mood of her pride was dispelled, and her heart was again full to overflowing, of sympathy for the boy, and of the whimsical desire to love and to be loved by him. How would it all end? In nothing, probably. Nevertheless, she did her utmost to carry on the affair, and bring it to some definite issue; of that there is no doubt. And her wish being thwarted by causes which she could not clearly understand, it grew, till by degrees it became a fierce appetite. One afternoon, when disappointment and bitterness possessed her breast, as she was walking down the Calle de Serrano, seriously pondering on giving up this ridiculous adventure, as she passed beneath the window, after bowing to the young man seated there, she felt a handful of loose flowers fall upon her. She looked up, understanding that it was he who had flung them, and gave him a smile of tender gratitude. This shower refreshed her spirit and revived her drooping fancy. Now she only thought of some way of bringing him nearer to her. She thought of writing to beg his forgiveness for her visit and her stern words, but it was too late for that. Then she fancied that perhaps among her friends, particularly among journalists, there might be some one who would know him, and by whom she might send him some civil message. But this idea she dismissed as dangerous. She almost thought of giving him some signal to come down to her, and explaining herself verbally, but this again she did not dare. It was too humiliating. Chance came to her aid, solving the dilemma to her satisfaction when she least expected it. They met one evening at the theatre. Raimundo, whose year of deep mourning was nearly at an end, now occasionally went out, and he and his sister were in the stalls. Clementina was in a box just above them. They exchanged bows, and then for some time there was a cross-fire of glances and smiles, which attracted Aurelia's attention. "Who is it? Have you been meeting that lady again?" "No." "Then what is the meaning of your smiles? You seem to be intimate friends." "I do not know," said the brother, somewhat embarrassed. "She is always very friendly to me. Perhaps she thinks she offended me when she came to our rooms, and wishes to mollify me." Between the first and second acts, a beautiful spray of camellia was handed to Aurelia by a flower-seller. "From the lady in box number eleven." Aurelia looked up, and saw Clementina gazing and smiling at her. She and Raimundo bowed their thanks, Aurelia blushing deeply. "Do not you think," said her brother, "that I ought to go upstairs and thank her?" It was but natural. Raimundo, when the curtain next fell, left his sister for a moment, and went up to the Osorios' box. A happy smile beamed on Clementina's face as she saw the young man at the door. She received him as an old friend, bade him sit down by her side, and began a conversation in an undertone, completely neglecting Pascuala whom she had brought with her. Happily for this lady, Bonifacio came in before long; he never took a stall at any theatre where he knew that the Osorios had a box. "I am glad to see that you have no grudge against me," said she in a low voice, with an insinuating glance. "That is right. It shows you have both a good heart and good sense. I must frankly confess that I was utterly mistaken in my estimate of your conduct and character. I can only assure you that when I came out of your house, I would gladly have turned back to beg your pardon. If not in words, in looks and gestures I have asked it many times since, as you will have understood." And she proceeded, in the most masterly way, to give him three or four more encouraging hints, which quite turned poor Raimundo's head--that is to say, left him speechless, confused, and fascinated; just as she would have him, in short. At the same time she skilfully accounted for the rather singular display of liking for him which she herself was ashamed to recall. Without leaving him time to reply, she inquired after his sister, his health, and his butterflies. Raimundo answered briefly, not out of indifference, but for lack of worldly ease of manner. But she was nothing daunted, she became more and more affectionate, entangling him in a perfect maze of flattering speeches and inviting glances. At the moment when she was most fluent, it might almost be said inspired to conquer her youthful adorer, suddenly, in the passage between the stalls, Pepe Castro appeared on the scene, in evening dress, the ends of his moustache waxed to needle points, the curls of his hair waving coquettishly over his temples, his whole air easy, self-sufficient, and scornful. He first cast his fascinating and Olympic eye over the stalls, subjugating every marriageable damsel who happened to be occupying one, and then, with the serene dignity of an eagle's soaring flight, he raised it to box number eleven. He could not suppress a start of surprise. Who was this with whom Clementina was on such intimate terms? He did not know this young man. He brought his diminutive opera-glasses to bear on him--no, he had never seen him in his life. Clementina, conscious of her lover's surprise, after returning his greeting, became doubly amiable to Raimundo, addressing herself solely to him, leaning over to speak to him, and going through endless manoeuvres to attract the attention of the illustrious "Savage." She felt a malignant glee in doing this. Castro was now absolutely indifferent to her. Raimundo returned Pepe's impertinent stare through his opera-glasses, by a curious glance now and then, for he had not the honour of knowing the "husband's bugbear!" Then reflecting that his sister would be losing patience, though he could keep an eye on her from the box, he rose to depart. "We are friends, are we not?" said the lady, holding his hand. "Remember me affectionately to your sister. I owe her, too, an apology for my strange and unexpected visit. Tell her I shall call on her some day and take her by surprise in the midst of her household cares. I take the greatest interest in you both--a brother and sister, both so young--good night, good night." When he found himself by his sister's side once more, feeling rather bewildered, Aurelia said to him: "How very handsome that lady is! But still I cannot see that she is like mamma." Raimundo, who at the moment had forgotten the likeness, was taken by surprise. "Oh, there is a sort of look--an air," he stammered out. So now it was no more than an air. The young man was conscious of a vague remorse. The impression Clementina now produced on his mind was not that respectful devotion which had possessed him before they had made acquaintance in so strange a manner. Pepe Castro, when he saw him in the stalls, simply stared at him, hoping, perhaps to annihilate him. As he concluded that the red-haired youth did not belong to the elevated sphere in which he himself moved, it occurred to him--for his imagination was lively--that this might be the youth of whose pertinacity Clementina had formerly complained. As was but natural this did not prejudice him in Alcázar's favour. Raimundo himself was too much absorbed in contemplating the Osorios' box to notice his rival's determined stare, and Pepe, tired of it at last, went up to join Clementina. He seated himself by her side in the very place occupied shortly before by Alcázar, who, on seeing him there, was aware of a strange _malaise_, an obscure dejection which he did not even attempt to define. Nevertheless, he observed that the lady smiled a great deal, and that the gentleman was very grave, also that she found time to cast frequent glances in his direction, whereat her companion grew more and more sullen and gloomy. "Have you noticed how that lady gazes down at you?" said Aurelia to her brother. "She seems to have taken quite a fancy to you." "Nonsense!" he replied, turning very red. "Such a fellow as I am too! If it were that gentleman who is sitting by her now." Aurelia protested, laughing, that her brother was far better looking than that doll of a man, with pink cheeks like a ballet-dancer's. When the performance was over, Raimundo, not without a pang of jealousy, found Clementina waiting in the lobby for her carriage, attended by this same man. But she greeted him so eagerly, that Castro, who was becoming uneasy, turned to give him a long and scrutinising stare. For some days after this, the young entomologist anxiously expected Clementina to stop at the door, and come up to pay the promised visit. But he was disappointed. The lady constantly went by with her light brisk step, bowed as she approached, and before she turned the corner, waved him an adieu. Every time she passed the door, Raimundo's heart sank, and at last he grew angry. "Pshaw! She has forgotten all about it," he said to himself. "I shall never, probably, speak to her again, since we never by any chance meet anywhere." He did his best to assist chance, by going more often to the play, where he never saw her. At the opera, he would certainly have found her, but he never was so bold as to go there for fear she might think he had renewed his pursuit. Why he had taken it into his head that she would call at any one hour more than at another it is impossible to say. But in the end his surprise and agitation were unbounded when one morning Clementina really made her appearance. This time she asked for the Señorita. Aurelia received her in the drawing-room, and immediately sent for her brother. By the time he appeared the lady was sitting on the sofa and chatting with the frank ease of an old acquaintance. "This visit is not to you, you understand," said she, giving him her hand. "I should never have dared to imagine that it was," he replied, shyly pressing her fingers. "There is no knowing. I do not think you conceited, but a woman must always be on her guard." There was something not quite genuine in the candour of her jesting tone. Her voice was slightly tremulous, and there was a pale circle round her eyes, a sure sign of some emotion which weighs on the mind. Her visit was short, but she found time to charm the young girl by her delicate flattery and effusive offers. She made her promise to return her visit soon; in the evening if she preferred to meet no one, and they would have a long chat together. She would show Aurelia the house, and some work she was doing. The girl's loneliness and youth had really made an impression on her, and if, in fact, she bore some resemblance to their mother, as Raimundo said, she felt she had some claim on her affection. "Well, then, when you are bored here by yourself, come to my house--it is such a little way--and we will bore each other. That will be a variety, at any rate." Poor Aurelia, bewildered by her visitor's condescension and unfamiliar worldly tone, could only smile in reply. When Clementina rose to go, she said: "I rely on you, Alcázar, to see that your sister keeps her promise. As for you--you can do as you please. I never press my society on a _savant_, for I know one may be boring him when one least suspects it." She had quite recovered her balance, and spoke in an easy protecting tone, with almost a maternal air. Even on the staircase she paused to reiterate all her friendly advances. She would not allow Raimundo to escort her to the house-door; she went down alone, leaving a trail of perfume which he enjoyed more than his sister did. When their door was closed on her, Aurelia did not speak; and she replied to her brother's rapturous eulogies in so few words that his ardour was soon dashed. It was too true: the feeling of filial adoration which the young professor had felt at first for the lady of his dreams was fast dying away, or rather was being transformed into another, less saintly though still akin to it. In him, as in every man who lives out of the society of women, and exclusively devoted to study, the instincts of sex and the revelation of the divine law of love were sudden and intense. On the very next day he urged Aurelia to return Clementina's call, though he expressed his wish with some timidity and hesitation. His sister, however, insisted on the propriety of allowing some little time to elapse, and he submitted. At length the visit was paid. Aurelia spent an afternoon in the Señora's boudoir. Raimundo, after much deliberation, did not venture to accompany her. Three or four days later Clementina again called to invite them both to her box at the Opera that evening. It was a terrible joy. Raimundo had not a dress coat, and Aurelia's wardrobe was not much better furnished. However, they went. A relation lent Raimundo a coat, and Aurelia wore the best she had. Next day Raimundo ordered a dress suit, of the first tailor in Madrid; nor was this all: without saying anything to his sister, he went to the box-office of the Opera-house and subscribed for a stall as near as possible to the Osorios' box, and for the same evenings. Thanks to Raimundo's efforts, the intimacy grew apace, though his sister, while she spoke warmly of her new friend's kindness, opposed a passive resistance to all familiarity with her. Do what she might, she could not forget the extraordinary way in which their acquaintance had begun, nor the sense of falsity with which Clementina had impressed her. Raimundo, fully aware of all this, did his utmost by direct and indirect means to conquer her suspicions. Aurelia was plain, rather than pretty, with sound common sense, and an upright spirit. Her adoration for her brother, inherited from her mother, did not blind her to the weak points in his character. He was easily impressed and as easily led, and still very puerile. In fact, in a certain sense, she represented the masculine and he the feminine element in the house. He was easily moved to tears; she, with great difficulty. He was liable to whimsical alarms and bewilderments, amounting sometimes almost to hallucinations, her nervous system was calm and well balanced; she was healthy and sound, he frail and placid. During the months immediately following on his mother's death, Raimundo, making a great effort, with the idea of being his sister's protector, had shown more manliness and firmness; but, as time went on, his nature reasserted itself, and he fell into his childish fancies and womanly susceptibilities again, in proportion as she developed a resolute, honest, and well-balanced character. It cost Clementina hardly an effort to fascinate and subjugate the young naturalist. Sometimes the young people went to her, and sometimes she to them; or she would fetch them to go to the theatre, or out driving with her, and thus they soon met almost every day. The first evening that Pepe Castro met Alcázar in the Osorios' drawing-room he perfectly understood the situation, and it filled him with rage. "So this precious hussy is taking up with a baby!" he muttered between his teeth. "They all come to such folly at last." He thought of insulting the boy and provoking him to fight; but he soon saw that this could do him no good. What could he gain by it? Absolutely nothing, for Clementina would only hate him the more, and the scandal would betray his discomfiture--all the more ignominious for him, as his successful rival was a boy, whom no one knew anything about. So he came to the prudent conclusion that he would not wear his heart for daws to peck at, but would for a while leave his mistress to her own devices. By-and-by, perhaps, she would tire of playing with this pet lamb and call the sheep back to the fold. Alcázar was not such a boy as Castro thought him; he was three-and-twenty. But his face was so youthful and delicate that he did not look more than eighteen. His health was variable and frail; especially, since his mother's death, he had been liable to attacks of the brain, when he lost sometimes his sight, and sometimes the power of speech, complicated with other evils, but happily of very short duration. He was a frequent prey to melancholy, ending in a violent crisis and floods of tears, like a hysterical woman. He was terrified of spiders; the sight of a surgical instrument gave him the horrors. Sometimes he suffered acute anguish from a dread of going mad; at others his fear was lest he should kill himself against his will. He never would have any kind of weapon within reach, and for fear of throwing himself from the balcony he always had his bedroom window locked at night and placed the key in his sister's keeping: she was the only witness and confidant of his vagaries. They were the outcome, partly of his temperament, and partly of the effeminate training he had received. But he kept them a secret, as every man does who suffers in this way--many more than are ever suspected of it--and by constant watchfulness he kept them under control, knowing how ridiculous a man thus constituted must appear. It may easily be supposed what his fate must inevitably be when a woman like Clementina--a beautiful and experienced coquette--had set her heart on conquest. At first his extreme bashfulness kept him from understanding the lady's aim and tactics. He took her gracious bows and inviting smiles for the expression of her sympathy with their orphaned loneliness. And when she had made friends with them, and shown him every indication of her liking, when his sister even had given him a warning hint, he still could not believe that there could be anything between them beyond a more or less affectionate good-fellowship, protecting and motherly on her side, devoted and ardent on his. However, the elixir of love which Clementina shed drop by drop on his lips, as it were, made its way to his heart. When he was least expecting it, he found that he was madly in love. But the discovery filled him with bashful fears, and he thought that he could never dare to declare it. Though his idol's demeanour towards him, and constant demonstrations of sympathetic regard were enough to justify any hopes on his part, it seemed to him so strange as to be impossible that a shy and inexperienced man, devoid of all worldly advantages, should find favour with so rich and so beautiful a woman. Nor could he entirely free himself from the remorse which stung him from time to time. It was her resemblance to his mother which had first attracted him in Clementina. Was not his passion a profanation? But in spite of his remorse, of his timidity, and of his reason, Raimundo felt himself every day more enslaved by this woman. Clementina, to be sure, brought every weapon into play; and she had many at her disposal. In proportion as she found her youthful adorer more bashful, her own audacity and coolness increased. This is almost always the case, but in the present instance, circumstances made the contrast all the more conspicuous. Timidity in him amounted to a disease, a peculiarity which he full well knew to be ridiculous while he could not overcome it; on the contrary, the greater the efforts he made, the more his nervousness betrayed itself. At first he could speak to her with sufficient calmness, and could allow himself some little compliment or jest, but he had now lost all his presence of mind, he could not go near her without losing his head, nor take her hand without trembling; if she did but look at him his cheeks tingled. Clementina could not help smiling at these innocent symptoms of love. She was full of curiosity, and happy to find herself still handsome enough to inspire the boy with such a passion. Sometimes she would amuse herself by playing the fish, making him blush, and behaving with the license and frivolity of a _grisette_. At others she affected to fall in with his melancholy mood, making eyes at him like a school-girl; or, again, she treated him with tender familiarity, inquiring into his life, his work, and his thoughts, like a fond mother or elder sister. Then Raimundo would recover his spirits a little, and dare to look the goddess in the face. Clementina would occasionally cajole him by an affectation of scientific tastes, going up to his study and covering the table and the floor with his butterfly-boxes. This, which if any one else had done it, would have brought the house about their ears, only made the young naturalist smile. But by this time the lady's acquaintances were beginning to make remarks on her last and most extravagant love-affair, assuming, of course, that it had gone much further than was really the case. One Saturday evening at the Osorios' house Pepa Frias ended by exclaiming to three or four of the "Savages," with whom she had been discussing the matter: "You will see. Clementina will end by falling in love with a Newfoundland dog or a journalist!" When Raimundo came into the room with his rosy, melancholy, cherubic face, his diffident, embarrassed air, every one looked at him with curiosity: there were smiles, murmurs, witticisms, and stupid remarks. He was much discussed. In general, and especially by men, Clementina was thought ridiculous; some of the ladies, however, looked more kindly on the youth, thought his candid looks very attractive, and sympathised with her whim. Thus our young friend was regarded as _amant en titre_ to Clementina before he had dared to kiss her finger-tips, or even dreamed of it. He was perfectly miserable if she was in the least disdainful, and was as happy as an angel if she made the smallest show of affection. Clementina was in no hurry to hear his declaration, though fully determined that he should make it. It amused her to watch the progress of the affair, noting the development of his passion, and the phenomena to which it gave rise. She had had her fill of ravings, and thought it delightful to be adored with this dumb devotion, and play the part of a goddess. A mere glance was enough to turn this worshipper red or pale, a word made him happy or reduced him to despair. Raimundo went to the Opera whenever Clementina was to be there; he went up to pay his respects to her in her box, and often, by her invitation, sat there during two or three acts. Then she would retire to the back of the box and chat with him there, screened by the curtains. When she was tired of this, or if some important scene was being sung on the stage, she would lapse into silence, turn her back on her companion, and listen to the performance. Raimundo, his ears full of the echo of her tones, and his heart on fire from the ardour of her gaze, would also remain silent, though, in truth, more attentive to the music in his brain than to that performed for his delectation. Sure of not being seen, he could contemplate the alabaster shoulders of his idol with religious absorption, and bend down his head, on pretence of hearing better, to breathe the perfume she used, shutting his eyes and allowing it to intoxicate him. One evening he put his face so close to her head that he actually dared to let his lips touch the heavy plaits of her beautiful hair. No sooner had he done it than he was in great alarm lest Clementina should have felt it; but she sat unmoved, listening ecstatically to the music. At the same time, as the young man could see, her eyes sparkled with a conscious smile. Encouraged by this success, whenever she had her hair done in this particular way, he ventured, with the greatest precaution, and after much hesitation, to press it to his lips. The pleasure was so acute and delightful that it dwelt on his lips for many days. But then, one evening--whether because she was out of temper or because it was her pleasure to mortify him--she treated him with such contempt all the time he was in the box, leaving him to entertain Pascuala while she chatted with some more aristocratic youth of her acquaintance, that poor Raimundo was thrown into despair. He had not even courage enough to take leave; he stood, pale and crestfallen, a frown of anxiety furrowing his brow. Clementina stole a glance at him from time to time. When the other gentleman made his bow, Raimundo, too, was about to take leave. The lady detained him, holding his hand. "Nay, wait a minute, Alcázar; I have something to say to you," and she withdrew, as usual, to the back of the box and began chatting with all her frank amiability. The young man breathed again; still, when she turned away to listen to the music, he was so unstrung and confused that he did not dare to kiss her hair, though it was plaited low, and the opportunity was propitious. After a long pause Clementina suddenly turned on him and asked in a low voice: "Why do you not kiss my hair, as you always do?" His amazement was quite a shock to him. All the blood rushed to his heart, leaving him as pale as a corpse; then it mounted to his face, turning it to the colour of a poppy. "I--your hair," he gasped abjectly. And he was forced to cling to a chair-back to save himself from falling. "Do not be frightened, my dear fellow," she exclaimed, laying her hand on his. "If I allowed it, that is sufficient proof that I did not object." But seeing that he was gazing at her wildly, as if he did not understand her, she added: "Perhaps you imagine that I did not know that you care for me a little?" The young man gave a convulsive cry. "Yes, I have known it for some time," she went on in a still lower voice, and speaking into his ear. "But there is something which you do not know. And that is, that I care for you." Casting a hasty glance round the house, to make sure that they were not observed, she took his hands in hers, and her breath was warm on his cheek as she said: "Yes, I love you--beyond anything you can imagine." Clementina had not anticipated the effect of these words on her susceptible and effeminate adorer. The violent emotions he had gone through, and now the high tide of happiness, so completely upset him that he began to cry like a child. She hastily drew him into a corner, filling up the space between the curtains with her person. Her face was radiant with happiness. Her conquest, in fact, had a novelty about it which quite enchanted her. This lover was hardly more than a boy; nor was he one of the herd of puppies and dandies whom she met at every turn, all cast in the same mould, devoid of all originality, having all the same vices, the same vanities, uttering almost the same jests. Raimundo was different from these, not merely by his humble position and secluded life, nor even by his talents and culture, but most of all by his character. How sweet a nature was this boy's! How innocent, how sensitive, how refined, and yet how impassioned! Accustomed as she was to the monotonous type of Pepe Castros, every new psychological aspect, every burst of enthusiasm, every alarm and every joy in her new friend, was to Clementina a delightful surprise. She was never tired of studying his mind, and would sometimes affect to doubt his love for her. "Do you really love me? Are you sure? Remember, I am an old woman; I might be your mother." And Raimundo always replied with some fond caress and a tearful glance, which revealed the depth of his devotion. From that memorable evening Raimundo could think of nothing but Clementina. To him the whole world had shrunk into one person, and that person a woman. Not only did he live and breathe for her, but he thought of her all day and dreamed of her all night. At first the lady had received him at her own house, but she, ere long, thought this unwise, and they took rooms in a neighbouring Street, a small entresol, which they furnished with taste. His life had undergone a complete change. From living in absolute seclusion he suddenly came out into the world of fashion: theatres, balls, dinners, riding-parties, and shooting expeditions. Clementina bound him to her chariot, and exhibited him in every drawing-room as if she were proud of him. For our young friend, with his delicate features, gentle temper, and superior intelligence, became popular wherever he went; no one stopped to ask whether he were rich or poor, noble or plebeian. Aurelia sometimes accompanied him, but always against her will. Though she dared not contravene her brother's line of conduct, it was easy to see that she condemned it in her heart, and was out of her sphere at the Osorios'. She had become taciturn and grave, and her eyes, when she bent them on Raimundo, took a sad and gloomy expression, as though she feared disaster. Clementina did all she could to win her, but she made no way in the girl's affections; and under Aurelia's modest smiles and blushes she fancied she could detect a vein of hostility which often disconcerted her. Señora de Osorio persisted in the lavish expenditure she had always indulged in, notwithstanding the rumours of imminent ruin which had so greatly alarmed Pepa Frias. But the catastrophe did not come as had been prophesied. The banker contrived to stave it off, giving it to be understood by those who had money in his hands that there was nothing to be got by falling on him tooth and nail, as they would not by such means save one quarter of their capital. On the other hand, they had only to wait to recover every penny. His wife must, ere long, come into an immense fortune. His creditors listened to reason, kept their own counsel as to the state of his affairs, and only stipulated that Clementina's signature should be affixed, as well as her husband's, to every renewed bill. Soon after, fortune favoured Osorio in the turns of the money-market, and he was able to launch out once more, though men of business looked askance at his dealings, and unanimously declared that the crash was only deferred. His wife, feeling that she was safe at any rate, thought no more of such unpleasant subjects. It was only when she went to her father's house and saw Doña Carmen's pale, worn face, that her heart throbbed with a feeling which she was loth to confess even to herself, and which she strove to drown under the sound of affectionate words and kisses. Raimundo's love was an extraordinary joy to her. She felt herself borne, as she had never been before, on a wave of devoted and poetic passion which rocked and soothed her. She was well content to play the goddess. She enjoyed showing herself as now amiable and tender, and again gravely terrible, putting her adorer to a thousand proofs, to make quite sure, as she said, that he was indeed wholly hers. But the habit of dealing with men of a different stamp led her into fatal mistakes, which grieved and hurt the youth. One day, in their own little rooms, she said, with a smile: "I have a present for you, Mundo," as she called him for a pet name. She rose and took out of her muff a very pretty little note-book. "Oh, that is most sweet!" he exclaimed pressing it to his lips. "I will always use it." But on opening it he was struck with consternation. It was full of bank-notes. "You have forgotten to take the money out," he said handing her the pocket-book. "I have not forgotten it. It is for you." "For me?" he said turning pale. "Do you not wish for it?" she said, somewhat abashed and blushing scarlet. "No," he said firmly, "certainly not." Clementina dared not insist. She took the pocket-book, turned out the bank-notes, and returned it to him. There was a pause of embarrassed silence. Raimundo sat with his elbow on the table, his cheek in his hand, serious and thoughtful. She watched him out of the corner of her eyes, half angry and half curious. At last a bright smile lighted up her face. She rose from her seat, and taking his head between her hands, she said gaily: "Well done! This action raises you in my esteem. Still, you may take money from me without a blush. Am I not your mamma?" Raimundo said nothing; he only kissed the hands that had held him fast. Money was never again spoken of between them. But still, in spite of his three-and-twenty years, there was something childlike about the lad which was an infinite delight to his mistress. It was due chiefly to his solitary and effeminate youth. He was very easily taken in, and as easily amused; he never had those fits of black boredom which afflict the spoilt worldling; he never uttered one of the caustic and ironical speeches which are common even on a lover's lips. His glee was effervescent and boyish to the verge of the ridiculous. He thought it fun to play follow-my-leader behind Clementina in their little lodgings, or to hide and startle her. He would entertain her with conjuring tricks, which perhaps showed some intelligence; or they would play at cards with absorbed attention, as though they were gambling for large sums; or they would dance to the music of some grinding organ, that had stopped within hearing. Then they would eat bon-bons for a match, seeing who would get through most. One day he was bent on making pine-apple ice; he declared that he was great at making ices. All the apparatus was borrowed from a café in the neighbourhood, and after stirring and turning for some time, he at last turned out an ugly and untempting mass, which so greatly depressed him that Clementina actually swallowed a large dose of the liquid. He was fond of mimicking the accent and manner of any one he had met at her house; and this he did to such perfection, that Clementina laughed with all her heart; nay, she sometimes entreated him to cease, for it hurt her to laugh so much. Raimundo had the gift of observing the most trifling peculiarities of the persons he met, and imitating them to perfection. It was difficult to believe that the person mimicked was not speaking. However, it was only in the strictest confidence that he displayed this accomplishment. Sometimes if he was in a merry mood he would perform a Royal reception. He hastily erected a throne in the middle of the room, on which Clementina must sit. Then the Ministers and high political personages in turn approached the Queen and spoke a short address. Clementina, who knew them every one, could guess who each was from only a few words. Raimundo, having often been present at the meetings of Congress, had picked up the accent and gesture of each to the life. He was particularly happy in his imitation of Jimenez Arbos, whom he knew well from meeting him at the Osorios'. Of course, after each speech, he kissed the sovereign's hand with a reverent bow, and resumed the paper cocked-hat he had made for the occasion. These childish games amused the lady, and helped to open a heart which had always been closed by pride or ennui. She came away from their long interviews quite rejuvenescent, her eyes sparkling, her step lighter, and ready to bestow a nod on persons to whom as a rule she would vouchsafe only the coldest bow. And then Raimundo would amaze her by some inconceivably childish and innocent proceeding. One day, when she noiselessly entered their rooms--for each had a key--she found him industriously sweeping the floor. He blushed to the ears with confusion, at being discovered. Clementina, in fits of laughter, covered his face with kisses. "Really, child, you are too delightful!" she exclaimed. CHAPTER X. MATTERS OF BUSINESS. It was a very busy morning in Salabert's counting-house. Some large payments had to be made. The Duke himself had presided over the transactions and helped the cashier to count the notes. In spite of the many years he had spent in handling money, he could never part with a large sum without his hand shaking a little. He was nervous now, and absorbed, nibbling his cigar, but not spitting as usual, for his throat was dry. More than once he checked the clerk, believing that he was allowing two notes to pass for one, but on each occasion he was in error; the man was very dexterous at his work. When it was all done, the Duke withdrew to his private room, where he found waiting M. de Fayolle, the great importer of foreign horses, which he supplied to all the aristocracy of Madrid. "_Bon-jour, Monsieur_," said the Duke, clapping him roughly on the shoulder. "Have you got another screw you want me to take off your hands?" "Oh, Monsieur le Duc, the horses I sold you are not screws, not a bit of it. You have the best cattle that ever passed through my stables," said the Frenchman with a foreign accent and a servile smile. "All the cast-off rubbish from Paris is what you sell to me. But do not suppose that I am taken in. I have known it a long time, Monsieur, a very long time. Only I can never look in your cherubic and smiling face without giving way." M. Fayolle was smiling at the moment, showing his large yellow teeth from ear to ear. "The face is the mirror of the soul, Monsieur le Duc; you may rely on me never to offer you anything but what is absolutely first-rate. Has Apollyon turned out badly?" "Hm. So-so." "You must surely be jesting! I saw him in the street the other day, in your phaeton. Every one turned round to look at him." For some minutes they discussed various horses which Requena had bought of the Frenchman; he found fault with every one of them. Fayolle defended them with the enthusiasm of a dealer and a connoiseur. Presently, at a pause, he looked at his watch, saying: "I will not detain you any longer. I came for the settlement of that last little account." The Duke's face clouded. Then he said half laughing and half angry: "Why, my good man, you are never happy unless you are getting money out of me." At the same time he put his hand in his pocket and took out his note-book. M. Fayolle still smiled, saying that he could not bear to ask for it, knowing that the Duke was such a pauper, and that it would be dreadful indeed to see him reduced to beggary, a delicate joke which Requena did not seem to hear, being absorbed in counting out the paper. He laid out seven notes of one hundred dollars each and handed them to Fayolle, ringing a bell for a clerk to bring a form of receipt. Fayolle, on his part, counted them, and then said: "You have made a mistake, Monsieur le Duc, the account is for eight hundred dollars, and you have only given me seven." Salabert did not seem to have heard him. With his eyes half-closed, and shifting his cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other, he sat silent, looking at the pocket-book, after fastening it with an elastic band. "This is one hundred dollars short," Fayolle reiterated. "What? Short? Count once more. It is impossible!" The horse-dealer counted. "Three thousand five hundred pesetas." "You see, I could not be wrong." "But the horse was to cost four thousand. That was a bargain." The Duke's face expressed the most candid surprise. "What! Four thousand pesetas? No, my friend, no. The horse was to be three thousand five hundred. It was on that understanding that I bought it." "Monsieur le Duc, you really are under a mistake," said Fayolle, now quite grave. "You must remember that we finally agreed on four thousand." "I remember all about it. It is you who have a bad memory. Here," he added to a clerk who came in with the receipt-form, "go downstairs, one of you, to the stables, and ask Benigno how much I told him I was to give for Apollyon?" And at the same time, taking advantage of the moment when Fayolle looked at the messenger, he made a significant grimace at the man. The coachman's answer by the clerk was that the horse was to be three thousand five hundred pesetas. Thereupon the dealer grew angry. He was quite positive that the bargain had stood at eight hundred dollars, and it was in this belief that he had delivered it. Otherwise the horse should never have left his stable. Requena allowed him to talk himself out, only uttering grunts of dissent, without exciting himself in the smallest degree. Only when Fayolle talked of having the horse back, he said in a lazy tone: "Then you evidently have some one in your eye who will give you eight hundred, and you want to be off the bargain?" "Monsieur le Duc, I swear to you that it is nothing of the kind. Only I am positive I am right." The banker was seized by an opportune fit of coughing; his eyes were bloodshot, and his cheeks turned purple. Then he deliberately wiped his mouth and rose, and said in his most boorish manner: "Bless me, man! Don't put yourself out over a few miserable pesetas." But he did not produce them. The Frenchman was willing to take back the horse, but this again he failed to achieve. There was a short silence. Fayolle was within an ace of flying out, and making a fool of himself. But he restrained himself, reflecting that this would do no good, and that sueing the Duke would do even less. Who would be counsel for the plaintiff against such a man as Requena? So he resigned himself to his fate, and took his leave, the Duke escorting him to the door with much politeness, and clapping him affectionately on the shoulder. When the banker returned to his seat at the table, his eyes glistened under his heavy eyelids with a smile of sarcastic triumph. A few minutes after he again rang the bell. "Go and inquire whether the Duchess is alone, or if she has visitors," he said to the man who answered it. And while the servant went on the errand he sat motionless, leaning back in his chair, with his hands folded, meditating. "Padre Ortega is with the Duchess," was the answer in a few minutes. Salabert "pshawed" impatiently, and sank into thought once more. He had made up his mind to have a solemn discussion with his wife on ways and means. Doña Carmen had never mentioned money to him in her life, and he had never felt called upon to give her any account of his speculations and business matters. He regarded himself as absolute master of his fortune, and it never entered his head to think that she could make any claims on it. A friend, however, had lately enlightened him on this point. Speaking of Doña Carmen's feeble health, he had very naturally inquired whether she had made her will, and this friend, who was a lawyer, had at the same time mentioned the fact that, by the law of Spain, half of the business and fortune was hers. This was a terrible shock to Salabert. He was frightened to watch his wife's decline; at her death her relations would claim half of all he had made, would poke their noses into his concerns, even the most private. Horror! He consulted his lawyer. The simplest way of remedying the mischief, and depriving these relations of their rights, was to induce his wife to make a will in his favour. To the Duke this seemed the most natural thing in the world, and in the interview he proposed, he intended to suggest it to her as diplomatically as he could, so as not to alarm her as to her own state of health. So he waited, arranging and looking over his papers, till he thought it was time to send again to inquire whether the priest was gone. But just as he was about to do so, the porter came in and told him that some gentlemen wanted to see him, and among them Calderón. The banker was much annoyed. "Did you say I was at home?" "Well, as you always are at home in the morning, Señor Duque----" "Damn you!" said the banker, with a furious scowl. But raising his voice at once, and putting on the clumsy abruptness which he was so fond of affecting: "Show them in, of course," he said, "show the gentlemen in." On this Calderón came in, followed by Urreta and two other bankers not less well known in Madrid. They all looked grave, almost sinister. But Salabert, paying no heed to their looks, began shaking hands and slapping backs, making a great noise. "Good business! Very good business, now to lock you all four up, and make you each pay a round sum as ransom! Ha, ha! Why here, in my room, are the four richest rascals in Madrid. Four gorged sharks! How is your rheumatism, Urreta? It strikes me that you want thoroughly overhauling as much as I do. And you, Manuel, how long do you expect to hold out? Your cousin, you see, is looking out very sharp." The four gentlemen maintained a courteous reserve, and their extreme gravity cut short this impertinent banter. The case was, in fact, a serious one. About a year ago Salabert had sold them the business of a railway from B---- to S----, which was already in full work, with all the plant and rolling-stock. Though it had not been committed to writing, it was fully understood by both parties that when the extension from S---- to V---- should be put up for sale, as it was in connection with the other line, Salabert should advance no claims, but leave it to them to treat for it. Now, it had come to their knowledge that the Duke had failed to keep his word, and had tried to jockey them in the most barefaced way, by making a bid for the line. The first to speak was Calderón. "Antonio," he said, "we have come to quarrel with you very seriously." "Impossible! Quarrel with such an inoffensive creature as I am?" "You will remember that when we bought up your railway, you agreed, or to be accurate, you solemnly promised, not to tender for the purchase of the extension from S---- to V----." "Certainly I remember it, perfectly." "But we see with surprise that an offer from you----" "An offer from me!" exclaimed the Duke, in the greatest surprise, and opening his prominent eyes very wide. "Who told you that cock-and-bull story?" "It is not a cock-and-bull story. I, myself, saw your signature," said the Marques de Arbiol. "My signature? Impossible." "My good friend, I tell you I saw it with my own eyes. 'Antonio Salabert, Duke de Requena,'" replied Arbiol, very gravely. "It cannot be; it is impossible!" repeated the Duke, walking up and down the room in the most violent excitement. "It must be a forgery." Arbiol smiled scornfully. "It bore your seal." "My seal?" he exclaimed, with ready parry. "Then the forgery was committed in my own house. You cannot imagine what scoundrels I have about me. I should need a hundred eyes." Foaming with rage, he rang the bell. "Now we shall see; we will find out whether I have been deceived or no. Send Llera in here," he said to the servant who appeared. "And all the clerks--immediately, this instant!" Arbiol glanced at his companions, and shrugged his shoulders. But Requena, though he saw this, did not choose to notice it; he went on growling, snorting, uttering the most violent interjections, and walking to and fro. Presently Llera made his appearance, followed by a group of abject-looking clerks, ill-dressed and common. Salabert placed himself in front of them, with his arms crossed, and said vehemently: "Look here, Llera, I mean to find out who is the scoundrel who presented a tender, in my name, with a forged copy of my signature, for the purchase of the S---- and V---- line of railway. Do you know anything of the matter?" Llera, after looking him straight in the face, bent his head without replying. "And you others, do you know anything about it? Heh, do you know anything whatever?" The clerks in the same way stared at him; then they looked at Llera, and they too bent their heads and stood speechless. Salabert, with well-feigned fury, eyed them all in turn, and at length addressing his visitors: "You see," he said; "no one answers. The guilty man, or men, lurk among them; for I suspect that more than one must be concerned. Do not be afraid, I will give them a lesson, a terrible lesson. I will not rest till I have them before the judge. Go," he added, to the delinquents, "and those of you who are guilty may well quake. Justice will soon overtake you." To judge by the absolute indifference with which this fulmination was received, the criminals must have been hardened indeed. Each man went back to his place and his work as though the sword of Nemesis were not drawn to cut his throat. The bankers were half amused and half angry. At last one of the quartette, biting his lips for fear of laughing outright, held out his hand with a contemptuous gesture, saying: "Good-bye, Salabert--_au revoir_." The others followed his example without another word about the business which had brought them. The Duke was not at all disconcerted; he politely saw them to the head of the stairs, firing wrathful lightnings at his clerks as he led his visitors through the office. On his return he took not the slightest notice of the men; he walked down the room like an actor crossing behind the scenes as he comes off the stage. Soon after this performance he went downstairs himself, to go to his wife's room. He found her alone, reading a book of devotions. Doña Carmen, who had always been pious, had of late given herself up almost exclusively to religious exercises. Her failing strength cut her off more and more from the outer world, and left her sadly submissive to the priests who visited her. Salabert had never opposed this taste for devotion; he regarded it with pitying indifference, as an innocent mania. However, just lately, some rather large bounties of Doña Carmen's had alarmed him, and he had felt obliged to give her a paternal lecture. He was accustomed to find her submissive, unambitious, absolutely indifferent to the result of his various speculations; he treated her as a child, if not as a faithful dog, whose head he might now and then pat kindly. The hapless woman never had interfered in his life, his toil, or his vices. Though his mistresses and fearful extravagance were discussed by all the rest of the world, Doña Carmen knew nothing of them, or ignored them. Nevertheless, the Duke's last connection with Amparo had distressed her more than any former one. This arrogant but low creature delighted in annoying the Duchess in every possible way, which was what none of her predecessors had done. If she went out driving with her husband, Amparo would keep pace in her carriage and exchange significant glances with Requena. When the good lady gently complained of such conduct, Salabert would simply deny, not merely his smiles and ogling, but all acquaintance with the woman: he only knew her by sight, he had never spoken to her in his life. It was the same at the Opera; Amparo would stare all the evening at the Duke's box. At bull-fights and at races she made a display of reckless luxury which attracted general attention. Certain well-intentioned friends, in their compassion for Doña Carmen, kept her informed as to the enormous sums this woman was costing the Duke by her extravagance and caprices. These constant vexations, endured unconfessed to any one but her director, had told on the lady's health, reducing her to a state of weakness which made it seem a miracle that she was still alive. Salabert had something else to do than to consider her sufferings. He thought that with the title of Duchess, and such enormous wealth, in so splendid a house, Doña Carmen ought to be the happiest woman on earth. "Well, how are you, old woman, how are you?" said he as he went in, in a half rough and half kindly tone which betrayed his entire indifference. Doña Carmen looked up with a smile. "What, you? What miracle brings you here at this hour?" "I should have come earlier, but I was told that Father Ortega was with you. How did you sleep? Pretty well? That's right. You are not so ill as you fancy. Why do you let the priests come hanging about you as if you were at the point of death?" "Do you suppose a priest is of no use but when one is dying?" "Of course priests about a house are indispensable to make it look respectable," he answered, stretching himself in an easy chair, and spreading out his legs. "Without a rag of black fustian, a newly furnished palace like this is too gaudy. Still, in the long run, they become a nuisance; they are never tired of begging; they have a swallow like a whale's. I should like to buy sham ones made of wax or papier-maché, they would answer every purpose." "There, there, Antonio. Do not talk so wildly. Any one who heard you would take you for a heretic, and that you are not, thank God!" "What should I gain by being a heretic? That does not pay." Then suddenly changing the subject, he said: "How is that caravansary of yours in the Cuatro Caminos getting on?" He meant the asylum of which Doña Carmen was the chief benefactress. "It is doing very well, excepting that the Marquesa de Alcudia wishes to retire, and we do not know whom to appoint as treasurer in her place." "It is always empty on the Sabbath, I suppose?" "Why?" said the lady, innocently. "They are all off to Seville on broomsticks, no doubt." "Bah! do not make game of the poor old things," said she, laughing. "You and I are old folks, too." "Very true, very true," replied the banker, affecting serious melancholy. "We are a pair of old puppets, and one fine day, when we least expect it, we shall find ourselves removed to other quarters." He had discovered an opening for the subject he wished to discuss, and had seized on it at once. "No," said his wife, "you are strong and hearty enough. You will live to fight many a battle yet; but I, my dear, have but one foot in the stirrup." "Nay, nay, we are both in the same plight. Once over the sixties there is no knowing." "If such reflections did anything to bring you nearer God, and make you labour in His service, I should be glad indeed." "Do you think I do nothing in His service, when I spend above five thousand dollars in masses every year?" "Come, Antonio, do not talk like that." "My dear child, it is a very good thing to think of the next world, but it is prudent, to say the least, to think of this world to. I have just lately been considering that if you or I were to die, there would be no end of complications for the survivor." "Why?" "Because husband and wife are not by law nearest of kin to each other, and if by chance either of us died intestate, our relations would be a perfect torment to the survivor." "For that there is an easy remedy. We make our wills and it is settled." "That is just what I have been thinking," said Salabert, endeavouring to make a show of calm indifference, which he was far from feeling. "It struck me that instead of our each making an independent will, we might come to a mutual arrangement." "What is that?" "A will by which each is the heir to the other." Doña Carmen looked down at the book she still held, and did not immediately answer. The Duke, somewhat uneasy, watched her narrowly from under his eyelids, gnawing his cigar with impatience. "That is impossible," said she at last, very gravely. "What is impossible? And why?" he hastily asked, sitting upright in his chair. "Because I intend to leave all I have, whether much or little, to your daughter. I have promised her that I will." Salabert had never dreamed of stumbling on such an obstacle, he had thought of the mutual bequest as a settled thing. He was equally startled and vexed, but he immediately recovered himself, and assuming a serious and dignified manner, he spoke: "Very good, Carmen. I have no wish to coerce you in the matter. You are mistress of your possessions, and can leave them to whom you choose, though you must remember that that fortune has been earned by me at the cost of much toil. During the years of our married life, pecuniary questions have never given rise to any differences between us, and I sincerely wish that they never may. Money, as compared with the feelings of the heart, is of no importance whatever. The thing that pains me is the thought that any other person, even though it be my own daughter, should have usurped my place in your affections." At these words his voice broke a little. "No, Antonio, no," Doña Carmen hastened to put in. "Neither your daughter nor any one else can rob you of the affection due to you. But you are rich enough without needing my fortune, and she wants it." "No. It is vain to try to soften the blow, I feel it in the depths of my heart," replied Salabert in pathetic accents, and pressing one hand to his left side. "Five-and-thirty years of married life, five-and-thirty years of joys and griefs, of fears and hopes in common, have not availed to secure me the foremost place in your affections. Nothing that can be said will remedy that. I fancied that our union, the years of love and happiness that we have spent together, might be closed by an act which would crown our lives by making one of us inherit the whole of what we have gained. The devotion of a husband and wife is never better displayed than in a last will and testament." Requena's oratory had risen to a tone of moral dignity which, for a moment, seemed to impress his wife. However, she replied with perfect sweetness but unshaken firmness: "Though Clementina is not my own flesh and blood, I love her as if she were. I have always regarded her as my own child, and it seems to me an act of injustice to deprive a child of its share of an inheritance." "But, my dear," exclaimed the Duke vehemently, "for whom do you suppose I want it but for my daughter? Make me your heir, and I pledge myself to transmit it to her, not only undiminished but greatly augmented." Doña Carmen kept silence, but shook her head in negation. Her husband rose as though emotion were quite too much for him. "Oh, yes! I understand! You cannot forgive me some little errors of caprice and folly. You are taking advantage of this opportunity of revenge. Very well, very well. Indulge your vengeance; but believe me when I say that I have never loved any woman better than you. The heart cannot be made to obey orders, Carmen; if I desired to tear your image out of mine, my heart would answer: 'No, I cannot give it up without breaking.' It is sad, very sad, to meet with so cruel a disenchantment at the end of our lives. If you were to die to-morrow, which God forbid! what worries and troubles must await me, besides the grief of losing the wife I adore. Why I, a poor old man, might be compelled to quit the house where I have lived so many years, which I built and beautified in the hope of dying under its roof in your arms!" Requena's voice broke at judicious intervals, and his eyes filled with tears. When he ceased speaking he sank into his armchair as though quite crushed, pressing his handkerchief to his eyes. But Doña Carmen, though tender-hearted and sensitive, showed no signs of emotion. On the contrary, she replied in a steady voice: "You know perfectly well that there is no truth in all that. I am not capable of taking any revenge, nor, if I were, could there be any such vengeance in leaving all I can to your daughter, who is mine solely by the affection I bear to her." The Duke changed his tactics. He looked at his wife compassionately for a few minutes, and then he said: "The greatest happiness you could confer on Clementina to show your affection would be to get out of her way as soon as you can. Poor Osorio is up to the ears in hot water. Now I understand why his creditors have been so long-suffering. You no doubt have said something to his wife of this will of yours, and as you are somewhat ailing they are looking for your death like showers in May. Make no mistake about that." Doña Carmen at these cruel words turned even paler than she always was. She clutched the arms of her chair with an effort to keep herself from fainting. This that her husband had said was horrible, but only too probable. He saw her agitation, and at once brought forward facts to confirm his hypothesis. He drew a complete picture of Osorio's position, pointing out how unlikely it was that his creditors should still give him time if they had not some definite hope to count on; and this could only be her own death. The unhappy woman at last spoke. Her words were almost sublime: "If, indeed, Clementina desires my death," she said, "then so do I, with all my heart. Everything I can leave is for her." Salabert left the room in a towering rage, fighting like a bull assailed by crackers, or an actor who has been hissed off the stage. Doña Carmen lay for some time motionless in the attitude in which he had left her, her eyes fixed on vacancy. At last two tears dropped from her eyes and slowly trickled down her cheeks. CHAPTER XI. THE DUKE'S BALL. Weeks and months went by. Clementina spent the summer at Biarritz as usual. Raimundo followed her, leaving his sister in charge of some relations, and only returned at the end of September. A storm had swept over the orphan's dwelling which had completely wrecked its happiness. Raimundo, entirely neglecting his methodical habits of study, had rushed into the world of pleasure with the ardour of a novice. His sister, amazed at such a change, remonstrated mildly but without effect. The young man behaved with the petulance of a spoilt child, answering her sharply, or if she spoke with sterner decision, melting into tears, declaring that he was miserable, that she did not love him, that it would have been better if he had died when his mother died, and so forth. Aurelia saw that there was nothing for it but to suffer in silence, and kept her fears and gloomy anticipations to herself. She could too easily guess the cause of this change, but neither of them ever made any allusion to it; Raimundo because he could not speak to his sister of his connection with Clementina, and she because she could not bear that he should suppose she even understood it. Meanwhile it led our young friend to great extravagance, far beyond what his income allowed. To enable him to keep up with the lady's carriage as she drove in the fashionable avenues, he bought a fine horse, after taking some riding lessons. Theatres, flowers and gifts for his mistress, amusements shared with his new friends of the Savage Club, dress, trinkets, everything, in short, which a youth "about town" thinks indispensable, cost him enormous sums in proportion to his income. He was forced to touch his capital. This, as we know, was in the form of shares in a powder manufactory, and in the funds. His mother had kept her securities in an iron box inside her wardrobe. When she died, the guardian she had appointed to her two children, examined the documents and made due note of them, but as Raimundo was esteemed a very steady young fellow of impeccable conduct, and as he had for some time past presented and cashed the coupons, his uncle did not take the securities out of his keeping, but left them in the box where he had found them. And now Raimundo, needing money at any cost, and not daring to borrow it of any one, broke his trust, for he was not yet of legal age, and sold some of the securities. And the strange thing is, that although he had hitherto lived so blamelessly, upright in thought and honest in purpose, he did it without feeling any very deep remorse. His passion had so completely stultified and altered him. Of course he did not do this without its leading to worse consequences. His uncle, hearing of his extravagant expenditure, came to the house one day, shut himself up with him in his study and attacked him point-blank: "We must settle accounts together, Raimundo. From what I am told, and from what I can see, you are living at a rate which you cannot possibly afford. This is a serious matter, and, as your trustee, I must know where the money comes from, if not for your own sake, at any rate for your sister's." Raimundo was greatly startled. He turned pale and muttered some unintelligible words. Then finding himself at bay, at once perceiving that his safety depended on this interview--that is to say, the safety of his love affair--he did not hesitate to lie boldly. "Yes, uncle, it is true that I am spending a good deal, more than my income would permit, no doubt. But you need not therefore conclude that it is the capital I inherited from my parents." "Well, then?" "Well, then," said the young man, and his voice dropped as if he had some difficulty in speaking, "I cannot tell you whence I get the money, uncle, it is a matter of honour." His guardian was mystified. "Of honour! I do not know what that may mean. But listen to me, boy; I cannot let the matter drop. My position is critical. If I do not take proper care of your interests I may find myself called upon to pay up, and there is no mercy for trustees." Raimundo remained silent for some seconds, at last, stammering and hesitating, he said: "If you must know then I will tell you. You have heard perhaps of my intimacy with a lady?" "Yes, I have heard something of a flirtation between you and Osorio's wife." "Well, that explains the mystery," said the nephew, colouring violently. "So that, in point of fact, this woman"----said the elder, snapping his thumb and finger. Raimundo bent his head and said no more, or, to be exact, his silence said everything. The man who had indignantly refused his mistress's bank-notes now confessed himself guilty of this humiliation, though perfectly innocent, simply out of fear. His uncle was a vulgar mortal enough, who kept a shop in the Calle de Carmen. His nephew's confession, far from rousing his indignation, raised the youth in his esteem. "Well, my dear fellow! I am glad to see that you have hatched out at last and are beginning to know the ways of the world. Ah, you rogue, how quiet you have kept it!" But as he still remained in the study, betraying the remains of a suspicion, Raimundo, with the audacity peculiar to women and weak men in critical circumstances, said firmly enough: "My capital and my sister's are intact; I can show you the securities this very minute." He took out the key and was going to fetch the box. His uncle stopped him. "No need, my boy, no need. What for?" And thus he escaped as by a miracle from this dreadful predicament, which might so easily have ended in a catastrophe. At the same time, his triumph cost him many moments of bitter reflection, and a collapse of mind and body which made him quite ill for a time. It is impossible to break suddenly with all the traditions and ideas which constitute the back-bone of our character without the acutest pain. At about this time a gentleman from Chili came to call on him; a naturalist himself, and, like Raimundo, devoted to the study of butterflies. He had last come from Germany, and was on his way home to America; he had read some of the young man's scientific papers, and having also heard of his fine collection, he would not pass through Madrid without visiting it. Raimundo received him with great pleasure, and some little shame; for some months he had scarcely thought of scientific subjects, and had neglected his specimens. The South American nevertheless found it extremely interesting and was full of intelligent sympathy; he told him that he was commissioned by his Government to recruit some young men of talent to fill the professors' chairs lately created at Santiago in Chili. If Alcázar would emigrate one of them was open to him. In any other circumstances Raimundo, who had no tie of blood excepting his sister, would certainly have decided on this step. But as it was, enmeshed by the toils of love, the proposal struck him as so absurd that he could but smile with a trace of contempt, and he politely declined it as though he were a millionaire, or a man at the head of Spanish society. Then to pay for his journey to Biarritz, he was again obliged to sell some shares in the funds. He carried five thousand francs with him, a more than ample sum for his summer in France. But at the end of a few days, led away by the example of his friends, he took to betting at the Casino, on the game of racing with dice, and in two evenings he had lost everything. Not being accustomed to these proceedings, the only thing he could think of to help himself was to return to Madrid at once, sell some more shares, and come back again. His fortune was dwindling from day to day. By the beginning of the winter he had sacrificed several thousand dollars; but this did not check his lavish expenditure. Aurelia, who from some hints of her uncle, or suspicions of her own, imagined that she knew from whom the money came, was melancholy and distressed. Her eyes, as she looked at her brother, were full of grief and pity, not unmingled with indignation. So matters went on till the Carnival. The Duchess of Requena's health had been improved by some waters in Germany, to which her husband had taken her in the autumn. No sooner had she made her will in favour of her step-daughter, than he devoted himself to taking care of her, knowing how important her existence was to him. The great speculator's affairs meanwhile were progressing satisfactorily. He had bought the mines at Riosa, as he had proposed, money down. From that moment he had been waging covert war against the rest of the company, selling shares at lower and lower prices, to depreciate their value. This had worked entirely to his satisfaction. In a few months the price had fallen from a hundred and twenty, at which they had stood just after the sale of the property, to eighty-three. Salabert waited on from day to day to produce a panic, by throwing a large number of them into the market, and so bring the quotation down to forty. Then, by means of his agents in Madrid, Paris, and London, he meant to buy up half the shares, _plus_ one, and so to be master of the whole concern. It was at this time that, in order to serve his political ends, as well as to gratify his native taste for display--in spite of his counter-balancing avarice--he determined to give a fancy dress ball, in his magnificent residence, inviting all the aristocracy, and securing the presence of the royal family. Preparations were begun two months beforehand. Although the palace was splendidly fitted up, he had some rather heavy and over-large pieces of furniture removed from the drawing-rooms, and replaced by others from Paris, of lighter and simpler style. He got rid of some of the hangings, and purchased several decorative works of art, which it must be owned were certainly lacking. Three weeks before the day fixed for the ball he sent out the invitations. Three weeks, he thought, were not too much to allow his guests to prepare their costumes. Fancy dress was indispensable; gentlemen to wear dominoes at the very least. The newspapers had soon announced the ball to every town in Spain. As her stepmother took little interest in such things, and from her delicate health was not able to play an active part in the preparations, Clementina was the life and soul of the whole affair. She spent all her days in her father's house, save only a few hours which she bestowed on Raimundo. Osorio at this juncture took it into his head to have their two little girls home from school, one ten and the other eleven years old, to spend a few days with their parents; but the poor little things had to return some days sooner than their father had promised, because Clementina was so busy that she scarcely found time to speak to them. This made their father so angry that, one day, without allowing them to take leave of their mother, he put them into the carriage, and himself accompanied them back to school. That evening, however, when Clementina returned home, there was a violent quarrel between them on the subject. Raimundo, too, found himself neglected; still he looked forward with childish delight to this entertainment, at which he meant to appear as a court page. This was an idea suggested by Clementina. The model for his dress was taken from a famous picture in the Senate-house. For herself, she had fallen in love with a portrait of Margaret of Austria, the queen of Philip III., painted by Pantoja. She ordered a black velvet dress, very closely fitting, with pink silk slashings braided with silver; and there can be no doubt that it was a costume singularly well adapted to set off her fine and ample figure and the imposing beauty of her face. The Duke himself worked hard at the less ornamental details; the erection, for instance, of a gallery for the musicians, which was to be built up against the wall, between the two large drawing-rooms, and embowered in shrubs and flowering plants; the arrangements for hats and wraps, the laying of carpets, the removal of furniture, and so forth. Salabert was a terribly hard overseer, a real driver of the workmen. He never allowed them to rest, and expected them to be incessantly on the alert. He never gave them a moment's peace, nor was satisfied with what they did. One day a cabinet of carved ebony had to be moved, from a room where the ladies were to sit to the card-room. The workmen, under the direction of the master carpenter, were carrying it slung, while the Duke followed, bidding them be careful, with an accompaniment of objurgations. "Damn it all, be quick. Move a little quicker, can't you, you snub-nosed cur! Now, mind that chandelier!--lower Pepe, lower--lower, I say, you ass! Damn it, now raise it again." As they went through the door, the head carpenter, seeing that they might easily hurt themselves, called out: "Mind your fingers!" "Mind the mouldings! Curse your fingers," exclaimed the Duke. "Do you think I care for your fingers, you louts?" And one of the men looked him in the face with an indescribable expression of hatred and scorn. When the cabinet was in its place the Duke saw it fixed, and then went to his room to brush off the dust. Soon after, he went down the grand staircase, and getting into his carriage went out. * * * * * At last the great day arrived. The newspapers announced the ball for the last time with a grand flourish of trumpets. The Duke de Requena had spent a million of francs in preparations, they said, and they also gave it to be understood that all the flowers had been sent from Paris. And this was true. The Duke, born in Valencia, the loveliest garden of Europe, ordered flowers from France for his ball to the amount of some thousands of dollars. Camellias strewed the very floors in the ante-room and passages; hundreds of exotic plants decorated the hall, the corridors, and the rooms. An army of servants, in knee-breeches and a gaudy livery, stood at every corner where they might be wanted. A detachment of horse-guards was posted at the garden entrance to keep order among the carriages, with the help of the police. The cloak-room, erected for the occasion, was a luxurious apartment, where every arrangement had been made to preserve the ladies' magnificent wraps, or _sorties de bal_, as it is the fashion to call them, from being lost or damaged. The grand staircase was a blaze of electric light, the hall and dining-room were lighted with gas: the dancing-room with wax candles. The sitting-rooms and card-room had oil-lamps with wide and elaborate shades, and in these rooms fires were blazing cheerfully. Clementina received the company in the first drawing-room, close to the ante-room. She took her stepmother's place here because Doña Carmen had not sufficient strength to stand for so long. The Duchess sat in the inner room, surrounded by friends. The Duke and Osorio, at the door between the hall and ante-room, offered an arm to the ladies as they arrived and conducted them to Clementina. This lady's costume set off her beauty, as she had intended, to the greatest advantage. Her exquisite figure seemed even more finely moulded in this close fitting dress, and her head, with its magnificent coppery hair, rose above the black velvet like a queenly flower. King Phillip III. would gladly have exchanged the real Margaret for such a counterfeit. A rumour was current in the rooms, and made public next day in the papers, that a hairdresser had come from Paris by the express train to dress her head. The motley crowd soon began to fill the rooms. Every epoch of history, every country of the world had sent representatives to Salabert's ball. Moors, Jews, Chinese, Venetians, Greeks and Romans--Louis XIV. and the Empire, Queens and slaves, nymphs and gipsies, Amazons and Sibyls, grisettes and vestals, walked arm-in-arm, or stood chatting in groups, and laughing with cavaliers of the last century, Flemings of the fourteenth, pages and necromancers. Most of the men, however, had adopted the Venetian doublet and short cloak. The orchestra had already played two or three waltzes, but as yet no one was dancing. They awaited the arrival of the Royal personages. Raimundo was wandering about the rooms with the familiarity of an intimate friend, smiling at every one with the modest frankness which made him singularly attractive, though strange to a society where cold, not to say scornful, manners are regarded as the stamp of dignity and rank. The young entomologist had been for some time living in a delicious whirl, a sort of golden dream, such as humble natures are often addicted to. His page's costume, of the date of Isabella the Great, suited him well, and more than one pretty girl turned her head to look at him. Now and then he made his way to where Clementina was on duty, and without speaking they could exchange looks and smiles. On one of these occasions he saw Pepe Castro, in the dress of a cavalier of the Court of Charles I., approach to pay his respects. "How is this?" he said in her ear. "Are you not yet tired of your cherub?" "I am never tired of what is good," said she with a smile. "Thank you," he replied, sarcastically. "There is nothing to thank me for; are you trying to pick a quarrel?" And she turned away with a shrug of contempt to speak to the Condesa de Cotorraso, who came in at the moment. Raimundo had watched this brief colloquy. Its confidential tone was a stab to him. For a moment he did not move; Esperancita passed close in front of him, but he did not see her. It was the child's first appearance at a ball. She wore a pretty Venetian dress of a rich red colour, cut low; her mother was magnificent as a Dutch burgomaster's wife, in brown, embroidered with gold and silver, with a lace ruff and necklace of diamonds and pearls. What pangs these costumes must have cost her luckless husband! In the first instance, when this ball was under discussion, he had supposed that some combination of old clothes would answer their purpose, and had made no difficulties. When he saw the dresses and the dressmaker's bill he was breathless. He was ready to cry Thief! Woe befall that miserable Salabert and the hour in which he had thought of this ball, and all the Venetian and Dutch ladies that had ever lived! And what most weighed on his soul was the reflection that these costly garments were to be worn for but one night. Four thousand pesetas thrown into the gutter! as he repeated a hundred times a day. Esperancita looked at Alcázar, expecting him to bow; but seeing that he was gazing elsewhere, she, too, looked round at the group about Clementina, and immediately understood the situation. A cloud of distress came over her, as over Raimundo. But suddenly her eyes sparkled, and her whole ingenuous and insignificant little face was lighted up, transfigured by an indefinable charm. Pepe Castro was coming towards her. "Charming, charming!" murmured the Adonis in an absent way, as he bowed affectedly. The girl blushed with delight. "Will you honour me with the first waltz?" At this very moment she found herself the centre of a group of young men, all buzzing round Calderón's money-bags, and eager to compliment his daughter. Among these was Cobo Ramirez. They were all pressing her to give them a dance, each in turn signing the initials of his illustrious name on Esperancita's card. Ramoncito, who was standing a few yards off, did not join the little crowd--faithful to the advice given him, now above a year ago, by his friend and adviser Castro; though hitherto these tactics had proved unavailing, for Esperancita remained insensible to his devotion. Still, he would not ascribe this to any fault in the method, but to his lack of courage to follow it out with sufficient vigour, without hesitancy or backsliding. If the girl happened to look kindly at him, or speak to him more gently than usual, farewell diplomacy! At this moment he was casting grim looks at the crowd which had gathered round her, and vaguely replying to Cotorraso, who had of late taken a most oppressive fancy to him, button-holing him wherever he met him, to explain his new methods of extracting oil. The young deputy had not gained in dignity from his showy dress and white wig, as a gentleman of the eighteenth century: he looked for all the world like a footman. Suddenly there was a stir in the ante-room. The Royal party had arrived. The company collected about the door-ways. The Duke and Duchess, Clementina and Osorio, went to the outside steps to receive them, and the music played the Royal March. The King and Queen came in, walking slowly between the two ranks of guests, stopping now and then when they saw any one known to them to bestow a gracious greeting. The recipient of such honour bowed or curtsied to the ground, kissing the Royal hand with grateful effusiveness. The ladies especially humbled themselves with a rapture they could not conceal, and a gush of loyalty and affection which brought the blood to their cheeks. The royal quadrille was immediately formed, and Clementina left her place by the door to dance in it. The Sovereign led out the Duchess, who made this great effort to please her husband. A triple row of spectators stood round to look on. Salabert was in his glory. The waif, the beggar, from the market-place of Valencia, was entertaining Royalty. His dull, fish like, dissipated eyes glistened with triumph. This explosion of vanity had blown to the winds all the sordid anxieties which the cost of the ball had caused him--the deadly struggle with his own avarice. To-morrow perhaps the scatered fragments might reunite to give him fresh torment; for the moment, intoxicated with pride, he was drinking deep breaths of the atmosphere of importance and power created by his wealth; his face was flushed with a congestion of ecstatic vanity. "Only look at Salabert's radiant expression," said Rafael Alcantara to Leon Guzman and some other intimates who were standing in a group. "Joy transpires from every pore! Now is the moment to ask him for a loan of ten thousand dollars." "Do you think you would get it?" "Yes, at six per cent., on good security," said the other. "But look, look! Here comes Lola, the most fascinating and delightful creature who has yet entered these rooms." And he raised his voice so as to be heard by the lady in question. Lola sent him a smile of acknowledgment; and her husband, the Mexican of the cows, who also had heard the remark, bowed with pleasure. She was really very bewitchingly dressed, as a Louis XIV. Marquise, in rose colour, embroidered with gold, and a yellow train, also embroidered. Her hair was powdered, and round her throat was a black velvet ribbon with silver pendants. When the Royal quadrille was ended, waltzing began. Pepe Castro came to find Esperancita, who was walking with the youngest of the Alcudia girls. It was the first time that they had either of them been present at a ball, and they were perfectly happy as they looked out on the world in its most holiday aspect, confiding their delightful impressions to each other's private ear. He remained with them for a minute till a partner came to claim Paz for the dance, and the two couples floated off at the same time on the tide of waltzers. For Esperancita the world had vanished. A delicious sense of joy and freedom, like that which a bird might feel in flying if it had a soul, glowed in her heart and lapped her in delight. It was the first time she had ever felt Pepe Castro's arm round her waist. Swept away by him into the maëlstrom of couples, she felt as though they were alone--he and she. And the music charmed her ears and heart, giving sweet utterance to the ineffable gladness which throbbed in every pulse. When they paused a moment to rest, her face so unmistakeably expressed the supreme emotion of first love, that her aunt Clementina, happening to pass on the arm of the President of Congress, could not help looking at her with a half kindly, half mocking smile, which made the child blush. Pepe Castro could scarcely get a word out of her. Delicious excitement seemed to have stricken her dumb. The happiness which filled her soul found an outlet, as so often happens, in a feeling of general benevolence. The ball to her was a pure delight; all the men were amusing; all the women were exquisitely dressed. Even Ramon, who came by, was bedewed with some drops of this overflowing tide of gladness. "Are you not dancing, Ramon?" she inquired, with so inviting a smile that the poor fellow was quite overcome with joy. "I have been kept talking by Cotorraso." "But find yourself a partner. Look, there is Rosa Pallarés, who is not dancing." The smiling statesman hastened to invite the damsel in question, thinking, with characteristic acumen, that Esperancita had selected her for her plain face. Soothed by this flattering reflection he was quite content to dance with the daughter of General Pallarés, of whom Cobo Ramirez was wont to speak as "one of our handsomest scarecrows." He felt as though he were doing his lady's bidding, and giving her indisputable proof that her jealousy--if she were jealous--was unfounded. When the waltz was over, he returned to her, as a mediæval knight from the tournay, to receive his guerdon at his mistress's hands. But, inasmuch as there is no perfect happiness for any one in this world, at the same moment Cobo Ramirez went up to Esperancita. They both sat down by her and plied her with compliments and attentions. One took charge of her fan, the other of her handkerchief; both tried to entertain her by their remarks, and to flatter her vanity by their assiduity. It must in truth be owned that if Ramon was the more earnest and solid talker, Cobo was by far the more amusing. And yet Esperancita, against her wont, by one of those unaccountable whims of a young girl, was for once inclined to listen kindly to Ramoncito. The trio afforded a diverting subject for contemplation. The servants moved about the rooms with trays of lemonade, ices, and bonbons. Ramon called one of them to offer Esperancita a particular kind of jelly which he knew she liked. At the same time he insisted on his rival taking an ice. Cobo declined. Ramon pressed him so eagerly that Alcantara and some other men who were standing near could not help noticing it. "Look at Ramon trying to make Cobo eat an ice," said one. "He sees he is hot, and wants to be the death of him! Nothing can be plainer," said Leon. Pepe Castro, as soon as he saw his partner safe in the hands of Ramirez and Maldonado, had stolen away. As he wandered on he met Clementina. She seemed to be in every place at once, returning every few minutes to attend their Majesties, who had retired to a private room with the Duchess and Requena, and the ladies and gentlemen of their suite. "I saw you dancing with my little niece," said the lady. "Why do you not make up to her?" "To what end?" "To marry her." "Horror! Why, my dear, what have I done to you that you should wish me so dreadful a fate?" "Come, come, listen to reason," said she, quite gravely, and assuming a maternal air. "Esperancita is no beauty, but she is not disagreeable looking. She is fresh and youthful, and is desperately in love with you, that I know." "As you are," interrupted the other, with some bitterness. "As I am--but then she has not known you some sixteen years. Yes, she loves you, I assure you, very truly. We women can see such things with half a glance. Marry her; do not be foolish. Calderón is very rich." Before Castro could reply, she was gone. He stood there a few minutes lost in thought; then he moved away slowly, making his way round the rooms with a lazy strut, stopping to stare, with consummate impertinence, at all the pretty women, like a Pasha in a slave-market. Lola had taken possession of Raimundo, and kept him at her side in one corner of the sitting-room, where she laid herself out to conquer him by every art of the coquette. This was the pretty brunette's favourite amusement. No friend of hers could have a man in her train, without Lola's endeavouring to snatch him from her. Handsome or ugly, forward or shy, it mattered not; all she cared for was to gratify her incurable craving for admiration, and her desire to triumph over every other woman. Her eyes had a look of sweetness and innocence which deceived every one; it was impossible to believe that behind those guileless orbs there lurked a will as determined as it was astute. Alcázar thought her very pretty, and most agreeable to talk to; but the fact of her being Clementina's friend, and of her talking of scarcely anything else, had a great deal to do with this impression. As he could neither dance nor converse with the lady of his adoration, both for reasons of prudence and because she was too much occupied with other duties, he consoled himself by hearing Lola chatter about the details of her life. Every trifle interested the youth; the dress she had worn at the French Ambassador's ball, the incidents of a shooting-party at the Cotorrasos', the scenes she had with her husband, &c. Lola's tactics were first to gain his attention and captivate his sympathy, and then to win his liking. When Clementina came into the room, they were deep in conversation. She stood for an instant in the doorway, looking at them with surprise and vexation. For some time past Lola had been out of her good graces. Though Pepe Castro had ceased to interest her, when her friend had attempted to win him from her, the proceeding had led to a certain coolness between them. Now she perceived that Lola had cast her eyes on Raimundo, and was flirting with him on every possible occasion. This roused an impulse of hatred, which she had some difficulty in dissembling. She gave them a fiercely indignant stare, and going into the middle of the room, she said in a somewhat excited way: "Alcázar, you are wanted to dance. Are you too tired?" "Oh, no!" the young man hastened to reply, and he rose at once. "With whom shall I dance?" Clementina made no answer. Lola had a satirical smile which exasperated her. She turned to leave the room. "I am sorry to have disturbed you," she said coldly, as they went away together. Raimundo looked at her in surprise. This tone was quite new to him. "Disturbed me? Not at all." "Yes, indeed; for you seemed to be enjoying yourself very much with your companion," and then, unable to repress her temper any longer, she added in a brusque tone: "Come with me." She led him to the dining-room, where the supper tables were laid awaiting the guests. There, in the bay of a window, she poured out her wrath. She loaded him with abuse, and announced definitely that all was at an end between them. She even went so far as to shake him violently by the arm. Alcázar was so amazed, so overwhelmed, as to be absolutely incapable of speech. This saved him. Seeing dismay and grief painted on his countenance, Clementina could not fail to perceive that her anger had deceived her. Raimundo, at any rate, had not the faintest notion of flirting. So, calming down a little, she accepted the denial he at last found words to utter. "But it was solely to talk of you that I sat with her," he said. "To talk of me? Well, then, for the future, I will trouble you not to talk about me. It is enough that you should love me and hold your tongue." The servants who were passing in and out glanced at them with significant grimaces. As they left the room they met Pepa Frias. The buxom widow was in the best of humours; she had received many compliments. Her dress, a very handsome one, cut immoderately low, was that of a foreign princess of the time of Charles III., in silver brocade with gold embroidery, and a blue velvet train. "My dear, I am as hungry as a wolf," she exclaimed as she came in. "When are we to have supper? Ho, ho! so you are whispering in corners! Prudence, Clementina, prudence! My dear child, I must positively have something to eat or I shall drop. I can wait no longer." Clementina laughed and took her into a corner, where she had a plate brought for her with some meat. Alcázar returned to the drawing-room, very happy, but still tremulous from the painful emotion his mistress had caused him. He had never before seen her in such a rage. Clementina's friendship with Pepa had been closer than ever since the scene in the boudoir. The widow was convinced that the safety of her fortune depended on this intimacy, and did all she could to consolidate it. Thanks to this manoeuvre she had, in fact, already recovered possession of a large part of it; nor was she now uneasy about the remainder. She knew that Doña Carmen had made her will in her step-daughter's favour, and though the Duchess had been rather stronger lately, her death ere long was a certainty, for the doctors had pronounced that nothing could save her but an operation, which she was too weak to undergo. Pepa's cynical assurance was quite to Clementina's mind. They understood each other perfectly. They were a pair of hussies, grisettes born into a sphere of society for which Nature had never intended them. Pepa, of course, had a better right there than Clementina, who bore the taint in her blood. Pepa was an adventuress by predilection. "Look here, Clem," said she as she devoured a slice of galantine of turkey. "Let that boy drop; he is not worth his salt. You have had enough of him for a mere whim." "How do you know what he is worth?" replied Clementina laughing. "By his face, my dear. He has been your acknowledged lover for above a year, and to this day he turns as red as a poppy whenever you look at him." "That is exactly what I like him for." Pepa shrugged her shoulders. "Indeed? Well, I should find it intolerable." "And Arbos? How does he behave?" "Oh, he is a perfect goose, but at any rate he can keep his countenance. If you tell him he is a great man, there is nothing he will not do for you. He has found places for above a score of my connections. Then it is very nice to have some influence in the political world, and see deputies at one's feet. Yesterday, for instance, I had a visit from Manricio Sala, who has set his heart on being made under-secretary. He is quite certain, it would seem, that in that case Urreta would let his daughter marry him." "Oh, I loathe politics!--Do you know, Irenita is quite sweet in that _chasseresse_ costume." "Hm--too showy." "Not at all, it is extremely pretty. What has become of her husband? I have not seen him since they came in." "Her husband! a precious specimen he is!" exclaimed Pepa, looking up in her wrath. "Oh, what troubles come upon me, my dear, what troubles!" she added with her mouth still full. "Maria Huerta?" asked Clementina in a confidential tone. "Who else?" muttered the widow as she gazed at the turkey on her plate. Then suddenly she burst out: "He is a blackguard, a shameless scoundrel, who cannot even keep up appearances for his wife's sake. He spends chief part of the day waiting for her at the door of the church of San Pascual, and walks home with her. And at the theatre he never takes his eyes off her. It is a shame. He might have some decency. And my idiot of a daughter is madly in love with him, a perfect fool about him, all the while. She does nothing but cry, and show how jealous she is! Why, what does the wretch want but to humiliate her? If I were in her place I would talk to him! And I would give him such a box on the ear to finish with as would make him wink!" The lady's indignation had not interfered with deglutition. "Heaven reward you, my dear," she said as she rose. "Now let us see if this heart of mine will be quiet for a little while." For Pepa supposed herself to suffer from a heart complaint which only a good meal would relieve. A few minutes after they had quitted the dining-room Clementina gave the word, and the supper-room was thrown open. The Royal party led the way, attended by their suite and their host and hostesses. Salabert had lavished his crowning efforts on the supper-room. The ceiling was hung with glittering cloth of gold; the brilliant flowers and exotic fruits, the sheen of silver and crystal, under the blaze of gas lights as numerous as the stars of heaven, were dazzling with splendour. The servants stood motionless in a row against the wall, solemn and speechless. In two deep recesses burnt huge fires of logs, in beautiful fire-places of carved oak, which decorated the wall almost to the ceiling. All the food served at the Royal table had been brought from Paris by a little regiment of cooks and scullions. The only exceptions were fish, brought from the coast of Biscay, and a plum pudding, just arrived from London. The meats were for the most part cold, but there was hot clear soup for those who liked it. The Royalties did not remain many minutes in the supper-room. As soon as they left, the tide of guests rushed in without much ceremony. The sitting-rooms remained silent, abandoned to the servants, who with the precision of soldiers, replaced the dwindling wax lights by fresh ones, while the noise in the dining-room, of plates and glasses, and voices and laughter, was almost bewildering. Cobo Ramirez deserted Esperancita for a while, leaving her on his rival's hands, while he found a seat for himself at a little table in a snug corner, to devour a plateful of ham and Hamburg beef. Ramoncito naturally took advantage of this reprieve to show off his own poetical frugality as compared with Cobo's prosaic gluttony, till Esperancita cut the ground from under him by saying very spitefully to her friend Pacita, who sat by her side: "For my part I like a man to be a great eater." "So do I," said Paz. "At any rate it shows that he has a good digestion." "So have I," said Maldonado, crushed and vexed by the hostile tone the young girls had adopted against him. Paz only smiled scornfully. General Patiño, tired of throwing his heavy shell at Calderón's torpid spouse without producing the smallest sign of capitulation, had raised the siege, to sit down before the Marquesa de Ujo; she had yielded at the first fire, and thrown open every gate to the enemy. At the same time, as a consummate strategist, the General had not lost sight of Mariana, hoping that some happy accident might again lay her open to his batteries. The newspapers had lately mentioned a rumour that he was to be made Minister of War. This dignity would, no doubt, give him greater influence and prestige, whenever he might choose to surprise the stronghold. The Marquesa de Ujo was dressed à la Turque, and she played her part so well that Alcantara declared he "longed to have a shot at her himself." Her languor was so great that she could scarcely exert herself to articulate, so that the General was obliged to assist her every minute in the exhausting effort. While her far from perfect teeth nibbled a cake or two--for her digestion did not allow of her eating anything more solid--she uttered, or, to be exact, she exhaled a series of exclamations over a new French novel. "What exquisite scenes! What a sweet book! When she says, 'Come in if you choose; you can dishonour my body but not my soul.' And the duel, when she receives the bullet that was to have killed her husband! How beautiful it is!" Pepe Castro was prancing--forgive the word--round Lola Madariaga. She was relating with a malicious smile the incident which had just occurred when Clementina had found her sitting with Raimundo. She spoke as though she had won the youth from her friend, with a scornful and patronising air which would have been a shock to Clementina's pride if she could have heard it. "Poor Clem! she is growing old, isn't she? But what a figure she has still. Of course it is all done by tight-lacing, and it must do her a mischief, sooner or later, but as yet---- Her face does not match her figure, above all now that she has begun to lose her complexion so dreadfully. She always had a very hard face." And all the time her insinuating soft eyes were fixed on Castro with such inviting looks, as were really quite embarrassing. She had always been told, and it was true, that she had a most innocent face, and to make the most of it she assumed the expression of an idiot. Castro agreed to all she said, as much to flatter her as out of any ill-feeling towards Clementina. When Clementina cast him off he had consoled himself by paying attentions to Lola, in whom he really felt no interest, though at the same time he had been careful not to let the world know that he was discarded. "And do you believe that she is really in love with that school-boy?" "Who can tell! Clementina likes to be thought original. This last whim is just like her. And look at that baby's sentimental gaze at her from afar." Raimundo, who was standing at the end of one of the tables, never took his eyes off his mistress while she moved to and fro, attending to the requirements of those guests whom she most desired to please. From time to time she bestowed on him a faint smile of recognition, which transported him to the seventh heaven. Pepa Frias, who, having had her fill, could eat no more, was picking up a fruit here and a bonbon there, while behind her chair stood Calderón, Pinedo, Fuentes, and two or three more, laughing at her and with her. But the widow was not to be caught napping; she could defend herself, parrying and retorting with masterly skill. "Where do you have the gout, Pepa, did you say?" asked Pinedo. "In my feet, in my feet, where all your wits are." "What is the miniature in that brooch? Is it a family portrait?" "No, Fuentes," said she, as she handed it to him to look at. "It is a mirror." The painting represented a monkey. All the others roared with laughter, attracting general attention. Soon after the dancing had recommenced the Royal party took their leave. The same ceremony was observed as at their arrival; the guests in two ranks on each side of the room, the Royal march played by the orchestra, and the master of the house in attendance to the carriage door. CHAPTER XII. AN UNWELCOME GUEST. Clementina gave a sigh of relief. Walking slowly, with the delightful sense of a difficult task happily accomplished, she made her way through the rooms, smiling right and left, and shedding amiable speeches on every friend she met. This splendid ball, the most magnificent perhaps ever given in Madrid by a private individual, was almost exclusively her work. Her father had provided the money, but the motive power, the taste and planning, had been hers. She received the congratulations which hailed her from all sides with a pleasing intoxication of flattered vanity. Happiness stirred a craving for love, its inseparable associate. She was possessed by a vehement wish to have a brief meeting, _tête-à-tête_, with Raimundo, to speak and hear a few fond words, to exchange a brief caress. She looked round for him among the crowd. He had been wandering about the rooms all the evening, generally alone. He had looked forward to this ball with puerile anticipations of delirious and unknown pleasures, for he had never been present at any of these high festivals of wealth and fashion. The reality had not come up to his hopes, as must always be the case. All this ostentation, all the scandalous luxury displayed to his eyes, instead of exciting his pride, wounded it deeply. Never had he felt so completely a stranger in the world he had now for some months lived in. His thoughts, with their natural tendency to melancholy, reverted to his modest home, where, by his fault, necessaries would ere long be lacking; to his humble-minded mother, who had never hesitated to fulfil the most menial tasks; to his innocent sister, who had learned from her to be thrifty and hard-working. Remorse gnawed at his heart. Then, too, he observed that the young men of his acquaintance treated him here with covert hostility. Many of them he had begun to regard as friends; they welcomed him pleasantly, he played cards with them and sometimes joined in their expeditions, but he clearly understood at last that he was no one, nothing to them, but as Clementina's lover; and he could detect, or his exaggerated sensitiveness made him fancy that he detected, in their demeanour to him, a touch of scorn, which humiliated him bitterly. The passionate devotion which Clementina professed for him compensated no doubt for these miseries, and enabled him often to forget them, but this evening his adored mistress, though she did not ignore him, was necessarily out of his range. He endured the phase of feeling which a mystic goes through when, as he expresses it, God has withdrawn His guiding hand--intense weariness and the darkest gloom of spirit. He danced dutiously two or three times, and talked a little to one and another. Tired of it all, at last he withdrew into the quietest corner of one of the rooms, sat down on a sofa and remained sunk in extreme dejection. Clementina sought him for some few minutes, and was beginning to be out of patience. She went into the card-room, and he started up to meet her with a beaming countenance. All his melancholy had vanished on seeing that she was in search of him. "If you would like two minutes' chat, come to the Duke's study," she said, in rapid but tender accents. "It is on the right-hand side, at the end of the corridor." She went thither, and Raimundo, to save appearances, lingered for a few moments by one of the tables, watching the game. Clementina made her way in and out of the rooms till she reached the corridor, and hurried to the study, a handsome room, so called for mere form, since the Duke always sat upstairs. It was a blaze of light, as all the other rooms were. As she went in, she fancied she heard a smothered sob, which filled her with surprise and apprehension. Looking about her, she discovered, in a deep recess, a woman lying in a heap on a divan, hiding her face in her handkerchief, and weeping violently. She went up to her, and recognised her by her dress. It was Irenita. "Irene, my child, what is the matter?" she exclaimed, bending anxiously over her. "Oh, forgive me, Clementina, I came here, hardly knowing what I was doing. I am so miserable;" and the tears streamed down her face. "But what has happened then, my poor dear?" "Nothing, nothing," sobbed the girl. There was a short silence. Clementina looked at her compassionately. "Come," she said, leaning over her, "It is Emilio. He has done something to vex you this evening." Irene made no reply. "Do not break your heart over it, silly child. That will do nothing to mend matters. However great the effort, try to seem indifferent. That is the only way to prevent his despising you. Nay, there is a better way, but I do not advise you to try it; there are things one cannot advise. But still, even if you are in love with him, do not offer him your heart to wring, for God's sake! Never let him know how unhappy he makes you, or you are lost. Let him have his whim out, and he will come back to you." Irene raised her face, bathed in tears. "But have you seen--do you know what he has done? It is dreadful." At this instant Clementina heard a step in the corridor, and suspecting who it might be, she hastily went to look out, saying: "Wait till I shut the door." She was only just in time; Raimundo arrived at the moment; she put her finger to her lips, and signed to him to go away. Irene saw nothing of it. When Clementina returned to her side, Irenita poured out, between sighs and tears, the grievances her husband had heaped upon her that evening. In the first place Emilio had chosen to come to the ball in a Hungarian costume. As soon as she came in, she had perceived that Maria Huerta also wore a Hungarian dress, and this, it must be owned, was a piece of insolence, which more than one person had remarked upon. Then they had danced together twice, and all the while, Emilio had never ceased murmuring in her ear. He had waited on her like a servant the whole evening, offering her ices and fruit with his own hands. Once, as he handed her a plate, their fingers had met. Irenita had seen it with her own eyes. Oh, it was monstrous! Irene only longed to kill herself. She would rather die a thousand deaths than endure such torments. Clementina comforted her as best she could. Emilio loved her fondly, she was sure; only men liked to show off in this way and prove their powers of fascination. As their hearts were not engaged, there was nothing for it but to let them go for a while, and then they returned to the wife they really loved. Clementina would not take her to the ladies' cloak-room to have her hair rearranged and to bathe her face; she led her up to the Duchess's dressing-room, and in a few minutes they came down stairs again. Irenita promised not to betray herself. When Clementina reported to Pepa all that had passed, the widow flew into such a fury that she was with difficulty hindered from rushing off to abuse her son-in-law. "Well, it is all the same," she said, with a shrug. "If I do not scratch his face now, I will do it later. Come what may, I cannot allow that scoundrel to be the death of my daughter; and as for that bare-faced slut, she will not get off till I have spit in her face, and in her husband's ugly phiz, too! A pretty state of things!" "Would it not be better to get rid of them altogether? Huerta is in office. See if you cannot get him packed off somewhere as Governor?" "You are right. I will speak of it to Arbos at once; but as to that precious son-in-law of mine, I will pay him out this very night, or my name is not Pepa." The Duke, surrounded by a group of faithful flatterers, was inhaling clouds of incense, growling out some gross witticism every now and then, which was hailed with applause. The ladies were the most enthusiastic in their admiration. Requena's genius for speculation dazzled them with amazement, as though they would like to calculate how many new dresses his millions would purchase. And he, usually so subservient, he--who, by his own confession, had reached the position he held by dint of kicks behind--lording it here among his worshippers, bullied them without mercy. His coarse jests were flung at men and women alike; he gloried in the brutal exercise of his power. And if these devotees were ready to humble themselves so patiently for nothing--absolutely nothing--what would they not have done if he had given largesse of his millions, if the golden calf had begun to vomit dollars. In the card-room, whither he went after attending the retirement of their Majesties, a crowd of speculators literally blocked him in. "How are the Riosa shares looking, Señor Duque?" one made so bold as to ask. "Do not talk of them," grumbled the man of money, with a furious glare. Llera's scheme had been punctually carried out. The Duke, after buying up a large number of shares, had set to work to produce a panic among the shareholders. For some months he had been employing secret agents to buy, and sell again immediately at a loss. Thanks to these tactics, the quotations had fallen very low. He was now almost ready for his great coup, buying up all he could get to throw them suddenly into the market, and then securing half the shares, _plus_ one. "Everything cannot turn out well," said the man who had addressed him, not without a smile of satisfaction. "You have always been so lucky." "The Duke does not owe his success to luck," said a stock-broker bent on flattery, "but to his genius, his incomparable skill and acumen." "No doubt, no doubt," the other hastened to put in, snatching the censer, as it were. "The Duke is the greatest financial genius of Spain. I cannot understand why he has not the entire management of the Treasury. If it is not placed in his hands, the country is past praying for." "Well, if I tried to save it after the fashion of the Riosa Mining Company, it would be a bad look out for the Spaniards," said the Duke, in a sulky, mumbling voice. "Why, is it such a rotten concern?" "For the Government, no, damn it; but for me, after buying it at par, it does not seem to be much of a success." And he cast all the blame of the transaction on his head clerk, that idiot Llera, who had insisted on having a finger in that pie, in spite of his, the Duke's, presentiments. "Ah! a man like you should never trust anything but his instincts," they all declared. "When a man has a real genius for business--" And again the word genius was on the lips of every idolater of the golden calf. Suddenly, at the door of the card-room, Clementina was seen, closely followed by Osorio, Mariana, and Calderón. All four looked disturbed and dismayed, and they all four fixed their eyes on Salabert, whom they eagerly approached. "Papa, one word, one minute," said Clementina. Salabert quitted the group, of which he was the centre, and joined the quartette in the further corner of the room. "That woman is here," said his daughter in an agitated whisper, but her eyes flashed fire. "It is scandalous," said Osorio. "Some people have left already, and as soon as it is known every one will go!" added Calderón, more calmly. "What woman?" asked Requena, opening his eyes very wide. Clementina explained in a tone of passionate scorn--a woman whom the Duke was known to visit. It was Amparo. "What!" he exclaimed, with well acted surprise. "That hussy has dared to come to this house? Who let her in? I will dismiss the door-keeper to-morrow morning." "No. What you have to do is to dismiss her this instant!" cried Clementina, stuttering with rage. "Of course, this instant! How dare she set foot in this house, and on such an occasion? But how did she get in? A ball which began so well!" "She has a card, it would seem." "Then she has stolen it, or it is a forgery." "Well, well," said Clementina, who knew her father well enough to guess that he had been cajoled into giving the invitation, a bounty which had cost him nothing. "Settle the matter at once. She is in the drawing-room. You must go and explain to her that she must have the goodness to take herself off. Say what you choose, but at once. Before any one discovers her--above all mamma." "No, my child, no. I know myself too well. I could not control my indignation. We must do nothing to attract attention. Go yourself--go, and get rid of her at once." This was enough for Clementina. Without another word she swiftly returned to the drawing-room, her face pale and set, her lips quivering. In a moment she discovered the foe. Certainly she was a handsome creature, magnificently dressed as Mary, Queen of Scots, and her beauty was fuel to Clementina's wrath. After wheedling Salabert to give her a card, it had occurred to the _demi-mondaine_ that her appearance at the ball might cause a scandal, but she longed to display herself in the costly costume she had chosen, and taking a respectable-looking old friend as a chaperon, she went very late, just to walk once or twice through the rooms. It was a bitter surprise to find that even the men of her acquaintance, the members of the Savage Club, here turned their backs and walked away. Her enjoyment, such as it was, was brief. Just as she was moving forward, with a triumphant smile, to make her longed-for progress through the rooms, she found herself face to face with Clementina, who, without the slightest greeting, holding her head very high, laid her hand on her shoulder, saying: "Have the kindness to listen to me." Mary Stuart turned pale, hesitated an instant, and then said with resolute arrogance: "I have nothing to say to you. I came to see the master of the house--the Duke de Requena." Margaret of Austria fixed a flashing eye on the rival queen, who met it without blinking. Then, bending forward, she said in her ear: "If you do not come with me this instant I will call two men-servants to turn you out of this house by force." The Queen of Scots was startled; still she was bold: "I wish to see the Duke," she said. "The Duke is not to be seen--by you. Follow me, or I call!" And she looked round as though she were about to act on her threat. The intruder turned very pale, and obeyed. The scene had, of course, been witnessed by several persons, but no one dared follow the hostile queens. Clementina went straight into the cloak-room. "This lady's wrap," she said. Not another word was spoken. A man-servant brought the cloak. Mary Stuart put it on herself unaided, with trembling hands. She went forward a few steps, and then suddenly turning round, she flashed a look of mortal hatred at Margaret of Austria, who returned it with interest in the shape of a contemptuous smile. It was foreordained of Heaven that the unhappy Queen of Scots should always be a victim--first to her cousin, Elizabeth of England, and now the Queen of Spain had turned her into the street. She found her duenna in the carriage; she had prudently made her escape at the beginning of the scene. What moral purification Requena's rooms may have gained by the eviction of Mary Stuart it would be hard to say; but they certainly lost much from the æsthetic point of view, for, beyond a doubt, she was lovely. The ball was coming to an end. Preparations were being made for the final cotillon. The crowd had thinned; several persons went away before the cotillon--elderly folk for the most part, who did not like late hours. Among the young ladies there was the agitation and stir which always precedes this last dance, when the most ceremonious ball assumes an aspect of more intimate enjoyment. Art and fancy now step in to eliminate every sensual element and make the waltz an innocent amusement--a reminiscence of the fancy ballets which, in the fourteenth century, entertained the Courts of France and England. And to many a damsel this is the crowning scene of the first act in the little comedy of love she has begun to perform. Pepe Castro, as we have seen, had laughed to scorn Clementina's suggestion that he should pay his addresses to Calderón's daughter; but it had not, therefore, fallen on stony ground. Though he talked and danced with other girls, he did not fail to ask her to waltz more than once. When the cotillon was being formed he went to Esperanza and asked her to be his partner, though he knew very well that it would be impossible, as the engagements for the last dance were always made as soon as the young people arrived. However, it fell in with the scheme he was plotting in his fertile brain. The girl had, in fact, promised the dance to the Conde de Agreda, but, on Castro's invitation, her desire to dance with him was so great that, with calm audacity, she accepted it. The Duchess selected the Condesa de Cotorraso to lead the cotillon, and she took Cobo Ramirez for her partner. He was always welcome in a ball-room as a most accomplished leader of cotillons; and on this particular occasion he had held long conferences with Clementina as to the arrangements for this dance. The circle of chairs was placed, and Pepe Castro went to lead out Esperanza, who proudly took his arm. But they had not gone two steps before Agreda intercepted them. "Why, Esperancita, I thought you had promised me the cotillon?" he said in great surprise. The girl's audacity did not desert her--the courage of a love-sick maid. "You must, please, forgive me, Leon," said she, in a tone which the most consummate actress might have envied. "When I accepted you I quite forgot that I was engaged already to Pepe." The Count retired, murmuring a few polite words, which did not conceal his annoyance. As soon as he was gone, Esperancita, frightened at the compromising interest in Castro which she had thus betrayed, began with many blushes to explain: "The real truth is that I had forgotten that I was engaged to Leon," she said. "And as I had taken your arm--and besides, he is a most tiring partner." Pepe Castro took no mean advantage of his triumph; his demeanour was modest and grateful. Instead of courting her openly, he adopted a more insinuating style, loading her with small attentions, establishing a tone of easy confidence, and showing her all possible fondness without breathing a word of love. Esperanza was supremely happy. She began to believe herself adored; fancying that the sympathy and regard which had always existed between Pepe and herself was at last turning to love. Her heart beat high with joy. Ramoncita also was pleased at the substitution. Agreda had for some little time been particularly antipathetic to him, almost as much so as Cobo Ramirez, since he was beginning to be as jealous of the one as of the other. Pepe, on the other hand, he regarded as his second self, another and a superior Maldonado. All the affection Esperanza bestowed on Pepe he accepted as a boon to himself. So to see her on his arm was to him a touching sight, and as he went up to them to say a few insignificant words he actually blushed with satisfaction. Pepe made a knowing face, as much as to say: "Victory all along the line!" and the young civilian felt that he was advancing with giant strides to the fulfilment of his hopes and the apogee of his happiness. The cotillon was a worthy climax to this most successful ball. The inventiveness of Cobo Ramirez, spurred by the magnitude of the occasion, enchanted the dancers by the variety and ingenuity of its devices; he kept them amused for more than an hour. A game with a hoop arranged in the middle of the room absorbed every one's attention and earned him much applause. He divided the gentlemen into two parties, who shot alternately with arrows from pretty little gilt bows at the hoop suspended by a ribbon from the ceiling. The winners were entitled to dance with the partners of those they had defeated, while the humiliated victim followed in their wake, fanning them as they waltzed. Then he had planned another figure for the ladies; the successful fair left the room and returned sitting in a car drawn by four servants dressed as black slaves. In this she made a triumphal progress round the room, surrounded by the rest. This and other not less remarkable and valuable inventions had placed the fame of the heir of Casa Ramirez on a permanent and illustrious footing. As soon as the cotillon was ended the company left--it was a noisy and precipitate retreat. Every one crowded out to the vestibule and stairs, talking at the top of their voices, laughing and calling, each louder than the other, for their carriages. The extensive garden, lighted by electricity, had a fantastic and unreal effect, like the scene in a fairy cosmorama. The beams of intense white light, making the shadows look black and deep, pierced the avenues of the park and lent it an appearance of immense extent. Night was ended, the pale tints of dawn were already grey in the East. It was intensely cold. The young "Savages," wrapped in fur coats, were letting off the last crackers of their wit in honour of the ladies who stood waiting, where their rich and picturesque wraps glittered in the electric light. Horses stamping, footmen shouting, the carriage-wheels, as they slowly came round to the steps, grinding the gravel of the drive. Then there was the sound of kisses, doors slammed, loud good-nights; and the noise of the vehicles, as they drove off from the terrace steps, seemed by degrees to swallow up all the others and carry them off to rest in the various quarters of the town. Pepe Castro had kept close to Esperanza and was murmuring in her ear till the last. The girl, muffled up to her eyes, was smiling without looking at him. When at last the Calderón's carriage came up they shook hands with a long pressure. "I hope you will not forget us for so long as usual; that you will come to see us oftener," she said, leaving her hand in his. "Do you really wish that I should call more frequently?" said he, looking at her as if he meant to magnetise her. "I should think I did!" As she spoke she coloured violently under her comforter, and snatching away her hand followed her mother to the carriage. Pepa Frias had said to her daughter: "When we go, child, I want Emilio to come with me. I am in such a state of nerves that I cannot sleep till I have given him my mind. We must have no more scandals, you see; I am going to propose an ultimatum. If he persists, you must come back to me and he may go to the devil." She was in a great rage. Irene, though she would have liked to object to this arrangement, for she adored her fickle husband, did not dare to remonstrate; she submitted. When they were leaving, Pepa addressed her son-in-law: "Emilio, do me the favour to see me home. I want to speak to you." "Hang it all!" thought the young fellow. "And Irene?" he said. "She can go alone. The bogueys won't eat her," replied Pepa tartly. "Worse and worse," Emilio reflected. And, in point of fact, Irenita, eyeing her mother and her husband with fear and anxiety, went off alone in her carriage, leaving them together. As Pepa's brougham rolled away, Emilio, to disarm his mother-in-law, tried, like the boy that he was, to divert the lightning by saying something to please her. "Do you know," said he, "that I heard your praises loudly sung by the President of the Council and some men who were with him? They admired your costume immensely, but yet more your figure. They declared that there was not a girl in the room to compare with you for freshness, that your skin was like satin, and smoother and softer every day." "Good heavens, what nonsense! That is all gammon, Emilio. A few years ago, I do not say----" "No, no, indeed; your complexion is proverbial in Madrid. What would Irene give for a skin like her mother's!" "Is it better than Maria Huerta's?" asked she, in an ironical tone, which betrayed, indeed, no very great annoyance. Pepa had, in fact, changed her plan of attack; she thought that diplomacy would be more effective than a rating. "Listen to me," she went on, "I meant to give you a good scolding, Emilio; to talk to you seriously, very seriously, and say a great many hard things, but I cannot. I am so foolishly soft-hearted that I can find excuses for every one. You have behaved so badly to Irenita this evening, that she would be justified in leaving you altogether; but I do not believe you are as bad as you seem, for you are nothing but a perverse boy. I am sure you do not yourself appreciate the gravity of your conduct." Pepa's whole sermon was pitched in the same persuasive key, and Emilio, who had expected a severe lecture, was agreeably surprised. He listened submissively, and then in a broken voice tried to exculpate himself. He had flirted a little to be sure with Maria Huerta, but he swore he did not care for her. It was a mere matter of pique and vanity. When his engagement to Irene was announced, Maria had been heard to say, in Osorio's house, that she could not understand how Irenita could bear to marry that ugly slip of a boy. He had sworn she should eat her own words--and so--and so--and that was all, on his word of honour, all. So Pepa was still further mollified; and what wonder if the young fellow thought that this, and perhaps worse sins, were condoned by his profligate mother-in-law. CHAPTER XIII. A PIOUS MATINÉE. A few days after the ball, at eleven in the morning of a Friday in Lent, the most elegant of "Savages" woke from his calm and sound slumbers, fully determined to marry Calderón's little daughter. He opened his eyes, glanced at the hippic decorations which ornamented the walls of his room, stretched himself gracefully, drank a glass of lemonade which stood by his bedside, and prepared to rise. It cannot be positively asserted that the resolution had been formed during sleep, but it is quite certain that it was the birth of a mysterious travail which he had not consciously aided. When he went to bed Castro had only the vaguest thoughts of this advantageous alliance; on waking, his determination to sue for Esperanza's hand, by whatever process it had been elaborated, was irrevocable. Let us congratulate the happy damsel, and for the present devote our attention to studying the noble "Savage" in the act of perfecting the beautiful object which Nature had achieved in creating him. His servant had prepared his bath. After looking in the glass to study the face of the day--his own--he took up some dumb-bells, and went through a few exercises. Then taking a foil, he practised a score or so of lunges, and finally he delivered a dozen or more punches on the pad of a dynamometer. Having accomplished this, the moment was come for him to step into the water. He was still splashing and sponging, when into his room, unannounced, walked the poor crazy Marquis Manolo Davalos. "Pepe, I want to speak to you about a very important matter," said he, with an air of mystery, his eyes wilder than ever. "Wait a minute; I am tubbing." "Then make haste; I am in a great hurry." Davalos rose from the chair into which he had dropped, and began walking up and down the room with a sort of feverish agitation, to which his friends had become accustomed. He could not remain still for five minutes. Any one else going through half the exercise he took in the course of the day would have been utterly exhausted before night. Castro watched him at first with contemptuous raillery in his eye; but he grew serious as he saw Manolo go up to the table and begin to play with a neat little revolver which Castro kept by his bedside. "Look out there, Manolo! It is loaded." "So I see, so I see," said the other with a smile; and turning round sharply, he added: "What do you think Madrid would say if I shot you dead?" Pepe Castro felt a chill run down his spine, which was not altogether attributable to the cold bath, and he laughed rather queerly. "And you know I could do it with impunity," his visitor went on, "as I am said to be mad----." "Ha, ha, ha!" Castro laughed hysterically. He was no coward; on the contrary, he had a reputation for punctilio and courage; but, like all fighting men, he liked a public. The prospect of an inglorious death at the hands of a maniac did not smile on his fancy. The example of Seneca, Marat, and other heroes who had been killed in their bath did nothing to encourage him, possibly because he had never heard of them. Davalos came towards him with the revolver cocked, saying: "What will they say in town, eh? What will they say?" Castro was as cold as though he were up to his chin in ice instead of water with the chill off. However, he had presence of mind enough to say: "Lay down that revolver, Manolo. If you don't, you shall never see Amparo again as long as you live." Amparo was the fair _demi-mondaine_ whom we have already seen at the Duke's ball. She had ruined the Marquis, a widower with young children, who had seriously intended to marry the woman; and his brain, none of the strongest at any time, had finally given way, when his family had interfered to protect him from her rapacity. "Never again! Why not?" he asked, dejection painted on his face, as he lowered the weapon. "Because I will not allow it; I will tell her never to let you inside her doors." "Well, well, my dear fellow, do not be put out, I was only in fun," said the lunatic, replacing the revolver on the table. Castro jumped out of the bath. No sooner was he wrapped in the turkish towel, with which he dried himself, than he seized the weapon and locked it away. Easy in his mind now, though annoyed by the fright his crazy friend had given him, he began talking to him in a tone of contemptuous ill-humour, while, standing before his glass, he lavished on his handsome person, with the greatest respect, all the care due to its merits. "Now, then, out with it, man, out with the great secret. One of your fool's errands as usual, I suppose. I declare, Manolo, you ought not to be allowed in the streets. You should go somewhere and be cured," he said, as he rubbed his arms with some scented unguent which he selected from the collection of pots and bottles of every size arrayed before him. The Marquis put his hand in his pocket, took out his note-book, and from it a letter in a woman's hand, saying with some solemnity: "She has just written me this note. I want you to read it." Pepe did not even turn his head to look at the document his friend held out to him. Absorbed at the moment in blending the ends of his moustache with his beard, he said in an absent-minded way: "And what does she want?" Davalos stared in surprise at the small interest he took in this precious missive. "Shall I read it to you?" "If it is not very long." Manolo unfolded it as reverently as though it were the autograph of a saint, and read with deep emotion: "MY DEAREST MANOLO.--Do me the favour to send me by the bearer two thousand pesetas,[D] of which I am in urgent need. If you have not so much about you, bring me the money this evening.--Always and entirely yours, "AMPARO." "My word! She is a cool hand. I suppose you did not send the money?" "No." "Quite right." "Well, I had not got it. It is on purpose to see if you can help me that I have come here." Castro turned round and contemplated his visitor with a look of surprise and irritation. Then, addressing himself to his glass again, he said: "My dear Manolo, you are the greatest fool out. I am sure that when your aunt dies you will let that hussy spend the money for you as she has spent your own fortune." The Marquis was in a fury. "Do you know where the real wrong is?" he said. "It lies with my family, who, without rhyme or reason, interfere to prevent my marrying her. As my wife--as the mother of my motherless children--they would have been happy, and so should I!" Castro stared at him in blank amazement. Tears stood on the Marquis's pale cheeks. Pepe made a grimace of contemptuous pity, and went on combing his moustache. After a few minutes' silence, he said: "I am very sorry, old fellow. I have not got two thousand pesetas; but if I had I would not lend them to you for such a purpose, you may be very sure." Davalos made no reply, but again paced the room. "Whom can I ask?" he suddenly said, stopping short. "Try Salabert," said Castro, with a short laugh. Manolo clenched his fists and ground his teeth; his eyes glared ominously, and with a stride he went up to Pepe, who drew back a step, and prepared to defend himself. "Such a speech is a gross insult!--an insult worthy of a bullet or a sword thrust! You are a coward--in your own house!" His eyes started in a really terrific stare; but he did not succeed in provoking his friend. He ultimately controlled himself with a great effort, only flinging his hat on the floor with such violence as to crush it. Castro stood perfectly still, as if turned to stone. So often before he had jested with the crazy fellow, and said far rougher things, without his ever dreaming of taking offence, and now, by pure chance, as it seemed, he flew into this unaccountable rage. He tried to soothe him by an apology, but Manolo did not listen. Though he had got past the first impulse to struggle with him, he raged up and down like a caged wild beast, muttering threats and gesticulating vehemently. However, he soon broke down: "I should never have believed it of you, Pepe," he murmured in a broken voice. "I should never have supposed that my best friend would so insult me--so stab me to the heart." "But bless me, man----!" "Do not speak to me, Pepe. You have stabbed me with a word; leave me in peace. God forgive you, as I forgive you! I am like a hare wounded by the hunter, which runs to its form to die. Do not harry me any more; leave me to die in peace." And the simile of the hare seemed to him so pathetic that he sank sobbing into an arm-chair. At the same time he had a severe fit of coughing, and Castro had to persuade him to drink a cup of lime-flower tea. * * * * * By the time the luckless Marquis had a little recovered, Pepe had achieved the adornment of his person, which he proceeded to take out walking, very correctly and exquisitely dressed in a frock-coat. He breakfasted at Lhardy's, looked in at the Club, and by three in the afternoon or thereabouts bent his steps to the house of the Marquesa de Alcudia, his aunt, in the Calle de San Mateo. This lady was, as we know, very proud of her religion, and equally so, to say the least, of her pedigree. Pepe was her favourite nephew, and, though his dissipated mode of life disgusted her not a little, she had always treated him with much affection, hoping to tempt him into the right way. In the Marquesa's opinion, quarterings of nobility were as efficacious in their way as the Sacrament of Ordination. Whatever villainies a noble might commit, he was still a noble, as a priest is always a priest. Castro had thought of this devout lady as one likely to assist him in his project. His instincts--which were more to be depended on than his intelligence--told him that if the Marquesa undertook the negotiations for his marriage with Esperancita she would undoubtedly succeed. She was a person of much influence in fashionable society, and even more with those persons who, like Calderón, had gained a place in it by wealth. The Alcudia's mansion was a gloomy structure, built in the fashion of the last century--a ground floor with large barred windows and one floor above; nothing more. But it covered a vast extent of ground, with a neglected garden in the rear. The entrance was not decorative; the outside steps rough-hewn to begin with, and much worn. The late lamented Alcudia was proposing some repairs and improvements when death interfered with his plans. His widow abandoned them, not so much out of avarice as from intense conservatism, even in matters which most needed reform. Within, the house was sumptuously fitted; the furniture was antique and very handsome; the walls hung with splendid tapestry; and fine pictures by the old masters graced the library and the oratory. This was indeed a marvel of splendour. It stood at one corner of the building on the ground floor, but was two storeys high, and as lofty, in fact, as a church. The windows were filled with stained glass, like those of a Gothic cathedral; the floor was richly carpeted; there was a small gallery with an organ; and the altar, in the French taste, was beautifully decorated. Over it hung an _Ecce Homo_, by Morales. It was an elegant and comfortable little chapel, warmed by a large stove in the cellar beneath. In the drawing-room Pepe found only the girls, busy with their needlework. Their mother, they said, was in the study, writing letters. So, after exchanging a few words with his cousins, he joined her there. "May I come in, aunt?" "Come in, come in. You, Pepe?" said the Marquesa, looking up at him over the spectacles she wore for writing. "If I am interrupting you I will go away. I want to consult you," said the young man, with a smile. He took a chair, and while his aunt went on writing with a firm, swift hand, he meditated the exordium to the speech he was about to deliver. At last the pen dashed across the paper with a strident squeak, no doubt emphasising the writer's signature, and taking off her spectacles, she said: "At your service, Pepe." Pepe looked at the floor, praying no doubt for inspiration, twirled his moustache, cleared his throat and at last began with much solemnity. "Well, aunt, I do not know whether it is that God has touched my heart, or merely that I am weary of my present mode of life; but at any rate for some time past I have been taking to heart the advice you have so often given me, and which goes hand in hand with my own wish to settle down, to give up the bad habits which I have contracted for want of a father to guide me, and yet more of a mother, like yourself. I am very nearly thirty, and it is time to think of the name I bear. I owe a duty to that, and to my calling as a Christian; for in all my excesses I have never forgotten that I belong to an old Catholic family, and that nowadays in Spain it is incumbent on our class to protect the cause of religion and set a good example, as you do. The means I look to as an encouragement to the change I feel within me is marriage." The penitent could not have chosen his words better in addressing his aunt Eugenia. They made so good an impression that she rose from her place and came to lay a hand on his shoulder, exclaiming: "You delight me, Pepito. You cannot imagine what pleasure you give me. And you say you do not know whether God has touched your heart! How could you have undergone this sudden change, if He had not inspired it? It is the touch of God, indeed, my boy, the finger of God--and the noble blood which runs in your veins. Have you chosen a wife?" The young man smiled and nodded. "Who is she?" "I had thought of Esperanza Calderón. What do you think of her?" "Nothing could be better. She is very well brought up, attractive, and I love her as a child of my own. She has always been my Pacita's bosom friend, as you know. Your choice is a most happy one." Castro smiled again with a gleam of mischief, as he went on: "You see, aunt, I would rather have married a girl of our own rank, But, as you know, I am utterly ruined, and the daughters of good families are not apt to have fortunes in these days. Those who have, would not have anything to say to me, as I have nothing to offer but what they already possess--a noble name. It is for this reason that I have chosen one of no birth, but with a good fortune." "Very wise. And though we are compromising our dignity a little, we must save the name from disgrace. And Esperanza is a thoroughly good girl. She has been brought up among ourselves. She will always be a perfect lady, and do you credit." The young man's face still wore that strange sarcastic smile. For a minute or two he remained silent; then he said: "Do you know what we young fellows call a marriage of this kind?" "No--what?" "Eating dirt." The Marquesa smiled frigidly, but then, looking grave again, she replied: "No, that cannot be said in this case, Pepe. I can answer for this girl that she is worthy of a brilliant marriage. You will be a gainer. Are you engaged? Have you spoken to her? I have had no communication----" "I have not said anything as yet I know that she does not dislike me; we look kindly on each other, but nothing more. Before taking any definite steps I decided that I would speak to you as the person of most weight of our family in Madrid." "Very proper; you have behaved admirably. When marriage is in question it is well to proceed with due caution and formality, for, after all, it is a sacrament of the Church.[E] In better times than these no alliance was ever contracted in the higher circles without consulting the opinion of the heads of both houses. I thank you for your confidence in me, and you may count on my approval." "And on your assistance? You see I am afraid of meeting with some difficulties on her father's part. He loves hard cash. And to be frank, I should not relish a refusal." The Marquesa sat meditating for a while. "Leave him to me. I will do my best to bring him to reason. But you must promise to do nothing without consulting me. It is a delicate negotiation, and will need prudence and skill." "I give you my word, aunt." "Above all be very careful with the little girl. Do not startle her." "I will do exactly what you bid me." They presently went together into the drawing-room, where some visitors had arrived. On Friday afternoons during Lent, the Marquesa received those of her friends who, like herself, would devote an hour or two to prayer and religious exercises. There were the Marquesa de Ujo and her daughter, still with her skirts far above her ankles, General Patiño, Lola Madariaga and her husband, Clementina Osorio, with her faithful companion Pascuala, and several others; and, above all, Padre Ortega. As, in fact, the honours of the occasion were his, and he was director of the entertainment, every one had gathered about him in the middle of the room. Everyone talked louder than he did; the illustrious priest's voice was always soft and subdued, as though he were in a sick room. But as soon as he began to speak, silence instantly reigned--every one listened with respectful attention. The Marquesa, on entering, kissed his hand with an air of submission, and inquired affectionately after a cold from which he had been suffering. "Oh! have you a cold, Father?" inquired several ladies at once. "A little, a mere trifle," replied the priest, with a smile of suave resignation. "By no means a trifle," said the Marquesa. "Yesterday in church you coughed incessantly." And she proceeded to give the minutest details of the reverend Father's sufferings, omitting nothing which could make her account more graphic. The priest sat smiling, with his eyes on the ground, saying: "Do not let it disturb you, the Marquesa is always over anxious. You might think that I was in the last stage of consumption." "But, Father, you must take care of yourself, you really must take care of yourself. You do too much. For the sake of religion you ought to spare yourself a little." The whole party joined in advising him with affectionate interest. A maiden of seven-and-thirty, a sportive, gushing thing, whose confessor he was, even said, half seriously and half in jest: "Why, Father, if you were to die, what would become of me?" A sally which made the guests laugh, but somewhat disconcerted the very proper director of souls. The Marquesa wished to hinder him this afternoon from delivering the address with which he usually favoured them; but he insisted. Meanwhile the room had been filling. Mariana Calderón had come in with Esperancita, the Cotorrasos, Pepa Frias, and Irene. She, poor child, looked pale and ailing; in fact, she had come straight from her room, to which she had been confined for some days with a nervous attack. When the party was large enough, the Marquesa invited them to retire to the Oratory. The ladies took front places near the altar, chairs and stools having been comfortably arranged for them, the gentlemen stood in the background and were provided only with a velvet-pile carpet to kneel on. The meeting began by each one going through the prayers of the Rosary after Padre Ortega. The ladies did this with edifying precision and devotion, their ivory fingers, on which diamonds and emeralds twinkled like stars, piously crossed or clasped, their pretty heads bent low--they were quite bewitching. The Creator must surely hearken to their prayers, if it were only out of gallantry. Not the least humble, the least engaging and edifying figure of them all was Pepa Frias. A black mantilla was most becoming to her russet hair and pink and white complexion. The same may be said of Clementina, who was taller, with more delicate features, and in no respect inferior in brilliancy and beauty of colouring. The languid and artistic attitudes affected by the fair devotees were no doubt intended to appeal to the Divine Will; but, as a secondary end, they were no less certainly meant to edify the escort of men who looked down on them. And, if by any chance there could have been a Freethinker among them, what confusion and shame must have possessed his soul on seeing that all that was most elegant and distinguished of the _High-life_ of Madrid was enlisted in the service of the Lord. Prayer being over, two of the ladies, accompanied by a baritone "Savage," went up into the gallery, and while another gentleman played the organ, they sang some of the finest airs from Rossini's _Stabat Mater_. As they listened, the pious souls felt a vague craving for the Opera house, for La Tosti and Gayarre, and confessed regretfully, in the depths of their hearts, that the amateur performance promised them in Heaven would be a stupendous and eternal bore. After the music came Padre Ortega's homily or lecture. The priest was accommodated on a sort of throne of ebony and marble in the middle of the chapel, the ladies moved their chairs and cushions, so as to face him, and the gentlemen formed an outer circle, and after a few moments of private meditation to collect his ideas, he began in a gentle tone to speak a few slow and solemn words, on the subject of the Christian Family. As we know, Father Ortega was a priest quite up to the mark of modern civilisation, who kept his eye on the advance of rationalistic science that he might pounce down on it and put it to rout. Positivism, evolution, sociology, pessimism, were all familiar words to him, and did not frighten him, as they did most of his colleagues. He was on intimate terms with them, and fond of using them to confute the pretensions of modern learning. What he esteemed to be his own strong ground, was the demonstration of the perfect compatibility of science with faith, the Harmony (with a capital H) between Religion and Philosophy. His discourse on the Family was profound and eloquent. To Father Ortega, that which constituted the Family was a reverence and love for tradition, reverence and love for the past. "The Family is Tradition--the tradition of its glory and of its name, of honour, virtue, and heroism; and all these may be summed up in two words: respect for elders--love and reverence, that is to say, for all that is highest and most conservative in the race." Starting from this theorem, the preacher inveighed against revolution as against a gale from hell, blowing down all that was old, and clearing the ground for all that was new; against the barbarous hostility of our time to the beliefs, the manners, the laws, the institutions, and the glories of the past. "The banners of revolution are inscribed with the motto: 'Despise the Elders,'" said he, "as though old creeds, old manners, old institutions, old aristocracies--though like everything human, they fall far short of perfection--did not represent the labours of our forefathers, their intelligence, their triumphs, their soul, life, and heart. And this being the case, how could revolutionary science, which casts its stupid contumely on everything ancient and venerable, fail to besmirch even our great ancestors with its scorn? One element of dissolution in the Family was the attack on property, directed by the revolutionary faction. This aggression was not merely adverse to the constitution of society, it was still more directly hostile to that of the Family. Property, inheritance, and the patrimony, what were they but the outcome of reverence for our forefathers on the one hand, of love for our children on the other? Property consolidates the present, the past, and the future of the Family; it is the spot where it has grown up and spread; the soil which, when the progenitors pass away, assures them of rest beneath the tree of posterity, which shall grow up from it and call them blessed!" Then, for above an hour, the learned Father proved the existence, on the most solid foundations, of the Christian family. Its bases were religion, tradition, and property. He spoke with decision, in a simple, convincing style, and emphatic but correct language. His audience were deeply attentive and docile, quite persuaded that it was the Holy Ghost which spoke by the mouth of the reverend preacher, commanding them to cherish tradition and religion, but, above all, property. The sublime thought was so elevating that some of the gentlemen present felt themselves united for all eternity to the Supreme Being by the sacred tie of landed estate, and registered a vow to fight for it heroically, and resist the passing of any law which, directly or indirectly, might affect its integrity. When he ended he was rewarded by smiles of approbation and repressed murmurs of enthusiasm. Every one spoke in a whisper, out of respect to the sanctity of the spot. The bold damsel who just now had asked Father Ortega what she could do without him, flew to kiss his hand, with a succession of sounding smacks which made the rest of the company exchange meaning smiles of amusement, and the priest drew it away with evident annoyance. Once more, some ladies and gentlemen went up into the gallery and executed, in every sense of the word, some religious music by Gounod. Finally, all the saintly souls left the little chapel and returned to the drawing-room. The Marquesa de Alcudia, a restless nature that knew no peace, at once proceeded to carry out her promise to her nephew. He saw her take Mariana aside; they quitted the room together. By-and-by they returned, and Castro could see that he had been the subject of their parley by the timid and affectionate glance bestowed on him by Esperancita's mother. Then he saw his aunt retire with Padre Ortega into a corner where they had a private consultation, and again he suspected that he was their theme. The priest looked towards him two or three times with his vague, short-sighted eyes. He had taken care not to go near Esperanza, but they had exchanged smiles and looks from afar. The girl seemed surprised at his sudden reserve; for the last few days Pepe had been assiduous. She was beginning to be uneasy, and at last crossed the room to speak to him. "You were not at the Opera last night; are you keeping Lent?" "Oh, no!" said he, with a laugh. "I had a little headache and went to bed early." "I do not wonder. What could you expect? You were riding a horse in the afternoon that did nothing but shy. He is a handsome beast, but much too lively. At one moment I thought he would have you off." Castro smiled with a superior air, and the girl hastened to add: "I know you are a fine horseman; but an accident may happen to any one." "What would you have done if I had been thrown?" he asked, looking her straight in the face. "How do I know!" exclaimed the girl with a shrug, but she blushed deeply. "Would you have screamed?" "What strange things you ask me," said Esperanza, getting hotter and hotter. "I might perhaps--or I might not." Just then the Marquesa de Alcudia addressed her. "Esperanza, I want to speak to you." And as she passed her nephew she said in a low voice: "Prudence, Pepe! Asides are not in your part." Any less superior soul would have felt some anxiety at seeing the two women leave the room together, some uneasiness as to the issue of this all-important interview; but our friend was so far above the common herd in this, as in other matters, that he could chatter with the company with as much tranquillity as though his aunt and Esperanza had gone to discuss the fashions. When they presently returned, Esperanza's little face was in a glow, her eyes beaming with an expression of submission and happiness, which, but for fear of committing a deadly sin in Lent, we might compare to that of the Virgin Mary on the occasion when she was visited by the Angel Gabriel. The meeting still preserved a sanctimonious tone. These chastened souls could not forget that they were celebrating the Fasting in the Wilderness. The young ladies round the piano piously abstained from singing anything frivolous; their voices were modulated to the _Ave Marias_ of Schubert and Gounod, and other songs no less redolent of sacred emotion. They talked and laughed in subdued tones. If one of the young men spoke a little recklessly the ladies would call him to order, reminding him that on a Friday in Lent certain subjects were prohibited. The Spirit of God must indeed have been present with the meeting if we may judge from the resignation, the intense serenity, with which they all seemed to endure existence in this vale of tears. A placid smile was on every lip; the afternoon waned amid sacred song, mellifluous exhortation, and subdued mirth. The newspapers reported next day, with perfect truth, that these pious Fridays were quite delightful, and that the Marquesa de Alcudia did the honours in the name of the Almighty with exquisite grace. The party at length dispersed. All these souls, so blessed and refreshed by faith, trooped out of the Alcudia Palace and made their way home, where they sat down to dine on hot turtle soup, mayonnaise of salmon, and salads of Brussels sprouts, beginning with prawns to sharpen their appetites. But, indeed, the hours of silent prayer and communion with the Divinity had already done this. Nothing is more effectual in giving tone to the stomach than the sense of union with the Omnipotent, and the hope that, albeit there are fire and eternal torments for pickpockets and those misguided souls who do not believe in them, for all Christian families--those, that is to say, who believe in property and in their ancestors--there are certainly comfortable quarters in reserve, with an eternity of salmon mayonnaise and prawns _à la Parisienne_. CHAPTER XIV AN EXCURSION TO RIOSA. The Duke de Requena had given the last shake to the tree; the orange dropped into his hands golden and juicy. At a given moment his agents in Paris, London, and Madrid, bought up more than half of the Riosa shares. Thus the management, or, which was the same thing, the mine, was practically his. Some who had suspected his game, declined to sell, especially in Madrid, where the banker was well-known; and if he had not made haste to take the decisive step, the price would undoubtedly have become firmer. Llera scented the danger and gave the signal. It was a happy day for the Asturian when he received the telegrams from Paris and London. His hatchet-face was as radiant as that of a general who has just won a great battle. His clumsy arms waved in the air like the sails of a windmill, as he told the tale to the various men of business who had come to the Duke's counting-house to ask the news. Loud Homeric laughter shook his pigeon-breasted frame, he hugged his friends tightly enough to choke them; and when the Duke asked him a question, he answered even him with a touch of scorn from the heights of his triumph. And yet he was not to get the smallest percentage on this immense transaction; not a single dollar of all the millions which were to come out of that mine would remain in his hands. But what matter! His calculations had proved correct; the scheme he had worked out with such secrecy, perseverance, and wonderful energy and skill, had come to the desired issue. His joy was that of the artist who has succeeded--a joy compared with which all the other delights on earth are not worth a straw. The Duke's satisfaction was of a different stamp. His vanity was indeed flattered by this brilliant success; he honestly thought that he had achieved an undertaking worthy to be recorded on marble and sung by poets. A proceeding which was in truth no more than a swindling trick, within the letter of the law, was by some strange aberration of the moral faculty transfigured into a glorious display of intellectual power--and that not alone in his own eyes, but in those of society at large. To celebrate his success, and at the same time to see for himself what improvements must be effected in the working of the mine to make it as productive as he intended it should become, he planned an excursion thither with the engineers and a party of his friends. At first they were to be eight or ten; by degrees the number grew, and when the day came round they formed a party of above fifty guests. This was chiefly owing to Clementina, who was greatly fascinated by the notion of this journey. Thus what had been in the Duke's mind a little friendly "day out," had, under her manipulation, acquired the proportions of a public event, a much talked-of and ostentatious progress, which for some days absorbed the attention of the fashionable world. Salabert had a special train made up for his party; the servants and provisions were despatched the day before. Everything was to be arranged to receive them worthily. It was the middle of May, and beginning to be hot. By nine in the morning the station of Las Delicias was crowded with carriages, out of which stepped ladies and gentlemen, dressed for the occasion; the women in smart costumes considered appropriate for a day in the country, the men in morning suits and felt hats. But to these apparently unpretending garments they had contrived to give a stamp of individual caprice, distinguishing them, as was but right, from all the shooting coats and wide-awakes hitherto invented. One had a flannel suit, as white as snow, with black gloves and a black hat; another was in the inconspicuous motley of the lizard, crowned by a blue hat with a microscopic brim; a third had thought it an opportunity for turning out in a black jersey suit, with a white hat, white gloves, and boots. Many had hung a noble field-glass about their shoulders, by a leather strap, that they might not miss the smallest details of the landscape, and several flourished Alpine sticks, as if they were contemplating a perilous clamber over cliffs and rocks. The special train included two saloon cars, a sleeping car, and a luggage van. The cream of Madrid society proceeded to settle itself, with the noisy glee befitting the occasion. There were more men than women; the ladies had, indeed, for the most part, excused themselves, not caring particularly for the prospect of visiting a mine. Still there were enough to lend grace to the expedition, and at the same time to subdue its tone a little. There were some whose fathers or husbands were connected with the business: Calderón's wife and daughter, Mrs. Biggs, Clementina, and others. There were some who had come out of friendship for these--Mercedes and Paz Alcudia, for instance, who were inseparable from Esperanza. There were more again who could never bear to be absent from any ploy: Pepa Frias, Lola, and a few more. Among the men were politicians, men of business, and titles new and old. As they got into the train the servile assiduity of the station-clerks betrayed how great an excitement was produced by the mere passage through the office of these potentates and grandees. Last of all, and most potent of all, came the Duke de Requena, who, taking out his handkerchief, waved it from a window as a signal for departure. A whistle sounded, the engine responded with a long and noisy yell, then, puffing and snorting, the train began to move its metallic segments, and slowly quitted the station. The travellers waved their hands from the windows in farewell greetings to those who had come to see them off. Great was the excitement and clatter as the train flew across the barren plains around Madrid. Every one talked and laughed at once, as loud as possible, and what with this and the noise of the train, no one could hear. By degrees a sort of chemical diffusion or elective affinity took place. The Duke, seated in a coupé or compartment at the back of the train, found himself the centre of a group of financial and political magnates. Clementina, Pepa Frias, Lola, and some other women formed another party, with such men as preferred a lighter and more highly spiced style: Pinedo, Fuentes, and Calderón. The young men and maidens were exchanging witticisms which seemed to afford them infinite amusement. One of the incidents which most enchanted them was the appearance of Cobo Ramirez at the window, in a guard's coat and cap, demanding the tickets. Cobo, who had been in the foremost carriage, had clambered along by the foot-board, not without some risk, since the train was going at a tremendous speed. He was hailed with applause. Then the young people sent notes to their friends in the other saloon, the young men inditing love-letters. The heir of Casa-Ramirez took charge of them all, and went to and fro between the cars very nimbly, considering his obesity. This amused them greatly for some time. The love-letters, written in pencil, were read aloud, with much applause and laughter. Raimundo was content to talk to the Mexican and Osorio. Osorio had really taken a liking to him. Though but a boy in looks the banker discerned that he was intelligent and well-educated, and among the "Savages" such endowments as these conferred pre-eminence. The young man had, too, succeeded in adapting himself very sufficiently to the atmosphere which for the time he breathed. Not only was his dress visibly modified by the refinements of fashion and good taste, but his tone and manners had undergone a very perceptible change. In his behaviour to Clementina he was still the timid lad, the submissive slave, who hung on every word and gesture of his mistress; his love was taking deeper root in his heart every day. But in social intercourse he had accommodated himself to what he saw around him. He did all in his power to repress the impulses of his loving and expansive nature. He assumed a grave indifference, an almost disdainful calm; ridiculed everything that was said in his hearing, unless it bore on the manners and customs of the Savage Club; learned to speak in a joking, ironical voice, like his fellow "Savages," and above all was on his guard against ever uttering any scientific or philosophical notions, for he knew by experience that this was the one unpardonable sin. He even kept his own counsel when one of his new associates roused him to a feeling of warmer sympathy and regard than the others. Affection is in itself so absurd that it is wise to bury it in the depths of your soul, or you expose yourself to some rebuff, even from the object of your affection. Such things have been known. Thanks to his diligence, and to an apprenticeship, which to him was a very cruel one, he extorted much more respect, and was looked on as a man of consummate _chic_, a height of happiness which it is given to few to attain to in this weary world beneath the stars. When Cobo had made several journeys from one car to the other, in no small danger, as the train was flying onwards, Lola, with a mischievous look, first at Clementina and then at Alcázar, said to the young man: "Alcázar, will you venture to go to the next carriage, and ask the Condesa de Cotorraso for her bottle of salts? I feel rather sea-sick." Now Raimundo was, as we know, but a frail creature, who had never gone through the athletic training of these young aristocrats, his friends. The scramble along the foot-boards at the pace at which the train was going, which was to them mere child's play, was to him a service of real danger. He was apt to turn giddy when only crossing a bridge or climbing a tower. He was fully aware of this, and hesitated a moment; still, for very shame he could but reply: "I will go at once, Señora," and he was about to act on her orders. But Clementina, whose brows had knit at her friend's preposterous demand, stopped him, exclaiming: "You certainly shall not go, Alcázar. We will make Cobo go for it next time he returns." The young man stood doubtful with his hand on the door; but Clementina repeated more positively, colouring as she spoke: "You are not to go--not on any account." Raimundo turned to Lola with a bow. "Forgive me, Señora, to-day I am sworn to this lady's service. I will be your slave some other day." And neither Lola's noisy laugh, nor the sarcastic smiles of the others, could spoil the grateful emotion he experienced at his mistress's eager interest. Ramon Maldonado was in the other saloon, where also were Esperanza and her mother with some other ladies, whom he deliberately laid himself out to charm by his discourse. He was giving them a full and particular report, in the most parliamentary style he could command, of some curious incidents in the last sitting. He was already master of all the commonplace of civic oratory, and knew the technical cant very thoroughly. He could talk of the order of the day, votes of confidence, private bills, committees of supply, the previous question, obstruction, suspension, and closure as if he himself were the patentee of this elaborate outcome of human ingenuity. He knew the municipal bye-laws as well as if he had invented them, and discussed questions of city dues, sewage, weights and measures, and seizure of contraband, so that it was a marvel to hear him. Finally, being a man of unfathomable ambition, he had joined a party in opposition to the Mayor, a step which he hoped might lead to his nomination as a member of the board of highways. For a long time past he had been waging a covert but determined struggle against one Perez, another deputy not less ambitious than himself, for this very appointment, in which he believed that his great gifts as an innovator would shine with peculiar splendour. The various public places of Madrid were awaiting the redeeming hand which might give them fresh life and splendour, and the hand could be none other than that of Maldonado. In the recesses of his brain, among a thousand other portentous schemes, there was one so audacious that he dared not communicate it to any one, while he was incubating it with the fondest care, determined to fight for this child of his genius till his dying day. This was no less than a plan for moving the fountain of Apollo from the Prado to the Puerta del Sol. And a whippersnapper fellow like Perez, a narrow-minded slow-coach, with no taste or spirit, dared to dispute the place with him! At the moment when he was most absorbed in his narrative of how he had concocted the most ingenious intrigue to secure a vote of censure on the Mayor, Cobo--that inevitable spoilsport--came up, and after listening for a minute, roughly attacked him, saying: "Come, Ramoncito, do not give yourself airs. We know very well that you are a mere nobody in the House. Gonzalez can lead you by the nose wherever he wants you to go." This was a cruel thrust at Maldonado, considering that it was before Esperancita and several other ladies, old and young. Indeed it stunned him as completely as if it had been a blow on the head with a cudgel. He turned pale, his lips quivered, and he could not utter a word. At last he gasped out: "I? Gonzalez? Leads me by the nose? Are you crazy? No one leads me by the nose, much less Gonzalez, of all men!" He spoke the last words with intense scorn; he denied Gonzalez as Peter denied his Master, out of base pride. His conscience told him that he was not speaking truly, though no cock crew. Gonzalez was the acknowledged leader of the civic minority, and at the bottom of his heart, Ramon held him in great veneration. "Pooh! nonsense! Do you mean to tell me that Gonzalez cannot make you work and dance like a puppet? Much good you dissidents would do if it were not for him." On this Ramon recovered the use of his tongue, and to such good purpose, that he poured out above a thousand words in the course of a few minutes, with fierce vehemence, foaming and sputtering with rage. He rebuked with indignation the monstrous comparison of himself with a puppet, and fully explained the precise position held by Gonzalez in the city council and that which he himself occupied. But he did it with such frenzied excitement and gesticulation that the ladies looked at him in amused surprise. "How eloquent he is! Who would have believed it of Ramoncito? Come, Cobo, do not tease him any more; you will make him ill!" This compassionate tone stung Ramon to the quick. He was instantly speechless, and for at least an hour he wrapped himself in silent dignity. The train drew up at a small station in the midst of a wide stretch of open moor, looking like a petrified sea; here the travellers were to take their mid-day meal. The Duke's servants, sent on the day before, had everything ready. Ramon devoted himself to the service of Esperanza, and she allowed him to wait on her with a placid smile which turned his head with joy. The reason of her condescension was that, by his aunt's particular desire, Pepe Castro had not joined the party. The matrimonial overtures, made under the greatest secrecy, required the utmost prudence. As Maldonado was so intimate with the lord of her heart, Esperanza felt a certain pleasure in keeping him at her side; at the same time she avoided comment by talking to the Conde de Agreda or to Cobo. Poor Ramon! How far he was from understanding these psychological complications. They took their seats in the train once more, and went on their way across interminable sunburnt plains, no one dreaming of examining the landscape through those ponderous fieldglasses. They reached Riosa shortly before dusk. The famous mines of Riosa are situated in a hollow between two low ranges of hills, the spurs of a great mountain-chain, and are surrounded on all sides by broken ground, knolls and downs of no great height, but scarred and ravined in such a way as to look peculiarly barren and melancholy. In the hollow stands a town dating from the remotest antiquity. Our travellers did not invade it, they stopped about two kilometres short of it, at a village named Villalegre, where the engineers and miners have settled themselves with a view to avoiding the mercurial and sulphurous fumes which slowly poison not the miners only, but all the inhabitants of the neighbourhood. It is divided from the mines by a ridge, and is a striking contrast to the mining town itself. It is watered by a stream which makes it blossom like a garden, gay with wild lilies, jasmine, and heliotrope, and, above all, with damask roses, which have naturalised themselves there more completely than in any other region of Spain. The aromatic fragrance of thyme and fennel perfumes and purifies the air. The most flowery plot in all the settlement belonged to the company, at about three hundred yards from the village. A handsome stone building stood in the midst of a garden, this was the residence of the head-manager, and the central office of the mines; round it, at some little distance, were several smaller dwellings, each with its little garden, occupied by clerks, and by some of the operatives; but most of these lived at Riosa. There was no station at Villalegre, the train stopped where it crossed the road leading to the chief town of the province. Here carriages were in waiting to convey them to the head office, a drive of about ten minutes. At the park gate, and along the road, a crowd had gathered, which hailed the visitors with very faint enthusiasm. These were the men off their turn of work, whom the director had sent for from Riosa for the purpose. They were all pallid and earth-stained, their eyes were dull, and even from a distance it was easy to detect in their movements a certain indecision, which, when seen closer, was a very perceptible trembling. The smart party of visitors drove close past this mob of ghosts--for such they seemed in the fading evening grey--the eyes of beauty and fashion met those of the miners, and from that contact not a spark of sympathy was struck. Behind the forced and melancholy smile of the labourers, a keen eye could very plainly detect hostility. Requena's little procession drove by in silence; these fine folks were visibly uneasy; they were very grave, not without a touch of alarm. The ladies involuntarily shrunk closer to the men, and as they turned in at the gates there was a murmur of "Good heavens! what faces!" and a sigh of relief at having escaped from the deep mysterious gaze of those haggard eyes. Rafael Alcantara alone was so bold as to utter a jesting remark. "Well," said he, "the sovereign people are not attractive looking in these parts." The manager introduced the clerks to Salabert, each by name. They were almost all natives of other parts of the country, healthy, smiling young fellows, with nothing noticeable about them, and the superintendents no less so. The only man of them all who attracted any attention was a delicate-looking man, with a pale face, and thin black moustache, whose steady dark eyes looked at the fashionable visitors with such piercing determination as bordered on insolence. Without knowing why, those who met his gaze felt vaguely uncomfortable, and were glad to look away. The manager introduced him as the doctor attached to the mines. Rooms had been found for all the party, some in the director's house, and others in those of the humbler residents. When they had taken a little rest, they all met in the director's drawing-room, and from thence they marched arm-in-arm, in solemn procession, to the office board-room, which had been transformed into a dining-room. Here the Duke gave them a magnificent dinner. Nothing was missing of the most refined and aristocratic entertainment; the plate and china, the cooking, and the service were all perfection. While they dined the grounds were lighted up with Venetian lamps, and on rising from table, every one rushed to the window to admire the effect, which was dazzlingly beautiful. An orchestra, concealed in an arbour, played national airs with great spirit. The whole party, panting from the heat of the room, which was intense, and tempted by the brilliant spectacle, went out to wander about the gardens; the younger men carried off the girls to a grass-plot, close to the band, and there began to dance. Cobo Ramirez presently joined the group. "Do you know what you remind me of?" he shouted. "A party of commercial travellers in some suburban café!" This comparison seemed to hurt their feelings deeply; the dancing lost its attractions for the fashionable juveniles, and soon ceased altogether. However, as their hearts were set on Terpsichorean delights, it occurred to them to transfer the music to the board room, where they continued their devotions to the Muse, free from the dreadful burden which Cobo had laid on their conscience. The festivities were carried on till late. Fireworks were presently let off, having been brought expressly from Madrid. The various couples wandered about the gravelled paths, enjoying the coolness of the night, made fragrant by the scent of flowers. There was but one dark blot on their perfect enjoyment. When they went near the gate, they saw a crowd outside, of labourers, women, and children, who had come from Riosa, on hearing of the great doings--the same haggard creatures, hollow-eyed and gloomy, as they had met on arriving. So they took care not to go too near the fence, but to remain in the paths and alleys near the middle of the garden. Lola, only, who prided herself on being charitable, and who was president, secretary, and treasurer of no less than three societies, was brave enough to speak to them, and even to distribute some small silver money; but out of the darkness came obscene abuse and insults, which compelled her to retreat. Cotorraso, when he heard of it, was in a great rage. "And these Bedouin savages are to have rights and liberties! Let them first be made decent, civil, and well-behaved, and then we will talk about it." The law of elective affinity had drawn together Raimundo Alcázar and a man who was somewhat out of his element in this riotous company. This gentleman, with whom he was walking, was between fifty and sixty years of age, short and thin, with a white moustache and beard, and prominent eyes, with a somewhat absent gaze through his spectacles. His name was Don Juan Peñalver; he held a chair of philosophy at the University, and had been in the Ministry. He enjoyed a high and deserved reputation for learning, and for a dignity of character rare in Spain. This naturally brought him into ill-odour with the "Savages," who affected to treat him with contemptuous familiarity. It is obvious that nothing can be more offensive to the average "Savage" than Philosophy. Peñalver's intellectual superiority and fame was a stab to their pride. Their scorn did not trouble him; he was by nature cheerful, warm-hearted, and absent-minded; he was incapable of discriminating the various shades of social manner, and, in fact, had not been much seen in the world since retiring from political life to devote himself exclusively to science. He had joined this expedition to oblige his brother-in-law, Escosura, who held a large number of shares in the Riosa mines. Of late years he had been an ardent student of natural science, as the surest way of combatting the metaphysical idealism to which he had devoted his early life. It was with real pleasure that he found himself accidentally thrown into the company of a youth so well-informed on scientific matters as Raimundo. The rest of the party bored him past endurance, so taking Alcázar by the arm, without inquiring whether he wanted him or no, he began discussing physiology. Raimundo was in a fit of despondency and gloom. He had observed that this Escosura had been definitively making love to Clementina; he was quite shameless in his attentions to her wherever he happened to meet her, and affected to ignore her connection with Raimundo. Both in mind and person Escosura was the exact opposite of his brother-in-law Peñalver. He was tall and stout, with a burly person and noisy manners; rich, of some influence politically, a vehement orator, with a voice so unusually sonorous that, according to his enemies, it was to that he owed his parliamentary successes. He was a man of about forty, and had never been Minister, though he asserted that he should soon be in office. Clementina had already repelled his addresses several times, and this Raimundo knew, and was proud of his own triumph. At the same time he could not divest himself of some anxiety whenever, as at this moment, he saw them talking together. They were sitting in a summer-house with several other persons, but conversing apart with great animation. Each time he and Peñalver went past them, his heart swelled with a pang; he scarcely heard, or even tried to hear, the learned disquisition his companion was pouring into his ear. Clementina could read in his anxious gaze how much he was suffering, and after watching him for a little while she rose and joined the two men, saying with a smile: "And what plot are you two sages hatching?" "You flatter me," said the younger with a modest bow. "The only sage here is Señor Peñalver." "Well, Señor Peñalver can bestow a lecture on the Condesa de Cotorraso, who is anxious to make his acquaintance, while you come with me to see a Gothic cathedral which is about to explode in fireworks," and she put her hand through her lover's arm. Alcázar was happy again. He did not even speak to her of the anguish he had suffered but a moment ago; on other occasions when he had made such a confession it had only led to double pain, for Clementina would answer him in a tone of light banter which wounded him to the heart. They watched the wonderful, blazing cathedral till it was burnt out; the gentle pressure of her hand, the scent--always the same--which hung about her sweet person were too much for the young man, who was predisposed to be overcome by the proof of affection his beloved had just given him. She, who knew him well, as she felt him press her arm more closely, looked in his face, sure that she should see tears in his eyes. In fact, Raimundo was silently weeping. On finding himself detected, he smiled in a shamefaced way. "Still such a baby!" she exclaimed, giving him a caressing little pinch. "Pepa is right when she says you are like a school-girl in a convent. Come, let us walk about; some one might see your face." They went into a more retired part of the garden. From one spot in the grounds they could see a very curious landscape. The full moon lighted up the crest of the nearest hill, which divided Villalegre from Riosa, making it look like the ruins of a castle. Clementina wished to see it closer, so they went out by one of the side-gates, where no one was to be seen, and slowly wandered on--the knoll was barren of vegetation, a pile of boulders, in fact, of fantastic shapes, looking precisely like a mass of ruins. It was not till they were close to it that they could convince themselves of the truth. When the lady had satisfied her curiosity, they returned round the outside of the park, to enter by the opposite gate. On this side there were still a few knots of people. Before reaching the gate, at a corner of the road darkened by the shade of some trees, Clementina stumbled over an object, and nearly fell. She screamed aloud, for on looking down she saw a human creature lying at her feet. Raimundo took out a match, and found that it was a boy of ten or twelve fast asleep. They picked him up, and set him on his feet. The little fellow opened his eyes and stared at them in alarm. Then, as if by a sudden inspiration, he snatched the stick Raimundo was carrying, and began to move it slowly up and down, as though he were fulfilling some very difficult task. Clementina and her lover looked on in amazement, unable to guess what this could mean. A few workmen collected round them, and one with a horse-laugh exclaimed: "It is one of the boys from the pumps! Go it, my boy, work away! A tough job, isn't it?" And his companions burst into brutal laughter, crying out to the poor little somnambulist: "Go at it! Keep it up! Harder, boy, harder, the water is rising!" And the unhappy boy redoubled his imaginary efforts with more and more energy. He was a weakly creature, with a white face, quite expressionless with sleep, and his ragged rough hair gave him the look of a wraith. The savage glee of the workmen, who looked on at the pitiable scene, made a very painful impression on Raimundo. He took the child in his arms, shook him gently to wake him, kissed him kindly on the forehead, and taking a dollar out of his purse, gave it to the lad, and then went on with Clementina. The working men ceased their laughter, and one of them said in a tone of envy: "Well, you have not worked hard for your day's pay." CHAPTER XV. LIFE UNDERGROUND. At one in the morning the party broke up. They were to reassemble at nine, to set out in a body on a visit of inspection to the mines; and the programme was carried out, not indeed with punctuality, which in Spain is an impossibility, but with no more than an hour's delay. They set out for Riosa, in carriages, at ten; of course a diminished party. They alighted at the outskirts of the town and crossed it on foot, producing, as may be supposed, no small excitement. The women crowded to the doors and windows, staring with eager curiosity at this splendid procession of ladies and gentlemen, arrayed in clothes such as they had never seen in their lives. Like their husbands, brothers, and sons, these women were pale and sickly-looking, their features pinched, their eyes dull, their hands and feet stunted. The visitors also saw a few men suffering from constant trembling. "What is the matter? Why do those men tremble so?" asked Esperancita anxiously. "They have the palsy," said one of the clerks. "What is the palsy?" "They get it by working in the mines." "Do many of them get it?" "All of them," said the doctor, who had heard the question. "Mercurial palsy attacks all who work in the mines." "And why do they work there, then?" asked the girl, with much simplicity. "It is their mania!" said the doctor, with a peculiar smile. "For my part I think the fresh air up here is much better to breathe than the foul air down below." "Why, of course. I would be anything rather than a miner." They came out at length on a small open space, where some workmen were busy erecting an artistic pedestal of marble. "This is the pedestal for the statue of the Duke," said the manager of the mines, in a loud voice. "Ah, ah! They are going to put up a statue to you?" said one and another, gathering round the great man. He shrugged his shoulders with a deprecating gesture. "I am sure I don't know. Some absurd notion that has been started in the miners' wine-shops, I suppose." "No, indeed, Señor Duque," exclaimed the manager, whose duty it had been to start the idea which Llera had suggested to him at a hint from Salabert himself. "No, indeed. The town of Riosa is anxious to erect a monument of its gratitude and respect to a noble patron who, in the most critical circumstances, did not hesitate to risk an enormous sum in the purchase of a half-ruined undertaking, and so to save it from utter disaster." "What a beautiful thing it is to do good!" exclaimed Lola, in a voice full of feeling; and her pretty eyes rested admiringly on Requena. Every one complimented him; though many of those present knew the meaning of this magnificent sacrifice. They looked at the work for a minute or two, and then proceeded on their way. The mines were close to the town, on the further side. Outwardly they looked like a manufactory on a small scale, with a few tall chimneys vomiting black smoke. There was nothing to betray their colossal value. The party went into the buildings and over the premises where the subsidiary processes of the works were carried on, and which included carpenters' sheds and forges, the engineers' office and private room, &c. But what impressed them all was the sad and sickly appearance of the operatives. They were all broken with decrepitude, and the Condesa de Cotorraso could not help saying: "Only old men seem to be employed." The manager smiled. "They are not old, though they look so, Señora." "But they are all wrinkled, and their eyes are sunken and dim." "There is not a man of forty among them. Those whom you see at work here are too far gone to work underground. We employ them up here, but they get less wages." "And does it take long in the mines to reduce them to this condition?" asked Ramon. "Not long, not long," murmured the manager, and he went on: "Such as you see them, they are always eager to get back to the mine again. The pay for outside work is so small." "What do they get?" "A peseta a day; six reales at most."[F] They next visited the smelting-houses. The Duke had gone on first with the English engineer, whom he had engaged to report on the improvements needed to make the works pay. In these sheds they saw huge furnaces, piles of cinnabar and stores of mercury. The furnaces consist of a retort in which the cinnabar is placed with the combustibles for calcining it. From this retort earthenware condensers rise, branching off into pipes communicating with each other. In these pipes the vapours of mercury which rise from the furnace are reduced by condensation to the liquid state; and the quicksilver is precipitated and flows out by holes in the lower face of the pipes. But as a large amount of sooty matter remains, containing particles of metal, it is necessary to remove and clean the condensers one by one. This is the work of boys, of from ten to fifteen, who, for seven or eight hours at a time, breathe an atmosphere charged with mercurial poison. They next visited the stores and the shed where the mineral is weighed for sale. And everywhere the operatives wore the same appearance of decrepitude. The manager now proposed that they should inspect the hospital. Some refused, but Lola, who never missed an opportunity of displaying her benevolent sentiments, set the example, and most of the ladies followed her, with a few of the men. The Duke excused himself, as he was busy with the engineers, who were giving him their opinion on the state of the furnaces. The hospital was outside the precincts of the mines, near the burial-ground--no doubt to accustom the inmates to the idea of death, and also, perhaps, that if the mercurial vapours proved ineffectual to kill them, those of the graveyard might finish the task. It was an old building, tumble-down, damp, and gloomy. It was only sheer shame which hindered the ladies from turning back from the threshold. The doctor, who had undertaken to guide them, showed them into the different rooms, and displayed the dreadful panorama of human suffering. Most of the poor wretches were dressed, and sitting on their beds or on chairs. Their drawn, corpse-like faces were objects of terror; their bodies shook with incessant trembling, as though they were stricken with a common panic. Fear and pity were painted on the fresh faces of their visitors; and the doctor smiled his peculiar smile, looking at them boldly with his large, black eyes. "Not a pleasing picture, is it?" said he. "Poor creatures! And are they all miners?" "Yes, all. The atmosphere they live in, vitiated by mercurial vapours, and the insufficient supply of fresh air, inevitably produce not only this trembling from acute or chronic mercurial poisoning--which is the most conspicuous result--but pulmonary catarrh of an aggravated type, dysentery, tuberculosis, mercurial irritation of the stomach, and many other diseases which either shorten their lives or render them incapable of labour after a few years spent under ground." "Poor things--poor creatures!" repeated his hearers. The little party who had followed his guidance listened to him with attention and sympathy. Never had they seen anything so terrible. Labour--a penalty in itself--was here complicated with poisoning; and with sincere emotion, full of the best intentions, they suggested means of alleviating the misery of the sufferers. Some declared that a good hospital ought to be erected; others suggested a shop, on charitable principles, where the workmen could obtain good food at a cheap rate; others urged that the children should not be employed at all; others again that the labourers should be allowed to work for only a very limited time. The doctor smiled and shook his head. "All this would be admirable, no doubt; I quite agree with you. But then, as I can but tell you, it would not be a paying business." They distributed some money among the sick, visited the chapel, where again they left some money to procure a new robe for the Holy Infant, and at last got out of the dismal place. To breathe the fresh air once more was almost intoxicating, and they laughed and talked as they made their way back to join the rest of the party. The engineers were explaining to Salabert a new process of sublimation which might be adopted, and by which not only would the production be vastly increased, but the residue would be utilised. This was effected by condensers formed of chambers of very thin brickwork in the lower part of the funnel carrying off the vapour, and of wood and glass above. A furnace to which these were fitted could be kept constantly going. The Duke listened attentively, took notes, raised objections, mastered the details of the business, and finally his keen nose scented enormous profits. As the ladies came up he gallantly postponed the discussion. "Well, how are my sick getting on, ladies? The sun has shone on them to-day," said he. "Badly, Duke, very badly. The hospital leaves much to be desired." And with one accord they complained of the defects of the building, painting it in the blackest colours, and proposing improvements to make it comfortable. The Duke listened with smiling indifference and the half-ironical attention we give to a coaxing child. "Very well, very well; we will have it all seen to. But you will allow me to set the business on its feet first--eh, Regnault?" The superintendent bowed with an insinuating smile. "And the men must work shorter hours," said the Condesa de Cebal. "And they really must be better paid," added Lola. "And they ought to have cottages built for them at Villalegre," said another. "Ha, ha, ha," shouted the Duke, with a burst of coarse laughter. "And why not bring Gayarre and Tosti here to entertain them in the evening? They must be dreadfully dull here, I should think, in the evenings!" The ladies smiled timidly. "But really, Duke, you should not make fun of it; it is a serious matter," said the Condesa de Cebal. "Serious! I believe you, Condesa. It has cost me three million dollars already. Do you think three millions are not a serious matter?" His fair advisers looked at each other, dazzled by the enormous sums this man could handle. "But do you not expect to get some interest on your millions?" asked Lola, who flattered herself she knew something of business. The Duke again roared with laughter. "Oh no, Señora, of course not. I shall leave that in the road for the first passer by. Interest indeed!" Then suddenly turning serious, he went on: "Who the devil has been putting this nonsense into your heads? I tell you, ladies, that what is lacking here--sadly lacking--is sound morality. Make the workman soundly moral, and all the evils you have seen will disappear. Let him give up drink, give up gambling, give up wasting his wages, and all these effects of the mercury will disappear. It is self-evident,"--and he appealed to some of the gentlemen who had joined the group--"How can a man resist the effects of mining when his body, instead of food, be it what it may, contains a gallon of bad brandy? I am perfectly convinced that the majority of those on the sick list are confirmed drunkards. Do you know, gentlemen, that in Riosa thrift is a thing unknown--thrift, without which prosperity and comfort are an impossibility?" This was a maxim the Duke had frequently heard in the senate; he reiterated it with much emphasis and conviction. "But how do you expect thrift on two pesetas[G] a day?" the Condesa ventured to demur. "There is no difficulty at all," said the Duke. "Thrift is a matter of principle, the principle of saving something out of to-day's enjoyment to avoid the needs of to-morrow. Two pesetas to a workman are like two thousand to you. Cannot you save something out of two thousand? Well, so can he out of two. Say he has less, fifteen centimes, ten, five. The point is to put something aside, and that, however little, is to the good." "Merciful Heaven!" the Condesa sighed, "What I do not understand is how any one can live on two pesetas, much less save." The engineers of the works invited the party to inspect the machine-room and laboratory. There was here a remarkably fine microscope, which attracted general attention. The doctor was the person who used it most, devoting much of his time to investigations in histology. The manager requested him to show the Duke's guests some of his preparations. First he exhibited some diatoms--the ladies were charmed by their various forms; he also showed them specimens of the animalcule which wrought the destruction of the famous bridge at Milan; they could not cease marvelling that so minute a creature should be able to demolish so huge a structure. "And think of the myriads of these creatures which must have laboured to produce such an effect," said an engineer. Quiroga, so the doctor was called, ended by showing them a drop of water. One by one they all looked at the invisible world revealed by the microscope. "I see one animal larger than the others," said the Duke, as he applied one of his prominent eyes to the tube of the instrument. "And you will see all the others fly before him," said the doctor. "Very true." "That is a rotifer. He is the shark of the drop of water." "Look yourself a minute, it seems to me that he is hiding behind something that looks like seaweed." "You may call it seaweed. Perhaps he is hiding to catch his prey." "Yes, yes. Now he has rushed out on a much smaller creature. It is gone, he must have eaten it." And the Duke looked up, beaming with satisfaction at having seen this strange microscopic tragedy. Quiroga looked at him with his bold gaze, and said with that eternal ironical smile of his: "It is the same all the world over. In the drop of water as in the ocean--everywhere the big fish swallow the small fry." The Duke's smile faded away. He gave a side glance at the doctor, whose mysterious countenance showed no change, and said abruptly: "You must all be tired of science. Let us go to luncheon." * * * * * The crowning attraction of the expedition which had brought all this gay company away from their luxurious homes to so comfortless and barren a region, was a plan for breakfasting, or rather lunching, at the bottom of the mine. When Clementina had mentioned this at one of her card parties it gave rise to a perfect burst of enthusiasm. "How very original! How odd! How delightful!" The ladies especially were most eager about it. By the Duke's advice, they all had provided themselves with elegant waterproof cloaks and high boots, for water oozed into the mine in many places, and made deep puddles. Only the evening before, however, several had taken fright at the immediate prospect, and had given up the expedition. The Duke had been obliged to order two meals, one in the mine and one above ground. The braver party who persisted in their purpose were not more than eight or ten. These had brought their waterproofs and leggings. The whole party now gathered round one of the mouths of the mine known as San Gennaro's pit. Near this shaft there was a building used for inspecting and weighing the ore, and there the ladies and gentlemen changed their boots and put on their wrappers. On seeing them thus prepared for the worst, almost all the ladies declared that they would after all go down with their friends. A messenger was forthwith sent to Villalegre for the rest of the waterproofs. The cage, worked up and down by steam, had been prepared for the reception of this elegant company. It had two floors, on each of which eight persons could stand. It had been lined with baize, and a few brass rings had been fitted to hold on by. The director, the Duke, and the valiant ladies who had come prepared, went down first. Orders were given to the engineer to send the lift down very slowly. It began to move, at first rising a few inches, and then descending with a jerk; then, suddenly, it seemed to be swallowed in the shaft. The women smothered a cry and stood speechless and pale. The walls of the shaft were dark, rough-hewn, and streaming with water; in each division of the cage a miner with a palsied hand held up a lantern. All, excepting the manager and the miners accustomed to the motion, had an uneasy feeling in the stomach, and a vague apprehension which made them incapable of speech, and they clenched their hands very tightly as they clung to the rings. "The first gallery," said the manager, as they passed a black opening. But no one made any remark. This suspension in the abyss, over the unknown void, paralysed their tongues and almost their power of thought. "The second gallery," said the manager again as they passed another yawning hole. And thus he continued till they came to the ninth. There they heard the sound of voices and saw that the gallery was lighted up. "We shall take our luncheon here. But first we will go down to the eleventh gallery to see the works." When they had gone past the tenth, he shouted as loud as he could: "Are the brakes on?" And a voice from below replied: "No!" "Put them on at once," he called down. "It cannot be done," was the answer. "What, why? The brakes, I say; put on the brakes." And with a very red face, almost convulsed with excitement, he still shouted like a madman, while the cage slowly went down, down. A cold chill fell on every heart. In the upper compartment some of the women began to utter piercing shrieks. In the lower room a few screams were heard and all clung tightly to the men's arms. Some fainted. It was a moment of indescribable alarm. They all thought this was their dying hour. And still the manager kept shouting: "The brakes, put on the brakes." And the voices below, more and more distinct, replying: "It cannot be done." When they firmly believed that they were rushing into the nether void the cage quietly stopped. They heard a peal of loud laughter, and their terrified eyes beheld, by the tremulous light of tallow candles, a party of miners whose grinning faces suddenly assumed an expression of the utmost alarm and dismay. "What is all this? What is the meaning of this piece of foolery?" asked the manager, jumping out of the lift in a rage and going up to them. The men respectfully took off their hats and one of them with a shame-faced smile stammered out: "Begging your pardon, Señor, we thought it was a lot of the men, and we wanted to give 'em a fright." "Did not you know that we were coming down?" he angrily asked. "We thought the gentlefolks were going to stop at number nine, where all the fine doings are to be----" "You thought, and you thought; you should not think such stupid things." The Duke recovered the use of his tongue. "But do you know, my good fellows, that you were playing a very rough and ready joke on your fellow workmen! Making them fancy they were rushing to their death!" "Their death!" echoed the miner who had first spoken. "No, Señor Duque," said the manager, "if they had not put the breaks on we should only have been up to our waists in water." "Is that all?" "Would you have liked a bath in dirty water?" "Well, of course it would not have been a pleasant dip. But to see you in such a state of frenzy made us all think we were being killed outright. What do you say, ladies?" The ladies were relieving their minds by exclamations; some crying and some laughing. Two who had fainted received every attention, their temples were bathed with cold water, and the Condesa de Cotorraso's salts were brought into requisition. At last they recovered their senses, and the rest congratulated themselves on having escaped from such fearful peril, for they could not bear to think that there had been none. They looked forward to exciting the sympathy of their friends at home by the narrative of this horrible adventure, and believed themselves the heroines of a story in the style of Jules Verne. The spectacle which presented itself to their eyes when they could bring themselves to look at it, was not less grand than fantastic. Huge vaulted arches diverged in every direction, lighted only by the pale light of a few candles placed at wide intervals. To and fro in these galleries, with incessant toil, a crowd of labourers were constantly moving, their gigantic shadows dancing in the dim, flickering light. Their shouts echoed to the accompaniment of creaking trolley-wheels, and they seemed possessed with the idea of accomplishing some mysterious task in a very short time. In some of the galleries the walls were lined with crystals of native mercury, glittering as though they were covered with silver. On the other side of these walls, dull regular blows might be heard, and on going a few yards into the openings which had been formed here and there, they could see at the end, in an illuminated cavern, four or five pale, melancholy men hewing out the ore with their pick-axes. Whenever they stopped to rest it could be seen that their limbs shook with the palsy, characteristic of mercurial poisoning. It would have been easy to fancy oneself translated to the world of gnomes, and the scene of their mysterious labours. Man burrows in the earth with incessant toil like the mole, tunnelling it in every direction; but he poisons himself as he eats it away. The gods could get rid of the human rat without the aid of the cat. Suddenly Lola gave a piercing shriek, which made every one look round, but she immediately burst out laughing. A driplet of water from the roof had trickled down her back. Every one laughed at the accident, but the mirth was not very genuine. At these depths every one was aware of a vague uneasiness, even fear, which they strove to conceal. The cage brought down another large party, but the third time it was almost empty, for the rest of the company had preferred to be deposited in the ninth gallery, feeling no particular interest in the mining operations. Those who had come to the bottom were unfeignedly desirous of finding themselves as soon as possible in more commodious quarters. They asked the manager again and again whether they were safe, if there was no fear of the vault falling in. "Oh, no," said the manager with a smile. "Only private mines fall in. This was a Government concern, and everything was done with lavish security." "I have been in mines where we have had to send a party of men down to dig the miners out," said one of the engineers. "How shocking!" exclaimed the ladies in chorus. At last they got into the cage again and were carried up to number nine. Here the scene was very different. It was a long time since this gallery had been worked, and part of it had been enlarged to form a chamber, which had been enclosed, boarded, and carpeted; it might have been a room in a palace. The roof and walls were hung with waterproof cloth and adorned with trophies of mining. A table was magnificently laid for fifty or more, and the place was brilliantly illuminated by means of lustres with hundreds of wax lights. In short every refinement of luxury and elegance had been lavished here, so that it was difficult to persuade oneself that this dining-room was in the depths of a mine, three hundred mètres below the surface of the earth. The guests took their seats with a sense of excitement, a combination of pleased admiration and vague alarm, which was written on their smiling but pale faces. The servants in livery stood in a row as if they had been at home in Madrid. As the first course was handed round, a band, hidden away in an adjoining gallery of the mine, struck up a charming waltz tune, and the sounds, softened by distance, had a delightful and soothing effect. The ladies, their eyes glistening, tremulous with excitement, repeated again and again: "How original, how amusing, I am so glad I came, what a delightful idea of Clementina's!" Then they tried to be calm and talk of indifferent subjects; but no one succeeded. The sense of so many tons of earth overhead weighed on their consciousness through it all. Nay, with some of the men it was the same, though some were perfectly calm. Raimundo was, no doubt, the man who thought least of his immediate surroundings; he was entirely absorbed in his moral predicament. Clementina, in spite of her professions and promises, was carrying on a hot flirtation with Escosura. They were placed side by side, exactly opposite to where he sat. He could see them talking eagerly, and laughing frequently; he saw him devoted, obsequious, lavish of compliments and attentions; he saw her complacent, smiling, and accepting his civilities with pleasure. And though from time to time she bestowed on Raimundo a loving look in compensation, he could only regard it as an alms--the crust bestowed on a beggar to save him from death. What did he care whether he were on the face or in the centre of the earth, or even if it should fall in and crush him like a fly. Another person to whom this geographical question was a matter of supreme indifference was Ramoncito, though from the opposite point of view. Esperanza was most amiable to him, perhaps because she thought she could thus the better endure the absence of Pepe Castro. The young deputy, beside himself with joy, never stirred an inch further from her side, or for a moment longer than appearances demanded. Triumphantly happy, he cast occasional glances of condescending grace on the rest of the company, and when his eyes fell on Calderón's financial face his emotion was visible; he could hardly forbear from addressing him as "Papa." As the meal progressed, the superincumbent earth weighed less heavily on their souls. Heady wines warmed their blood, and talk revived their spirits. Every one had forgotten the mine as completely as if they had been sitting in an ordinary handsome dining-room. Rafael Alcantara was amusing himself by making Peñalver drunk. Encouraged by the laughter of his companions, who looked on, he did his utmost to befool the philosopher, addressing him in a loud voice with extreme familiarity, winking at his allies each time he made some blunder, taking base advantage, in short, of the worthy gentleman's benevolent and unsuspicious temper. He had taken upon himself to avenge the whole body of illustrious pipe-colouring youth for the intellectual pre-eminence for which the great thinker was noted. When dessert was served Escosura rose to propose a toast. He was an object of respect to the "Savages," partly from his corpulence and his vehement temper, but chiefly by reason of his money. He considered himself an orator. In a strong, ringing voice, he pronounced a panegyric on the Duke, whom he repeatedly designated as "that financial genius." He enlarged on labour, capital, and production; and went on to politics--his strong point. From the depths of the quicksilver mine he shot terrific darts at the Ministry, which had failed to give him a portfolio at the last change of Cabinet. Salabert replied with much hesitancy, thanking him with grovelling self-abasement. "No merit of his own beyond industry and honesty had raised him to the proud position he held (murmured applause). The nation, the sovereign who had ennobled him, had ennobled a son of toil. By struggling all his life against a tide of difficulties, he had succeeded in collecting a handful of money. This money now enabled him to maintain some thousands of workmen. This was his best reward (applause). He begged to propose the health of the ladies, whose courage had brought down to this subterranean hole, and who would leave behind them, a fragrance of charity and joy, which would live for ever in the hearts of the mining-folk." At this instant, simultaneously with the pop of several champagne corks, a tremendous detonation was heard, making the bravest turn pale. "There is nothing to be alarmed at," said the manager. "They are exploding the borings. It is always done at this hour." It was in truth an impressive moment. The noise of each explosion, multiplied and repeated by a thousand echoes, was enough to make the stoutest heart quake with faint alarms. Every one was suddenly silenced, listening for some seconds, with absorbed anxiety, to the rolling thunders which shook the earth. The table quivered, and the glasses and dishes rattled and tinkled. At this moment, the doctor rose from his chair, and after steadily eyeing the guests all round with his dark gaze, he raised his glass and spoke: "Our illustrious host, the Duke of Requena, has just told us, with a modesty which does him credit, that the whole secret of his great fortune lies in industry and honesty. He must permit me to doubt it. The Duke de Requena represents something more than those vulgar qualities; he represents force. Force! the sustaining factor of the Universe. "Force is very unequally distributed among organic beings; some have a larger and others a smaller share. And in the ceaseless struggle which goes on among them, the weakest perish, the fittest and strongest survive. Let us, then, adore in our Amphitryon the incarnation of Force. Thanks to the force with which Nature has endowed him, he has been able to subjugate and utilise the smaller share of thousands of individuals who unconsciously serve his ends; thanks to that force, he has accumulated his vast capital. "As I look round on this distinguished company, I observe with pleasure that all who compose it have also been endowed with a good proportion of this force, either congenital or inherited, and I can but congratulate them with all my heart. The only essential thing in the world we live in, is to have been born fit for the struggle. We must crush if we would escape being crushed. And, I may add, I also congratulate myself on standing here face to face with so many chosen of the gods on whom Providence has set the seal of happiness." "Hear him, my dear!" whispered Pepa Frias to Clementina. "This is Mephistopheles' toast, I think." Clementina smiled faintly. In fact, the doctor's pale, refined face, with the black hair brushed off his forehead, and, above all, his black eyes, in spite of an assumption of innocence, were full of a bitter irony not unworthy of Mephistopheles. He went on: "Slavery has existed in every age under one form or another. There have always been men designated by fate to live in the refined atmosphere of intellectual enjoyments, in the cultivation of the arts, in luxury and splendour, and the pleasure to be derived from the society of intelligent and educated persons; while others again are fated to procure them the means of such an existence by rude and painful toil. The pariahs laboured for the Brahmins, the helots for the Spartans, the slaves for the Romans, the villeins for their feudal lords. And is it not the same to this day? Of what avail are laws to abolish slavery? The men who work in the depths of this mine, and inhale the poison which kills them, are slaves, though not by law--by want of bread. The result is the same. It is the law of Nature, and so no doubt a holy and venerable law, that some must suffer for others to enjoy life. You, ladies, are the descendants of the noble Roman ladies who sent their slaves to these mines to procure them vermilion to beautify their faces, and of the Arabs, who used it to decorate the minarets of their palaces at Cordova and Seville. Ladies, I drink to you, my soul possessed by admiration and respect, as the representatives of all that is choicest on earth--Love, Beauty, and Pleasure." Though the pledge was gallant enough, it seemed uncanny; some muttered disapproval, and the hostile feeling against the young doctor visibly increased. There were one or two who hinted, in an undertone, that this low fellow was making game of them. Rafael Alcantara was eager to pick a quarrel with him, but he read in the doctor's eyes that he would not escape without some serious annoyance, and he preferred to pocket the affront. The ladies regarded him with more benevolence. They thought him "quite a character." The doctor's speech had certainly left an unpleasant impression, which Fuentes failed to dissipate, though he brought out his most original paradoxes. "Ladies and gentlemen," said he, "I do not propose a toast because I am not an orator. I hope that ere long this will be recognised as an honourable distinction in Spain; that when such an individual goes by in the street it will be said of him with respect: 'he is not an orator;' as we already say: 'he wears no order of merit.'" The ladies applauded and laughed at the joke. But whether from the doctor's words, or whether they were again oppressed by vague fears, they were all conscious of an uneasy feeling. Every one was cheered when it was announced that the cage was ready to carry them up. Those who remained to the last, heard, as they started, a distant chorus, which came nearer as they rose, till it sounded close by them, and then mysteriously died away below them without their having seen any one. The effect was most whimsical. The words they heard were those of an Andalucian boat song: Up the river, and up the river, Water will never run up to the town; Down the river, and down the river, All the world is bound to run down. The engineer remarked in explanation: "A party of miners, going down in the cage which serves as a counterpoise to this one." "I told you so, Condesa," exclaimed Salabert in a triumphant tone. "If they are in spirits to sing, they cannot be so miserable as you fancy." The lady was silent for a moment, then she said, with a melancholy smile: "It is not a very mirthful ditty, Duke." This was going on in the upper compartment. In the lower division, Escosura observed in a scornful tone to the chief engineer: "Do you know that your young doctor was so rash as to give us a taste of his materialistic views?" "Materialistic! I do not know that he is a Materialist. What he prides himself on being--and the miners worship him for it--is a Socialist." "Worse and worse." "To tell the truth," said Peñalver, with a sigh, "it is impossible to come up from the bottom of a mine without having caught a little of the infection." At nine in the evening, after dining at Villalegre, the party returned to Madrid, by special train. They all set out well content with the excursion. They hoped to amaze their friends by their account of the underground banquet. The only unhappy person was Raimundo. The alternations of joy and anguish which Clementina's flirtation occasioned him had quite quenched his spirit. At last, seeing him so sad and exhausted, his mistress was merciful. She made him sit by her in the train, and without scandalising a party who were cured of all such weakness, she talked to him all the evening, and finally dropped asleep with her head on his shoulder. Though a sleeping-car formed part of the train, it was not in favour. Most of the travellers preferred remaining in the saloons. Towards morning, however, sleep overcame them all, and they succumbed where they sat, in a variety of attitudes, some of them by no means graceful. Ramon Maldonado was on a pinnacle of triumph and happiness. Esperancita, to judge by appearances, must certainly love him. He felt lifted above the earth, not merely by the natural superiority of his soul, but by the ecstasy of joy. His ugly little face was as radiant as a god's. Farewell for ever to the struggles and obstacles which had hitherto embittered his life. Free henceforth from the service of sorrow, as are the immortals, he gloried in his apotheosis, majestically serene. He, too, had seated himself next the idol of his heroic heart, and for some hours sat talking to her in dulcet tones--of English cobs, and of the great pitched battles which were being constantly fought in the municipal council, and in which he bore an active part; till the innocent child, soothed by the monotonous and insinuating discourse, closed her eyes, with her head thrown back against the cushion. Maldonado remained awake, wide awake, thinking of his happiness. Rosy-fingered Aurora, stepping over the ridge of the distant Sierra, and flying swiftly across the wide plain, peeped through the blinds of the carriages, diffusing a dim and subdued light, and still he was hugging himself in contentment. Esperancita opened her eyes and smiled at him with a tender smile which thrilled the deepest fibres of his lyric soul. At this instant a lark began to sing. In Ramoncito the god was each moment growing more distinct from the man; intoxicated with love and happiness he murmured into the girl's ear, in a voice tremulous with emotion, a few incoherent and ardent phrases, the expression of the divine madness. Esperanza shut her eyes again--to hear that music better? When he had exhausted all the superlatives in the dictionary to describe his passion, the poetic young civilian thought to achieve the task of conquest by showing the damsel, as in a vision, all the glories he could shed upon her: "He was an only son, his parents had an income of a hundred and ten thousand reales[H] a year; at the next ensuing elections he intended to stand as candidate for Navalperal, where his family had estates, and if only he had the support of the Government he was certain to succeed. Then, as the Conservative party were greatly in need of new blood, he believed he should soon get an appointment as under secretary, and--who could tell?--by-and-by, at a change of Ministry, find himself entrusted with a portfolio." The girl still kept her eyes shut. Ramoncito, more and more excited, when he had ended this catalogue of brilliant prospects, bent over her and whispered in impassioned tones: "Do you love me, dearest, do you love me?" No answer. "Tell me, do you love me?" Esperancita, without opening her eyes, answered curtly: "No." CHAPTER XVI. A DEPARTING SOUL. A few weeks after this excursion, Doña Carmen's disease suddenly grew much worse. The physicians, indeed, had no doubt that her end was drawing near. She was in a state of complete prostration. Her face was so thin, that there seemed to be nothing left but the skin, and the large, sad, kind eyes, which rested with strange intensity on all who came near her, as if trying to read in theirs the terrible secret of death. And in view of her death, a thousand sordid feelings surged up in the minds of those who ought most to have sorrowed over it. Salabert reflected with indignation on the inheritance which was to pass to his daughter. He made fresh efforts to induce his wife to revoke her will, but without success. For the first time in her life, Doña Carmen showed great firmness of character. Though she was incapable of a revengeful sentiment, she perhaps felt bound by her desire to close her existence by an act of justice. A life of abject submission, during which she had never opposed the smallest obstacle to her husband's will, to his money-making schemes, or his illicit passions, had surely earned her the privilege of asserting her rights on her death-bed, and gratifying the impulses of her heart. Osorio kept silent watch, with concealed greed, over the progress of her malady, looking to its termination as the end of his own difficulties. Doña Carmen would be released from her earthly husk, and he from his creditors. Clementina herself, the object of the tender soul's devoted affection, could not help rejoicing over the prospect of so many millions which were to drop into her hands. She did her best to silence her desires, and subdue her impatience; but, in spite of herself, a tempting fiend made her heart give a little leap of gladness, every time the anticipation flashed through her brain. It was with infernal astuteness that Salabert set to work to infuse distrust into his wife's mind. Sometimes by insinuation, and sometimes by brutally broad hints, he poured the poison of suspicion into her soul. Clementina and Osorio were looking for her death, as for flowers in May. What airs they would give themselves when they had paid all their debts! And then they would live and enjoy themselves on her money. The poor woman said nothing, indignant at these base innuendoes. But, nevertheless, in her soul, broken and saddened by suffering, the keen point of this envenomed dart festered deeply, though she strove to conceal her anguish. Every time Clementina came to see her--and towards the end this was twice a day--her stepmother's eyes would rest on hers in mute interrogation, trying to read in them the thoughts in the brain behind. This intent gaze embarrassed the younger woman, making her feel a perturbation, which, though slight, occasionally betrayed itself. As her malady increased, this anxiety on Doña Carmen's part became almost a mania. In the isolation of soul in which she lived, Clementina represented the one link of affection which bound her to life. It was because her stepdaughter had always been cold and haughty to every one else, that she had never doubted the sincerity of her love for her, and it had made her happy and proud. It had sufficed to indemnify her for the scornful indifference with which every one else had treated her. Now, the horrible doubt which had been forced upon her, filled her heart with bitterness. Such a spirit of goodness and love as her own craved to believe in goodness and love. The uprooting of this last belief made her heart bleed with anguish. One evening they were alone together; Doña Carmen, motionless in her deep arm-chair, with her head thrown back on the pillows, was listening to Clementina, who was reading aloud the pious history of the apparition of the Virgin of la Salette. Her thoughts wandered from the narrative; they were disturbed as usual by the fatal doubt, which tortured her more than even her acute physical sufferings. She could not take her eyes off Clementina's fair head, with the fixed look of divination peculiar to dying persons, as though she could read what was passing within, but without gaining the certainty she longed for. More than once, when the reader glanced up, she met that dull, grief-stricken gaze, and hastily looked down again with a sudden sense of uneasiness. A desire, a whim, had blazed up in the sick woman's mind, a feverish yearning such as dying creatures feel. She longed to hear her stepdaughter quench, by some gentle word, the fearful pain of that burning doubt. Again and again the question hovered on her lips; invincible shame kept her from uttering it. "Lay down the book, child, you are tired," she said at last. And her voice came trembling from her throat, as though she had said something very serious. "You are, perhaps, of listening. I am not. I have a strong throat." "God preserve it to you, my child," replied Doña Carmen tenderly, as she looked at her. There was a brief silence. "Do you know what I have been told?" she asked finally, with an effort, and her voice was so low that the last syllables were scarcely audible. Clementina, who was about to read again, raised her head. The few drops of blood left in Doña Carmen's emaciated body suddenly rushed to her face and tinged it with a faint flush. "I was told--that you wish for my death." Clementina's rich blood now mounted in a tide to her cheeks and dyed them crimson. The two women looked at each other for a moment in confusion. At last it was the younger who exclaimed, with a dark frown: "I know who told you that!" And as she spoke the blood faded from her face again like a sudden fall of the tide. Her stepmother's retreated to her weary heart. She bent her head with its white hairs, and said: "If you know, do not utter his name." "Why not?" cried her wrathful stepdaughter. "When a father, with no motive whatever, solely for the sake of a few dollars, can insult his daughter and make a martyr of his wife, he has no right to claim either affection or respect. I say it, and I do not care who hears me. It is an infamous calumny! My father is a man who knows no God, no love but money. I knew that your will had alienated his love for me--if indeed he ever had any." "Oh!" "Yes, I knew it perfectly. But I never could have believed that it would lead him to do anything so vile as to calumniate me so cruelly. I confess to you that I have always loved you the most--oh, yes, much, much the most! I have no hesitation in saying so. Nay, I will say more: I have never really loved any one but you and my children. If this will is the cause of your doubting my love for you, destroy it, undo it, revoke it. Your love and your peace of mind are far dearer to me than your money." Her voice thrilled with indignation. Her eyes were sternly fixed on vacancy, as though she could evoke the figure of her father and crush him to powder. At the moment she was ardently sincere. Doña Carmen's dim eyes grew bright with contentment as her daughter spoke. At last they glittered through tears as she exclaimed: "I trust you, my child--I believe you! Ah, you cannot think what good you have done me!" She seized her hands and kissed them fondly. Clementina exclaimed, as if ashamed: "No, no, mamma! It is I who----" And she threw her arms round her neck. They held each other in a warm embrace, shedding silent tears. It was one of the few occasions in her life when Clementina wept from tender feeling, and not from vexation of spirit. But during the remaining days, though the memory of this scene was lively with them both, so, too, was that of the suspicion which had led to it. Clementina felt herself humbled in her stepmother's presence. Her attentions and endearments were now and then a little forced; she tried to efface the impression she still read in Doña Carmen's eyes. Then, again, fearing this might lead her to doubt her sincerity, she would suddenly cut them short, and assume a cold indifference. In short, a current of disquietude flowed between the two women, and caused them both much suffering, though in different ways, whenever they were together. At last Doña Carmen took to her bed, never again to rise. Clementina spent the whole day by her side. The terrible end was near. One morning, between two and three, two of the Duke's servants gave the alarm to the Osorios. The Duchess was dying, and asked repeatedly for her daughter. Clementina hastily dressed and flew to the Requena Palace as fast as her horses could carry her. Osorio went with her. As they alighted they met the Duke, with an expression of scornful gloom. "You are in time--oh, you are in time!" he growled, and he turned away without another word. Clementina fancied the words were spoken with a malevolent sneer, and bit her lips with rage. The pitiable scene that met her eyes as she approached Doña Carmen's bedside pacified her for the moment. The poor woman's face was stamped by the hand of death; pale as a corpse, the nose pinched and white, the eyes glassy and sunk in a livid circle. Standing by her side was a priest, exhorting her to repentance. Of what? Her faithful maid, Marcella, stood at the foot of the bed crying bitterly, her face hidden in her handkerchief; and two other maids in the background looked on at the pathetic picture, frightened rather than sorrowful. The physician was writing a prescription at a table in the corner. On seeing her daughter the Duchess turned to look in her face with an anxious expression, and held out a hand to her. "Come close, child," she said, in a fairly strong voice. And she took Clementina's right hand in her own thin, waxen hands, and said, with a fearful fixity of gaze: "I am dying, my child, dying. Do you not see it? Only so long as you are not glad of it." "Mamma, dear mamma!" "Say that you are not glad," she earnestly insisted, without ceasing to look in her daughter's eyes. "Mamma, mamma, for God's sake!" cried Clementina, both bewildered and alarmed. "Say that you are not glad!" she repeated, with increased energy, even raising her head with a great effort, and looking sternly at her. "No, my beloved mother, no. If I could save your life at the cost of my own I swear to you I would do so." The dying woman's dim eyes softened; she laid her head on the pillow, and, after a short silence, she said, in a weak, quavering voice: "You would be very ungrateful--very ungrateful. Your poor mother has loved you dearly. Kiss me, do not cry. I am not sorry to leave this world. What hurt me was the thought that you, child of my heart--you--oh, horrible to think of! How it has tortured me!" The priest here interposed, desiring her to turn her mind from worldly thoughts. The sick woman listened with humility, and devoutly echoed the prayers he spoke in a loud voice. The doctor and the Duke came close to the bed, but, seeing that Doña Carmen was breathing her last, the physician took Requena by the arm to lead him out of the room. Doña Carmen's glazing eye wandered round the little group till it rested on Clementina, to whom she signed to come closer. "God bless you, my child," she said, with a gaze fixed on the ceiling. "You are right to be glad at my death." "Mamma, mamma, what are you saying?" cried Clementina, in horror. "I am glad, too, glad that my death should be an advantage to you. If I could have given you all while I lived, I would have done it. It is sad, is it not, that I should have to die to make you happy? I should have liked to see you happy. Good-by; good-by. Think sometimes of your poor mamma." "Mother, dearest mother!" sobbed the younger woman, dropping on her knees with a burst of tears. "I do not want you to die, no, no. I have been very wicked, but I have always loved you, have always respected you." "Do not be foolish," said the dying woman, smiling with an effort, and laying her hand on the fair head. "I am not sorry if you are glad. And what does it matter? I die content to know that you will owe some happiness to me. Remember my old women in the asylum, be kind to them, and to Marcella, my good Marcella. Farewell, all of you. Forgive me any faults----" Her voice failed, her breathing was hard and painful. The sobs of Clementina and Marcella were the only other sound. The Duke, trembling and shocked, was at last persuaded to leave the room. Doña Carmen spoke no more. Her eyes closed, her lips parted, she lay quite still. Now and then she half raised her eyelids and looked fondly at her step-daughter who remained kneeling. The priest read on in a quavering nasal voice prayer after prayer. Thus died the Duchess de Requena. Let her depart in peace. * * * * * For some days after, Clementina and her husband, in spite of their inextinguishable aversion, held long and repeated conferences. The great question of the inheritance united their interests for a while. Clementina went every morning and evening to see her father, and Osorio too was a frequent visitor; they both were lavish of attentions to the old man, took pity on his loneliness, and made much of him. There was an affectionate familiarity in their demeanour which was highly becoming in a son and daughter who make it their duty to cherish a venerable parent in his old age. The Duke, on his part, accepted their care, watching them with an expression which was ironical rather than grateful. When their backs were turned to leave him, he gazed after them, slowly closing his eyes, and turned his cigar-stump between his teeth, while his lips sketched a sarcastic smile, which did not die away for some few seconds. But everything went on as before. Although the Duchess's will was incontrovertible, Salabert never said a word on money matters. He continued to manage the whole of the fortune, and engaged in various concerns with calm despotism. But his daughter and son-in-law were not so calm. They began, on the contrary, to be greatly disturbed, to express their opinions to each other with crude vehemence, and to lay plots to provoke an explanation. Clementina thought that Osorio should speak to her father. He considered it her part to apply to him in dutiful terms for an explanation, before formulating a complaint. After some days of hesitation the wife finally made up her mind to say a few words to her father, though not without some embarrassment, since she knew his temper and her own too. "Well, papa," said she, with affected lightness, finding him alone in his room, "when are you going to talk over money matters with me?" "Money matters? Why should I?" he replied in a tone of surprise, and looking at her with such an air of innocence that she longed to slap his face. "Why should you? Because it will have to be done, to put me in possession of my property. Am I not mamma's sole legatee?" she answered in the same cheerful tone, but there was a very perceptible quaver in her voice. "Ah, to be sure!" exclaimed the Duke, with a flourish of the hand to dismiss the subject. "We will talk of that later--much later." Clementina turned pale. Her blood seemed to curdle with rage. Her lips quivered, and she was on the point of saying something violent. "Still, it would be as well that we should come to an understanding," she murmured in a low voice. "Not at all, not at all. I cannot discuss it now. When I have time and am in the humour I will think about it." He spoke with such decision and indifference that his daughter had no choice but either to give the reins to her tongue and quarrel violently with her father, or to go. After a moment's hesitation she went. She turned on her heel, and, without a word of leave-taking, she quitted the room and went off in her carriage, in such a state of excitement that she was trembling from head to foot. As soon as she reached home she shut herself up in her own room and gave vent to her fury. She wept, she stamped, she tore her clothes, and broke various articles of crockery. Osorio too flew into a rage, and declared he would bring Salabert to book. But nothing came of it all, excepting a letter, in which respectfully enough, he required his father-in-law to give him an account of the state of his business, that the preliminaries of an estimate might be arrived at. Salabert simply did not answer. They wrote another; again no reply. They ceased going to the house. Clementina would not go for fear of a scandal. Osorio, on his part, considering the relations that subsisted between him and his wife, did not feel that he had the moral position which would entitle him to lay formal claim to her fortune. In this predicament they consulted certain persons of weight, friends of the Duke, and requested them to mediate. This was done; they had various interviews with the old man, and after much consultation a friendly meeting was agreed on, to avoid bringing the matter into a court of law. The meeting was held, after some objections on Clementina's part, at her father's house. Besides the interested parties, there were present Father Ortega, the Conde de Cotorraso, Calderón, and Jimenez Arbos. The proceedings were opened by Arbos--no longer in the Ministry, but a member of the Opposition--who made a speech in a conciliatory key, urging them to agree rather than present to the public the spectacle of a quarrel on money matters between a father and daughter--a spectacle which, in view of the position they held, must be both painful and discreditable. The next to speak was Father Ortega, who, in the unctuous and persuasive accents which characterised him, first bestowed on both parties a plentiful lather of preposterous encomiums, and then appealed to their Christian feelings, representing how bad an example they would set, and painting the sweets of loving-kindness and self-sacrifice, ending by promises of eternal life and glory. Clementina replied. She had no wish but to continue in the same friendly relations with her father as had hitherto subsisted, and to achieve that end she was prepared to do all in her power. The curt, dry tone in which she spoke, and the scowl which accompanied her words, gave no strong evidence of sincerity. However, the Duke seemed greatly moved. "Arbos," he began, "Father, my friends, and my children; you all know me well. To me, without domestic life, there is no possibility of happiness. After the terrible blow I have so lately suffered, my daughter is all that is left to me. On her centre all my hopes, my affections, and my pride. For her I have toiled, have struggled indefatigably, have accumulated the capital I possess. I may say that I have never cared for money but for the sake of my wife, now in glory, and my daughter--to see them living in comfort and luxury. As you know, I could always have lived on a few coppers a day. And now that I am old, all the more so. What can I want with millions? Ere long, I too must take the train for the other side--Eh, Julian? And you too.--Who then can suppose that I should ever quarrel over a handful of dollars with my dear and only daughter? The whole thing has been a mistake. I wanted time to put my affairs in order; that was all. And if you, my child, ever could imagine anything else, I can only tell you this: everything in this house is yours, and always has been. Take it whenever you choose. Take it, my child, take it. I can do with nothing." As he pronounced the last words with visible emotion, they all were able to shed a tear. Every one was deeply moved and eager with conciliatory exhortation. Father Ortega gently pushed Clementina into her father's arms; and though she was the least agitated of the party, she allowed him to embrace her. He clasped her to his heart for some minutes, and when he released her dropped into his arm-chair, with his handkerchief to his eyes, quite overcome by so much emotion. After so pathetic a scene no one could allude to money. The meeting broke up with fervid hand-pressing and warm mutual congratulations on the happy issue of their diplomacy. But Osorio and his wife got into their carriage, grave and sullen, and exchanged not a single word on the drive home. Only as they reached their own door, Clementina said: "Well, we shall see how the farce ends." Osorio shrugged his shoulders. "We have seen the end, I suspect." And he was right. The Duke never paid them a cent., and never again spoke of his daughter's fortune. He was very affectionate, and constantly had them to dine with him, complaining of his loneliness. Now and then he spoke of transactions he was engaged in, but not a word of paying them their share. Clementina was at last so much provoked that she suddenly ceased going to the house. They then took to exchanging notes. Nothing was to be got out of her father but ambiguous replies and vague hopes. Finally they decided on taking legal steps, and a lawsuit began, which was a source of endless satisfaction to the faculty. This was an end of all joy or comfort for Clementina. She lived in a state of perpetual ferment, watching the progress of the litigation with anxious interest, communicating with the lawyers, and trying to exert some influence which might counterbalance the Duke's. He, on his part, took the matter much more calmly, conducted it with maddening acumen, taking advantage of her displays of violence to represent her in the eyes of the world as a greedy and unnatural daughter. At the same time, among his intimate acquaintances, he would now and then give utterance to some sarcastic or cynical speech which, when it reached her ears, made her wild with rage. The struggle became more desperate every day, while, on the other hand, Osorio's creditors, deceived in their hopes, began to press him very hard, and threatened to bring him to ruin. The torments, the tempers, the wretched state of things in the Osorio household may be easily imagined. This discomfort, and it might be called misery, extended to the hapless Raimundo. Clementina, torn soul and body by a tumult of other passions, found no leisure for the blandishments of love. The minutes she could spare for them were every day briefer and less calm. The gay _tête-à-têtes_ and merry devices of a former time were over for ever. The lady no longer found any amusement in laughing at her boyish lover. She did not seem even to remember the childish pleasures in which they had delighted. She could talk of nothing now but the lawsuit. Her nerves were in such a state of tension that an inadvertent word might put her into a furious rage. And, besides all this, in her vehement desire for triumph over her father, she flirted more than ever with Escosura, who had just come into office; and this, as may be supposed, was what most distressed the young naturalist. One day, when she was rather more fond than usual, she said in loving accents: "You are still jealous of Escosura, Raimundo? But it is quite a mistake. I do not care a straw for the man." "Yes, so you have often told me, and yet----" "There is no 'and yet' in the case, fastidious youth!" she interrupted, gently pulling his ear. "I never loved, and never could love any one but you. But--here comes the but--you alas! are not in power, though you deserve to be more than any one I know. My fortune, as you know, is at the mercy of the law, and I may be told any day that I am a beggar. Accustomed as I am to comfort and luxury, you may imagine how much I should relish this. And my pride, too, would suffer, for I am the object of much invidious feeling; people hate me without knowing why. In short, I should be laughed at, and that I could not endure. My father has a great many supporters. Men count on him for services, though he is utterly incapable of a kindness, and they are afraid of him too. Now I, though on intimate terms with all the official circle of Madrid, have not one true friend to take a real interest in my affairs, or dare to show a bold front to my father. And so, you see, I must try to make one. Now imagine this friend to be Escosura, and imagine me to break with you before the eyes of the world, though still you are the one and only man I can ever love. What do you think of the arrangement? Can you regard it as acceptable?" Raimundo coloured crimson at this strange and humiliating proposition. For a minute or two he made no reply, but at last he said, between anger and contempt: "It strikes me as simply infamous and indecent." The furrow, the fateful furrow, which appeared on Clementina's brow whenever passion stirred her stormy soul, was ominously deep. She abruptly rose, and after looking at him hard, with an expression of scornful rage, she said in icy tones: "You are right. Such an arrangement could not meet your views! We had better part, once for all." And she turned to go. Raimundo was confounded. "Clementina!" he cried as she reached the door. "What is it?" said she, as coldly as before, and looking round. "Listen, one moment, for God's sake! I spoke under an impulse of jealousy, not meaning to wound you. How could I ever mean to hurt you when I love you, adore you as a creature of another sphere?" and he poured out words of tenderness and worship. Clementina listened without moving from her attitude of haughty indifference, and would not melt till she saw him utterly humbled, on his knees before her, beseeching for the scheme he had stigmatised as infamous and indecent as a favour to himself. At this time Clementina received a blow which almost made her ill. Her father brought the audacious woman to whom he had given a card for his ball to live in the palace, and this extraordinary proceeding became the talk of all Madrid. Every one believed that Salabert was out of his mind. And then a rumour got afloat that he was about to marry Amparo, and amazement and indignation filled the soul of Society. But an unforeseen accident interfered with this alliance. At a meeting of the shareholders of the Riosa mines it was the Duke's part, as chairman, to give an account of his management, and propose certain measures for the advantage of the company. He usually fulfilled such functions with great brevity and lucidity; he was, above all else, a man of business, and had no fancy for rambling speeches or more words than were absolutely necessary. But now, to the surprise of his audience, among whom there were many bankers and official personages, he began a rambling address quite foreign to the matter. He wandered from his subject and began giving explanations of his conduct as a public character, sketched a complete biography of himself, dwelling on a thousand insignificant details; sang his own praises in the most barefaced way, putting himself forward as the model of a logical politician, and of disinterested self-sacrifice; spoke of his services to the nation by his loans to the Government in the hour of need, and to the cause of humanity by his co-operation in the founding of hospitals, schools, and asylums; finally having the audacity to assert that the Home for Old Women was his work. The shareholders looked at one another in bewilderment, muttering not very complimentary comments on the orator's condition of mind. When he had finished the catalogue of his own merits and proclaimed himself, _urbi et orbi_, the greatest man in Spain, he began an invective against his enemies, describing himself as the victim of persistent and deliberate persecution, of a thousand intrigues plotted to discredit him, and in which various political and financial magnates were implicated. In confirmation of this statement he read, in loud, fierce tones, certain articles from a paper published in the district where the Riosa mines were situated, and which, according to him, constituted a gross and shameful attack. What they actually said amounted to this: That Salabert was not a man of such mark as to be worthy to have a statue. His hearers, more and more wearied and indignant, now said, though still in under-tone: "The man is crazy! The man is mad!" As he read on, his face grew purple; it was usually pale, it now looked as if he were being strangled. Suddenly, before he had finished, he fell back senseless in his chair. CHAPTER XVII. A DARKENED MIND. After this attack Requena's mental faculties were perceptibly weakened, as every one could discern who saw him. He suffered from strange illusions; his speech was slow and even less intelligible than of old. He was full of fancies and whims. It was said that he had given his mistress vast sums of money; that he flew into a rage over the merest trifles, and shrieked and raved like a mad creature, going so far as to inflict bodily injuries on his servants and attendants; that he ate voraciously, and would say the most horrible things to his daughter. His sullen and vindictive temper had become violent and malignant. In business matters, however, his faculties showed no signs of deserting him, nor had the mainspring of his nature, avarice, run down. His affairs, to be sure, for the most part went on by themselves, and he still had Llera, whose talents as a speculator had gained in astuteness. Where the derangement, or rather the weakness of his mind, was most conspicuous, was in his domestic affairs. His mistress reigned supreme, and as in Madrid there is no lack of social parasites, there were plenty of hangers-on to sing her praises. She gave tea and card parties, and though the society she collected left much to be desired in point of quality, in appearance it made as good a show as that of many another wealthy house. There were Grandees of Castile who honoured her with their presence, among them Manolo de Davalos, as mad and as much in love as ever. The lawsuit between the Duke and his daughter ran its lengthy course, each party more obstinate and more virulent every day. In fact, to Clementina, it had resolved itself into a personal struggle with Amparo. The thing which she and Osorio most dreaded was that her father should commit himself to the marriage which was openly prognosticated. If he did, this hussy, an ex-flower-girl, would flaunt the ducal coronet, and treat with them on equal terms. Though society at first would have nothing to say to her, everything is forgotten in time, and Amparo would presently be regarded as a Duchess indeed. Happily for them, though Salabert was very submissive to her vagaries, they heard that the Duke had positively refused to marry her, and that when she endeavoured to coerce him, there were violent scenes between them. Whether all that the servants reported were true or no, there was no doubt that she was urgent and he obstinate. But though her attacks continued to be fruitless, Clementina and Osorio lived "between the devil and the deep sea." The Duke was pronounced to be suffering from creeping paralysis. Under these circumstances, after consulting several eminent lawyers, they determined to petition the Court for a decree pronouncing him incompetent or incapable of managing his own affairs. He had, lately, it was said, had a fresh attack, which had left him quite imbecile. This report seemed to be confirmed by his never leaving the house, and by his most intimate friends being refused admittance to see him. It was under these circumstances that, either from some sudden impulse of her impetuous nature, or because some of her acquaintances had suggested it to her, Clementina determined to deal a decisive blow, which would at once put an end to the litigation and to all the difficulties bound up with it. "My father is shut up," said she, "I will go and turn that woman out of the house." Her husband tried to dissuade her, but in vain. One morning, therefore, she drove to her father's palace. The porter, on opening the gate to the Señora Clementina, was at once amazed and pleased; for though she was neither so smooth-tongued nor so liberal as the ex-florist, a sense of justice led the Duke's household to respect his daughter and contemn his mistress. The haughty lady, without looking at the man, merely said: "Well, Rafael?" and went quickly up the steps. "How is papa?" she asked of the servant who met her in the hall. He was too much astonished to be able to reply. "Well, fellow!" she repeated impatiently, "Where is papa? In the office, or in his study?" "I beg your pardon, Señora; the Duke is well. I think he is in his study." At this juncture, a waiting-maid, who had caught sight of her from the end of a passage, and heard her inquiries, flew off to warn the Señora, while Clementina hastened up the stairs to the first-floor. But before she could reach her father's room, the lady in possession stood in her path, looking straight into her face, with flashing eyes. "Where are you going?" she asked, in a voice husky with excitement. "Who are you?" asked Clementina, lifting her head with supreme disdain, and looking down on her. "I am the mistress of this house," was the reply, but the speaker turned pale. "The sick nurse, you should say. I never heard that there was a mistress here." "What! Have you come to insult me in my own house?" exclaimed Amparo, setting her arms akimbo, as if she still were on the market-place. "No. I have come to turn you out, before the police arrive and do it for me." Her antagonist made a movement, as though she would fall on her and rend her; but she checked herself, and began to scream as loud as she could: "Pepe, Gregorio, Anselmo! Come here, come all! Turn this insolent creature out of the house! She is insulting me." Some of the servants came at her call; but they stood confused and motionless, contemplating this strange scene. At the same moment the door of the Duke's room was opened, and Salabert stood before them in a dressing-gown and cap. He had grown terribly old in a few weeks. His eyes were dull, his face colourless, his cheeks pendant and flabby. "What is all this? What is the matter?" he asked thickly. On seeing his daughter, he staggered back a step. "This woman," cried Amparo, in a yell of vulgar rage, "after having you declared an idiot, comes here to insult me!" "Papa, do not heed her," said Clementina, going up to him. But her father drew back, and holding out his trembling hands he exclaimed: "Go--go away! Do not come near me!" "Listen to me, papa." "Do not come near me, wicked, ungrateful child!" repeated the Duke, in a quavering voice, but with melodramatic emphasis. "Yes, leave this house, shameless creature," added the woman, encouraged by the old man's attitude. "Dare you show your face here, after treating your father so?" Clementina stood petrified, colourless, staring at them with a look of terror rather than anger. For an instant she was on the point of fainting away; everything seemed to be whirling round her. But her pride enabled her to make a supreme effort; she stood rooted to the spot, and incapable of moving, as white as a marble statue. Then she turned on her heel slowly, for fear of falling, and reached the stairs, down which she went, almost tottering at each step. Her father, spurred by Amparo's cries, followed her to the top of the flight, repeating with increasing fury: "Go--go. Leave my house!" And he held up a tremulous hand in theatrical menace. His mistress, meanwhile, poured forth a string of abuse with an accompaniment of gestures, sarcastic laughter and gibes, learnt and remembered from her early experience. By the time Clementina had reached the garden, her cheeks were tingling. She leaned against the pedestal of one of the lamps for a minute to recover herself, and then ran like a mad creature to the gate, where her carriage was waiting; she sprang into it and burst into tears. On reaching home she was lifted out in a miserable state, and helped up to her room by two maids. When Osorio came up, it was only in broken and incoherent sentences that she could tell him what had occurred. She kept her bed for eight or ten days in a state of utter prostration, and she rose from it at last so possessed by the desire for revenge, that she really seemed to have gone mad. The lawsuit, under the hot breath of her malice, was fanned to an imposing blaze. It was regarded in Madrid as a matter of public interest. The opinions of the most distinguished physicians, Spanish and foreign, were taken on both sides as to the Duke's mental incapacity. On one part he was pronounced an idiot, so hopelessly childish that there was nothing to be done with him; on the other it was asserted that he was mending steadily, his mind clearer every day, and his intellect a marvel of acumen and sound sense. And on one point all the authorities concurred--namely, in requiring enormous fees. The press took sides with one or the other party. Clementina subsidised one or two papers. Amparo had bribed others, for the Duke, as a matter of fact, was incompetent to direct the case. And through their columns the two women, more or less disguised, contrived to hurl insolence at one another, reviving, in an allegorical dress, an extensive selection of scandalous tales. In this warfare the daughter had the worst chance. She could not be so liberal as the mistress, who sowed bank-notes broadcast. On the other hand, Clementina had the support of her husband's creditors, and of her friend Pepa Frias--who was indefatigable in her visits to the doctors, the lawyers, and the newspaper editors--the Condesa de Cotorraso, the Marquesa de Alcudia, her brother-in-law, Calderón, General Patiño and Jimenez Arbos; and, more helpful than all these, as in duty bound, her lover _en titre_, Escosura. He, holding a post of high importance, had no small influence on the course of the lawsuit. What a life of excitement, anxiety, and misery! Clementina could not eat, she could not sleep. She was always holding conferences with lawyers and judges, always writing letters. Even at her parties and dinners, nothing else was talked about, till at length the more indifferent of her acquaintance rebelled, and ceased to come. To others, however, she communicated some of her own flame; they became her ardent partisans, and brought or carried reports, volunteered advice, broke out in cries of indignation whenever Amparo was even mentioned. And although Clementina's haughty temper prevented her being a favourite in Madrid society, as she stood forth, after all, as the representative of justice and decency, her cause found most supporters. To this her antagonist's folly contributed, for she paraded herself and her splendour everywhere, with the imbecile and degraded old man. The Duke was in fact perishing before their eyes. After a stage of excitement and violence, when he had behaved like a madman, came a period of nervous prostration; by degrees he became almost idiotic. He lost his wits so completely that he could not even understand business. Everything was left to Llera. This would have been all right, but that Amparo would interfere and do all kinds of mischief. She took the greatest pains, however, to hide Salabert's condition; on days when he was over excitable or incoherent, she kept him in his room. It was only when he was calm and rational that she ventured to take him out, and then never allowed him to talk to any one. But her efforts were not always successful. Salabert went out by himself on various pretences, and amply betrayed his deranged condition. On one occasion he was found outside the town at four in the morning. Another time he went into a jeweller's shop, and after ordering some trinkets he pocketed some others, believing he had not been observed. The jeweller had seen it, however, but he said nothing, knowing the millionaire. He sent the bill in to Amparo, who hastened to pay it, and went in person to beg that the matter should not be divulged. In short, before long it was established beyond a doubt, in spite of the contending evidence of physicians, that the Duke was absolutely _non compos_; and it was said that the lawsuit would be decided in that sense. Two days before the decision was made public, Amparo vanished from the Requena palace, after sacking it very completely, and carrying off with her many objects of great value. Her savings already amounted to several thousand dollars, and in anticipation of disaster she had drawn the money out of the Bank of Spain and placed it in foreign securities. She was afterwards heard of in France, and a few months later it was reported in Madrid that she had married the crazy Marquis. * * * * * On the very day of Amparo's flight--for it may be called a flight--Clementina and her husband took possession of the Requena palace. She found her father in a pitiable state of total imbecility. He spoke as though they had met but the day before and nothing of any importance had occurred, he asked for Amparo, and sometimes mistook his daughter for her. The daughter's heart, it must be owned, was not severely wrung. This catastrophe by no means satisfied the bitterness which possessed her soul when she recalled all the wretchedness she had endured. Her vengeance was incomplete, for Amparo was rich and content. She longed to prosecute her as a criminal, while Osorio, satisfied with the enormous fortune which had dropped into his hands, did not regard her thefts as worth a thought. The Duke de Requena, the famous financier who for twenty years had been the wonder and admiration of the banking world in Spain and abroad, the man who had been so much discussed by the public and the press, was ere long, in his own house--now the Osorio palace--a useless and worthless chattel. To avoid comment, or to be more secure as to his condition, or perhaps out of some dim fear lest he should recover, the Osorios did not send him to a lunatic asylum; they had him cared for at home. Salabert was no more than a child. He thought of nothing but his meals. He spoke very little, but sat hour after hour, looking at his nails or rubbing one hand over the other, now and then uttering some strange, inarticulate cry. He was in the charge of an attendant, who, when he was tiresome, would fly in a rage and slap him. But the person he held in most respect, it may be said in real awe, was his daughter. It was enough for Clementina to frown and speak a scolding word; he submitted at once. For his son-in-law, on the other hand, he did not care a pin. When his attendant found him quiet and went to amuse himself for an hour with the other servants, the crazy old man would wander about the house, more especially to gaze in the mirrors. His principal mania was for picking up pieces of bread and storing them in a corner of his room, where they lay till they were mouldy. When the pile was too large the servants cleared it away in baskets and flung it out on the dust-heap. Then when he missed it he was furious, and his keeper had to use strong measures to pacify him. One morning, soon after the Osorios' breakfast--the old man ate alone in his own room--three or four of the servants were together in the great dining-room, cleaning the plate and putting it away in the side-board cupboards. They were in high spirits and playing games, hitting each other with the long loaves they had taken up for sticks, running round the table and laughing loudly. Their mistress was upstairs and could not hear them. Suddenly the old imbecile appeared on the scene, with the tray on which he was wont to carry off the broken pieces as a precious booty to his room. He had on a greasy old shooting coat, and his head was bare. And, in spite of its white hairs, that head was not venerable; the yellow unshaven cheeks, the colourless, loose lips, the stony, expressionless eyes had no trace of the beauty of old age, but only the decrepitude of vice, which is always repulsive, and the stamp of idiotcy which is always terrible. Seeing so many persons, he paused a moment, but he made up his mind to come in, and went straight to the drawers of the side-board, where he began an eager search, picking up every scrap he found there and collecting them on the tray. The servants watched him with amusement. "Hunt away, old fellow!" cried one. "When are you going to ask us to try the broth, daddy?" The old man made no reply, he was much too busy. "The broth, sir," said another, "you had better ask us to share a ten dollar-note." "I shall not ask you," mumbled the Duke with some irritation, "I shall only ask Anselmo." "Oh yes, we know why you ask Anselmo, it is because he keeps the stick! Never fear, if that is all, you shall ask me too." The others all shouted with laughter, and the youngest, a boy of about sixteen, seeing him with his tray filled, and about to depart, slipped behind him and, giving him a jerk, upset all the bits, which were scattered on the floor. The Duke's rage was terrific, with yells of rage he went down on his knees to pick them up again, while the servants applauded the joke. As soon as he had collected them all again on his tray, and was shuffling off as fast as he could to escape from their rough fun, the same fellow again came behind him and snatched it away. The madman's frenzy was indescribable; gnashing his teeth and glaring with fury, he rushed on the lad, but the others seized him. The poor lunatic began to utter cries which were anything rather than human. At this moment Clementina's voice was heard in high wrath: "What is the matter? What are you doing to papa?" The servants let him go, and vanished from the room. CHAPTER XVIII. A PASSION BURNT OUT. Raimundo's love affairs hung only by a thread. In these latter days Clementina, entirely absorbed by her triumph and thirst for revenge, had hardly given him a thought. They still met frequently, for the young man did not cease to visit her, but their love-passages were fewer every day. If he timidly complained of her neglect, the lady excused herself on the score of Escosura's jealousy. It was in vain that she had tried to persuade him that she was "off with the old love." "And you see," she said "if he finds out that I have deceived him, he will have good cause for a furious scene." Raimundo was so utterly lost that he admitted, or feigned to admit, this reasoning as valid. Through this abject humiliation he still contrived to be happy in the illusion that his idol preferred him, loved him best at the bottom of her heart, that she only flirted with the Minister for the sake of her lawsuit. Clementina fostered this belief by sending him from time to time, when she could forget her vexations, a few lines appointing a meeting, "to-day at four," or "this afternoon in our rooms." And at these interviews she would make him as happy as of old by swearing eternal fidelity. But all joys are brief in this world; Raimundo's were brief indeed. The very next day, after some such meeting, he would find his mistress as cold as marble, disdainful of him, and, what was worse, absorbed in conversation with Escosura, in a recess of the drawing-room. He had innocently believed that the end of the lawsuit would restore his happiness, that Clementina, no longer needing the great man's help, would again be wholly his. But his hopes were blown to the winds like smoke. The lawsuit was decided in her favour, but far from dismissing her official cavalier, she showed him greater respect and affection. One morning, two months after the close of the business, he received a note from Clementina, saying: "Meet me at two this afternoon." His heart leaped for joy. It was more than a fortnight since Clementina had given him rendezvous at their little _entresol_. By one o'clock he was there to wait for her, and as soon as he saw her from afar he ran to open the door with as much agitation as though she had been a queen, and far more tender devotion. She seemed grateful and affectionate, and accepted his passionate caresses with gracious kindness. But after they had chatted for about an hour, as they sat side by side on the sofa, she looked at him with a slow, compassionate gaze, and said: "Do you know, Mundo, that this is the last time we shall ever sit here alone together?" The youth looked at her in speechless amazement; he did not, he would not, understand. "Yes, I cannot keep up this mystery any longer. Escosura is very indignant, and with reason. Besides, I am ashamed--it is horrible of me. And, after all, you have nothing to complain of. I have always been nice to you. If I ever loved a man truly, it was you, and the proof of it is that it has lasted so long. But nothing in this world can last for ever, and as matters stand we had better part. You see, Mundo, I am growing old--you are but a boy. If I did not break with you, sooner or later you would throw me over. Such is life. Though you still think me handsome, these are but the last remains of beauty. I must bid farewell to all the follies we have indulged in together, but I shall always look back on them with pleasure. I swear to you that you will always symbolise to me the happiest period of my life. So now, henceforth, we will still be good friends. It will always be a satisfaction to me to be able to serve you, for I owe you many hours of happiness." The young man listened to this cruel speech, motionless and stricken. His face was perfectly colourless. "Do you mean it?" he said at last, in a husky voice. "Yes, my dear boy, yes. I mean it," she replied, with the same sad, patronising smile. "It is impossible! It cannot be!" he exclaimed vehemently, and starting to his feet he looked down on her with a mixture of horror and indignation. This expression in his eyes roused her pride. "But you will see that it can be!" she retorted with a touch of irony which was the height of cruelty. He stood frozen for a moment, gazing at her with intense anguish, then he fell on his knees at her feet, with clasped hand, imploring her: "For God's sake, do not kill me! Do not kill me!" Clementina's face softened, and her voice broke a little. "Come, Mundo," said she, "do not be a baby. Get up. This had to come. You will find other women far more worthy than I." But the young man held her knees clasped, kissing them in a frenzy of grief, his whole frame shaken by sobs. "This is horrible, horrible, horrible!" he kept saying. "Oh! what have I done that you should kill me with misery?" "Come, come," she said, gently stroking his hair. "Get up, be reasonable. Do you not see that this is ridiculous?" "What do I care?" he cried, his face hidden in her silk skirts. "For you I would be ridiculous in the eyes of the whole world." Clementina tried to soothe him, but without any emotion or pity. There is no wild beast more cruel than a woman whose love is satiated. She let his grief have its way for a while, and when he grew calmer she rose. "I am grateful to you for all this feeling, Mundo. I, too, have gone through a terrible struggle before I could make up my mind to part." "It is false!" cried Raimundo, still kneeling, with his elbows on the sofa. "If you still loved me, you could not be so cruel, so base." Clementina stood silent for a minute, looking at his shoulders in great irritation. At last, touched by pity, she said: "I forgive you the insult in consideration of the agitation you are in. Though you may abuse me you will still be able to think of me with affection; and even when you have quite forgotten me, the memory of your face and the happy hours we have passed together will remain engraved on my heart. But now we must come to an explanation," she added, in a sterner tone. "Let us be worthy of each other, Raimundo. You must, please, take a hackney coach to your house and bring me back every line I ever wrote to you, that we may burn them. I have none of yours; you know I always destroyed them immediately." Raimundo did not stir. After waiting a few moments she went up behind him, leaned over him, and laid her hands on his cheeks, saying kindly: "Foolish boy! Am I the only woman in the world?" He thrilled at the touch of those soft hands, and, turning suddenly, seized them and covered them with kisses, pressed them to his heart, laid them on his brow. "Yes, Clementina, the only woman; or, if there are others, I do not know them--I do not want to know them. But is it true? Is it true that you do not love me?" And his tearful eyes looked up at her with such an expression of woe that she could not but lie. "I never said I did not love you, but only that we can meet no more--like this." "It is the same thing." "No, it is not the same thing, foolish boy. I may love you, and yet, in consequence of special circumstances, I may not be able--we cannot have everything we wish for in this world." And she wandered into incoherent argument and specious reasoning, which she knew was false, and could not utter without hesitancy; the same commonplaces, repeated in different words, trying to give them the weight they lacked by emphasis and gesticulation. But Raimundo was not listening. In a few minutes he rose, dried away his tears, and left the room without a word. Clementina watched him in surprise. "I will wait for you," she called after him into the passage. Twenty minutes later he returned, carrying a parcel. "Here are your letters," he said with apparent calm, but his voice was thick and his face deadly pale. Clementina glanced at him keenly, not without some uneasiness. But she controlled herself, and said simply: "Thank you very much, Mundo. Now, we will burn them, if you please, in the kitchen." He made no reply. They went together to the cold, unfurnished kitchen, which no one ever used, and Clementina, with her own hand, laid the packet on the hearth. But suddenly, just as she was about to strike the match which Raimundo had given her, she paused. Then she said, with a smile: "Do you know that this is dreadfully prosaic? To burn my love-letters on a kitchen hearth! It seems to me that they might have a more romantic end. Shall we go and burn them in the fields? That will give us a last walk together and a fitter parting." "As you please," he said, in a scarcely audible voice. "Very well. Fetch a carriage." "I kept one." "Then come." Raimundo took up the packet of letters, and together they quitted the room whither they were never to return. The hackney-coach carried them along the road to the eastward. It was an afternoon in Spring, misty and fresh. Clementina had closed the blinds for fear of being seen; but when they were outside the Alcalá gate she asked Raimundo to let them down. Unluckily the moment was inopportune, for at that very moment they met an open carriage, in which sat Pepe Castro with Esperancita Calderón, now his wife. She had barely time to lean back in the corner and cover her face with her hand, and even so was not sure that they had not recognised her. Raimundo, by a great effort, had recovered some self-control, but not completely. Clementina did all she could to divert his mind, talking to him, like a friend, of indifferent matters, of their acquaintances, and taking it for granted that he would continue to visit at her house. When Castro and his wife had gone past she discussed them with much animation. "You see, I was right, Mundo. They have not been married three months, and Pepe and his father-in-law are squabbling over money matters. No one knows Calderón better than I. If he does not die before long, the poor children will be dreadfully hard up, for they will never get any money out of him." Raimundo replied to her remarks, affecting a calm demeanour, but there was a peculiar accent in his voice which the lady could not help noticing. It seemed foggy, as though it had passed through many tears. At last, in a very deserted spot, they bid the driver stop, and got out. "Wait for us here; we are going for a little walk," Raimundo explained. But then observing a doubtful glance in the man's eyes, he turned back when he had gone a few steps, and taking out a five-dollar note he handed it to him saying: "You can give me the change presently." They turned off from the high road and wandered away over the dreary deserted fields which stretch away to the east of Madrid. The ground is slightly undulating, but burnt and barren, cutting the horizon with a long level line--not a house, not a tree was in sight. Clementina's dainty shoes sank in the dust as they walked on in silence. Raimundo had no spirit to talk, and she, too, was oppressed by the sadness of the little drama, to which that of the landscape contributed; she had enough good feeling not to speak a word. Now and then she looked back to assure herself whether they could still be seen from the high road. When she thought they had gone far enough she stopped. "Why should we go any further?" she said. "Will not this place do?" Raimundo also stopped, but made no answer. He dropped the parcel on the ground and looked away--far away to the horizon. Clementina untied it, looked with some curiosity at her letters, all carefully preserved in the envelopes; then she made a little heap of them, and after waiting a minute or two for Raimundo to look round, finding that he did not move, she said: "Give me a match." The young man obeyed, and gave it her lighted, in perfect silence. Then he looked away again while Clementina set fire to the papers, and watched them burn one by one. The process took some minutes, and she had to turn the blazing fragments with her gloved hands to prevent their remaining half-burnt. Now and then she cast a half uneasy, half pitying glance at her lover, who stood as motionless and absorbed as a sailor studying the signs of the weather. When nothing remained but black ashes, Clementina rose from her stooping posture, waited a moment, not liking to intrude on Raimundo's deep abstraction, and at last, with a cloud of tender pathos on her beautiful face, hastily looked about her, went up to him, and laying her arm on his shoulder, said in a fond tone: "And now that we are alone for the last time, shall we not bid each other a loving farewell?" "How ought we to part?" he replied, looking at her and making a great effort to smile. "So!" she exclaimed, and she threw her arms round his neck, and covered his face with passionate kisses. Raimundo stood rigid. He let her kiss him many times, like an inert creature, and then his knees failed, and with a heartrending cry: "Oh Clementina, this is death!" he fell senseless on the ground. She was terribly frightened. There was no one to help; no water near. She raised his head, resting it on her lap, fanned him with her hat, and held a scent-bottle she had with her under his nose. He presently opened his eyes, and could soon stand up. He was ashamed of his weakness. Clementina was most affectionate and helpful. As soon as she saw that he was in a state to walk, she took his arm and said: "Let us go." And she tried to amuse him by talking of a little dance she meant to give, to which she urgently pressed him to come; he was on no account to fail her. "And on Saturdays, as usual, you know. You are to be sure not to desert me. In my house you will always be what you have been--my friend; and in my heart, so long as I live, you will fill the dearest place." Raimundo's only answer was a forced smile. Thus they made their way back to the spot where they had left the coach. As they drove back, still she talked, while he, as they got nearer to the town, turned even paler than before; nor could he even smile. Seeing him thus, with despair in every feature, Clementina at last ceased talking so lightly, and, moved with pity, she again kissed him tenderly. But he shrank from her touch; he gently pushed her away, saying: "Leave me alone--leave me. You only hurt me more." Two tears rose to his eyes and remained there without falling. At last they dried away, or returned to the hidden fount whence they had sprung. They reached the Alcalá gate once more. Clementina bid the driver stop at the corner of the Calle de Serrano: "You had better get out here. You are close to your own house." Raimundo, speechless, opened the door. "Till Saturday, Mundo. Do not fail me. You know I shall look for you." And she grasped his hand tightly. He, without looking at her, merely said: "Good-bye." He sprang out. The lady saw him walk up the street, staggering like a drunken man, and he did not once look round. THE END. PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO. LONDON AND EDINBURGH * * * * * Heinemann's International Library. EDITOR'S NOTE. There is nothing in which the Anglo-Saxon world differs more from the world of the Continent of Europe than in its fiction. English readers are accustomed to satisfy their curiosity with English novels, and it is rarely indeed that we turn aside to learn something of the interior life of those other countries the exterior scenery of which is often so familiar to us. We climb the Alps, but are content to know nothing of the pastoral romances of Switzerland. We steam in and out of the picturesque fjords of Norway, but never guess what deep speculation into life and morals is made by the novelists of that sparsely peopled but richly endowed nation. We stroll across the courts of the Alhambra, we are listlessly rowed upon Venetian canals and Lombard lakes, we hasten by night through the roaring factories of Belgium; but we never pause to inquire whether there is now flourishing a Spanish, an Italian, a Flemish school of fiction. Of Russian novels we have lately been taught to become partly aware, but we do not ask ourselves whether Poland may not possess a Dostoieffsky and Portugal a Tolstoï. Yet, as a matter of fact, there is no European country that has not, within the last half-century, felt the dew of revival on the threshing-floor of its worn-out schools of romance. Everywhere there has been shown by young men, endowed with a talent for narrative, a vigorous determination to devote themselves to a vivid and sympathetic interpretation of nature and of man. In almost every language, too, this movement has tended to display itself more and more in the direction of what is reported and less of what is created. Fancy has seemed to these young novelists a poorer thing than observation; the world of dreams fainter than the world of men. They have not been occupied mainly with what might be or what should be, but with what is, and, in spite of all their shortcomings, they have combined to produce a series of pictures of existing society in each of their several countries such as cannot fail to form an archive of documents invaluable to futurity. But to us they should be still more valuable. To travel in a foreign country is but to touch its surface. Under the guidance of a novelist of genius we penetrate to the secrets of a nation, and talk the very language of its citizens. We may go to Normandy summer after summer and know less of the manner of life that proceeds under those gnarled orchards of apple-blossom than we learn from one tale of Guy de Maupassant's. The present series is intended to be a guide to the inner geography of Europe. It offers to our readers a series of spiritual Baedekers and Murrays. It will endeavour to keep pace with every truly characteristic and vigorous expression of the novelist's art in each of the principal European countries, presenting what is quite new if it is also good, side by side with what is old, if it has not hitherto been presented to our public. That will be selected which gives with most freshness and variety the different aspects of continental feeling, the only limits of selection being that a book shall be, on the one hand, amusing, and, on the other, wholesome. One difficulty which must be frankly faced is that of subject. Life is now treated in fiction by every race but our own with singular candour. The novelists of the Lutheran North are not more fully emancipated from prejudice in this respect than the novelists of the Catholic South. Everywhere in Europe a novel is looked upon now as an impersonal work, from which the writer, as a mere observer, stands aloof, neither blaming nor applauding. Continental fiction has learned to exclude, in the main, from among the subjects of its attention, all but those facts which are of common experience, and thus the novelists have determined to disdain nothing and to repudiate nothing which is common to humanity; much is freely discussed, even in the novels of Holland and of Denmark, which our race is apt to treat with a much more gingerly discretion. It is not difficult, however, we believe--it is certainly not impossible--to discard all which may justly give offence, and yet to offer to an English public as many of the masterpieces of European fiction as we can ever hope to see included in this library. It will be the endeavour of the editor to search on all hands and in all languages for such books as combine the greatest literary value with the most curious and amusing qualities of manner and matter. EDMUND GOSSE. Recent Publications. =A MARKED MAN=. Some Episodes in his Life. 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HEINEMANN, 21 Bedford Street, W.C. * * * * * The following typographical errors were corrected by the etext transcriber: with s look of proud disdain=>with a look of proud disdain he passed for an accompished soldier=>he passed for an accomplished soldier same!" exclamed Cobo=>same!" exclaimed Cobo to see the prudish marquesa.=>to see the prudish Marquesa. knowlege of human nature=>knowledge of human nature saying with determined forboding=>saying with determined foreboding Like some other who were to be seen at the club every day=>Like some others who were to be seen at the club every day when she illtreats me=>when she ill-treats me Baro nwas=>Baron was Pepe Frias announced to the servant behind her=>Pepa Frias announced to the servant behind her Hand your's over to Pepe=>Hand yours over to Pepe very place occupied shortly before y=>very place occupied shortly before by "Antonio," he said, "We have come to quarrel with you very seriously."=>"Antonio," he said, "we have come to quarrel with you very seriously." the foremost place in you affections=>the foremost place in your affections borethe taint=>bore the taint "Becaue I will not allow it;=>"Because I will not allow it; he was by nature cheerful, warm-heated, and absent-minded=>he was by nature cheerful, warm-hearted, and absent-minded never stired an inch further=>never stirred an inch further exclamed Salabert in a triumphant=>exclaimed Salabert in a triumphant stand as canditate for Navalperal=>stand as candidate for Navalperal rejoicing ever the prospect of so many millions=>rejoicing over the prospect of so many millions indignant at these base inuendoes=>indignant at these base innuendoes On seeing her daugher the Duchess turned=>On seeing her daughter the Duchess turned greetings and and smiles=>greetings and smiles he said in in a lazy tone=>he said in a lazy tone but she repelled him with with=>but she repelled him with who do all the the real work=>who do all the real work far above her ancles=>far above her ankles * * * * * FOOTNOTES: [A] About £400. [B] Above 19,000,000 of dollars; about £4,000,000 sterling. [C] About £600. [D] About £80. [E] In the Roman Catholic Church. [F] From 10d. to 1s. 3d. [G] 1s. 7d.; its purchasing value is probably at least half as much again. [H] About £1100. 
33244	----	produced from scanned images of public domain material from the Google Print project.) MAXIMINA BY DON ARMANDO PALACIO VALDÉS AUTHOR OF "THE MARQUIS OF PEÑALTA" (_Marta y María_). _TRANSLATED FROM THE SPANISH BY_ NATHAN HASKELL DOLE. NEW YORK THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO. COPYRIGHT, 1888, BY THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO. I. Miguel reached Pasajes late Friday afternoon. On alighting from the train he found Ursula's boat moored to the shore. "Good afternoon, Don Miguel," said the boat-woman, showing genuine joy in her face, where the fires of alcohol were flaming more than ever brilliantly; "I was beginning to think that I should not see you again." "Indeed!" "How should I know?... Men are so queer about getting married!.... But, señorito, you can't imagine how glad everybody in the village was to hear about it!.... Only a few jealous women would not believe it.... How I will make 'em fume to-night! I'm going all around telling everybody that I myself brought you over to Don Valentín's." "Don't think of making any one fume," replied the young man, laughing; "but bend to your oars a little more." "Are you in a hurry to see Maximina?" "Of course I am." It was the twilight hour: the shadows clustering in the recesses of the bay had already crept far up on the mountains. On the few vessels at anchor the hands were busy loading and unloading their cargoes, and their shouts and the creaking of windlasses were the only sounds that disturbed the peacefulness of the place. Directly in front a few lights began to appear in the houses. Miguel did not take his eyes from one that gleamed faintly in the dwelling of the ex-captain of the _Rápido_. He felt a pleasant and delicious desire which from time to time made his lips tremble and his heart beat more rapidly. But no one as yet was in sight on the wooden balcony where so many times he had reclined, watching the arrival and departure of the ships. His eager face betrayed the thoughts that possessed him. Ursula smiled as her sharp eyes watched him covertly. He leaped on shore, dismissed the boat-woman, mounted the uneven stone stairway, and made his way through the single, crooked street of the village. As he reached the little square, he saw on the balcony of his sweetheart's house a figure which quickly disappeared. The young man smiled with joy, and with a rapid step made his way through the doorway. Without looking in at the tobacconist's shop he rapped on the door with his knuckles. "Who is it?" cried a sweet, mellow voice within, which echoed in his heart like heavenly music. "It is Miguel." The latch was raised; he pushed the door open and saw Maximina herself, with a candle in her hand, on the first landing of the stairway. She wore a dress of black and white plaid, and her hair was in a braid as usual. She was a little paler than ordinary, and around her soft blue eyes delicate circles were traced, showing the effect of her recent anxieties. She smiled and blushed at sight of Miguel, who in two bounds cleared the distance between them, and clasping her in his arms, imprinted a reasonable score of kisses on her face in spite of the girl's protestations and endeavors to tear herself away. "I am looking at you!" said a voice from overhead. It was Doña Rosalía. In spite of the jocose tone in which she spoke, Maximina was so startled that she let the candle fall, and they were left in perfect darkness, until Doña Rosalía, choking with laughter, came with a lamp; but her niece had disappeared. "Did you ever see a girl like her? She is going to be married to-morrow, and yet she is as bashful as though she had known you only since yesterday.... Most likely she has locked herself up in her room.... It will make you some trouble to get her out now!" Miguel went up to her room and called gently at the door. There was no answer. "Maximina," he said, with difficulty restraining his laughter. "I don't want to! I don't want to!" replied the girl, with amusing desperation. "But what is it that you do not want to do?" "I don't want to come out!" "Ah! you don't want to come out?... Then see here; the curé is not going to marry us with so much wood separating us!..." A few minutes of silence followed. Miguel put his mouth down to the key-hole, and said, lowering his voice:-- "Why won't you open the door, _tonta_[1]?... Does it make you feel bashful?" "Yes," whispered the girl, on the other side. "Don't be alarmed! Your aunt isn't here." After some time, and by dint of many persuasive words, she made up her mind to open the door. Even then she was blushing to her ears. Miguel captured her hands, and said, with a gentle reproach in his voice:-- "Come now, little rogue, why didn't you wait for me on the balcony?... Why, I looked for you there until I almost put my eyes out! But not a sign of Maximina!" "Yes, yes!" "What does 'yes, yes' mean? Did you wait for me?" "I have been on the balcony ever since dinner! I saw you get into the boat; I saw you talking and laughing with Ursula; and I saw you jump on shore, and then from the other balcony I saw you when you reached the square...." "That last I know you did.... But we shall see; when are you going to dismount from your high horse? Are you going to treat me this way after we are married?" "Oh, no!" They went down into the parlor, where they found Don Valentín, Adolfo, and the girls, who warmly welcomed the young man. The welcome extended him by the ex-captain was not unlike that of an uncommunicative whale; but there was something about him that made it evident that he was satisfied. Doña Rosalía at that instant came in; and when she saw Maximina, she could not refrain from laughing, whereupon the maiden dashed out of the room with all haste, and flew up the stairs like a hurricane: but Miguel succeeded in overtaking her before she reached her chamber. While he was exhausting all his powers of persuasion to induce her to return with him to the sitting-room, Doña Rosalía, vexed at her running away, called from below:-- "Leave her, Don Miguel; leave that foolish little goose! I don't see how any one can fall in love with her! ough! what a simpleton!" Of course Maximina, at this new indignity, began to cry; but Miguel was there to comfort her, and no one in the world could do so with greater success. After a little, the lovers came down again, and quite a little _tertulia_ or reception, composed of neighbors who dropped in to congratulate them, was held in the parlor. Doña Rosalía did not appear for some time. She was unquestionably annoyed with her niece because of her terrible crime of being bashful. The nucleus of the _tertulia_ was formed by a dozen young girls eager to see Miguel's gifts; and he, by refusing to accede to this desire, which he could scarcely understand, gave them an hour of real torture. At last Doña Rosalía called him aside and assured him that it would be the proper thing for him to exhibit them. The young man was persuaded to do this, and he dragged into the middle of the room his trunk and a grip-sack in which he had brought some jewels. He pulled out the two solitary dresses which he had brought for his bride: the one she was to wear during the ceremony; the other was her travelling-dress. Both aroused great admiration by their softness and elegance; the same with the set of diamonds and pearls. The village maidens could not handle and praise these trinkets enough, and they showed by the extravagance of their exclamations that they regarded the possession of such things as the greatest joy in the world. Maximina, standing behind, with her eyes wide open, looked on with more astonishment than curiosity; her young friends from time to time cast on her vivacious and questioning glances, to which she answered with a slight and unnatural smile, without losing the frightened expression from her face; this was even increased when she saw lifted out of the trunk her wedding-dress made of white silk trimmed with orange flowers. A deep color spread over her face, and neither the flush nor her trepidation departed from her during the evening. They spent the time in gayly singing and dancing to the music of the guitar. Don Valentín--oh, unheard of gallantry!--danced a _zorcio_ with a handsome maiden, who, by her persuasive eloquence succeeded in warming up his heels; but he had to give it up suddenly in disgust, owing to an excruciating attack of the gout which paralyzed his right foot. His sweet spouse consoled him by saying:-- "Fine employment that is for you!... Simply to show off!" Miguel danced the _giraldilla_, constantly taking Maximina for his partner. When they became tired, they would go and sit down together in some corner of the room and exchange few words, but numberless glances. The brigadier's son, seeing that his lady-love was suffocating, took a fan and began to fan her; but Maximina, noticing that they were watched and that some smiled, stopped him, gently saying:-- "I don't need to be fanned, thank you very much. You are much more heated than I...." "Why do you address me so formally?[2] Is that the way we ought to do?" "Well, then, _thou_ art more heated than I.... Fan thyself." At ten o'clock all departed, taking leave of the lovers, with smiles more or less malicious. "Good night, Maximina; sleep well."--"Your last night of maidenhood, dear! Beware! Your last night!" said one ancient matron, the mother of at least eleven sons. Maximina smiled, abashed. "_Adiós! adiós!..._ How it will pain us to have you leave us!" And a few of the young maidens kissed her again and again, with great manifestations of love. "Girl, don't you forget that this is your last night of maidenhood! Ponder on it! It is a solemn thing!" said the matron once more. Again Maximina smiled. Then the old woman frowned, and whispered to the one who was standing next her:-- "That child imagines that she is going on a pilgrimage! _Ay Diós!_ It is evident that she has not a grain of feeling. Marriage is a very serious affair ... very serious." And until she reached her own house she did not cease discoursing long and learnedly on the seriousness of this tie. Our lovers were left with Doña Rosalía and Don Valentín; the children had already gone to bed,--the youngest, Adolfo, whom his mother had been obliged to take to his room by main force and the promise to wake him on the next day in time to be present at the ceremony. Don Valentín likewise bade them good night and went to his room. Miguel and Maximina sat down on two low chairs, and began to whisper, while Doña Rosalía, still in bad humor, decided to knit until it should seem good to her to put an end to the session, which should be within a very few minutes. Miguel noticed that Maximina was absent-minded and somewhat nervous. "What is the matter?... I can see by thy face that something troubles thee.... Art thou not content to be my wife?" "Oh, yes! There is nothing the matter." "Then, why this absent-mindedness?" She hung her head and did not answer. Miguel insisted upon knowing:-- "Come, tell me, what are you thinking about?" "I want to ask a favor of you, ..." she whispered timidly. "Only one? I would like you to ask me five hundred, and that I might grant them!" "If I might ... if you would let me be married in one of my own dresses...." The young man remained for a moment lost in amazement: then he asked sadly:-- "Don't you wish to be married in the dress that I brought you?" "It would be very mortifying to me!" "Besides, it is the fashion to be married in a white dress; especially for maidens like you!" "Here it is not the fashion.... I should be mortified to death!" Miguel tried to persuade her, but in vain. After exhausting his arguments, which were not very varied, he was anxious to come to a settlement of the difficulty. But Doña Rosalía had noticed something, and lifting her head, she asked:-- "What does this mean? You were not quarrelling, I hope?" "Nothing, Doña Rosalía; Maximina does not wish to be married in the white dress,--because it would mortify her." These words instantly put the tobacconist's wife into a storm of fury:-- "And you take any notice of this blockhead's notions? How does she know what she wants, or what she does not want? Did you ever see the like?... Such a splendid dress as you have brought her too!... It must have cost a fortune!... And what does she want done with this dress?..." The brigadier's son, understanding what was passing through his sweetheart's mind, slyly took her hand, and gave it a hearty pressure. Maximina, who was confused and pained, recovered her courage. "There is no reason to be disturbed, Doña Rosalía, for the matter is not worth it. If Maximina does not wish to be married in white, it is simply because it is not the fashion here. The fault was on my side in having brought the dress without consulting her first. As to what is to be done with it, Maximina has given me an idea; she desires that it be presented to the Virgin of the Church of St. Peter." The girl, who had said nothing of the sort, pressed his hand to show her gratitude. Doña Rosalía was ambitious of having her niece's dress make a sensation in the village; consequently she still insisted that such a thing should not be done. Nevertheless, Miguel stood firm, taking his maiden's part, and arguing that she was right. Finally Doña Rosalía, unable to hide her indignation, swept out of the room, leaving them alone. Miguel shrugged his shoulders, and said to the girl, who was greatly disturbed:-- "Don't be worried, dearie. You are in all good rights my wife, and you are under no obligation to obey any one else." Maximina gave him a tender look of gratitude. And feeling that it was not proper for them to be absolutely alone, she arose, intimating that she wished to go to bed. It was necessary for them to be up bright and early the next morning. The hour for the ceremony was fixed at half-past five. Miguel also arose, although unwillingly, and his betrothed went to get him a candle from the kitchen. As she was on the point of handing it to him, he said in a jesting tone:-- "Art thou quite sure that we are to be married to-morrow?" Maximina looked at him with wide-open eyes. "You had better beware! for there is even now time for me to change my mind. Who knows but what I may make my escape this night, and when morning comes half the people may be absent from the wedding?" Maximina forced herself to smile. Miguel, who noticed how seriously she took his words, came to her relief, saying:-- "What an innocent little puss you are! Could it be possible that I would throw away my happiness! When a man is lucky enough to find it in this world, he must cling fast hold of it. Within a few hours nothing can separate us. _Adiós_--my _wife_!" The young man uttered these words as he started up stairs. From the top of the stairway he smiled down on the girl, who had stopped motionless at the parlor door, still evidently a little disturbed by the jest that he had made. "Till to-morrow! isn't it so?" Maximina nodded her head. That night was not one of sleeplessness for Miguel, as the night before a man's marriage, they say, is apt to be. Not a single sad foreboding passed through his mind; no fear, no impetuous eagerness; his determination was so firm and rational, it was so vigorously supported by his intellect and his heart, that there was no room for that unhealthy agitation and dread which attack us at the moment of adopting some weighty resolution. So far as Maximina was concerned, he was sure of being happy. So far as he himself was concerned, he would do his best to be happy. Once and forever dispossessed of the vainglorious desire of "making a brilliant marriage," he was convinced that no woman was better suited to him than this one. Never once did the fever of a hot and violent passion cause him any discomfort. The love that he felt was intense but calm; neither wholly spiritual, nor wholly material, but a union of both. As soon as he reached his room, he spent a few moments thinking about his betrothed, and then finding himself overpowered by drowsiness, he blew out his light and fell into deep sleep. Before it was five o'clock, the chamber-maid's voice woke him. It was still pitch dark, and would be so for some time. He lighted the candle, and dressed himself carefully. He was quick about it, though his hands trembled a little. As the solemn moment approached, he could not entirely conquer his nervous and impressionable nature. When he went down into the parlor, quite an assembly was already gathered; not only those who had been there the evening before, but others besides. All were dressed in their most brilliant attire. Doña Rosalía, who was to be the _madrina_, wore a dress of black merino, and was adorned with a few jewels of small value. Don Valentín, the _padrino_, had pulled out from the bottom of the trunk the dress-coat in which he had been painted when he became a ship's mate; it was a coat of ample circumference, with a narrow collar and very short sleeves: the ex-captain of the _Rápido_ wore it with the same grace and dexterity as he did his best shirt. In the starched and crimped bosom shone two large amethysts which he had bought in 1842 in Manilla; over his vest and around his neck hung his watch-chain; the watch was gold and had a seal adorned with opals. But it was in his feet that Don Valentín took the greatest pride: his wife had always boasted (because _he_ was wholly incapable of boasting about anything) that there were no others in the village so short and well-turned; wherefore, the old sailor, in honor of this solemn occasion, felt called upon to give such a shine to his boots that they equalled "the moons of Venice"; but solely for the purpose of affording the companion of his life a new and pure delight. The company missed several damsels, but the report went round that they were engaged in helping dress the bride. It was not long before she made her appearance, in a modest but elegant dark blue woollen dress trimmed with black velvet; she also wore the bridegroom's costly jewels, and a bunch of orange flowers in her bosom. When she entered the parlor, all the women kissed her, with the exception of her aunt, who, at the sight of the dress she wore, felt the terrible wound that she had received the evening before, open again. Maximina glanced at her timidly three or four times, and went of her own accord to kiss her. But she did not once look in the direction of Miguel, who, on the other hand, devoured her with his eyes, thoroughly understanding the feeling of bashfulness that possessed her in spite of her feigned calmness. The artistic young girls who had adorned her were far from satisfied with their work. They evidently felt tortured by those keen though insidious doubts that always attack the poet or painter during the last moments of creation. After they were all seated in their places, one would jump up and trip over deftly to set the diamond pin farther back, and another would approach her and give the sprig of orange blossoms "the least bit of a twist"; another would find it necessary slightly to rearrange the hair; and still another would smooth out a wrinkle in the dress, and another adjust it about the neck. In fact, there was a constant coming and going. Maximina allowed them to do as they pleased, and for all their efforts she thanked them with a smile. "See here, Don Miguel, you have not been to confession yet, have you?" inquired Doña Rosalía. "No; that is a fact: no one reminded me of it," replied the young man, suddenly rising. "And Maximina?" "I have already been." "Then let us be about it, gentlemen!" As he went out, he again gave Maximina a keen glance, which the girl pretended not to notice. As yet not even the first gleams of daylight tinged the eastern sky; it is true it had grown cloudy during the night, and the rain was still falling. With umbrella spread, and muffled in their great-coats, Miguel and Don Valentín made their way along the deserted street. Never had starry and diaphanous night in August seemed more beautiful to our hero: this early morning chill, damp and melancholy, remained graven on his heart as the loveliest of his life. The church offered a still more gloomy and lugubrious spectacle. They sent word to the curé, and it was not long before he came. He was an elderly gentleman, and, considering the importance of the wedding, answered with resignation the call at such an unusual hour. He led the young man gently by the hand to a dark corner of the temple, and there listened to his confession. Miguel was still on his knees before the priest when he heard the noise of the wedding procession as it entered the church with considerable tumult, and his heart melted within him, not with sorrow at having offended God, we must confess to his shame, but with sweet and delicious longing. After granting him absolution, the curé returned to the sacristy to robe himself, and Miguel joined his friends, without being able to catch sight of his bride. Only when the sacristan came to tell them to come to the grand altar, did he see her, accompanied by her aunt. The friends went forward, pushing their way, and met, without knowing how it was accomplished, at each other's side, near the altar and in front of the curé. Contrary to all expectations, Maximina appeared quite calm during the ceremony, and replied to the priest's questions in a ringing voice, which pleased the good man so much that he exclaimed:-- "That is the way to answer! That is something like!... Not like those prudish girls who are crazy to get married, and yet no one can get a word out of them!" It was not a pleasant morning to be out, but the parishioners of Saint Peter's were used to such things, and they smiled with satisfaction. The worthy father gave them his blessing, with his hands raised above them solemnly and majestically, imitating, so far as was possible, the attitude of Moses when he separated the waters of the Red Sea. Then began the mass; the newly wedded couple and the relatives fell upon their knees. When a certain point was reached, Doña Rosalía, who understood exactly how to act, arose and threw a chain around Maximina's head, asking Don Valentín to put the other end over Miguel's shoulder. When they were thus joined together, the son of the brigadier began to move away, gently pulling at the chain. Maximina had not yet given him a glance: she paid no attention to the first pull, supposing it to be accidental; but at the second she whispered, with a smile:-- "Be quiet!" Miguel pulled still harder. "For Heaven's sake do take that off!" When the service was over, those who were present, making quite a congregation, gathered around to offer them their congratulations: there were sly hand-shakings, circumspect pushing, convulsed sounds of laughter: every one was afraid of behaving unseemly in the church. When they came out, the dawn was just breaking; a few early risers gazed curiously out of their windows to see the procession pass. Miguel had remained behind with a group of men, and once more he lost sight of Maximina, who had gone on ahead with her friends. In Don Valentín's parlor a table was awaiting them most generously supplied with refreshments and wines, and artistically decorated. Miguel took chocolate with the witnesses; the bride had gone to her room, they said, to change her dress. In a short time he started to do the same. On one of the landing-places of the stairway he came upon his bride, with the maid buttoning her boots: both of them were startled; Maximina kept her eyes fastened on the girl's fingers; Miguel hesitated a moment, and then exclaimed, with the idea of saying something:-- "Ah! you are already dressed, then? I am going to do the same." And as though some enemy were at his heels, he went up stairs three steps at a time. They rejoined each other shortly after in the parlor. Maximina's gray travelling-dress and her hat, in the latest style, were very becoming to her. As the hour for their departure was now drawing near, the leave-taking began, accompanied by torrents of tears even more tempestuous than usual. On the part of the feminine sex it was a genuine flood; one young lady went so far as to faint away. Only the bride appeared serene and smiling; a fact which made her aunt unspeakably indignant, and caused her to form a very poor idea of her niece, as was shown by what she confessed afterwards to her friends:-- "What a lack of feeling! If only for the sake of appearances!" One of Maximina's young mates went to her, bathed in tears, and kissed her. "Aren't you weeping, Maximina?" "I can't," replied the poor child. Nevertheless, when her cousins, the daughters of Doña Rosalía, kissed her on the cheeks, crying, "We don't want you to go away, Maximina!" the deep flush that spread over her face and the peculiar smile that curled her lips were indications, for any one who knew her, that she was not far from turning on the flood-gates of her tears. All, or almost all, escorted the bridal couple down to the boat in which they were to embark; but only Don Valentín and two other friends, who found room in the row-boat, accompanied them to the station. It must be remarked that a girl belonging to the village went with the pair to Madrid, in the capacity of lady's maid: her name was Juana, and she was a fresh, strong, and rather attractive-looking damsel. Miguel, knowing his bride's character, had not wished that her maid should be an out and out _Madrileña_. After they were safely in the station, and the guard's stentorian voice was heard calling the passengers to the train, Don Valentín permitted himself the unwonted luxury of being moved. He embraced his niece tenderly, and kissed her effusively on her hair. Maximina likewise showed more agitation than at any time before; but even then she made an effort to smile. The engine whistled. The train moved out of the station. They were the only travellers in that compartment, and the young people took seats facing each other at one side: Juana, out of delicacy, sat down at the farthest end. The husband and wife looked into each other's eyes, and Miguel felt a sweet, gentle thrill of joy, a something unspeakable and heavenly, that caused his heart to beat violently. And after making sure that Juana's attention was called away by the sights from the window, he took his bride's hand and gave it a stealthy kiss, leaning over toward her with his whole body. But the hand--how vexatious!--was gloved. In a moment he hinted to her to take off the glove. Maximina, after letting him implore her by means of expressive pantomime, at last decided, with a laugh, to remove the glove; and the young man imprinted a host of warm kisses on the soft palm, all the while watching the maid out of the corner of his eye. Then the conversation became general between the three. Juana, who had never been beyond San Sebastian, was astonished at everything she saw, and particularly at the sheep: the hens also seemed to occupy her thoughts deeply. Miguel was assiduous in attentions to his bride. "Maximina, if your hat is in your way, you had better take it off.... Let me have it; we will hang it up there--so now it won't fall.... See here! you had better take off your heavy boots too. I have your thin shoes here in the hand-bag.... I asked your uncle for them.... Don't you want to put them on? I am afraid your feet will get cold.... Just wait a moment; I will wrap them up in my blanket...." And, kneeling down, he wrapped up her feet with the greatest care. Joy made them so social that in a little while the husband and wife and the maid were chatting and laughing like jolly companions. Maximina made long circumlocutions, so as not to address her husband directly, because she did not want to call him "you," and at the same time she was too timid to say "thou" to him. Miguel was aware of her efforts in this direction, but he did not help her any. At last, however, after a long time and much hesitation, in reply to his question, "Shan't we have some breakfast?" she took the fatal leap, and answered timidly, "Just as _thou_ pleasest." Miguel hastily raised his head and affected to be amazed. "Holá señorita! what familiarity is this? You said 'thou' to me!" Maximina blushed to her ears, and, hiding her face in her hands, exclaimed:-- "Oh! please don't speak to me so, for I won't do so again." "What a silly puss!" said the young man, pulling away her hands gently. "That would be amusing." Juana burst into a hearty fit of laughter. II. After they had breakfasted they found that they had no water. At the first stop, Juana got out, and came back with a tumblerful. There is some slight basis for the belief that during her short absence Miguel kissed his bride elsewhere than on her hand; but we have no absolute proof of it. At Venta de Baños four travellers entered the same compartment,--three ladies and a gentleman. All were upwards of forty. From what they said it was evident that they were brother and sisters; and they spoke with a decided Galician[3] accent. Miguel took the seat by his wife's side, and put the maid in front of them, and made up his mind to be very circumspect, so that the strangers might not suspect that they were newly married. Nevertheless, one circumstance could not escape them: the constant exchange of glances and the mysterious conversation kept up by the young people betrayed them beyond peradventure. The ladies laughed at first, then they whispered together, and finally they schemed to get into conversation with their companions; and in this they were speedily successful. It did not take them long to find out what they wanted to know; whereupon there sprang up, for some reason or other, a lively sympathy for Maximina, and they made it perfectly manifest, and overwhelmed her with attentions. The girl, who was not used to such things, appeared confused and embarrassed, and smiled with that timid, bashful look that was characteristic of her. This entirely won the hearts of the Galician ladies; they openly took her under their protection. They were all unmarried; the brother also. None of them had been willing to get married, "because of the grief which the mere idea of separation caused the others": they were unanimous in this assertion. As for the rest, how many proposals they had refused! One of them,--Dolores,--according to the other two, had been engaged six years to a law student in Santiago. When he finished his studies, Dolores for some reason or other had broken their engagement, and the young lawyer had gone home, where, in his indignation, he had immediately married the richest belle of the village. The second sister, Rita, had had several attachments, but her papa had objected to them. The young man who loved her was a poet; he was poor. Nothing could induce her papa to give up his opposition and accept him for a son-in-law. When least they thought of such a thing, he had in desperation disappeared from Santiago, after taking a tender farewell of Rita,--the lady objected to having the romantic details of this farewell related!--and nothing more was ever heard of him. Some supposed that he had perished in the claws of a tiger while searching for a gold mine in California. As for the third, Carolina, she was a regular flyaway! Her brother and sisters had never been able to tame her down. When at home they had the greatest reason to think she was in love and that the affair was becoming serious, _poum_! one fine evening she suddenly jilted her lover and took a new one in his place! Carolina, who was forty-five at the very lowest reckoning, became quite rosy when she heard this report, and exclaimed, with a fascinating smile:-- "Don't you heed what they say, Maximina! How silly that girl is!... To be sure I cannot deny that I like change; but who does not? Men have to be punished from time to time, for they are very bad! very bad! Don't you be vexed, Señor Rivera.... That is the reason why I said to myself, 'I shall not give my heart to any one whatever.'" "That means," said Rita, "that you have never been really in love!" "Very likely; as yet I have not been troubled with those anxieties and worriments which lovers, they say, suffer from. No man ever pleased me for more than a fortnight." "How terrible!" exclaimed Dolores and Rita, laughing. "Don't say such things, you silly girl!" "Why shouldn't I say what I feel, Rita?" "Because it isn't proper. Young ladies ought to be careful what they say!" "Come now, Carolina," urged Miguel, assuming great seriousness, "in the name of humanity I beg you to soften your hard heart and listen to some happy man!" "Yes; fine rascals you men are!" "Child!" cried Dolores. "Let her alone! let her alone!" interrupted Miguel. "In time she will come to feel how wrong it is! I am in hopes that it will not be long before some one will come and avenge all of us!" "Nonsense!" During this banter the brother, who was a fat gentleman, with long white mustaches, snored like a sea-calf. Maximina listened in amazement to all these things which she could scarcely comprehend, and she glanced at Miguel from time to time, trying to make out whether they were speaking in earnest or in jest. The Señoritas de Cuervo--for such was their name--were on their way to Madrid to spend the season--this was their custom every year: the remainder of the winter they spent at Santiago, and in the spring they went to a very picturesque little village, where they amused themselves in their own way, running like fawns across country, climbing trees to get cherries and figs and apples, drinking water from their hands, making excursions on mule-back to neighboring villages (what fun! what a good time they did have, _madre mia_!), and taking part in farm work, and drinking milk just brought in by the man from the milking. "This sister Carolina of ours becomes unendurable as soon as we get there. She sets out early in the morning, and no one knows anything about her till dinner time; and before dinner is fairly over, she is off again, and does not get back till night!" "How you do talk, Lola! I go out with the other girls to hunt for nests or wash clothes down by the river.... But you spend your mortal hours exchanging small talk with some silly gallant who dances attendance on you...." "Heavens! what a cruel thing to say. I must hope, Señor Rivera, that you will not put any credence in such nonsense, without any foundation in fact.... Just imagine! all the gallants in that place are farm hands!" "That makes no difference," replied Miguel. "Farm hands also have hearts and can love beautiful objects. I have no doubt that you have many a suitor among them." "As to that," replied Lola, with a blush, "if I must tell the truth--yes, sir, they are very fond of me. Every year, as soon as it is known that we have come, the young men make their arrangement to give me a serenade, and they even cut down a little tree so as to get in front of my window." "The serenade was not for you alone," interrupted Carolina, warmly.... "It is for all of us." "But the tree was mine," replied Lola, with some show of ill-temper. "The tree! very good; but not the serenade," replied the other, somewhat piqued. Lola gave her a sharp look, and went on: "Judge for yourself, Señor Rivera, whether it does not show that they are in love with me: when the engineers came to build a bridge, I said that I did not like the place where they had made their arrangements to put it, but I wanted it farther back, ... and as soon as the young men of the village heard what I had said, they made a formal visit to the engineers and told them that the bridge must be put where the señorita wanted it, and that no other site for it must be thought of, because they would put a stop to it; and as the engineers were not willing to change their plans, the result was, the bridge was not built till four years ago." "All this," said Miguel, "is not so much to your honor as to that of those intelligent young men!" "They are such nice boys!" "Nothing so sanctifies the soul as love and admiration," exclaimed Rivera, sententiously. Lola said, "Ah!" and blushed. These three ladies were dressed in an improbable, and, if we may be allowed the expression, an anachronistic style: their dresses were beautiful, picturesque, and even rather fantastic, such as suited only maidens of fifteen. Carolina wore her hair in two braids with silk ribbons in the ends, and constricted her flabby and wrinkled neck with a blue velvet band from which hung a little emerald crucifix: the others, in their attempt to be a little more fashionable, had their hair done up, but they wore just as many ribbons and other ornaments. The evening was already at hand. The Cuervo family proposed to have dinner, and hospitably invited their new-made friends to partake of the luncheon that they had brought with them; Rivera and his bride accepted, and likewise offered to share their provisions, and with all good-fellowship and friendliness they all set to work to make way with them, having first spread napkins over their knees. The brother, who had waked up just in time, fed like an elephant; during dinner time he made few remarks, but they were to the point: one of them was this:-- "I am a regular eagle as far as tomatoes are concerned!" Miguel sat in silent wonder for some time, but at last he began to appreciate the depth hidden in this hyperbolical sentence. A close intimacy had sprang up among them all. Dolores, not satisfied with calling Miguel by his Christian name, instead of his title, proposed that she and Maximina should go to the extent of addressing each other with "thou":-- "I cannot feel that a person is my friend unless I can 'thee and thou' her.... Besides, it is customary among girls." The bride smiled timidly at this strange proposition, and the Galician ladies, without further excuse began to make use of the second personal pronoun. But Maximina, though warmly urged, could not bring herself to such a degree of intimacy, and before she knew it, she dropped into the ordinary form,[4] whereupon the Cuervo ladies showed that they felt affronted; the poor child found herself obliged to make use of numberless round-about expressions to avoid addressing them directly. Miguel, in order to take a humorous revenge upon them for the annoyance that they caused his wife, began in turn to speak to them with great familiarity; and, though this for a moment surprised them, they took it in perfectly good part. Not satisfied with this, he soon took occasion to shake the white-mustachioed gentleman rudely by the arm, saying:-- "See here, old boy, don't sleep so much! Wouldn't you like a little gin?" Don Nazario--for that was his name--opened his eyes in sudden terror, drained the cup that was offered him, and immediately fell into another doze. It was really time for them all to do the same. So Miguel drew the shade of the lamp, and so "that the light might not trouble their eyes," he also doubled around it a folded newspaper. Thus the car was made dark; only the pale starlight gleamed in through the windows. It was a clear, cold January night, such as are peculiar to the plains of Castille. Each passenger got into the most comfortable position possible, snuggling down into the corners. Rivera said to his wife:-- "Lean your head on my shoulder. I cannot sleep in the train." The girl did as she was bidden, in spite of herself; she was afraid of incommoding him. All was quiet. Miguel managed to get hold of one of her hands, and gently caressed it. After a while, leaning his head over and touching his lips to his wife's brow, he whispered very softly:-- "Maximina, I adore you," and then he repeated the words with even more emotion, "_Te adóro, te adóro!_" The girl did not reply; but feigned to be asleep. Miguel asked with persuasive voice:-- "Do you love me? Do you?" The same immobility. "Tell me! do you love me?" Then Maximina, without opening her eyes, made a slight sign of assent, and added:-- "I am very sleepy." Miguel, perceiving the trembling of her hands, smiled, and said:-- "Then go to sleep, darling." And now nothing was to be heard in the compartment, except Don Nazario's snoring, in which he was a specialist. He usually began to snore in a deliberate and solemn manner, in decided, full pulsations; gradually it increased in energy, the periods became shorter and more energetic, and at the same time a sort of guttural note was introduced, which was scarcely perceptible at first; from the nostrils the voice descended into the gullet, rising and falling alternately for a long time. But, when least expected, within that apparently invariable rhythm, would be heard a sharp and shrill whistle, like the bugle blast of an on-coming tempest. And, in fact, the whistle would find an answer in a deep and ominous rumble, and then another still louder, and then another; ... then the whistling would be repeated in a more terrific fashion, and that would be drowned in a confused murmur of discordant notes fit to inspire the soul with terror. And this conflict of sounds would go on increasing and increasing, until at last, some way or other, it would be suddenly changed into an asthmatic and blatant cough. Then Don Nazario would heave a deep sigh, rest a few short moments, and continue his reverberant oration in measured and dignified tone. Miguel dozed with his eyes open. His imagination was thronged tumultuously by radiant visions, a thousand foregleams of happiness: life presented itself in sweet and lovely aspect before him, such as it had never hitherto assumed. He had amused himself, he had enjoyed the pleasures of the world; but ever behind them, and sometimes in the midst of them, he perceived the bitter residuum, the wake of weariness and pain which the demon of passion traces across the lives of his worshippers. What a difference now! His heart told him: "Thou hast done well! thou wilt be happy!" And his intellect, weighing carefully and comparing the value of what he had left behind with what he had chosen, likewise gave him its approval. For a long time he remained awake, feeling the weight of his wife's head resting on his shoulder. From time to time he looked down at her, and though he saw that her eyes were shut, he was inclined to think that she was not asleep. Finally sleep overcame him. When he opened his eyes, the compartment was already full of the early morning light. He looked at his wife, and saw that she was wide awake. "Maximina," said he, in a low voice, so as not to disturb the others, "have you been awake long?" "No; only a little while," said the girl, sitting up. "And why didn't you sit up?" "Because I was afraid of disturbing you if I moved." "But how much I would rather have had you wake me! Don't you know that I have been wanting to talk with you?" And the young couple began to converse in such low voices that they divined rather than heard each other's words; all the time, the Cuervo sisters, their brother, and Juana were sleeping in various and original positions. What did they talk about? They themselves did not know: words have a conventional value, and all of theirs, without a single exception, expressed the same idea. Miguel, cautious of speaking about themselves, because he noticed that it embarrassed Maximina, turned the conversation to some pleasing subject and tried to make her laugh, so that her natural bashfulness might wear away. Nevertheless, he took the risk of once asking her, with a keen glance:-- "Are you happy?" "Yes." "Aren't you sorry that you are mine?" "Oh, no! If you only knew!..." "Knew what?" "Nothing, nothing!" "Yes; you were going to say something: tell me!" "It was nonsense." "Tell me, then! I have the right now to know even the most trifling thing that passes through your mind." He was obliged to insist long and tenderly before he succeeded in finding out. "Come now; whisper it in my ear." And he adroitly led her on. Finally Maximina whispered:-- "I had a very miserable night, Friday." "Why?" "After you told me that you still had time to leave me, I could not think of anything else. I imagined that you said it with a peculiar meaning. I kept walking up and down the room all night. _Ay madre mia!_ how it made me feel! I was up before any one else in the house, and I tiptoed in my bare feet to your room: then I laid my ear to the key-hole to see if I could hear you breathing; but nothing! What a feeling of dismay I had! When the maid got up, I asked her with a real sense of dread if you had been called. She told me 'Yes,' and I drew a long breath. But still I was not entirely myself: I was afraid that when the curé asked if you loved me, you would say 'No.' When I heard you say 'Yes,' my heart gave a bound of joy, and I said to myself, 'Now you are mine!'" "And indeed I am!" exclaimed the young man, kissing her forehead. The train was now rolling along across the plains near Madrid. The Señoritas de Cuervo awoke; the daylight was not very flattering to their natural beauties, but a series of delicate manipulations which gave convincing proof of their artistic aptitude, quickly worked a change. From a great Russia-leather dressing-case they took out combs, brushes, pomade, hairpins, rice powder, and a rouge pot, and amid a thousand affectionate words and infantile caresses, they proceeded to arrange and retouch each other's toilettes with the most scrupulous care. "Come, child, stand still!... If you aren't careful, I shall pinch you.... Mercy, what a naughty girl you are!" "I am nervous, Lola, I am nervous!" "Everybody knows that you are going to see _somebody_ very soon, and I am not going to tell." "What a goose you are! Rivera will be sure to believe you!" Maximina, with her eyes opened wide, looked in amazement at this improvised toilette. The De Cuervos begged her to follow their example, and then she suddenly awoke from her stupor, and thanked them with embarrassment. Our travellers found _la brigadiera_ Angela[5] and Julia waiting for them at the station. The latter hugged and kissed her sister-in-law again and again; the former offered her hand, and also kissed her on the forehead. After taking leave of their travelling acquaintances, with a thousand friendly promises, they entered the carriage which _la brigadiera_ had brought. Julia insisted that her mother and the bride should occupy the back seat; she herself could not take her eyes from her new sister, and she held her hands, pressing them affectionately all the time. Maximina endeavored to conquer her timidity and appear affectionate, and by a mighty effort she succeeded. Miguel's step-mother showed herself affable and courteous, but still it was impossible for her to get entirely rid of that proud and scornful mien that was always peculiar to her. The bride from time to time cast fleeting and timid glances at her. On reaching the house, Julia ran ahead to show the way to the suite of rooms that were put at their disposal; she herself had arranged them with the greatest care. Not a single detail was lacking: never had forethought been more successful in providing all the necessities of a woman's life, from flowers and sewing-case to glove-buttoner and hairpins. Unfortunately Maximina could not appreciate these refinements of elegance and good taste: everything was for her equally new and lovely. Miguel met his sister in the corridor. "Where is Maximina?" "I left her in her room, taking off her wraps. She is waiting for her maid to bring her shoes." "Then I'm going to take off my things too, and brush my hair a little," said the young man, rather awkwardly. Julia stifled a laugh, and ran away. When Miguel reached his room, he took off his overcoat, and going to his wife, who was still in her gray travelling-suit, he pressed her to his heart, and kissed her again and again. Then taking her hand and drawing her to a chair, he seated her on his knees, and began to kiss her passionately. Maximina grew as red as a cherry, and though she was conscious that all this sort of thing was eminently proper, she managed gently to escape from his arms. Miguel, who himself felt rather confused, allowed her to get up and leave the room: he followed her shortly after. It was Sunday, and they had to go to mass. As _la brigadiera_ and Julia had already been, Maximina, Miguel, and Juana were the only ones to go, and they chose San Ginez. The maid, who would not have considered it as going to church at all if she did not have a full view of the priest from head to foot, made her way through the crowd and took her place near the altar. The young couple stationed themselves a little farther back. Never before had the incruental sacrifice seemed so beautiful to Miguel, and never had he taken so much joy in it, although his imagination did not wing its flight exactly in the direction of Golgotha, nor were his eyes always turned toward the officiating clergyman. Heaven, which is ever very merciful to the newly wedded, has ere this forgiven him these shortcomings. After breakfast Miguel proposed a walk through the _Retiro_[6]; the afternoon, though cold, was calm and clear. _La brigadiera_ did not care to accompany them, but what delight Julita took in helping her sister-in-law dress, and in giving the last touches to her toilette! She selected the dress for her to wear, and helped her put it on; she arranged her hair according to the fashion, fastened on her jewelry, and the flowers in her bosom, and even brushed her boots. She was rosy with delight in performing these offices. As soon as they reached the street, she walked along by her side, intoxicated with pride, in a sweetly patronizing way, as though saying: "Just behold this young creature, even younger than I am! And yet she is a married lady! Treat her with great respect!" Before reaching the Park, Miguel, accidentally looking back, saw in the dim distance of the Calle de Alcalá, diminished by the density of the ambient air, the delicate profile of Utrilla, that famous cadet of yore, and he said calmly to his wife:-- "Now, Maximina, though we seem to be mere private citizens going out for a walk to sun ourselves in the _Retiro_, still we have a military escort." Julita blushed. "An escort? I see no one," exclaimed Maximina, turning her head. "It is not so easy; but by and by I will give you the glass, and see if you will be able to make him out." Julita pressed her hand, and whispered:-- "Don't mind what this foolish fellow says." They were by this time in the Park, and Utrilla's profile was growing more and more distinct in the clear and delicious atmosphere slightly warmed by the sun. Maximina walked along, and gazed with a mixture of surprise and awe at the throng of gentlemen and ladies passing her, and impudently staring at her face and dress with that haughty, inquisitorial look which the Madrileños are accustomed to assume as they pass each other. And she even imagined that she heard remarks made about her behind her back:-- "That is a costly dress, yes, indeed! but that child does not have any style about wearing it! She looks like a little saint from the country." This did not offend her, because she was perfectly convinced of her insignificance by the side of such a _gran señor_ and _señora_; but it made her a little homesick not to see a single friendly face, and she half clung to her husband's side as if to seek shelter from the vague and unfair hostility which she saw around her. But as she glanced at him she saw that he too was walking along with a haughty frown, and that his face showed the same scornful indifference and the same bored expression with all the others. And her heart all the more sank within her, because she was not as yet aware that the sentiment in vogue in Madrid is hate, and that even if it is not felt, it is the thing to pretend to show it, at least in public. But it was not to be expected that our heroine should as yet have become versed in all these refinements of modern civilization. After they had walked around the Park several times, Miguel said to his sister:-- "See here, Julita, why hasn't Utrilla joined us, now that mamma isn't with us?" "Because I do not wish it," replied Julita, quick as a flash and with great decision. "And why don't you wish it?" "Because I don't!" Miguel looked at her a moment, with a quizzical expression, and said:-- "Well, then, just as you please." During their walk Utrilla, with incredible geometrical skill, cut a series of circles, ellipses, parabolas, and other incomprehensible and erratic curves, the focus of which was constantly our friends. When they went home, he took a straight line, so well reckoning the measure of his powers that the outline of his silhouette all the way just came short of being blotted out on the edge of the horizon. Before going into the house they went to the Swiss restaurant[7] to drink chocolate. While they were there, Rivera saw for a single instant the cadet's face pressed against the window-pane. "Julita, won't you let me go out and ask that boy to take chocolate with us?" "I don't wish you to! I don't wish you to!" exclaimed the young lady, in an almost frantic tone. There was nothing left for it but lo let her have her own way and torture the unhappy son of Mars. "Maximina, I suppose that you don't know," said the cruel little Madrileña, as they were going into the house, "what we call such lads as the one who followed us to the door!" "No; what?" "_Encerradores._"[8] And laughing, she ran up stairs. Dinner passed in social and friendly converse. _La brigadiera_ was beaming that day, as Miguel used to say; she talked a great deal for her, and went so far as to relate in her pleasant Seville accent a number of anecdotes about people of note in Madrid. But when they came to dessert, Maximina began to feel somewhat uneasy, because it had been agreed among them all that they should stay at home that evening, and go to bed betimes, for they were all tired, especially _la brigadiera_ and Julita, who had arisen so early that morning. The problem of getting up from the table and retiring appeared terribly formidable to the young girl of Pasajes. Fortunately, _la brigadiera_ and Julita were both in good humor; dessert was taken leisurely, and no one beside herself noticed it. As the moments passed, her embarrassment increased, and she felt a strange trembling come over her, preventing her, in spite of herself, from taking part in the conversation. And, indeed, just as she feared, the moment came when the conversation began to languish. Miguel, in order to hide the small modicum of embarrassment which he also felt, did his best to set it going again, and his success was remarkable for a quarter of an hour. But the end inevitably came at last. _La brigadiera_ yawned two or three times; Julita looked at the clock, and saw that it was half-past nine. Maximina fixed her eyes on the table-cloth and played with her napkin-ring, while her husband, overcome by a decided feeling of awkwardness, made his chair squeak. At last Julita jumped up suddenly, hurried from the dining-room, and immediately returned with a small candlestick in her hand, quickly went to her sister-in-law and kissed her cheek, saying, "Good night."[9] And she ran out of the room again, with a smile on her lips to hide the embarrassment which she felt in common with the others. "Well, young people," said _la brigadiera_ arising with emphasis, "let us retire; we all feel the need of rest.... Isabel, make a light in the guest chamber." Maximina, blushing to her ears, and scarcely able to move, owing to her timidity, went to kiss her. Miguel did the same; and though he felt a genuine sense of awkwardness, he cloaked it under the smile of a man of the world. III. Miguel, though he had as yet said nothing about it, had made up his mind to live in a separate house, though it should be near his step-mother's. When Julita learned this decision, she felt deeply grieved, and could not help being indignant with her brother. It was not long, though, before she came to see that he was right. _La brigadiera_ treated Maximina with all the kindness of which she was capable; Julita overwhelmed her with attentions and caresses, but, nevertheless, it was impossible to overcome her diffidence. She did not dare ask for anything which she wanted, and so time and again she went without it. At table, when she wished to be helped to anything, the most that she would do would be to give Miguel a covert hint to have it passed. She never thought of giving any orders to the house-servants; only her maid Juana she ventured to call to her aid in the various requirements of her position. Miguel began to feel a little annoyed about it, because he could not help imagining that his wife, in spite of her happy face, was not very well contented where she was, and he had even gently chided her for her lack of confidence. One day not long after their arrival, as he was coming in from out of doors, and was just about going to his rooms, Juana called him aside, with an air of great mystery, and said:-- "Señorito, I want to tell you something that you ought to know.... La señorita has been used to have a lunch when she was at home.... And here she does not like to ask for it.... To-day she sent me out to buy a few biscuits.... See, I have them here." "Why, my poor little girl!" exclaimed Miguel, in real grief. "But how foolish of her!" "Don't for Heaven's sake let her know that I told you, for then she would not trust me any longer." "How careless I have been." And he went to his wife's room, saying:-- "Maximina, I have come in hungry as a bear; I can't wait till dinner time. Please run down to the dining-room and tell them to bring me up some lunch." "What would you like?" "Anything--whatever you had for your lunch." The young girl was embarrassed. "The fact is ... I ... I have not had any lunch to-day." "Why not?" exclaimed Miguel, with a great show of surprise. "Why, here it is almost six o'clock.... Didn't they bring you anything? See here, Juana, Juana" (calling in a loud voice), "call Señorita Julia...." "What are you going to do? for Heaven's sake what are you going to do?" cried the girl, full of terror. "Nothing; merely to find out why they have not brought you any sweetmeats, or a piece of pie, or whatever you take...." "But I did not ask for anything!" "That makes no difference; it is their business always to bring you whatever you are used to having." "What did you want, Miguel?" asked Julia, coming in. "I wanted to ask why it was that Maximina hasn't been served with lunch, and here it is almost six o'clock." Julia, in her turn, was confused. "Why, it was because ... because Maximina doesn't take lunch." "What do you mean ... doesn't take lunch?" exclaimed Miguel, in astonishment. "I asked her about it the very first day, and she told me that she was not in the habit of taking lunch." Miguel gazed at Maximina, who blushed as though she had been detected in some heinous crime. "Then I will tell you that she does," he said, raising his voice and turning upon Julia with stern countenance. "I tell you that she always is accustomed to have one, and you have done very wrong, knowing her disposition, not to insist upon it, or at least not to have asked me about it." "For Heaven's sake, Miguel!" murmured Maximina, in a tone of real anguish. Julia flushed deeply, and turning on her heels, hastened from the room. Maximina remained like one petrified. Her husband, with a frowning face, strode up and down the room several times, and then followed his sister and went straight to the dining-room, where he found her very melancholy, taking out some plates. Giving her a caress, and bursting into a laugh, he said:-- "I knew well that Maximina did not ask for lunch. Don't mind what I said to you. I put her in this painful position to see if I could not cure her of her bashfulness." "Then you had better be careful! your gun went off at the wrong end, for it was I whom you hit!" answered the young girl, really vexed. "And so you are trying to make it up by flattery!" "Hello! We aren't jealous, are we?" "You would like to have me be, you silly fellow." "Well, I confess that I should," said Miguel, taking her in his arms and giving her a little bite on the neck. "It seems to me that jealousy has made its appearance." "Stop! stop it! you goose!" she replied, trying to escape from him. "Can't you behave, Miguel? Let me alone, Miguel!" And after a violent struggle she tore herself away from her brother's arms, and ran angrily from the room, while her brother stayed behind, laughing. In the days that followed it became evident that Maximina had won the good graces of every one in the house. Nor could it have been otherwise, considering her sweet, sensible, and modest nature. Nevertheless, Miguel could not help feeling somewhat annoyed that advantage should be taken of this, and that her wishes were not in the least consulted, but that the programme for the day--walks and drives, theatres, shopping and calls--should be laid out without even asking her if she would not prefer to stay at home. This largely hastened his departure, and he selected a very large and handsome flat in the neighborhood. It was rather beyond his means, but he counted on making up the extra amount by cutting off superfluities. Our hero found great amusement in going with his wife to purchase the furniture that was needed. The edge of his enjoyment, however, was dulled by the fact that _la brigadiera_ and Julia were very apt to join them, and then of course their right of choice was abrogated, and even the expression of opinion was denied them. Miguel was not a little disturbed by this, and therefore, whenever it was possible, avoided having his step-mother accompany them; but to his surprise, Maximina did not even then show herself any better satisfied nor disposed to give her views. It seemed as though she were indifferent to everything, and were unfavorably impressed by a luxury to which she had never been accustomed. From time to time she ventured timidly to say that such and such a wardrobe or sofa was pretty, but "very expensive!" Miguel several times felt impatient at her indifference, but quick repentance seized him when he saw how much it affected her if he spoke curtly to his wife, and he merely rallied her on her economical tendencies. What pleased Maximina most in these excursions was to walk with her husband alone through the streets; but still, in spite of all his entreaties, she could not bring herself to take his arm in the daytime. "It would make me feel embarrassed; everybody is looking at us." "What they are surprised at is, that I ever fell in love with such an ugly piece of humanity!" Maximina lifted her big eyes to him with a timid smile, and looked her gratitude. "I am surprised myself ... when I see so many pretty women all around; I can't imagine how you happened to choose me...." "Because I am famous for my bad taste." "That must be it." Miguel with real feeling secretly gave her hand a hearty squeeze. When it was evening, the case was very different. Then she consented to lean on his arm, and did not try to hide the immense pleasure that it gave her. But if they came into the glare of a shop window, she would find some excuse to withdraw her arm. One night when they went out, Miguel, either through thoughtlessness or as a joke, did not offer her his arm. After a while Maximina, as though adopting an energetic resolution after long hesitation, suddenly took his arm. Miguel looked at her and smiled:-- "_Holá!_ who taught you to take what belonged to you?" The girl hung her head and blushed, but she did not let go. _La brigadiera_ found her step-son's wife very much to her mind, although she felt sorry that he had stooped so low; thus she expressed herself to Julia and her friends: she said nothing to Miguel, but she did not leave him in doubt as to her favorable opinion. Nevertheless, he did not become any easier in mind, because he perceived that his step-mother was beginning to exercise over his young wife the same absolute and tyrannical power as over Julia, only, if anything, more openly, owing to the more gentle and timid nature of the former. Nor could he deny that affection in such people as _la brigadiera_ is always in direct proportion to the degree of submission shown by those with whom they come into relationship. One afternoon when Julia had just left their room, Maximina exclaimed in an outburst of enthusiasm:-- "How I do like your sister!" Miguel gave her a keen glance:-- "And mamma?" " ... I like her too," replied the young wife. He asked her no more questions, but that very day the son of the brigadier told the landlord that he should not be able to take the third floor of that house, and chose another in the Plaza de Santa Ana. The excuse that he gave his family for this change was, that he could not live so far away from the office of his paper, now that he was going to take a more active part in the editing of it. And in truth he did not regret it; it was not long before he became convinced of the wisdom of his decision, and congratulated himself upon it. It happened that one day after he had been superintending the arrangement of his new quarters, he met Maximina, and saw that her eyes were red as though she had been weeping. His heart told him that something had gone wrong, and he inquired with solicitude:-- "What is the matter? You have been crying!" "No," replied the girl, with a smile. "I have just been washing my face." "Yes; you washed your face, but you had been crying. Tell me! tell me quick, what was it?" "Nothing." "Very well, then," replied the young man, with determination; "I will find out." And he did; Juana told him, though with some confusion of detail, what had taken place. "Just listen, señorito; apparently _la señora_ told the señorita several days ago that she did not like it for her to be so late about getting dressed, because there might be callers. Ever since, the señorita has got ready in good season, but to-day she somehow forgot about it, and _la señora_ scolded her...." "What did she say?" "I don't know. _La señorita_ did not want to tell me ... but she cried hard enough." Miguel went to his room, flushed with anger. "Maximina, get ready and pack your trunks.... We are going to leave this house this very moment.... I cannot allow any one to make you cry." The young woman sat looking at her husband with an expression rather of fright than of gratitude. "But suppose no one made me cry.... I cried without any reason for it.... I often do so.... You can ask my aunt if that is not so...." "Nonsense! we are going this very moment." "Oh, Miguel! for Heaven's sake don't do so." "Yes; let us go!" Maximina threw herself into his arms, weeping. "Don't do this, Miguel! don't do this! Quarrel with your mother for my sake? I would rather die!" The young man's anger cooled down a little, and at last he agreed to say nothing about his vexation, though it was decided that they should go on the following day and sleep at their new rooms. This was done; but _la brigadiera_ was not blinded to the facts, and she easily saw through the motives that led Miguel to hasten his departure. It is needless to say that from that time Maximina in her eyes lost a large part of her appreciation. The carpets were laid in their apartments in the Plaza de la Santa Ana, but as yet there was little furniture; only the dining-room, one dressing-room, and their chamber were in order, and that not entirely; chairs were scattered about over the rest of the house, and this and that wardrobe and mirror were as they had been left. Nevertheless, Miguel and Maximina found it delightful. At last they were by themselves and were masters of their own movements; they were intoxicated with the delight of their freedom. This feeling of being in his own house was fascinating to Miguel; he looked upon it as something new and extraordinary. Maximina wanted to make the bed herself, but alas! the mattress was so heavy that she could not turn it. Seeing that she was getting flushed with exertion, Miguel took hold and helped her get it into shape, laughing heartily all the time, though he could not have told why. Now it happened that our young couple had forgotten some of the things that were indispensable for living; among others, the lamps. When darkness came on, Juana had to go out in all haste to buy candles and a few candlesticks, so that they could see to eat their supper. This first meal all to themselves was delicious. Maximina almost always had a tremendous appetite, which she felt to be a fault, and tried to hide it, so that she was apt to leave the table, still hungry. But now, with only her husband present, and thinking that he would not notice it, she put on her plate as much as she wanted. When they were through, Miguel said:-- "You have done well! you have eaten much more than you did during the days that we were at mamma's." Maximina flushed as though she had been detected in doing something wrong. Instantly perceiving what was passing through her mind, Miguel came to her aid:-- "Come now; I see that you did not eat there because you were so timid.... You must know that nowadays it is considered fashionable to eat a good deal.... Besides, there is nothing that gives me so much pleasure as to see any one have a good appetite; especially if I am fond of that person! Consequently, if you want to give me a pleasure, you must try to keep it up.... As far as poor stomachs are concerned, mine is sufficient in one house." That evening they determined to stay at home; they went from the dining-room to the library, which as yet was entirely unfurnished, since Miguel wished to take his own time and consult his own taste in selecting the furniture for it. But in the dressing-room there was no fireplace, while here there was one. Juana kindled the fire and lighted a couple of candles. Miguel soon blew them out, preferring to let the fire alone light them. He wanted to go and get a couple of easy-chairs from the parlor, but Maximina said:-- "Get one for yourself, and not for me.... You will see I am going to sit down on the floor, for I like it better." No sooner said than done; she sat down gracefully on the carpeted floor. Her husband looked at her and smiled. "Well, then; I am not going to get the chairs at all; I don't want to do otherwise than you do." And he sat down by her side in front of the fireplace, the flames of which lighted up their smiling faces. The husband took his wife's hands, those plump hands, hardened but not injured by work, and passionately kissed them again and again. The wife did not want to be less affectionate than her husband, and after a little hesitation she took one of his and raised it to her lips. This little touch of innocence delighted Miguel, and he laughed. "What makes you laugh?" asked the girl, looking at him in surprise. "Nothing ... pleasure!" "No; you laughed in a naughty way.... What were you laughing at?" "Nothing, I tell you.... It's all your imagination." "But I tell you that you were laughing at me! Have I done anything amiss?" "What could you have done, _tonta_? I laughed because it is not customary for ladies to kiss the hands of gentlemen!" "But don't you see.... I am not a lady! and you are my husband!" "You are right, ..." said he, kissing her; ... "you are right in all that you say. Always do what your heart prompts you to do, as just now, and you need not fear of making any mistake." The bluish flames danced gayly over the top of the coals, rising and disappearing every instant, as though they were listening to the words spoken by the young couple, and then hurrying off to report them to some gnome of the fire. From time to time a bit of burning cinder would break off from the glowing mass, fall through the grate, and come rolling down at their feet. Then Maximina would wait till it had cooled a little, pick it up in her fingers, and toss it into the coal-hod. The only sound to be heard was the heavy rumble of carriages driving to the theatre. The conversation between husband and wife kept growing more and more lively and free. Maximina gradually lost her feeling of timidity, through the effect of Miguel's constant endeavors, and she summoned up her courage to ask him about his past life. The young man answered some of her questions frankly; others he did not hesitate to parry. Nevertheless, the young woman gathered that her husband had not been altogether what he should have been, and she was terrified. "Ay, Miguel! how could you ever have been audacious enough to kiss a married woman? Aren't you afraid that God will punish you?" The young man's face instantly darkened; a deep, ugly frown furrowed his brow, and for some time he remained lost in thought. Maximina looked at him, with her eyes opened wide, and could not understand the reason for such a change in his expression. At last, looking at the fire, he said, in a rather hoarse voice:-- "If such a thing happened in my case, and I knew of it, I am certain what I should do.... The first thing would be to turn my wife out of doors, whether it were night or day, the moment I found it out...." Poor Maximina was startled at such an outburst, as brutal as it was unexpected, and she exclaimed:-- "You would do well. Heavens! how shameful for a woman to be so brazen!... How much better it would be for her to die!" The frown vanished from Miguel's brow; he looked tenderly at his wife, and feeling that such a talk was both useless and out of place, he kissed her hand, and said:-- "Why should we need to talk about the evil things that are done in the world? Fortunately, I have found a means of salvation: it is this hand; I will cling hold of it and be sure of being true and pure all my life long." "You ought to ask forgiveness of God." "I ask forgiveness of God and you, too?" "As for me, I freely grant it." "Then God will, also." "How can you know that?... Ah, how foolish I am! I had forgotten that you went to confession only a few days ago." "Yes; that was the way," said Miguel, who had likewise forgotten about it. Afterwards, they talked about their domestic arrangement, their furniture, and the servants that they needed to hire. Maximina argued that Juana and a cook would be sufficient. Miguel wanted another girl to do the sewing and laundry work. It was for this reason that he explained to his wife the extent of their resources. "I have four thousand _duros_[10] income, but I want to let my sister and mamma have a thousand, so that they may live decently; ... with three thousand _duros_ a year we can get along first-rate." "Oh! indeed we can.... Why don't you let your mamma and sister have half? Just think; they are used to luxury, and I am not.... I can get along with any kind of clothes." "It is because I do not wish you to get along with any kind of clothes, but I want you to dress suitably." "If you only knew how much it would please me to have you give half to your sister." "It is impossible.... We must remember the possibility of children." "Still, you would have a good deal left." "You don't realize how much it costs to live in Madrid, dear." After a moment of reflection he added:-- "On the whole, we won't do either; we will split the difference. I will allow them thirty thousand _reales_, and we will content ourselves with fifty thousand. What I am afraid of is, that I shall get a rascally brother-in-law who will run through the property." Thus chatting, they spent the time till ten o'clock, and then they decided to go to bed. Miguel arose first and helped his wife to her feet; they lighted the candle and went to their room. Maximina, according to custom, "blessed" the chamber, repeating a number of prayers which she had learned in the convent. Then they tranquilly went to sleep. Just before dawn Miguel thought that he heard a singular noise at his side, and woke up. Instantly he was aware that his wife was kissing him on the neck, again and again, very gently, evidently with the idea of not disturbing his slumber; then, in an instant, he heard a sob. "What is it, Maximina?" he asked, quickly turning over. The girl's only answer was to throw her arms around him, and burst into a passion of tears. "But what is it? Tell me quick! What is the matter?" Choking with sobs, she managed to say:-- "Oh! I just had such bad dreams!... I dreamed that you turned me out of the house." "Poor little darling!" exclaimed Miguel, fondling her tenderly; "your mind was impressed by what I said last evening.... I was a stupid blunderer!" "I did not--know ... what it was--How I suffered, _vírgen mia_! I thought I should die! If I had not waked up I should have died!... But you are not stupid.... I am, though!" "Well, we both are; but calm yourself," he said, kissing her. In a few moments both were sound asleep again. IV. Unusual silence reigned in the editorial rooms. Nothing was heard except the scratching of steel pens on paper. The editors were seated around a great table covered with oil-cloth; two or three, however, were writing at small pine tables, set in the corners of the room. By and by one who had a beard just beginning to turn gray, raised his head, and said:-- "Tell me, Señor de Rivera, was not the motion determined upon for the eighteenth?" Miguel, who was writing at one of the special tables, replied without lifting his head:-- "Señor Marroquín, I can't advise you too often to be more discreet. Try to realize that all our heads are in danger, from the humblest, like Señor Merelo y García's, up to the most stately and glorious, like our very worthy chief's." The editors smiled. One of them inquired:-- "And what has become of Merelo? He has not been here at all yet." "He can't come till twelve," replied Rivera. "From ten till twelve he is always engaged in plotting against institutions in the Café del Siglo." "I thought that he was in Levante." "No; he goes there last from two till three." The first speaker was the very same Señor Marroquín of perpetual memory, Miguel's professor in the Colegio de la Merced, a born enemy of the Supreme Creator and a man as hirsute as a biped can possibly be. This was how he happened to be here:-- One day when Miguel was just finishing his breakfast, word was brought to him that a gentleman was waiting to see him in the library. This gentleman was Marroquín, who in his appearance resembled a beggar; he was so poor, dirty, and disreputable. When he saw his old pupil, he was deeply moved, strange as it may appear, and then told him with genuine eloquence that he had not a shilling, and that he and his children were starving to death, and at the end he begged him to find a place for him on the staff of _La Independencia_. "I am not the owner of the journal, my dear Marroquín. The only thing that I can do for you is to give you a letter to General Count de Ríos." He gave him the letter, and Marroquín presented himself with it at the general's house; but he had the ill fortune to go at a most inopportune moment when the general was raging up and down through the corridors of his house, like one possessed, and calling up the repertoire of objurgations for which he had been so distinguished when he was a sergeant. The reason was that one of his little ones had drunk up a bottle of ink, under the impression that it was Valdepeñas. Whether oaths and invectives have any decisive influence upon events or not, we are unable to state; but the general used them with as much faith as though they had been a powerful antidote. The victim was leaning his poor little head against the partition, shedding a copious flood of tears. "What have you brought?" roared the count, casting a wrathful look upon Marroquín. "This letter," replied the poor man, offering it with trembling hand. "Vomit!" roared the general, with flaming eyes. "What?" asked the professor, timidly. "Vomit, child, vomit! or I will shake you out of your skin!" bellowed the illustrious chief of Torrelodones, seizing his son by the neck.... "And what does the letter say?" "It is from Señor Rivera, asking a position on _La Independencia_ for one who admires you." "Can't you? Then put your fingers in your mouth!.... Señor Rivera knows perfectly well that there is no position vacant; everything is full, and I am tormented to death with applications.... Let me see you stuff your fingers in, you little rascal, or I will do it myself!" Marroquín acted prudently, by quietly opening the door and slipping out. Afterward Miguel spoke to the general at a more propitious moment and succeeded in getting Marroquín a place on the staff at a monthly salary of five hundred reales.[11] Among the other editors of _La Independencia_ was an apostate and liberal priest who had let his beard grow long, and used to tell his friends secrets of the confessional when he had been drinking. He was one of Marroquín's intimates: both had the same grudge against the Divinity, and both were working enthusiastically to free humanity from its yoke. Nevertheless, one day he actually became ready to quarrel with the hirsute professor for turning the Eucharist into ridicule, which confirmed the former in his idea that "the priest was changing his views." His name was Don Cayetano. One other of the editors was a light-haired, handsome, and bashful young man, whose seat was in one of the corners of the room, and he lifted his head only when he overheard some brilliant sentence, for such things aroused his frantic admiration. His articles were always a mosaic of sonorous, titillating euphemisms, and adjectives, which formed a large proportion of Gómez de la Floresta's repertory: he played with them like a juggler; if any one desired to make him happy, he could find no easier way than by inventing some metaphor or making use of some harmonious adjective. Rivera, who knew this weakness of his, used to indulge him in it. "This afternoon, gentlemen, I saw a woman whose glance was as bright as a Damascus blade." Gómez de la Floresta's face would flush with pleasure, and he would look up with a smile of congratulation:-- "That means that it was a cold and cutting glance!" "Her skin was smooth and brilliant with marble lines; her hair fell like a golden cataract upon her swan-like neck, which was bound around with a diamond necklace, brilliant as drops of light...." "Drops of light! How felicitous that is, Rivera! how felicitous!" "She was a woman capable of making life Oriental for a time." "That is it! Taking refuge with her in a minaret, breathing the perfumes of Persia, letting her pearly fingers caress our locks, drinking from her mouth the nectar of delight!" "I am delighted, Señor de Floresta, to see that you are consistent. Let us put a stop to it, nevertheless. You have been having an attack of phrases on the brain, and I fear a fatal termination." The editor smiled in mortification and went on with his work. A slender young man, with prominent cheek bones, almond-shaped eyes, and awkward gait, came in, making a great confusion, and humming a few strains of a waltz; he went up to the table where Miguel was writing, and giving him a slap on the shoulder, said, with a jolly tone:-- "_Holá_, friend Rivera!" Miguel, without looking up, replied very solemnly:-- "Gently, gently, Señor Merelo! gently, we are not all on a level!" The editors roared with laughter. Merelo, a little touched, exclaimed:-- "This Rivera is always making jokes.... Now, señor, ..." he went on to say, flinging his sombrero on the table.... "I have just this moment come from the tariff meeting at the Teatro del Circo...." "Who spoke?... Who spoke?" was asked from various parts of the room. "Well, Don Gabriel Rodríguez, Moret y Prendergast, Figuerola, and our chief; but the one who made the best speech was Don Felix Bona." "Man alive! and what did he say?" "Well, he began by saying that he ... the most insignificant of all that were there...." "Señor Merelo! and is it possible that you did not protest against such a statement?" asked Miguel from his table. Merelo looked at him without seeing the force of his remark; but finally feeling the hidden prick of sarcasm, he made up a disgusted face and went on, affecting to scorn it:-- " ... That he had come there to speak in the name of Commerce at least...." "But, friend Merelo," interrupted the ex-curate, who greatly delighted in poking fun at the reporter, ... "you surely ought to have protested against his claim to humility." Merelo could to a certain point put up with Rivera's raillery, since he recognized his superiority, but the priest's went against his nerves. And so, full of wrath, he put his hands together after the manner of priests during mass, and intoned:-- "_Dominus vobiscum!_" A general laugh went round among the editors. The curé flushed up to his ears, and, greatly disgusted, tried to shoot the same jest again, only winging it with a sharper point; but the reporter, who was not remarkable for his ingenuity, kept replying:-- "_Dominus vobiscum!_" And his intonation was so comical and clerical that the newspaper men had to hold their sides with laughter. The priest finally became so irritated that instead of jests he actually heaped insults on him. One of them was so outrageous and shameful that the latter felt called upon to raise his hand and give the priest a tremendous slap. A scene of confusion and tumult arose in the office, lasting several moments. A number of men laid hold of Don Cayetano, who, with the exchange scissors in his hand, declared in an angry voice his intention of ripping Merelo open. The latter, who did not care a rap for such a threat, roared to his companions to let him go: he would not put up with such blackguard language from any one. But his friends knew well that this was sheer rhetoric, and they clung to him all the more watchfully. At last they succeeded in calming down the angry disputants, and the storm was followed by a calm that lasted for a quarter of an hour, during which all silently gave themselves up to their writing. At last Miguel looked up and asked:-- "See here, Señor Merelo, when do you expect to go to Rome?" "To Rome?... What for?" "To obtain pardon for the sin of having laid hands on a sacred person. You can't get absolution here." A new shout of laughter ran through the office. The priest, in a fury, flung down his pen, took his hat, and left the room. The editors of _La Independencia_ lost much time in such skirmishes of wit, and our friend Rivera was almost always at the bottom of them. Beside the men already mentioned, there were three or four of less distinction, and a throng of occasional contributors who came anxiously every night to bring the editor-in-chief their offering of articles, which, for the most part, were rejected. Among all these, most attention was attracted by a young man, not as yet regularly attached to the staff, hideous, rickety, but well dressed, who was accustomed to write papers on literary criticism, always signed with the pseudonym _Rosa de té_, or Tea Rose. He was very severe on authors, and always felt it his duty to give them sound advice about the art which they practised. Time and again he assured them that this thing was not human, that was not like life, and the other was not in good form. He had a great deal to say about life, which, in his opinion, no author knew anything about, nor about women either. Only _Rosa de té_ had a correct notion of the world and of woman's heart. From the very beginning of his criticisms, he endeavored to put the author in the prisoner's box, while he himself mounted the judge's bench, wherefrom he would ask questions, administer blame, lay down the law, and make sarcastic and humorous flings. "Where did Don Fulano[12] ever know of a young girl exclaiming, 'ah!' when she had the tooth-ache?... It is evident that Don Fulano has not often set foot in the salons of the aristocracy!... Life, Don Fulano, is not as you paint it; it is necessary to have lived within the charmed circle of society if one aspire to give a correct picture of it.... What we fail to find in Don Fulano's work is the plot.... And the plot, Don Fulano, the plot?... What kind of a character is the hero of his work? In one chapter he says that he has a tremendous appetite, and liked nothing better than to eat a box of Nantes sardines, and a few chapters further on he declares that he detests sardines! What kind of logic is that? Characters in art must be clearly defined, logical, not a patchwork. Don Fulano's _protagonista_ here alone in the course of the work, according to our count, makes nineteen resolutions. Does Don Fulano think that nineteen resolutions are sufficient for a hero? Our opinion would be that it was not enough for even a subordinate character.... And so there is no way of preventing the character from being bungling, colorless, lacking in life and energy. Energy in the characters of novels and dramas I cannot weary of recommending to our authors.... Besides, you ought to endeavor, Don Fulano, to be more original. That remark made by Richard to the countess in the sixth chapter, where he says, ... 'Señora, I shall never again set foot in this house,' we have read before in Walter Scott." This young man had greatly pleased Miguel, who always called him the priest (_sacerdote_), because he had many times in his articles made use of the expression "the priesthood of criticism." _Rosa de té_, so bold and scornful in his treatment of poets and novelists, was a very Job in the patience with which he bore the raillery of Miguel and the other editors. One day, however, he had the misfortune to write a biting review of a poet who was one of Rivera's friends. Rivera was angry, and called him an ignoramus and a stupid lout to his face, and the poor _Rosa_ could not get up to defend himself. When Mendoza came, Miguel, still vexed, said to him:-- "Now, see here, Perico, why do you allow this stupid baby to write literary reviews, and all the time make the paper ridiculous?" Mendoza, as usual, made no answer. But Miguel insisted. "I want you to explain to me why it is...." "We don't have to pay anything for his articles," replied the other, in a low voice. "Then they are very dear!" Although Miguel did not care much for politics, he worked diligently on the paper. The revolutionary atmosphere had sufficiently condensed itself, and no young man could escape its feverish and disturbing influence. The Conde de Ríos was at last banished to the Balearic Islands. Mendoza suddenly disappeared from Madrid, leaving a letter to his friend Miguel, telling him that he had made his escape because he had been informed that the police were going to arrest him, and asking him to take charge of the paper. Such a letter as that caused the brigadier's son no little amusement, because he was convinced that the administration had no thought of troubling the poor Brutandor. Nevertheless, he actually took the chief editorship of _La Independencia_, the nominal direction of it being, as always in such calamitous times of persecution, under the name of a silent partner. And, in order satisfactorily to fulfil his trust, he began to attend the so-called _círculos políticos_, and above all the committee-room of the Congress of Deputies, which was then, is now, and ever will be, probably, the workshop where the happiness of the country is devised. So when he went there for the first time, he could not overcome a feeling of respect and veneration. At the sight of the stir and agitation which reigned there, our hero could not help comparing that chamber and the corridors around it to a great factory. A host of laborers, in high hats, were going and coming, entering and bowing, and elbowing each other; their faces bore the imprint of the deep cares that agitated them. Some were sitting in front of desks and feverishly writing letters and more letters; from time to time they would pass their hands over their foreheads and draw a sigh of weariness, and, perhaps, of pain at finding themselves obliged, on the altars of the country's interest, to deny a meeting with some influential elector who did not deserve such treatment. Others would come out of the chamber of sessions and sit down on a sofa to think over the speech which they had just heard, or would join some group of members warmly discussing some question which, owing to a modesty that did them honor, they had not cared to take part in during the session. Others would cluster around the entrance and anxiously wait for some minister to pass, so as to recommend to his attention some matter of general interest to his family. All this reminded Miguel of the bustle, the noise, and the tremendous activity that he had witnessed in an iron foundry at Vizcaya. There as well as here men were moving in opposite directions, each one attending to his task; they were a little less respectably dressed, and their necks and breasts were somewhat more tanned than was the case with the representatives of their country; but this was because there was rather more heat in the foundry than in the _salón de conferencias_. In place of letters and other documents, the men there were lugging bars of red-hot iron in their hands, and they passed them on from one to the other just as the deputies passed on their papers. It must not be supposed that it was cool in the _salón de conferencias_. In each one of its four angles there was a great fireplace where were burning ancient and well-dried logs, which the thoughtful country provides her representatives lest they should freeze. Besides, there are furnaces in the cellar which send up columns of hot air through the open registers; the carpets, the curtains, the ventilators, and the screens also cause the temperature to be neither cold nor hot beyond endurance. Unquestionably the system of heating is better understood in the _salón de conferencias_ than in the foundry at Vizcaya. Along its walls are large and comfortable sofas where the deputies and the newspaper men, who help them in the laborious task of saving the country, can rest for a few moments. And if they wish to refresh or restore their failing strength, there is, also, a lunch-room where the nation furnishes its managers, gratis, with water and _azucarillos_[13] in great abundance, and where, for a moderate price, they can get ham, turkey, pies, sherry, and Manzanilla, and other foods and drinks. Intelligent and zealous waiters, as soon as they come in, relieve them of their overcoats, which they guard with care, and return after they have lunched, lest in any way they should catch cold. Miguel was greatly impressed, when he first attended a meeting of the Congress, by the humility and deep respect shown by a waiter taking a fur overcoat from a gentleman with a long white goatee, who allowed him to do so, with a solemn and peevish expression, moving his head from one side to the other as though he could not hold it up with the weight of thoughts that filled it. Afterwards he chanced to see this same gentleman in the lunch-room, taking a few slices of scalloped tongue; he had the same thoughtful, reserved, imposing air. He was glad to know that his name was Señor Tarabilla, who had been governor of several of the provinces, superior honorary chief of the civil administration, and the holder of various other distinguished offices in Madrid and elsewhere. He had also been secretary of the committee of acts in the Congress, where once he had draughted a private bill which had never reached discussion. Our hero enjoyed one of the purest satisfactions of his life in becoming acquainted with a personage of so great importance in politics, and he made up his mind to go on and gradually know them all in the same way. He used to go round from group to group, listening attentively to the discussions that were taking place among the most distinguished leaders of men. It was his duty to acquaint himself with their opinions and plans, so as to conduct his journal dexterously. He was surprised by some of these private debates, but especially at one which he overheard a few days after he entered the _salón de conferencias_. In the centre of a large and crowded group there was a lively discussion going on between a minister and one of the leaders of the opposition concerning a certain article in the constitution of 1845, in which punishment by property confiscation is prohibited. The minister held that this prohibition was not absolute; that in the article were shown the causes for which a citizen could be deprived of his property. The leader of the opposition screamed like one possessed, arguing that such was not the case; that there were no such causes, and no such things. Both grew very red in the face, and almost reached the point of getting actually angry with each other. Finally the minister asked energetically:-- "Now we will see, Señor M----; have you ever read the constitution of 1845?" "No, sir, I have not read it, nor have I any desire to!" said Señor M----, in fury.... "Have you read it yourself?" "No; but though I have not read it," replied the minister, putting on a bold face, "I know that in the first section are indicated the causes which permit confiscation.... And if I have not, here is Señor R----, who was a minister at that time, and can tell us." Señor R---- was an old gentleman, smoothly shaven; and when he heard his name called, and perceived that all eyes were turned upon him, with a smile that was half malicious and half abashed, he said:-- "The truth of the matter is that I myself cannot remember having read it through!" At first these discussions and his constantly growing acquaintance with the great engine of politics entranced him; but afterwards, when he came to know by sight, and even have the honor of a personal acquaintance with almost all of the grandees of the kingdom, and had learned from their lips not a few of the secrets of governing nations, he had the sentiment to comprehend that he was beginning to weary of it all; most evenings he preferred to take a book of Shakspere, Goethe, Hegel, or Spinoza, and sit down by his wife's side, and read while she sewed or did her embroidery, rather than wander up and down the corridors of Congress, and listen to the dissertations of Señor Tarabilla and other distinguished men. And I say that it was sentiment that taught him this; because an inner voice whispered to him that this was not the way to attain fortune and celebrity, nay, he should try to imitate step by step the career of Señor Tarabilla; but though that was the better course, he nevertheless determined to follow the worse, because human nature is weak, and often hurled to destruction by its passions. Even on those afternoons when he deigned to go up to the Congress, instead of joining the groups, taking up with the deputies, flattering the ministers, and offering his opinions in regard to whatever question might arise, letting himself be carried away by melancholy (perhaps by the longing for his wife's company, his armchair, or his Shakspere), he would go and sit down alone on some sofa, and there give himself up to his thoughts or his dreams, and try to delude himself into the idea that he was fulfilling his duty. He would look with distracted eyes at the throng of deputies, journalists and politicians tagging at their heels, and their feverish activity, their agitation, and their eagerness had not the slightest power to inspire the lazy fellow with the noble desire of laboring for his country, and contributing in some way to its happiness. At times, not having anything to think about, he would amuse himself in seeking for resemblances between the men whom he saw and those whom he had known before. His attention was particularly attracted by a deputy, a custom-house director, who bore the closest resemblance to a certain fisherman of Rodillero, named Talín. He had known Talín under particularly sad circumstances. One of his sons had died of measles, and he had not a shilling in the house with which to bury him; the poor man had to carry him in his arms to the cemetery, and dig the grave himself. A few months afterward Talín was lost in a famous gale which has figured in more than one novel. And how closely this deputy resembled Talín! They were as like as two eggs. There was another whose face was decorated with big scars and cicatrices, and whose eyebrows and eyelashes had been lost by reason of some secret malady which obliged him to go every year to Archena; this man struck him as particularly like a poor miner whom he had known at Langreo. The latter worked in the galleries of the mines, spending the livelong day in a narrow hole which he himself had laboriously to excavate. One day the gas took fire and burned his face and hands horribly. After that he was obliged to beg. When he was weary of these exercises of imagination, he would call Merelo y García, and make him sit by his side, and delight in hearing him relate with characteristic vehemence all the gossip from behind the scenes, if it is not irreverent to compare the lobbies of Congress with the flies of a theatre. Merelo was at that time the phoenix of Madrid _noticieros_ and the envy of the other newspaper proprietors, who had more than once made him overtures of increased salary to get him away from the Conde de Ríos; but Merelo, with fidelity that could not be too highly praised (and therefore he did not cease to praise it), had remained firm in his resistance to all temptations. There was no one his equal in covering in a moment a dozen groups, in finding out what they were talking about, what they had been talking about, and what they were going to talk about, in gliding between the deputies' feet and discovering the most inviolate and carefully guarded secrets of politics, in worrying foreign envoys with questions; audaciously approaching the ministers, in tormenting the subordinates, and in "cutting out of every one whatever he had in his body," sometimes by suavity, at others by force. Really Merelo y García was in Spain the pioneer of that pleiad of young reporters who, at the present day, make our press so illustrious; he it was who draughted the first lineaments of bills in the forms of questions and answers, though they afterward appeared so much changed. Still, in Merelo's time, they were as yet, as it were, in swaddling clothes, and Chinese and Moorish ambassadors did not answer in such a precise and categorical manner as they do now, when the reporters ask them, for example "How long were you on your journey? Were you able to get any sleep?" etc., etc. Merelo was thus better known than the postman in all official centres and more feared than the cholera. When he made up his mind to find out about anything, neither sour faces nor rude replies could daunt him; he was proof against all rebuffs. It was told of him that one time when the Minister of State had just come out from a very important diplomatic meeting, Merelo met him with the question:-- "How now, Señor F----? is the matter of the treaty settled or not?" The minister looked at him with curiosity, and asked:-- "What journal are you editor of?" "Of _La Independencia_," replied Merelo, with a genial smile. "I might have known it by the impudence which you show," retorted the minister coolly, turning on his heel. The General Count de Ríos used to tell at his receptions, with the tears of delight, of one famous exploit which Merelo's especial gifts had allowed him to accomplish. He was at his favorite post of observation, like a watch-dog, at one of the doors of the _salón de conferencias_; he had been for some time on the scent for news, when he happened to see a page carry a telegram to the President of the Council of Ministers. The President opened it, read it carefully, and crumpled it in his hands with a frown, and then walked along with slow step to the lobby. Merelo was all alive, and followed him with ears alert, with eager eyes, and quivering nostrils. The President went to the wash-room. Merelo waited patiently. The President came out. Then Merelo's brain underwent a sudden and terrible revolution; he hesitated a moment whether or not to follow him back; but at that instant he was inspired by one of those thoughts that illuminate the records of journalism; instead of following his quarry, he darted like a flash into the wash-room, looked, and hunted, and hunted.... At last, in an obscure spot, he found a bit of crumpled blue paper. He had no hesitation in pulling it out. That evening _La Independencia_ printed the following:-- "It seems that the preconization of the bishop-elect of Malaga, Señor N----, first cousin of the President of the Council of Ministers, meets with opposition in Rome." The President read this notice as he was going to bed, and he was greatly surprised, as he afterwards confessed to his friends, because the report of the Pope's opposition to his cousin's confirmation had been telegraphed to him by the ambassador. Racking his memory, he recalled the fact that that afternoon, after reading the telegram, he had been followed along the lobby of Congress by a shadow, and that the shadow was waiting when he had come out of the wash-room. The President instantly guessed how the cat was let out of the bag, and burst into a roar of laughter. "That was a good joke," he exclaimed, as he put out the light. V. Utrilla had gone to bed, feverish and nervous. And it was with very good reason. For the second time he had failed to pass his examination; he was as good as expelled from the Military Academy.[14] His prescient heart had told him before the examination: "Jacobo, they will certainly ask you about the pendulum, and that is the very thing in which you are weakest!" And indeed he had scarcely taken his seat before the tribunal, when, _zas_! the professor of physics said to him in a wheedling accent:-- "Señor Utrilla, have the goodness to explain for us the theory of the pendulum." The cadet, rather pale, arose and looked with wild eyes at the professor's desk.... The algebra professor smiled ironically, as though he divined his confusion. Why had that old man taken such a dislike to him? Utrilla could not explain it otherwise than by envy; the professor had seen him at the theatre with Julita under his protection. He arose, and with uncertain steps went to the slaughter; that is, to the blackboard. With trembling hand he made a few ciphers, and at the end of fifteen minutes drew a deep sigh of relief, and returned to his seat. The professor of physics shook his head several times:-- "That is wrong, Señor Utrilla; that is wrong." The cadet sponged out the figures that he made, and began the operation a second time. A second quarter of an hour, a second sigh of relief; more negative signs on the part of the professor. "That is just as wrong, Señor Utrilla." And Utrilla rubbed out his work again, and for the third time began to cipher; but now he was weak, confused, livid, persuaded that death was at hand. "Still entirely wrong, Señor Utrilla," exclaimed the professor, in a tone of compassion. The algebra man smiled mephistopheleanly, and said, with an affected accent in pure Andalusian:-- "There be three ways of spellin' proctor ... _pa_roctor, _pe_roctor, _po_roctor!"[15] The gentlemen of the tribunal covered their eyes with their hands to hide their amusement. This sneer cut our cadet to the heart; he changed color several times in the course of a few moments. "That will do; you are dismissed," said the professor of physics, trying in vain to put on a sober face. The son of Mars retired, stumbling over everything in his way, as though he were blind; his neck was swollen, his Adam's apple preternaturally prominent, his heart boiling over with indignation and wrath. As soon as he reached home, by the advice of the housekeeper he fainted away. His father, on learning the cause, instead of helping him, was furious, and exclaimed:-- "You might better die, you great good-for-nothing! This fellow has used up more of my patience and money than he is worth!" Afterwards came the following family scene. When he recovered from his fainting fit, he was informed that his father and brother were waiting for him in the office on the first floor. Here our young soldier had to endure a new and grievous humiliation. His father attacked him in a rage, called him an imbecile and a blunderbuss, and showed him the book in which he had kept account of his expenses. "For so many months of tutoring in mathematics, so much; drawing lessons, so much; dress uniform, so much; every day ditto, so much," etc., etc. While his _señor padre_ was lecturing him in an unnaturally high voice on this subject, his older brother was gnashing his teeth like one in torment; from time to time he gave utterance to pitiful groans, as though some demon had come that very moment to throw more coal in the furnace where they were roasting him. At last, when he succeeded in getting his breath, he exclaimed in a low voice:-- "The idea of a man having to humiliate himself from morning till night engaged in handling fat and lard in order that what he earns should be wasted by a fellow like this, in folderols and glasses of cognac!" "It shall not be so any longer, Rafael! I swear it shall not!" roared the father. "After to-day this lazybones shall help you in the factory. There he will have a chance to learn how to earn his bread and butter!" The ex-cadet was annihilated. He, a gentleman cadet in the most aristocratic corps of the army, to be suddenly transferred into the service of a candle factory! This for Utrilla was the height of degradation. He said nothing for a few moments: at last he spoke solemnly and deliberately in his deep bass:-- "If it has come to this, that my dignity must be lowered by making me a factory foreman, it would be better that I should be taken out into the field and shot down with half a dozen bullets!" "Knocked down with half a dozen sticks; that's what you ought to have done to you, you good-for-nothing idler! Just wait! just wait!" And the worthy manufacturer glanced angrily around the room, and seeing a reed cane leaning against the wall, he sprang to get it. But Achilles, he of the winged feet, had already darted out of the room, and in half a dozen leaps had reached his chamber. Once across the threshold, he bolted the door with marvellous dexterity, and after listening breathlessly with his ear at the key-hole, in order to make sure that Peleus had not passed the middle of the corridor, he felt safe to give himself up to meditation. He began to promenade up and down, across the room, from corner to corner, with his hands in his pockets, his head sunk and his shoulders lifted, thinking seriously how ... But his sword was constantly thumping against the furniture and getting between his legs, and making it hard for him to walk; he took it off and flung it in military disgust on the sofa. He came to the conclusion that two courses lay before him: one was to make his escape from the house, enlist in the army, and in this way fulfil the only vocation for which he felt any call; the other was to enter the factory and work there like his brother. It was necessary to make a decisive resolution, as became his inflexible and energetic character; and in very truth our ex-cadet, with an energy that has few examples in this degenerate epoch, promptly decided to work in the candle factory. This important point having been settled, he became calmer, and could stop long enough to roll and smoke a cigarette. One other thing, however, remained to be done, and this was one of great importance: to wipe out the insult which the algebra professor had given him during the examination. Utrilla argued in this way:-- If he remained in the army, the affront would not have been serious, because, of course, discipline forbids the inferior to demand satisfaction for insults from a superior; but once out of the corps and transformed into a civilian, the matter put on a different aspect--"Certainly very different!" he repeated, putting on a deep frown that was very imposing. "To-morrow I will settle this point." And in this desperate state of mind our cadet set himself to work to indite the draft of a letter which he proposed to send to the algebra teacher. "MY DEAR SIR:-- "If you have any delicacy (which I have reason to doubt) you will perfectly understand that after the coarse insult which you took pains to give me yesterday, enjoying the advantage of your position, it is absolutely necessary that one or the other of us should vanish from the earth. As for the proper remedy, you will be kind enough to come to an understanding with my two friends Señor---- and Señor---- (_Here will be two blanks for the names of my seconds, for I have not yet decided who they will be_). I remain, Sir, at your command, etc." After reading this letter three or four times, it seemed to him that it was not forcible enough. He tore it up, and at one breath wrote this one:-- "SIR: You are a scoundrel. If this intentional insult is not sufficient to bring your seconds, I shall have the pleasure of flinging it in your face. Your servant, who subscribes his name, "JACOBO UTRILLA." Perfectly satisfied with the content and form of this last missive, the heroic lad copied it off with particular care, closed it with sealing-wax, and directed it; then he left it in his table drawer until the next day, when he proposed sending it to its destination. By this time night had come, and he went to bed without any desire to eat supper. Sleep delayed her visit; the angel of desolation flapped her pinions over his brow, and inspired him with the most terrific plans of destruction. And doubtless at that very hour the algebra professor was tranquilly sleeping without the slightest suspicion of the misfortune overhanging him. When this suggestion presented itself to Utrilla, he could not help smiling in a most sinister fashion between the sheets. At last Morpheus succeeded in overcoming him, but with no intention of sending sweet and refreshing dreams; a thousand gloomy nightmares tormented him all night long; from one o'clock till six in the morning he battled with his enemy, using all the methods known at the present day, and some of his own invention. Now he beheld himself facing the hateful professor with a foil in his hand; the professor had wounded him in the right hand, but nevertheless Utrilla, without a moment's hesitation, exclaimed: "Come on. Use the left hand!" filling all the witnesses full of admiration at his coolness. And with his left hand, _zas!_ after a few thrusts he had buried the sword up to the hilt in his body! Then they appeared each with pistol in hand; the seconds give the signal to aim; the professor fires, and his ball grazes his cheek; then he aims, and keeps aiming, and the professor, now seeing death at hand, falls on his knees and begs for his life; he grants his prayer, firing into the air, but not without first saying scornfully: "And to think of this man insulting Jacobo Utrilla!" Divine Aurora, the goddess with the saffron veil, was already descending the heights of Guadarrama, when the stripling awoke in the same prophetic state of mind. Sad day that was now beginning to dawn for an innocent family, for the algebra professor's six children, had not Jupiter hastened to send to the hero's bolster his daughter Minerva in the form of the housekeeper. "Jacobito, my dear, will you be perishing of weakness, my child! Here I have some chocolate and spiral cakes which you like so much." The lad rubbed his eyes, cast an excessively severe look at the chocolate which was so compassionately brought him, and made up his mind to take it, but not before he had gnashed his teeth in such a desperate fashion that the good Doña Adelaida was alarmed. "Come, come, Jacobito, my son, don't grieve, don't be so much troubled, because you will be sure to fall sick.... There is no help for it.... Going to bed without taking anything was a piece of folly. Your father will come round all right, and finally everything will be settled as you want it. You certainly must have had a very bad night! You must not go on this way trifling with your stomach!... And now what are you going to do, my son? I am afraid for you with such a rash disposition as God has given you!" When Jacobo heard this question, he for a moment suspended the hateful task of swallowing his chocolate, raised his angry face to the housekeeper, and shouted with concentrated fury:-- "What am I going to do!... You shall see, you shall see what I am going to do!" And then he once more began to grit his teeth so terribly that Doña Adelaida was frightened out of her wits, and exclaimed:-- "Come now, calm yourself, calm yourself, Jacobito! You know that I was present when you were born, and that your sainted mother, who left you when you were a mere baby--poor woman!--charged me to have a watchful eye over you. If you should do anything desperate, you will kill me with sorrow.... Come, my son, tell me what you intend to do...." The lad, pushing away the chocolate cup with an energetic movement, and rolling his eyes frenziedly, screamed rather than said:-- "Do you want to know what I am going to do?... Then I will tell you this very instant.... I am going to the factory, I am going to put on a blouse, I am going to daub my hands with grease, pull the candle moulds, and roast my face in front of the furnaces.... And when any stranger comes to the factory, the hands will be able to say: 'This man whom you see--dirty, nasty, ill-smelling--used to be a gentleman cadet, a cadet in the Military Academy!... Ah!" he said, concluding with a muffled voice, "Ah! no one knows, no one knows what Jacobo Utrilla is capable of!" The housekeeper, who was expecting some desperate resolution, when she found that it was of this sort, could not refrain from a cry of joy. "That is right, my son, that is right! That is the best way of heaping coals of fire on the heads of your father and brother, who have been pestering me to death by saying that you were of no use, that you were a lazybones...." "But before doing that," interrupted Jacobo, extending both hands as though he were trying to hold back the avalanche which was about to fall, "it is necessary that one of us two perish!" "Merciful Virgin!" exclaimed Doña Adelaida. "Who is going to perish, Jacobito? For Heaven's sake, don't go lose your mind! Do you want your father to die?" "Not him, señora, not him! I refer to my algebra professor, with whom this afternoon or to-morrow at the very latest, I am going to fight a duel!" "And what has the algebra professor done to you? Made you fail in your examination? Now if you had studied, as your father told you to do, this would not have happened." "Señora," cried Jacobo, in a stentorian voice so fiendish that Doña Adelaida in affright took a step or two backward, "don't you dare to speak about what you do not understand! I cannot get over my vexation that I ever had anything to do with algebra. What the professor did was to sneer at me, and this, my father's son cannot put up with! Do you understand?" "Come, calm yourself, Jacobito; you have been very much disturbed since yesterday. Perhaps it is not as bad as you think. It may be that this gentleman did not sneer at you on purpose." "He may not have done it intentionally, but the fact is, he insulted me, and I will not stand it; I never have yet, and I never intend to let any one insult me with impunity. You know very well that in this respect I am a peculiar man." "I know it, Jacobito; you have the same disposition as your grandfather (peace to his soul!). What a man he was! He was as quick to flare up as gunpowder! Just think; one time when he was shaving, he heard a cry in the court; he turned his head so suddenly that he gave himself a tremendous cut in the nose.... But it is necessary, my son, to have self-restraint, and repress one's nature a little, if one would live in this world. It is my idea that if this professor made sport of you, what you ought to do is to make sport of him!" With slight variations, such was the advice that in the early days of Greece, Minerva, the goddess of the glorious eyes, gave the divine Achilles in his famous quarrel with Agamemnon, the son of Atreus. We are obliged to confess that this hero of ours did not show himself so amenable to the goddess's commands as "Peleus' godlike son"; instead of immediately sheathing his sword and yielding, he refused to make use of any other measures than those of force. The only concession that Doña Adelaida could obtain after many prayers was to postpone the professor's destruction till another day. That same morning, however, he put into effect his energetic decision of going to the factory and working there all day long "like a dog," whereby it is to be supposed that he quite put his father and brother to shame and confusion, though they succeeded in hiding it perfectly. The greater part of the difficulties due to his exceptional position having been thus overcome, thanks to his incredible boldness and _sang froid_, the only thing that troubled him now was lest Julita would not take in good part this premature retirement from the military service. So it was that he delayed for several days telling her about it; but it was not altogether that he was afraid of annoying her; the fact was that for some time he had not seen his sweetheart as frequently as formerly. It was ominous that Julita nowadays appeared but seldom on her balcony, and it was not less significant that she was putting obstacles in the way of his sending letters regularly. Still Utrilla wrote informing her that, "owing to family reasons, and for the purpose of attending to his pecuniary interests, he had retired from the service." This was the only dignified way that he could find of saying that he had been dismissed. Contrary to his expectations, this information did not produce any great effect. On the other hand, she waited five or six days before she answered it, and at the end she wrote:-- "That if he had given up his career because it was convenient, he did perfectly right; but that henceforth he would do her the favor not to send letters to her through the door-maid, since she had certain reasons for objecting to it, and that he should wait until she told him to whom he should entrust his letters." It happened that Miguel during these days twice met the ex-cadet. The latter was so glad to see him, and showed him so much affection and friendliness, that Rivera could not help reciprocating it, carrying his magnanimity to such an extent as to call him once or twice his future brother-in-law. "If there is no way of preventing my sister from marrying a rascal, it would be better to have you, friend Utrilla," said he. The former cadet swelled with delight until he almost burst, not only at the prospect of marrying Julita, but also to hear himself called a rascal in such a genial way. At both interviews he urged Rivera warmly to come and visit his factory, because he was very anxious to show it to him, and to explain the great improvements that he was planning to make in it, if his father and brother, both whom were very conservative, did not make too strong opposition. He expressed his desire so eagerly that finally one afternoon Miguel decided to take a carriage and drive to Cuatros Caminos, from which it was easy to reach the candle factory of Utrilla and Company. "Is Señor Utrilla here?" "Don Manuel does not often come to the factory; he lives at forty-six Sacramento Street." "I want to see his son." "Ah! Don Rafael," said the door-keeper. "Yes, sir; he is here. Walk in." "It is Don Jacobo whom I want to see." "Don Jacobo," repeated the door-keeper, hesitating and smiling. "Ah yes, sir, Jacobito; I had forgotten. He is here too. Walk in." Jacobo was writing in the same room with his elder brother, who, when he saw that it was a friend of Jacobo, scarcely deigned to lift his head, and gave a slight nod. Utrilla, however, colored to the ears, and came to greet him with great eagerness. "Don Miguel! You here? How glad I am!... Rafael," he added, addressing his brother, "I am going to show the factory to Señor Rivera." Rafael without looking up, said:-- "Very well." They went out of the office and passed slowly through the shops, stopping to examine the mechanism of each process, which Utrilla explained in a loud voice. From time to time he would say in an imperious tone:-- "José, run this mould!... Enrique, lift this lid!" The workmen were in no haste to obey these orders, and he had to repeat them in a voice which any operatic basso would have envied. The ex-cadet's factory garb could not have been more appropriate,--trousers of drilling, red shirt, shoes, and an old coat with the collar turned up. Although it was very warm, Utrilla, both on the street and at home, always wore his collar this way, which gave him the appearance of being a very dissipated man, and this was something that delighted him. In the rooms where the women were working, Utrilla allowed himself to take some liberties with the operatives, such as winking at them, twitching at their handkerchiefs, and making this or that dubious little witticism. "You will excuse me, Don Miguel; these are the bad habits of military life. Though one were going to be shot, one couldn't help saying some nonsense to the girls." "All right, all right, friend Utrilla; don't incommode yourself on my account." "Man alive, you are going now to see something very original which I happened to think of doing the other day. You will be surprised.... The foreman of the shop said to me, 'What you don't think of, the Devil himself would not, think of!'" "Let us see it." He then took him to the storeroom, and opening a closet, showed him a number of packages of candles with lithographed labels, which read:-- +--------------------+ | JULIA | | (Bujía Extrafina). | +--------------------+ "How is that?" he demanded, with radiant and triumphant face. "Very pretty! very delicate!" replied Miguel, smiling. "Take a package!" "My dear fellow, no, thank you!" "Nonsense! take one. If you don't, then I shall send one to you." From there he took him to a room that was a sort of incommodious private office, with a wretched straw-stuffed sofa, a few chairs, and a table with a writing-desk on it; on the wall hung a panoply with the cadet's military outfit,--sword, belt, spurs, and a couple of foils and a fencing-mask. Utrilla confessed to his friend that he could not look at this panoply without sadness, recollecting "the happy days in the service." "What life is so happy as the military! Believe me, Señor Rivera, that in spite of the strictness of the rules, I miss it immensely." Afterwards he offered him a cigar, and taking out a huge meerschaum mouthpiece, he began calmly to color it, calling up at the same time, with a veteran's satisfaction, various anecdotes of his academy life. "That cigarette-holder is very pretty: what does it represent?" "A cannon on a pile of projectiles; I beg of you to take it, Don Miguel." "I do not need it," replied Rivera, handing it back.... "It is in very good hands." "But I should be much better pleased to have you keep it, and I won't take it." "Come now, friend Utrilla, don't be so lavish." "Throw it down if you please, but I will not take it." There was nothing to be done but keep it. Then the former cadet brought the conversation round to Julia, and besought her brother's intercession, as he had written her four letters and had received not a single answer. "You will understand, my dear Utrilla," said Miguel, becoming serious, "that this is a very delicate matter, and that I have no right to mix myself up in your affairs." "The trouble is," rejoined the ex-cadet, with a sigh, "with the passionate nature which God gave me, I sent her a letter to-day, telling her that if she persisted in her conduct, she would do me the favor never to write to me again, ... and I am afraid that she is really offended." "I am afraid," said Miguel, laughing, "that your command will be fulfilled to the letter." The cadet remained for several moments pensive and gloomy. Then shaking himself from his melancholy stupor, and passing his hand over his forehead, he said:-- "By the way, Don Miguel, you have not washed your hands." Rivera looked at him in surprise. "One always gets dirty in the factory," continued the cadet. "Here is a bowl and soap for you." "Thank you; my hands are not dirty." But Utrilla at the same time offered him a china bowl filled with clear water, and the soap-dish, in such a way that Miguel rather than appear the enemy of cleanliness yielded and washed his hands. The soap was strongly scented with orange. "Do you know this soap is very fine and pleasant?" said Rivera, so as to say something. "Do you like it?... Then I am going to give you a cake of it." "My friend, I beg of you!" Utrilla, without heeding his protests, got the soap out of the desk, wrapped it up in a piece of paper, and almost by main force thrust it into his pocket. From that time forth Miguel took care not to commend anything which he happened to touch. As he was going, the ex-cadet shook his hand ardently, and said in a voice full of emotion:-- "Don't fail to speak to her. If you knew how sad and desperate I am." The truth of the matter was that he had good reason to be, as will appear in the next chapter. VI. "If your son were to put up at a hotel while I have a house in Madrid, I should be seriously vexed with him, and with you too," _la brigadiera_ Angela had written to her cousin María Antonia. And her cousin replied:-- "I have sent a copy of your letter to Alfonso, and assured him that he would enjoy much staying with you. Although he always rebels against my advice, I hope that this time he will gratify me. But I am afraid, my dear, that his visit may cause you a good deal of trouble, for I don't know what kind of habits he has contracted in Paris; but you have asked for it, and you can try it." _La brigadiera_ caused the rooms that Miguel had occupied to be put in order with so much care and nicety, worried her daughter Julia so desperately in the details of the appointments, the curtains, etc., that the girl when she spoke of her cousin always spoke of him as "_el niño de la bola_."[16] Before she made his acquaintance, she conceived a violent antipathy to him. This was caused in no small measure, because the visitor twice disappointed them about coming. The reports that she had heard about him were not very favorable either. Alfonso Saavedra had lost his father when he was very young: he was the inheritor of a considerable fortune; his mother had not had sufficient energy or ability to train him properly; he had not chosen any definite career; his only occupation was amusement, and allowing free course to his passions, which, according to what people said, could not have been more violent. Very amusing stories were told about him, and some that were extremely displeasing: he had been living in Paris almost constantly since he was a young lad, and there he had largely squandered his estate, but as he had still large expectations from his mother's property, which was even larger than his father's, he lived without apprehension of the future, and spent his money lavishly. Finally, a telegram was received announcing the departure from Paris of _el niño de la bola_. And on the morning of the following day he arrived. When Julia heard the bell ring, feeling disturbed, she went to the sewing-room and began to jest with the maid about the style which her cousin affected; then there was heard in the corridor a great commotion of moving luggage. "What room has he been shown into, Inocencia?" she asked of the girl who came in at that moment. "He is in the library with your mamma." In a few moments a powerful ring at the bell was heard. "The señora is calling," said Inocencia, running. "Señorita will please come immediately to the library, says your mamma," she announced, on returning. "Very well," the girl replied, in bad humor. "Are they sitting down?" "Yes, señorita." "Then they can wait without hurting them any." But in a few minutes the pull at the bell was repeated with more violence, and the girl, foreseeing her mother's vexation, arose with a very bad grace, and dropping her sewing, exclaimed with a scornful accent:-- "There now, we are going to see Don Alfonso, Prince of Asturias!" Don Alfonso was a man of about thirty-five, a gay bachelor, with regular features, with shaven cheeks, and mustaches twisted in the French style; in his wavy, black hair gleamed here and there a thread of silver; otherwise, his fresh and ruddy cheeks, his white and carefully brushed teeth, and his easy, graceful gestures, made him seem like a boy; his travelling-costume was affectedly elegant, with certain Parisian refinements unknown in Madrid. Julita took all this in at one rapid glance. He was not at all the man that she expected to meet. Having heard her cousin spoken of as a spendthrift, she had always imagined him as jaundiced, lean, scrubby, and inflicted with a cough, like some hair-brained Madrileños whom she knew by sight. When he saw the young lady, he arose hastily to his feet. "Oh, what a pretty cousin!" he exclaimed, at the same time taking her hand in a frank and affectionate manner. "You will forgive me for having disturbed you in what you were doing, will you not?" "I was not doing anything.... Won't you sit down, sir?" Don Alfonso remained a moment in a state of uncertainty, and then as he sat down, he exclaimed with a gesture of resignation:-- "What a terrible blow to my illusions, aunt! Your daughter has not dared to say _thou_ to me.... These cursed gray hairs!" Julita flushed a deep crimson. "That is not the reason!" "Then it is because you have been prejudiced against me; confess it!... But it is not my fault either that I am old, or that your mamma has disturbed you on my account." Julita, flushing deeper and deeper, did not know how to defend herself; her mother came to her aid. "It is neither the one thing nor the other, Alfonso; the trouble is that, as having never met you before, she is confused." "Is that so?" he asked his cousin, at the same time looking at her with a bright smile. Julita gave an affirmative gesture, and returned his smile. "That is not so bad.... But I still feel a keen sense of remorse. It will be very gratifying to me if you will tell me that I am forgiven." Julita, with difficulty overcoming the timidity that choked her, said in a low tone:-- "I have nothing to forgive you for." "Thanks, little coz," pursued Don Alfonso, rising, and with an elegant and graceful gesture again shaking hands with her. Then he began to talk with his aunt about family affairs; asking her many questions about his whole circle of relatives, and learning many particulars of which he had been ignorant. Then the conversation turned on the customs of Paris, which he described pleasantly and attractively, taking pains to extol Spain, instead of depreciating it as the majority of travellers are in the habit of doing. This appealed to _la brigadiera's_ sympathies. Don Alfonso spoke easily and naturally, but without conceit; on the contrary, in the midst of his talk, he would correct any idea that seemed at all pretentious, and was evidently anxious to show that he had no wish whatever to make himself out a remarkable man. If he spoke of women, all had "given him the mitten"; if he spoke of art, or gave his opinion about museums and singers, he protested that he had little or no knowledge of painting or music; if by chance he was obliged to refer to any quarrel in which he himself had taken part, he passed over it lightly, and did not fail to have it understood that he had done everything possible to avoid it, and at the same time he made sport of the duel and of duelists. As Don Alfonso had the reputation of being lucky in love affairs, and many of his adventures had made considerable talk, as he played the piano pretty well, and was accounted one of the crack marksmen of Paris, and had fought more than a dozen duels, this modesty of his in conversation was a refreshing contrast, sure of bringing success in society. These accomplishments were rendered still more attractive by the slight foreign accent which made his words all the more insinuating and suave. Julita listened to him, gazing at him with that intense and conjuring look by which young girls in an instant analyze all a man's physical and moral nature. Her cousin made a very favorable showing as the result of the analysis; she had no idea that he was such an amiable and attractive man; the incidents of his life which she had heard before gave him the reputation of being haughty and violent in character, if not even coarse and shameless. One evening in Seville he was engaged in playing ombre, and because he was not very successful, he became so much excited that he said all sorts of impudent things, and finally told the ladies present that he was going to ride into the parlor on his nag. No one placed any credence in what he said, and he went out without any one noticing it; but in a few minutes he made his appearance on horseback, to the amazement and terror of all, especially the ladies, who began to scream, while he, striking the spurs into his horse, roared with laughter. On another occasion, being deep in an intrigue with a young woman of the middle class, he went in full dress to the house of her parents, and told them that he wished to speak with them on a very private and serious matter. The father, who was a humble government employé, imagining, as any one might have supposed, that he was going to ask his daughter's hand, received him trembling with emotion; then after many periphrases and circumlocutions, Saavedra ended by asking him to give him a favorable report on a certain matter that he had in his department. This hateful piece of drollery was noised over the whole town, and put that poor innocent señor in a most ridiculous light. But Julita, as she saw and listened to him, forgot these and other escapades; unquestionably this young man, who in her presence was so refined and modest, was an entirely different person. Saavedra after showing such gallantry to his cousin, waited a long time before he addressed her, or even looked at her; he seemed to be absorbed in his conversation with her mother. Thus it was that she had an abundance of time to make a careful scrutiny of his appearance: his shirt-collar, his cravat, his watch-chain, his boots, all were elegant, and proved by their style that they came from the other side of the Pyrenees. "You will feel like getting the dust off and having a wash, Alfonso," said _la brigadiera_. "Come; we will show you to your room: it is the one which my son Miguel used to occupy." Don Alfonso could not praise it sufficiently: he found everything to his taste. "I shall be just like a fish in the water here. You will have trouble in getting rid of me, I assure you!" "I will warn you," said Julia, "that it was I who made the bed myself. Don't you dare say that you have not slept well." As soon as she had said these words, which by their mischievous spirit were perfectly proper, she repented having said them, and blushed. Don Alfonso turned his face upon her, and looked at her with some friendly curiosity. "That is the very reason that I shall not sleep well. You were unkind to tell me." Julita blushed more than ever, and to hide her confusion began to straighten the bottles on the dressing-table, and then she left the room. Finally her mother also went, leaving him to himself, and shortly afterward he again appeared in the parlor, in another costume of the latest and most elegant style. "Julita," said her mother, "tell them to put on the breakfast; you must feel weary, Alfonso." "No, aunt; I feel hungry, though. The word is more prosaic, but it is nearer the truth." _La brigadiera_, with a laugh, accepted the arm which her nephew offered her as they went to the dining-room. During the meal he entertained the ladies in the same agreeable fashion, telling them a thousand curious incidents, giving them minute descriptions of the _soirées_ in the fashionable society of Paris. They were most interested in what he had to say about the ladies' dresses and the decoration of the salons. During the conversation he never once forgot those gallant and thoughtful attentions which were demanded by his situation. By intuition he discovered when Julita's wine-glass was empty; he offered his aunt the olives; he passed her the mustard, cut the bread for her, etc. Julia was merry, and perhaps rather more talkative than usual; but when she made use of any expression that was a little more piquante than usual, she would feel her cheeks flush under her cousin's steady, smiling, and somewhat ironical gaze. It was the first time that she had ever forced herself to be witty and sharp and say sharp things. When she said anything that was particularly clever, Saavedra would look up, and his smile would seem to say, "This little girl is bright." Julia was rather humiliated by his smile at first, but then she read under it an expression of scornful protection, or at least of absolute indifference, scarcely masked by the extreme courtesy which he showed in all his words and gestures. For in this respect Don Alfonso did not weary a single instant; he did not miss a single opportunity of showing them his subordination, and of giving both his aunt and cousin to feel how agreeable he could be to them. In the days that followed, his gallantry did not in the least relax. _La brigadiera_ wrote her cousin, assuring her that "she would keep her nephew not merely a month, but all his life in her house; that he was a perfect gentleman, and that young men could not in Spain possibly acquire such an admirable education and such manners as he possessed." A hearty and perfect confidence quickly grew between him and Julia; the girl amused him with her lively and picturesque chatter which recalled to the exile his years of childhood and youth. Don Alfonso played the guitar as well as the piano, and to his skill and facility in singing Polish and Spanish songs was due in no small measure his social success in Parisian society. But there he played and sang to attract the notice of the ladies and make himself known, while here it was for his own pleasure or to bring to mind happy days or events. When he came home in the afternoon an hour before dinner, he was fond of sitting by his cousin's side, with the guitar on his knees, and singing his whole repertoire, not only of classic songs, but also of the serenades,[17] _habaneras_, and polkas of his earlier days. Julia recalled some that he had forgotten, and whenever this happened he clapped his hands with delight, and enthusiastically praised his cousin's memory. She was in her element those days; she had some one to talk with, and she was amused a large part of the day in looking out for the visitor's wants, superintending the ironing of his linen, and seeing that his room was kept neat and clean, and in inspecting with childish curiosity his belongings; and then she heard herself constantly called all sorts of pet adjectives.[18] And what young girl on the face of the earth would not enjoy this? Don Alfonso had certainly remarkable gifts in the way of giving compliments without repeating himself, and without descending to eternal vulgarities, and he was very skilful in finding occasion to say something pleasant about the maiden's charms.... Now it was her hands: "pretty enough to eat"; now it was her teeth: "abroad very few such splendid ones were to be seen"; again, it was her jet-black hair: "I am tired of seeing nothing but tow on women's heads." Without noticing it, the girl began to wait impatiently afternoons for her cousin's coming, and if anything delayed him, she would keep jumping up from her seat, and then coming back to it again without any reason. It was during these days that our droll friend Utrilla wrote those famous letters mentioned in the last chapter. One afternoon as Saavedra came in, Julia happened to be passing through the vestibule; she affected to go in front of him without greeting him, but suddenly twitched the end of his cravat, and untied it. "Hold on there, you little witch! Now come and tie it for me again!" But Julia was already out of sight, laughing. Don Alfonso followed her; he overtook her in the dining-room; when the girl saw him, she started to run again, and went to the kitchen. "You won't escape me that way!" cried Saavedra. "Yes I shall too," retorted the girl, again vanishing from sight. Both ran along the corridor, but when they were near the parlor, Julia turned around, and going a few steps toward her cousin, said:-- "Don't chase me any more; I will tie the cravat, but I won't promise to do it well." "It is enough if you do it; it is a punishment which I impose upon you." Laughing, though her hands trembled a little, she arranged the tie. "What is that you have hanging there?" she asked, bending her head so as to examine a trinket which her cousin wore on his watch-chain. "A gold heart.... Just like mine!" And as he said that he bent over and imprinted a kiss on the girl's neck. Julia straightened herself up as though a pin had pricked her, flushed deeply, and giving him a severe look, said in a muffled voice:-- "I assure you that I do not wish you to do such a thing again!" Saavedra looked at her with mischievous, mirth-provoking eyes, and not paying any attention to her anger, went on calmly talking to her. Julia, uncertain what course to take, replied gravely to his questions, and did not look at him. Finally his perfect calmness and confidence had their effect upon her, and in a little while she was as gay as ever. Their relations continued on this friendly footing for a number of days, until suddenly Julia for some occult reason began to grow sober and melancholy. Some afternoons, instead of going to the parlor to talk with the visitor, she left him alone with her mother; if she met him in the corridor, she would give him a serious and furtive glance, and let him pass without a word; sometimes when he addressed her, she would not answer, pretending not to hear him; at other times, if she happened to go into the library, and found him there reading a newspaper, she would turn back in all haste. All these signs of disregard or resentment, strange as it may seem, had no effect whatever on Don Alfonso, who, as though not noticing them, continued to show her the same gallantry as before, even more pronounced if possible, and he did not in the least alter his habits, nor his hours of entering or leaving the house. It must not be supposed that Julia was sad every day; there were some, when without the least apparent reason, she would appear extraordinarily gay, filling the whole house with her merry voice, rallying her mamma, her cousin, and every one who happened to be visiting them, and being far more audacious in her witticisms than usual.... But in the midst of this obstreperous gayety, she would suddenly stop for several moments, with her eyes set and ecstatic, and then her face would take on a very strange expression of pain. On these merry days she would treat her cousin with unaccustomed amiability as though she were anxious to compensate him for the petty disdain that she had shown him in the days gone by. Don Alfonso stole three or four more kisses, each time receiving an energetic protest on the girl's part, and finally the formal threat of telling her mother. Nevertheless, these were not the days when she was sad and down-spirited. One evening Julia, Miguel, Maximina, and Don Alfonso formed a little group[19] in the _la brigadiera's_ library. Julia was very happy. Suddenly Saavedra said:-- "See here, Julita, haven't you a sweetheart?" The girl grew as red as a cherry; then pale. Miguel, seeing her embarrassment, and being absolutely at sea as to the reason for it, hastened to her aid, saying:-- "Julia has not as yet decided upon any man; her character is too fickle...." "What do you know about it!" interrupted the girl in a fury of passion, casting a look of hatred upon him. "My dear girl, I thought...." "Please talk about what you know. You haven't the slightest idea what is going on in my mind," she rejoined, with a severe intonation; and turning to her cousin, and looking him straight in the face, she added:-- "And supposing I had, what of it?" "Nothing," replied Don Alfonso, calmly. "How glad I should be if you had one worthy of you; but it seems to me that would not be very easy, considering what a nice girl you are, little coz!" "Oh yes, I am an angel!" exclaimed the girl, in a sarcastic tone. She remained a moment lost in thought, then, jumping up, left the room. Miguel had been surprised by his sister's answer, not so much at the significance of her words as at the violent and scornful tone which till that time she had never used toward him. And stopping to think a moment, he was not slow to fathom what was passing through the girl's mind. She came back again after a few moments, with smiling face, the same as before, and began to enliven the _tertulia_ with her witticisms. She did not sit down, but kept moving about the room with the lithe grace and liveliness characteristic of her. Miguel noticed, however, that there was too much excitement underneath her gayety: she went rapidly from one subject to another; she asked questions and answered them herself, and laughed boisterously at the slightest excuse. She sat down at the piano and began to play very loud; then she sang a romanza from an opera, and this she suddenly changed into a Spanish song, which she did not finish either. Then she quitted the piano to frolic with Maximina, whom she obliged to dance a polka whether she would or no; presently she accosted her brother and kissed him again and again, saying to Maximina:-- "You aren't jealous, are you now?" Don Alfonso's eyes followed her in all these evolutions keenly and persistently, with a peculiar expression of gentle irony. Miguel noticed it, and made a slight gesture of dissatisfaction. In the following days Julia's avoidance of her cousin increased, and was shown in a very unpleasant manner. He had only to come where she was for her immediately to leave the room: if he asked her to sing, or play the piano, she would give him a flat refusal; she did not address a single word to him, and if he asked her a question she would answer curtly and without looking at him. _La brigadiera_ noticed these shortcomings, and chided her severely, but without any effect. Don Alfonso pretended not to notice them, and continued imperturbably to treat her with his exquisite courtesy, and finding every opportunity to give her praise which, of course, she received with very bad grace. One day at dinner time, while they were still at dessert, _la brigadiera_ was conversing socially with her nephew. Julita preserved an obstinate silence, making little balls of bread and looking steadily at the table. They were talking about a ball to be given by a certain duke, one of Saavedra's friends, where they were going to revive the ancient and classic minuet. In fact, they had been practising it several days, and Saavedra had ordered an elegant costume of doublet and hose, the details of which he was carefully describing to his aunt. Julita looked up, and giving him a saucy glance, said with peculiar malice ill-concealed:-- "It seems like a falsehood for you to engage in such things." "Why, little coz?" asked Don Alfonso, smiling amiably. "Because you are already an old man," rejoined the girl, with a scornful accent. A moment of silence followed that impudent thrust. It was _la brigadiera_ who broke it, and she was so furious that she could not complete her sentences:-- "You wicked girl! Insolent! Aren't you ashamed? How could you dare.... I feel as though I should sink through the floor!... (_standing up, in high dudgeon_). The idea!... Leave the room this very moment, you shameless creature!" Don Alfonso, smiling with unchanged calmness, endeavored to pacify her, saying:-- "But what is the harm in her remark, señora? Julia has only told the truth. It is what I say to myself every morning when I brush my hair.... The worst of it is, that I am getting to be a boyish old man." _La brigadiera_ would not listen to him, but pointed her daughter to the door, with extended arm; Julia, bursting into tears, but still with haughty and lofty face, left the room. Don Alfonso went on trying to calm his aunt, who not having relieved her mind, as she usually did, in a more brutal fashion, in order to find compensation, heaped reproaches on her daughter. After she was somewhat relieved she got up and went to enjoy her _siesta_ for a little while. Her guest likewise arose, with his cigar in his mouth, and with slow, lazy steps went to the sewing-room, hoping to find his cousin there. He was not disappointed; she was there, reading a book, with her head resting on one hand, and the other hanging over the back of the chair. Don Alfonso halted at the threshold, and gazed at her for a while with an indefinable smile playing over his lips. Julia sat motionless, rigid; the frown on her brow grew a trifle deeper. Don Alfonso slowly approached her, and bending his head humbly, touched his lips to the girl's hand, at the same time saying:-- "Pardon!" Julia gave a jump, knocking over the chair, and vanished like a vapor. VII. The life of Rivera and his wife had gradually come into regular channels; the house was now entirely furnished. Miguel arose early and went to his library to work. Maximina stayed some time longer in her room, making up for the trials which she had been obliged to undergo both at the convent and at her aunt's house. Her constitution required much sleep, and she had never been able to satisfy this necessity. Once she had asked her aunt as a special favor:-- "Aunt, when will you let me sleep as long as I should like?" "Some day, some day, I will let you." But the day never came. She had been obliged to be up at half-past five in the winter, and at five in summer, and there was no help for it. Now that there was no one to torment her, since Miguel dressed as quietly as possible so as not to wake her, she was able to indulge in her slothfulness. When at last she got up she would go straight to the library, and always greet her husband with a timid-- "What will you say to me?" "What am I going to say to you, _tonta_? It must have been terrible to get up so early! It is not yet quarter-past nine!" Maximina, who had noticed in passing, that the clock said that it was almost ten, was delighted with her husband's equivocation, and would kiss him affectionately. "Listen; you must call me to-morrow when you get up." "All right, I will." "On your word?" "On my word of honor." It is safe to say that Miguel did not fulfil this promise: he felt that it was too great a pity to do so. During the first months of their married life they made various calls, and received an equal number; among others, one from the Galician señoritas whose acquaintance they had made on the train; and they showed Maximina a warm and boisterous affection, appropriate to such maidens. Everywhere the young wife left a charming impression by her simple and natural manners. "What a good woman your wife must be!" said Miguel's friends, when they found him alone. The young man would smile with ill-repressed pride, and exclaim:-- "She is just a mere child!" But he would say to himself:-- "God gave me light." Marriage had not caused him to lose any of his independence, nor any of those bachelor habits which are so hard to overcome at a certain age. Maximina never demanded, or even asked, any sacrifice of him. She felt herself absolutely happy to be the wife of the man whom she adored; and the daily and commonplace actions of life were to her a source of unspeakable delight. When breakfast time came, she would lightly lift the latch of the library door, step noiselessly up to her husband, and say:-- "It is half-past twelve now." While they were breakfasting, the conversation which they kept up was full of affectionate trifles; when their eyes met, they expressed mute caresses; and many times Miguel reached across the table to get his wife's hand and kiss it, much to the young woman's terror and apprehension; she would instantly snatch it away by main force, glancing at the door as though there were danger of some dragon making its appearance. The dragon was Juana, who was likely to appear with the waiter in her hands. After breakfast came the happiest hour of the day for Maximina: she would go with her husband to the library, and he, settling himself comfortably in an easy-chair, would take her on his knees, fold her to him, and whisper in her ears the sweetest things she ever heard. Sometimes it happened that he would fall into a doze, and Maximina would not lift a finger for fear of waking him; and even though her position were uncomfortable, she would endure it until Miguel opened his eyes. "There now, I must be going!" he would say, getting up. "What! so soon?" she would exclaim sadly. Miguel would fondle her, and smile, and take leave of her at the door. It seemed as though these leave-takings would never end. "They might see us from the opposite side," Maximina would say, tearing herself out of his arms. "But the door is closed!" "That makes no difference; they might see us through the _ventanilla_.[20]" Sometimes, as a little joke on his wife, he would start to go without saying good by; but as soon as she heard him raise the latch, she would drop whatever she was engaged in doing, whether in the dining-room, the kitchen, or in her own room, and fly to the door. When she did not hear the latch, he would do his best to make her hear it. Maximina spent her afternoons with the servants. Besides Juana, they had hired two others,--a cook, and another maid, who had a better idea of laundry work than the maid from Pasajes. When Miguel came in at dusk, and rang the bell, the young woman's heart would give a leap, and she herself would run to open the door for him. Sometimes she would let the maid open it; but then she would hide behind the door or in the next room. The maid's smiling face would betray the secret to the young man, that his wife was somewhere near, and he would say, sniffing in a comical way:-- "I smell Maximina here." And then he would go straight to where she was hiding, and catch her by the arm. "I don't see how you found me so quick," she would say, with simulated disappointment. At other times she would open the _ventanilla_, and ask:-- "What is it you want?" "Does Don Miguel Rivera live here?" he would ask. "Yes, señor; but he is not at home." "Is the señora in?" "The señora is in, but she cannot receive you." "Tell her that there is a gentleman here who wants to give her a hug and a kiss." They laughed and amused themselves with these trifles, and the young wife never thought of asking her husband to give her an account of his time. She would go with him to the library. Miguel would take a book and sit down, saying:-- "There now, leave me alone a few minutes; I want to read." "You naughty, naughty boy!" she would retort with innocent vexation. "You are very naughty to send me away!" Miguel would relent, and pull her back by the hand. After dinner they used to spend another little while together, and then he would go to the café, and from there to his editorial rooms, returning at twelve or one. His wife used to try to wait for him, either by reading a book or by taking a nap. Saturdays they always went to the theatre, for _La Independencia_ was not published on Sundays, and so there was one day in the seven when he was not driven with work. One evening, as she was coming down stairs, Maximina, who was occupied in putting on her gloves, tripped and fell, rolling down several steps. "Oh! my wife!" cried Miguel, hastening to her aid. The young woman got up with a smile, though she, was flushed with alarm. She had not suffered any harm, but the heart-rending cry uttered by Miguel had gone to the very depths of her soul. Then, also for the first time, Miguel realized how this gentle creature had taken possession of his heart. She had been greatly troubled at a slight ailment from which her husband suffered during the early months of their marriage: severe rheumatic pains kept him housed for several days; he grew pale and thin, and, worse than all, was in a very unhappy frame of mind, for he was not a man to endure adversities patiently. Maximina was deeply troubled, and do the best she could, it was impossible for her to hide her grief. She sat all day long beside the bed, and did not take her eyes from her husband; from time to time, almost overcome with grief, and making great efforts to control herself, she would say:-- "You feel better, you _do_ feel better, don't you? Yes, yes, you must feel better!" "Since you say so, you must be very sure of it," he would say slyly, with an ironical smile. And then seeing her great, timid, innocent eyes fill with tears, he would repent of his unseasonable words, and add, caressing her hand:-- "Don't mind about me. I am doing well. To-morrow I shall be all right; truly I shall." And the young wife was happy for a few moments, until she would be alarmed again by some new complaint from the sick man. How delightful when he got well again! It was the first time that her husband ever heard her sing at the top of her voice. She ran and jumped, jested with the maids, and was even quite successful in mimicking the Madrid accent which Juana had been recently acquiring. This sudden attack of obstreperous joy formed a lovely contrast with the usual seriousness of her character. Miguel, who knew the reason of it, looked at her with delight. When he was entirely recovered, it was incumbent upon them to attend mass at San Sebastian. Maximina suggested it, and asked him with so much humility that he hadn't the heart to object. The former _colegiala_ of the convent of Vergara could not help mixing religion with all the acts of her life. Miguel, in spite of his own lack of faith, found his wife's piety so poetical, so innocent, that it never once passed through his mind to disaffect her of it. "If ever it became hypocritical, it would be quite another thing," he said to himself. Consequently he was not at all averse to going with her every Sunday to mass; besides, Maximina for many months could not bring herself to set foot in the street alone. After a while, however, the brigadier's son began to forget his duty, and under the pretext that San Sebastian was near at hand, he would stay at home Sunday mornings, while Maximina, with heroic courage, would assume the terrible risk of going to church all by herself. Still she suffered greatly; she imagined that everybody despised her, that they were going to say impudent things to her; the unfriendly glances so much in fashion among the natives of Madrid filled her with terror; she could have wished to be invisible! But she did not venture to tell her fears to Miguel, lest she should vex him, and cause him to go to mass with her against his inclinations. One morning, a little while after she had started out for church, Miguel heard the bell ring violently; then the library door was flung open, and Maximina came in, pale as a sheet. "What has happened?" he demanded, rising. Maximina dropped into a chair, hid her face in her hands, and began to weep. Miguel anxiously insisted: "Did you feel ill?" The young wife made an affirmative gesture. "How was it? Tell me." "I don't know," she replied, in a weak and hesitating voice. "I had been in church but a few minutes.... I begun to feel sick. Then the pictures of the saints began to waver before my eyes.... I felt as though my sight were leaving me.... And without knowing what I was doing I started to run.... And before I knew it I found myself near the grand altar.... I heard the people saying: 'What is it? what is it?' and that there was a confusion.... I turned around, and without looking at any one, I crossed the church again, and came out...." Miguel succeeded in calming her; he made the servant bring her a cup of lime juice, and promised that he would not let her go to church again alone. After a while, when she was entirely recovered, he asked her a question in a whisper, which she, dropping her eyes, answered in the negative. Then with a smiling face he whispered a few words in her ear.... The young wife, when she heard them, trembled, fastened her eyes on him with an anxious expression for a moment, and, confused and blushing, threw herself into his arms, murmuring:-- "Oh, don't deceive me! Don't deceive me, for Heaven's sake!" VIII. From this day forth the serenity and sweetness which we have said was characteristic of Maximina's face began to gain a more concentrated, more delicate aspect, like the mystic expression of saints assured of heaven. She did not speak of the occurrence with her husband again, and when he alluded to it, she dropped her smiling eyes, and her face flushed a little. But Miguel understood perfectly that she was thinking of nothing else; that the bliss of coming maternity filled her whole nature, her life, and her being. He also was delighted, not so much at the new trust with which nature was going to honor him, as at the spectacle of his wife's happiness, and in secretly watching in her eyes, and in all her movements, the adorable mystery that was taking place in her soul. When they walked along the street, he noticed that she cast quick and anxious glances at the linen shops, where baby-caps and children's wardrobes were on exhibition. And divining that she would enjoy stopping, he would make some excuse for asking the price of shirts or handkerchiefs, and let her amuse herself looking at infant wardrobes. "Do you know," she would say afterwards, "do you know how much baby shirts cost a dozen?" "No," he would answer, laughing. "I do, though!" One day, as he was passing by the chamber door into the library, he caught sight of her looking into the wardrobe mirror; and he was surprised, because no woman was ever freer from vanity and coquetry than she; but his surprise was changed into amusement when he saw that she was looking at her profile to see whether her form had changed. But lest he should embarrass her he went out on his tiptoes. Another day, as they were walking in the neighborhood of the Retiro, they happened to see a white hearse in which was a child's coffin. Maximina looked at it with an expression of deep pain, and watched it until it disappeared from sight; then, with a gentle sigh, she exclaimed;-- "Oh, how sorry it makes me feel for children that die!" Miguel smiled and made no reply, reading her thoughts. While time glided away in this sweet and delightful manner for our young couple, Marroquín, the hairy Marroquín, was trying to accomplish his own ends; the nation was over a volcano, and the former professor of the Colegio de la Merced, secretly, and in company with our friend, Merelo y García, was not behindhand in stirring the flames of civil discord. Not a night passed without both of them uttering bloody prognostications for the future in the Café de Levante; the number of times that institutions had been crumbled into dust on the marble tables was beyond belief; the waiters, from listening to democratic discourses, served the customers badly; more then once the secret police had visited the establishment, so said the disturbers of the public peace; but there had been no arrests, and this made Marroquín desperate. He enjoyed, beyond measure, speaking so as to be heard of all who came to the table, at the same time fastening his gaze on some peaceable customer, and making tremendous boasts, so as to rouse his curiosity. "Don Servando," he would shout to a gentlemen sitting some distance from him, "do you expect to go out for a walk to-morrow?" "Certainly, as always, Señor Marroquín." "You had better not take your wife and children." "Man alive! why not?" "Oh, nothing, nothing! That is all I have to say." But the revolutionary professor enjoyed most one evening when he succeeded in bringing to the café; his old friend and colleague Don Leandro. Don Leandro's name was still on the faculty of the Colegio de la Merced, which was no longer under the direction of the ex-captain of artillery, but of the chaplain Don Juan Vigil. Don Leandro was the only one of the old professors left, and this was because he was unhappy and patiently endured the caprices of the chaplain, who now more than ever took delight in tormenting him, and lavishing upon him the tremendous gifts of sarcasm wherewith he was endowed by nature. Marroquín met him one Sunday in the street, and after a hearty greeting, as his custom was, he began to say harsh things of the curé, which was also a habit of his. This flattered the worthy Don Leandro immensely, though he affected not to listen to him, for he detested backbiting, and was greatly afraid of hell, though not so much of purgatory. So that Marroquín, in spite of his depraved ideas, served as a powerful temptation for his friend to go into El Levante and have a glass of water, for example. Don Leandro, no matter what opprobriums the heretical professor heaped upon his born enemy, acquiesced with a smile; and even, from time to time, he himself would let slip some spiteful word, promising before the tribunal of his conscience to confess it immediately. But the trouble was, Don Leandro's confessor was the very same chaplain, who, like his glorious predecessor, Gregory VII., aspired to possess the key to the consciences of his subjects, and would not hear to any alumnus or dependent of the college confiding his load of sins to any other bosom than his. This, according to all logic, caused poor Don Leandro great tribulation, who, as he went often to confession, found himself obliged to tell the chaplain all the evil thoughts that he had about him; but the torment that the latter inflicted was much greater and more cruel. Oftentimes, while Don Leandro was unbosoming himself, the confessor heaved deep sighs and made the confessional creak as though his chair pinched him. He was tempted to dismiss him from the college, but he felt that such a thing would be an attack on the sacred character of the confessional, since Don Leandro did his duty conscientiously, and to turn him off required that he should make use of his knowledge acquired in the tribunal of penance. Afterwards it occurred to him to send him to some one else to make his confession; but the demon of curiosity had firm possession of him, and, though every day he promised himself to give him notice, he never reached the point of doing so, and continued to hear his own deeds criticised without the power to defend himself. "_Barájoles!_ what a penance God has put upon me," he would say afterwards, as he strode up and down his room. "How I should like to give this idiot a couple of raps!" Don Leandro, when he entered El Levante, had no idea that he was going to meet so many gentlemen, and still less that there were among them a number of impious revolutionists, enemies of "all religious restraint." Accordingly, when he began to hear them speak of the government in the terms which they were wont to use, he flushed deeply and began to cast surreptitious glances in all directions, and especially at Marroquín. "See here, Señor Marroquín!" he said in an undertone, "let us talk about something else." Marroquín, smiling in a superior manner, replied:-- "Don't have any fears, my friend Don Leandro; the police have come in here already several times; but they did not see fit to lay their hands on any one: if they should, the affair is now so well matured it would be the signal for the eruption to break out." "What eruption?" "The revolution, man alive!" "_Santo Crísto!_ Do you know, Señor Marroquín, these things are very serious, very serious! If you will not take it in bad part, I should like to be going.... Anyway, I have something that I must be doing...." Marroquín took him by the arm, and compelled him to sit down again. "Don't you have any apprehension, my dear friend! Nothing can happen to you, at any rate, because you do not, like me, figure in all the lists which the police have been sending to the authorities." "No matter; if it does not make any difference to you, we will change the subject." The subject was changed, indeed, but the topic which followed was still more terrible and demoniacal. They talked of nothing else than the queen, and any one can imagine what could have been said of that august lady,--that she was going to lose her crown and go into exile. The moment the professor heard these atrocious remarks, he grew livid, and it was impossible to keep him longer; he left without saying good by, and directed his steps toward his college, which he reached in a breathless condition.... The poor man had the innocence to relate this episode to the mayordomo, who lost no time in reporting it to the director. Unlucky Don Leandro! For many days he had to endure the chaplain's grievous and coarse mockery.... What troubled him most was, that before the scholars he called him conspirator, in that sarcastic tone affected by the curé in such cases. At other times he nicknamed him the "Venetian conspirator," which made the boys laugh, and as Don Leandro said, very truly, "The dignity of the professorship was undermined." The labors of our friend Mendoza, otherwise Brutandor, in behalf of the revolutionary cause, were employed in a higher circle than those of Marroquín, Merelo, and the other small fry of the liberal school. He had disappeared for the time being, as we already know, and in Spain the fact of a person disappearing is something that gives infinite importance, and often imperishable glory. For, indeed, when a man disappears, the public rightly presume that it must be for working out in secret great and noteworthy undertakings. Those of Mendoza, although we know not what they were, must have been portentous, if what was said was true, since they obliged him to remain concealed in Madrid more than three months, changing his concealment and his disguise any number of times. Miguel had known something of his life and perils, but at last he lost track of him. This was the state of affairs, when one evening, after dinner, while Rivera was sitting in the library with Maximina on his knee, there was a tremendous ring at the door-bell. The young woman was on her feet in a second. "Who can that be at this time o' day?" queried Miguel. "Has either of the girls gone out?" "I think not." Just then Juana came in. "Señorito, it is a waiter from the café wants to speak with you." "A waiter from the café? I don't remember that I have any account anywhere.... Tell him to come in." "Wait! wait!" exclaimed Maximina; "let me get out by this door!" And she ran out by the parlor door, as was always her custom, when any of Rivera's visitors came. At that instant the waiter appeared, and Miguel could scarcely recognize under his disguise his friend Mendoza. "Perico!" "Shhhhhhhhh!" exclaimed Mendoza, putting on an expression of terrible fear. And he hastened to bolt the door. "What is up?" asked Miguel, affecting great anxiety. Mendoza sat down, heaved a sigh, and answered frankly:-- "Nothing." "I thought so." Brutandor, without heeding the irony of those words, began to whisper, bringing his mouth close to his friend's ear:-- "I have been for the last fortnight at La Florida, hiding in the house of the laundrymen...." "Man! if I had known it, I should have made you a visit." "Don't say anything about visits! They might follow you, and get their hands on me." "And how have you enjoyed your visit in the country?" "I had a pretty fair sort of time. There was only one bed in the house; in the night while the laundrymen were asleep, I would go out, and take a walk along the river bank, and at sunrise, when the men were up, I used to go to bed." "How cool and delightful it must have been!" "Well, sometimes it would nauseate me a little; do you wonder? The Countess de Ríos used to send me my meals with great precautions, changing the servant every time.... But day before yesterday the laundryman did not sleep in the house, and this, as you can easily imagine, worried me...." "That's clear; when laundrymen don't sleep at home, it's a very bad sign." "This morning I saw him with two bad-looking men ... suspicious characters, and so, fearing that they might hand me over to the police, I decided to leave the place. The waiter in a wretched café there sold me this disguise, and after it got to be dark, I made my escape without saying a word. I thought of going to Las Ventas del Espíritu Santo, but the police keep track of all such places. Then a brilliant idea struck me,--that of coming to your house. How the deuce would they ever think of my being here! A lady-love of mine years ago used to hide her letters among her father's papers, and he would go hunting for them all over the house." "So that you stole the idea from your sweetheart? You ought to be original even at the cost of arrest!... However, I am delighted that you came. I cannot help being flattered greatly to have in my house a conspirator of so much importance.... For you do not realize the prestige that you enjoy, nor what is said about you on this account...." "Really?" exclaimed Mendoza, flushing with pleasure. "I assure you. You are called one of the heroes of the revolution.... But, my dear sir, what is worth much costs much; the greater the name you win among the revolutionists, the more exposed you will find yourself to whatever noose the government may tie for you. If they catch you now, I am inclined to think that you won't get off without being shot." "Do you think so?" asked Brutandor, growing frightfully pale. "I do, indeed.... But don't be alarmed; they won't think of coming here after you." "See here, I beg of you, keep the servants from knowing anything about it, because you see some little word might get out through them ... and I should be lost!" "It is rather a hard matter to deceive them," replied Miguel, laughing at the tone in which his friend spoke those last words. Mendoza took up his abode in the house; but first it was necessary to have a trunk brought from his lodging, and for him to change his clothes in Miguel's bedroom; when this was accomplished he went out cautiously, and soon returned like an ordinary visitor. By these manoeuvres he deceived himself, and was convinced that he had deceived the servants.... Maximina did not fancy having the guest. She was so happy living alone with her husband! Nevertheless, with her usual docility to his wishes, she said not a word, nor showed in her face any sign of dissatisfaction. While Miguel was away from home, Mendoza spent his time with her, but whole hours passed without their exchanging a dozen words. The young girl of Pasajes was not a very deep thinker. And Mendoza, as we know, was in the habit of keeping to himself the good things that came to his mind. Still she watched him closely out of the corner of her eyes, and afterwards gave her husband the benefit of her impressions. Though she tried to make the best of them, it was evident that they were not very flattering. "It seems to me that Mendoza hasn't pleased you very well." Maximina smiled, and said nothing. "Well, he is an unfortunate." "I imagine that he is not as fond of you as you are of him; that nothing in the world is quite as important as himself." "Perhaps you are right, but it can't be denied that he is _simpático_. His egotism amuses me; it is like a child's." Maximina, as her habit was, sat silently trying to evolve through her mental consciousness the meaning of _simpático_[21]; but her efforts remained unsuccessful. Five days after his arrival, Mendoza received a letter from the Countess de Ríos, inclosing another from her husband. Both reached their destination by passing through various hands. The general said that the party who furnished the money for publishing _La Independencia_ gave him to understand that he would not give another quarter unless he were guaranteed the thirty thousand duros which he had already spent. As he could not address himself to any of his friends, and judged that his wife was not a suitable person for the transaction, he charged him at all hazards to have an interview with the "white horse," and try to get a subscription that would be effective in pacifying him, because the paper had been a constant loss to them in these critical times. Mendoza handed the letter to Rivera. Although he had no connection with the financial administration of _La Independencia_, Rivera had for some time been conversant with the monetary difficulties with which the journal was struggling. After reading the letter carefully, he said, looking up:-- "Well, what now?" "Well, as you can imagine, I cannot undertake this commission, because I do not go out of doors...." "And so you want me to fill the gap, do you?" Mendoza was silent, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground. "Well then, my friend," said the brigadier's son in a determined voice, "I am sorry to tell you that I will not undertake to ask money or guarantees of money from any one." Both were silent for some time after these words. At last Mendoza, without lifting his eyes from the floor, and evidently disturbed, began to speak:-- "I believe that if you were willing, the matter might be arranged without asking money of any one.... Eguiburu will be satisfied if only your name is endorsed, and he will furnish all that is necessary each month...." Miguel looked at him keenly, while the other stood still with downcast eyes; then he said, with a laugh:-- "You are indeed a man of happy ideas! If you die before I do, I shall be able to take your skull, and say more complimentary things than Hamlet said about Yorick's." Then he suddenly grew serious, and began to pace up and down the room with the letter in his hands. After a while he stopped in front of his friend, who was still standing in the position of a whipped schoolboy, and said:-- "And who is going to guarantee _me_ the general paying those thirty thousand duros?" "The general is a man of honor." "Eguiburu, as you well know, will not be satisfied with such money; he wants either gold or silver." "Besides, the count has many wealthy friends; some of them, as you well know, are compromised in this movement, and if the whole debt of the paper were put upon any one of them it would be paid." The matter was discussed for a long time between them; Miguel in his ordinary jesting tone, Mendoza with his imperturbable gravity, and showing no impatience, but holding firmly to his reasons. Rivera was over-persuaded. He finally yielded, and consented to endorse the paper. Over and above his friend's entreaties there was the interest which he felt in the success of the journal, and the affection which he felt for it; and these influenced him to take the step. On the other hand, although he jested at the general's honor, he did not doubt it, and was certain that he would not be "left on the bull's horns." When, on the next day, he told Maximina what he had done, she said nothing, and went on working at the edging which she had in her hands. "What do you think about it? Did I make a mistake?" Maximina lifted her sweet, smiling eyes. "Do you ask me? I know nothing of business. Besides, for me, whatever you do is always right." Miguel kissed her, and was convinced--that he had committed a great piece of folly. A few days later, when Mendoza and Miguel were alone in the library, the prescript told his friend a secret that filled him with astonishment. "I have something to tell you, Miguel...." "What is it?" "I am going to be married." "How glad I am! Let us know who the unfortunate being is who has had such bad taste!" "I am to marry Lucía Poblacion, General Bembo's widow."[22] We ought to remark, if we have not already done so, that the gigantic Don Pablo had died seven months before in Porto Rico. Miguel was dumfounded, and could not forbear a gesture of disgust. This man knew what sort of a woman _la generala_ Bembo was; he was perfectly aware of the relations which he himself had maintained with her. And he had the heart to make her his wife! For several minutes he remained without having a word to say, a thing that had not often happened to him in his life before; then he murmured:-- "Very good, very good, I congratulate you." "As soon as her year of mourning is over, which will be within five months, we shall be married. She is a very agreeable woman.... Now that I have become intimately acquainted with her, I am persuaded that all the gossip about her is pure fiction; the poor lady is the victim of a few fools who, out of disappointed jealousy, have given her a bad name." Miguel's eyes flashed angrily; he imagined that these words were directed against him, and he had a ferocious sarcasm on the tip of his tongue; but he succeeded in suppressing it, feeling that the situation in which his friend was putting himself was some excuse for him. "And if you did not think so you would do very wrong to marry her.... I have heard it said that Lucía has a snug little fortune; is that so?" he added, allowing it to be clearly seen what were, in his opinion, the motives of such a marriage. Mendoza, though rather obtuse, perceived it, and replied angrily:-- "I don't know, I'm sure.... I met Lucía at Borell's, and from the very first I was delighted with her. She is so refined and so full of noble sentiments. The poor woman was obliged to marry a man old enough to be her father; it would not have been strange if she had gone astray; nevertheless, she succeeded in preserving her...." "Don Pablo must have had a pretty good thing in America, besides a high rent for his house," said Miguel, not heeding Mendoza's boasts. "La Señora de Borell can say that it was she who made this match. You can't imagine how much she loves Lucía, and what a high opinion she has of her." "It is said that Don Pablo's fortune has been greatly diminished in these last few years; but as more came in from America than was spent in Spain there ought to be a good income, and half of it belongs to Lucía in her own right. On the other hand, her children are young, and the income of the whole estate must suffice for them for many years." Miguel kept insisting on this point, as he saw that it annoyed his friend, and he wanted to retaliate on him for what he had said just before. He showed so much annoyance at this ill-assorted marriage, when in the evening he told Maximina about it, that she could not refrain from saying:-- "Why are you so put out about it? Even though Perico marries for money he is not the first one who ever did such a thing. The only thing that surprises me is, that this lady consents to marry seven months after her husband's death." As Miguel could not well tell his wife the reasons why he was indignant, since he was trying to keep from her the knowledge of certain social evils, and on the other hand he was afraid that the jealousy which she had once shown at Pasajes might be renewed, he suddenly calmed down and turned it into a laugh. Still he could not divest himself of the feeling of disgust which the news had caused. Hitherto he had forgiven all his friend's outbreaks of egotism, but what he was now going to do was too low for him to overlook it. And thus it was that he could not help feeling a secret relief when, owing to a certain event that followed, Mendoza decided to leave his house. He was talking one day with one of the maids, and his solemnly benevolent face made it evident that he was not at all insensible to the girl's black and roguish eyes; and she, on her part, was not less attracted by the guest's healthy physique and fresh, ruddy face. While she was arranging his room and constantly turning round to reply to his remarks, he was sitting in an easy-chair with his feet stretched out and with a newspaper in his hand. "How glad I should be, señorito, to have you gentlemen succeed!" said the girl, after a long interval of silence. "Succeed in what, Plácida?" "In getting control of the government ... go along!... and rule." "I don't concern myself with such things," rejoined Mendoza, becoming suddenly serious. "Come, come, señorito," said the maid, "don't you suppose that we know all about it? Then why don't you ever go out-doors? You are afraid of the peelers[23]!... The devil take 'em!... Ever since one wanted to carry me off to the lockup for shaking a carpet, I can't bear to see them even in a picture." "Who told you that I didn't go out of doors for fear of the peelers?" demanded Mendoza, growing pale. "Why, the shopkeeper down stairs. He told Juana and I that we had a very important gentleman hiding in our house, but that it would not be much longer 'cause everything was all ready for the revolution.... Don't let it worry you, señorito," she added, noticing how pale Mendoza had become, "the shopkeeper won't say nothing 'cause he's more liberal than Riego.... He wouldn't, he wouldn't, for mighty little good it would do him to have a war!" Mendoza, by this time quite livid, leaped from his chair, and without replying, left the room, reeling, and hastened to Miguel's study. "What's the matter?" asked Rivera, seeing his friend's excitement. "Nothing," replied Mendoza, in a feeble voice, dropping into an easy-chair, and covering his face with his hands,--"only my head is not safe on my shoulders!" "That's what I have always told you; it is quite too big!" "Let up on your jokes, Miguel! The thing is very serious. It is already known that I am hiding here in this house, and when it is least expected they will come and take me." "Who told you all that?" "Plácida.... The shopkeeper down stairs knows all about it. Just imagine, who won't know it by this time!... I cannot stay here another day; I must find another retreat. The best way would be to leave Madrid." Under other circumstances Miguel would have dissuaded him from this resolve, because he was perfectly convinced that his friend was in no danger in one place any more than in another; but for the reasons above suggested he took pains not to hinder him. After a little discussion it was decided that Mendoza should make his escape that very afternoon, because they were more watchful at night, and might get wind of him. His idea was to-go to Las Ventas del Espíritu Santo disguised as a water-carrier, and from there, if there were danger, he would leave Madrid by the Northern Railway: Miguel agreed to get him a pass. In fact, the water-carrier for the house sold him his suit, which was certainly not remarkably new or cleanly. After spending an hour in making up his disguise, touching his cheeks with vermilion, dishevelling his hair, soiling his hands, etc., our revolutionist went to the library, with his cask on his shoulder, and stood before the looking-glass. "I recognize myself!" he exclaimed, with such a look of anxiety that Miguel and Maximina laughed till their sides ached. IX. Miguel's cousin Enrique had at last succeeded in embracing the divine phantasm of glory in pursuit of which so many men run in vain. It was in the plaza of Vallecas, on the day of Our Lady of Carmen. The entertainment[24] had been organized at Madrid for the purpose of aiding some unfortunates suffering from a flood in the province of Valencia, and as he was one of the amateurs who liked to take part in sports of this sort, he was gallantly invited to thrust the _banderillas_ into the bull's shoulder--an honor which he declined. The committee afterwards discovered the true inwardness of his not accepting, and after making certain calculations and combinations, they invited him once more to be the _estoqueador_,[25] and this time he did not hesitate to accept, seeing that his dignity was saved. It was less than a year since he had chosen the alternative. And as we have already hinted, he had covered himself with glory, his rivals with envy, and the respectable family to which he belonged with honor, though its worthy head had a quite different idea of it. After a battle he had the fortune to kill the bull with a superb lunge at a half-run, wetting his fingers, and entering and leaving the ring without a stain. There was a perfect delirium of clapping, of waving cigars and hats; all the bull-fighting amateurs vied with each other in embracing him; he was carried triumphantly to his carriage, and sent back victorious to Madrid: on the next day the newspapers, in their reviews of the entertainment, raised him "to the very horns of the moon." _El Tabano_, a most dignified paper, dedicated exclusively to the interests of bull-fighting, declared that he showed _blood_ and _modesty_; and this eulogium, in spite of its brutality, for some reason or other made him stagger with delight. He spent a feverish, wakeful night, though his soul was caressed by a thousand brilliant visions. When morning came, he gave himself up to cleaning his long knife, and while he was occupied in this most noble task, he had the ineffable satisfaction of receiving, on a silver salver from the committee, the ear of the bull which he had slain. The servant, after receiving an unheard-of fee, told him, with his heart bowed low in admiration:-- "What immense pleasure, señorito! Tato was nothing to you!" "Pish! You must not flatter, my dear; you must not flatter," replied Enrique, with affected modesty; "El Tato was a great bull-fighter!" "But I tell you it is so, señorito! El Tato never came out of the ring with his cloak more unstained. You see I know what bulls is! Señor Paco (he is now in glory) has told me time and again, when he seen me with the horse in full gallop up to the very nose of the beast: 'Juanillo, my son, you've got the very blood of the bull-fighter. Dedicate yourself to the art which would be much more profitable to you than cleaning boots, and holding nags in the plaza.' 'But,' says I, 'Señor Paco, suppose I have a lady who gives me a good brushing down every Sunday, when I put on the red jacket?' 'Give her a lot of soft soap, my boy; if you wants to git along well with women, you've got to give 'em soft soap every day of your life and every other day too!' And the old man was right! If I had followed his advice, I should have been a different person.... I was the gent as brought you the mule when you fell; didn't you see me?" "Yes.... I don't recollect very clearly, but it seems to me that I saw you on the plaza." "Come now, if it hadn't been for me putting myself right on the horns of the bull, Don Ricardito would have been hooked yesterday afternoon at the second baiting.... Bad beast that was! They'd once before baited him in the village, so the pastor told me. That one of yourn, señorito, was a very lively little bull, very brave, and at the same time very gamy. Your stabbin' of him was very unusual." "Pish! Perfectly regular, perfectly regular...." "Magnificent, Don Enriquito! magnificent! Only it was a pity that you hurried the least leetle bit as you rode by him!" "I hurried?" exclaimed Enrique, flushing. "Man alive! it seems to me you have about as good an idea of bull-fighting as the lining of my trousers!... Don't you dare to say that I hurried!" His modesty, which was "only fastened with pins," was quickly lost. The servant, seeing the ill-effect of his criticism, was anxious to amend it. "No; but certainly it was a superior skirmish; and it makes no difference whether it was done quick or slow." "No matter at all; we have talked enough, and I don't care to hear any more such nonsense...." And Enrique opened the door to let him out, and slammed it behind him, muttering:-- "The devil take the stupid fellow! Ricardito must have given him that idea about hurrying.... That rascal had better be ashamed of himself, and not let Felipe Gómez hold his bull by the leg." And fully persuaded that the stain on his rival's honor could not be wiped out by all the perfumes of Arabia, he remained tolerably calm. The reading of the journals, and the presence of the bloody ear, mute witness of his courage, finally restored him to complete tranquillity. But one thing afterwards occurred to disturb his peace of mind, and that was the way of preserving his trophy. If it were left in its present state, it would soon become offensive. Should he put it in alcohol? Then the hair would come off, and it would be turned into a piece of ugly gristle. Should he have it mounted? He would have to go out and make inquiries. He made up his mind to go immediately after dinner to Severini, the great taxidermist of San Jeronimo Avenue. At dinner the talk turned on the bull-fight. Don Bernardo had already been informed by the newspapers of his son's prowess; and though secretly, at the bottom of his heart, he was flattered by the applause that he had won, he did not fail to appear stern, and to chide him, although not as severely as sometimes. "Come now, Enrique, let this be the last time that you make a public exhibition of yourself in this way. You know that I do not like to have a son of mine play the rôle of _torero_, even though he do it well." Enrique understood well that his father was not really angry, and was assured of the truth of the old adage, "Success pardons all dubious steps." He lighted his cigar, wrapped the bloody ear in a rag, put it in his pocket, and went down into the street, directing his steps toward the Café Imperial, with the hope of there receiving fresh congratulations from his intelligent friends, and to spend the whole afternoon talking about the bull-fight of Vallecas: on the way he intended to call at Severini's. It was half-past three, and pretty hot. Our lieutenant (for he had been promoted) was walking along the Calle del Baño, dressed in the latest style, in Prince Albert coat tightly buttoned up, light pantaloons, patent leather boots, and a sombrero with a peaked crown. It was his idea to dress himself so in place of his ordinary "b'hoy's" fighting garb, so as to give greater force and relief to his portentous sword-thrust of the day before. He walked slowly, with the assured and overweening gait of a man satisfied with himself, casting keen glances at those whom he passed, to see if they recognized him, and puffing forth great clouds of smoke. Never had he felt so happy in body and mind. At the door of a "dairy" a young girl was seated with a book in her hands. Enrique, as he passed, glanced at her, and the philanthropic feelings which he felt toward every living thing caused him to pause a moment and gaze at her with smiling eyes. The girl looked up with her big black eyes, the expression of which was half proud and half mischievous, and after staring at him for some time, she again gave her attention to her book, showing marked indifference. Enrique stepped up in front of her, and stopped, saying in mellifluous accents:-- "What are you reading, my beauty?" The girl again raised her eyes, and after staring at him sharply, replied:-- "_The Lives of the Four Rascals._" And she dwelt long on the last word. Enrique was a little confused, but he stood with the smile still on his lips. The girl again buried herself in her book. After a while she raised her head once more, and said vivaciously, in an ironical tone, in which her irritation was expressed:-- "Walk in, gent, walk in...." "A thousand thanks, sweetheart," replied Enrique, entering the shop, and standing just behind the girl. She turned around to look at him, with a haughty gesture, and said very gravely:-- "Man, I like you for your cheek!" "And I like you for your sprightliness." "Indeed! Since when?" "Since I saw you from the corner of the street." "Ay, how kind of you! And you knew as much as that, and kept it to yourself!" "Why, whom could I tell it to?" "To your grandmother, my son." "I haven't any; my grandmother died when I was a baby." "What a monkey!" "No; I used to be homelier than I am now." "Didn't your papa have to teach you during vacation?" "I don't remember.... Zounds! Do you consider me so ugly?" "Why should I deceive you?... Ugly? why you are uglier than sin!" "Manolita,"[26] cried the fruit-woman from across the way, "when did you get up your awnings?" "Just this very moment. How do you like them?" "And so your name is Manolita?" asked Enrique "No, siree; my name is Manuela." "How witty and how delicious you are!" "When did you ever taste me?" Manolita was a _chula_ or "gal" in her behavior, in her gestures, in her dress, in the pronunciation of her words, and in all that she did; but she was a very charming _chula_; and that is no miracle, for there are girls like Alexandrine roses in these blessed streets of ours. Her face was oval, rather pale; her eyes were black, with pink circles under them; her hair was also black, and she wore it in ringlets around the temples; her teeth were white and small, and set close together; her expression that mixture of grave and scornful which is natural to every _chula_ who has not as yet "gone to the dogs." "Why did you say that you were going to finish your walk this moment?" Enrique had not said any such thing. "Before going I wish you would give me a glass of milk." Manolita got up solemnly from the chair, leaving her book in it, and went to the counter, and without saying a word filled a glass with milk, put it on a plate, and set it on one of the three or four marble tables that were there; then seeing that Enrique did not sit down, but stood motionless in the middle of the shop, following all her movements, she paused suddenly, and said in that ironical tone that never left her lips:-- "Don't you want to drink it indoors, mister[27]?" "I would not drink it in the house if you should give me five duros!" "Well, my boy, you can't have it out of doors! Come now, let us pour it back into the jug; only don't get sick and have to be sent to the hospital." No sooner said than done; she started straight for the jug; but Enrique detained her. "I did not mean that, my beauty. In the house there might some harm happen to me; but here! here I seem to be in glory merely looking at you!" "Señorito, you need lime juice and not milk!" "May be!... How much is this?" he added, after he had drunk up the milk, and looking at Manolita with a smile. "Not quite an _onza_."[28] "How much?" "Half a real." He took a few coins out of his pocket, and as he put them into the _chula's_ hands, he suddenly felt himself attacked by a philanthropy that mounted toward enthusiasm for her. To manifest this feeling, so appropriate to the essence of human nature and the spirit and doctrine of Christianity which commands us to love our fellow-creatures, our lieutenant had nothing left to do except to give her a fond hug accompanied by a kiss fonder still. But before carrying out such a plausible scheme, he cast a cautious glance all around to assure himself that no one was coming to disturb this benevolent act, and previously he bristled up his mustaches as all good rat terriers are accustomed to do. When once he had thus completed his preparations--All ready! Go! When the _chula_ found herself in the lieutenant's arms, she turned around as quick as a flash, tore herself away, let fly her hand, and _zas_! gave him a tremendous slap right in the nose. We know that of old Enrique's nose had a curious magnetic influence over blows, and attracted them as metallic needles attract electric sparks. Let us record this, so that no one may think it remarkable that the buffet struck that delicate organ instead of any other region of his face. Two jets of blood instantly gushed from his sufficiently capacious nostrils, which was proof positive that Manolita's hands were not made of wax, though they were handsomely shaped. At the sight of blood her courage became even fiercer, like a lioness of the desert, and it was a narrow escape that she did not tear him in pieces with a tin dipper, for she clutched it in her fists, and held it over him a long time. "Ay, how 'diculous! What has got into me?... What were you thinking about, you lisping idiot?... You made a mistake, señor. I'll smash in your great goat face if you don't get out of here quicker'n a wink!..." Enrique was wiping his nose with his handkerchief, murmuring:-- "_Diablo! Diablo!_ How you made it bleed!" "I want to see you pack out of here, you rascal![29] you rrrascal! you rrrrrrrascal!" And each time that she repeated the word, she gave a more vigorous roll to the _r_, as though the preservation of her honor, endangered by the impudent lieutenant, depended on the proper pronunciation of this precious palatal. "But first let me have a little water to wash my face.... I can't go out this way...." "You'd better have some green lemon juice.... Clear out of here, you indecent wretch!" The young woman stretched her right arm toward the door with so much dignity that it could not have been improved upon. Enrique, busy in cleaning off the blood and in looking with sorrow on the spots staining his handkerchief, could not appreciate the value of that haughty attitude which was worthy of Juno, Pallas, Cybele, or any other goddess of antiquity. The mythological right hand, however, under the influence of compassion, was gradually beginning to bend, and after a few moments it was the very one that brought from the back room a jug full of water, and set it down on the marble table beside the fatal tumbler of milk which the "rascal" had but just drained. Still it must not be imagined that this act in the least infringed on the dignity with which the handsome _chula_ had clothed herself: on the contrary, it made it more lustrous and illustrious. And while the lieutenant was washing his nose, carefully snuffling up the water, she, casting glances of Olympic scorn at his occiput and muttering threats, went and sat down once more at the door with her book in her hands. The hemorrhage having been checked, after drying his face with his handkerchief the lieutenant left the shop; but as he passed by Manolita he had the impudence to say:-- "Good by, my beauty; I shall not lay it up against you." It would be impossible for any one to conceive that Manolita lifted so much as her eyes, much more that she replied to him. Enrique went to the Imperial with his nose rather red, possibly a little inflamed, but as happy as though nothing of the sort had occurred. The thought of the _chula_ and the buffet that she had given him was driven out of his head by the congratulations of the bull-fighters and a dispute that lasted all the afternoon as to whether it is permissible or not for the _espada_ to have a boy at the entrance to attract the attention of the bull when he charges at close quarters. On the next day, however, when he left the house after breakfast, he remembered his adventure; instead of going up to town by the Prado, so as to take Prince Street, as his custom was, he entered the Calle del Baño the same as on the day before. He had taken but a step or two before he could discern at a distance Manolita's checked chintz and blue kerchief. The lieutenant smiled, calling to mind only the pleasant part of yesterday's episode; it was one of his peculiarities to see all the things of this world in the most hopeful aspect. "Ah, there is my little _chula!_ _caramba!_ if she isn't witty and saucy!" And with a honied smile on his lips, he walked leisurely to the "dairy," puffing out vast volumes of smoke, and carrying himself like a man whose happiness cannot be disturbed by a buffet more or less. When he came near the young woman, he stopped just as on the day before. The _chula_ looked up, and scanning him with angry eyes, said:-- "Have you come back for another?" "If you are anxious to give me one...." Enrique's dog-like face expressed such pure satisfaction, and had grown so fearfully ugly in expressing it, that the _chula_ could not prevent a smile breaking out on her face. And bending over, so as not to compromise herself, she said:-- "Come, come, go your way." "Don't be spiteful to me, Manolita, but forgive me!" "That's a great note! I am not a priest to grant absolution!" "But you can impose penance." "No such thing! If I did, though, it would be with the dipper in such a way that you would not care to show your ugly phiz around here again." "That could not be! I might lose my nose, but I could not lose my desire to see you; never!" The _chula_, during this exchange of compliments, was becoming softened. Enrique, after respectfully asking permission, was allowed to enter the shop, and sit down to drink a tumbler of milk. And in good fellowship and sociability, the lieutenant began to flirt with her in fine style, and the girl to answer him curtly, though she could not help feeling that it was rather good fun to be courted by a military gentleman.[30] Enrique made himself liked by his frank and optimistic disposition. Manolita, finding him just as ugly as before, began to be attracted toward him. "Why not tell the truth?" she said; "you are homely, but you have a _something_ ... come now!... peculiar." "Yes, I know that," responded the lieutenant, gravely; "I am homely, but graceful." "No, you aren't graceful either!" exclaimed the _chula_, laughing. "Well, I am beginning to get into your good graces, if I am not graceful." "That's so." After they had got deeply interested in conversation, suddenly heavy and clattering steps were heard in the back shop, and a man, or, more accurately speaking, a one-eyed giant, appeared at the rear door in his shirt-sleeves, in gray woollen trousers, a red belt, and a flat Biscayan cap; his face was as ugly and frightful as that of his ancestors, the Cyclops. After casting a grim look around the room, without seeing Enrique, or apparently not seeing him, he uttered several grunts, staggered toward the counter, and fixing his vitreous, angry eye on the polished silk hat which the lieutenant had laid on it, he picked it up gingerly in his monstrous hands, examined it curiously, like a naturalist who has just stumbled upon some new zoöphyte, while something that tried to be a smile, but succeeded in being only a horrible grimace, vexed his thick, livid lips. "Oj, oj, oj.... Trrr, trrr, trr.... Is there a marquis in my shop? blast him!" And he flung another glance around the room without having any objective point for it, as though there were no living beings in it. Then, with perfect calmness and care, as though he were performing one of the most delicate operations of art, he crushed the hat between his hands until he had made it as flat as a pancake; and having done this, he flung it through the door into the middle of the street with no less delicacy and care. Enrique suddenly grew as red as a pepper; then instantly turned pale; he leaped hastily from his seat like a new David, full of the impulse to meet the Goliath in battle; but Manolita restrained him, making no end of expressive signs going to show that the giant was not at heart a stern man. Then Enrique left the shop, a very disgusted man. "Father, the hat belonged to this gent, and he was a customer." "Hold your tongue, you! Do you understand?" And in order to reinforce the significance of his wish, he gave the girl a slap. But Enrique heard neither the daughter's amiable explanation nor the father's gentle reply; all he thought of was to straighten out and arrange his hat. "Catch me coming to this pigsty of a shop again!" he exclaimed, furiously clapping his hat on his head, and sweeping like the north wind up the street in search of a hatter. X. In fact, he did not return ... until the next day; but he went dressed _de corto_, that is to say, in short jacket, tight pantaloons, and sombrero. "See here, señorito, are you going to the slaughterhouse to skin something?" asked Manolita, as soon as she saw him in that rig. And then began their skirmish of love-making; he making use of all the honied words at his command, she replying to each loving phrase with a proud, tierce parry. Enrique was not foiled by that, and he was right. By the example of her young girl friends and companions, and by her rude training, the _chula_ was armed with a tough bark full of thorns; but God knew well, and Enrique likewise knew, that at heart she was a poor girl, good, industrious, long-suffering, ignorant as a fish, and more innocent in certain respects than might have been supposed from her speech and behavior. She had lost her mother about two years before; her sister had married a farmer, and lived out toward Las Vistillas. She herself lived with her father, who was a Vizcaïno,[31] who had been established in Madrid for many years in a little house with two rooms facing the corral where the cows were kept. She was a genuine Madrileña to the extent of never having even set foot on a railway train, or having in her walks gone farther than Carabanchel. The Vizcaïno, since the death of his wife, who had exercised a restraining influence upon him, had been taking more and more desperately to drinking habits, and treated his daughter very brutally. But even in her mother's lifetime she had become so accustomed to cruel treatment that it had never once occurred to her that she was living a very unhappy life; and when one day Enrique spoke of it in that way, after one of those barbarous deeds which the dairyman frequently committed, she looked at him in surprise and said, 'yes, that he was right, that she was very miserable'; but her tone seemed to say, "Man alive! don't you know that it isn't my fault?" As day after day went by, Enrique, constantly visiting at the "dairy," enduring the _freshnesses_, the pushing, and occasionally even the slaps of this gentlest of _chulas_, when he went beyond the bounds of reason, spent his time very pleasantly in the toils of his love. At first he had a few unpleasant encounters with the brute of a father; but afterwards they became great friends as soon as the dairyman discovered that the señorito knew a thing or two about bulls, that he had himself taken part in bull-fights, and was a great friend of the most famous _espadas_, to whom the plebeians of Madrid offer fervid worship. When he came into the shop drunk, Enrique would take his hat and go, and the other was not in the least offended at him for it; in this way he avoided any collision with him. He spent not less than two hours every afternoon talking with Manolita; in the evening, after the shop was closed, he escorted her to the cafés to collect for the milk that they had used during the day; he would wait for her at the door while she settled her accounts with the proprietor. As the _chula_ had her suitors, and they belonged to the "common people," and were jealous of a señorito paying attentions to her, our lieutenant was sometimes threatened, and even attacked; but we know that in his character of _bulldog_, he was most fierce and obstinate; he could defend himself so well with his iron cane, which he always took with him, that Manolita was perfectly tranquil about him, though she would bravely come to his aid and give his aggressors a few raps, as destructive as they were well directed. What were Enrique's intentions when he first began this flirtation? They could not have been more perverse and insidious: he expected to ruin the _chula_ and afterwards back out of it, but after he had known her a month Manolita had him a prisoner at her feet, as tame and obedient as a mountebank's dog, and this (let us say it to his credit, since we have said unkind things of him) because he had a noble heart and felt sorry for the poor girl's fate, so sorry, indeed, that he made up his mind to marry her. He spent several days pondering over this resolution, and then took courage to open his heart to his mother. Doña Martina was annoyed beyond measure, all the more from remembering her own former position as laundress; but as she was a woman of excessive meekness, and Enrique was like the apple of her eye, she quickly took his part, although she could not bring herself to speak to her husband about it, since she knew his temper, and was perfectly assured that he would tear things in pieces rather than consent to such a match. Finally the lieutenant, not having the courage to speak to his father, determined to write to him, and leave the letter on his table. Don Bernardo did not answer, nor did he show the slightest sign of having received it; after a few days Enrique left another on the same spot with the same result. The only sign that he could see was in his father's face: generally clouded, it was now more gloomy than ever. Then, after imploring his brothers, Vincente and Carlos to take his part, and after receiving from them a flat refusal, he went to ask a similar favor of his cousin Miguel, with whom he always kept on the most intimate terms of friendship. "Fine recommendation mine would be!" replied Miguel. "If you want your father to kick you out of the house you could not find a better way." "Don't you believe it; my father is fond of you--much more than he ever gives you reason to believe. That is the way with him ... stern in appearance ... but very affectionate at heart." Miguel smiled, feeling respect for that judgment of a good son, and still he continued to decline the office; but Enrique insisted so strenuously, and with such fervent words, almost with tears in his eyes, that at last, though not with very good grace, Miguel consented to call upon his uncle and talk over the matter with him. On the day set for the visit Enrique was waiting for him, walking up and down the corridor in a state of agitation easy to understand. When the door-bell rang he was the one that opened it. "How pale you are, my friend!" exclaimed Miguel. "My heart beats worse than if I were going to fight." "Poor Enrique! Make up your mind that even if my meddling turns out ill, as I predict it will, you will not hesitate a moment to hang yourself on the beautiful tree that you have chosen!" "See here, I can't wait for you in the house. My head is like a furnace; I must have some fresh air.... I will wait for you at the Imperial." Before going to his uncle's room Miguel went straight to Vincente's, who was still master of ceremonies for the family. Vincente received him with the affable gravity characteristic of him, and was amiable enough to give him a circumstantial and entertaining account of how the pipe that brought water to his wash-basin had, for a number of days, been afflicted with a small break, which had made it leak so that it had almost ruined a tapestry of the Catholic kings; but fortunately it had been discovered in time, and after a long search they had succeeded in finding the wretched leak. Then he told him another story, no less interesting, about a curious system of bells which he had invented for communicating with the servants and the coachman. Finally, the oldest son of the Señores de Rivera, manifesting a generosity which was as honorable to him as to his cousin, brought from a closet a small ivory triptich, which he had recently bought at El Rastro. It was an exquisite work, a real jewel, as its owner declared, although somewhat the worse for wear. After both of them had looked at it and admired it, Vincente, as he was returning it to its place, and trying not to burst out laughing, said:-- "And do you know what Señor de Aguilar would be willing to give me for this triptich?" "I haven't the slightest idea." "Just imagine, Miguel!... a Trajan! Think of it! he wanted to take me in with a Trajan." And Vincente, unable longer to contain himself, laughed till the tears ran. "How absurd!" exclaimed Miguel, laughing in sympathy, but not having a very clear idea of what a Trajan was, and still less its value compared with the triptich. The good humor into which this recollection put Vincente resulted in his being anxious to do everything to gratify his cousin. "You want to speak with papa, do you? Now see here, he's engaged in going through his gymnastic exercises; but I'll take you to him, at all events." "Gymnastic exercises?" exclaimed Miguel, in surprise. "It was prescribed by the doctor because he had lost his appetite; do you see? He did not eat a mouthful, and even now he takes very little. He has been sallow and weak this two months, so that you would scarcely know him." On entering his uncle's stern and gloomy room, Miguel was, indeed, surprised to see the change that had taken place in that excellent gentleman's physique; the strange garb that he wore contributed in no small degree to give him a sinister and terrible appearance: he wore nothing except a gauze shirt, through which could be seen his lean and bony frame; also full trousers of drilling, in which his shins could scarcely be made out. His face, always broad and lean, seemed more fleshless than ever; the yellowish complexion, the sad and glassy eyes, and, as his razor never ceased to perform its devastating work, his mustache had come to be only a slight speck beneath his nose. His library had been turned into a gymnasium; there were parallel bars, a few pairs of dumb-bells on the floor, and a number of iron rings swinging from the ceiling. When Miguel went in, his uncle was going through his evolutions on the parallels; he had the opportunity of watching him at his ease, and it pained him. Seeing the rapid and astonishing decline, he could not help saying to himself:-- "It must be that my uncle has some grievous sorrow." And as the old gentleman, absorbed in his painful task of walking on his hands over the bars, did not perceive his presence, he said aloud:-- "Good afternoon, uncle." Don Bernardo dropped to the floor, and gazing with bleared, vacant eyes, replied:-- "_Holá!_ What brings you here?" "Go ahead, uncle; don't let me interrupt you. How do you find yourself?" "So, so. And your wife?" "She is very well; go on, go on!" Don Bernardo gave a jump, and again perched on the parallels. "You can tell me what you want; I am listening." Miguel looked at him a moment, and perceiving that the best thing to do was to attack the business in hand directly, and without any beating about the bush, he began to say:-- "I have come to talk with you on a subject which probably will be irksome to you, ... but I got myself into it with over-haste, and I have no way of retreat, but must fulfil it as well as I can.... Enrique has told me of his desire...." Don Bernardo dropped a second time. "Not one word about Enrique," said he, stretching out his arm imperiously. Miguel felt annoyed by such haughtiness, and said ironically:-- "What! have you decided to blot him out from the memory of men?" Señor de Rivera gave him a cold and haughty stare, which Miguel returned with equal pride and coldness. The uncle mounted the parallels again, and feeling that he had acted rather discourteously, said with some difficulty, for his gymnastic effort took away his breath:-- "Enrique is a fool. After annoying me to death all his life with his follies he wants now to finish his career by bringing dishonor on his family." "I have always understood that one who does some vile act dishonors his family.... But, however, since you do not wish to talk about Enrique, we will not. He is of age, and he will know what it becomes him to do." He said these last words with the intention of preparing his uncle for what might take place. Don Bernardo made no reply: he descended from the bars, and after getting his breath he mounted them again, and began to practise the "frog movement." As Miguel did not immediately take his departure, he renewed the conversation, saying:-- "It seems to me that you have grown rather thin since I saw you last, uncle." "Yes!" replied Don Bernardo, pausing, and sitting astride of the wooden bars. "But you will see me much more so. There is a reason for it." "Does your stomach trouble you?" The _caballero_ was for a moment motionless, with eyes fixed, and then said in a tone of deep melancholy:-- "I suffer in my mind." And he took up his exercise with more violence than ever. Never had Miguel heard from his uncle's lips any reference to his innermost feelings; in his eyes he had always been in this respect a man of iron. Thus when he heard that tender confession, it seemed to him as though he were in a dream. And imagining that Enrique was the cause of his uncle's griefs, although the man had no reason to be grieved on account of his son, Miguel still pitied him sincerely. "I see that Enrique, of whom I am so fond, is the cause of your troubles.... But you have two other sons, who must be the source of unalloyed satisfaction." "No, Miguel, it is not Enrique.... Enrique has caused me some sorrow, ... but what I feel now has its source far deeper." Miguel began to puzzle over what he meant, and was inclined to imagine that it might be some loss or diminution of his property. Don Bernardo dismounted, leaned against one of the bars to rest, and rubbed his sweaty forehead with his handkerchief, heaving a deep sigh; then he took some iron balls and began to open and shut his arms with the solemnity that accompanied all his acts. After a few moments' silence, which his nephew dared not interrupt in spite of the curiosity that piqued him, the old gentleman dropped the weights, and approaching him with his eyes fixed and open like those of a spectre, he said in a hoarse tone:-- "Forty years ago I married.... Forty years have I been cherishing a viper in my bosom! At last its poison has made its way into my blood, and I shall perish of the wound!" Miguel did not understand, nor did he wish to understand, those strange words. However, he said:-- "I have always supposed that you were happy in your marriage." "I was, Miguel! I was because I had a bandage over my eyes. Would to God that it had never been taken off!... There is a day in my life, as you know well, when, in order to rescue the honor of our family, I descended to give my hand to a women of very different rank from mine. In return for this immense sacrifice, don't you think that this woman ought to kiss the very dust on which I walk?... Now then, this woman is a Messalina!" "Uncle!" "More correctly an Agrippina." "But after forty years, when my aunt Martina is already old and venerable!" "That makes her crime all the more odious." "Aren't you blinded, uncle?" "It has cost me much to believe it; but I can no longer have any doubt." "I regret your annoyance from the bottom of my heart; but allow me to doubt it absolutely...." "Do you know who the infamous wretch is who has dishonored my name," demanded Señor de Rivera, coming closer and speaking into Miguel's ear,--"This viper, also, I have warmed in my bosom!" "Who?" "Facundo! My fraternal friend, Facundo!" "Señor Hojeda!" "Not another word more!" exclaimed Don Bernardo, raising his arm majestically. "You are a member of my family; you are married, and I have told you my secret--to prepare your mind. A terrible catastrophe is threatening all our heads." "But, uncle!" "Not another word!" Don Bernardo immediately grasped the rings, energetically raised his feet, and began to do "the siren." Miguel left the library, convinced that if his uncle was not already crazy, he was in a fair way to go to the mad-ouse. XI. "FELLOW CITIZENS: the cry of liberty raised in Cadiz re-echoes all over the peninsula. Citizens, be proud! be proud of the name of liberals! The sun of liberty has at last pierced through the fogs of tyranny which have dimmed it for so many centuries, and it shines more gloriously bright than ever before, ready to blot out the miserable traces of a deadly and spurious brood...." These and other similar metaphors the hirsute Marroquín was shouting from one of the balconies of the editorial office of _La Independencia_. He was surrounded by about half a dozen red banners, and his face was distorted by emotion, and his hands were tremulous. At his side could be seen some of his comrades, all rather pale, though not as pale as he. Now and then the orator turned to them as though demanding their concurrence, and this was for the most part generously granted, all murmuring, in a low voice, at the end of each period. _bravo! bravo!_ and other exclamations which imparted a new and powerful inspiration to the professor for continuing his harangue to the masses. The masses, packed together in the Calle del Lobo, were listening with open mouths, and with their shouts and acclamations were likewise filling him with new spirit. When at last all his astronomical metaphors were exhausted, and he had nothing more to say, he gathered all his forces and screamed in a stentorian voice:-- "Citizens! Long live liberty!" "_Vivaaaaa!_" "Long live the sovereign people!" "_Vivaaaaa!_" And now, having finished his discourse, he withdrew from the balcony. A voice shouted from the street:-- "Down with property!" "_Abajoooo!_" The throng again started on its march, and in a short time Marroquín and all his comrades had joined it, raising aloft a tremendous blue standard on which could be read these words:-- "IMMEDIATE ABOLITION OF RELIGION AND THE CLERGY!" All was tumult, noise, and gayety on that day, the thirtieth of September, in the capital of Spain. Brass bands marched through the street, playing patriotic airs; all the balconies (especial pains were taken that there should be no exceptions) were decked with variegated hangings; the church bells pealed forth a hypocritical jubilee; triumphal arches were built in all haste on the principal streets to receive the conquerors of Alcolea, the emigrés and martyrs of the revolution; numerous patriotic crowds rushed through the city, ready at any instant to listen to the words of all the orators, more or less improvised for the occasion. The one which Marroquín had joined was not the least noisy and enthusiastic. Miguel was informed of its exploits by his ancient professor, Don Juan Vigil, the chaplain of the Colegio de la Merced, whom he met a few days afterwards in the street. "You have triumphed. _Barájoles!_ God knows I am proud of you and other good friends whom I have had in the thick of the affair. The only thing that I regret is the excesses, don't you know? the excesses against our Holy Mother, the Church.... In front of the house passed that hog of a Marroquín at the head of a regular mob; I saw that you were not with him, and I congratulate you for not being mixed up with such rude people.... He had a card on which was printed, _Down with religion and the clergy!_ He appeared in front of the college, and began to wave the flag, bellowing like a calf: 'Death to the priest! Down with the night-hawks!'" "I was standing behind the blinds, and _barájoles_! I felt strongly like going down into the street and giving the hog a good basting!" Miguel could not restrain a smile as he remembered the slaps which, in days gone by, the priest had given him, and, lest the reason for his smile should be misinterpreted, he hastened to say:-- "Don't you remember, Don Juan, the caning which you gave me one day for having shouted during recess time, _Viva Garibaldi_?" "Certainly I remember. And you did not thank me for it, I wager?" "Not at all." "That is the way! Do your best to inculcate in your pupils sound ideas of religion and morals, direct their steps in the path of virtue, correct their faults with paternal hand, and then when they become men they do not even thank you for all your vigilance!" "Let us not dispute about that, Don Juan; for that I thank you with all my heart; but the canings, paternal as they may seem, I shall never feel grateful for--not a shilling's worth!" "That is all right; I won't say anything more about the matter; the greatest reward for my cares is to see you an earnest man, and well received in society.... But, by the way, you can't imagine the sensation that this devil of a Brutandor gave me the other day. I was walking down the Calle de Alcalá, with the purpose of witnessing the entrance of the leaders of liberty (as you call them now). I was accompanied by the mayordomo and two pupils, when I saw in the procession, lounging in a barouche in which rode two generals in full uniform, my Brutandor, saluting the people as though he were an emperor!... _Ave María Purísima!_ I said to myself, making the sign of the cross; I could scarcely believe the evidence of my own eyes. Of course I knew that this clown mixed in politics, and that he had slobbered a few articles in the papers, although I always imagine that they are about as much his as the compositions that you used to write for him in school; but how could I ever imagine that I should be destined to behold him transformed into a person of importance, riding underneath the triumphal arches as though he had just been conquering the Gauls or overcoming the Scythians? And I declare the idiot was swelling up, swaying round in the barouche, as though he had ridden all his life in one!" "You have always been unjust toward Mendoza, Don Juan. More portentous things than that remain to be seen." "I believe you, even if you don't take your oath on it. If these are the men by whom you expect to regenerate the country, I have no doubt that I shall see him very soon made into mince-meat." And cursing the glorious revolution, and scorning in the person of Brutandor the whole confraternity, he took a most friendly farewell of Rivera, for whom he had never ceased to feel a genuine fondness. Little had Miguel cared for the revolutionary movement, although he figured as one of the most earnest adepts of democratic doctrines. The cultivation of his mind by an incessant devotion to the best reading, and his domestic life, took too much of his attention for him to give to politics more than a very small part of his energies; the very journal, the management of which he had taken hold of with enthusiasm, began to bore him; the everlasting polemics, the disgusting phraseology of the leaders, soon wearied him, and he longed for the time to come when he could resign his position, and give himself altogether to more serious and useful labors. He was happy in his home life, but not in the way that he had expected to be. For he had imagined before he was married that love and the joyful experiences which love would bring would be sufficient to fill his life absolutely and entirely, without leaving him time or desire for other things. And to discover that love occupied in his life a place apparently accessory or secondary, and that he was constantly occupied in other pursuits, some pertaining to his outward life, others to his studies and thoughts; that a slight disappointment would annoy him, and any inappropriate word vex him as much as before; that time and again he would return home from the café stirred up by some discussion, and his wife's caresses were not enough to calm him,--all this surprised him, and he was obliged to confess that domestic life had to take a place subordinate to other influences and pursuits. Maximina herself had sometimes to suffer for the outside annoyances caused by others; when he was in an irritable frame of mind, it took a very slight annoyance to upset him; and although he was conscious of his unfairness, he nevertheless did not fail to speak his mind to his wife when the neatness of his room, or of his linen, or any trifling detail was not up to the mark. To be sure, as soon as he saw her eyes fill with tears, he was sorry, and immediately gave her a loving embrace and many kisses. As for Maximina, as soon as she felt her husband's lips on her face, all her griefs would fade away as if by magic; so that their quarrels--if such a name can be applied when one does the disputing and the other makes no reply--never lasted more than a few minutes. In a word, as our hero suffered from the complaint, which among children is called _mimos_, or--what amounts to the same thing--as he was accustomed to see his wife constantly sweet-tempered, affectionate, and patient, it never once occurred to him that she could be anything else, and for that very reason he could not appreciate the value of that peace and home comfort which so many men seek in vain. Maximina, on the other hand, enjoyed a happiness almost celestial. The presence of her husband, with whom she each day fell deeper in love, was sufficient to keep her in a state of felicity which shone in her eyes, and was manifested in all her words and movements. When he was in the house, she could scarcely take her eyes from him; she would follow him about wherever he went; she even liked to watch him when he was washing and dressing himself. Miguel used to make sport of her on account of this constant pursuit; occasionally when he was in bad humor he would say:-- "Come now, leave me, for I am going to get dressed." And he would make believe shut the door; but she would respond with such beseeching eyes:-- "For Heaven's sake, don't drive me out of your room, Miguel," that he could not help smiling, and, taking her by the hand, he would put her down in a chair as though she were a child, saying:-- "Very well; but don't you move from there." When he was away from home, he was never for a single instant absent from her thoughts; when she had to talk with the maid-servants, she would always manage to refer to him directly or indirectly. If she gave orders to have the mirrors washed, it was so that _he_ might not notice that they were soiled; if she consulted her cook book, it was to learn how to make some dish that _he_ liked; the clothes that she was mending were _his_, and _his_ was the chain that she cleaned with powder, and the silk handkerchief which she sent her maid to wash, and the shirts which she sent out to be done up, because she did not feel that she was able to rival the laundryman, though her will was good. The only little clouds that crossed the horizon of her happiness was her husband's unreasonable fretfulness, which seemed to increase. Sometimes she would say, with tears in her eyes:-- "I was worried about to-morrow, because for the last five days you have been scolding me!" Miguel, grieved as always to see her weep, fondled her, and would return to his usual serenity and content. Nevertheless, there was one cloud larger and blacker than the others, and the cause of it was the fact that on the second floor of the same house lived the widowed Countess de Losilla with her two daughters of twenty-three and twenty-four years old, six and seven years older respectively than Maximina. Cards, bows on the stairway, and smiles from the balcony brought about an exchange of calls, and finally there sprang up a very cordial friendship between the young ladies and the bride. If not exactly pretty, they were rather handsome, to say the least: the older, Rosaura, a brunette with coarse features, and handsome though too prominent black eyes; the other daughter, Filomena, was very slender, and had a pale complexion, green eyes, a strange and mischievous look, and reddish gray hair. This young lady had a certain amount of forwardness unbecoming her sex and education, and this pleased the men even more than her figure. Miguel enjoyed keeping up a glib conversation with her, and it amused him to see with what unrestraint and ease the girl slid over all obstacles, and what skill she displayed in making retorts, and giving her phrases the meaning that she desired. And it must be said that when they came on dangerous ground they several times narrowly escaped a conversation of exceedingly questionable taste. When such a skirmish of wit began, Maximina used to walk up and down the balcony with Rosaura; although she smiled, it was evident that she did not approve. When she and her husband were alone afterwards, she said nothing about it, but the way in which she spoke of Filomena showed that she felt no great esteem for her. "Well, in spite of her boldness and her masculine ways," Miguel used to say, "she is a nice girl ... much better than her sister, according to my way of thinking." Maximina said nothing, so as not to contradict him, but she had her own very decided opinion. A vague feeling of jealousy, for which she could not fully account, contributed toward making her feel an antipathy to her. Thus matters stood, when, one morning Miguel, lying back in an easy-chair in his study, was tranquilly listening to Maximina, who, seated on a stool at his feet, and leaning her shoulder against his knees, was reading aloud from _Adventures of the Squire Marcos of Obregón_, written by Vicente Espinel. While the young wife was reading, he was playing with the braids of her hair, which she wore loose in the house for his special pleasure. The reading could not have been much to Maximina's taste, judging by the careless and inattentive way in which she modulated her voice. The novels which she liked were not those where everything that takes place is commonplace and prosaic, but another sort, the plot and extraordinary action of which piqued her curiosity. Thus almost all the books brought by her husband for her to read made her tired and sleepy, and it surprised her that he praised these, and called those that she liked pestiferous. She had just finished reading one chapter, terribly heavy for her, when suddenly, turning her head around and giving him a look which was half innocent and half mischievous, she asked:-- "Do you like this?" "Very much indeed." "I thought so; when a book does not please me nowadays, I always say to myself: 'How fine it must be!'" She said these words with such ingenuousness and such a graceful resignation that her husband, laughing heartily, took her head between his hands and kissed her enthusiastically. The young wife, encouraged by this caress, joyfully began to read another chapter. She must have been about half through it, when she suddenly paused and uttered a slight _ay!_ in such a peculiar intonation that Miguel was surprised; he started up and could see that his wife's face was flushed and full of an almost mystic joy. "What is the matter?" "I just felt ... as though something ..." "What was it?" he asked, although he knew perfectly well what it was. "As if a little, wee foot gently touched me." "That is nothing strange." Maximina did not care to read more; she laid the book on a chair and knelt down in front of her husband: they began to talk eagerly about their child. "See here! how do you know that it is going to be a boy, and not a girl?" "Because I want it to be a boy." "But now _I_ want it to be a girl, and like you.... But do me the favor to get up, because, if any servant should come in and surprise you in this attitude, it would be very ridiculous...." "No, no; I don't want ..." At that moment steps were heard at the door, as Miguel had feared, and a voice, that was not a servant's, called out:-- "Can I come in?" Maximina was on her feet in a flash. "Walk right in!" Filomena entered in her morning gown, with her hair in studied disarray, and her body _submerged_, if such an expression be permitted, in a magnificent blue silk morning gown trimmed with white lace. Miguel had never been able to persuade his wife to dress in such an elegant and sumptuous fashion at home; the poor child did not enjoy putting on dresses that were for ornament rather than use, because, as she said, it made her feel bad to wear a new suit merely to go in and out of the kitchen. "I am afraid that I am disturbing you," said the young lady, casting a malicious glance at Maximina's confused and blushing face. "No, no; not at all," she replied, growing still more confused. "One has to act with great circumspection toward newly married people.... But then, you are not among the softest. I came in without ringing, because the servants had left the door open. But if I am disturbing you I will go.... I have known the eleventh commandment this long time." That light and slightly insolent tone amazed and wounded the little provincial girl more and more each day. "On the contrary, at that very moment, we were talking about you," said Miguel, in the same light and jesting tone, perfectly intended to convey the idea that he was prevaricating. "Man alive! what are you telling me?" she rejoined, ironically. "Well, I have come," she added, sitting down in an easy-chair and crossing her legs, "to ask you if you will let Maximina go with us to the opening of the Royal; we have a box...." Maximina gave him a look, signifying that he should say _no_; but either because he lacked the wish or the courage, he replied:-- "A thousand thanks.... There she is." Filomena looked at Maximina, and she, not having the strength to refuse or to make an excuse, made an ambiguous gesture, which the countess' daughter interpreted as an acceptance. "Very good; at eight sharp we will call for her. You can come to our box, also, if you like; or, perhaps you may like to improve the opportunity for a little dissipation." "Filomena! for shame!" "Yes, yes; how virtuous you are! Any one who trusts in you must be fresh!" And jumping up, she began to play with the paper-cutter, the paper-weight, and all the objects that lay on the table, among others a box of cigars. "To see what cigars you smoke!... Man! what little bits of ones! what cunning ones! Are they mild?" "Rather." "Come now, I should like to try 'em." And without any hesitation she took a "puro," and bit off the end. Miguel laughed, and handed her a lighted match. "I have a very clear head," she replied, giving a bold stare at Maximina. But after four puffs she threw away the cigar, saying:-- "Horrors! What detestable cigars you smoke! They taste as if they were from Córdova!" "You little hypocrite! It makes you squeamish!" Filomena shrugged her shoulders, and began to run over the books in his library, naming them aloud:-- "_Works of Molière_ ... _Descartes_; _Discourse concerning Method...._ Method of what?... _Gil Blas de Santillana!_ Ouf! how dull that book is! I could not get half through it. Haven't you any of Octave Fueillet's novels? No? Then you show very poor taste.... _Plato: Dialogues._ _Goethe: Faust._ I should like to take this book, Miguel, because I only know the opera, and I am very much interested in the argument.... _Stuart Mill: Logic...._ _Saint Thomas: Theodicea._ _Lope de Vega: Comédias...._ _Balzac: Physiology of Marriage...._ I have read that book; it has some very delicate and true observations.... Haven't you read it, Maximina?" Maximina was dumfounded. "That is one of the books that Miguel has forbidden me to read." Filomena fixed her eyes on him, and smiled in a peculiar way, as though to say, "I understand you." Then suddenly, with the vivacity and ease which marked all her movements, she left the bookcase, opened the parlor door, and went in. Maximina and Miguel followed her. She sat down at the piano and began to give a powerful rendering of a polka. Before she had played it through she jumped up, and went to the _entredós_, where there were two great pots of flowers, and buried her face in them again and again, breathing in the fragrance with ecstacy. "Oh, what lovely flowers! Did you buy them?" "No; my sister-in-law Julia sent them to me." "I am going to give you a slip," said Miguel. "No; it is a shame to mutilate a growing plant." "It won't mutilate it. I am going to make you a little bouquet. Maximina, bring me some thread and a pair of scissors." The young wife went for what he wanted, and handed them to him gravely, without saying a word. Then she went and sat down on the sofa, and from there watched the arrangement of the bouquet. While this was proceeding, Miguel and Filomena kept up a constant warfare of repartees, in which the young lady showed sovereign freedom, and he very little respect for her. Maximina listened to what they said, perhaps without understanding a word; but the expression of her sweet eyes kept growing more and more grave and thoughtful. Finally Miguel handed the young lady the bouquet, with a gallant smile. She accepted it with a smile of thanks. "For this gallant action I forgive you for all the saucy things that you have said to me. _Caramba!_ it is already eleven o'clock!" said she, consulting the clock that stood in front of the mirror, "and mamma told me to make haste! _Adiós_, Miguel! see you later, Maximina!" And she flew from the room like a rocket, and opened and shut the outer door herself. The keen and somewhat mocking glance which she gave Maximina as she went out showed that she had an inkling of what was passing through her mind at that moment. The young wife started to rise; but when she saw how swiftly Filomena was taking her departure, she sat down again, and remained there with her arms by her side, her head bent over, and her eyes on the floor. Miguel was looking at her out of the corner of his eyes, and understanding perfectly what that attitude signified: he hesitated for several minutes before he threw his arm around her. "What is the matter?" he asked, drawing nearer and sitting down by her side. "Nothing," she replied, lightly lifting upon him her sweet eyes dimmed with tears. "Oh, what a little goose! Jealous of that impudent creature!" "No, no! I am not jealous," rejoined the girl, forcing herself to smile. "Only I somehow felt a pain without knowing why.... I was so happy till a moment ago!" "And you are now just the same as you were, sweetheart!" he said, embracing her. "Isn't it true that you are?... Tell me yes!... A few jokes with that shameless girl--are they sufficient to destroy all your happiness? That isn't common sense...." It needed a few more words to banish his wife's painful impression; and then, wiping her eyes, she exclaimed with a trembling voice torn from her very heart:-- "If you knew, Miguel, how I loved you!" After their reconciliation they went out of the parlor with their arms about each other. XII. Julita often visited her brother and sister, but her presence was not as pleasant for them as it used to be. The young girl's character had notably changed during the last few weeks; she rarely gave way to that hearty and contagious laugh which used to fascinate all who heard it; nor did her conversation any longer sparkle with the piquante and ready wit which formerly entranced every one. She had grown more reserved and thoughtful; the smile that from time to time hovered over her lips was melancholy; she had become irritable and peevish; in the course of a few days she had three quarrels with her brother on the most trifling subjects: such a thing in days gone by had rarely happened. "What a pity, Julita!" exclaimed Miguel at the close of one of them. "You are following in mamma's footsteps." Her physical appearance had also undergone some change, and not for the better; the roses of her cheeks had paled a little; there were blue circles under her eyes; and though this made them more lustrous, it took away in large measure that sweet and picturesque expression that was characteristic of them. Miguel and Maximina noticed these things, and had many times commented on them with sorrow; but there was one thing that attracted their attention above all and was the subject of long discussion between them: this was the invincible antipathy which Julia showed to her cousin Don Alfonso, and the eagerness with which she tried to bring him into the conversation, so as to blacken his character. There seemed to be no defect which the Andalusian gentleman did not possess in his cousin's eyes, and she took a malicious delight in enumerating and exaggerating them. In this respect, she every day made some new discovery which she was sure to bring to her brother and sister. At one time it was that he had brought a great lot of neckties, which to her mind proved that he squandered his money; then, again, she made all manner of ridicule of him, on account of the perfect battery of perfumes which he had on his toilet table; at times she called him lazy, because he never opened a book; at others, she ridiculed him for curling his mustache with the tongs; then she would complain of him because he would not take her to walk. But what made her most indignant and beside herself was his habit of not going to bed till two or three or even four o'clock in the morning, and because two or three times he had not done so till daylight. "What does this man do after he leaves the theatre? Where does he go? The best way would be not to think about it. He is every way disgusting, repugnant!" "It is too bad!" Miguel rejoined. "But there is no reason for you to be so exercised about it. Mamma invited him to spend a while at her house. When she does not receive him any longer, it will be all over." Julia made no reply to this; but the next day she was again going assiduously out of her way to get her cousin "on the carpet," or, more accurately speaking, in the pillory. "Do you know it seems to me that Julia is in love with Alfonso?" said Maximina to her husband, one night as they were going to bed. "It seems to me so too," replied Miguel, with a deep frown; "and I am sorry for it, because Saavedra is a heartless, bad man, who would not marry her, and if he did marry her, would make her wretched.... And the worst of it is," he added after a pause, "mamma is as much in love with him as she is! Yesterday I tried to give her a hint about the impropriety of keeping him so long at her house, and she gave me one of her violent, impertinent replies, so that I have no more desire to touch on that subject, and yet I feel that it is very necessary." There was a moment of silence, and Maximina exclaimed:-- "Poor Julia!" "Yes, poor Julia! God grant that you may have no more reason to say that than now!" During the two months that Don Alfonso spent in Madrid he amused himself to the utmost of his ability; his name, his figure, his money, and his notoriety as a fighter, which was in curious contrast to his smooth and peaceable character, gave him entrance into the most select society; he immediately became intimate with the most fashionable young ladies, and the houses where he called were the most aristocratic in the court circles. When he was at his aunt's, instead of making parade of this, he never said where he was going nor where he had been, nor did he ever mention any episode that would betray it. On the contrary, he took particular pains to avoid speaking of high society, in which they did not move, so as to spare them the petty mortification which for some women is apt to be really painful. He was the same extremely respectful gentleman toward his aunt, affable and gallant toward his cousin, although in all that he did he managed to show a peculiar haughty coolness, which is the quality best adapted for assuring success with the ladies. One evening Julia, on entering the theatre, saw her cousin in the box of a duchess famous at that time for her beauty, her discretion, as well as her conquests. The position which the two occupied, in the rear of the box, and bending toward each other until their cheeks almost touched, the insinuating smile on his face, and the flattered vanity which was expressed in hers, all made on the young girl such an impression that, for the moment, she was afraid of falling, and it was by mere force of will that she managed to reach their seats. When she had recovered from that painful surprise, she said to herself: "But what folly! Why should I feel such an impression if I have absolutely nothing in common with him? And even if he were my fiancé, what would there be peculiar in his talking with that lady?" At that moment Saavedra gracefully waved them a salute with his hand. Julia replied with a forced smile. The duchess turned around to see whom her friend was saluting, and levelled her opera-glass in a most impertinent fashion. Julia, being conscious of the stare, became so serious that it was pitiful to see her. And from the corner of her eye she noticed that the duchess, laying down her glass, bent toward her cousin and said a few words, to which he replied, looking toward her again. Then the lady said something more with a half-jesting smile, which caused Saavedra to reply with a cold smile and a gesture of displeasure. "That woman has just been saying something about me," thought Julita; and she trembled to see Don Alfonso's gesture. A hot gust of anger flared up into her face, and giving them a proud and scornful glance, she murmured: "Say whatever you please; you will see how much I care for you!" And during the whole evening she did not once again even accidentally direct her eyes toward the box. Between the second and third acts Saavedra came to speak with them, and sat down behind them in an empty seat. A pale young man with spectacles came along to do the same, and sat down in another seat. Julia introduced them with perfect composure:-- "My cousin Alfonso Saavedra ... Señor Hernández del Pulgar." Then she showed herself unusually jolly and gracious. The conversation turned on the drama of the evening, which was more terrible and melancholy than usual with the romantic school. Julita, with no little cruelty, parodied the most touching scenes. "That man makes me nervous who gets angry and is always in a fury and always saying that he is going to fight. I wish he would hurry up about it, and leave us in peace; ay! how stupid! I don't envy that pedantic, detestable young lady her lover! The only thing enviable about her is her facility in fainting away. Tell me, Hernández, what is the name of that señor who is so furious and 'hopelessly given to Barabbas'?" "Don Marcellino.... What I don't understand is this: why does Mercedes dismiss Fernando as soon as her father dies?" "Man alive! because the tender sweetheart does not wear full mourning. And what is the young lady going to do without father or mother or watch-dog? Die? I should like to see it!... Tell me; wasn't it very improper for Doña Elvira and Don Marcellino to be alone together so long?" The young men laughed, and exchanged significant glances. "Girl! what nonsense are you stringing together now?" exclaimed the _la brigadiera_, sharply. Julita blushed, perceiving that she had gone too far; but still she did not cease to be gay and talkative, though it was so manifestly put on that it escaped neither Don Alfonso nor her mother. Hernández del Pulgar left, perfectly carried away by her amiability and wit. In the third act Saavedra returned to his place beside the duchess, without Julita appearing to notice it at all. When they left the theatre, it was raining, and Don Alfonso went down and put them into a cab. When he reached home half an hour later, he found Julia taking a cup of lime juice in the dining-room. As their eyes met, Don Alfonso smiled not very openly. Julita had a very high color. Don Alfonso's smile seemed to say: "I know why you are drinking that _tila_." Julita's blushes proclaimed in a loud voice: "You have caught me in the very act!" At the beginning of summer Saavedra determined to go and make his mother a visit before returning to Paris. Julia heard the news with indifference; she even started to sing some Malaga songs at the piano, leaving her mother and cousin to talk about the journey. _La brigadiera_ begged him to stay a few days longer; Don Alfonso refused gently but obstinately, declaring that he had given his mother notice, and had named the day on which he should reach Seville. _La brigadiera_ urged him persistently, like a woman accustomed to have her own way, and Don Alfonso resisted no less persistently, like a man whose determinations, though expressed politely, are irrevocably fixed. Julia suddenly stopped singing, and half turning round, said, in a dry and impatient tone:-- "Mamma, you are annoying him; do cease!" "I am not going for my own pleasure, Julia," returned Don Alfonso, blandly; "you know too well that nowhere in the world am I more contented than I am here, and that I am perfectly satisfied to be with Aunt Angela and you; but I have duties toward my mother that I must fulfil, and I am obliged to be in Seville." Julia listened to these words with her back turned, and once more began to play and sing, without making any reply. The day set by Don Alfonso for his departure was a Wednesday; the two or three days preceding, Julia had been smiling and indifferent as before; but the circle under her eyes was darker and wider, and from time to time she would remain looking into vacancy. Saavedra had determined to start in the morning, on an early train, with the idea of spending the day at Aranjuez with a friend who had a country place there. He therefore arose very early, and after dressing he gave the last touches to his packing. His aunt also arose early, to see him off, and get him something to eat besides. But Julia paid no heed, and remained shut in her room, much to the annoyance of _la brigadiera_, who had called her to say good by to their guest. Taking advantage of a moment when she was busy in the dining-room, Saavedra slipped off to his cousin's room, gently raised the latch, and opened the door. Julia was in bed; her eyes flashed angrily on the intruder. "What have you come for?" she demanded, frowning severely. "Go away, go away immediately! This is a most atrocious thing to do!" But Don Alfonso, not heeding her protest, calmly walked into the room, and said in a humble voice:-- "I have come to say _adiós_, cousin." "_Adiós!_" exclaimed the girl dryly, and dropping her eyes upon the bed-spread. Don Alfonso came to her, and audaciously taking her face between his hands and imprinting a kiss upon it, he said at the same time:-- "In spite of all this disdain and severity, I know well that you love me...." The girl, confused and enraged by his impudence and what he said, exclaimed:-- "No, no! I do not love you! You lie!... Go this instant!" "You love me, and I love you," replied Don Alfonso, smoothing her face with perfect unconcern. "Fool! dunce! impudent!" cried the girl, with more and more anger, "I do not love you; but if I did, this would be enough to make me hate you! Go!" "I am not a dunce and I am not impudent. I confess humbly that I would die for you!" "Die whenever you please, but go! Go this instant, or I will scream!" "Don't trouble yourself any more; I am going," said he, with a smile: "I am going; but I leave my heart here. I will write you as soon as I reach Seville." He left the room and shut the door; he remained a moment motionless, and then opened it again softly to look in. Julia had turned over and was sobbing, with her face hidden under the sheets. XIII. In point of fact, all the while that he was in Seville, he did not take pains to write her once, possibly because other beauties and other amusements used up his time; perhaps through calculation, perhaps for both reasons. On the other hand, he frequently sent very tender epistles to his aunt, and never failed to express his regards for Julia. These little lines of remembrance exasperated the girl beyond measure, and she used to hasten to her room as soon as she saw her mother with a letter in her hands, so as to escape the infliction. The month of July came; _la brigadiera_ wrote to Seville announcing her departure for Santander,[32] in whose "Astillero" she rented a cottage for the two hottest months of the summer. Saavedra replied, saying that he was going to Biarritz, and from there to Paris; he hoped that they would have a very pleasant time, and that Julia would enjoy it much. Now it came to pass that one August afternoon as she was riding in the Alameda with a family which, like themselves, lived at the Astillero (her mother had not gone into town because she had an attack of neuralgic headache), Julia suddenly caught sight of her cousin in company with some young men. She grew terribly pale, and instantly blushed redder than a cherry. It was impossible for her nervous and ardent nature to control even the slightest impressions, still less those that touched her heart to the quick. She turned her head to avoid bowing to him, although she saw that he started to come toward her; at the next turn she did the same, and so for three or four times, putting on such a grave and frowning face that any one would willingly have foregone the pleasure of meeting her. Even while she was acting in this way, her conscience told her that her conduct was very rude and strange, and after her emotion had grown a little calmer, she could not help saying to herself, "What a piece of folly I have just committed!" And the next time, she faced Saavedra at a distance and bowed to him very courteously, though with marked affectation; then she grew serious again. Either at her desire, because she was not enjoying her ride, or at the suggestion of her friends, they went home early. Don Alfonso, who was on the lookout, noticed that they were going, and after a while he took leave of his friends and went to the wharf, where he hired a boat to take him across to the Astillero. He reached there just at night-fall; after dismissing the oarsmen, he slowly climbed the shady hill, not caring to make inquiries of any one as to the situation of his aunt's cottage, and hoping that his good fortune would come to his aid. It did not take him long to make the entire circuit of that charming resort, examining the recently built summer cottages, through whose windows lights were already beginning to shine, and stopping in front of the garden gates to see if he might not get sight of some one of his aunt's maids, or even herself, or his cousin in person. At last, in a small inclosure, where two magnificent magnolias grew, casting their shade over everything, he chanced to see, under an arbor covered with a honey-suckle vine, his cousin sitting on a rustic bench, with her elbows on a marble table and her face resting in her hands, in a thoughtful attitude; she wore the same dress that she had worn while driving, and she had not even taken off her hat. A strange light gleamed in the man's eyes. He went close to the grated gate, and made a sound just loud enough to be heard by the girl alone; she swiftly raised her head, and a sudden flame passed over her face when she saw who it was that called her; then she went to the gate and opened it, greeting her cousin with a gracious smile to repay him, doubtless, for the cool treatment of the promenade. Don Alfonso eagerly took both hands and pressed them warmly. "Will you allow me?" And without awaiting her answer, he raised them to his lips and kissed them no less eagerly. The girl quickly withdrew them, but the smile that lighted her face did not fade. "I cannot escape my fate; I come to the Astillero, and the first person whom I meet is the one who most interests me." "Yes, yes! the idea of saying that to me!" said Julia, just as gayly as before. "I am going to tell mamma. The last thing that she expects is to see you here." "Haven't you told her?" "She was lying down when I came, and I did not want to disturb her," replied the girl, blushing at the lie that she was telling. "Well then, let us not go indoors quite yet; I have something to talk with you about first." And he went and sat down in the summer house and took off his hat. Julia hesitated a moment; but finally sat down beside him. "Don't you know what I want to tell you?" he began, giving her a keen and loving look. "I am not a gypsy, my dear." "It happened to be a gypsy who told me while I was in Seville that a sly, witty little brunette was going to kill me with disdain." "And you believed her, simpleton?" "Why not?" "Because the only thing that you would die of would be rascality." "A thousand thanks, cousin." "I do not deserve them. Go on." "Well, then, as to what I was going to tell you.... Do you know I have so much on my mind that I don't know where to begin! I suffer from the same thing that troubles orators." "Then rest a few minutes.... Would you like a glass of water?" "There is no need; like the ten commandments, it all reduces itself to two truths,--loving you above all things, and blowing my brains out if you don't love me." "Are you sure that they are true?" "Perfectly sure." "Stuff and nonsense! Then I have made a mistake in this too!" said the girl, sighing with graceful irony. "Cousin, cousin! what a wretched opinion you have of me. If you realized what this heart of mine suffers, and how completely ensnared it is in your net!" "Cousin, cousin! you are too big a fish to fall into my net!" "Then I swear to you that I am yours, that I have no other thought than you, and were I put to death for it, I have been able this long time to have no other thought than of you.... Do you know why I did not write to you while I was in Seville?..." "Yes; because you did not care to." "Nothing of the sort; it was so as to see if absence would not quench the flame that is consuming me...." "Flames! the idea! Hush! hush! don't be absurd!" "Laugh as much as you will; but it does not prevent it from being true, that I have been passing through a cruel struggle, and that I have suffered too much to write you.... 'Why?' I asked myself. 'It is vain to have hopes, since they would be surely disappointed. Were not the rebuffs that she gave me sufficient?' ... For, cousin, you have a special talent for rebuffing a man; you not only give them once, but you delight in repeating the punishment, and then trying it another day with all the refinements of cruelty. I have set down in my note-book the rebuffs, the saucy answers, and even the insults which you gave me in one short fortnight.... It is a perfect marvel!... Look!... Under the head of hard words, you have called me _old_ seven times, _audacious_ twenty-seven times, _fool_ twenty-two times, _proud_ six times, _my son_ once, _goose_ once, _a genuine Don Juan_ once, _impolite_ once: total, sixty-six insults!... There you have it...." "What nonsense!" exclaimed Julia, laughing heartily, and giving a slap at the note-book which sent it to the ground. "It is the simple truth," rejoined Don Alfonso, picking it up. "And in spite of all that, I am stupid enough to go on loving you, or, to express myself better, to love you more and more every day, as is proved by my visit to Santander. Since I left you, Julia, I have not had a moment's peace; and though I have tried every possible way of distracting my thoughts so as to forget you, still ever your graceful form would come before my eyes. In Madrid I suffered much, because I was always kept hovering between fear, hope, and despair; but in Seville, far from you, I missed those sufferings, and it seemed to me that the pleasure of seeing you, of hearing your voice, and living under the same roof were a sufficient compensation for them, and even an advantage.... I don't know what has come over me; either I am mad, or you have bewitched me. I have been all over the world, and have known many women, but I swear not one ever kept me so stirred up, so disquieted, so beside myself as you have. And I am telling you the truth, as you well know, since you have only to look into my face...." In very truth, Don Alfonso, in saying these words, appeared moved and trembling. And as his character, though affable, was cold and impassive, with touches of scorn, this emotion which he manifested caused double effect. He had taken possession of one of Julia's hands, and pressed it between his. The girl, rosy and smiling, exclaimed with a somewhat altered voice:-- "You paint things in such a lively fashion that I cannot help believing you." "Yes, believe me, believe me, cousin!" said Saavedra, passionately kissing the hand which he held. "For although you do not love me, it fills me with pleasure to know that you know that I adore you with all my soul. My lot is cast; on your lips now hangs my fate. I deserve that you should destroy me for the incredible stupidity of having supposed, when I went away, that you loved me, and telling you so. How that act weighed upon me afterwards! I could not find hard names enough for myself...." "Then, see here; go on calling yourself hard names ... for having once called yourself such without reason," said Julia, glancing at him half in malice, half in earnest. "Can it be possible?" exclaimed Saavedra, anxiously. "Quite possible." "So that I...." "Do you want me to feed you the truth with a spoon, cousin?" she asked, with some show of impatience. "Ay! lovely cousin! most fascinating cousin! divine cousin! how happy you make me!" Don Alfonso at the same moment took her into his arms, and pressed his lips to her cheek again and again, in spite of the girl's strenuous resistance. "That'll do! that'll do!" she said, trying hard to be angry, and only half succeeding. At that moment a white form appeared at the grating, and said, in a shrill voice:-- "Julia! Julita!" She tore herself out of her cousin's arms, and hastened down to the gate:-- "Esperanza! wait; I am coming." It was one of the neighbors with whom she had been driving that afternoon, and who now came to invite her to dinner, and a dance afterwards. Don Alfonso also arose, and went to the gate, and gave the young lady a look which, if she had been made of gun-cotton, would have caused an explosion; but quickly controlling himself, he greeted her with all courtesy.... Julia, somewhat confused, declined the invitation, under the pretext that her mamma had the neuralgia. The neighbor, not less confused, and looking from one to the other, did not see fit to insist, and immediately withdrew to tell what she had seen, and what she had not seen. As it was now dark, the cousins went into the house, where, after hearty greetings had been exchanged between aunt and nephew, the dinner was served. While it lasted, Julia's cheeks were rosy as they had not been for months; her eyes shone with happy light, and in all her gestures and motions was betrayed the lively emotion that agitated her, and a joy which was not affected as at other times. XIV. Miguel had for some time been planning to gather a few friends at his house to celebrate, not only his marriage, but also the early prospect of an heir. Although he did not confess it, he also flattered himself with the idea of showing them his suite, which, now entirely furnished, was like a silver cup, all bright and new and glorious to see; and there was also the boyish, though very pardonable, vanity of making his appearance before society as a hospitable housekeeper and the head of a family. Maximina, on hearing the plan, was troubled and confused; it had never entered into her calculations to "do the honors" of a reception, especially as her husband had assured her that such a thing on their part would be presumptuous. Whenever Miguel took her out for the evening to the house of any of their friends, she always felt constrained and awkward, without knowing what to say or do, and not taking her eyes from him, so that she might get courage. What would it be now when she would be obliged to greet everybody, to say to each some pleasant word, and to foresee and anticipate their every desire? "Oh, Miguel! I should die of mortification." He laughed at her timidity, and even found an additional incentive for his plan at the thought of seeing his wife, so girl-like, so innocent, and so timid, "officiating as señora." At first he thought of having a breakfast, but soon gave that up because their dining-room was only large enough to seat a dozen guests. Then it occurred to him to give an afternoon tea, which was a form of entertainment very fashionable at the time; but even this seemed too small to Miguel. After many hesitations he made up his mind that it should be a 'reunion' or 'soirée,' with a lunch of preserved oranges. The excuse for it should be to hear the reading of a drama which one of the _Independencia_ staff, Gómez de la Floresta, had written, and which had not yet been put upon the stage on account of the cabals of Ayala, García Gutiérrez, and other small fry, who ruled the theatres with a high hand, and "monopolized them." "But didn't you say that this play was very dull, and that you had been bored to death when you heard it?" asked Maximina. "That is the very reason. At this kind of 'reunion' it is absolutely indispensable that the thing read should be bad, so that all that follows after the reading may seem excellent to the guests. With this drama you can bring on champagne that cost only thirty reals, and it will be drunk like nectar." Maximina did not understand very well this logic of her husband's, and she looked at him with very wide eyes; but seeing that he added nothing to make it clearer, she went to another subject,--that of the invitations. "Whom would you invite?" "Provisionally, mamma and Julia." "Good; and then?" "Cousin Serafina." "Who would escort her?" "Let Enrique accompany her." "Shall we invite Eulalia?" "Certainly; but I warn you that she will not come: her husband cannot abide me." "And the De Rimírez family?" "There is nothing against it." "Asunción?" "Certainly." Maximina hesitated a moment, then grew more serious, and said hastily:-- "And those ladies up stairs, for example?" A slight smile hovered on Miguel's lips, and he replied:-- "As you please." "Aunt Anita,[33] of course." "Yes; I should be glad to see your Uncle Manolo here." "And what gentlemen shall we have?" "That will be my part." "Shall you invite the men on the paper?" "We will see; according as the cloth holds out." "And Carlitos?" "Yes; it will be his duty to illuminate the 'reunion on all disputed points." "And Mendoza?" "Could we think of leaving out the most precious ornament?... But then, he is very much engaged just at present with his marriage and politics." This business of the invitations having been settled, and it having been decided that certain letters should be written and certain calls made, Maximina remained for some time pensive and melancholy. At last, taking her husband's hand and looking at him lovingly and sadly, she said:-- "I am sure that I am going to disgrace you, Miguel.... I am not used to these things. _Vírgen María!_ how much I would give to be like one of those elegant and lovely ladies that you bow to in the theatres. I don't see how you ever came to marry me, when I am neither beautiful nor able to be compared with the ladies whom you know." "Hush! hush!" said he, laying his fingers on her mouth. "I am prouder of having married you than if you had been a princess of the blood." "I know this," she replied, her eyes overflowing with love and happiness; "I know that I am proud because I am your wife, and because you preferred me to any handsome, elegant, and rich woman; me, a poor, good-for-nothing...." "Hush! hush! or I will bite you," he repeated, kissing her passionately. During the days that followed, as had been decided, they began their preparations and got out their cards. Miguel went in person to invite his Uncle Manolo. He lived in a magnificent mansion in the Calle del Pez. Since his marriage he had changed few of his habits. It would be a great mistake to imagine that he had in the least abandoned the solicitous cares which he had always bestowed upon his elegant person: not at all! tinctures and cosmetics followed in harmony with the latest advances of chemistry; all bands and braces and the latest improvements in the science of orthopedics; the best shoemaker in Madrid; the most skilful dentist, the most fashionable tailor and perfumer in the city. Uncle Manolo was a monument so admirably preserved that the Spanish government might have taken him for a pattern for theirs. Nevertheless, merciless Time had been making some ravages in that proud edifice, and already some of his marks could be clearly seen on its façade; crow's-feet and wrinkles of every sort each day grew deeper and deeper; in spite of his shoulder-braces he bent a little more forward; his step, also, was not half as light and firm as before. There was no question that the least carelessness or omission in the process of his self-preservation would bring him in ruins to the ground. Miguel found his Aunt Ana, for variety's sake, by the chimney-corner; and this, although it was rather early in the season for fires. In her, as well as in her lord and master, the ravages of time were also manifest, so much so, that it was more easy to believe that the good lady, once married, had entirely forgotten the care and adornment of her person, since, in so short a period, such terrible decay had occurred. For _la intendenta_ had now quite the appearance of a septegenarian; her hair was thin and white, her face pale and withered, her waist like a barrel, and her hands dark and wrinkled and repulsive to look upon. "Good day, aunt! How are you?" "As usual, my son; and you?" she replied, indolently, in a plaintive voice. "I am well; and uncle?" "How should I know how your uncle is?" she replied bitterly. "It makes very little difference either. And your wife? Does her condition trouble her any?" "Not at all; she is perfectly well." Miguel noticed that the depreciative tone in which _la intendenta_ always spoke of her husband had increased to an alarming degree; in the inflection of her voice could be perceived not only scorn, but even hatred. He therefore decided to avoid that subject, and to direct the subject to other themes. But in spite of all his efforts _la intendenta_ constantly found occasion to bring him in, as it were, "by the hair," and make some remark derogatory to her husband; and, naturally enough, this was not at all pleasing to Miguel. Consequently, after announcing the object of his call, he broke off the conversation and went to his uncle's room. He found him wrapped up in a magnificent dressing-gown, and seated reading his newspaper, while the barber was giving the last touches to the curl of his mustache. He was not a little rejoiced to see his nephew, with whom he always kept up relations that were more like that of a comrade than an uncle; he forthwith accepted, with the greatest delight, his invitation, and concerning his proposed supper gave him some very wise advice from his own long experience. "See here! Tell Lhardy to cook you some truffled quails, such as he sent a few days ago to the house of the Swedish minister, and some stuffed river pike, with a gravy of cream of soft-shelled crabs such as I ate at the De Velez ball. Beside this, have anything that you like. I will advise you that you ought to get your wines at Pardo's, on the Calle del Carmen. Ask for _Margot_ ten years old, and tell Pardo that you are my nephew, so that he won't take advantage of you.... I give you the hint that you ought to warm it a little before inviting your guests into the dining-room. Tell him that you want such champagne as I always order. Don't buy any sherry: I will send you a couple of dozen bottles from a cask which I had as a present! it is the best I ever drank.... But, however, I will come round to your house on the day of your supper, to see that everything is going all right." After the barber had been dismissed, Miguel was anxious to hear from his uncle something about his domestic life, since _la intendenta's_ aggressive words did not pass from his memory. He began by circumlocutions so as to bring the conversation to the point desired; but when he reached it, his Uncle Manolo restrained him with a gesture full of dignity. "Not a word about my wife, Miguel!" He majestically extended his arm, scowled terribly, and his perfumed locks waved above his immortal head. Miguel understood well by signs that the relations between his uncle and aunt could not be very cordial, and he made up his mind to watch them in silence. "Come to breakfast," said Señor Don Manolo de Rivera, looking at his watch. "You will breakfast with us, will you not?" "I have just had breakfast, uncle." "Very well; then come and see us eat, and we will go out together." They went to the dining-room, where the señora was waiting them, and husband and wife sat down at opposite sides of the table, while the nephew ensconced himself in a chair not far from them. But one thing instantly threw him into a state of stupefaction, and that was to see beside his uncle's plate, on the cloth, a large and magnificent six-shooter. And his amazement increased when he saw his uncle push it away a little as though it were the tumbler, the napkin-ring, or any other of the indispensable paraphernalia of the service; and still more, to see his aunt pay no attention to it, but begin calmly to eat her boiled eggs as though this were the most natural thing in the world. Our hero's imagination began to whirl faster than a wheel, and he was lost in a sea of conjectures; but he did not have the courage to ask what it all meant, although his curiosity was terribly piqued: he understood that such a question would be indiscreet. Not that he gave up the idea of finding out, but merely postponed it till a more fitting occasion. Breakfast was finished without anything happening to require the use of the deadly weapon which Señor de Rivera kept at his right hand; and this might have been expected, since at one o'clock in the day it is not common for robbers to break into houses. The conversation was general, although the two elders seldom addressed each other, Uncle Manolo especially, taking evident pains completely to ignore his wife. She, on the other hand, kept caroming phrases at him indirectly wounding and pinching him, while talking with Miguel. The chivalrous _caballero_, when the charge hurt him, would give a wrathful look at his sweet enemy; and as she managed very cleverly to avoid it, he would shake his head in sign of wrath, and make an expressive face at his nephew, and then give his attention to what was in front of him. When breakfast was over, Miguel took leave of his aunt very courteously, and after going back to his Uncle Manolo's room to help the old man put on his coat, they went into the street together. As soon as they were fairly out of doors, Señor Rivera's ill-humor and the melancholy that had grown upon him during the last third of the meal vanished as by magic; he pulled out his case, gave Miguel a cigar, and lighted another, beginning to puff with satisfaction, while they were passing along San Jeronimo Avenue. Miguel, however, could not keep the revolver out of his thoughts, and he was possessed to unravel the mystery concealed in it. When they had turned the corner of the Calle de la Puebla, he stopped a moment, and asked him boldly:-- "See here, uncle, though you may call me indiscreet, I am going to ask you a question, because I can no longer stand the torment of curiosity.... What the deuce is the meaning of that revolver that you had beside your plate while you were at breakfast?" On hearing this, the _ex-gentil caballero's_ face once more darkened; he bent his head until his beard touched his breast, and began to walk on again without saying a word. After a considerable time he heaved a deep and most pitiable sigh, and began to speak in a low voice:-- "You must know, Miguel, that for some months past my life has been a hell! My wife (who, parenthetically, is the most loathsome woman that God ever put into the world) has taken it into her head to be jealous of me! Would you believe that such a piece of trumpery, an old shoe, has the slightest right to be jealous of a man like me? Does it not seem to you that I have done enough in burdening myself with her? "Now, instead of thanking me for the sacrifice that I made in marrying her, she is foolish enough to believe that I ought to adore her, to be dying with love for her. And as this is the height of absurdity, and cannot be, she is eating out my very soul. When I get up, when I lie down, when I go out of the house, when I come in, when I eat, and when I sleep, never can I enjoy an instant's peace; above all, at meal-time she has been making such a martyr of me that I cannot eat half as much as I ought, and even then it troubles me to digest it. I cannot go on in this way without danger of losing my health. Great evils require heroic remedies; one day I took the revolver, and said to her: 'If at table you say another word to disturb me, I will put an ounce of lead into your head.' "That was a happy idea, for since that time she has not said a single word more, and to-day only by taking advantage of your presence did she make a few indirect insinuations. My servant has been charged, when setting the table, to place the revolver by my plate.... Perhaps you will imagine that she is jealous of some definite person, and that I am doing wrong not to break loose from this person, and thus avoid all occasion for torment; but there is nothing of the sort. Each day she is jealous of some different woman, and never once hits the truth. Man alive! to show you how stupid she is, I will tell you that day before yesterday a good lady, whom I happened never to mention to her, sent me a couple of dozen tarts; and she, without any more ado, flung the platter on the floor, and began to berate the servant like a sardine-woman. Tell me now if I don't need patience, and if it would not have been better for me to have had all the bones in my body broken than marry this calamity!" Uncle Manolo ceased speaking, and continued silent for a long time, brooding over his sad thoughts. Miguel dared not disturb them, since he knew too well that it was hopeless for him to offer him any advice. Finally, that magnanimous man, richer every day in tribulations, stopped again, and asked his nephew, with severe intonation:-- "Tell me, Miguel, don't you know any place now infested by the cholera or any other contagious disease?" "No, uncle; I do not," replied Miguel, struggling hard not to laugh. "What a strange idea! Do you wish to murder your wife?" "Man! no, of course not to murder her. I only thought in any case of letting nature have its perfect work.... But could I have a blacker fate? Just imagine! I learn from a medical friend that Madrid is full of fevers and pneumonia, caused by the bad custom of riding on the Prado in September. Well now, after many entreaties, and 'making myself into syrup' to accomplish it, I succeeded in getting my wife out to drive with me several evenings. 'Come now,' I said to myself, 'if she does not get pneumonia, she may at least catch a bit of a fever, and as she is feeble...." Do you understand?" "Perfectly! and did she?" "Hush, man, hush! The one who caught a catarrh, and had to stay in the house four days was ... myself. I haven't got over my cough yet!" All this time they were walking along the Calle de Peligros, and they saw coming toward them a young woman not at all bad-looking, since she had bright, rosy complexion and red lips; her dress was attractive and rather scanty. As she passed she smiled upon Uncle Manolo, giving him a very expressive salute. "Who is that girl?" asked Miguel. "Don't you know her? She is Josefina García, one of the ballet at Los Bufos." And after they had walked a few steps farther, he added, with some perturbation:-- "See here, Miguel, if you will excuse me, I will leave you.... At five we will meet at La Cervecería[34], if you say so." "All right, uncle, all right," he added, without being able to hide a smile; "go where you please. We'll meet again." And they took leave of each other, shaking hands. XV. How much anxiety, how much misery it caused Maximina to make ready for their 'fiesta'! Her slow and painstaking character ill accorded with Miguel's marvellously quick and lively bent. Hence it came about that in arranging the details of the affair little differences of opinion sprang up between the two. Miguel, not taking into account that it was the first time that she had ever found herself engaged in such a rout, demanded impossibilities of her. The poor child, seeing his annoyance, made incredible efforts to have everything right, not because the result made much difference to her, but because she feared worse than death any blame from her husband. Miguel, not noticing it, and being carried away by his impatience, did not spare his criticisms on every occasion, harassing and mortifying her beyond measure; only when, after some remark made in a harsh tone, he saw the tears gathering in her eyes, would he perceive how unjust and cruel he had been, and going to her he would cover her with kisses, and beg her pardon. Maximina would instantly become happy, and drying her eyes, would say with touching innocence:-- "I will do what I can to satisfy you. You will not scold me any more, will you?" At last the preparations were all completed. A few new articles of furniture were bought for the parlor, and it was put into elegant condition. The table was laid in the next room, which was the library, and in this task they were greatly assisted by Uncle Manolo. A few extra servants were engaged for the occasion; one of the bedrooms was put into order for a ladies' dressing-room; the stairway was adorned with vases of flowers and brilliantly lighted, and the same was true of all the rooms in the house. The porter was tempted by a good large fee to allow the door to be kept open and the entrance lighted all night. Likewise nothing that concerned the dress to be worn by Maximina at the party was neglected. Miguel insisted that it should be rich and magnificent, but she was intensely opposed to this; finally it was decided to leave the matter to the dressmaker. And on the very day of the 'fiesta,' early in the morning, that personage herself came with a dress, of great simplicity, to be sure, but of the utmost elegance. But, oh, how unfortunate! the dress was open in front in the form of a heart. Miguel found his wife in despair on a sofa with the dress in her hands, and almost ready to cry, while the modiste, with difficulty repressing her anger, was arguing that the suggestion to have it filled in was out of the question, and that no lady when she had such a party at her house ever failed to wear a dress more or less _décolleté_, and that in this case the front was neither too high nor too low. To all this Maximina replied sweetly, but firmly, that she had never worn a low-necked dress, and that she should die of mortification if she did so now. Miguel at first sided with the modiste; but when he saw the sadness painted on his wife's face, he was secretly flattered by her delicate modesty, and suddenly changed his mind, saying:-- "Very well; don't say anything more about the matter. If the dress can be altered for this evening, let it be done; if not, wear one of the best ones that you have already." It was difficult to persuade the modiste to alter it; but finding that both of them were firmly resolved, she saw nothing else to do, and she and Maximina put their heads together to remedy it as well as they could. In the evening, after the table was set and Uncle Manolo was gone, the young couple were left alone with the servants. Maximina shut herself in her room to dress, and Miguel did the same. When he had finished his toilet he ordered all the lamps to be lighted. Shortly after the house was illuminated, Maximina came from her room, looking like a rosebud. "Oh, how sweet!" exclaimed Miguel, when he saw her coming into the study, where he was selecting the books to be scattered over the tables. The young wife smiled and blushed. "Come, don't make sport of me!" "Why should I make sport of you, darling, since you are lovelier than ever!" In point of fact, Maximina, who had grown much prettier since her marriage, now beamed in all the fresh and artless beauty with which Heaven had endowed her. Her dress was of a delicate brown, and to cover the opening they devised an under-handkerchief of a very fine grenadine. Miguel took her by the hands and looked at her for several moments, his eyes beaming with love. The maids crowded around the door and looked in to see their mistress. "Isn't it true that my wife is very pretty?" he asked of them. "Most beautiful, señorito!" "She is just a very virgin!" exclaimed Juana. "Not quite!" replied Miguel, mischievously. "Stop it, _tonto_, stop it!" she exclaimed, in embarrassment, tearing herself from his hands and starting to run. They sat down to table as usual, but ate very little: Maximina especially had no appetite for anything; they kept constantly interrupting each other to suggest some detail that was lacking, and more than once Maximina jumped up to attend to it herself. Then they went to the parlor and waited patiently for their guests. Maximina was trembling with excitement. Miguel showed a nervous joy, for he was not certain that the 'fiesta' would prove to be a success, and he was afraid of anything ridiculous. He gave his wife his arm, and they began to promenade up and down the parlor, glancing at the mirrors as they passed them. Maximina hardly recognized herself: she was surprised to appear such a respectable and elegant señora. "Do you see!" said Miguel; "everything depends on appearances in this world: these people who are coming are neither more nor less respectable than we are; consequently you have no reason to be afraid." In spite of these encouragements, Maximina kept growing more timid; each instant she imagined that she heard steps on the stairs. "Come now; imagine that I am a guest coming this very moment...." (_Miguel went to the anteroom and came back again, making low bows_). "Señora, at your feet!... How do you do this evening? It is a genuine honor and a great satisfaction to be present at this _soirée_, where my friend Miguel wants to show everybody how happy he is in his choice.... But he deserves this happiness ... he is an excellent young man; you also, señora, will have little reason to repent. The truth is, I have been anxious to see him married; and though he is to be envied, all of his friends, including myself, wish him greater happiness every day of his life.... (Come, wife, say something.)" Maximina, standing motionless in the middle of the parlor, listened, with her mouth open and a smile on her lips. "Answer, wife.... Come now; I see that you will never be a star of society.... Nor is there any reason why you should be," he added gently. And suddenly, taking her by the waist, he darted with her through the parlor, making a few turns of a waltz. At that instant the bell rang. Both stopped as though petrified and instantly let go of each other: Miguel went into his study. The servant opened the door, and a young man made his appearance, who proved to be none other than Gómez de la Floresta. Miguel had forgotten that the reading of his drama was the pretext for the party, and he felt some slight vexation to see him, manuscript in hand; but he received him no less cordially. The three sat down in the study and talked for a long while, as the poet was far ahead of time. The next to arrive was Utrilla, the ex-cadet of the military school, whom Miguel had taken pains to invite, not only on account of the friendship that existed between them, but also because of his pity for his blind love for Julita, and the hope that she might at last come to return it. He was in evening dress, the same as Gómez de la Floresta. Then came in quick succession his cousins Enrique and Serafina, Mendoza, Julita and her mother, with Saavedra, _Rosa de té_ and Merelo y García, the De Ramírez ladies, and Miguel's cousins, Vicente and Carlitos; Asunción and two other young ladies whose names we do not remember, and a few other guests. What Miguel had foreseen came to pass: Maximina, smiling and blushing, received the people without any of those meaningless and polite phrases which are customary on such occasions; but her naturalness and modesty made a great and very favorable impression on every one. La Señora de Ramírez said to Miguel in an aside:-- "How good your wife must be, Rivera!" "What makes you think so?" "It is enough to see her face." "Yes; she is very _simpática_," said one of the girls, with a condescending tone. The guests formed groups, and were conversing gayly. Gómez de la Floresta was burning with impatience. At last Miguel, not so much to gratify him, as to have everything pass off in good form, invited him to begin the reading of the play: he took his stand by the side of the fireplace, under a gas-fixture; the people scattered themselves at their convenience on the chairs and sofas; a servant brought on a waiter various refreshments, and placed them as well as he could on the mantel-piece near the poet. Gómez de la Floresta coughed two or three times, cast a troubled glance over his audience, and then began the reading of his drama, which was entitled _The Serpent's Hole_, and was cast in the time of Carlos II.,[35] the _Bewitched_. As we know the author, there is no need of saying that the lyric note prevailed in it; that it was couched in sonorous verse, that it abounded in elegant and exotic adjectives; in writing it he had put under contribution the beautiful and picturesque phrases of our _Esmaltes y Camáfeos_,[36] of Théophile Gautier, and the no less beautiful but more spontaneous ones of our own Zorilla. The result was a composition of beautiful words in diapason, producing a notable musical effect, alternating with some phrase or sentence _à la_ Victor Hugo. Not a single character said anything in a straightforward manner: instead of telling who they were and whence they came, they drowned themselves by anticipation in a river or cascade of Oriental pearls, moonbeams, dewdrops, perfumes of Arabia, sunsets and sapphires and emeralds, so that the thread of the discourse was lost, and no one could gather the least idea of its character and tendency. When he was half through the act, the Countess de Losilla and her two daughters came in, later than all the rest, since they lived the nearest of all. Their entrance for a few moments interrupted the reading; all arose, and Maximina hastened to greet them. All the ladies looked sharply and eagerly at the young ladies' dresses and jewelry, which were in the highest degree elegant and original, especially that of Filomena, who had a remarkable genius for inventing and combining adornments, departing from the fashion when she pleased, or changing it according to her own caprice; she knew how to make the most of her extreme slenderness by wearing dresses such as would have been unbecoming to any other girl, and she took pains by her extraordinary manner of brushing her hair to make the strange originality of her face more brilliant. During the interruption the poet fortified himself with a glass of currant juice. Then the reading began anew. At the end of the act, there were signs of approbation, especially among the young ladies, to whom, though they had not understood a word, it had sounded very fine. A few gentlemen remained in the parlor while the dramatist was resting: he and one or two others had gone into the corridor to smoke. "What does _Rosa de té_ think about it?" asked one of the gentlemen, addressing the young critic. _Rosa de té_ reddened, and spoke a few incoherent words. "Leave him, leave him alone with his grief!" said Miguel, who happened to be in this group. "When the heroes of comedies and novels do not adopt resolutions, it makes him desperate." The drama was finished at eleven o'clock, to the great and ill-concealed satisfaction of each and all of the company. During the last act the girls yawned in an angelic manner; the gentlemen exchanged expressive winks under the poet's very nose. Then came encouraging and prolonged applause! All broke out into eulogies, and predicted great things for the piece. Gómez, overwhelmed, flushed, and trembling from head to foot, acknowledged the compliments by laying his hand on his heart, really believing that his work was already saved from the "claws of the public." The poor fellow had no idea that many of those who were applauding him had all ready a howl for the "first night" of his play, in vengeance for the forced applause that they had given him. After this the ladies went to the library, where supper was served. The gentlemen took their places in the rear, and there began that buzzing of flat and conventional phrases between both sexes, which constitutes what has been called the "witchery of the salon." At that moment, after Gómez de la Floresta's drama, nothing that was said could fail to seem clever or to excite the mirth of the guests; something, and it is not extravagant to say much, was contributed to this desirable state of things by the sight of the well-laden and decorated table, which in its final state was the work of Uncle Manolo. Saavedra had been sitting the whole evening behind Julia, whispering clever things in her ear, while Utrilla, seated not far from them, and suffering as though they were roasting him on a gridiron, gazed at them fiercely, and planned how he might call his rival to one side, and demand an explanation as soon as the chance presented itself. We already know that in the matter of explanations he was no amateur. It is befitting that we say a few words in regard to the state in which Julia's relations with her cousin and the ex-cadet were placed. Don Alfonso had spent a few days at the Astillero with his aunt and cousin, and during this time he had settled his love-affair with Julia on a firm basis. Then he went to Paris, intending to arrange his business, and return to Spain for good. In the first days of September he really returned to Madrid, but he did not lodge at his aunt's; reasons of delicacy, which he explained to Julia, compelled him to this. While he was in Paris he wrote few letters, and these in the fluent terms of cousinly rather than lover-like affection. Julia's pride forbade her asking any explanations; but when he returned he hastened to give them, telling her in rather obscure terms that he wanted to keep his relations with her secret for a time, so as conveniently to settle his affairs, and announce their engagement to his family at the earliest possible moment, and thus realize the union which he so eagerly desired. This secret and somewhat underhanded conduct, instead of dampening Julia's ardor, each day made her more and more her cousin's slave. Don Alfonso, when he was not sleeping, spent almost all the hours of the day at his aunt's house; he was often there to dinner, and likewise often went to drive or to the theatre with them. As for our _bizarre_ cadet, his fate could not have been more desolate. Julita had broken off entirely with him; and on this account he had fallen into such a decline that it was pitiful to see him: his sallow complexion had turned green; his bones could be counted even at a long distance; only one thing had grown in his body, and that was his Adam's apple; this had reached really fantastic proportions. As Miguel was going along the vestibule, he felt that some one touched his shoulder. It was Utrilla. "Don Miguel, I want to ask a favor of you." "You shall, my dear boy." "It is absolutely necessary that you and some other friend this very moment carry my challenge to this Señor Saavedra. I thought of doing it myself, but I am rather excited, and I do not care to let myself cause a scandal in your house." Miguel remained a moment undecided, and then said:-- "My dear fellow, you must understand that as Señor Saavedra is my sister's cousin, and as the motive of the trouble is for her sake, I could not possibly mix myself up in such an affair.... But as you are my very dear friend, and as I would desire to save you annoyance, I will do what I can for you. It is necessary, however, that you promise not to take any step in this business, and to leave the entire direction of it to me." "I promise you." Miguel wanted to gain time and save the poor lad, and his own family as well, a serious unpleasantness. "I ought to warn you," he said afterwards, with a smile, "that Saavedra is one of the most famous of marksmen." "That makes no difference to me," rejoined Utrilla, making a gesture worthy of Roland or Don Quixote. The brigadier's son looked at him surprised at such valor, at once ridiculous and heroic. On returning to the parlor, after giving a few directions, he casually fell in with Filomena, who was coming from the dressing-room with a box of rice-powder in her hand. "I was anxious to meet you so as to whisper in the tenderest, tenderest voice that you are angelic, maddening!" said the heathen, approaching her with an insinuating smile, and bringing his mouth close to her ear. "Come now, none of your nonsense, you bad boy! With such a young and lovely wife, aren't you ashamed to be making love to the girls?" He suddenly grew serious; but quickly coming to himself, he retorted with a laugh:-- "The priest's benediction was not able to rob me of my innate qualities, and one of them was the love of the beautiful." "You men are all alike; _art! beauty!_ Little words by which you try to conceal your lack of shame!" "Thanks, Filo, for at least having used the plural. It is to be understood under all circumstances that I reserve the right of admiring you." The girl shrugged her shoulders, and made a disdainful face, and suddenly taking the powder-puff, she dabbed it upon his cheek. "Hold on, hold on!" said Miguel, catching her by one arm; "you don't escape me without wiping it off!" "What! do you imagine that I am afraid to do it?" she asked, giving him a provoking smile. And without further delay she began to rub it off with her handkerchief. Miguel's eyes gleamed with an unnatural light, and as his lips were not far from the girl's head, he bent over quickly and touched them to her forehead. Filomena straightened herself up with equal rapidity, and giving him a look that was half severe and half mischievous, said:-- "You had better be a little careful!" When she had finished, Miguel said:-- "To reward you for this good deed I am going to offer you my arm to take you back to the parlor." The girl took it without saying a word. After the kiss she had grown serious. When they went in, everybody was there before them. Maximina, who was sitting on a sofa talking with Saavedra, looked at them with a mixture of surprise and desolation which would have touched Miguel if he had taken time to think about it. A girl was seated at the piano and playing the first strains of a waltz. Uncle Manolo came very politely to invite Maximina, and she allowed herself to be taken out for the dance. Then Miguel, after a moment of hesitation (caused either by remorse or because he knew how jealous his wife was of Filomena), finally asked the girl to waltz. "You dance very well, niece," said Uncle Manolo, stopping a moment to rest. "Who taught you?" "Miguel." "I am not surprised then; Miguelito has always been a famous dancer." Maximina had present proof of it, and to her sorrow, for her husband at that moment floated by them, scarcely touching the floor, and holding in his arms his light burden. The young wife did not for a moment lose them from sight. The next time that they crossed in front of her, they were promenading, and the girl had his arm. Miguel looked at his wife, and she replied with a forced smile. "How does my wife dance, uncle?" "Admirably! She excels Lola Montez." "So I see. She has turned you into a watering-pot!" In fact, great drops of sweat ran down the worthy _caballero's_ brow, and he tried to arrest them to prevent them inundating his side-whiskers. Maximina soon grew weary, and expressed her desire to sit down. As soon as she had taken her place, Saavedra came and sat by her side; and Uncle Manolo went off to invite some other young lady. Ever since the beginning of the party the Andalusian gentleman's eyes had persistently followed Maximina, and by a slight trembling and closing of the eyelids had expressed perfect approval of her. Don Alfonso was a most intelligent connoisseur of the female sex; he never failed to be fascinated either by brilliancy, by far-fetched originality, or by adornments; he appreciated in women genuine beauty and grace, winsome innocence and freshness; like every one who for long years has cultivated any art _con amore_, he had come to hate all things that savored of affectation, and to worship only simplicity; the conversation of coquettes amused him, but did not conquer him. Thus it was that Maximina had always been extremely pleasing to him, and he had shown it more than once at his aunt's house. He said of her that her modesty and innocence did not belong to this day, but to the golden age; one time when he addressed a guarded bit of flattery to her, in the presence of _la brigadiera_ and Julia, the child grew so crimson that Don Alfonso resolved not to do so again, for fear it should be suspected that he was making love to her. This evening she struck his fancy more than ever. As Maximina did not usually care much for the adornment of her person, the elegance which she now displayed made her look truly brilliant. The Andalusian _caballero_ with the boundless audacity characteristic of him, made up his mind to try a little gallantry, without any meaning in it, of course. He was too skilful not to know that in this case he must lay aside his usual tactics as useless and dangerous. Nothing about flowers and flattery; still less, significant looks. A fluent talk about the ball, about the preparations which the young wife had been obliged to make; questions, and more questions, always being careful to repeat her name many times, since Don Alfonso had learned by experience that every woman enjoys this repetition. Maximina replied amiably, but in few words; her face showed a peculiar absent-minded expression which vexed the Andalusian, and disconcerted him a little. Instead of holding himself firmly in the attitude which he had proposed he began to allow himself to yield, and soon found himself giving signs of the interest which she inspired in him. Meanwhile, Miguel, after stopping and talking with two or three ladies for a little while, returned and sat down by Filomena. She received him with a look that was half severe and half quizzical. "Why have you come here?... Get you gone!" "So as to count the patches that you have on your left cheek: I have made out that there are seven on the right cheek, distributed in conformity with the precepts of art." "Ah! have you come to insult me?" "In what chronicle have you read that a Rivera ever insulted a Losilla?" "Never till this moment; but in the centuries to come it will be known that a Rivera had the discourtesy to tell a Losilla that she wore patches." "As Heaven is my witness, how that chronicler who reported such thing would lie! El Rivera has said it and stands ready to support his statement in the lists that La Losilla has lovely patches on her face, and that they are of such and such a kind, and applied in such skilful sort that the most ingenious artificer could not have placed them with more neatness." "Let us drop fables; the main thing now is that I do not wish you to approach me under this appearance of a _blasé_ ladykiller! Do you hear? The people will be thinking that you are making love to me." "Very well; I will not make love to you: what do you want me to do, then?" Filomena cast another look of feigned anger at him. "How graceful! Do you know, Señor de Rivera, that in spite of your audacity, I imagine that you are a person who has not yet got all your wisdom teeth?" Miguel smiled without replying. Maximina, who was sitting directly opposite, kept directing timid glances toward them. Meanwhile, Julia, who had very quickly noticed the persistent attention which her sister-in-law was receiving from Saavedra, and the eagerness that he showed in talking with her, began to grow nervous and irritable, so that her annoyance showed in her face. She endeavored vainly, by a rather inopportune gesture, to bring him back to her side. Finding herself defeated and humiliated, blind with jealousy and anxious to have revenge on Saavedra, she began to flirt with Utrilla. O fortunate cadet! and who could have predicted that in one instant thou wouldst be enabled to pass from those unendurable torments to the summit of all bliss and felicity? For as soon as Julita and he drew near each other, it was as though the poles of positive and negative electricity were brought into contact: the flash of love was visible to everybody. Julita smiled, blushed, prattled, gave him her fan and her gloves, and the flowers from her bosom, and devoured him with her eyes; but this did not prevent her from now and then looking surreptitiously at her cousin and sister-in-law and casting angry glances at them. Maximina was endeavoring with all the power of her soul to divine what her husband was saying to Filomena: the affected gravity with which they both spoke did not help to calm her; she knew from experience that Miguel was apt to put on a serious face when he was going to say to that young lady any piece of impudence that came into his mind. "Don't you have any longing for Pasajes?" Saavedra was asking. "A little, yes, sir; but here I am very happy." "How long is it since you were married?" "It will be nine months on the fourth." Don Alfonso said nothing for several moments and seemed to be thinking; then he said sadly:-- "How many times I have passed by Pasajes and seen those cottages stretching along the shore of the bay, without ever having thought of stopping there!" "You have not lost much; everybody says it is a very ugly village; except the church, which is rather fine, Don Joaquin's house, Arrequi's, and a few in the Ancho, there is nothing much to see." "Now, of course, it can't amount to anything ... but before...." Maximina looked at him in surprise. "It was formerly not as good as now; the best houses were built about five or six years ago." "Before, it was worth infinitely more, because you were there." "Mercy! what difference did it make whether I were there or not?" exclaimed Maximina, innocently. "Because here or there, or wherever you happened to be," replied the _caballero_, piqued by the young matron's ingenuous indifference, so absolutely free from coquetry, "you would always be something so precious as to attract every one's attention. And what makes you more precious still, and more worthy of admiration, is that you have not the remotest idea of your value: you are a beautiful, fresh, fragrant, aromatic flower, which is absolutely unconscious of itself...." Maximina had not heard Don Alfonso's last words, perceiving that her husband had just given Filomena an intense look--we cannot tell what she saw in it--that congealed her with terror: she grew as pale as wax, and suddenly conceiving an idea that she thought might be her salvation, she got up without replying to Saavedra, and going straight to Filomena, she said in a hoarse voice, trying to smile:-- "Filomena, do you want to see that edging that I was speaking about yesterday?" Miguel and Filomena looked up in amazement. Miguel was more ashamed than surprised. "With great pleasure, dear," said the young woman. Maximina started to go toward the door. Filomena paused a moment to give a retort to Rivera's last jest. "Are you coming or not?" asked the young wife, halting in the middle of the parlor, and giving her a look barbed with hatred. Miguel had never seen in his wife's eyes such an expression, nor imagined that her voice could have such a ring. "Yes, yes; I am coming, Maximina!" said the young woman, hastening to rise. And at the same time, making a little face at Miguel, she said in a low voice:-- "Do you see? Your wife is already jealous!" Miguel watched them go out, not without a feeling of vexation. Saavedra, seeing his partner get up so unexpectedly, and thus casting such a slur on his reputation as a ladykiller, frowned darkly and bit his lips in vexation. Julia, who in spite of her apparent absorption in conversation with Utrilla, had not lost the slightest detail of this scene, burst into a harsh laugh. Saavedra gave her an angry and malignant look, the meaning of which she was very far from suspecting at that time. The party was brought to an end by Señor de Ramírez taking out his watch and announcing in a loud voice that it was half-past two in the morning. Various mammas arose as though moved by springs; the girls reluctantly followed their example; a great group was formed in the centre of the parlor; numberless farewells were heard, a clatter of kisses, and ripples of feminine laughter. The young couple took their place at the stairway door, and bade good night to their guests, at the same time adding their assistance to that of the servants in the putting on of wraps. They were overwhelmed with thanks and congratulations. Then everything relapsed into silence. Miguel and his wife returned to the parlor. Maximina was extremely pale, as her husband could see out of the corner of his eye; he also noticed that she flung herself down upon a sofa. He, pretending to be absent-minded, put out the candles that were burning in the candelabra on the mantel-piece, and set some of the furniture in place. On returning from the other room one time, he saw his wife with her face buried in a pillow and sobbing. He went to her and said with affected surprise:-- "Crying?" The poor child did not reply. "What are you crying for?" he added, with cruel coldness. Still Maximina made no answer. Miguel waited an instant, still standing; then he went and sat down at the other end of the sofa. The lights in the chandeliers burned silently; nothing was heard but the noises made by the servants in the dining-room and kitchen; the atmosphere of the parlor was filled with the penetrating odor compounded of all the perfumes which the ladies had brought with them. Brigadier Rivera's son, bending forward with his elbows resting on his knees, was playing with his glove. At the end of a long silence Maximina exclaimed in the midst of her sobs:-- "_Madre mia!_ how unhappy I am to-day!" Miguel's face was violently contracted into an expression of anger; after a while, trying to soften his voice, but still letting it sound very harsh, he said:-- "I had not the slightest idea of such a thing. I did not think that you were so badly married!" "No, Miguel, no," she hastened to say; "you are very good to me, but this evening you have greatly tortured me ... perhaps without being aware of it." Miguel gave an ironical laugh. "I am not the one who tortures you ... it is your own self. You insist on seeing visions, you lose your wits, and when it is least to be expected, _zas!_ you are committing some solecism!... What you just did, getting up in a state of anger and calling Filomena, ... and the severity with which you spoke to her, might have compromised us in everybody's eyes.... Fortunately she is a talented girl who knew how to dissemble...." "Yes, yes; dissemble because it suited her convenience. Indeed, I believe that she dissembles!" "Come now, don't talk nonsense, Maximina." "I am telling the truth, and everybody saw it.... This woman either loves you or wants to torment me. This whole evening long she has not ceased to look sneeringly at me...." "Do you realize how ridiculous you are with your jealousy? Why should Filomena look at you in such a way? You know her character too well, that she is always joking, and that this saucy expression is habitual to her eyes." "That is right; take her part, take her part!" exclaimed the young wife, in a tone of deep pain. "She is the good saint, the talented woman! I am the fool, the absurd, the ridiculous!" Miguel jumped up, gave his wife an angry look, and shrugging his shoulders, exclaimed:-- "What stupidity!" And he slowly walked toward his study. When Maximina heard her husband's steps, she quickly raised her head and cried in supreme anguish, her eyes swimming With tears:-- "Miguel! Miguel!" But he, without even turning his head, replied with affected disdain:-- "Go to the deuce!" And he left the room. Foolish Miguel! cowardly Miguel! Years will pass, and when you remember those words, you will feel your heart torn within you and the tears wet your cheeks. But at that instant, excited by anger, he had no thought of his injustice and cruelty nor of the havoc which they might cause in his wife's sensitive and tender soul. He sat down by his table, opened a book, and began to read: but he could not regain his calmness; at the end of a few minutes his conscience began to prick him; the letters blurred before his eyes so that he could not make out a sentence. He closed the book, got up, and returned to the parlor with an earnest desire for reconciliation. Maximina was no longer there. He went to the library and her sleeping-room, but failed to find her; he went to the dining-room and the inner apartments; still no Maximina. He asked the servants, but they could give no tidings about her. Then imagining that in her grief she had gone to hide somewhere, he began a regular search; but as he was passing near the stairway door, he paused anxious and dumfounded, with consternation painted on his face:-- "Have any of you opened the door?" "No, señorito; we have not moved from here." Pale as death, he snatched his hat that was hanging on the rack, and leaped down the stairs, which were still lighted. He found the janitor just in the act of putting out the lights. "Remigio, have you seen my wife go out?" The janitor, the janitor's wife and mother-in-law looked at him in amazement. Perceiving the imprudence of such a question, he added:-- "I don't know but what she may have gone home with my mother and sister. Mother felt ill, and my wife did not want to let her go...." "Señorito, we cannot tell you anything with certainty. Many ladies went out ... we could not distinguish." "Just a few minutes ago," said a six-year-old girl, "I saw a lady go out alone...." "We have been to the court to carry a few flower-pots from the stairway," explained the janitor's wife. Miguel, without any further words, darted out of the door. "Señorito, are you going out that way? You will surely get your death a-cold!" In fact, he was in his dress-suit. Stopping, and making a great effort to appear calm, he replied:-- "That is a fact; do me the goodness to run up and get my overcoat." When they brought it to him, he said, as he put it on:-- "Thank you much. Please not lock up until I come; I shall not be long." "Don't trouble yourself, señorito; we will wait for you." As soon as he was in the street, he knew not whither to direct his steps; his heart beat violently; he was so anxious that his clearness of mind entirely deserted him. After hesitating a few moments, he started to go along the Plaza del Angel without any reason for it; but there was just as little for choosing any other direction. He quickened his steps as soon as he could, without seeing any one beside the watchman on the corner. He entered the Calle de Carretas, and saw only a group of young men going along discussing literature. When he reached the Puerta del Sol,[37] he made out in the distance, near San Jeronimo Avenue, a woman's form; he felt a strong emotion, and without thinking that he might be taken for an evil-doer, he started to run after her. She was a _desgraciada_, who, as she turned around to see who was following her in that way, met the young man's astonished and startled eyes. "See here, señorito!" she cried in a coarse voice. But Miguel had already dashed by her down the Calle del Principe. And suddenly he found himself again in the Plaza de Santa Ana. Then he stood still, and clutching his temples with his hands, exclaimed aloud, in a voice of anguish:-- "My God, what has happened to me!" He looked in every direction, in discouragement, and seeing no one, he made his way into the gardens in the centre, so as to reach his house as soon as possible, and ask the janitor's assistance. But just as he was near home, he saw a woman's dress gleaming on one of the benches there. It did not take him many steps to make certain that it was his wife. "Maximina! Maximina!" The child, who was sobbing with her head leaning on the back of the seat, instantly lifted it. Miguel took her by the hand, gently lifted her to her feet, with the same gentleness made her lean upon his arm, and silently crossed the distance that separated them from his dwelling. As they entered the doorway, he said, naturally, so as to be heard by all: "Why didn't you tell me, wife? You gave me a great fright." The janitor and his wife bowed. "Can we shut up now, señorito?" "Whenever you please." They mounted the stairs in the same silence as before. They entered their apartment, and after giving suitable orders for all the lights to be put out, Miguel took his wife to her room; he locked the door, and going to the little wife, who was looking at him full of fear and even anguish, he made her sit down in a chair; then kneeling at her feet, and kissing her hands tenderly, he said:-- "Forgive me!" "Oh, no, Miguel!" she cried, in the height of confusion and mortification, and making desperate efforts to kneel down, and make her husband rise. "Don't put me to shame, for Heaven's sake! I am the one, indeed I am, who ought to ask your forgiveness for the atrocity which I have just committed, for the pain I have given you.... Let go of me! Let go of me!... Do you forgive me?... I was mad, perfectly mad.... I thought that you did not love me, and my better judgment deserted me. I wanted to die, and nothing else." "Hush, hush!" he replied, by main force keeping her in her seat. "To-morrow do whatever you please; to-night it is my right to ask your forgiveness, and to swear before God that I will never again as long as I live give you cause for jealousy, either with the girl up stairs or any other." And the report goes that he fulfilled his vow. XVI. It happened that one clear, cool February evening, as they were walking along the street, Maximina said to her husband:-- "I feel very tired. Don't you want to go home?" "Is it only weariness," he asked, looking at her with interest. "Don't you feel ill?" "A little," she said, leaning somewhat heavier on his arm. "I will call a carriage." "No, no! I am perfectly able to walk." In spite of her willingness, however, Maximina found walking each moment more difficult; her husband perceiving it, quickly stopped, and considered for a moment; then taking her hand, said:-- "I am sure that I know what the trouble is; I am going to call a carriage." The young wife hung her head as though detected in some crime. They stopped the first Simon that passed without a fare, and rode home. As soon as they were in doors, Miguel put on the bearing of a general on the eve of battle; he began to give curt and peremptory orders to the maids. In a short time nothing was heard but hurried steps and whisperings; women appeared bringing bed linen, dishes, bottles, and other articles. There was a call at the door; it proved to be the janitor and his wife, and they with the servants held a long and anxious council, everybody speaking in a whisper. Miguel presided silently and solemnly over the making of the great nuptial couch, while Maximina, seated in one of the easy-chairs in the library, watched them, her face pale and anxious. "How much trouble you take for my sake, Miguel!" "For your sake?" exclaimed he, half surprised and half disturbed. "I certainly should be a fine fellow not to put myself to some trouble for my wife on such an occasion." The poor child repaid him with a loving smile. The bed was very quickly made. Juana looked at it enthusiastically. "Señorito, it is like an altar! Would the queen's be finer?" "There is no queen any longer, woman. Do me the favor not to stand there like a post. Take the alcohol stove and put it on the dressing-table.... Quick! quick! And the other girls--what are they doing in the kitchen?" "Both of them have gone on errands." "What! haven't they got back yet?" "But, señorito, they have only just gone out!" "Come now, stop talking, and go after the stove." Juana left the room, utterly dumfounded; the señorito had suddenly changed his character; he acted like a madman! He walked up and down through the house, with long strides; he gave more orders now in a moment than in a month before, and was vexed at everything that was said to him. From time to time he would go to his wife, and ask her anxiously:-- "How are you feeling now?" More than a hundred times he had been to the door and listened; but no one came. In desperation he again began his agitated walk. At last he thought that he heard steps on the stairs.... Could it be!... Nothing; it was only the janitor carrying up a telegram to the third story. The mischief take it! Another spell of waiting! "How wretched! Where can that miserable Plácida have gone? Surely she must be gallivanting with that young sergeant of engineers. How little humanity these servants have! As soon as the crisis is over, I will give her a walking ticket! I would much better have sent Juana, who, at least, hasn't any lover.... "Do you feel worse, Maximina? A little tea would not do you any harm.... I will go and make it myself.... Courage!" "You need it more than I, poor fellow!" said the young wife, smiling. As he crossed the passage-way, the door-bell rang. "At last!" Deceived again! It was the Countess de Losilla, who came to offer her services "for everything." The young ladies did not come down for reasons easy to imagine. "But, Rivera, how pale you are!" "Señora, there is no small reason for it," he replied peevishly. "But why, my son?" she demanded. "If there is no complication, as we have reason to hope, there is nothing more natural and harmless." Miguel, in his turn, had to use strong efforts to repress his indignation. "Natural for me to have a son! How stupid the aristocracy are!" he said to himself. Maximina received this visit gratefully, but with some feeling of embarrassment. The countess began to take the direction of affairs, like a consummate strategist, calmly and unhesitatingly giving every order. From this moment Miguel remained entirely eclipsed; the maids paid absolutely no heed to him, and he found himself obliged to wander like a lost soul up and down the corridors. Once when he attacked Juana to bid her take the _tila_ in a glass, and not in a cup, she told him to leave her in peace, that he knew nothing about such things. And he had to put up with it! At last the midwife came. Miguel followed her, more dead than alive, to the room, but the countess shut the door in his face. Then after a little she opened it again, and by the smile on the face of all he saw that all was going well. "Señorito, it is all right," said the _comadre_. "What! is there no need of calling the doctor?" "Not in the least, thank God! I will answer for it." He became calm, as though a divinity had spoken from the clouds. But in the course of ten minutes he suddenly lost faith; that woman might be deceiving him or deceiving herself; who could have any confidence in such people? He cautiously approached the chamber, and said, putting his head in at the door:-- "It seems to me that I had better call in the doctor.... For safety's sake--nothing more," he added, timidly. "As you please, señorito," replied the _comadre_, dryly, and with a scornful gesture. "Rivera, for Heaven's sake! Haven't you heard her say that she would be responsible?" said the countess. "Well, well, if she will be responsible," he replied, somewhat abashed. And then he asked with affected coolness:-- "How soon?" The women all laughed aloud. The midwife replied in a condescending tone:-- "Señorito, don't worry. It will be when God wishes, and all will be well!" He began to wander again like a shade through the corridors, not a little disgusted and anxious. The result was that every one found him ridiculous on this occasion and even laughed in his very face, and yet he could not persuade himself that it was right for him to intrust his happiness and his very life in the hands of an ignorant woman. He would have been more than glad to call a counsel of all the eminent physicians of the court. "If there is the least complication, I will choke her to death!" he said to himself, in a perfect fury. And with this consolatory threat he felt relieved. After a little while his step-mother arrived, and she also immediately began to give orders. She was followed by the señora of the third floor, the wife of an employé of the Tribunal de la Rota.[38] Behind her came a maid bringing an enormous picture of San Ramón Nonnato, and this she placed in Maximina's room, with two lighted candles at the side of it. This lady likewise began to give directions as soon as she arrived. It really seemed as if everybody had the right to issue orders except the master of the house, toward whom all those ladies, and even the maid-servants, took delight in showing a profound and no less unjustified contempt. "Why, however you look at it," he said to himself, with eminent truth, thrusting his hands into his pockets, and looking gloomy and annoyed, "I am the husband, and, besides, I am, or, at least, shall be, the ... the ... which is the same thing." The poor fellow did not open his month unless to make some blunder, worthy at least of a disdainful smile. Once, catching sight of his wife standing up and leaning on Juana and the _comadre_, it occurred to him to suggest that she would be better off in bed. The representatives of the female sex, like one body, fulminated such a terrible look at him that we cannot possibly explain why it did not reduce him to ashes. _La brigadiera_, striving to contain herself and soften her voice, said to him:-- "Miguel, you are disturbing us. I beg of you to leave us, and we will send for you in good time." He obeyed in spite of himself: as he left the room he saw such a sad and loving look in his wife's eyes, that he was on the point of opening the door again and saying:-- "Ladies, see here! I am the master, this is my wife, and you depart whence you came!" But he came to the conclusion that the dispute might annoy Maximina, and he swallowed his chagrin. Now, absolutely condemned to ostracism in the corridors, he walked up and down in them for a long time, listening to all the noises in the bedroom. He was anxious to hear his wife's voice, even though it were in tones of anguish; but there was nothing: he could hear all the others, but not hers. "How is it going?" he asked of the countess, who was starting for the kitchen. "Very well, very well. Don't you be troubled." An hour passed, and, worn out by his incessant walking up and down, he went to the parlor and threw himself upon a sofa. He sat there for some time, with his eyes wide open, trying to conquer the drowsiness that was taking possession of him in spite of himself. But at last he yielded: he stretched out his feet, settled his head comfortably, yawned tremendously, and soon was sleeping like a log. It was broad daylight when three or four women precipitately invaded the parlor, shouting at the top of their voices:-- "Don Miguel!... Rivera!... Señorito!" "What is the matter?" he cried, looking up in alarm. "Nothing, except that you have a son! Come, come!" And they pulled him with them to the chamber, where he saw his wife, still seated in an easy-chair, her face pale, but beaming with celestial happiness. At the same instant he saw Juana in one corner with a _something_ in her hands that was squalling horribly! He could not bear to look at _it_ for an instant, but turned his face to his wife and kissed her tenderly. When Miguel left the room, his heart was in his mouth. When he found himself alone he began to weep like a child. "Poor little wife!" he murmured. "She suffered without a complaint, and there I was sleeping like a brute! I shall never forgive myself for such selfishness as long as I live!... Still, it was the fault of those women," he added, with a sudden wrath; "those meddlesome persons who drove me out of the room." His remorse quickly subsided, and gave way to a thousand pleasant emotions of paternity. He wanted to go in a second time; but the women! always those women!--they blocked his way, saying that the infant was not yet washed and swaddled, or his wife put to bed. When all this was accomplished, he went into her room; his wife was lovelier than ever as she lay in bed, with a lace cap adorned with blue ribbons on her head, and wearing a clean white night-dress. He sat down at the head of the bed, and the two looked at each other in amazement; under the pretext of feeling of her pulse, he pressed her hand long and tenderly. _La brigadiera_ then presented him a bundle of clothes, saying:-- "Here you have your son." Miguel took the bundle and lifted it close to his eyes, and saw a little round red face without a nose, its eyes shut, and its forehead depressed, and from its comparatively enormous mouth issued sounds that were farthest from melodious. "How ugly it is!" he said aloud. A cry of indignation escaped from every one of the women, even his wife. "What an atrocious thing to say, Rivera!"--"How can you imagine such a thing!"--"What makes you think that it is ugly, señorito?"--"It is certainly one of the loveliest babies that I ever saw, Rivera."--"Do you expect it at this time of its life to have perfect features?" "Give it here, give it here!" said _la brigadiera_, snatching it from his hands. "That is the kind of flowers that you give the poor little creature!" "I should like to know what kind of a thing you were two hours after you were born, señorito," exclaimed Juana. Miguel, not feeling any indignation at this lack of respect, replied:-- "Most beautiful!" "How you must have changed for the worse since then!" retorted the countess, laughing. "Not so very much, señora, not so very much; I am certain that my wife will quite agree with me." "Not at all," said Maximina, making a face to express her vexation. "Maximina!" "Then why did you call him ugly?" "I see that this young gentleman has wholly driven me out of my place!" Meanwhile the bundle was passing from hand to hand, not without all the time emitting more and more energetic protests against such an unwelcome journey. But this same helpless desperation was the very thing that gave the most delight to those excellent women; they died with laughter to behold that poor little mouth open even to the throat, and that expressive and desperate waving of little hands filled with threats. "Come, come! what lungs you have, child!" "It is perfectly delightful! cheer up, man alive, cheer up! What a waste of genius, little pet!" "What a monkey-face it makes when it cries!" To tell the truth, it _was_ horrible. "Oh! it is stopping, señora! oh! it is stopping!" cried Plácida. All the women gathered around it, in affright. "What do you mean, _it is stopping_?" demanded Miguel, leaping from his chair. "It has stopped crying, señorito!" The baby, with its face drawn up and its mouth open, made no sound. The countess shook it with all her might till she almost murdered it: finally the infant emitted a scream more excruciating than ever, and all the women breathed a sigh of relief. "Come now; we must give this little rascal to his mamma; if he does not get something to eat, he will be angry with us." "How can that baby know enough to be angry?" thought Miguel. They put it in the bed, and held its mouth to the maternal fount, but it refused, we cannot tell under what pretext, to take the breast, and this conduct the women found very extraordinary. Maximina looked at him with stern eyes, mentally giving him most terrible denunciations. The countess asked for sugar and water, and with that anointed the breast; then the child, won by this most delicate attention, no longer hesitated to yield to the desires of all the señoras, and began to suckle with little haste--like an apprentice, in fact--in the operation. "Just see what a cunning little rascal he is!" "_Ave María!_ it seems incredible that it can have such a temper!" "Such a thing as that you never saw in your life before, woman!" "He is a perfect little villain!" After this performance, the baby proposed to do all in his power to confirm this favorable opinion that had been formed of his genius. In fact he opened his right eye just the least wee bit, and immediately shut it again, to the great astonishment and delight of all present; then accidentally getting his own hand into his mouth, he began to suck at it with all his might. Not satisfied with this gallant exhibition of his talents, he proved it still more completely when Plácida put her finger into his mouth; in an instant he was furiously sucking at that also; but quickly becoming aware of the deception practised upon him, he became furiously angry, and gave it to be understood, with sufficient clearness, that whenever there was any attempt to lower his dignity, they would see him always protest in the same or similar fashion. When he was put back into bed again, he fell asleep in a moment, and "slept like a bishop" (that was Juana's simile), while his mother from time to time lifted the coverlid to look at him, with not only tenderness, but also childish curiosity. Miguel having rather carelessly leaned on the bed, she thought that he was going to hurt the child. "Look out! look out!" she cried in choleric tone. And she gave him such an indignant look that the young man was amazed, since it was beyond the power of his imagination to conceive those sweet eyes having such an expression. Instead of being grieved, he began to laugh like a madman. Maximina was mortified, but smiled, and her innocent face regained the expression of lovely calm so peculiar to it. Unfortunately, her calm was quickly disturbed in a most unexpected way. It happened that after the "bishop" had waked up, the feminine council conceived certain suspicions that his illustrious highness needed some attention, and an ocular inspection was forthwith ordered. The countess found that it was even as they had thought. Then with admirable grace and no little satisfaction she began to change the infant. But at this juncture, _la brigadiera_, who had been steadily growing jealous of the countess for some time and had solemnly, though in an undertone, declared in the hearing of the maids that "that worthy señora was a tiresome busybody," now declared in a rather peevish tone that the bandage ought not to be put on as tight as the countess had put it on. "Let me alone, Angela, let me alone! I know well enough how to do it," said the countess, with a certain accent of self-sufficiency, continuing in her task. "But if it is left that way, the little thing won't be able to breathe, countess." "There is no need of any one teaching me about dressing infants: I have had six children, and, thank God, they are all alive in the world, safe and sound." "Well, I have never had but one daughter, but I should never have consented for her to be swaddled in that way!" "But I tell you that I do not need lessons from you, not in this nor in anything else...." The words which had passed were beginning to be very sharp, and the angry glances which the two ladies gave each other made it apparent that there would soon be a crisis. Those who were present at the scene grew very grave; Maximina, startled, looked as though she were going to cry. Then Miguel, vexed by the whole proceeding, interfered, saying, gently but firmly:-- "Ladies, please have some consideration for this poor girl, who now needs calm and rest." The Countess de Losilla arose stiffly, handed the infant to a maid, and sailed out of the room, without saying a word. Miguel followed her, but in spite of all his entreaties, she utterly refused to return; on the other hand, her anger grew more and more violent as she went toward the door, and there she said "_adiós_" very curtly, and went up to her room, apparently with the intention of never coming down again. "This mamma of mine always has to put her foot into it! What a lack of tact she has!" he exclaimed, when he was left alone. But all his annoyance quickly vanished from his mind, owing to the happy and exceptional circumstances in which he found himself. It was God's design, however, that a few drops of gall should be mingled in the cup of his happiness. In the evening, when, wearied by the commotion of the day, he was just preparing to go to bed, leaving Plácida to watch with his wife, he heard an importunate ring at the door-bell. "Señorito, there is a gentleman here who is anxious to speak with you." "Confound the impertinent visit! Have you shown him into the study?" "Yes, señorito." Our new papa went there, taking his own time, and perfectly resolved that it should not be a long call. But on entering the study, he had a not altogether agreeable surprise in finding Eguiburu, the "white horse" of _La Independencia_. The relationship which he enjoyed with this gentleman was not very intimate. Since he had given his endorsement, guaranteeing the thirty thousand duros which had been spent on the newspaper, he had seen him only twice, to receive from his hand two sums amounting to twelve thousand, which had not been wholly spent on the paper, but had also been used in assisting the _emigrados_. This unseasonable visit therefore reminded him of these things, and made him anxious and suspicious. Eguiburu was a tall, lean man, with pale and wrinkled face, small blue eyes, thinnish red hair, and very inelegant in his whole person. The clothes that he wore--tight-fitting trousers of black serge, large vest, and an enormous gray overcoat reaching to his very heels--did not tend to give any additional elegance to his appearance. Miguel greeted him courteously and gravely, and asked him to what he owed the honor of his visit.... "Señor de Rivera," said Eguiburu, unceremoniously taking a chair--Miguel, in his surprise, having neglected to ask him to do so--"it happens that now for several months you have been in power...." "Hold on, my friend; there is no one in Spain further from being in power than I.... I am not even under-secretary." "Well, well; when I say 'you,' I mean your friends; they all at the present time occupy great positions: the Count de Ríos, ambassador; Señor Mendoza has just been elected deputy...." "And do you think of comparing me, an insignificant pigmy, with the Count de Ríos and Mendoza, two stars of the first magnitude in Spanish politics?" "Now, see here; Señor de Rivera, to tell the truth, the other night in the Levante Café, Señor de Mendoza was not spoken well of, even by his own friends." "What did they say?" "They said,--begging your pardon,--that he was light as a cork." "Those are the calumnies of the envious. Don't imagine, friend Eguiburu, that statesmen are made of such stuff." "I am very glad that such is the case, señor. But the truth is that, in spite of their talents and the positions that they hold, neither the Señor Conde de Ríos nor Mendoza are remembering to make good to me the money that I have been spending for them." "Have you spoken to them?" "I have written a letter to each of them. Mendoza did not reply; the Señor Conde, after the lapse of considerable time, tells me in a letter, which I have with me, and you can see, 'that the very serious political duties that weigh upon him do not permit him at present to attend to such things as these, which have for some time been intrusted to his former private secretary, Señor Mendoza y Pimentel.' Of course, as you very well know, I have no need of begging from door to door for what is my own. And so, without further delay, I have come directly to you." "Why did you not go to Mendoza first?" Eguiburu hung his head, and began to twirl his hat; at the same time he smiled much as a marble statue might have done if it had the power. "Señor de Mendoza seems to me to have very little flesh for my claws!" On hearing these words, and seeing the smile that accompanied them, Miguel felt a chill run down his back, and he made no reply. At the end of a few moments he looked up, and said in a firm voice:-- "In other words, you have come to dun me for those thirty thousand duros! Is that so?" "I feel it in my soul, Señor de Rivera ... be convinced that I really do ... for it is certainly not to be gainsaid that you have not _eaten them_." "Thanks! you have a sensitive spirit, and I congratulate you on it. Unfortunately I cannot reciprocate this delicacy of feelings by handing over the thirty thousand duros." "Very well; but you will hand them over!" "Have you any security for it?" Eguiburu lifted his head, and fixed his little blue eyes on Miguel, who looked at him in a cool and hostile manner. "Yes, señor," he replied. "Then I congratulate you again; I did not know that you could have it." "Don't you remember, Señor de Rivera," said the banker, with amiability exaggerated in order to palliate the unpleasant effect that his words were about to produce, "I have here a paper endorsed with your name?" And as he said this he raised his hand to his overcoat pocket. Again Miguel kept silence. At the end of a few moments he spoke in a voice in which could be detected anger scarcely repressed:-- "That is to say, Señor de Eguiburu, that you propose nothing else than to ruin me on account of a debt, which, as is evident to you, I have not contracted." "I propose merely to make sure of my money." "That is all right," said Miguel, in a choking voice; "to-morrow I will write to the Count de Ríos, and will also see Mendoza; I should like to know if the count is capable of leaving me in the lurch.... If that should be so, then we will see what is to be done." After these words there was a period of embarrassed silence. Eguiburu twisted his hat, looking askance at Miguel, who kept his eyes fastened on the floor, while his lips showed an almost imperceptible tremor, which did not escape the banker's notice. "There is one way, Señor de Rivera," he suggested timidly, "by which you can get out of the difficulty in which you find yourself, and still have time to obtain from the count and the other friends the fulfilment of their obligations.... If you will guarantee me the money which I have since spent on the newspaper, I shall be perfectly willing to wait.... I am sorry to put the pistol to the heart of a person for whom I have so high a regard, but...." Miguel remained motionless, with his eyes cast down, and thinking deeply; then suddenly standing up, he said:-- "Well, we will see how this affair turns out. I will speak to-morrow with Mendoza, and immediately let you know the result of my interview, and of my letter to the count." Eguiburu likewise arose, and with exquisite amiability offered Rivera his hand in farewell. Miguel shook hands, and looking at him keenly, while a derisive smile hovered over his lips, he said:-- "Are you very anxious for those thirty thousand duros?" "Why do you ask me?" "Because I should be grieved if you were very much set upon them, while on the eve of losing them forever." "Explain yourself!" said the banker, growing serious. "Nothing, man; but if I should not get the money from the Conde de Ríos, what I have...." "Hey! What is that you say?" "That I should never in the world be able to pay for it, for the two houses which constitute my fortune are mortgaged...." Eguiburu became terribly pale. "You could not mortgage them because I have your endorsement for an obligation: the mortgage is null." "They were mortgaged long before the endorsement." The banker passed his hand over his forehead in despair; then straightening up quickly, and giving Rivera a crushing look, he stammered-- "Tha-that is ... a p-piece of rascality.... I will have you up in c-court as a swindler." Miguel burst into a laugh, and laying his hand familiarly on the man's shoulder, he said:-- "That gave you a good scare, didn't it? Now I am somewhat repaid for the one that you just gave me." "But what the deuce does this mean?..." "Calm yourself; my houses are not mortgaged. You will have the pleasure of ruining me on the day least expected," replied the young man, with bitter irony. The symptom of a smile seemed to be coming into Eguiburu's face, but it suddenly vanished again:-- "Are you in earnest?" "Yes, man, yes; don't have any apprehension." Then the smile that had vanished once more appeared, insinuating and benevolent, on the money lender's lips. "What a joker you are, Señor de Rivera! No one can ever tell whether you are in earnest or joking." "Then you are certainly very wrong to be so calm at this moment." Eguiburu grew serious again:-- "No! I cannot believe that you would jest on matters so ... so...." "So sacred, you mean?" "That is it--so sacred." "However, you will confess that you haven't the papers with you." "Certainly not; you are a talented man ... and a perfect gentleman besides...." "Come now; don't flatter me; there is no need of it." They went to the door, talking as they went. Eguiburu felt an anxiety that he tried in vain to hide; he gave his hand three or four times to Rivera; his face and attitude changed more than a score of times, and when Miguel told him to put on his hat, he placed it, all twisted and rumpled, on the back of his head. He tried to change the conversation to prove that he was perfectly convinced of the good word of his surety. He asked him with much interest about his wife and the baby, taking great pains to inquire about the details of the occurrence. Nevertheless, when he was already on the stairway, and Miguel was just about to close the door, he asked in an indifferent and jovial tone, and yet betraying keen anxiety:-- "Then that was merely a joke, was it, Rivera?" "Have no anxiety about it, man!" replied Miguel, laughing. But as soon as he was left alone, the laugh died on his lips; he stood for a moment with his fingers on the latch; then he went with slow step back to his study, sat down at the table, and leaned his head on his hand, with his eyes covered. Thus he sat a long time in thought. When he got up, they were swollen and red as though he had slept too long. He went to his wife's room; as he passed through the corridor he felt a little chill. She was still awake. Beside the bed a cot had been placed for Plácida. "Who was your visitor?" she asked. "It was no consequence; a man came to speak with me about the paper." There must have been something peculiar in Miguel's voice in making this simple reply, for his wife looked at him anxiously for some time. To free himself from this scrutiny, he went on to say:-- "How rested I am; I had a nap." He kissed her forehead, then lifted the spread, contemplated for a moment his sleeping son, and touched his lips to the little head; then he kissed his wife again, and left the room. When he went to bed he shivered, and nevertheless felt that his cheeks were on fire. For a long time he lay in bed, with his eyes wide open and the lamp lighted. A throng of melancholy thoughts passed through his mind; a thousand forebodings and fears attacked him. Like all men of keen imagination, he leaped to the worst conclusions; he saw himself ruined, obliged with his wife to leave the social circles in which they had been accustomed to move: he also remembered his son. "My poor boy!" he exclaimed. And he was on the point of sobbing; but he made a manly effort to control himself, saying:-- "No! weep for lost money? Such things are done only by fools and misers. A man who has a wife like mine, and a son such as she has just given me, has no right to ask anything more of God. I am young; I have good health; if worse comes to worst, I can work for them." As he murmured these words, he gave a violent puff to the light, and had sufficient self-control to calm himself, and was soon asleep. XVII. On the following morning, as soon as he was dressed, and after spending by his wife's side a much shorter time than circumstances required, he left the house and hastened to Mendoza's. Mendoza at this time was lodging at one of the best and most central hotels of Madrid. When Miguel reached there, he was still asleep. Nevertheless, he went to his room, and took it upon himself to open the shutters like a friend whose familiarity was limitless. "_Holá!_ I see that you sleep just the same as when you were not a great man." Mendoza rubbed his eyes, and looked at him in amazement. "What does this mean, Miguelito? Why so early in the morning?" "My dear Perico, the first thing that you must do is to get rid of this condescending tone. When there are people present, I am perfectly willing for you to condescend, and I will call you 'most illustrious lordship' if you like; but when we are alone, just remember that I am not your vassal." "You are always just the same, Miguel," replied Mendoza, a little exasperated. "That is the advantage that you have over me: I am always the same; you are always changing and playing a new and brilliant rôle in society. I am satisfied, however, with mine--so satisfied that the fear of having to be different is what brings me here so early in the morning to disturb your dreams of glory." "What do you mean?" "That having up to the present time been considered a person 'well fixed,' or, to use the expressions affected by us literary fellows, being an Hidalgo of 'ancient stock,' and having 'five hundred _sueldos_ guerdon,' I--but you don't know what this means?" "No!" replied Mendoza, with an impatient gesture. "Well, it is very simple. If you should give me a slap (which I am sure you will not), I should get 'five hundred _sueldos_ guerdon,' or fine. On the other hand, if I should give you one (which is perfectly possible), there would be no need of your spending a sou.... Well then, having up to the present time played this rôle in society, I should feel it to the bottom of my soul to be obliged to try that of the poverty-stricken or the vagabond, which I have never studied." "I don't understand you." "I am coming to the point. Last evening Eguiburu presented himself at my house, and without any preamble demanded of me the thirty thousand duros which have been spent on _La Independencia_, and which I guaranteed, yielding to your entreaties.... Do you understand now?" Brutandor said nothing for several moments, remaining in an attitude of meditation; then he said, with the solemn deliberation which characterized all his remarks:-- "I believe this amount should be paid, not by you, but by the Count de Ríos." "Ah! you think so, do you? Then I am saved. As soon as Eguiburu knows this opinion, I am certain that he will not venture to ask a _cuarto_ of me." "If it were taken from you, it would be robbery." "I am delighted to see that the immutable principles of natural law have not vanished from your mind. But you know that the actual law is on his side; and if, perchance, it should enter into his head to make use of law instead of equity, I want to know if you would have the heart to let him ruin me." Miguel had grown very serious, and looked at his friend with that cold and hard expression which was always in his case a sign of repressed anger. Mendoza dropped his eyes, in confusion. "I should feel very sorry to have any misfortune happen to you, Miguel." "The question now is not about your feelings. What I want to know this instant is, if the general is ready to pay this sum." "I think that the general has no other desire...." "Nor is the question about the general's desires. I want to know--do you hear?--I want to know if he will pay the thirty thousand duros, or will not pay them." "I shall have to write him: you know he is in Germany just now." "The point is, that if he does not pay it, I will take it into court. I have letters from him acknowledging the debt," said Miguel, striding in a state of excitement up and down the room. Mendoza allowed him to do so for some time, and then replied:-- "It seems to me, Miguel, that you ought not to be in too great a hurry to do this or look on the dark side; you won't get ahead any that way." "What makes you say that?" retorted the brigadier's son, halting. "You would get nothing by taking it to court." "Why so?" "Because the general has no fortune: all that he has is in his wife's name." Miguel's eyes flamed with anger. "The villain!" he muttered under his breath; and then added: "I shall be convinced that you are as vile as he." "Miguel, for God's sake!" "That is what I have said. Take it as you like. I am glad that it looks worse for him." Mendoza had no wish nor courage to reply. He let him continue his walking up and down, in the hope that his anger would calm down, and in this he showed how well he knew his man. In fact, in a few minutes he shrugged his shoulders, paused near the bed, and throwing his hands on Mendoza's shoulders with a loving gesture, he said, laughing:-- "I have been unfair. I had forgotten that you were too much of a rough diamond to be a villain." Mendoza was not annoyed by this singular apology. "You are so quick-tempered, Miguel, that when one least thinks about it, you 'leave a man without the blood in his veins.'" "It would be worse to leave one without any money." "Man alive! you haven't lost it yet. I have no doubt that the matter will be settled all right." "Do you know what plan Eguiburu proposed to me?" "No; what?" "That I should also guarantee the twelve thousand duros which he had furnished besides, and then he will wait." Mendoza made no reply. Both remained lost in thought. "That does not seem to me such a bad plan," said the former, at length. "I tell you frankly that at present it is impossible to get the thirty thousand duros from the general; I know his affairs well, and am certain that he is not in a situation to pay down this amount. But if it does not come from his private pocket, it may be got from the public treasury. I have it on good authority that the government has already voted some money (though not any such sum as this), to be spent on newspapers, and credited to the secret funds of the Ministry of the Government. The point here is to get influence enough for the minister to get hold of it." "I suppose that the general will use all his." "Of course. And I will do what I can. But the general is not in Madrid, and you know as well as I do that these delicate transactions cannot be managed through correspondence, or arranged in this way, ever. We must be always on the track, worry the minister with visits, speak to all his friends, so as to keep it before his attention, and, if it were possible, threaten him with some summons to the Cortes concerning some delicate affair which he would not like to have made public." "_Caramba!_ Perico, you have made great advances in short time. You understand wire-pulling to the last detail." "How so?" "Man alive! certainly; for it is not this way that it is explained and defined to us by the treatises." Mendoza shrugged his shoulders, at the same time pressing his lips into a sign of disdain. "Well, then you want to bring the general back to Madrid?" added Miguel. "That is impossible." "Then what shall we do?" Mendoza meditated. "If you had been elected deputy, the thing would be much easier. In that case we should be two to ask the minister, who, looking out for his future interests, would be much more careful not to go counter to us...." "But as I am not a deputy!" Mendoza meditated another long time, and said:-- "Still it can all be arranged. The general, when he accepted the post of ambassador, left one district vacant, that of Serín, in Galicia. They will soon be having the second elections. If the government will accept you as _candidato adicto_, you are certain of a triumph." Rivera said nothing, and seemed also lost in thought. "Hitherto, Perico, I have never had the least idea of being the father of my country. You know well that I am of no good for kicking my heels in the ante-chambers of ministers, that I am not one to suffer impertinences and scorn, nor have I the talent for manoeuvring plots, nor the audacity for meddling in dark intrigues. I am so constituted that a cool look wounds me, a discourteous word annoys me, any disloyalty crushes and overwhelms me. I am incapable of giving my word and not fulfilling it; I have not sufficient calmness to keep cool when brought into contact with the sympathy and love, or the aversion, which men inspire in me. I get excited and lose my head with excessive ease, and under the influence of anger I speak out the first word that comes into my mind, however dangerous it is. Moreover, I have the misfortune of always seeing the comic side of things, and I have not sufficient strength of mind to repress myself and to refrain from saying what I think. Politicians, when they are not knaves worthy of jail, seem to me, with a few honorable exceptions, a herd of vulgar, ignorant men who have taken up this occupation as the easiest and most lucrative; many of them village intriguers who come to repeat in Congress the same trickeries which they have been practising in the _Ayuntamiento_[39] or the _Diputación_;[40] others, men who have failed in literature, the sciences, and the arts, and not getting there the notoriety that they crave, seek it in the more accessible field of politics: a young man whose drama has been hissed off the stage; another, who has tried five or six times in vain to get a professorship; another, who has written various books that remain virgins and martyrs on the publishers' shelves,--these are the ones who, making their way into the Hall of Congress, where no one is judged by his merits, and rallying under the standard of some personage who began as they did, climb to lofty destinies, and as time goes on, come to regulate the affairs of the nation.... But I have become too serious," he added, lowering his voice and smiling. "The principal argument that I bring up against dedicating myself to political life,--I will tell it to you as a secret,--is, that I detest it; I detest it from the bottom of my heart. Nevertheless, as I am threatened with ruin, I am determined to enter it to restore my fortunes, which I was foolish enough to compromise." Brutandor looked at him with wide-opened eyes: any one can imagine, knowing the tendency of his mind, that Miguel spoke a language entirely incomprehensible to him. When he ended, the newly elected deputy imperceptibly shrugged his shoulders and puckered his mouth into that look very common to him, one that made it hard to tell whether it meant indifference or disdain or surprise or resignation. Miguel used to maintain that his friend Mendoza was able to understand only eleven things in this world: when anything distinct from the eleven was said, instead of answering, he made the face spoken of, and gave it to be understood that there the matter ended. "Well," said he, noticing that face, "to do this you must introduce me to the government ministry." "I will introduce you to the President of the Council. I am better acquainted with him than with Escalante." "I am glad of that, for Escalante is not congenial to me, and at all events I don't know the President. Do you want to go this afternoon to the Presidency?" Mendoza looked at him in amazement. "But don't you know that I am going to speak to-day in Congress?" "Forgive me, dear fellow; I don't know a single word about it. And what are you going to speak about?" "About tariff reform. It is the first speech that I shall have made. Hitherto I have only put inquiries." "Don't be so modest, Perico; I happen to know that you have presented a report concerning the citizens of Valdeorras, without flinching or anything coming of it." "Don't you laugh; the danger to-day is very serious." "Terrible!... Especially for the taxes.... And when are you to be married?" Mendoza looked down and flushed. "On the fifteenth." "I am delighted that you are entering into the good path," said Miguel, noticing Mendoza's mortification, and generously trying to spare him. "Come, get up, man; it is already almost eleven o'clock." "You will breakfast with me, won't you?" "My dear fellow, you must know that to-day is an exceptional day for me!" "Of course I know it; but then we will go together to Congress; and perhaps, if the session is over in time, we might go to the presidency." This last suggestion pleased Miguel, because he saw clearly that his thirty thousand duros depended on the influence that he might gain over. After thinking a little, he said:-- "Very well; I will send a message to my wife, so that she will not be worried." He sat down at Mendoza's table, while the latter was dressing, and dashed off a few lines to Maximina. While writing them, he could not help saying in a tone of grief:-- "Strange circumstances that oblige me to leave my wife alone on the day after she has presented me with a son! Nevertheless, it is for her and for him that I do it. If I were a bachelor, it would not make much difference if I were ruined." After he was dressed, and before they went down into the dining-room, Mendoza showed his friend the jewels that he was going to present to his "future." They were magnificent and in the latest style. Miguel praised them as they deserved, at the same time wondering where Perico had got the money to buy them; and though he was much tempted to ask him, he had the delicacy not to do so. Then they went down to a private room on the _entresol_ floor, where Brutandor was in the habit of breakfasting alone. The waiter served them a remarkably fine breakfast, among other things, Burgundy and champagne _frappé_ for dessert. "This is extravagant, Perico," he said. "The next time I shall forbid your treating me in such style." "The señorito always breakfasts like this," said the waiter, smiling with evident satisfaction. "_Holá!_" exclaimed Miguel, in surprise. "Who could have believed, Perico, that those heavy leaders that you used to write in _La Independencia_ would have been so quickly coined into oysters, fillets of veal, and Burgundy!" Brutandor dropped his head, and there are reasons for belief that the precursory symptoms of a smile appeared in his face. However, if any one should be inclined to deny it, there would not fail to be arguments in support of such an opinion. Mendoza's smiles always gave room for dispute. After breakfast they betook themselves to Congress, not, however, without the Amphitryon first hurrying up to his room, and bringing down a package of documents, which proved to be notes for his speech. "_María Santísima!_" cried Miguel. "How calm and undisturbed are the poor deputies who at this moment are without a thought of the coming earthquake!" They arrived in altogether too good season. There were but few people in the _salón_ and the lobbies. Mendoza went to join a group of personages, grave and solemn like himself, and began to talk with them. When one spoke, the others maintained a courteous silence; there might be some question, however, whether they listened very attentively, but there was no room for doubt that each one listened to himself with perfect delight. Miguel joined a group of journalists where tumultuous gayety reigned. When it was time for the session to begin, he went with them to the reporters' gallery, which in a short time was crowded. Almost all the faces to be seen there were young, and such a babel of voices and disorder constantly prevailed there that it was difficult to hear. In vain the ushers, with a familiarity that anywhere else would have been called insolence, warned and even threatened them; the reporters paid no attention to their menaces, and when they deigned to listen, it was merely to reply with some bloodthirsty witticism: if the usher at last became really angry, there was sure to be some one who would take the wind out of his sails by throwing his arms around his neck, and promising him promotion "as soon as he came to be minister." Some amused themselves by sharpening pencils; others, by cutting up paper into pads; others drew out from between vest and shirt enormous writing-tablets: one would think that it was an orchestra beginning to tune up. Settling themselves into absurd attitudes, they all talked, shouted, laughed, fired repartees at each other, and made witty remarks about the deputies who were now coming into the large and elegant _salón_, and casting sheep's-eyes at them, or rather the eyes of dying lambs asking mercy. As a general thing, these were the rural members. Those who lived in Madrid always had some acquaintances among the journalists, and to these they made signs and winks from below, and sometimes sent caramels, to which the reporters would respond with rhymed notes. "Look here, my dear; do you know what uniform the sub-governors are going to wear?" "The sub-governors won't have anything else than a sub-uniform," replied a sufficiently ill-favored reporter named Inza. This same Inza, who was in one corner arranging his pad, shortly after remarked:-- "Ah, here comes Alonso Ramírez enveloped in the skins of his clients." The famous lawyer just at that moment came in, wearing a magnificent overcoat trimmed with fur. This jest has since that time been credited to a politician by his friends, and they would be quite capable of claiming that he wrote the Holy Bible, if they felt like it. Keen sallies passed from one to another in loud tones, and caused hearty laughter, and stimulated the victim to sharpen his wits so as to reply with some other joke still more piquante. Much talent and still more jollity were wasted in that incommodious gallery. "Do you know, Juanito, that you are losing your wits?" cried one young man to another. "What can I do about it, man; for a week ago the chief sent me to the Academy of Moral and Political Sciences?" From time to time hot disputes came up on subjects most absurd or foreign to the profession of the disputant; for instance, about the method of loading needle-guns or driving carriages. And they would gabble and get angry until the ushers compelled them to stop, or some opportune joke from a comrade would bring them to their senses. The President mounted his lofty seat; instantly he was surrounded by a group of deputies, to whom he began with paternal solicitude to offer an abundant supply of caramels. These caramels, which at that time did not cost the State more than five hundred duros a day, are an institution, the history of which has unfortunately been very much neglected. Nothing more useful can be imagined than to study the vicissitudes through which it has passed, the beneficent influence which these sweetmeats have exercised on the government of our people, and the elements of progress which they have carried with them. Its whole history might be compassed in three small volumes of easy and agreeable reading. When they were through, or when the President no longer cared to give any more, the deputies went to their seats, and the session was opened. The first person to get the floor was an ancient republican of pale complexion, dull eyes, and a great shock of hair which made him look like the images in our churches. He got up to speak of an insurrection that had been started in Cadiz. The subject was of keen interest, and there was a great curiosity in Congress to hear this gentleman's remarks, as he was supposed to be one of the promoters of the revolution. He began in these words, or to the same effect:-- "In the primitive times of history man wandered naked through the forests, supporting life with the fruit of trees, and the milk and flesh of animals which he hunted. One day he saw an animal like himself passing through the woods. He flung his lasso and caught it. It proved to be--a woman. Hence the family, _señores diputados_...." He went on giving a complete though succinct sketch of universal history, and explained to the minutest details the theories of the social contract. He quoted numerous texts from the wise men of ancient and modern times in support of his own theories. Attention was attracted above all by one proposition of bold originality, and as it was received with murmurs by the assembly, the deputy exclaimed:-- "What! does this surprise you? But it is not I that say it. Brígida says it." "Who is Brígida?" asked a journalistic tyro. "His housekeeper," replied another, without looking up. "Why! what a ridiculous thing to quote his housekeeper here!" exclaimed the first. The deputies received with renewed murmurs the name of the author of the quotation. "Brígida says it," cried the orator with all the force of his lungs. Louder and longer murmurs. When quiet was restored, he said in a grave and solemn tone:-- "Santa Brígida says so!" "Ahaaaaaa!" replied the assembly. The last five minutes were devoted to the events in Cadiz, and that was to say that it was all the fault of the government. It seems logical to report that the orator was removed from there in a cage and taken to a mad-house. Nothing of the sort happened, however: the minister replied in all formality, and combated his quotations and theories with other quotations and other theories. At that period all addresses began with Adam and no one was surprised at it. Next, coming to the order of the day, it was the turn of tariff reform, and Mendoza was granted the floor. He, having spread out on his desk his earthquake of notes, coughing three or four times, lifting up his hands an equal number, began his great oration. His voice was well modulated, clear, and mellow; his tone grave and high-sounding; his gestures noble and refined. Neither Demosthenes, nor Cicero, nor Mirabeau were blessed with such an effective presence and such an elegant round of attitudes as our friend Brutandor. But the trouble was that the ideas that proceeded from his mouth did not correspond in the least with such attitudes. That wrathful gesture, that lowering and raising of the voice, and those short but quick steps in front of his desk, were very appropriate to accompany the celebrated "Tell your master that only by the force of bayonets will we be taken from this spot," or the _Quousque tandem Catilina_; but for saying that the annual consumption of cotton in England in 1767 was 4,000,000 pounds, and that in 1867 it was more than 1,400,000,000 pounds; that the number of workmen engaged there in the manufacture of cotton is 500,000, and 4,000,000 the persons whose living depends on this industry; that the value of the paper manufactured in 1835 was 80,000,000 pounds and in 1860 exceeded 223,000,000; that the manufactories of the said product at the present time numbered 394; that in France its production exceeded 25,000,000 kilograms, etc.,--they did not seem so appropriate. His whole discourse was reduced to this: quantities, dates, facts. The deputies, with more or less dissimulation, began to desert the salon, one after the other. "This orator is an air-pump," said one reporter. "At this rate there will soon be a perfect vacuum." The jokes and flings in the press-gallery became general. Miguel, who knew what he had to expect from his friend's genius, listened with disgust to their raillery of him: he was anxious, and somewhat inclined to cut short their jests peremptorily; but, as in that tribunal of Liberty, comment on the speeches was traditional, he did his best to restrain himself. The best thing that occurred to him, in order to avoid being compromised, was to make a hurried visit home and find out how his wife was. When he returned, the orator was still speaking. "Now, Congress is about to see the most curious thing of all," said the worthy Brutandor. And, on turning round to gather up from his desk the papers on which it was written, he showed the seat of his trousers! But no one noticed this graceful _quid pro quo_ except Miguel and a shorthand reporter, who could not help laughing. The joking continued among the reporters; the observations, however, were made more with the purpose of causing a laugh than of hurting the feelings of the orator, whom almost all knew or were intimate with. Only one, the editor of a Carlist daily, from time to time got off serious criticisms in bad taste, as though he had some personal ill-will against Mendoza. Miguel had already looked at this man two or three times in an aggressive manner, without the other taking any notice of it. At last, accosting him, Miguel said:-- "See here, friend; I am not surprised that the numbers of _El Universo_ are so stupid! You evidently take pains to waste all your wit here." "What you just said to me seems to me an intentional insult, sir!" "Perhaps." "You will immediately give me an apology," said the journalist, very much disturbed. "No; I should much prefer to give you some unpleasantness by and by," replied Miguel, with a smile. Then the editor of _El Universo_ took his hat and went out in great indignation. In a short time, two Catholic, deputies made their appearance in the gallery, asking for Miguel. "You have come to ask me to make an apology, have you? Then I tell you that I shall not make one. Come to an understanding with these two friends of mine." And he introduced those whom he had selected. The Catholic editor's seconds had not come so primed for a bellicose decision: after consulting a few moments with Miguel's, they went down to ask further instructions of their principal; then returned in a short time with the calumet of peace in their hands, saying that 'their friend's religious principles did not allow him to settle insults with weapons.' On hearing this, there was an explosion of laughter in the gallery. "Then, if his religious principles do not allow him to fight," said Miguel, irritated, "there was no reason for him to choose seconds. But it seems as if this gentleman wished to try his fortune." At last, Mendoza finished his oration with three deputies in the hall, one of them snoring. This, however, did not prevent the papers on the following day declaring that he was a man "most skilled in financial matters." When Miguel went to congratulate him, he was sweating copiously but calm and serene as a god, surrounded by all the members of the committee of Estimates. They left Congress together, and went for refreshments to the Café de la Iberia. After chatting there for some time, Miguel doing most of the talking (for we know of old that Mendoza was not the man to waste his breath foolishly), the latter got up, saying:-- "Well, Miguelito, excuse me if I leave you; I have a few things to attend to." Rivera's eyes expressed surprise and indignation. "Your glory has spoiled your memory, Perico. Hadn't we agreed to see the President after the session?" "That is a fact: I had forgotten," replied Mendoza, without being able to repress a motion of vexation and disgust. "I don't know as this is--it is pretty near dinner time...." Miguel, who had not failed to notice his gesture, said with characteristic impetuosity:-- "Look here, do you imagine that I lamentably wasted two hours hearing you quote data to be found in any statistical annual merely for the pleasure of doing so?... I never believed that your egotism was carried to such a degree. You see me within a hand's-breadth of ruin, for your sake, only for your sake, and instead of using all your powers to save me, in doing which you would be merely fulfilling your duty, you manifest Olympian indifference; you aren't even willing to put yourself out to go with me from here to the Presidency. That is unworthy, shameful! I have excused many things in my life, Perico; but this goes beyond bounds." Rivera, in saying these words, trembled with indignation. "Don't be so explosive man! why, I have not yet refused to go with you to the Presidency, or anywhere else," said Mendoza, laying his hand on his shoulder, while his lips were curved by that humble smile which Miguel compared to that of "a Newfoundland dog." "Come on! let us go this very moment to the Presidency!" "Come on, then," said Rivera dryly, getting up. After going a few steps his vexation subsided. When they reached there, the President had not yet come in. Mendoza, as a deputy, made his way immediately into the office, and there they both waited, taking a comfortable seat on a sofa while the throng of office-hunters were spoiling in the anteroom. It was not long before there was the sound of a carriage under the _porte cochère_: instantly all the bells in the house began to jingle madly. "Here comes the President," said Mendoza. Indeed, in a few seconds he came into the office, accompanied by a number of deputies. Seeing Mendoza, he greeted him in the free and easy tone with which he greeted the friends who came every day. "Well worked up, my dear Mendoza, well worked up. It has produced a very good effect." He alluded to the speech. Mendoza, instead of being embarrassed by the greatness of the personage before whom he stood, replied in the same familiar and fluent tone. This self-possession did not fail to impress Miguel; for he, being more accustomed to social intercourse, could not help feeling some emotion of respect before the man who held the reins of government. The President was about fifty years old: he was fair and pale, with regular, and not unpleasing, features; the only thing that disfigured his face was a row of huge teeth, which were apt to be uncovered when he smiled; and this he did frequently, not to say incessantly. "I present my friend, Miguel Rivera, who is now the actual editor of _La Independencia_." "I have heard of this gentleman. I am very, very glad to make your acquaintance, Señor Rivera," said the President, shaking hands with exceeding amiability. "You will excuse me a moment, will you not?" he added, touching them both on the shoulder; "I have to speak a few words with these gentlemen.... I will be with you in an instant." The instant was about half an hour. Miguel had been growing impatient. But the President's courteous reception made him feel better, and inclined him to pardon the delay. "There," said he, after taking leave of the other gentlemen, "now I am at your service. What can I do for you, friend Mendoza?" "I wanted to know if you have come to any decision about the district of Serín?" "What district is that: the one left by General Ríos?" he asked, for a moment ceasing to smile, and fixing his eyes on the window. "Yes, sir." "We have not as yet given any thought to the vacant districts. The second elections will not take place for two months at least." "My friend Rivera, here, has conceived the idea of presenting himself for that district in case the government should favor it." "There is some little time yet; still you would do well to begin making your arrangements.... But, friend Mendoza, you are a 'well of science'!" he added, jocularly, not making it at all evident whether he spoke ironically or not. "Ah! that was a meaty discourse that you gave us this afternoon!" Brutandor inclined his head, and did his best to smile. "I am not going to be ceremonious with you, gentlemen, for you are friends. Come and take dinner with me, and then we can talk with greater comfort and ease." And he showed them into a private room where there was a table spread. Neither Mendoza nor Miguel accepted his invitation, but the latter appreciated this kindly hospitality. The President began his meal, more than once deploring that his friends would not join him; he kept growing more and more expansive and genial with Mendoza, and he overwhelmed Miguel with refined and delicate attentions, now speaking in the terms of warmest eulogy of his father, whom he had known, and now calling to mind some good article in _La Independencia_; again, asking with lively interest into the details of his life: if he were married, and how long since? where had he studied? what was he doing? etc., etc. He related to them various lively anecdotes, and made some droll sketches of some dead politicians whom he had known in times gone by; of those who were alive he always spoke with sufficient consideration, even though they were in the opposition. Suddenly interrupting himself, he asked:-- "Isn't it true, Señor Rivera, that the President of the Council is a trifle impudent?" "It used to be said that Richelieu also was," replied Miguel, with a bow. "I feel that I have his defects, and not his qualities. You can imagine how I envy those reserved, polite, prudent men ... like our friend Mendoza here!" Again it was difficult to tell whether the head of the government were speaking seriously. "I do not; it would be depriving myself of one of the greatest pleasures of life." "I agree with you; but it costs the most of all." And in this connection he related several cases where by frankly saying what he thought, it had caused him serious losses. His conversation was gay, insinuating, without the least snobbishness; his fault lay, on the contrary, in excessive familiarity. When he had finished eating, he courteously offered cigars, and after lighting one and leaning back in his chair, he asked Rivera:-- "So, then, you wish to be deputy for Serín?" "If you have no opposition to it...." "I? Why should I have any opposition to it? It is sufficient that you are Brigadier Rivera's son and Mendoza's friend. Besides, no election could be more suitable than yours. You are a young man of talent, as has already been proved; you belong to the democratic wing of the party, and that composes a very respectable contingent in it; you have an independent fortune ... on men like you the heads of the government ought to have great reliance, and ought to win them over at all hazards. We like young men of intelligence, and with a future ahead of them; rising stars! As for those that are declining, let them have a feather-bed to rest in! That is public life." He remained a few moments pensive; puffed at his cigar, and added:-- "I am not acquainted with this district of Serín. Do you know how it is situated, Mendoza?" "My impression is that government has absolute control of it. The general had certainly no opposition." "Very good; but you must remember that the general is a figure of the first magnitude in politics, and that his name would be sufficient to scare off all opposition." "Nevertheless, I believe that the district, with such little help as the government may afford, is secure." "Really?" "Yes, sir." "And is the general agreeable to Señor Rivera's candidacy?" "Certainly he is; they are old friends. I will stand guarantee for him." "Well, if that is so," said the President, rising and laying one hand on Miguel's shoulder; "count yourself as deputy." "Many thanks, Señor Presidente!" "Don't mention it. What other wish could I have than that all the deputies of the majority were like you!... Don't fail to come and talk things over with me soon. Though the elections will be postponed a little, it will be necessary for you to write to the district, and through the general's mediation come into relationship with some person of influence there. Don't send out any manifesto. When the occasion arrives, we will write to the governor. _Adiós, señores_; I am so glad to have made your acquaintance! You must feel assured that I am at your service. Do not forget me, and be sure to come and see me some time!" Miguel departed, enthusiastic over his interview. When he was in the street, he exclaimed:-- "But how cordial the President is! Oftentimes one finds a mere clerk more puffed up in his office! Still he lets one see the superiority of persons when it is legitimate. I am not surprised that he has so many friends, and so firm ones.... How easy it is for a man high in rank to win friends! Now, here I am! He gives me merely a natural and kindly welcome, and says a few courteous phrases, and I am ready to die for him!" "You must not neglect to write to the general immediately," said Mendoza, gravely. "You are a man of ice, Perico! For you there are no friendships nor hatreds; no men are congenial or antipathetic. From all you take what you need, and go your way.... Perhaps you are right." XVIII. "You aren't vexed with me, Maximina, are you? The idea of leaving you alone all day!" he said, as he came to his wife's bed. "Pshaw! If you did so, it must have been for some good reason," replied she, kissing the hand which was smoothing her cheek. On the next day they received a call from Aunt Martina and her daughter Serafina. The worthy lady had grown visibly more feeble. 'Such a life she led with her husband! Don Bernardo kept growing more and more crazy with his foolish jealousies!' As she told what went on at home, she wept aloud. "After forty years of married life, how could I possibly be unfaithful to your uncle, Miguel? Don't you think that I have proved that I am virtuous? And if I had to fall, moreover, it would not be with a _carcamal_[41] who smells of drugs for a mile! Isn't that so? You understand!..." Miguel nodded assent, with difficulty repressing a smile, for it was as good as a play to find his aunt imagining that any young man would flirt with her. "I am an honest woman.... Serafina, don't come in here; take the baby into the dining-room," she said, interrupting herself on seeing her daughter come into the bedroom with the sweet little thing in her arms. "I have been all my life long. Never even in thought have I been untrue to my husband. In return for this, he puts me to shame before the servants, treating me little less than if I were a public woman. I cannot longer endure this martyrdom, Miguel. I am dying, dying daily. The other day he made a perfect scandal because he found the end of a cigar in my room. As neither Vicente nor Carlos smoke, he took it for granted that Hojeda had been there; he even went so far as to insist that it was a cigar such as the apothecary smokes, although he always smokes cigarettes! It made me faint away; they had to call the doctor. Finally, in the night, a little fifteen-year-old servant boy whom we have, seeing the serious trouble there was in the house, confessed to the maid that it was he who had left the cigar-end there, and he went to tell your Uncle Bernardo. Then, though he instantly dismissed him, he did not remain calm. The servants don't stay with us more than a fortnight; he imagines that they are all the apothecary's pimps.... Day before yesterday the newsboy came along and handed me the paper as I happened to be walking along the corridor. My husband sees it, takes it into his head that this too is an emissary, and dashes out of the window. Simply because Hojeda passed by a little while before! I can't tell all that goes on; it is madness, a catastrophe! If it were not for Vicente, I would blow my brains out with a revolver.... I cannot go out without having my daughter with me, and then leaving on a piece of paper where I am going.... He has ordered all the mattresses in the house to be ripped open, so as to find some of the letters which he says that I have hidden.... Finally,--but do you want to hear more? He has sent and had an iron grating put in the fireplace, for he has an idea that Hojeda comes in that way...." "_Ave María!_ How crazy poor uncle must be!" exclaimed Miguel. "Don't you believe it; he speaks as reasonably as you or I, and his memory is as good as ever." "Aunt, phrenopathy is not your strong point. Madmen have made progress like every one else in this world. Nowadays, they discuss and talk like all the rest of us. To distinguish an insane person from one in his senses you must depend upon a specialist; consequently, you must not meddle in things that you don't understand; however, my uncle is certainly showing symptoms that seem very suspicious, even to the ordinary intelligence." "Sane or insane, I want to separate from him, for my life is a hell. But when once this subject came up, he became frantic, declaring that I wanted a divorce so as to marry my lover, and that he would empty his six-shooter into me if I did any such thing...." "Poor aunt!" said Maximina, with tears in her eyes. "How does my life seem to you?... But it is not this alone. I have still another cause for tribulation. Eulalia's little maid is almost blind!" "What of?" asked the young mother. "What do you suppose, child? Of her eyes, of course!" "No; I meant of what disease!" "Ah! I don't know what name the doctor gives it. Then, besides, Encarnación the maid, who you must know has been my hands and feet, got married last Monday. You can't imagine the state of the house since she left us! It is a republic, children! I can't be in half a dozen places at once. For a dozen years I have depended wholly on her.... She had the keys to the linen closet; she kept account of the washing; she took out the chocolate and the _garbanzos_[42]; she looked out for the wine-closet when the wines were getting low; she ironed Carlos' and Enrique's shirts (for Vicente sends his out to be done up). Finally, I hardly had to trouble myself about what the servants got to eat, she had them so under her control.... Now, whom can I put into the house? Whom could I put in her place, the service being so turned topsy-turvy? Thursday the lackey came to me saying that Modesta was not willing to mend the sleeve of his livery-coat, which he had torn...." "And Enrique? How about him?" asked Miguel, fearing that his aunt, in talking about the servants, would never finish, as was her custom. "That is another thing! Bent on marrying the _chula_! There is no way of getting it out of his head. His father will not hear his name mentioned, and has already declared that, if he continues his relationship with her, he will send him out of the house. Vicente and Eulalia are also just as set against him. The one who 'pays for all the broken glass in the house' is myself, because I sympathize with him; don't you see?" "Yes; Enrique has always been your favorite!" "The whole family have always declared this to be the case, but it is not true; as you see, he is the least favored.... On the other hand, he treats me worse than a shoe!" The entrance of Serafina with the baby again interrupted the conversation; behind her came all the maids, evincing a lively excitement: "What is the matter?" "Why! the baby smiled!" said Serafina. "Smiled! He smiled, as sure as there is a God in heaven, señorita," said one of the maids, adding her testimony. "Go along with you! you are all crazy!" said Doña Martina. "Why, he is only two days old!" "It cannot be," insisted Maximina, although she flushed with joy at the thought. "But he did; he did!" exclaimed all the servants. "This is the way it happened, señorita," said one maid, scarcely able to get her breath. "The Señorita Serafina was this way with the baby; do you see? And I looked and took hold of him by the shoulder, do you see? and lifted him up, and began to move him up and down, and to say: 'Little chicken![43] rosebud! pink! do you want to be called Miguelito, like your papa?' The baby didn't do anything. 'Do you want to be called Enriquito like your uncle?' He didn't do anything this time either. 'Do you want to be called Serafín after your aunt?' And then he opened his eyes just a wee bit, and made up a little mouth with his lips. Oh, so cunning!" Maximina smiled as though she had been listening to a revelation from heaven. She, and her aunt also, were instantly convinced, but Miguel still doubted. "When it comes to the smiling of infants not more than fifty-seven hours old," said Miguel, "I must confess to an unyielding scepticism. I am like Saint Thomas: seeing is believing." "But he _did_ smile, Miguel. Don't you have any doubt of it; I assure you he did, ..." said Serafina. "You do not offer me sufficient guarantees of impartiality." "Very good! then he is going to do it again; now you shall see for yourself." Serafina took the child and lifted him above her head, with great decision, at the same time asking him if he wanted to be called Serafín; to which question the child did not find it expedient to reply, perhaps from an excess of diplomacy, because it would not have been strange if the name had seemed absurd to him. Maximina, meantime, hung on his lips as though the child were passing through a college examination. "You try it, Plácida," said she, trying to hide her affliction. Plácida stepped out of the group like one of the "artists" of Price's circus, coming forth to perform his great feat. She lifted the child with surprising skill, swung him from north to south, then from east to west, and with impetuous voice put the sacred questions: "Little chicken, sweetie! rosebud! pink! do you want to be called Miguelito, like your papa? Do you want to be called Enriquito like your uncle? Do you want to be called Serafín after your aunt?" A lugubrious silence followed these words. All eyes were fastened on the young candidate, who, instead of showing a liking for any of the names proposed, made it very clear, though in an inarticulate way, that he could see no reason why, for a mere question of names, these hypochondriacs should bother him so much. "Do you see?" said Miguel. "The reason is, he isn't in humor for laughing," protested Maximina, very much dissatisfied. "_You_ won't laugh either when you are told to! Besides, he must be hungry by this time. Give him to me! Give him to me! Joy of my life! Sweetheart mine!" And the child-mother snuggled her little son under the sheets, and put him to her breast. On the third day baptism took place. With the melancholy resignation usually manifested by mothers in such circumstances, Maximina let them carry her baby away. "He is a Christian already, señorita," said the maid, taking possession of him. The young mother kissed him fondly, and pressed him to her heart, saying, in a whisper, "Thou shan't be taken from me again, child of my bosom!" On the fifth day she was sitting up. In a week she was about the house; in a fortnight she was out of doors as usual. Enrique and Julita were the child's god-parents, and he was named after the former. The pleasure which Miguel found in all these things was embittered by the serious danger threatening his fortune. All the time this thought haunted him to such a degree that it was a great effort for him to seem happy in his wife's presence. He wrote to the general, but he replied in such an ambiguous and suspicious manner that it left no room for doubt that in this quarter no help was to be expected. From that time he deliberately made up his mind that his salvation depended on his election to Congress, in gaining influence in the majority and with the ministers, and in making the best of it at a given moment by getting from the reserve funds the money which he had compromised. But Eguiburu had already made him three or four more calls, and was pressing him to guarantee the rest of the money; finally, after many circumlocutions and periphrases, he began to threaten him with a legal summons. Then he saw that it was necessary to risk the whole for the whole. If he did not take the additional guarantee his ruin was sure; Eguiburu would sell his houses by auction, and though some money would remain, as they were worth more than the amount of the debt, it would not be very much. On the other hand, it would bring about a scandal; everybody would look upon him as a ruined man, if not a swindler, and would turn their backs on him; he knew the world well enough to see that clearly. He would have to give up all thoughts of his election: poverty hath everywhere an evil savor. He finally decided to endorse the I. O. U. of the twelve thousand duros, and he made an appointment with his creditor for the business. With emotion natural to one who is going to burn his ships, he presented himself one afternoon at Eguiburu's house. He was in his office talking with two individuals. Miguel wanted to wait until these had gone before he introduced his business; but the money lender immediately began to speak aloud, and as he noticed that the young man kept giving anxious glances at the intruders, and showed some reserve in replying, he said:-- "You can talk with perfect freedom; these gentlemen are friends, and our affairs are nothing to them." Miguel immediately perceived what this meant. "This miserable wretch is afraid that I shall try to get out of it by declaring my name a forgery, and has brought a couple of witnesses." With this thought his pride revolted; he could have wished that he were not burdened with a family, so as to fling the thirty thousand duros through the window, at the same time slap this vile wretch in the face. He with difficulty restrained himself, and began to discuss the business with the fierce money lender, whose voice kept growing louder and louder as he brought to light all that had gone before. Miguel answered his questions curtly. Finally, when he had satisfied him on them, and was about to sign his name to the I. O. U., the money lender said:-- "Here a difficulty arises, friend Rivera. It is a painful matter for me to mention to you because it will be a hard thing for you; but there is no other way out of it. Above and beyond the 246,000 reals which I have furnished for the support of the paper, I have also accommodated now the general, now Señor Mendoza, now the business manager of the daily, with some considerable funds amounting to 111,000 reals.... Here are the receipts. In them it is stipulated that these various sums were intended for the aid of the _emigrados_, though really they were for the intrigues of the revolutionists.... As you will easily understand, I do not intend to lose this money...." "And you expect me to pay that also, do you?" "I might exact it of the general and Señor Mendoza, who have signed the receipts; but it would cost me the trouble of lawsuits...." "Yes, yes, it would be better for me to guarantee also these five thousand duros," said Miguel, in a sarcastic tone, "and thus free you and them from a little trouble." "Señor de Rivera, I feel that I am causing you a great deal of annoyance...." "Nonsense! you feel nothing of the sort; when one has a man by the throat he ought to squeeze him.... Let me see! where is the I. O. U.? Put on the other too." Eguiburu, flushed with triumph, spread out a paper, and Rivera endorsed it with a nervous hand. His face was changed, and his voice sounded strange; but he preserved a serious and cool mien. "Have you not added the item of the additional 111,000 reals?" asked Miguel, dryly. "I am going to immediately," replied the banker, without being able to hide a certain confusion, which showed that he had not yet entirely lost his shame. When he had filled it out, Miguel endorsed it, flung down his pen with a haughty gesture, and bade him farewell, bending his head. "Good afternoon, gentlemen." He left the room without shaking hands with any one. His cheeks were on fire when he found himself in the street. The first thing that he did was to go to the editorial rooms of _La Independencia_, and announce to the editors and employés that the paper was to cease publication. He wrote a valedictory article, and left affairs half settled. On the days that followed everything was completely cleared up. _La Independencia_ being dead, his mind was more at ease, and he could devote himself entirely to "work for his election." On this he placed all his hope; if he entered Congress, he felt that he should soon become known among the majority; he was a ready speaker; he was accustomed to debate; finally, he was gifted with better judgment than most of those who at this time represented the country. Consequently, he devoted himself with ardor to asking recommendations, not only at first, but even at second, third, and fourth hand; he wrote numerous letters, and made various calls. Nevertheless, he was careful not to call upon the President very soon; he had sufficient cunning or tact to understand that he ought not to show too much eagerness, lest he should be despised; the best way was to work for himself first, and then remind the minister of his word. Mendoza did not approve of the death of _La Independencia_. "That was a bad move, Miguel; it may cost you dear," said he, with a gesture of disgust. "What would you have," replied Miguel impetuously, "that I should meet out of my pocket all the expenses, besides carrying the bond that I have given?" "Even though you had made a sacrifice, it would have been wise if you had kept up the daily at least till after the election." Miguel tried still to maintain the opposite; but at bottom he saw instantly that his friend was right, and that he had acted rashly. A month or more having passed since his first visit to the President, he determined to make a second. He went at the time at which he was usually in his office. The usher informed him that his excellency was very much engaged in talking with a committee of Catalanian deputies, and had given orders that absolutely no one should be permitted to enter. "I must speak with him; he himself invited me to come here." The door-keeper looked at him with that indifferent and weary expression, really at bottom full of scorn, peculiar to those who constantly listen to the same things, and know that they are telling lies. "If you wish to wait, you can sit down." Which was equivalent to saying: "What a double fool you are, friend! Do you suppose that I care to hear absurdities?" Miguel flushed, and went and sat down on a sofa in the anteroom, where there were six or seven other persons waiting. In a short time a gentleman in an overcoat came in very pompously; the door-keeper made a reverent bow before him, and opened the screen of the presidential chamber. It was evident that the order "to let absolutely no one in" was the door-keeper's manufacture. Miguel jumped up angrily, and said, opening his card-case:-- "Have the goodness to take this card to the President." "I cannot, _caballero_; I have orders...." "I insist upon it that you carry this card to the President," he repeated in a louder voice, and with an energetic accent that had some effect upon the usher, who finally took it, though still grumbling, and entered the room. "You will please wait an instant, _caballero_," said the man, coming out. He waited an hour and a half; but he stayed, bent upon speaking with the chief of government, and neither the usher's insulting glances nor his own impatience, which was great, sufficed to make him give up his design. At last the screen was opened, and out came a group of deputies, and among them the President with his hat on, and every appearance of being about to leave the building. "Ah! Señor Rivera," he said, as he caught sight of him. "Excuse me ... I have so many things on my mind ... would you like to go back with me to the office." "It is not worth while," said Miguel, taking the hint that this would be a bore to the grandee. The President took him familiarly by the lappet of his coat, and drew him to the bay-window. "You have come to speak with me about the district, eh? How are things going with you?" "Pretty well, I think. So far I believe that I have no opponent." "I was going to speak of that very thing. I was thinking of writing you to come here. I am very glad that you have anticipated me. Yesterday I was told that there was an effort making to put in Corrales for that district." "Who? The ex-minister of the moderate wing?" "The same. I do not believe that he has any showing there, nor that the government needs to exert great pressure to defeat him, but it is well to be on the safe side. For nothing in the world would I have the most genuine representative and one of the most redoubtable advocates of moderatism, manage to make his unwelcome way into our house. For the district of Serín _is_ our house, since it has elected Ríos, who was an important factor in the revolution. Have you been doing much work?" "A good deal." "Very well! then one of these days suppose you bring to me all the data which you have collected, the names of the _alcaldes_[44] who are opposed to us, and those of the people whom the government can influence. Meantime, don't give up for a moment. Get hold of the friends who gave the general his election; but don't put much reliance on promises; try to keep them attached to you in some way, either by offers or threats. Let us leave it that you will bring me the data, shan't we? _Adiós_, Rivera. Don't forget the road to this house." He took his leave with a cordial pressure of the hand. Miguel, just as before, felt perfectly satisfied. The chief of government had a special tact for making his discourtesies forgiven, a frank and affectionate manner which immediately captivated whoever came near him. A fortnight passed before he saw him again; for the two times that he went there, he was told that his excellency could not receive him as he was busy with the sub-secretary. "_Holá!_ Rivera, I know that you have been here twice already; I felt it to the bottom of my heart that I could not see you. At all events, the matter has not been in a pressing hurry hitherto. Let us see! Sit down. How do you find the district? Has Corrales been giving you much to do?" "Not much up to the present time." "Indeed!" said the President, surprised. "Well, then; what I have heard is a very different story. I have been told that he is moving in a prodigious way: that the clergy are working for him decidedly, and that some of our friends, whom apparently Ríos has not been able or has not cared to serve, have gone over to him bag and baggage.... But it is possible that you are better informed." "Señor Presidente, the letters that I have received from there say nothing of all this; on the other hand, all the general's friends assure me that, as he is agreeable to my candidacy and as it is supported by the government, it is impossible for a moment to doubt of our triumph." "In spite of all that, it is proper that you should go there in person, talk with them, and watch the election. Those of us who have spent a few years in public life know that there is nothing certain." "That is very good. When do you think that I ought to go there?" "The sooner the better; but before you go, come here, so that I may give you some letters. You do not need one to the governor, for he has known for some time that you are the official candidate. Besides, I believe that you are acquainted...." "Yes, sir; I knew him when he was editor of _La Iberia_." XIX. Now while Miguel was busy in this excitement and anxiety, through the fear of approaching ruin to his fortunes, another danger, a thousand times greater, was threatening him without his knowledge. We have already seen what a strange liking for Maximina had been awakened in Don Alfonso Saavedra: it can be compared to nothing else than that of the wolf, of which the fable tells us, who, having in his power the whole flock of a rich man, went to devour the only lamb owned by a poor man. As the Andalusian _caballero_ was not a man to be readily defeated, or else because he almost always found women easy to conquer, or because his ostentatious figure, his fortune, and his arrogance made him bold toward those who resisted him, he remained deeply disgusted because of the scene at the party, where he had played a part so supremely ridiculous in his own eyes. The absolute lack of coquetry which was noticeable in Rivera's wife, was what mortified him most of all, since he could not even invent the illusion that the indifference with which she had received his gallantries was more or less fictitious. To say that after this rebuff his ardor greatly increased, would be doing little honor to the penetration of my readers: every one knows that disdain is far from being the best palliative for love, and that, in the majority of the mad passions that we see in the world, self-love comes in with a respectable contingent. Saavedra did not lose his wits, nor did he even make any false show of appearing foolish, like Don Quixote in Sierra Morena; but as a man of sagacity, accomplished in adventures of this sort, he determined not to lose again his self-possession, and to "establish the blockade" of the place according to the rules which his experience had laid down. Quickly reading through Maximina's character, he divined that in her case there would be no use for that amiability stuffed with arrogance, that politeness imbued with disdain, which he had employed in winning his cousin Julia's love. This serene, serious, and humble nature could not be attacked on the side of vanity: he must aim at her affections. He proposed, therefore, to win her little by little; not in the guise of a rejected lover, which he well knew would be to lose forever her esteem, but as a sincere, affectionate, and helpful friend. He tried with all his power to dispel the suspicions which the conversation at the party might have left in the young wife's mind. He quickly discovered that the excitement under which she was at that time laboring had prevented her from noticing his attempt to flirt with her; and he was enabled at his leisure to carry out the plan of the campaign which he had designed. He began gradually to make more and more frequent calls at their house, skilfully overcoming the antipathy which Miguel had not the power to dissemble. To accomplish this, he allowed him to notice a certain change in his behavior, in harmony with those ideas of peace, order, and propriety, which are characteristic of family life; he had some confidential conversations with him, in which he announced himself as a man who loathed a corrupt life, and was weary of the snaring pleasures of the world; in order to flatter his literary and scientific tastes, he borrowed certain books of him; and, after reading them, talked about them long and enthusiastically, which secretly much amused Miguel. Then, more than ever, he understood and did not cease to marvel at the supine ignorance of so-called "society men." Don Alfonso had never in his life read much besides French novels, and sometimes he asked questions that would have astonished any schoolboy. "He is one of our most distinguished savages," said Miguel to his wife, speaking of this new taste for books. With Maximina our Audalusian entered into long conversations about his travels, laying special stress on the domestic customs of other countries. "Just think," he said (he never addressed Maximina with the familiar '_tu_,' though he thus addressed Miguel), "in England they eat five times a day. In the morning they breakfast as they please; at nine or ten they have a meal of considerable formality; at one, another still more free and easy; at five or six they have dinner; and at bedtime also they have a bite of something." Maximina, as a good housewife, was interested in these details, asked about the prices of provisions and of rents; and she was greatly surprised at the liberty given to the women in the way of going into the street alone, and even travelling. "Come now, that is the great country for Maximina," said Miguel. "She is too modest to go alone to mass, and yet the church is only a step away." The young wife smiled, in embarrassment. "Well, now, yesterday I went with Juana to the Calle de Postas to buy some drawers." "There you have a word that you could not speak in England before people." "_Madre!_ and when you buy them, what do you call for?" "They speak it to the clerk as a confessional secret," suggested Miguel. "Don't you believe him," replied Saavedra, laughing. "For those ladies' clerks in shops are not 'people.'" Meanwhile, he was trying to get her interested in his own private affairs, asking her advice, and often following it. "The truth is, that in respect of good advice I do not miss my mother. You take her place divinely, Maximina. I announce myself your adopted son, though I am old enough to be your father." "But you are not as obedient as I should like." "Only in one point, as you well know. In all the rest I obey blindly." The point was marriage. Maximina did not cease to urge him to get married. "Hitherto I have never found a woman who would satisfy me for a wife," he replied. "Why don't you marry Julia?" she asked one day at random, with the ingenuous frankness characteristic of her. Don Alfonso was a trifle confused. "Julia is a good girl.... Very well educated ... she is talented ... she is pretty.... But see here! confidentially, do you think that I should be happy with Julia?" "Why not?" demanded the young wife. Saavedra kept silent a few minutes, remaining apparently lost in thought; then he said:-- "You will readily understand that as you are her sister-in-law, and I am her cousin, neither of us can with delicacy speak about her except in terms of praise, which she certainly deserves in many regards. But with you I have the courage to say one thing, and that is that we are not congenial. We are two...." And Don Alfonso put his two index fingers end to end. "Why, I supposed that you were fond of each other!" "Yes, we are fond of each other, but ... between this and marriage there is a considerable distance.... I remind you that I have just spoken as though you were my mother. Don't say anything of this to Miguel. He is her brother, and the most insignificant thing might trouble him." In this insidious manner the serpent tried to make his way into this paradise. And he succeeded at last. As he had wisdom enough not to take advantage of it, he soon acquired a certain familiarity in visiting at their house, but always at the time when Miguel was at home; he knew perfectly well that the least shadow of suspicion passing through his mind would be sufficient to put an end to everything--God only knew how! He also seized upon the occasions when _la brigadiera_ and Julia were going to call on the young couple to accompany them. The jealousy which the Brigadier's daughter had felt on the night of the party had completely vanished when she saw the brotherly familiarity with which he treated her sister-in-law, and the pains which the latter took to bring her and her cousin together, and see them talk by themselves. "It was through you that I got married; I have made up my mind to make a match for you," said Maximina. "Yes, but through me you married the man whom you loved," replied Julia, with a laugh. "You love Alfonso also; don't try to deny it, Julita!" replied Maximina, kissing her. On the other hand, Saavedra, instead of breaking the link of love which united him to his cousin, had drawn it tighter of late, perhaps so as to avoid all suspicion of his plan, or, possibly, because he had another string to his bow, and wanted to manage them both at once; for anything might be expected from his depraved character. But already several months had passed, and his dastardly undertaking had not made any progress at all. To be sure, in Miguel's house he each day gained a more secure footing; he often dined with them, many evenings he dropped in for a social chat, and on others accompanied them to the theatre, and Maximina treated him like a brother. But this was the very thing that annoyed the _caballero_: in that house he was treated like a future brother. The young wife had not been convinced by his denial, and when she saw that he still kept up his attentions to Julia, she came to believe that he had denied it either out of hypocrisy or from a spirit of opposition, but that in reality he was deeply in love with his cousin; and there was reason for this, since Julia (as Maximina believed) was the most beautiful and fascinating girl in Madrid. After the happy birth of Maximina's son, Saavedra behaved like a consistent friend, offering such services as were in his power, coming daily to make inquiries; in short, showing so much attachment and affection to the young couple that Maximina's tender heart responded with affectionate gratitude, as was perfectly natural. Maximina was now more graceful and beautiful than ever; like all women who are really born to be wives and mothers, and are married to the men whom they love, the august crisis through which she had passed had been advantageous to her in every way. It was hard to recognize in this handsome young woman, with rosy cheeks and sweet brilliant eyes, the pale and timid maiden of Pasajes. The Andalusian _caballero_ was gradually growing more and more impatient. The first part of his strategy had been carried out point by point, as he had foreseen; he had won Maximina's esteem and even affection. The second part remained, but this was the most difficult and dangerous in its execution, the most tempting in its result. How should he begin? In spite of his inconceivable pride, Don Alfonso had a foreboding that he was destined to failure from the very first, and he kept putting off the attack so as not to do it rashly. Nevertheless, as his passion and impatience kept growing each day more impetuous, and he was not a man ever to be found wanting in audacity, he tried the experiment of giving her a few muffled gallantries, and these the young wife received as the jokes of a pampered friend; then again, he would sometimes press her hand a little too warmly when he greeted her, touch her foot lightly under the table, and even pulled out a hair or two stealthily, while her lord and master was dozing in his easy-chair. Maximina at first supposed that these things were accidental, and paid no attention to them; but as the Andalusian persisted in them, she was a little startled, though without having any clear idea of the danger, and she tried to keep him at a distance, and from that time she began to have a vague fear. Though his first efforts met with results so far from flattering, still Don Alfonso was completely infatuated, and though he would not have been willing to confess it, he was very near losing his self-possession in which he took such pride, and ready to "throw discretion out of the window." How this came about we shall soon see. Miguel was very particular that his son should have plenty of fresh air; he was full of modern theories of education, and believed that children ought to live as much as possible out of doors from the earliest infancy. Thus, as soon as Maximina was able to go out, he began to take long walks with her through the Retiro. How happy our little mother was in having her husband at her side, and her baby in front of her! And what a baby he was! It was necessary to have followed his progress step by step, as she had for a month and a half, to appreciate the portentous gifts with which he was endowed, and the boundless resources of his unequalled genius. She would have been greatly offended had any one insinuated that he still sucked his fingers when he accidentally thrust them into his mouth; nothing of the kind! after he had been a fortnight in this vale of tears, he had raised his thumb to his mouth with the set and deliberate intention of sucking it, for nothing else. But this did not signify in the least that the said thumb was as satisfactory to him as his mamma's breast; he did it simply to amuse himself in moments of diversion. His exquisite and delicate taste was equally well shown by his energetic refusal to take the porridge which Juana had the impudence to offer him one day when his mother was having a nap. The angry expression of his face and the screams with which he received the proposition gave no room for doubt; he would have preferred to die of hunger rather than run the risk of spoiling his digestion by such unsubstantial and harmful concoctions. But the thing in which he best showed his practical talent, as well as the perfection of his character, was in sleeping. As soon as he was born he made up his mind that he was going to sleep twenty hours a day at the very least; all that was done to dissuade him from this intention was in vain; apparently he had weighty physiological reasons for carrying it out. When unfortunately any attention to him or attempt to keep him awake disturbed his plan, he would raise his voice to heaven, and the house in commotion. Miguel would be the first to run to his aid, would take him in his arms and begin to walk up and down the corridors furiously, with the expectation--deluded man!--of putting him to sleep in that manner. The infant kept protesting more and more obstreperously against any such unsatisfactory method; the father would grow nervous after some time, and lest he should "dash him against the wall," he would turn him over to Juana's secular arm, but she rarely, also, had the good fortune to calm him. It was necessary to hand him over to his mother, who possessed in her beautiful and bounteous bosom the secret of putting to flight all his gloomy thoughts and making him see the world through rose-colored spectacles. "But is this little monster always going to look to his mamma for his food?" asked Miguel, anxiously. Maximina smiled, and shrugged her shoulders, and gave her son a kiss, as if to say that she was ready to give a thousand lives for him. But when it was least expected, Juana, rich in contrivances like Ulysses, found one which, for its novelty and efficacy, left all others far behind. And like the majority of fertile and wonderful inventions it had the additional merit of being simple. It consisted in holding the child in her arms with its mouth up, and dandling him up and down gently, and singing in rhythmic motion a certain melody. We have always been desirous that great inventions with results of practical use to humanity should be spread abroad as soon as possible. Consequently, we shall not have the selfishness to hide this most original as well as simple expedient, which possibly the reader may be able to put to trial some day--I hope so with all my heart The words of the song are these:-- Byelow! baby, byelow! See the wild hen fly low! There at last upon the mast, Swaying, swinging high low![45] As to the music, I am inclined to think that success was not attained by that altogether. However, any one can be sure of obtaining a happy result provided that--let this be thoroughly understood--provided that it be repeated a number of times, and the last line sung in a dying tone. For the stubborn infant to hear it, and to stop, with his eyes fixed in ecstatic contemplation of no one knew what, was the same thing. Perhaps it may have been the terrible hen forever swaying on the mast. The one thing sure was that those little eyes, so open and terrified, quickly closed in the softest slumber: all the inhabitants of the house drew a deep sigh of satisfaction: the child was then forthwith carried to the great nuptial couch, where it was deposited in one corner like a bundle of linen. I say that at first Miguel took pleasure in going out to promenade with his wife; when the baby was hungry Maximina would nurse him, finding a seat on a bench in some retired spot; then they would go into a "dairy" near at hand and get some chocolate. But after a few day's the Brigadier's son, either because of the exigencies of business or because he desired to chat with his friends, ceased to join her, suggesting that she go alone with the infant, because, under no consideration would he consent that the little one should be deprived of fresh air. With real heartfelt grief, though she concealed it as much as possible, she yielded to this desire. It was a great source of gain to the child, it is true, but she could never entirely conquer the timidity and fear which the Madrid streets inspired in her when she went out without her husband. The first two days nothing went wrong in her excursion; but on the third, as she was walking along a lonely path in the Retiro to eat a bit of bread, which the nurse-girl had taken on purpose,--for nothing in the world would have tempted her to enter the chocolate-house alone,--she unexpectedly met Saavedra. Although she had seen him the day before at home, she felt a slight trembling, without knowing why; and a bright blush suffused her face, a sign which was not displeasing to the Andalusian dandy. He greeted her warmly, caressed the infant, and, without asking permission, walked along beside her. The nurse-girl respectfully passed on ahead. The conversation turned on the ordinary topics of the time, the healthfulness of children going out, etc. Suddenly Saavedra, pausing, asked with a smile:-- "What did you do with the piece of bread that you were eating, Maximina?" The young woman was so confused that she did not know what to reply. "I am certain that you must have dropped it on the ground. Why are you ashamed to eat when you are nursing such a beautiful, strong baby?" Enlivened by this praise, which for her was the most delectable that could be given, she replied:-- "Well, I feel a little weak by this time in the afternoon...." "Dry bread isn't very appetizing, my dear. Come to the _chocolatería_." "Oh, no; I do very well: I don't care for chocolate." "Don't be hypocritical. When you go out with Miguel, you take it every afternoon. You did not take it yesterday nor the day before, perhaps because you did not dare to go in alone.... Now, you will say: 'How does Alfonso know all these things?'" "Indeed, I do not understand...." "And I will tell you very softly" (Don Alfonso brought his lips close to the young woman's ear); "because I have followed you those afternoons." Maximina felt her fear increasing. At that moment she would have made any sacrifice to be at home. She did not answer a word, and went on walking. Don Alfonso likewise remained silent, so that the drop of poison might do its work. When he came to the conclusion that Maximina's imagination had been sufficiently stirred, he brought the conversation back to where it had begun; that is, to ordinary commonplaces. He introduced a familiar chat as between two intimate friends, asking many questions about the baby, as that was a most convenient theme and most likely to please the young woman; he made affectionate fun of her; he touched upon his aunt _la brigadiera's_ foibles; finally, by great skill, he tried to calm her agitation, so as to restore confidence between them. But he did not succeed; Maximina was still nervous, although she exerted great force to hide it; and she replied to his questions in a hoarse and altered voice. However, in the course of time and by much diplomacy, Saavedra partially calmed her. He besought her again with impetuous entreaties to go to the _chocolatería_; but she declined absolutely, and insisted that it was time to go home, though this was not true. The sun was still pouring his rays along the sanded walks; a mild and perfumed breeze breathed through the air, presaging the approach of spring; the swelling buds on the trees likewise joyously told the tale. Many elegantly dressed children, with long curls touching their shoulders, were seen trundling hoops and tossing ball, followed by their parents or guardians. Maximina had said to herself many times on other days: "When mine will be here too!" But now she saw them pass in front of her, and yet scarcely perceived them, so deep was the agitation that swayed her. Don Alfonso had been trying for some time to keep her back; but the more he insisted on her remaining, the more anxious she was to be going. Now then, as he was walking toward the entrance of the Retiro and considering on the one hand how soon he would be obliged to leave her, and on the other that the step that he had taken was too bold for him to be able to retrieve it, he resolved "to throw the fish into the water"; and so he said, pausing again:-- "All this time you have not asked me why I followed you these last afternoons." The young wife felt herself trembling more violently than ever, her face grew pale, her legs failed under her. She did not wish or was not able to find words to answer his question. "Then I am going to tell you; because I feel for you, Maximina, what hitherto I have never felt for any woman in this world. From the very beginning of my acquaintance with you, I have been inspired with a lively admiration, irresistible, all-controlling. Afterward, I perceived that this admiration was rapidly changing into love, and I struggled with all my might to resist it. It was useless.--I have known many women; I have loved, or believed that I loved, a few; but I swear to you that the feeling which they inspired was very different from that which now dominates me. I met them on equal terms, I saw their good points and their defects, I admired, and was kindled by their beauty; but now! now, it is not alone love which I feel, it is a deep adoration for your simple and open nature, a respect which until now tied my tongue, although the secret struggled to escape. In my eyes you might have read it whenever I looked at you. It is months since my heart has thus been filled by your beauty and goodness, Maximina...." This gentle _caballero_ said all this string of gush with trembling lip and excited gestures, such as are the stock in trade of seducers, provided they, like him, are "men of the world." Observation has taught me that the "men of the world" who have been called dandies, fops, and _dudes_[46] are not _espirituales_, or, to avoid a Gallicism, do not speak with any greater wit and grace than in novels. In life, and above all when they are shaken from that languid and _blasé_ appearance characteristic of them, they are apt to be as vulgar and absurd as the latest medical student. Poor Maximina was so disturbed at hearing this amorous jargon, of which she understood only the general tenor, that her pallor changed to a livid hue, then the blood rushed suddenly to her face, her eyes grew dim, and she was ready to fall. By what seemed like an automatic movement which she afterward could not explain, she abruptly quitted her companion, and started to run, crying: "Plácida! Plácida!" until she caught up with her, and then she said:-- "Run, run! how ill I feel!" Both ran quite a while, until fatigue compelled them to relax their efforts; but by this time they were a long distance from Saavedra, who stood in the same spot, full of amazement and chagrin at her sudden and unexpected flight. A severe lecture, premeditated and prepared, in judgment on such imprudence and dastardly meanness as Don Alfonso had just committed, could not have been more hard and cruel than that desertion. Maximina, without being aware of it, had not only preserved her dignity, but had inflicted on the insolent fellow the punishment which is severest in such cases--that of making him seem ridiculous. Saavedra remained rooted to the ground with rage, until seeing some promenaders approaching, and gazing at him with curiosity and then turning around to look at the fleeing women, he wheeled about and strode away, from the place. Fortunately, when Maximina reached home, Miguel was still away; if he had been there, on seeing her so excited, he would have made some inquiries, and perhaps have even become suspicious. She had time to get a little calmed; the servants really believed that she had had an ill turn, and so did Miguel himself when it came dinner time. Nevertheless, that night and the following day the young wife was very nervous; she did not know what course to take. For the present she determined not to go out walking alone any more, under the pretext that she was afraid she might be attacked by another faint turn. But if Don Alfonso should come to call upon her, how should she present herself before him? She was certain that she should appear disturbed; her disgust and fear of him were so great that in spite of her they would appear in her face. It happened that Don Alfonso realized the same thing, and ceased coming to Miguel's house. But Miguel, accustomed to see him frequently, called attention to his absence, and said, while they were at table:-- "It is a number of days since Alfonso has shown up." Maximina made no reply, and went on eating, with her head down. After a moment he added:-- "I should be glad if he did not come any more. In spite of all my efforts I cannot endure that man. Wednesday, they tell me, he fought a duel which, in my opinion, was a piece of sheer cowardice. He fought with an engineer, who never in his life had been used to weapons; and, of course, wounded him dangerously at the first encounter. A man who goes out to fight with a certainty that such is going to be the case is not a true man, nor can he be called even decent." "Oh! there is no doubt about that," Maximina would have said, with the greatest unction. But she did not dare. The poor girl imagined that Saavedra would not take any more thought about her. Without her adored Miguel having had any annoyance whatever, everything had come out satisfactorily. Little did the ingenuous young wife know of the nature of human passions. She was soon to learn to her sorrow, what pride and revenge united are capable of attempting. XX. It happened to be about this very time that Enrique made up his mind "to drag the honor and good name of his family through the mire." In fact, he presented himself one afternoon at Miguel's house, and confided to him his project, telling him with tears in his eyes that it was not his intention to drag anything through the mire, and far less the honor of the family, but simply to fulfil the bond which he had undertaken, and the words which he had given to Manolita. "I am a gentleman, Miguel. I cannot decently go back on this little girl. Put yourself in my place. I am well aware that my family are right in opposing this marriage, but I swear to you that it is not my wish to injure its good name. Why should I? What good would it do me to drag it through the mire, I should like to know!" "That is evident; you have no occasion to revenge yourself on the good name of your family." "Of course not!" Then with much hesitation and timidity he confessed that he had a plan. It cost great trouble to make him reveal it. Finally, by dint of entreaties, he declared that if Maximina would do him the honor of being the _madrina_ at his wedding he should consider himself the happiest mortal in the universe. After he had said that he repented, the more as he saw that Miguel remained lost in thought; he then became so conscience-stricken that he flung his hat on the floor, and began to call himself names, and tear his hair. "What does this mean, Enrique? Have you gone mad? As far as I am concerned there is no objection to it in the least. Ask her yourself, and if she consents, it is done." "No, I won't ask her. Manolita is an honest girl, but of a very humble station in life. All those who will be present at the wedding will be also 'children of the people.' 'The lowest of the low,' do you see, my lad? We must call things by their right names. Your wife will not want to be there, and right she is." Miguel got up from his chair, went to the door, and shouted:-- "Maximina!" Instantly the little wife appeared. "Enrique has come to ask you to be _madrina_ at his wedding. Will you accept his invitation?" "Oh! and so you are to be married, are you? Then I think that I should be very much pleased to be _madrina_." Enrique's face lighted up as though at that instant he had seen a procession of all the angels, archangels, thrones, and dominions of Heaven; but suddenly growing serious, he replied, a little stiffly:-- "No, Maximina, it is impossible for you to be _madrina_. People of your station will not be present at my wedding." The young matron looked at him in surprise:-- "Of my station?" "Yes; only women of the common people will be there: fish-wives, fruit-women, tavern keepers' wives, etc." "What difference does it make to me who comes? I will be _madrina_ if you wish. Do you take me for some princess?" "An angel is what you are!" exclaimed Enrique, instantly losing his senses: as proof of it, his hat, which just before he had dashed to the floor, he now flung to the ceiling, then he immediately sprang after it into the air, making three or four portentous pirouettes; quickly realizing the enormity of his behavior, he took Maximina's hands, and began to kiss them in a perfect frenzy. "You will forgive me this sudden freak, won't you, Miguel? Your wife is better than if she were made of gold and diamonds!" "I suppose so; what could I do with a wife made of gold and diamonds?" "Man alive! don't be so literal; that is a saying! Maximina, every one speaks so well of you ... even my sister Eulalia, which means a great deal, as you can imagine. But no one knows what your worth is! As soon as I take part in another _corrida_, I will present you the bull." "No, no, Enrique," protested Maximina, laughing. The young man's face darkened. "That is a fact; a bull killed by me has little value. But I assure you that I am going to, or at least I can get Lagartijo, the great Lagartijo himself to present you one in a benefit fight." "You misunderstood me; I said no, because I never go to bull-fights." "What! doesn't Miguel take you? Shameless wretch! Never you mind, child; leave it to me, and at the first _corrida_ that takes place, you shan't fail of a private box, or at least two front seats." The _padrino_ chosen to stand with Maximina was a cavalry captain, an old comrade of the bridegroom's. "I am afraid that he may not be to your mind, Madrina" (from that moment till the end of his days, Enrique never called Miguel's wife anything else); "for though he is a very distinguished man, he is rather a misogynist,[47] do you see?" "I don't understand you...." Miguel burst into a laugh. "That is, he does not enjoy ladies' company." "Ah, very good," rejoined the young wife; "I will promise not to trouble him." "How could you trouble him, star of the morning?" exclaimed Enrique, losing his balance again; "It is worth more to hear you talk than Tamberlik, in the _credo_ of '_Il Poliuto_'! What I fear is, that he will not hold his tongue." The time set was Wednesday, and the hour seven in the morning. The day broke clear and magnificent; in the Madrid streets not a speck of mire could be seen; that which soiled the good name of the Rivera family was purely metaphorical. Miguel and Maximina went to the bridal apartment, which was the third-story room on the same Calle del Baño, not facing the street. Enrique had rented it after consultation with his lady-love, and had furnished it little by little, bringing every day, like a goldfinch, his bit of straw in his bill: one day the wardrobe; another, a table; another, a couple of cane-seated chairs; and then again, a few dozen of dishes; and so on. The nest was plain and small, but pleasant, like all that is new and prepared for and by love. Enrique had not told a falsehood: no _lady_ was present or gentleman in dress-coat, except the _padrino_, who had one on, though it was the worse for wear, to be sure. On the other hand, the worthy women who were present, and the handsome young _chulas_, showed in their dress a picturesque magnificence very pleasant to see,--rich mantles of _burate_, brocaded in a thousand colors, and reaching almost to the floor; over that lace or plush mantillas, unlimited shoes of patent leather; in their ears huge pearl pendants; on their fingers enormous diamond rings. The arrangement of the hair was in almost all cases the same--parted in the middle, the hair on the crown bunched up behind, and little corkscrew curls at the temples. The men for the most part wore a short coat and narrow-brimmed hat; but there were quite a number of _toreros_, friends, all of them, of the bridegroom; and they wore well-girdled jackets of velvet or broadcloth, according to their standing in the art, tight-fitting pantaloons, and embroidered shirts with huge brilliants in the bosom. Miguel was the only member of the family that graced the occasion. Julita, who had been told of it by her brother, wanted to go, but her mother forbade it. Enrique likewise did not invite his friends in his own rank of society, for the reason that he gave Maximina; that is, because he did not want to mortify them. When Miguel's wife made her appearance, a murmur of respect and admiration went round among the guests; some among them were polite enough to take off their hats. Manolita, who, be it said parenthetically, was exquisite in her black merino dress and velvet mantilla, when she saw her come in, was as confused as though it had been the queen, and went to meet her, trembling and with her face aflame. "Señorita.... I am much obliged.... How do you do?" "But," our readers will say, "have we not insisted that Manolita was a bold and redoubtable _chula_, if there are such?" Now then, you shall see; the majority of these _chulas_ are really, to use the vulgar expression, 'unfortunates'; their exterior is the only terrible thing about them. The strange thing in this case was that Maximina was as confused and flushed as Manolita was. Instead of having a haughty look or affecting a condescending expression as many ladies would have done to find herself among a set of plebeians, our little matron acted as though she were just making her appearance in an assembly of princes. The procession started on its march to San José's. But before we forget it, let us say that among the guests was dexterous José Calzada (a) _el Cigarrero_, with his band, which unfortunately missed the congenial Baldomero. The famous bull-slayer respectfully shook hands with Maximina, and she, who had shed tears when Miguel described the death of Serranito, gave him a look that spoke louder than words the admiration which his noble conduct had inspired in her. Manolita also introduced her father to her, that awe-inspiring Cyclops whose acquaintance we have already made; fortunately he had not as yet had a chance to get tipsy; to greet her he doffed his _sombrero_, which must have weighed half an _arroba_,[48] and emitted a series of such odious grunts that Miguel's wife was frozen with terror. The house in the Calle del Baño was all in commotion with this wedding. The procession escorting the pair made an infernal noise clattering down the stairs; the neighbors opened their doors to watch them pass. In the street, also, the people stopped, and shouts, "A wedding! a wedding!" and the questions of the passers-by were heard. "Who are they," demanded an old shopkeeper. "A milkmaid marrying a señorito: look; that's him in front," replied a _chula_, who had stopped in front of the shop. "And the bride?" "There she goes in the middle of 'em all, walking with a señorita!" "Handsome piece! The señorito shows good taste. I would not object to marrying her myself." "Aha! That would be a good one, wouldn't it!" "Well, I'd take you, Barbiana!" "Ay! You'd see me die first! My dear old fellow, 'Young sheep and old bell-wether never get along together.'"[49] "Señorita," Manolita was meantime saying to her _madrina_, "I can never repay you for the honor which you are doing me. Enrique was right in praising you!" "Oh, for Heaven's sake don't call me señorita; I am your cousin; I want you to call me Maximina; say 'thou' to me." "Oh, I could never do that! What I am going to ask you as a special favor is, that when we get home, you will let me give you a dozen kisses." Maximina smiled, and pressed her hand affectionately. The priest blessed the union of the couple in the sacristy; then they went into the church and heard mass and took the sacrament. When they went out into the street, the clock was just striking eight. The procession had greatly increased; there were more than sixty people surrounding the bridal couple. As it was impossible for so many to drink chocolate in the rooms in the Calle del Baño, it had already been decided days before that they should go to the Café de Cervantes, which is near the church. They accordingly went in there, and almost completely filled it. A most animated conversation sprang up on all sides, so that soon no one could hear himself talk. Enrique, flushed with emotion, sat down at one table with Miguel, and began to unburden himself with remarkable verbosity:-- "I know well enough, Miguel, that I might have married a señorita, but don't you see, I have never cared at all about señoritas? They say the trouble is that I haven't any conversation. It may be so. We shall see; Miguelillo, isn't my flamingo worth all the sugar-paste señoritas of the upper ten? And besides, she knows how to work, and that is more than any of these high-flyers know how to do; and she can live on two _pesetas_ a day, and she can put a shawl on her head--do you understand? and take her place in the Plaza de la Cebada,[50] where vegetables are the cheapest; and when we go to the theatre, we shan't have to get a box or seats in the parquet. From the gallery we can see the play well enough, and be well satisfied; and if it is necessary, she can cook the dinner, and there is no need of going with her every day making calls. That comes in handy, my boy! You see, I am going to have forty-three duros' pay now that I am in the active service; my rooms will cost seven; that leaves thirty-six. We shall get along, Miguel; we shall get along! Besides, my mother has promised to help me; she will give me _garbanzos_ and chocolate, and some little thing 'under the rose,' do you see? We've got our rooms all fixed up. It cost me a good deal of work. For nearly a year I have not taken coffee, nor gone to the theatre, nor smoked anything except cigarettes; everything so as to save for this furniture! Man! I tell you that I have gone with one hat all the year, and that I have had my boots tapped three times! But I have done it all with delight for my darling _chulilla_, who is worth all Peru! Just look, look at her! See what eyes she is making at us!" Enrique's happiness was so contagious that Miguel always felt happy to be with him. This lad had often made him think that to be happy in this world one needs only to believe that one is. They had not yet finished taking their chocolate, when the doors of the café were flung open, and six or seven street-musicians appeared on the scene, and they with their brass instruments made a discordant and unsanctimonious band. They immediately began to set up a waltz or something of the sort. Now, instead of escaping, and hiding in the garret, these people received the band as though it were the _Sociedad de Conciertos_, and began to accompany the music with their voices, and with their spoons, enough to scare away Mephisto himself. Maximina got up, not on account of the noise, but because she was anxious about her baby, who was probably getting hungry. Manolita looked at her with timid eyes, as though reminding her of her promise. Miguel's wife threw her arms around her and kissed her tenderly, whispering in her ear:-- "Come and see us, and I will show you my baby: you will, won't you?" When husband and wife left the café, they were in a happy frame of mind. Hearing from a distance the noise of the band and voices, Miguel exclaimed:-- "What a jolly wedding this has been! No toasts were given, and no poems were read!" XXI. With suitable precautions, that is, first vaguely insinuating the idea, afterwards making it more and more definite, Miguel brought it to his wife's notice that he must go to Galicia for a few days. She received the news with consternation; but perceiving that her husband was annoyed, she made an effort to control herself, and became calm, and finally even quite cheerful. But finding herself, as always after breakfast, seated on her husband's knee, while the "little rascal" was sleeping, and ready to talk about the linen that the traveller would need for his journey, the tears came into her eyes when least expected. "What a girl you are," exclaimed Miguel, kissing her, "only a few days' separation!" "I was not crying for that exactly," rejoined Maximina, endeavoring to smile. "But for several days I have been having such melancholy forebodings." "What forebodings?" "I imagine that I am not going to live very long." "_Ave María!_ what a terrible idea! What makes you have such crazy notions?" "I don't know," replied the little wife, smiling though the tears were sliding down her cheeks. "What I dread most is leaving my baby while he is so young." "Don't be absurd!" said Miguel, impatiently. "These gloomy ideas are caused by the sadness that you feel at having me go away. As for the rest, though death is liable to come to any of us, there is no reason to think that yours is near at hand. You are a child of seventeen; you were never ill a day in your life, except when the baby was born. You enjoy perfect health.... It is much more likely that I should die before you: I am considerably older; besides, I haven't a very strong constitution, as you know...." "Hush! hush!" exclaimed Maximina, throwing her arms around him, and bursting into a passion of tears. "I don't want to hear that you may die!" "Why, my child, there is nothing to be done about it." "But I don't want to hear about it; I don't want to, I do not!" she replied, with such lovely determination that her husband covered her with kisses. After a while, and when they had been speaking of other things, Maximina returned to the same topic. "If I should die, you would marry again, wouldn't you, Miguel?" she asked, with an expression half serious and half mischievous, which nevertheless concealed a very real meaning and a genuine anxiety. "Back to the old subject? Please don't indulge in any more of these follies, sweetheart." "Would you marry again, Miguel?" she insisted, ceasing to smile, and showing her anxiety. "Well, then, I am going to speak with all frankness: If you should die (but you aren't going to die), I will not answer for it, that in the course of my life I should never have anything to do with other women; but I give you my word and oath that I will never marry any one else. And this is not alone because of the deep and affectionate love which I bear you, so that to-day you are an essential part of my being, and if you were taken away from me it would be as though half of myself were taken away, but also for selfish reasons. I should be unhappy with any other woman. God has endowed you, my darling, with all, absolutely with all, the qualities necessary for making me happy." The little wife well understood that these words were sincere, and she looked at her husband with enthusiasm and joy. Miguel, in speaking the last words, had felt his heart growing tender: he covered his eyes with his hands, and turned away his head. On seeing him in this attitude a smile of intense delight illumined his wife's face. "Are you crying?" she whispered into his ear. Miguel did not reply. "Are you crying?" she repeated. "You _are_ crying; don't try to deny it." And with infantile curiosity she tried to pull his hands away from his face. "Stop, stop!" "Let me see thy tears, Miguel!" And she struggled with all her might to see her husband's eyes full of tears. "Are you satisfied now?" he asked, laughing; then after a moment of silence, "And you, Maximina," he said, in a tone of anxiety, "would you marry again?" "Oh! for Heaven's sake!" "You are very young, and it would not be at all strange if this should happen. After some time the same circumstances might drive you to it! Perhaps your relatives might urge you into it: a woman is not well off alone in the world.... If this took place, I have no doubt that you would love your husband; but I could take my oath that you would not love him as much as you love me. There are things, Maximina, that are never repeated, and one of them is first love; especially if this first love has been blessed by Heaven as yours has been. Just notice the walls of this study; preserve in thy memory the form of these pieces of furniture, the color of the carpet, the sweetness of that sunbeam that comes through the window. All this that now has so little importance, if I should die, would, perhaps, seem much more so, for the moments of bliss which we are now spending here, with thee sitting on my knees, and with me looking into thy dear eyes, would never again return, Maximina, would never return for thee!" The little wife fell back against her husband's breast, when she heard those words, like a sensitive plant which contracts at the slightest touch. "Oh! Miguel, light of my life, what have I done to make thee speak to me so?" And sobs choked her. He tried to pacify her by such means as were in his power; but to accomplish it he found himself obliged to promise her solemnly that he would not die! At last the day set for his journey arrived. It had been agreed that during Miguel's absence Julita should come and sleep with her sister-in-law. She and _la brigadiera_ both came over that afternoon to bid the traveller good by. It was just dusk. Miguel, after eating a hurried and solitary dinner, sent for a carriage, and prepared to depart. When he went toward his wife to kiss her, she darted away, and ran to hide in her bedroom. "But it is your husband, _tonta_!" cried Julita, laughing. Miguel followed her, and groping around in the darkness, found her in one corner. "Don't you want me to kiss you, sweetheart?" "Oh, yes, Miguel; but there before people I should die of mortification!" As our young man took his place in the carriage he felt his heart depressed within him. "If it were not for what is at stake, I should not have been mixed up in this dirty business, and I certainly should not be leaving my wife and baby," he said to himself, with some bitterness. Before reaching his district he made a stop at the capital of the province, where he was received with extreme cordiality by the governor. He was a young man who had recently been filling the position of second or third _gazetillero_ on a liberal paper at the capital. It was said in the city that his administrative knowledge might possibly have been more solid without doing any harm; but, on the other hand, whenever it took his fancy he replied in rhyme to letters, walked the street, in free and easy costume, gave lunch-parties to the provincial deputies almost every day, enjoyed cracking jokes with the ushers, and when the assembly was in session, sometimes permitted himself to whistle in an undertone arias from _Blue Beard_ or _The Grand Duchess_. His name was Castro. As soon as Miguel presented himself at the _Gobierno Civil_, Castro gave him a most hearty squeeze, as though he were an intimate friend, although they had never spoken together in Madrid more than three or four times, and began to address him from the very first with the familiar "thou." He instantly promised him the whole weight of his official influence. "I'll get you in swimmingly, my lad, no matter what it costs. Go to the district and write me from there all that you need, and I will do for you anything in the world." Rejoiced and flattered by this reception, our hero on the following day took the diligence for Serín, which was about seven leagues from the capital. It was a miserable little village, but admirably situated near a river, the banks of which displayed the luxuriant vegetation of tropical countries, and the fresh verdure of the North; orange-trees, lemon-trees, and river-laurels almost shook hands with oak and chestnut groves which swept up the slopes of the mountains; they in turn were gentle and green in the foreground, dark and steep in the background, thus making a magnificent chain, rendering the landscape most picturesque. The group of white cottages that composed the village of Serín was surrounded by a thick border of trees, except on the side of the river, in whose clear blue waters it was reflected. Now this delectable spot, which appeared like a little corner of Paradise was rather a little corner of Hades, as Miguel was quickly able to assure himself. It even had, as we shall soon see, not one, but two, serpents to torment its inhabitants. These had been divided from time immemorial into two parties--"those of the Casona" and "those of the Casiña," thus named because the first met in a great, dark mansion with two machiolated towers, which stood at the upper end of the village, while the others met in a one-storied and highly ornamented edifice with a handsome portal with an iron grating and two great balconies, and was situated on the Muelle by the river. They were likewise called "Don Martín's Party" and "Don Servando's," after the name of their respective leaders. The division of these parties was not based upon the fact that the one, that of the Casona, represented the traditional and conservative element, while that of the Casiña stood for the progressive and liberal, the first having often been seen taking the side of "liberal administrations," and the other sustaining the cause of the "moderate" candidate. The quarrel was kindled solely by the eagerness for controlling local politics, and thus of being in last analysis the masters of the village. The rest was not of the least consequence. Nevertheless, it cannot be denied that Don Martín's party had marked tendencies towards absolutism. In Don Servando's, on the other hand, there was no noticeable predilection for liberty. It was this Don Servando, who, as Miguel alighted from the diligence and received him, took him home, willy nilly. He was a fat man of medium height, and was approaching his seventieth birthday; his face, with its deep red complexion, was adorned with short gray whiskers; he wore a very long, black frock coat, and black _hongo_ besides. "Have I the honor of addressing Señor Corcuera," he asked him very politely, with a strong Galician accent. "No, sir; my name is Miguel Rivera, at your service." "That is very good," the Galician replied, and addressing himself to a servant, he said: "_Muchacho_, look up the gentleman's luggage, and take charge of it. I will tell you where it has to be carried." "I suppose that you are Señor Bustelo," Miguel hastened to say. "We will have a chance to talk as we go around yonder corner. You will do me the favor to follow me." And Don Servando set forth with firm and deliberate step toward the corner indicated. Miguel followed him without understanding what it all meant. When they had reached there, Don Servando said to him, without looking at him, and as though he were speaking with the above-mentioned corner:-- "I received word from the Señor Governor that you were to arrive this afternoon, and I take it for granted that you will do me the honor of accepting modest hospitality at my house." "Provided that you are Señor Bustelo." "The house that you see yonder, where there is a belvedere, is mine, my dear sir. Have the goodness to go on ahead, and I will immediately follow." Miguel did what he commanded, without understanding the meaning of all this mystery. Afterwards he had just as little an idea, but it no longer surprised him. Don Servando's predominant characteristic, which was manifested in all his acts, and never failed him, was caution. He never asked directly more than he already knew; what he was anxious to find out he always accomplished by means of a long series of circumlocations, and hiding his design. He never gave a straightforward and prompt answer to questions, no matter how insignificant or meaningless they were. After being a few hours in his company Miguel became convinced that it was idle to try to find out anything about his personality. It was, above all, on account of this quality that he was greatly admired by all his friends and feared by his opponents. He talked little, and never looked a man in the face. After they had eaten supper, and the guest's luggage had been brought in with infinite precautions, the two shut themselves into Don Servando's office, where, in less than an hour, he imbibed six bottles of beer. "It seems to me that you are fond of beer, Señor Bustelo." "Psh! so, so.... I prefer wine," he replied, with the gravity and the Galician accent peculiar to him. On the following days Miguel had the opportunity of observing that he scarcely touched wine. One after another, and as though some desperately dangerous conspiracy were in progress, the official candidate received the calls of Don Servando's partisans, who promised great success in the coming election. Nevertheless Miguel was quick to see that the forces were very evenly balanced; indeed, so well that while in what we might name the urban region of Serín, in the brain of the community, the Casiña party was predominant, it was in a large minority in the rural districts. Official influence was as little at the complete disposition of this party; while the town authorities[51] of Serín were theirs; those of two other precincts, Agüeria and Villabona, gave allegiance to Don Martín, and it was in these, after all, that the key of the election finally lay. General Ríos had been put up for this district without opposition, and from that moment the partisans of the Casona had rivalled Don Servando's in zeal and efficacy in serving him. This was the usual tactics among them. When they found it impossible to struggle they humiliated their proud heads, and did all that they could to win the deputy's friendship, or at least his good will, to beg a few of the crumbs of favor, so that they might not be wholly at the mercy of their implacable enemies. They well knew by experience that if this happened, they were liable to all kinds of annoyances, and sometimes to the guard-house, since each party excelled in letting the star of the morning witness their _dissipations_. Owing to this state of affairs, though the general inclined toward the Casiña party, he had not consented to the others being maltreated, and he had even gone so far as to leave in their hands certain offices which were in the gift of the state, and this stirred up the wrath of Don Servando's friends, and made them so indignant that they secretly murmured against the count, and even proposed to "pay him off" when the suitable occasion came. Thus it was that as the horizon was now darkened by a second deputy, who they hoped would be absolutely in their interests, and tear up by the roots Don Martín's influence in the _concejo_,[52] at least for a long season. It was for this reason that Don Servando had the keen foresight to lodge him in his house, in order that neither Don Martín nor any of Don Martín's friends could call upon him. On the next morning after his arrival Miguel wrote Maximina, and sallied forth to drop the letter in the post-office, thinking that it was a good time to explore the town. In the first street, which ran into the Muelle, he discerned a letter-box, and made for it; but, as he came near to it, he found that it had a board nailed over the aperture. He walked along a little farther and soon saw another; but here this same state of things was repeated, and likewise in three or four others which he happened upon in various parts of the village. "Will you please tell me where I can mail this letter?... All the boxes that I have found are nailed up," he said to a domestic who was passing. "It's because Don Matías is postmaster now ... you'll find it in a provision store near the Muelle, do you see?... Don't miss your way ... follow this street down, and you'll see it." The postmastership, as he discovered afterwards, was one of the perquisites which the two parties of Serín quarrelled over furiously, it having passed alternately from the hands of one of Don Servando's friends to those of one of Don Martín's, and _vice versa_. As each time it came into the hands of a different person,--for it was necessary to satisfy all,--it happened that many of the houses in Serín had been pierced for letter-boxes. The postmaster received the salary of three thousand five hundred reals[53] a year. As he was walking along one of the streets he met Don Servando, who greeted him solemnly, and started to pass on. "What is the good word, Señor Bustelo; are you going home?" "No, sir, no; I am taking a little walk; then I have some business to attend to.... Good by, Señor de Rivera." Miguel went home, but before he reached the house he saw Don Servando go in. Why had he lied? God only knows. When he learned that Miguel had posted a letter, the chief of the Casiña party turned livid. "What!... Señor Rivera ... a letter?" "Yes, sir; a letter," replied Miguel, not understanding the reason for his surprise. "But don't you know, my dear sir, that Don Matías is ... belongs to the _others_?" "What of that?" "Here we never receive or drop letters at the village post-office; we send them to Malloriz, and there we have also a person who gets those directed to us, and forwards them to us afterward." "Man alive! what distrust!" "We can't be too careful, my dear sir; we can't be too careful." Assured by the thought that his letter was for his wife, he immediately invited Don Servando to take a bottle of beer. For the leader of the Casiña beer-drinking was an august function of life. He had surprised the community by saying, perhaps with truth, that he drank five duros' worth a day of this beverage. Such prodigality, truly tremendous in that region, helped him not a little in maintaining his prestige. Don Servando was the only rich man who spent all his income in Serín, and this was because he was a bachelor. XXII. The first thing that the Casiña party demanded of Miguel, as a condition of his election, was to accomplish the dismissal of the jailer, get the post-office from Don Matías, and the tobacco-shop[54] from a man named Santiago, all of whom belonged to Don Martín's party.... And in fact Miguel wrote to the governor and his Madrid friends; in five or six days came the decapitation of the tobacconist and Don Matías, and shortly after that of the _alcaide_, there being named in place of them three other individuals, who swore by Don Servando's beer. This gentleman, when he received the news, found it in him to smile and drink three schooners without breathing. His friends perceived in that smile and the absorption of the three schooners such a great and deep mystery, that they looked at each other, filled with faith and enthusiasm for their chief. But the Casona party were bold enough in spite of being in opposition, and they proclaimed to the four winds the candidacy of Corrales, who, having been minister several times, enjoyed much notoriety in the country, although he had no official power to back him. The fact was that he was master of the _ayuntamientos_ of Agüeria and Villabona, and that the combined vote of these districts fully counterbalanced the majority which his opponents might raise against him in Serín. The election was by universal suffrage, but both parties had perfectly calculated their forces. Consequently, the first question on the carpet that night in Don Servando's office, the dismissal of the _alcaide_ having been obtained, was the suspension of the municipal governments above mentioned, and this had to be done before the opening of the electorial period. They were there discussing the most suitable methods of carrying out this plan, when one of the numerous spies whom Don Servando kept in the village came into the room and informed them that Don Martín had booked for the following day in the _Ferrocarrilana_. This bit of news caused deep perturbation among those present, and it was immediately understood, though no one dared to ask the question of him, that Don Servando would join him in this journey, since such had been the custom from time immemorial. As soon as Don Martín made a move from the village, his rival packed his valise, and followed him wherever he went, taking it for granted that when he went away it must be for _something_, and this something could not be else than some harm for himself or his friends. When Don Servando undertook a journey, his enemy Don Martín did the same; everybody in the town knew this custom, and no one saw anything strange in it. In truth, as soon as all had taken their departure, Don Servando sent his servant to secure an outside seat in the _Competencia_. He did not bid Miguel farewell, but made arrangements so that he should not suffer from any lack during his absence. This lasted two days. At the end of this time he returned, or, more correctly, both chiefs returned. Don Martín had gone down to the capital to have a tooth filled. Every day Miguel received a little letter folded double, and directed in a handsome English hand--that taught at the Colegio de Vergara. Maximina did not write a great deal, though much more than before she was married. Her instinct told her that Miguel could not laugh at the trifles that she told him now, especially if they had reference to the baby. In all of them there was expressed an irresistible desire for him to return home as soon as possible, and yet she tried to hide it lest she should disturb him in his duties. "Yesterday, Julita took me out to drive. It was crowded, and she was very gay. When I got home, I felt such a deep sadness that I cannot explain it to you. I remembered that the last time that I rode through the Castellana was with thee, my life, my all!" The maiden from Pasajes, under the influence of her husband, who had never been sparing in the matter of affectionate words, had grown more lavish in her caresses. The same thing will happen to every loving woman, if she has a husband like Miguel, a little sentimental. "Last night I woke up between four and five, and without knowing what I did, I was just going to give Julia a kiss, imagining that it was you. Before I did so, I came to my senses. Such keen pain came over me that I cried more than an hour. I don't see why Julia did not wake up. Forgive me for telling you these things, my darling; I am a fool. The main thing is that you are getting along well, as you say, and that you attain your desire. There will still be time, if God is willing, for us to be together. For God's sake, don't neglect to say your prayers when you go to bed." Each of these letters made our candidate melancholy and thoughtful for a while. "How glad I should be to give these Caffres their walking-ticket, and go and give a hug to the daughter of my mother-in-law (God bless her!)," he said to himself more than once. But as his affairs were progressing with 'a fair wind,' he suffered patiently. He wrote to various friends in Madrid to exert themselves for the suspension of the unfriendly _ayuntamientos_ above mentioned. Mendoza and others also replied that the President and the ministry gave their consent. Nevertheless, the days passed, and the order did not come. The Casiña party had on their hands another project for which they were very strenuous, though not to the same degree as the above. This was the highway between Serín and Agüeria, which the inhabitants of both places wished to be put out at public contract. Many times they had made attempts through each faction, but without success. At last the general promised them that he would not cease his endeavors until he had accomplished it; but his departure for Germany had disappointed Don Servando's partisans, who hoped that the district would owe the benefit to them, and not to the Casona party. But now it came to light that the latter were actively at work in Madrid through the intervention of Corrales, who, as ex-minister and an individual well known in politics, had never ceased to be on friendly terms with the present ministers. Thereupon, the Casiña party became alarmed, and brought pressure on Miguel to use all his influence again, so that this favor might in nowise be granted to Corrales, but rather to the official candidate whom they supported. Miguel received word from Madrid that the matter was in a fair way of being settled; later he got another letter in which it was said that the minister had promised to give the order immediately; then came still another which said that the order would appear very soon in the _Gazeta_. Nevertheless, just as in the matter of the suspension, nothing came of it: it failed to appear. And Don Servando's janizaries, though very certain of victory, began to grow impatient, and to assail Miguel, who, in his turn, was still more vexed by their innuendos, and felt the most savage inclination to say something impudent in their faces. One afternoon, when they were as usual drinking beer in Don Servando's office, they heard the sound of a bomb exploding in the air. They suddenly became solemn and silent with their ears pricked up. In a moment another was heard, and some one present said:-- "_They are rockets!_" "Rockets at this time of day?" And the seven or eight men present looked at each other in amazement and no little alarm, for the two factions lived in perpetual excitement. "Is there any special celebration at church to-morrow?" "No, sir." "Suppose one of you go out and investigate...." Two men left the room, and returning in a few moments pale and excited, said, with trembling voices:-- "The rockets are being sent up from the balcony of the Casona." "Those ... have received notice about the public contract." Anxiety and terror seized all hearts: by a simultaneous movement they turned their eyes to the chief, famous for his sagacity. Don Servando deliberately drank two schooners of beer, and after wiping his lips again and again with his handkerchief, he broke the strained silence, saying:-- "Señor Alcalde, go to the town-house and send two constables to the Casona, and warn them not to send up any more sky-rockets. Article 62 of the Municipal Ordinances forbids their being shot without permission from the authorities." The janizaries heaved a sigh of relief; not in vain had they placed their trust in their astute chief. The Alcalde went out on his errand, and the others remained discussing the incident, endeavoring to explain how the news had reached the _others_ sooner than it had them. The general opinion was that there had been some blunder in the mails. Don Martín's friends, irritated by the Alcalde's prohibition, collected the village band, which was composed of ten or a dozen instruments, mostly brass, and offering the musicians a good fee besides a _pellejo_[55] of wine, which they showed to inspire them, they made them march up and down the village playing, and then stationed them in the middle of the plaza, where the people, attracted by the music, began to assemble; the lads started a dance, and Don Martín and the highway were cheered. New and dolorous assault upon the sensibilities of Don Servando's adherents in conclave assembled. "Señor Alcalde!" said the latter once more, "send and have the music stop! The Municipal Ordinances, articles 59 and 60, require that permission of the authorities should be demanded for this kind of manifestations." But still Don Martín's followers were not to be cowed. As soon as the order came, feeling secure because the populace, fond of merry-making, supported them, they took the band across the bridge that spans the river there, by a curious accident dividing the municipal limit of Serín from that of Agüeria. From there to the village it would not be fifty steps. Once out of the hostile Alcalde's jurisdiction the music stormed and shrilled in discordant tones, and Don Martín's clients, inspiring the crowd to follow, began once more to organize dances, and indulge in "_vivas_." Thus passed the afternoon in festive gayety and carousal, while the Casiña party, gathered in their chief's office, tasted the bitterness of defeat, making faces of disgust. And to cap the climax of misfortunes, _El Occidente_, Don Martín's paper, which happened to be published on the next day, was more than ever insulting, and made sport of them in a cruel fashion. Serín boasted of two weekly papers: one, _El Occidente_, in the interest of the Casona party, and this appeared on Thursdays; and the other, _La Crónica_, belonging to Don Servando and coming out on Sunday. These were the two serpents to which we made allusion in our description of the Paradise of Serín. _La Crónica_ was written almost entirely by an ex-pilot, and consequently nearly all of his jokes were made up of sea terms; he used to call Don Martín "Martín the Fishing-smack," and his wife "The high board Frigate Doña Manuela," which made all his partisans die with amusement. _El Occidente_ was under the direction of a school-master who, to find insults, sought out the most eccentric and extraordinary expressions in the dictionary. That day he called Don Servando "_tozudo y zorrocloco_," which means stupidly obstinate, and one who feigns indisposition so as to conceal his indisposition to work, and he made certain uncomplimentary allusions to Miguel also. Don Servando took his "_zorrocloco_" philosophically, but Miguel, little wonted to the coarse personalities of village politics, flushed deeply, and declared that 'he was resolved to slap the editor of the scurvy sheet in the face.' Don Servando's friends looked at him in amazement. "Gently, gently, my dear sir!" said the latter, with his _inevitable_ coolness. "I should advise you not to do anything of the sort, for that would be the greatest pleasure that you could give them. The judge of 'first claims'[56] is on their side." "And what have we to do with the judge? The question concerns a matter of honor, which is settled by this person and me fighting with swords or pistols." The men present looked at him with greater amazement than ever. In Serín there was an absolute lack of knowledge of such proceedings, and consequently it had never entered into their heads that there was to be any fighting. Had Miguel carried out his threat, he would have run a strong risk of being put in jail, and still further incapacitated. He was at last convinced, and gave up his project, although with a bad grace. The Casona party soon laughed on the other side of the cheek. In three days came the order for the suspension of the _ayuntamientos_ of Villabona and Agüeria. Then I assure you that there was a carousal and a drinking of beer in the Casiña. Don Servando, in order to banter his enemies, got out the band, and kept it for twelve consecutive hours jangling through the streets. That day the sound of exploding rockets did not for a moment cease in Serín, until the last one was sent off. By this stroke Miguel's election was made absolutely certain. The Casona party thus understood it, and crest fallen, they tried as always to curry favor. Only nine days were lacking before the opening of the electorial period. But here it is necessary more than ever to exclaim with the poet:-- "O instability! O fickle fortune! Who doth not hope for thee in hours of sorrow? Who doth not fear thee in his hours of comfort?" Two days before the opening of this period, when the Casiña partisans were going about with glad and careless hearts, and those of the Casona angry and sorrowful; when it was whispered about, and taken for granted that Corrales was going to withdraw, and Miguel was already planning to return to Madrid, as his presence was no longer necessary in the district; lo and behold! there fell into Serín like a bombshell the news that the suspended _ayuntamientos_ had been restored. Unfortunately, the news was correct. Don Servando's friends, after recovering a little from the surprise (since at first no one had found anything to say), came to the conclusion that there was some equivocation, or that some one had lied in Madrid. As there was no telegraph communication with the governor, Miguel decided immediately to hire a carriage and go to the capital in post-haste. In spite of the exaggerated cordiality with which he was received, and the hearty embraces and his open, frank smile, our candidate saw clearly in the governor's eyes that there was something that was not quite as it should be, and immediately determined to get at the root of the matter as soon as possible. Accordingly, he began to press him with questions, which the Civil Chief of the province answered in vague terms: 'Nothing was known of the reason for this restoration; possibly difficulties had arisen in the Council of State.... Perhaps the minister considered the suspension unnecessary for carrying the elections....' "If the minister has done this on his own responsibility, without the President's support, he has not acted well. Do you suppose that the President has been informed of what has happened?" asked Miguel. "My dear fellow, I don't know." "You see I have his formal promise that the government would support me with all the powers at its disposal. Had I not received this pledge, I should never have presented myself as candidate for a district where I was unknown." "My dear lad, I don't know ... I don't know...." "Castro," said Miguel, seizing him firmly by the hand, and looking at him with a severe directness, "you are my friend, and you must tell me the truth.... What is up?" "You will understand perfectly well that my position does not allow me to speak frankly. If I could, I would." "You are either my friend or you are not. Tell me what is going on," insisted Miguel, energetically. "Very well then; if you will give me your word as a gentleman not to make any use of it, I will tell you." "I promise." "Take warning that it is putting a heavy obligation on yourself." "I promise you. Speak!" "We understand that you will not give the slightest hint that you know what I am going to reveal to you.... Having noticed for some time, and especially during the last few days, that the minister was weakening on your election, and knowing the friendship that unites you to the President and the conferences which you have had with him, I was anxious to get his advice, so as to know once and for all how I should look upon this matter. Yesterday I telegraphed to his secretary. Here is the answer that I received...." The governor produced a telegram in cipher, which written out, was as follows:-- _Official Candidate--Don Miguel Rivera._ _Deputy--Don Manuel Corrales._ Miguel held it for some time in his hands; a melancholy, ironical smile hovered over his lips. "Very well," said he, flinging it on the table. "One stone more which the world has cast at me." "I feel it to the bottom of my heart, my boy. The President must have found too much pressure brought to bear upon him. Corrales, you see, is a man of great importance in the present situation!... To-morrow he may be minister.... And that is the way politics go, my boy.... To-day you, and to-morrow me." "Yes, yes; I see how politics go. The President has given me his word of honor to support my candidacy against Corrales; he has got me to write a host of letters, and to use all sorts of influences; he has forced me to leave my wife and child. The President has done all this with the intention, so it seems, of selling me. I don't know what this is called in politics, but in plain language I know that it is called _base_, _vile_!" (accenting the words). "Good by, my boy," he added, offering him his hand. "I shall always be grateful to you for what you have done for me, and the kindly reception which you gave me." "Hold on," said the governor, as he was going out. "I forgot to tell you that I received a telegram for you that must be from your family." Miguel was startled. "What does it say?" "It must be here; take it." It was from his step-mother, and read:-- "Come home immediately. You are needed on most urgent business." Up to a certain point its contents were tranquillizing, for if any one had been ill, it would have said so. But as the import of the message was open to doubt, anxious and sick at heart, he secured a place that very afternoon in the train for Madrid. XXIII. Don Alfonso Saavedra's exquisite, overwhelming courtesy, his delicate attentions to every one, his respectful behavior toward ladies masked Satanic pride and boundless impudence. From an early age he had looked upon himself "as the hub of the universe," as the saying goes, and professed absolute scorn of humanity. Among rich young men, the sons of aristocratic families, this conduct is not uncommon. The only thing in which they bear a perpetual resemblance to each other is their scorn of everybody. The majority are not able to go beyond that, and full of zeal, they have no other ambition than to be able to show their fellows, whenever they can, this most noble disdain, which forms an integral part of their superiority. But so adorable is their frankness that sometimes it obliges them to put up with petty disappointments, and yet it happens that their scorn is not very well appreciated and understood; for among the many absurd whims from which humanity suffers stands that of not allowing itself to be scorned. There is no use in trying to explain this scorn by saying:-- "I owe ninety thousand duros; I am viscount, and hold my head high; I make portentous wagers at baccarat; one of my ancestors blacked King Felipe's boots; I am as good a whip as the head coachman; and a few days ago another viscount and I 'fleeced' a wise man at Vallehermoso; I wear such extraordinary pantaloons that passers-by are obliged to turn round and look at me; and I am in love with a ballet-girl of the Real." It is idle; humanity is determined not to recognize the importance and seriousness of the reasons wherein these distinguished young men take pleasure in despising it. Don Alfonso, naturally more cautious and more experienced by his residence in foreign countries, understood that it was expedient to flatter this whim, but at heart he professed the same ideas. That precept of the Krausist philosophy very much in vogue at that time, "Regard humanity not as a means, but as an end," was for him a dead letter. After the calamity of the Retiro, though his pride was wounded to the very quick, he was able to hide it completely; and if he no longer made his appearance at Miguel's, it was not owing to his resentment, but lest Maximina, now on her guard, would take some violent measure that would compromise him. She did not perfectly comprehend his character. When he accidentally met the young couple in the street, he was as polite and genial as ever, excusing his prolonged absence very gracefully by saying that an uncle had suddenly come to town, and he gave a lively and circumstantial description of the occurrence. Saavedra, without being talented or learned, had a peculiarly ludicrous turn of speech, and what he said was apt to be comical and mirth-provoking, though it was often repulsive. When he "used the scalpel" on a friend, the impression that he left on his hearers was painful. Maximina, on meeting him, turned crimson, and it cost her great effort to calm herself, but fortunately Miguel did not notice it. The very day that he was going to Galicia, he met Saavedra again at the Ateneo,[57] where the dandy sometimes repaired to read the French periodicals. He told him about his journey, and said good by. Don Alfonso remained a long time seated on the sofa; a frown, constantly growing deeper, furrowed his forehead. Then suddenly he smoothed out the frown; his face regained its ordinary disdainful and indifferent expression, and he got up. There was some deep resolution under that brow; something that was far removed from Krause's commandment, and still less from those of God's law. At his aunt's house he learned that Julita was going to sleep with her sister-in-law, and spend with her all the time not occupied by her other duties, which consisted of piano and singing lessons. For nothing in the world would _la brigadiera_ permit her to relax her four hours of practising and going through the prescribed scales. Don Alfonso spent four or five days in meditating, in playing espionage on Maximina, and in scheming; meantime he showed himself more than ever amiable and obsequious to his cousin; but he refused to accompany her to Miguel's, offering various excuses. Saturdays he always breakfasted at _la brigadiera's_. On the first Saturday after Miguel's departure, Julita, though she usually took breakfast with Maximina, came home in honor of her cousin, and because it was no longer possible for her to hide the passionate love which she felt for him. During breakfast time he was as jovial and amusing as ever; nevertheless, Julita's loving eyes were able to detect in his gestures a peculiar excitement, as though his mind were preoccupied. Naturally she attributed it to what most concerned her; to the love constantly growing more tender and ardent which her cousin manifested toward her. When they had finished, he asked her in a careless tone:-- "Is your piano teacher coming to-day?" "Yes; at four." "Then," said he, still more indifferently, if possible, "you will not return to Maximina's until you have had your lesson, I suppose." "Of course not ... there is no need of making the journey twice," replied _la brigadiera_. They went to the sitting-room, and Julita sat down at the piano with Alfonso at her side. The charming girl struck an opportune _forte_ which drowned out the tender words which her cousin began whispering in her ear. "Julita, your eyes shine so to-day, that if you wanted to set my heart on fire, you could do it this very instant." "Pedal! pedal!" cried the girl, laughing; and she quenched the dandy's last words with a deafening crash. She again put on the soft pedal, and began gently to touch the piano. Don Alfonso took advantage of the diminuendo to say:-- "Julita, I adore you; I love you more than my life...." "Pedal! pedal!" exclaimed the girl again, and she did not allow him to finish. But after a few moments of this rapturous amusement, Don Alfonso exclaimed, raising his hand to his forehead:-- "Oh, how unfortunate!" "What is it?" "Why, my uncle is going to Seville to-day, and I have not yet been to the notary's to arrange my mother's papers." "Oh, you snipe! Hurry! go and get them; you have time." "Oh, if it were merely a question of getting them!... I must look over a good part of them, and add my signature." "Run, then, lazybones ... run!... You may be sure that your mamma will lay your negligence at my door." Julita said this, pretending to be angry, but without being able to hide the pleasure that the supposition caused her. "I was going to spend such a delicious afternoon! And now to have to go to a notary's office to eat dust and make my head ache!" "Go, go! The first thing to do is the first thing to be done!... At any rate, you were in a fair way of telling a good many fibs this afternoon...." "Honest, genuine truths, cousin divine!" Don Alfonso's _berlina_ was waiting at the corner of the street, according to the orders that he had given the coachman. He lighted an Havana and as he slammed the door to, he said:-- "To the Riveras'." Any one seeing him leaning back in his carriage, with his cigar between his teeth, would have taken him for an elegant swell about to have a drive through the Castellana. Still the same frown, a sign of intense questioning, which had appeared on his brow when he said good by to Miguel at the Ateneo, now furrowed it again, perhaps deeper and darker than ever. "At six, as always, at the Swiss restaurant," he said to his driver, as he dismounted from the landau. And with slow step, his face a trifle pale, he entered the doorway of Miguel's house, and mounted the staircase. He rang the bell vigorously, like a familiar and honored friend. Plácida came to open for him. "Señorito, it is good to see you!" she exclaimed, with the sympathy inspired in maid-servant by visitors when they are handsome men. "_Holá!_ little one," said the _caballero_, in a condescending tone, giving her a little pat on the cheek; "your master in?" "But don't you know that the señorito went last Monday to Galicia? It is plain enough that you don't often soil the staircase of this house with the dust of your boots." "_La señorita?_" asked the fine gentleman, with an absent-minded gesture, at the same time depositing his cane and hat on the rack. "She is sewing in her boudoir.... Shall I take up your card?" "There is no need," he replied, starting with a firm step toward the parlor, and opening the boudoir door. Maximina was sewing on some article of clothing for the baby, who, absolutely removed from the political struggles in which his papa was engaged, was sleeping in the bedroom, and occupying a good half of the bed. The young mother's thoughts were flying over the white peaks of the Guadarrama, traversing the desert plains of Castille, and losing themselves among the leafy groves of Galicia. "Will he have socks enough?" she was asking herself, at that moment. This had been a serious anxiety to Maximina ever since her husband's departure. "Eight pairs aren't sufficient, can't be sufficient, if he changes them every day, as he usually does. In that country I believe they don't wash clothes very often. Ay! _Diós mio!_ and if it should rain, and he get his feet wet! how could he change them two or three times a day as he does here?... I am sure that it would never occur to him to buy some new ones.... He is very thoughtless!" The door-bell rang. As she raised her head, her eyes met Don Alfonso's. It is difficult to conceive the surprise that Maximina felt at that sudden apparition, and the surprise and terror that took possession of her. She turned pale, even livid, then her face grew crimson, then once more pale; all in the space of a few seconds. Saavedra shut the door, and offered her his hand with perfect ease and self-possession. "How are you, Maximina?" She could scarcely articulate her answer. Her hand trembled violently. "What does this mean? You are trembling," said the _caballero_, retaining it a moment in his. She made no reply. "If it were an enemy who came in, I should understand this agitation; but as I am such a devoted friend ... so stupidly devoted as I am to you.... I am wrong to call myself a friend: I should do better to call myself your slave, for these many days you have exercised an absolute dominion over me." The young wife's features were contracted by a smile which seemed rather like a face of terror. Her eyes expressed the same dismay. She tried to say something, but her voice died in her throat. "The last time that I spoke with you, Maximina," the Andalusian went on to say, after he had taken a seat at her side, "I was bold enough to give you a hint of what was passing within my heart. Perhaps I was foolish; but the step has been taken, and I cannot retrace it. I must complete to-day what then I did not do more than indicate; I must express to you,--although it is very difficult--the love, the idolatry that you inspire in me, the terrible anxieties which I have been suffering for more than a month, the state of genuine madness to which your cruelty has brought me...." Maximina continued speechless. She looked like a statue of Desolation. "I am going to tell you all, all! You will pardon me, will you not, lovely Maximina?" And the audacious _caballero_ pronounced these words with his insinuating, mellow voice, at the same time gently laying the palm of his hand on the back of Maximina's. She withdrew it as though she had touched a vile animal; and leaping to her feet, as though pushed by a spring, she ran to the door, and hastened into the parlor. Don Alfonso followed her, and caught her by her arm. Then, pulling herself away with remarkable power, she broke from his touch, but, instead of running, she faced him with flaming cheeks, looking at him with frenzied eyes that were frightful to see. The truth is, that among the many attitudes which he had imagined that Miguel's wife might assume, Saavedra had never thought of such an one. He expected repulses, indignant phrases, even insulting words, and he was prepared to meet them with a cold and careless mien; he expected to be commanded to go on the instant, he expected the threat that she would shout, and he was likewise prepared with what to say to calm her immediately; finally, in the depths of his heart, his presumption flattered him by saying that Maximina could not long resist his attraction and his fame as a seducer. But these strange, inconvenient flights, this mute terror, surprised and somewhat disconcerted him. "What are you going to do, Maximina," he asked, though the poor child was not doing anything; but it was well to warn her for some event.--"If you should cry or call your servants, you would be seriously compromised; there would be a scandal, everybody would know about it, including your husband, and you would lose much more than you have any idea of.... Come now, be reasonable," he added, in the same mellow voice in which he had spoken before, and approaching her. "The thing is not worth taking in this tragic fashion. It is not strange that I am desperately in love with you, nor am I to blame for it, but the God who made you so beautiful, so sweet, so _simpática_.... And if you should grant me one little favor--let me kiss one hand as a reward for so much adoration, for so many sad and bitter hours which I have suffered during the last month, I think it would not be very strange, either. It would be on your part not a proof of love, which I know well I do not deserve, but rather of your kind heart, of your generous nature which, even on such an occasion as this, cannot be forsworn. This favor, though insignificant in the world's eyes and before your conscience, would be in mine immense; it would be a secret between us two until death.... My gratitude for it would be eternal.... Come, lovely Maximina, don't give the lie to your goodness.... I beg it of you on my knees. Let me touch my lips to your hand, and go away calm and happy.... Do you wish greater humiliation than this?" The audacious and astute _caballero_, in saying these last words, in reality bent his knee, and seized one of the young woman's hands. But she snatched it away with surprising bravery, and glanced around with a face full of terror, as though seeking for aid. Then she went like a flash to Miguel's study. Don Alfonso followed her, likewise running. The young woman took her stand behind the table, and once more cast upon him that timid and uncertain glance, in reality like that of one insane. Miguel had left open on the table his shaving case, and the razor that he had used lay on top, also open. By a refinement of affection Maximina had been unwilling to touch these objects or to allow any one else to do so, but left them till his return. She quickly seized the razor, and laying it to her throat, she said in a hoarse voice:-- "If you touch me again, I will kill myself! I will kill myself!" These were the first words that she spoke during the whole scene, though it lasted several minutes. The tone in which she spoke and the look with which she accompanied her words, left no room for doubt. Saavedra knew that though she would not kill herself, yet that she would give herself a slash, that the blood would run, and that there would be a serious piece of mischief in which he would appear in no enviable light. Therefore he hastened to say:-- "I will not touch you; don't be afraid." And then he added with an ironical smile, in a tone overflowing with spite, "Come, come! where it is least to be expected there arises a Lucretia. If I were an artist, Maximina, I would paint you this way with your arm raised, and would send you to the exhibition. The razor is a trifle prosaic, but that is the fault of the times. Lucretias nowadays, instead of an embossed dagger use their husbands' razor!" Perhaps the rejected seducer would have gone on flinging at his expected victim other coarse insults and cowardly jests like the above, but at that instant Maximina's quick ear caught the soft and delicate voice of her little one, who was just waking up in the sleeping-room; it was so slight a sound that only a mother could have heard it at that distance. She threw down the razor, and exclaimed, "My heart's delight, I am coming." She flew like an arrow past Don Alfonso. If he had attempted to stay her flight, she would certainly have knocked him over with the impetus that she had and her muscular development. The _caballero_ had no thought of doing any such thing. What he did was to turn on his heels, take his hat, and set out to dissipate his ill humor and vexation on the Castellana. Maximina's calmness quickly returned. Nevertheless, a few hours afterward she began to feel such an intense chill that she was obliged to go to bed and ask for a cup of _tila_. On the following day she was all right again. She thought of sending word to Miguel, asking him to come home, but on second thought she saw that she would be obliged to give some reason, and she had none. And if he should have any suspicion and oblige her to confess what had taken place? He would certainly challenge Saavedra, who, as he was an expert in such affairs, would kill him. "Oh, I would kill myself sooner than tell him!" And the faithful wife, at the mere thought of it, shivered with horror. XXIV. "The first part of my plan has 'gang agley'; now let us see if I shall be luckier in the second," said Don Alfonso, on leaving Miguel's house. That afternoon, while his eyes were wandering at haphazard over the throng of carriages flying up and down the Castellana, he was deeply engaged in concocting the most odious and villanous plans, which we shall shortly find him carrying into execution. During the days that followed, he began to show more attention and love to his cousin than ever, spending long hours in her company. This sudden ardor on her lover's part was sufficient to turn Julita's head completely. The asperity of her restless and ardent temperament had already for some time been changing into mildness. Don Alfonso, owing to _la brigadiera's_ blameworthy carelessness, had got into the habit of taking certain liberties with her, innocent enough in themselves, but extremely dangerous. When he had made her his slave, he asked her one day:-- "Julita, do you want to marry me?" "What a question!" exclaimed the girl, growing crimson as a poppy. "Well, then, let us have it understood that you accept me as your husband." "Who told you so, jackanapes."[58] "You have told me with those sharp eyes of yours ever since I knew you! You can't deny it, Julia!" "_Tonto! tonto!_ you insufferable fellow!" exclaimed the girl, trying to be angry. "Let us not speak any more of that. That matter is settled. In the first place, we have both agreed, La Señorita Doña Julia Rivera on the one hand, and Don Alfonso Saavedra on the other, that we wish to enter into wedlock. Now then, how to carry our project into effect? I have already reached the twenty-fifth year of my age--if you did not know it before, you know it now." (Julia laughed.) "Consequently the law authorizes me to marry whenever I wish, without my mother's consent. Still this permission is indispensable for me, in the first place, on account of the frantic affection which she professes for me; on account of the duty that I owe her of not going against her wishes or causing her a grief which the poor woman does not deserve; and in the second place, through a selfish consideration, which is likewise of much weight. I have been a wretch, Julita; a prodigal who has in a few years run through the fortune that I inherited from my father. The result of that is that I now find myself at my mother's mercy, and she, be it said in the interest of truth, has not hitherto been niggardly toward me. But as you can easily imagine, I don't know what might happen if I married against her wishes. Now then, I confess with shame, I am not used to working, nor even if I wanted to work should I know what to set my hand to. So then, we must tell my mamma, if we are to get married. To-morrow I will write her, and if, as I have no reason to doubt, she has no objection to our marriage, we can immediately set the time for it." What a sleepless night Julita spent! and yet how happy a night it was! Don Alfonso took it for granted that their marriage was settled, and even spoke of it as though it had already taken place. The talks which they had during the four days which elapsed between the letter and its answer were almost all concerned with the preparations to be made for the wedding,--what they would do after they were joined, etc. Julia waited impatiently for the mamma's answer from Seville. As for _la brigadiera_, as Don Alfonso was her right eye, she had never taken her into consideration at all. By his advice she had not said a word to her about it as yet. At last the letter came. Would that it had never come! Saavedra entered his aunt's house with his face pale and dark lines under his eyes, and with a mortal sadness depicted on it. In order to accomplish this theatrical effect he had spent the previous night in a drunken spree. Julia's face changed when she saw him; then instantly she knew by intuition what news he had brought. When they had taken their seat together by the piano, the place where they had carried on almost all their secret conversations, the _caballero_ exclaimed in a tone full of sorrow, and hiding his face in his hands:-- "How unhappy I am, Julita!" She was silent for a few moments, and then said:-- "Your mother does not consent to our marriage,--is that it?" Don Alfonso did not reply. Silence reigned for some time. Finally Julia broke it in a trembling voice:-- "Don't take it so to heart, Alfonso. Instead of helping me, you take away my courage." "You are right, my beauty! even in this I am selfish. I ought to consider that beside the grief that you feel as keenly as I do, if you love me, you have had an insult put upon you." "No, no," the young girl hastened to say; "I do not feel that it is an insult. All I feel is that I cannot be yours." Saavedra gave her a fascinating look of love, and pressed her hand warmly. "Mamma does not speak unkindly of you. If she had said anything that could be construed as derogatory to you, I should know well how to reply to it. It will be better for you to read her letter for yourself," he said, taking it from his pocket. This letter had been written by Saavedra himself, counterfeiting her penmanship and sending it to a friend to be mailed back from Seville; it was a document remarkable for its ingenuity. Julia's name was not mentioned in it; the mamma deeply lamented, because she had dreamed of a brilliant match for her dear boy; he well knew who she was. This had been the hope of all her life, she had pledged her word, and all the relatives were counting upon it; finally, that as now she was getting old and feeble, this disappointment would certainly cause her death. The effect caused by this letter on the young girl was exactly what its author intended. Instead of quenching the fire, it made it burn all the more fiercely; jealousy was the principal fuel in this case. "Who is the woman whom they want you to marry, Alfonso?" asked Julita timidly, while big tears rolled down her cheeks. "I don't know, I don't know, let me alone!" he exclaimed, with a gesture of despair. "Tell me, Alfonso: I am very anxious to know." "What difference does it make who she is? I hate her, I detest her." "At any rate, I want to know what her name is." "She is the Countess de San Clemente." "Is she young?" "Much older than you are: she is at least twenty-five or twenty-six." "Is she pretty?" "How do I know? What difference does it make to me whether she is pretty or homely?" "But is she pretty?" "They say she is; but I tell you that it makes no difference to me." The girl was silent for a long time; her heart beat violently. At length she said in a melancholy tone, giving her lover an anxious look:-- "They will persuade you, Alfonso. At last you will agree to marry her." The Andalusian _caballero_ looked at her with an angry face, and exclaimed with energy:-- "They might tear me in pieces before such a thing happened!" "You cannot be perfectly sure of it," said she, looking at him with the same anxiety; "they will continue working at you, working at you; they will get you so entangled that finally there will be no way out of it but to yield." "No, I swear to you, no! Come, don't speak any more of this, Julita, for this sort of talk annoys me very much." For a moment the young girl's eyes sparkled joyfully. Then the same expression of unhappiness came back into them. Five or six days passed. Don Alfonso redoubled his manifestations of affection. Nevertheless, such oppressive unhappiness weighed upon the lovers that they were obliged to remain long moments in silence, with their heads down and their eyes fixed on vacancy. Julita often shed tears, and Saavedra, also overwhelmed with sorrow put forth useless efforts to console her. The truth was they saw no way out of their difficulties. The horizon was absolutely shut in and dark. "I haven't any profession whatever," said the _caballero_. "If we were to marry, we should starve to death.... That is the result of having educated me for a rich man!" "As for starving to death, I don't believe it," said Julita, her face deeply flushing. "Mamma and I are not rich, but we can live decently.... It is clear that for you who are accustomed to another sort of life, it would be very hard ... but ..." "Oh, don't speak of that, Julia!" exclaimed the _caballero_, with the gesture of a man whose dignity was wounded.... "It is lowering me too much to believe that I could consent for you to support me.... But even if I were so low as that, still I could not do it, because I do not want to be my mother's murderer." The girl said no more, and, as often before, the tears began to slide down her cheeks. "Does your mother have any suspicion of what is going on?" "No." "Then be very careful. You know as well as I do how peculiar she is; if she had a suspicion that my mamma objected, she would spoil the whole business, and I should never consent to set my foot in this house again." One evening, after quite a number of days had passed, the _caballero_ came with his face brighter than it had been for some time. Instead of sitting down near the piano, the lovers went and stood in the bay-window. After painting things in very black colors as usual and lamenting a long time, Don Alfonso said to his cousin:-- "As I have been thinking of nothing else than this all day and all night, certain means of escaping from this difficulty have occurred to me. I have not told them to you, for they are very absurd. Still, as last night I was walking up and down my room without being able to sleep, one scheme came into my head, and this one is very sure but very bold ... so much so that I am afraid to tell it to you." "Is it so bad as all that?" "Bad, no; but bold. It requires you to disregard certain social conventions and to show a great will power." "Come, then, tell me. I am very curious to hear about it." "Very well then, Julia; mamma, though you imagine her to be a hard woman, because of your childish recollections and because in reality she has a cold and serious exterior which prejudices against her, has a heart that is in reality very warm. She has given me unequivocal proofs of it, oftentimes forgiving me almost too quickly for very serious faults. Her character is as haughty as your mamma's; but these natures are easy to overcome; to make them yield it needs only that you humiliate yourself.... This is what I was thinking of last night:--If Julia had the courage to make a decided stroke and elope with me to Seville and present ourselves before her, I am certain that she would not hesitate to forgive us and grant us her blessing. No woman, however bad she is, would consent to let the daughter of her own cousin be dishonored." "This scheme is madness. I cannot believe that you would propose to me such an atrocious thing!" "I do not propose it. All I do is to report to you a thought which occurred to me. If I cannot tell you what my heart feels and what passes through my mind, whom shall I tell it to, Julia _mia_?" "This is the last thing that you ought to have conceived!" "I have thought so much that it is not strange if it were the last thing that I did conceive. The project would be very audacious, violent, and repugnant to you, but not a piece of folly as you say; it is a certain, infallible means of attaining what we desire." "Well, then, even if it is certain and infallible, I will not hear to it, do you understand?" Don Alfonso did not give up conquered. He continued to argue the point, not losing his calmness, adducing reasons, mentioning various examples which he had already prepared, and in a thousand skilful ways overcoming Julia's scruples. But even when the girl found herself cornered, captured in the net of her lover's sophistries, she suddenly grew angry and exclaimed, "Well, even if it be as you say, still I don't like it, I don't like it, and that is sufficient!" Julia, though endowed with a rash and impetuous nature, had an undisturbed conscience; she was a good girl and that was the very reason why this scheme deeply wounded her sense of propriety. Nevertheless, Saavedra kept constantly tormenting her with the hope of shaking her. The afternoon was now declining; the boudoir began to fill with shadows. Don Alfonso had at last exhausted all the powers at his command, and was still far from attaining his end. "Very well," said he after a long silence, doing his best to hide his scorn and giving his words a peculiarly melancholy intonation, "I have eagerly tried to find some way of escaping from the painful situation in which we are. I propose to you the only practicable and certain method. You yourself have seen that it was so and you have comprehended the necessity of adopting some energetic plan. And yet you refuse to accept it. I respect the scruples which you entertain in regard to it, but you will permit me to tell you that the woman who really and truly loves will rise above them. If the love that you had for me were as great as you say...." "Alfonso!" "I know well that you love me--don't go to protesting.... But the fact is, that though we love each other very much, we are very unhappy and we find no way of escaping from it. What is left for us to do? Nothing but to part and never see each other again." "O Alfonso!" "Yes, Julia, yes; it must be: we must separate, and forever. Here all that we do is to torment ourselves cruelly. It is an infernal life to have happiness before our eyes and not be able to touch it. Before proposing this last recourse,--which is very harsh to be sure,--but absolutely indispensable,--I firmly decided to leave the country, in case you did not accept it. So to-morrow I take the train for Paris. I confess frankly I have not the strength to endure this tormenting situation." The astute _caballero_ ceased speaking. Julia likewise was silent: a melancholy pallor spread over her lovely face; her eyes were fixed wildly on a point of space, and she sat motionless as a statue. Don Alfonso left her in this situation a long time without disturbing her eager and anxious thoughts, though he kept looking at her. Her pallor kept growing more and more pronounced. When he felt that the right moment had arrived, the wily seducer went to take his hat which he had laid on the piano, and returning to the girl, and holding out his hand, he said in a trembling voice:-- "_Adiós_, Julia!" She retained it a moment, and then, giving him a desperate look, her face being now livid, said:-- "Don't go, Alfonso. Do with me what you please. I am ready to follow you." The _caballero_, after assuring himself that his aunt could not see them, long held her tightly enfolded in his arms. XXV. "Boy, bring me a glass of _límon_.... Bring me two, do you hear?" The banker was choking. He was a short, stout man, with extremely red cheeks. He unbuttoned his shirt collar and went on shuffling the cards, all the time snorting furiously, as though he were threatened by some apoplectic attack. "Game." The players made their play, laying their stakes beside the cards. A gloved hand placed a package of bills on one of them. "How much of that do you bet, Saavedra?" asked the fat gambler, lifting his eyes which were full of terror and seemed to ask for mercy. "All," replied the Andalusian _caballero_ dryly. "How much is there?" "I don't know." His tone was depreciative enough. However, the banker seemed not to mind it: he took the package and began to count it under the watchful eyes of the group of players who were gathered around the table, some seated, some standing. "There are forty-one thousand reals." "There is not enough in the bank," said one player, stretching out his hand for his stake. "My credit is good for it," replied the banker, growing redder and redder; it seemed as though he were going to burst. While the banker was distributing the cards, absolute silence reigned. Don Alfonso's was a seven. "That is the end of it," said the banker, with ill-concealed dismay, throwing the pack down on the table. Immediately he began to pay the smaller stakes, leaving Saavedra's till the last. When he came to him there were left only twenty-nine thousand reals. "I shall owe you twelve thousand," said he, handing over all that he had. Don Alfonso took it and thrust it into his pocket angrily. The game was over. The banker, mopping the sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief, went over to the Andalusian, who had taken his seat on a sofa, and was calmly reading a newspaper. "You have fifteen thousand duros in your pocket, my boy." "I don't know," replied Don Alfonso, without looking up. "But I know: Villar and Gonzalez lost nine thousand, and we more than twelve thousand. All the rest put together did not take six thousand." "Pish! it is quite possible," replied the _caballero_. "Any one to see your face would say that what you carried in your pocket was fifteen thousand stones. See here, lend me thirty thousand reals, and that will put you in good humor." Don Alfonso, without saying a word, took out his pocket-book, and gave him a handful of bills. "Saavedra, you are on the downward track. The other evening I saw you in a box at the theatre making love to a mighty pretty girl. Be careful! on the day least expected you will be getting married." Don Alfonso took out his watch, and, after looking at it, smiled coldly, saying:-- "At this very moment I am going to run away with that same little girl. I am going abroad with her." "I would not sell myself cheap," replied the other, without once thinking that it might be true. "But you would soon get tired of it. You and I are just alike; we are too old for such escapades." "Good by, Gubells." "Good by, my boy. Don't fail to be on hand to-night, for there is going to be a game of golfe." "Haven't I told you that I am going to run away with that little girl?" rejoined the _caballero_, at the door, with the same cold smile on his lips. "A nice little piece!... Come back as soon as you can ... won't you? and don't fail to bring the marquis if you meet him." Saavedra slowly descended the carpeted staircase of the Círculo. As he went into the street it was already growing dark. His _berlina_ was waiting for him at the door. "See here, Julián! take me now to the Calle de Carretas, stop there, and wait near the mail-box. A señora will come, she will open the door, and get in with me. As soon as this occurs, without a moment's delay drive like an arrow for Jetafe. You are well acquainted with the road, aren't you? Good! then it will be necessary, even though you wind the horses, to get us there in a jiffy. I want to catch the train that leaves there at half-past eight. Don't you be troubled at the adventure; it is a ballet girl from the Real who wants to go with me to Seville, and I cannot break my word. When we reach Jetafe I will give you further instructions about what you are to do." The carriage reached the Calle de Carretas, and drew up where its owner had commanded. Don Alfonso leaned back in one corner so as to avoid the glances of the passers-by, and waited. Julia had been spending the afternoon at her sister-in-law's, for that day she happened not to have a piano lesson; she was all the time in a state of nervous excitement, which Maximina was not slow to notice. "What is the matter? Do you feel ill?" she asked. "No. What makes you ask? What do you see in me that is strange?" she demanded, full of alarm. "Nothing, nothing! don't be disturbed. You are a trifle paler than usual, and there are circles under your eyes, nothing more." "Oh, I think that I am a little nervous to-day." Maximina smiled good-naturedly, supposing that she might have had some falling out with her lover, and so she ordered some _tila_ to be made for her. In spite of the deep antipathy which she felt for Don Alfonso and the strong reasons that she had for considering him a miscreant, she saw that Julita was so desperately in love with him that she could not bring herself to say a word against him. As the afternoon wore on, her restlessness increased. The youngest offshoot of the race of the Riveras was many times on the point of suffering in some slight degree in consequence of his noble aunt's nervous condition. She hugged him to her heart tighter than was necessary; she tossed him up into the air and caught him again; she gave him hundreds of kisses on the same spot in his face until it burned brighter than a coal, and even--horrible thing--bit his nose. There is no need of saying that the illustrious baby, swelling with indignation, protested against such treatment. The young girl likewise showed herself more tenderly affectionate toward Maximina than usual. "Maximina, how good you are! how good you are!" And she almost squeezed her to death in her arms. "I wish I were. I should like to be good," replied the young wife, blushing. "How much I would give to be like you, Maximina!" "If you weren't better, you would be a pretty poor specimen." "Oh! I am bad, Maximina, very bad!... But you will forgive all my failings, won't you?" And struck by a sudden inspiration, she jumped up, saying:-- "I am going to the study to write a letter." "Aren't you going to drink your _tila_?" "Certainly I will take it; I will finish it afterward." She went to her brother's writing-room, and began in all haste to pen the following note:-- "My dearest Maximina, my soul's sister: When you receive this, poor Julia will already have committed a great sin. I am going to Seville with Alfonso to beg his mother's permission for us to marry. Try to pacify ..." "Julia, your _tila_ is getting cold," said Maximina, laying her hand on the girl's shoulder. Julia uttered a cry, and covered the paper with her hands. Maximina stepped back in consternation. "Excuse me; dear, you took me so by surprise," said Julia, smiling and very rosy. "I am the one to ask pardon for having come in without knocking.... I did not think.... Go on, go on...." she added, with a mischievous smile that signified: "I know whom the letter is for!" How far the innocent young woman was from suspecting the truth! After she left the room, Julia finished her letter: ... "Try to pacify mamma, and Miguel when he comes back. I think that in the end all will be satisfactorily arranged. Alfonso, though he is a little cold, is a perfect gentleman. Pardon and love your sister who takes her farewell of you alone.--_Julia._" Don Alfonso had charged her again and again, and with great forethought, not for anything in the world to leave a written letter giving an intimation of where she was going. But by an impulse of her heart,--one of the many that are inexplicable,--it occurred to her to write to her sister-in-law, in whom she had perfect confidence. "I am going now," she said, putting on a hat which had a thick veil to let down over her eyes. "It is dinner time already, and mamma will be expecting me. Just think! I have not seen her since last evening. I shall be back here again at ten o'clock." They said good by at the door. Maximina gave her a kiss on her cheek as usual; she repaid it with a dozen so eager and affectionate that the young wife could not help exclaiming with a laugh:-- "How crazy you are!" "Crazy? yes! and very crazy," she replied, as she went down the stairs, not turning her head. Her kisses and the accent of those last words somewhat surprised Maximina, but she did not give much thought to them, and shut the door. Juana was to accompany the young girl to her mother's. When they reached the street, it was almost night. On coming to the Calle de Carretas, the señorita said:-- "Juana, do me the favor to go into that tobacconist's and get a stamp and drop this letter into the box.... Can you read?" she added, fearing that she might notice to whom it was directed. "No, señorita," replied the maid,[59] abashed. She went into the tobacconist's, and Julia made her believe that she would wait for her at the door; but as soon as she saw her approach the counter, she ran down the street, and on reaching the carriage, the horses of which she knew, she opened the door and slipped in. Immediately a man's voice was heard to say:-- "Drive hard, Julián, drive hard!" The horses, lashed by the coachman, dashed along the avenue; they soon left behind them the centre of population, and galloped half frantically down Andalucía Avenue. When they reached Jetafe, the train was already whistling in the distance. Don Alfonso bought tickets, and calling Julián aside, said:-- "To-morrow, if you should be asked, say that you drove me to Pozuelo for the train on the Northern Line; do you understand?" "Depend upon me, señorito." "Here," said he, giving him some bank-notes. "Take good care of the horses. I will shortly write you what you are to do." The train rapidly carried the fugitives away, not toward Seville, but to Lisbon. At midnight, the _caballero_ having stepped out a moment, came back with a look of annoyance, saying that he had made a mistake, that they ought to have changed cars farther back. The girl was stupefied and dismayed. "Don't be so much alarmed, dear. Now instead of staying in some large town on this side where they might get knowledge of us by telegraph, it would be better for us to go into Portugal, and from there go directly to Seville." Although the girl protested violently, she had no other remedy than to consent. When they reached Lisbon, they took rooms at one of the best hotels. Don Alfonso promised his cousin to take her the next day to Seville. But a day passed, and then a second and third, and they did not depart. The _caballero_ found one special pretext for postponing the journey. And this was that he had lost his luggage. He was waiting for the arrival of the telegram that he sent about it. Julita during these days found herself in a state of great excitement, so that she passed instantly and alternately from noisy and unreasonable gayety to deep and extravagant melancholy. Sometimes she grew angry with her cousin and overwhelmed him with taunts and threatened to escape alone or to inform the police; then she would throw herself into his arms and ask his pardon. In the midst of the deepest sadness her lover would begin to mimic in grotesque fashion the accent of the maid who served them, and the girl would laugh like a lunatic. At other times she grew enthusiastic at the view of the bay and the royal palace of Cintra. The wily _caballero_ humored her with the most delicate and affectionate attentions. When she lost her temper, he would allow her to recover from it without saying a word; when she was sad, he would do everything to enliven her; when finally he saw that she looked contented, he would take advantage of such moments to go out to walk with her, giving her his arm as though they were husband and wife. They were regarded as a newly married couple by the people at the hotel. Nevertheless, on the fourth day of their visit, as they were in their sitting-room after breakfast, Don Alfonso leaning back in an easy-chair, smoking his cigar, she standing in front of the mirror getting ready to go out, the _caballero_ said, accompanying his words with an ambiguous smile:-- "Do you know what I am thinking, Julita?" "No; what?" "That I am greatly delighted with this way of living with you!" "But I am not," replied the young girl, dryly. "Why, what objection do you have to it?" "I object to living in a state of mortal sin; I wish to ask mamma's pardon and to be married to you." "Now the very thing that I enjoy most is living in this extra-legal way. We are two birds flown from the nest and winging our flight through the air. How jolly it is to be so alone and so free! Could we possibly be happier because a dirty and ignorant priest had jabbered a few Latin words before us?" Julita, on hearing this and noticing the somewhat mocking tone in which Don Alfonso spoke, felt a cold chill run down her back, and she dropped her arms which she had raised to arrange her hair. She stood a moment or two in suspense, and then turning her pale face toward him, she said deliberately, in an unnatural voice:-- "It seems to me that I could not have heard such coarse and vile words come from your mouth." "Why do you call them vile, child? All that I did was to give you my opinion without taking the trouble to consider whether it was good or bad," replied the _caballero_ laughing. "Hush! hush! Alfonso.... There are moments when my imagination is filled with ideas so horrible that if they stayed long I am certain that I should go mad and throw myself out of the window." As she said this, she flung her hat on the toilet table and came and sat down on the sofa, remaining with her head sunk low and her hands crossed in meditative attitude. Great tears began to roll down her cheeks. "Crying?" asked the _caballero_, approaching her. The girl raised her eyes gleaming with fury and looked at him. "Crying! yes!" she said in an exasperated tone. "And why not? What do you care for my tears? I wish to go home immediately! do you hear? I wish to go now ... this very instant." "Calm yourself, Julia." "I do not wish to calm myself. Why am I here with you, I should like to know? Do me the favor to take me home again. Though my mother should kill me, I wish to go to her instantly, do you hear?" Don Alfonso made no answer; he wisely allowed a few minutes to pass so that she might recover a little. Then he said in a muffled and melancholy voice:-- "Well then, if you are already tired of me I will take you back to Madrid again.... I supposed that your love was a little more substantial.... I made a mistake. Patience.... My conscience does not reproach me in the least. Since we left Madrid I have done all that I could to treat you in a straightforward manner. Circumstances brought us here and have retained us against my will.... However, we will start as soon as you like. The truth is, we have waited long enough for that miserable luggage.... Now I am going to tell you something," he added in a broken voice. "If in any respect during these last days I have done anything to hurt your feelings, forgive me. I love you and regard you as my lawful wife, because you are in the sight of God and you will be very soon before men ... that is, if you accept me as a husband and do not return." Julia, likewise moved, gave him her hand which he hastened to kiss. They became reconciled. "Is it your wish that we go to-day?" asked Saavedra, after a moment, in an indifferent tone. "We will wait till to-morrow.... Perhaps the luggage will come to-day," replied the young woman, anxious to make him forget her severe words. "Come on, then, let us have a walk along the bay. It is a lovely afternoon. We will engage a felucca."[60] "Oh yes, yes, Alfonso! I am dying for a sail!" cried Julia, clapping her hands. "On the way you can buy the clothing that you need." Julia, now gay as a lark, once more went to the mirror to arrange her hair. "You can't imagine, Alfonso, how I enjoy sailing in a boat. And if there is a little swell, all the better. I am never seasick. Three years ago, mamma and I went from Santander to Bilbao...." Just as she said those words she uttered a terrible cry, one of those that make the hair stand on end and freeze the blood of those who hear it; her comb fell from her hands; her eyes, fastened on the mirror, expressed terror and dismay. She had seen in the mirror the door of the room open, and her brother Miguel come in. XXVI. On reaching Madrid, and learning what had happened, Miguel's heart was wounded by the cruellest dart that fate had hurled at him since his father's death. He found his step-mother in a state of desperation bordering on imbecility. That proud and indomitable nature had at last been bent. And as always happened when he saw her in the depths and silently weeping, he felt a double compassion. "Poor mamma!" he said, folding her in his arms. "The stroke is severe, but still all is not yet lost. The affair may yet be arranged, with God's aid." "No, Miguel, no; my heart tells me that it cannot be arranged. This man is a villain. I did not heed your warning, and God has punished me." Maximina was greatly upset to find that her husband was going to start that same evening for Seville. "No, no; I do not want you to go," she exclaimed, clinging convulsively to him. "Maximina, this is not worthy of you," replied Miguel gently. "My sister has been abducted, and aren't you willing for me to go in search of her?" "And if that man should kill you? You see he is capable of doing anything!" "Why should he kill me? I am going to Seville merely to search for my sister. As I imagine that he will not refuse to give her up to me, I shall be back with her by day after to-morrow. The rest will be arranged afterward." "Will you give me your word that you are going for no other purpose? That you will not provoke a quarrel with him?" "I will." The brigadier's son did not mean what he said. Who will blame him for that? When the moment for his departure came, his wife, breaking into tears, obliged him once more to repeat his oath. Then holding him by the hands, she said to him:-- "Promise me also that you will be kind to Julia; that you will not say a harsh word to her." "That I also agree to." With these two promises Maximina allowed him to go. Then she went to the window, and lifting her baby in her arms, showed him to his father, as though still further to compel him not to expose his life. On reaching Seville, Miguel found that his sister and Don Alfonso had not been there. He called on Saavedra's mother, and was painfully surprised to learn that this lady had known nothing of the deed done by her son, nor even that he had been paying attentions to Julia. All Miguel's doubts vanished. Saavedra had eloped with his sister to make her his.... His mind refused even to express the word. The first thing that he considered after he had grown a little calmer was to find where he had taken her, since they were not in Seville. It occurred to him that they might have gone to Cadiz, and taken a steamer from there. But after making some inquiries he found that this hypothesis was not supported. Then he determined to return, and ask at all the stations of the road if possibly any one there remembered seeing that couple, a very accurate description of whom he was able to give. He found nothing about them until he reached the station of Algodor. There a porter remembered having taken from one car to another such a _caballero_ with a young lady such as Miguel described. One sure thing--the _caballero_ had given him the fabulous fee of a duro, and this in fact contributed no little to his having remembered. As the railway to Andalucía separates at this station from that of Estramadura and Portugal, Miguel felt a strong suspicion, almost amounting to certainty, that they had gone in this latter direction, and he took a ticket for Lisbon. On reaching there he proceeded to ask at the principal hotels after the young Spanish couple, taking it for granted that, if they were there, they would be settled at one of them. In fact, he came upon their track after he had made three or four inquiries. "Are they at home, or have they gone out?" "I have not seen them go out," replied the porter in Portuguese. "Does your lordship wish me to announce you?" "There is no need. I am her brother. What number is the room!" "Number 16, second floor." With terrible emotion, such as can be imagined, the brigadier's son went into the hotel, and passed through the corridors until he reached the number indicated. He paused at the door to calm his heart, which was throbbing violently: he listened, and could distinguish his sister's voice. With trembling hand he lifted the latch and entered. Julia, on seeing him in the mirror, gave that tremendous shriek of which we have spoken; then she turned and threw herself at his feet. Miguel gently lifted her, and took her to the sofa. Then with calmness he closed the door and advanced toward Don Alfonso, who was sitting in the easy-chair, with his legs crossed, and smoking a cigar with affected boldness, though he was extremely pale. "I have come at last," said Miguel, looking straight into his eyes. "I see you have," replied Don Alfonso, puffing out a cloud of smoke. "You will understand that...." "You want to ask me to explain my conduct?" "No; I do not care to qualify your conduct now. The only thing that interests me at present is to save my sister's honor. I come to demand that you marry her immediately or fight with me." A short pause ensued. Don Alfonso replied coolly:-- "I will neither marry your sister, nor will I fight with you." "We shall see," said Miguel, smiling sarcastically. "There will be no question about it." "We will speak about the second afterward. As to the first: When I heard of my sister's abduction, I suspected that you had not undertaken it for any decent motive. Still I could not persuade myself that you would carry out your treachery to the point of being willing to make a lady who is of your own blood your mistress." Julia uttered a groan. Miguel looked at her with compassionate eyes, and said:-- "Forgive me, Julia; I had forgotten that you were here." "In declining to marry your sister," replied Don Alfonso, "I am not influenced by anything that could be construed in the least to her discredit. I grant that she is an excellent girl. The only thing is, that it never entered into my calculations to marry either her or any one else. This decision, which I made long ago, neither you nor any one else can alter." "Is this your ultimatum in regard to the first part of my question?" "It is." "Very good; now we come to the second. I suppose that you will not refuse to give me reparation by means of arms...." "I do refuse. I have injured you deeply; it would be a fine thing if I killed you besides.... And to allow you to kill me--frankly, I have just as little notion." "There is one infallible means of making you fight: I will slap your face in public." "I don't doubt that you would do so. I regard you as a man of courage; you would do it even though you thereby signed your own death-warrant. Whatever weapons we should choose, you cannot be ignorant that I have ninety chances to ten of killing or wounding you...." Miguel made a scornful gesture. "I know that this does not terrify you; but let us reason about it: What advantage would it give you to die? Would it wipe out your sister's dishonor? It would not only not wipe it out, but it would deprive her of the only support that she has in the world. Then let us suppose--and it is much to suppose--that you killed me. Your sole advantage would be in publishing the disgrace which now with a little caution can remain unknown." Don Alfonso and Miguel both spoke in low tones, so as not to be heard from the outside; but the gestures and accent of each, and especially of the latter, were so energetic and excited, that they very well took the place of loud words. Julia sat on the sofa, motionless, and with her head bent low. "Do you imagine that I am going to accept this logic with which you wish to avoid the unpleasantness of exposing your life? Have no such thought, even though there were one probability against a thousand of killing me, it would be a pleasure for me to face you with sword or pistol. How far the set resolution that I entertain of dying or of killing you goes to put us on an equality, you know perfectly well. Therefore drop these arguments worthy only of a coward, and be kind enough to expect to spend as painful hours as those which you have taken so much pains to make us suffer." "I see that you mean to insult me. Do so with impunity; I grant you the privilege.... But I warn you not to let an ill-sounding word pass your lips in public." "In private and in public I am resolved to do the same! You wretch!" exclaimed Miguel, beside himself. "Everywhere I shall declare that you are a knave, a cowardly assassin, who fights duels only with those unable to defend themselves. In order that you may see how much fear I have of you, take this." Saying these words, he leaped like a lion upon Saavedra, who had risen to his feet, expecting some such move. Before he could raise his hand, the Andalusian seized him by the arms, and brutally hurled him back into the middle of the room, so that he reeled. Miguel was just on the point of springing at him again; but at that instant he found himself held by more gentle arms--those of his sister, who, with her face distorted, her eyes flashing, her voice choking with sobs, said:-- "No, Miguel, no; you cannot measure yourself with this man. After what I have just heard I should prefer a thousand times to die, or to spend my whole life in disgrace, rather than to marry such a monster." "Let go of me! Let go!" cried Miguel, trying to free himself from her arms. "No, my brother; kill me, put me into a convent, but don't expose your own life.... Remember Maximina and your little son." Don Alfonso at the same time stretched out his hand, and said calmly:-- "Before beginning a disgusting scene, unworthy of two gentlemen, such as we are...." "Of a gentleman like this! you are no gentleman," exclaimed Julia, giving him a furious look and clinging to her brother. "Before beginning a scene like this," the Andalusian went on to say, making a contemptuous gesture at the interruption, "listen to one word, Miguel. I have said that I am resolved not to fight, because _I do not wish_ to run the risk of killing you, nor of dying. From here I am going directly to Paris, and probably you will never see me again in this world. If you insist on detaining me, I will meet force with force; if you insult me, as I am in a strange country where no one knows me, it will be of no great consequence to me. And if you should happen to tell the story in Madrid, besides publishing your own dishonor, no one will believe you; because it is not credible that a man who has fought fourteen duels, five of them to the death, would through fear avoid a challenge from a man who scarcely knows how to hold a weapon. So then understand that my resolution is irrevocable." "Well, then, I will kill you like a dog," said Miguel, whipping out a revolver from his pocket. "If you kill me (which I shall take good care that you do not do)," retorted Saavedra, drawing another revolver, "you would go from here straight to jail, and your sister would remain forsaken." Miguel stood for a moment in doubt; then he shrugged his shoulders with a gesture of sovereign contempt, and said, as he put back the pistol:-- "You are right. The truth is, that as a knave you are quite up to the standard! Come on, Julia, come! I am ashamed to spend any more time wasting words with this _vile wretch_." And taking his sister around the waist, he drew her from the room. Don Alfonso watched them as they disappeared: he listened until the sound of their steps was lost; he also shrugged his shoulders, put back his revolver, and, while he arranged his necktie before the glass, previous to going out, he muttered with a diabolical smile:-- "I did not come out of it quite as well as I expected, ... but after all, this adventure has not been so bad!" XXVII. As soon as Miguel and his sister reached the capital, they learned of an event which grieved them intensely. Let us relate it from the beginning. On account of the affectionate preference which Julia had shown on the evening of the party, our heroic friend Utrilla had recovered sufficient spirits to last at least half a year. His sweet enemy made him drain the cup of triumph at one draught. Intoxicated with love and pride, it took two consecutive months of continual rebuffs, before this glorious young fellow came clearly to understand that her humor had changed a little. It is evident that such a change was not sufficient to affect him very seriously, since he was very certain, now more than ever, of the irresistible fascination which he exercised over the beauty. That closing of the window when he passed along the street, that turning of the eyes in the opposite direction, and not replying to his letters, were for the lad only "open strategies" by which the girl was trying to make him fall in love with her, and keep him more than ever her slave. As a proof of this, let us say that once, happening to be at the theatre, he took a place opposite to where she was, and not taking his eyes from her through a whole _entr'acte_, a friend, touching him on the shoulder, said:-- "_Holá_, comrade! evidently that little brunette pleases you." "That's an old story," replied the ex-cadet, dryly and with dignity. "And the girl; how about her?" "Poor girl!" he exclaimed, shaking his head, and smiling compassionately. The friend observed, however, that during the whole evening the young girl did not once turn her eyes in that direction, though she often looked toward a lower proscenium box, where there were a number of young aristocrats. Very far, therefore, from being discouraged, Utrilla was almost happy. He would have been entirely so if, instead of having to keep account of candles put out, he had been occupied in some more congenial business, and had had the good fortune to have killed, or at least dangerously wounded, some one in a duel. But up to the present time, unfortunately, no favorable opportunity had presented itself. Still, he was waiting anxiously for one, for, in truth, his conscience troubled him for being now eighteen years old, and "never having once been into the field." Of late he had begun to take lessons in the use of the foils at a fencing-school, and in presence of the professor and his companions he had made allusion to some deadly project which he had conceived, and which, in our opinion could not have been anything else than the riddance of his rival Don Alfonso. Months passed, and at regular hours, with a constancy worthy of a more fortunate result, Utrilla wore out the heels of his boots along the sidewalks of the Calle Mayor. Occasionally Julita would deign to greet him with a wave of the hand, in answer to the energetic way in which her suitor took off his hat to her from the street. Still, the greater number of times it happened that when the brigadier's daughter caught sight of him looming around the corner, she would hastily close the balcony, and this our young man took as a sign of exquisite modesty and timidity at his penetrating glances. The most that he felt called upon to say in complaint was:-- "This Julita--when will she cease being a mere child!" The unshaken faith which he had in the fascinating virtue of his smile and his genteel appearance was sufficient to sustain him in this illusion; but it must be confessed that some help was given toward it by the fact that Julita herself, though very mercifully, made use of him on occasion, to wake Saavedra's jealousy, when she was vexed with him. And sometimes at the theatre she would talk with him in the presence of the _caballero_ himself. This was the position of affairs when the bomb exploded; that is, when Julita eloped that evening with her cousin. The first news of this that Utrilla received was communicated to him by _la brigadiera's_ door-maid, with whom he sustained cordial relations, strengthened from time to time by a chance peseta. As was to be expected, the ex-cadet resolutely refused to believe it. But when he found the evidence overwhelming, he stood like a statue--not a Greek one, however; his nostrils dropped, and his dull, myoptic eyes expressed absolutely nothing except imbecility: his Adam's apple stood out in a manner truly monstrous. After the first shock was past, Utrilla considered what was befitting for him to do in this most extraordinary juncture. He thought of starting after the fugitives, overtaking them, and killing the seducer with one stab; but above and beyond the great difficulty of overtaking them, in what character should he present himself before them, being neither brother nor husband of the stolen damsel. This project having been rejected, it came to him clear as the day that the only thing left worthy of such a misfortune was suicide. After racking his brains for a whole day he found no other adequate solution. Jacobo Utrilla, with that marvellous perspicacity with which he was endowed in these delicate matters pertaining to honor, made up his mind that the world would never forgive him unless he put an end to his existence on this occasion. And as a man who valued his dignity above all things, he resolved to sacrifice on this altar his own life, so sweet to all created things. Melancholy night that which preceded this tragic event! Utrilla was perfectly well aware of what he had to do in such a situation as this; without any trouble at all, he could have written a _Handbook of Suicide_. Thus he spent the time till dawn in writing letters and drinking black coffee. One of them was to his father, asking his pardon, but, at the same time, making him to see by weighty reasons that if he had acted in any other way, he would have dishonored the noble name that he bore; another, to Julia, very dignified, very courteous, very generous; the only favor that he asked was that sometimes she should place a flower on his tomb; the last was, in fact, to the judge of the police, giving him to understand "that no one was to blame for his death," etc. Having scrupulously fulfilled those lofty duties, he washed his face and hands, and dressed with all care, and asked for chocolate. Doña Adelaida, who always arose at peep of day, gave it to him, though she was not a little surprised to see him so early in the morning dressed in such elegant style. "Jacobito, why have you dressed all in black? Are you going to a funeral?" "Yes, señora.... To the funeral of a friend of yours," he replied with admirable self-control. "Who is it?" "You will know in good time." While he took his chocolate, he was genial and jolly, as never before, making the good señora roar with his anecdotes. Utrilla was not naturally facetious, nor was he apt to be good-natured when he got up early; but he felt that, in these exceptional circumstances, it was very necessary to vary his habits; for he was a practical man, and had no rival as a connoisseur in such matters. "Come, now, I am going from here to the Campo Santo," said he, putting on his hat and taking his cane. "But is the service in the cemetery, Jacobito?" "No; there is a mass in the chapel.... You would not like me to remain there, would you?" "Where?" "In the cemetery." "_Ave María!_ What jokes you do make, Jacobito!" He gave a laugh that partook of an hysterical character. He took his gloves from his pocket; but before putting them on, he drew off a finger ring and handed it to the housekeeper, saying:-- "This ring you will please send to Don Miguel Rivera's house, and ask them to give it to him when he returns." "Is it a present?" "Yes; in return for the many favors that he has done for me." Immediately this great-souled and punctilious young man sallied forth from the house with firm step, bent upon accomplishing his duty. Neither the beauty of the day, which was more than usually bright and glorious, nor the sight of the pleasures to which life invited him, nor the tender recollection of his father, caused him to pause in his serene and majestic march. As he passed near the Cibeles fountain, a hand-organ was playing a waltz-polka which reminded him of a certain experience that he had had in the saloon of Capellanes. He felt a little melancholy; but his heroic soul immediately recovered from this impulse of weakness. He reached the Retiro: he was alone. He walked along with deliberate step in search of a hidden and mysterious spot. When he had found such, he sat down on a stone bench, took off his hat, and laid it carefully by his side; then he opened his frock coat and threw one leg over the other, taking care to pull down his trousers so as not to expose his stocking. Then thrusting one hand into his pocket and assuring himself that his letters were in their place, he drew out a small nickel-plated revolver. At that moment a powerful temptation assailed the young lad's constant soul. It occurred to him that perhaps there was no reason for him to commit suicide; that it would be better to let things run their course; that the world had many revolutions to make, and he was too young to deprive himself of existence. If Julita had run away, that was her own affair: to kill himself was a serious, a very serious matter! Still his bravery, which had never yet played him false, was able to conquer this horrible temptation. "No," he said to himself, "I cannot live honorably any longer. All those who were acquainted with these relations of mine would have the right to laugh at me. And Jacobo was not born that any one should laugh at him!" He leaned back, placed his left elbow on the back of the bench, with his head poetically resting on his hand. With his right hand he aimed his revolver at his temple and fired. Either because his hand trembled a little (a suspicion which would not amount to anything if it were not regarding this invincible youth of indomitable courage), or because the pistol did not shoot quite accurately, at all events Utrilla fell, badly wounded, but not killed. He was taken to the hospital,[61] and thence home. His condition was very serious. When Miguel arrived from Lisbon three days after this tragic event, he immediately went to see him. He was deeply and painfully impressed. The bullet had cut the optic nerve, and the unhappy boy was hopelessly blind. The consultation of doctors had not given a favorable verdict. As the ball was still in the head, very near the brain, they judged that it was impossible for him to live very long. Any movement might bring with it instant death. But the strange and terrible part of the affair was, that the hapless lad, already blind, lying in his bed suffering tremendous and unceasing anguish, did not want to die. With lamentable cries, which tore the heart and brought tears from all who were present, he begged his father and brothers to _make_ him live--to live under any circumstances, even though he should be blind. It was impossible. In the course of twelve days that intrepid and unfortunate young man had passed away. Miguel was with him till the very last. XXVIII. By the advice of all, it was determined that _la brigadiera_ and her daughter should leave Madrid and go to live at the Astillero of Santander. It was the only place, as they already had a house rented, that offered them immediately a secret refuge where to hide their shame. After they had taken their departure, Miguel remained more calm. Nevertheless, a deep sadness had taken possession of his heart, which neither his wife's love nor the infantile graces of his baby were sufficient to dissipate. And the reason was that, beyond the grief caused by his sister's disgrace, he lived tormented by the thought of his impending ruin. He could not hide the fact that Eguiburu was crouching like a tiger, ready to leap upon him and tear him to pieces. He saw Mendoza very rarely; he noticed that he avoided meeting him, and when this was unavoidable, their conversation was short and embarrassed on both sides. One day he went home at night-all, pale enough. Maximina, who, as always, came to meet him, with the baby in her arms, did not notice it because it was so dark. He kissed his child affectionately again and again, and then went into his study. His wife stood at the door, motionless, gazing sadly at him. "A light," said he, in imperious tones. Maximina ran to the dining-room, left the baby in Juana's hands, and she herself brought the lighted candles. Miguel paid no attention to her, and began to write. When after a few moments he lifted his head, he saw her leaning against the mantel-piece, looking at him, her eyes brimming with tears. "Why are you here? What is the matter?" The little wife slowly approached him, and laying one hand on his shoulder, said, with a melancholy attempt at a smile:-- "Have I done anything wrong, Miguel?" "Why so?" "Always when you come in you give me a kiss, but to-day you don't pay any attention at all to me!... You have kissed the baby more than...." Miguel leaped to his feet and strained his wife to his heart. "No, my Maximina; if I kissed the boy, it was solely because I came in thinking about him and anxious about his fate." Then, without being able to speak another word, he threw himself into a chair and sobbed. Maximina stood as though she had seen the house fall down before her eyes. When the first instant of amazement was past, she ran to him and kissed him. "Miguel, Miguel, light of my life, what is the matter?" "Misfortune hangs over us, Maximina," he replied, with his face in his hands. "I have stupidly ruined you--you and my son!" "Don't cry, Miguel, don't cry!" exclaimed the little wife, pressing her lips to her husband's face. "I had nothing; how could you ruin me?" When he had grown a little calmer he explained to her what had taken place. Eguiburu had summoned him for the following day, to recognize his endorsements; and he expected him immediately to enforce his legal claim. "Do you remember that day when, after I had guaranteed the thirty thousand duros for the paper, so that it might go on, I asked your opinion? You did not dare to tell me that I had not done well, and you gave me an evasive answer. How wise you were!" "No, Miguel, no; you are mistaken," she answered, trying to spare her husband the mortification of having acted with less sense than a woman. "What did I know about such things? If you did wrong, I should have done much worse.... But, after all, what has happened is not worth your being so troubled. We haven't any money left: well, and what of that? We will work for our living, as so many others do. I am used to it; I am not a señorita; I can live very economically, and not suffer any. You shall see how little I will spend! And our darling, when he gets old enough, will work too, and become a useful man--see if that isn't so! Perhaps if he knew that he would not be obliged to work, he would be dissipated, like so many other rich young men. And above all, he, and I too, will care for nothing else than to have his papa happy, with or without money." Oh, how sweet sounded those words in the troubled Miguel's ears! "You are my good angel, Maximina!" he exclaimed, kissing her hands. "I don't know what magic your words have to sweeten my sorrows instantaneously, to soothe me and calm me as though I had taken an aromatic bath.... Where did you learn this lovely eloquence, my life," he added, seating her on his knee. "You need not tell me! It all comes from here!" And he kissed her just above her heart. The husband and wife conversed a long time, calm, cheerful, drinking in with mouth and eyes the divine nectar of conjugal love. Extraordinary thing! In spite of being on the eve of a great calamity, Miguel could not remember having spent a happier hour in his life. And though the events that took place within a few days sobered him, yet, thanks to this cheering balsam, they could not wholly dishearten him. Eguiburu at last sprang down upon his prey. The legal claim was sustained. Miguel's two houses in the Calle del Arenal and on the Cuesta de Santa Domingo were sold by auction for forty-eight thousand duros. If the sale had not been forced, there is no doubt that he would have received much more for them. Purchasers naturally took advantage of the occasion. The total amount of our hero's debt, with interest and expenses, reached fifty thousand duros. Consequently there remained a trifle to make up. Miguel sold a part of his furniture and some of his jewels so as to clear himself entirely. This having been done, he sought for a cheap tenement at the extreme outskirts of Madrid. He found in the Chamberí a rather pretty third-story apartment in a house recently built, at the moderate rent of twelve duros a month. He immediately moved there, and settled down with some degree of comfort with the rest of his furniture. The house was small; but through Maximina's endeavors, it was soon converted into a quite pleasant residence. The largest room was reserved for Miguel, since, as they had no expectation of society calls, they had no need of a parlor. Of the servants they kept only Juana, who offered to act as cook. The other girls, on learning that they were to be dismissed, began to weep passionately; Plácida above all was inconsolable. "Señorita, for Heaven's sake, take me with you! With you I would go anywhere and eat potatoes, and not ask any pay." Maximina was touched, and consoled her by saying that they were not going to leave Madrid, and that they could easily see each other. The marvellous baby, whose rapid progress of late had reached the truly incredible point of raising his hands to heaven whenever he heard her sing the song-- _Santa María, qué mala está mi tía!_ was the object of many tender embraces on the part of the domestics, who between them squeezed him almost to death. When they were fairly settled, Miguel naturally set himself about finding some occupation, so as to earn enough for living, though in a very modest manner. Politics were detestable to him; the same was true of journalism, although it was the only profession to which he was accustomed. He knew that there were going to be a few competitive offices vacant in the Council of State, and he made up his mind that he would try for one of them. In his love for his wife and baby, and in his sense of duty which had never entirely abandoned him, and which, amid his misfortunes, now arose in full strength in his mind, he found the stimulus and power not only to devote himself zealously to studies that were distasteful to him, but also to conquer his pride. A young man who had shone in Madrid society, who had been the editor-in-chief of a newspaper and within a hair's breath of being deputy, could not help feeling some mortification in passing through a public examination for a place worth only twelve or fourteen thousand reals. He devoted himself ardently to the study of administrative law with such zeal that he hardly went out of the house, except a little while in the evening to rest his brain. The very little money that they had left he spent with exceeding care so that it might hold out until the time of the competition, which was to be held after the summer, toward October or November. Maximina in this respect was a model. Not only did she spend nothing on her person, for she had clothes enough, but also in the household expenses she performed prodigies of skill to reduce them to the smallest terms. Miguel was grieved, and almost shed tears secretly when he saw her making soap herself because it would be a few centimos cheaper than at the shop, and many times taking charge of the kitchen while Juana was gone to a distant store where potatoes were a real cheaper, and ironing the nicer linen herself, etc. But she seemed happy; perhaps happier than when they were in the midst of opulence. The luxuriance of their apartment on the Plaza de Santa Ana had a certain depressing influence upon her. As she never dusted or arranged the furniture herself, they seemed to her hardly to be hers. Now everything was the opposite; she had put them in their places after serious perplexities; she dusted them every day, she swept and brushed the carpet, she polished with stag-horn powder all the metal arrangements, she kept the window in her husband's room carefully washed; in fact, she took entire charge of all the details of the household. It was for Miguel a pleasure not free from melancholy to see her mornings, with a silk handkerchief wrapped around her head in the Biscaïan manner and in a woollen apron, gracefully waving the feather duster and lightly humming some sentimental _zórcico_ of her country. But Maximina understood to the last detail the economy that referred to herself. This from time to time caused Miguel deep pain. Without his knowing it she had given up her chocolate in the afternoon. When he discovered it he became furious. "Who would ever have thought of it! The idea of cutting down your food when you are nursing a baby! It is senseless and almost a sin! I forbid you to do such a thing! do you hear me? Rather than let you deny yourself what you needed to eat, I would go and break stones in the street, or beg! You know that I would!" "Don't scold me, Miguel, for Heaven's sake! It was because I did not care for chocolate these days." "Then you ought to have taken something else." "I did not want anything." "Come, come, Maximina, quit such foolishness.... And don't let it happen again." Though the little wife tried to keep her feet hidden in his presence, he found another time that her shoes were worn through. "What does this mean?" he demanded. "Why don't you buy another pair of shoes?" "I will some time." "You must buy them this very day. Yours are badly worn." "All right. I will send for them to-day." And she managed to attract his attention to something else. After five or six days had passed, he found that she was wearing the same ones. "What a girl you are!" he exclaimed, in vexation. "Don't scold me, Miguel! don't scold me!" the little wife hastened to say, throwing her arms around him, and smiling in mortification. A harsh word from Miguel was for her the severest of misfortunes. "How can I help scolding you if you do not obey me?" "Forgive me!" "I am going to take your measure, and this very day bring you a pair of shoes." "Oh no!" she said hurriedly. "Don't trouble yourself; I will send right out for some." The reason for this was that she was afraid that her husband might buy more expensive ones than she wanted. Miguel, on his side, likewise practised some personal economies, though he did not go to such lengths. But Maximina could not endure this. When she saw him put on a _hongo_ and a silk handkerchief around his neck, so as to save his silk hat and the good clothes that he had, she grew vexed. "How you _do_ look; I don't like you so, Miguel!" "It's because I don't care to dress up. I am only going on an errand, and shall be right back." If at the end of any given time she found the same money in his vest, she would say sadly:-- "You don't spend anything, Miguel. Don't you lunch at the café? Why don't you go to the theatre?" "Because I am very busy now. I will go as soon as the examinations are over. Besides, we must be a little economical for the present." "How bad it makes me feel not to have you spend as you used to do!" she exclaimed, giving him a hug. "You are making this sacrifice for my sake! If you were alone, you would live much better." "Come, come, don't be absurd, Maximina. Without you I should live neither well nor ill.... I should die," he replied, laughing. Although excited by the prospect of the examinations, and working for them perhaps harder than he ought, our hero was not unhappy. When there is peace and love by the fireside, family life is the best sedative for mental sufferings. This on one side, and on the other the confidence which he had in his forces made living, up to a certain point, delightful. There came a day, however, in which happiness and relative calmness disappeared at the announcement that the examinations for which he was working were indefinitely postponed, possibly till the next year. All his plans fell to the ground. As he had not for some time thought of any other way of escape from his difficulties, he felt annihilated. He had strength enough, nevertheless, to hide it from his wife, and to appear at home serene and happy as usual. Redoubled by the surprise, the energies of his soul were awakened to new vigor. "It is necessary, at all events, to seek for work," he said to himself. He had money enough to last only for a month. Still he allowed his wife to spend as before, certain that she could not economize more than she did at the time without undergoing serious privations. The first thought that occurred to him was to seek for employment with some private firm. He called on a number of friends, and all cheered him with good words. Nevertheless a month passed, and no employment appeared. He found himself obliged to pawn his watch in order to pay his landlord and store account; he told his wife that he had left it to be regulated. A second month passed, and still nothing turned up. One day Maximina, dead with mortification, said to him, as though she were confessing some crime:-- "Miguel, the shopkeeper down street has sent me his bill, and as I have not a cuarto, I can't pay it." The brigadier's son trembled; but hiding it as well as he could, he replied, with affected indifference:-- "Very well; I will see that it is paid when I go out. How much is it?" "Two hundred and twenty-four reals." "Do you need any more money?" Maximina dropped her eyes and blushed. "I owe Juana her wages." "I will bring it this afternoon." He said these words without knowing what he said. Where was he to get it? His Uncle Bernardo had been sent some months before to a private mad-house in Paris. Doña Martina and her family had also gone there to look after him. Enrique was not in the condition to lend it to him. His step-mother was out of town, and she had barely enough to live decently; moreover, it caused him an invincible repugnance to ask back what he had once given. No one of the family was left of whom he could ask it, except his Uncle Manolo. To him he went. Uncle Manolo, a grave man and of excellent charity, although he knew about his nephew's ruin, had not realized that it was so complete. He stood with his mouth open at hearing his request. He took out of his drawer the forty duros which he had requested and handed them to him. Miguel, through certain words that escaped him, perceived that he was undergoing a greater sacrifice than any one could have imagined. He suspected, or rather he felt, almost certain, that his uncle was subjected to a shameful servitude. _La intendenta_ apparently had no thought of abandoning the care of her property, and she allowed him each month a certain sum of money for his private wants, which were, as always, large and perfectly indispensable. Accordingly, Miguel went away greatly disturbed at the interview, and convinced that to borrow money of Uncle Manolo in such circumstances was equivalent to giving him a very great annoyance. After this episode, convinced that he had no right to expect aid from his relatives, he put forth double zeal in his search for work of any kind. But all his attempts met with the bad luck which pitilessly followed him. In some places there was no vacancy; in others, finding that he was a señorito, and had never been in any counting-house, they distrusted him. At the editorial offices he was most kindly received; but, as at that time, and even now, the pecuniary affairs of the press were rather upset, willing as the directors would have been, they did not find it easy to give him a position. The most that any of them promised was to give him a place as soon as there was a vacancy. But what he needed now, at this very moment, was some money to buy food, and the days were passing, and it did not come. Without Maximina knowing about it, he pawned a set of gold studs and a ring which had belonged to his father. Finally the owner of an afternoon paper gave his absolute promise that he should have forty duros a month, as soon as a month was past: during the actual month, on account of certain difficulties in the business office, he could not pay it down. Our hero worked a whole month for nothing. At the beginning of the next, as it was absolutely necessary for him to pay certain sums, Miguel asked him to let him have some money. Then the owner and manager, adopting that air half complaining and half diplomatic, which all assume who are about to refuse a just but unwelcome claim, painted in the darkest colors the business situation of the daily, the difficulty of collecting certain sums that were due him, the necessity which all editors have of "putting their shoulders to the wheel in order to sustain a young enterprise," etc., etc. "Friend Huerta," replied Miguel, very much dissatisfied, "hunger has made me altogether too weak to be able to put my shoulder to any new enterprise; on the contrary, _I_ need to be propped up myself so as not to fall." It was impossible to get a penny from him. Our hero took his leave, full of indignation, the more because he happened to know that all the money taken in went straight into the director's private box, and that he used it to lead the life of a prince. Now began for the young pair a gloomy and trying time. Miguel was unable any longer to hide his necessities. One by one the few objects of value which they had in the house went to the pawn-shop, where they brought scarcely the fifth part of their value. Oftentimes the young man despaired and cursed his lot, and even spoke of going and firing a shot at the Count de Ríos and another at Mendoza. Maximina, in these painful crises, consoled him, cheered him with new hope, and when this resource failed, she succeeded in softening him with her tears and driving away from him all his evil thoughts. Always serene and cheerful, she made heroic attempts to divert him, calling to her aid the little one, when worst came to worst; she carefully concealed the toil which in his absence she undertook so as not to let him see that there was anything at fault when he came. Poverty, nevertheless, was pressing closer and closer around them each day. At last the day came that actually they had not a peseta in the house and knew not where to get another. At the grocery store they were not willing to let them have goods on credit. Miguel, without his wife's knowledge, took one of his coats, wrapped it up in paper and carried it to a pawn-shop: they would give only two duros for it. On his return, as he was meditating how to escape from this miserable situation, and seeing no way of finding work, he suddenly adopted a violent resolution: namely, that of undertaking manual labor. With his face darkened by an expression of pain he said to himself as he walked along:-- "Rather than my wife starve to death I am ready to do anything.... Anything! even to commit robbery. I am going to try the last resort." Near his house was a printing-office where on days of depression, when he had just received some rebuff, he often spent long hours watching the compositors at their work or trying himself to spell out some easy task. The proprietor was an excellent man, and very cordial relations had sprung up between them. He went in there and calling him aside, he said:-- "Don Manuel, I find myself without means of getting food; in spite of all my efforts during these last months I have not been able to obtain a situation. Would you be willing to take me as an apprentice in your office, giving me a little something on account of future work?" The printer looked at him with an expression of sadness. "Are you so bad off as all that, Don Miguel?" "In the last depths of poverty." The owner of the printing-office considered a few moments, and said:-- "Before you could learn how to set type with any degree of rapidity, a long time would pass. Besides, it is not right that a _caballero_ should soil his hands with ink. The only thing that you can do here is to help the proof-reader. Do you object?" "I am ready to do whatever you order." He spent that day, in fact, reading proofs. At night the proprietor told him that he would give him three pesetas a day salary until he dismissed the present proof-reader, who was a great drunkard. As he started to leave, he thrust into his hand a ten-duro bill as advance pay. "Thanks, Don Manuel," he said, deeply touched. "In you, who are a workingman, I have found more generosity than in all the _caballeros_ whom I have been to see up to the present time." For several days he worked as well as he could, conscientiously fulfilling his task. It was hard and monotonous to the last degree; it kept him busy from early in the morning till night. Moreover, the very insignificant pay scarcely sufficed to buy potatoes; and although the proprietor was anxious to send away the proof-reader and give him the place, Miguel opposed it because he also was the father of a family, and had no other means of livelihood. XXIX. While they were in this destitute and most melancholy situation, it came to pass one afternoon just as he had come in from the printing-office that the bell rang. Juana announced that a very old _caballero_ wanted to speak with him. He sent word for him to come in, and instantly there appeared in his study the old apothecary Hojeda. "Don Facundo!" he cried, with genuine joy. "It is I, Miguelito; it is I. I am perfectly furious! Can't you see it by my face? I must give you a regular scolding. Who would have thought that you, degenerate scion, should be tramping through this blessed world of ours, hunting for a situation, and never have remembered an old friend like me! I know very well that I am a poor old man who is not good for anything." "That is not so, Don Facundo; that is not so.... It is because our professions are so unlike.... Besides, I was afraid that mamma would find out...." He could not give an excuse. The truth was that he had forgotten the saintly old man. "No use, my dear fellow, no use; you were ungrateful.... You forget those who love you, and go and ask favors of men who did not even know your father." "You are right...." "Well, then, I have scolded you sufficiently. Let us come to what interests us more closely at present. I have come to offer you a place in the bank of Andalucía. For more than a month I have been begging it for you. At last, this very day, they put it at my disposition. Salary, sixty duros a month. Will you take it?" Miguel's only answer was to squeeze his hand violently. After a moment he exclaimed, with his eyes full of tears:-- "If you only knew, Don Facundo, how opportunely this comes!" "Haven't you any money?" "Not a peseta!" "Haven't you found anything to do?" "Yes; that of assistant proof-reader in the printing-office just below here." "How much salary?" "Three pesetas a day." "Jesus! Jesus!" exclaimed the apothecary, raising his hands to his head and remaining in a thoughtful attitude. He had the delicacy not to ask him a question about his ruin. Nevertheless, Miguel of his own accord told him all, even to the smallest particulars. When Don Facundo had heard the whole story, he said:-- "See here, Miguel, I am going to ask a favor of you." "You shall!" "I want you to accept these six thousand reals[62];" and he laid the bills on the table. "I am an old bachelor: the money that I have is amply sufficient." "Don Facundo, I cannot...." "I demand it in the name of the friendship that bound me to your father." There was no way of declining it. "Besides, you must give me your word that if the sixty duros a month are not sufficient for your living expenses, and you find yourself in a tight place, you will come to me first of all.... I will not leave the house unless you promise me." The brigadier's son gave the promise. Then he called in Maximina, and the three talked a long time about various matters. Don Facundo seemed to lose his wits over the baby. When it came the time for him to take his departure, Miguel seized him by the hand, and said with emotion:-- "Don Facundo, I give up trying to tell you what is passing through my heart at this moment. I will simply repeat what I said once before: _You are a great personage_." "Miguelito, if you persist in saying these foolish things, I will never come to your house again." "Then what name do you want us to give those who come only when there is some misfortune to alleviate?" With this opportune visit, thanks to God, the anxiety of our young friends ended. The sixty duros, carefully husbanded, were sufficient for them to live comfortably. Nevertheless, Miguel did not care to relinquish the idea of the place in the Council of State, and when the examinations were given, he secured one with a salary of sixteen thousand reals; thereupon he resigned his place in the bank, which gave him too much work. With this salary and three or four thousand reals more that he earned by writing articles from time to time for the papers and reviews, he felt himself perfectly happy. And he was in reality happy. Poverty had more than ever strengthened the cords of love. The cruel rebuffs that society had made him feel caused him to realize that his home was the only place where true happiness was to be found,--a corner of heaven where Maximina played the rôle of angel. His love to her did not increase, for that was impossible; but his admiration did. This young wife's lofty spirit had never showed itself so admirable, so worthy of being adored, as during the critical and painful days through which they had just been passing. So great had come to be the love and admiration felt by our hero, that when he found in his study any object that Maximina had left there, he would kiss it tenderly and respectfully, as though it had been a sacred relic. During the hours that he was free from his duties, he studied passionately. He rarely went from the house. When he did so, it was generally to read in the "Ateneo" the books which he was unable to buy. "You read here a great deal, friend Rivera," some friend would say, laying his hand on his shoulder. "It is because I haven't any money," he would reply, with a laugh. When he returned home at half-past ten or eleven in the evening, his wife would be just about going to bed. That was the happiest time for Maximina. Since the birth of the baby they occupied separate apartments; she slept in a room with two beds, with Juana; he alone, in another chamber. Miguel enjoyed carrying to her room a little lunch, either brought in from outside or something already in the house; for as Maximina was still nursing the baby, who was now fifteen months old, she felt very weary at this time of the day. How great the poor girl's pleasure was to see her husband coming in punctually with a slice of ham or some dainty bit of sweetmeat! If he went to the extravagance of bringing her something expensive, she would say:-- "That must last three days." And in spite of all his protests, she would insist upon it being divided into three parts. Miguel watched her eating with a peculiar feeling of rapture; he would offer her a glass of wine, cut the bread for her, and carry away all the dishes. And then in a whisper, so as not to wake the baby, who was sleeping in his crib, they would talk sometimes for an hour and more. Meanwhile Juana, still dressed, would be sound asleep in a room near the kitchen. Miguel, as he went to his chamber, would waken her (not a very easy task); and she, staggering with sleep, would go to her mistress's room for the rest of the night. The young man, aged fifteen months, gave them, without being conscious of it, more enjoyment than all the tenors of the opera and the _zarzuela_ combined. He was constantly travelling, if we can allow that term to be applied to his going like a drunken man making _s_'s, from the arms of his father to those of his mother. The tyranny which he exercised in that house was something scandalous. Above all, toward Maximina he behaved in a manner exceedingly boorish, without there being the least reason for him to be offended with her. For though it was very clear that she was the one who from her own vitality furnished him nutriment, not only did he not show her the lofty consideration which she deserved, but he evidently had a preference for Juana, and this was caused by nothing else than the fact that the Guipuzcoana maid made him laugh more with her caresses and dandling of him. Poor Maximina could not bring herself to believe in this cruel preference. One day after breakfast, as the three were playing with the baby in the corridor, Juana wanted to give proof of it. "Come, now, go to your mamma," she said to the little one. But he clung with all his might to her. "It is evident that he loves you only when he is hungry," said Miguel, making fun of her. Maximina became grieved and even vexed, and tried to take the child from Juana, but he objected and squealed. "Come now, see if he won't come to me," suggested Miguel. "Why not?" As soon as his papa spread open his arms, the capricious infant sprang into them. "Do you see?" he exclaimed, leaping up in triumph. Then Maximina, full of sorrow and mortification, the more because her husband and Juana laughed so heartily at her defeat, was going to pull him away by main force. Miguel started to run. Maximina, growing more and more nervous and incensed, trying not to cry, ran after him. At last, unable to overtake him, she went into the study. There Miguel shortly after found her standing up, leaning against the mantel-piece, her eyes hidden with one hand, and evidently crying. He went up to her on tiptoe, laid the baby on the rug, and said to him:-- "There now, go and ask forgiveness of your mamma, and tell her what you have just whispered in my ear: that you love her better than any one else in the world." At the same time he put the child's mouth to his wife's hand, as it hung by her side. When she felt her son's fresh, moist lips touching her, the little woman turned her head to look at him: through the tears gleamed in her eyes a smile of love and forgiveness, which it was a shame that that ungrateful little miscreant could not have appreciated. One night, after dinner, Miguel felt lazy, as was often the case, and did not care to go out. They went to the study, and Maximina began to read the paper. Afterward, when she had taken her seat on her husband's knee, they began to talk, as usual, telling each other about the little events of the day. "Do you know?" she said, "this afternoon I had a caller!" "Who was it?" "A villain!" said the little wife, smiling mischievously. Miguel could not refrain from a slight frown. He was very jealous, as all men must be who really love, though he tried carefully to hide it. "Who was the villain?" The somewhat harsh tone of this question did not escape Maximina. "The curé of Chamberí." "The little old man who said mass on the ninth?" "The very same.... Why didn't you like it that the villain was here? eh, you rogue!" she added, giving him a tender hug. "And what brought the curé?" asked Miguel, in his turn parrying his wife's question. "To put us down in his book.... I could not help laughing a little.... I opened the door for him, and he said to me: '_Holá_, child! go and tell your mamma the rector of Chamberí is here.'--'I haven't any mamma,' said I.--'Then tell the lady of the house.'--'I am she,' I told him, half dead with mortification. He began to cross himself, saying, '_Ave María! Ave María!_ what a little, young thing!' He was still more surprised to know that we had been married two years and three months." "That's natural enough,--with that smooth, round, baby cheek of yours, you would deceive any one." "It is absurd; I am not a child any longer: I shall be eighteen next month." Before going to bed, they put out the lights and opened the balcony window to enjoy for a little while the spectacle of the starry sky. It was a clear, mild night toward the last of April. As they were on the third floor, and the section of the city where they lived was less built up, they could see more than half of the heavenly vault. As they stood together, Maximina leaning her arm on her husband's shoulder, they silently contemplated for a long time that sight which will forever be the most sublime of all. "How large and beautiful that star is, Miguel. What a pure, bright light it gives!" said Maximina, pointing to the sky. "That is Sirius. In the books of antiquity it is said that it used to shine with a red light. However, it is not any greater or more beautiful than the others, except that it is not so far away: it is one of three nearest to us." "Though Sister San Onofre kept telling us that the earth was a star like those, only still smaller, I can never seem to believe it." "And so small, Maximina! Each one of the stars that you see is thousands and millions of times bigger than our earth. Our solar system, of which we are the poorest and most insignificant part, belongs to that great nebula that crosses the sky like a white band. Each particle of that dust is a sun around which revolve other worlds, which, like ours, have no light of their own. In order that you may get some idea of its size, let me tell you it is isolated in the heavens like an island and is shaped like a lens; well, then, for a ray of light to travel from one extreme of the longer axis of this lens to the other it takes seventeen thousand years, and yet light travels at the rate of seventy thousand leagues a second!" "_Madre mia!_ how tremendous!" "But that is a mere nothing. Our nebula is only one of many others that people space. There are others vastly larger. With the telescope they are constantly discovering new ones. When a telescope of greater power is invented, then the nebulæ are separated into stars; but beyond these are other nebulæ still, which had never been seen before. If a telescope of still greater power were made, those nebulæ, also, in their turn, would be reduced to stars; but then, beyond that, there would be still other nebulæ, and so on forever." "And so there is no end to the sky?" "That is the supposition." Maximina remained for a few minutes rapt in thought. "And are there inhabitants in those other worlds, Miguel?" "There is no reason why there should not be. Such observations as we can make in our own solar system make it probable that the other stars have conditions of life very like our own.... Do you see that big beautiful star which looks like Sirius? That is Jupiter, one of our brother worlds; but an older brother--fourteen hundred times as big as we are. He is a privileged brother, the first-born, so to speak, of the system. There the day lasts five hours, and the night five; but as he has four moons which are constantly shining, and long twilights, it may be said that nights do not exist there. The same may almost be said of the seasons. Eternal spring reigns over its whole surface. For us that is the symbol or the ideal of a happy existence. Why should there not be inhabitants in that fortunate world?" The young wife was again silent and thoughtful, and at last she asked:-- "How do those worlds hang in space, and travel forever, and never run into each other?" "They are sustained, and they live through love.... Yes, through love," he repeated, seeing the curiosity in his wife's eyes. "Love is the law that rules the whole creation: the sublime law that unites thy heart to mine is the same that unites all the beings of the universe, and yet keeps them distinct. We are one in God, in the Creator of all things, but we still enjoy the beautiful privilege of individuality. This great privilege, however, is at the same time our great imperfection, Maximina. Through it we are separated from God. To live eternally united to Him, to sleep in His bosom as the child in its mother's lap, is the constant aspiration of humanity. The man who most keenly and imperiously feels this necessity is the best and most righteous. What is the meaning of self-abnegation and sacrifice? Can it be anything else than the expression of that secret voice which has its seat in our hearts, and tells us that to love one's self is to love the finite, the imperfect, the ephemeral, and to love others is to be united by anticipation with the Eternal. Alas for the man who does not listen to the call of this voice! Alas for him who shuts his ears to the breathings of his soul, and runs in hot haste after transitory things! Such a man will always be a miserable slave of time and necessity...." Miguel grew eloquent as he went on speaking. Maximina listened to him with ecstatic eyes. She did not absolutely comprehend his words, but she saw clearly that all that proceeded from her husband's lips was noble and lofty and religious, and that was sufficient for her to be in accord with him. He still went on speaking. At last he suddenly stopped. Both stood in silence, gazing into the immensity of the heavens. A solemn and pure emotion had come over them. In rapt contemplation they listened to the mysterious harmonies of their souls, which, without the aid of speech, by a kind of magnetic power, vibrated from one heart to the other. After a while Maximina said in a whisper:-- "Miguel, would you not like to repeat a Pater Noster?" "Yes," he replied, tenderly pressing her hand. The young wife said the Pater Noster with true fervor. Her husband repeated it with equal earnestness. Never in his life, either before or after, did our hero feel himself nearer God than at that moment. The night was advancing. The clock in the study struck its twelve silvery notes. They shut the window, and lighted the lamps to retire. * * * * * XXX. In the morning Maximina, after taking chocolate, felt a trifle indisposed. They attributed it to a little indigestion, and took no account of it. All that day she dragged about, feeling wretchedly, but still keeping up. When Miguel came from his office, she had thrown herself on the bed; on hearing the bell she quickly got up, and came out as usual to receive him. Nevertheless, she soon felt obliged to lie down again; she kept getting up to attend to this thing and that, but returned to a lying posture again, now on Miguel's bed, now on her own. "I am going to call a doctor," said he. Maximina was strongly opposed. The only compromise that he could make was that she would allow him to call one on the next day if she were not better. She absolutely expected to wake up the next day sound and well. But it was not so. She awoke with a quick pulse, and Miguel would not hear to her sitting up. He called in an old and experienced doctor that there was in the ward, and he, after taking her pulse and looking at her tongue, declared that she had some fever, but that apparently there was no disorder of the stomach. Miguel, on hearing this, wished to stay away from the office, but his wife was so opposed to it that finally he gave in to her, promising to come home early. In the afternoon her temperature had risen slightly; still she was calm: only from time to time, as though she felt some oppression, she would draw long, deep sighs. The next morning the doctor found her decidedly feverish, but he could not as yet decide what was the cause, for the frequent and deep inspirations which he obliged her to take were perfect, and there seemed to be no lung difficulty, and the stomach also was in sound condition. He inclined to think that it was rheumatic fever, for, a few days before, she remembered that she had complained of pains in her shoulder; more than that he could not assure them. Miguel went to his office, but he returned at two o'clock; the doctor left his clinical thermometer, so that her temperature might be taken from time to time and recorded on a piece of paper. On the next day the temperature was still higher. The doctor now inclined to the opinion that the fever was nervous, because rheumatic symptoms were not well defined. He prescribed the valerianate of quinine and a potion. Miguel went to the office to report to his chief--nothing more. He stopped, however, to speak with his comrades; among them was one who had studied medicine, although without great success. "What is the matter with your señora?" they asked him. "I do not know. The doctor is doubtful whether it is a rheumatic or a nervous fever." "Man alive! I don't see what one fever has to do with the other," said the medical employé, with self-sufficiency. "At all events pray God, Rivera, that it may not be nervous fever." Miguel, on hearing these words, felt chilled through. A strange trembling passed over his frame. He made an effort to control himself, and said in a voice that was already changed:-- "The doctor told me to take her temperature often." "And how does her temperature stand?" Although he did not know what exact connection the degrees had with the fever, yet, terrified by the words that had passed, he did not dare to say that she had forty-one and a few decimals, and replied:-- "Forty centigrade." "That cannot be; that would be a very high fever.... Come, friend Rivera, it must be confessed that you know more about philosophy than about taking temperatures." "Yes, Rivera; you must be mistaken," said another. He stood rooted to the floor; he grew terribly pale, and was on the point of fainting away. His companions, noticing his pallor, began to encourage him. "Man! don't be frightened.... You must have made some mistake. Besides, even if you hadn't, it would not be necessarily fatal." A companion, to give him still more encouragement, whispered: "Don't mind that pestilent fellow! What does he know about fevers? He never in his life opened a book!" Nevertheless, he felt a stab in his very heart. He left the Consejos with his face changed, and took a carriage, for he feared that he might faint. He rushed into his wife's room. "How do you feel?" "Well," she replied, with a sweet smile. "Let me take your temperature," said he, hastening to put the thermometer under her arm. His heart beat furiously. Not being able to stay still while the thermometer remained there, he began to walk up and down through the room. At last with trembling hand he took it out, and ran to the shutter, which was closed; he opened it a little way and looked. The temperature had risen a few decimals: it was almost forty-two degrees. He could not speak a word. "What makes you so excited about that blessed little tube?" said Maximina. "What is the good of it?" "I don't know; the doctor sent it to me.... I am going to set down the temperature." Instead of going to his study, however, he went to his chamber, threw himself face down upon his bed, sobbing. "They have killed me! They have killed me!" he murmured, while his tears bathed the pillows. For nearly half an hour he thus lay without ceasing to repeat amid sobs the words: "They have killed me! They have killed me!" In fact, a stab through the heart would not have had more effect upon him than the frightful idea that had been suggested to him at the office. At last he arose, bathed his eyes in cold water, and again repairing to his wife's room told her that he was going to notify Don Facundo; for he would not forgive him for not doing so. As he was going out, the neighbor who lived in the opposite apartment called at the door, to offer her services "for everything, absolutely for everything." She was an excellent lady, a colonel's widow, whose son was a lieutenant and gave her much sorrow. Although she had only spoken a few words with Maximina on the stairway, it seemed that she was much drawn toward her. Miguel was very grateful to her, and took her into the bedroom, and then immediately set out on his errand. He felt that he must confide in some one, and therefore he went in search of Don Facundo. As soon as he saw him, he began to weep like a child. The poor señor endeavored to console him as well as he was able. "You are very impressionable, Miguelito. Who would ever have thought of getting into such a state when the doctor has not said as yet that there was any danger! But, at all events, as you are so much alarmed, it would be a good idea to have a consultation of doctors, even if it were for nothing else than to calm you." "Yes, yes, Don Facundo; I want to have a consultation!" exclaimed the anxious young man, as though salvation entirely depended on it. "Very well, I will notify the doctors; you speak with the regular attendant, so that he will not be offended." Miguel left the apothecary shop, much calmer. When he reached home, Maximina was a little delirious. "She imagines," said the colonel's widow, "that there is a door open behind the head of the bed, and much cold comes in." "How do you feel?" asked Miguel, laying his hand on her forehead. "Well; but a great deal of cold air comes in from that open door." "You are right; I will go and shut it." He pretended to do so, and for a time she was pacified. The young man afterward wanted to kiss her; but she would not allow him, saying in great agitation, though in a low voice:-- "How can you be so shameless? Don't you see that this señora is here?" Not even though she was delirious did the sentiment of bashfulness desert this young creature. During the afternoon she was very restless, sometimes out of her head. After her whim about the door she imagined that a number of men had come to get her. When Miguel approached the bed, she would say, in terror:-- "See! see that man who has come to take me away!" "Never mind, _preciosa_; as long as I am here, no one will take you away!" Her husband's voice and caresses brought her back to reason as by magic, and soothed her for a few moments. The widow insisted on staying to watch that night, for it was two nights since either Juana or Miguel had gotten any sleep. The latter went and threw himself down on his bed, charging that if there were the least change, he should be called. And in fact the widow woke him up about midnight, saying that Maximina refused to take her potion and was very restless. He immediately arose and ran to her room. His wife, after the struggle that she had undergone with the worthy señora, was in a very agitated state, her face extremely flushed and her eyes wildly rolling. She did not know her husband. He, seeing her in that state, lost all his courage and began to weep. Then Maximina looked straight at him; her eyes soon lost that terrible look of delirium, and she sat up in bed, and leaning over toward the young man asked him:-- "Why are you weeping, light of my life? why are you weeping?" "Because you have refused to take your medicine, and if you don't, you won't get well." "I will take it, I will take it; don't cry, for Heaven's sake! Give it to me!" And she eagerly drank the spoonful that he put to her lips. "You will not weep any more, will you?" she asked him, anxiously, and on hearing him say "no," she kissed his hand again and again. In the morning the consultation of physicians was held. One at a time they went in to see the sick woman. "How tired I am of showing my tongue!" she exclaimed, with a comic gesture which made him laugh in spite of his tribulations. The doctors could not come to a definite decision as to the seat of the fever; they all were inclined, however, to the opinion that it was in the nervous centre. They were perfectly agreed that at all hazards the temperature must be in some way reduced. For this they prescribed an antipyretic remedy. Miguel himself went in search of it. Its effect was very quick. Within a few hours after taking it the fever had subsided two degrees; in the morning the thermometer indicated only thirty-nine and a few decimals; her restlessness and delirium had entirely disappeared. She felt so much better that Miguel had no doubt that in four or five days she would be up and about. He was so excited by his excess of joy, that, being unable to stay in the house, he went out to enjoy the coolness of the morning, although he had been watching the night before. He took a turn through the Retiro; the weather was cool and beautiful; the joy that filled his soul to overflowing made him see in the bright sun, in the songs of the birds, in the foliage of the trees, mysterious beauties which he had never before realized. It was as much as he could do not to throw his arms around the solitary pedestrians whom he met. But alas! he did not know that the remedy that the doctors had prescribed fulfilled its work merely in cooling the blood, and had not the power of overcoming the malady. Toward the end of the afternoon her temperature began to rise again. So deceived was he that he attributed it to the natural increase that all diseases tend to show at that time of day, and did not regard it with apprehension. The doctor likewise said nothing that was calculated to alarm him. At eleven o'clock he went to bed, leaving Juana to watch. Her voice aroused him from the deep sleep in which he was plunged. "Señorito! señorito! the señorita is worse." The voice with which a man condemned to death is wakened never sounded more terrible than this summons did to Miguel. He was on his feet in a flash; he ran to her room. Maximina had her eyes shut. When he came in, she opened them, tried to smile, and closed them again--never to open them more! It was four o'clock in the morning. Juana ran to summon the doctor, first stopping at the opposite apartment. The colonel's widow insisted that it was only a fainting fit; she and Miguel put on a mustard poultice. The priest was sent for. In a few moments he arrived, at the same time with the doctor. What was the use? Miguel walked ceaselessly up and down the corridor, pale as a ghost. Soon he paused and wanted to enter his wife's room. The widow, the curé, and the doctor, tried to keep him back. "No; don't go in, Rivera!" "I know all; let me pass!" By his face and manner they knew that it was useless to oppose him. He threw himself on his wife's form, from which as yet not all the warmth and life had departed, and kissed her wildly for several minutes. "Enough! enough! you are only killing yourself," they said to him. Finally they drew him away. "Better than thou," he cried, as he gave her one last kiss, "there never has been; there never will be on earth." "Happy are they, my son, who, on dying, can hear such words," murmured the aged priest. They led him away. He went straight to his study, and leaned against the window. The day had not as yet completely dawned. The suddenness of the shock had checked his tears. Motionless, with gleaming eyes, and leaning his brow against the pane, he stood a long time listening to that voice of revelation in his soul which alone has a right to speak at this supreme hour. At last he could hear himself murmur in a hoarse voice:-- "Who knows? who knows?" XXXI. What more do you wish to know? Miguel staggered like an athlete who receives a blow in the midst of his forehead; but he did not succumb. In the unavoidable obligation upon him of protecting his baby boy, who had lost his mother just as he was beginning to stammer her name, he found strength to live. His story, far from romantic, becomes even less interesting from this time forward. It is reduced almost entirely to meditations, doubts, hopes, discouragements,--storms such as only rage in the secret depths of the spirit. The story of it can be interesting only to the psychologist. Therefore we will condense this long and wearisome narration. He devoted his whole life to his son. Work and study, if they did not assuage his grief, sometimes made him forget it, lifting him at the same time to a loftier plane; as years went on, he maintained a deep and serious sadness which left him calm enough for thought. Day nor night did he leave his son. As often as he could, he took him with him to his office; he used to set him down opposite him, so that when he looked up, his eyes might fall upon that little face, in which he sought anxiously to discover lines and features of another that was graven as with a chisel on his very heart. If his friends wanted to make him happy for a moment, they had only to assure him that the little one would in time come to look exactly like his mother. On the other hand, if any one told him that he was going to resemble him, he would stand sad and thoughtful for a long time. Sometimes, catching from his lips or in his eyes some expression peculiar to Maximina, he would burst out sobbing. The little innocent creature would then look at him in surprise and dismay, until his father would gather him up into his arms, and kissing him again and again, would say:-- "Blessed child, you know not what you have lost!" Likewise, many days he would take him to the cemetery and make him kiss after him the stone under which his mother was lying. Oh! if those kisses did not make their way through the marble, and cause the dust of the little maiden of Pasajes to tremble, you may be certain that nothing in this world could ever stir it. Nor was it only in his boy that he saw his wife's living image. Any great spectacle, any heroic action, any touch of kindness, any work of art, above all, music, brought her suddenly to his imagination, and made the tears spring to his eyes; as though that dear woman, even if she no longer existed, were still united to all that is noble, beautiful, and lofty in this earth. Consequently, he tried to stimulate these emotions as frequently as he could. He cultivated and kindled the religious sentiment, which had often seemed fainting, though never had it died out in his soul; he loved the arts; he clung to the friendship of the good. As time went on, that same Mendoza, with whom he had not exchanged a word since he had been ruined and gone to live at Chamberí, became minister. This will certainly surprise no one. Certain premises being granted, the results are sure to follow. As soon as he became minister, he sent Miguel a message, whether through generosity or egotism, we cannot say, asking him to be his private secretary, and at the same time retain his place in the Council of State. The weak flesh felt like revolting at such a proposition. However, he was able finally to bring it into subjection. Long since, by force of prayer and meditation, he had emancipated himself from the dominion of pride. By means of terrible struggles, his soul had succeeded in breaking the chains that bound him to earthly objects. He had learned and would never forget the sublime truth which will eternally rise above human science, and will be the compendium of all truths,--SELF-NEGATION. As soon as he set foot on this sacred ground of liberty, his life began to glide away in perfect serenity, in sweet and tranquil repose. In the sea of human passions, in the whirlwind of his own emotions, he had at last the good fortune to _find himself_, and understand what he was. His only thought thenceforward was to advance further and further along the road of liberty, until the hour of supreme emancipation should come for him. The only and most ardent desire of his life was to be able _to love death_. Consequently, he employed the healthy and divine power of his imagination in creating another world, new and free, where he lived with his wife in the same sweet communion as of yore, sharing with her his love and his sorrows. When he completed any action of his life, he never failed to ask himself:-- "Would Maximina approve of it?" Every day he confessed to her and told her the inmost secrets of his soul. And when he had the misfortune to fall into sin, profound grief would take possession of him, and he would think how, on that day, he had departed a little from his wife. In this way, sharing like a divine being in the august privilege of God, he succeeded in attaining a new life, or rather a foretaste of eternal life. But, as a human being, his soul was many times shaken by the storm of doubt. He suffered the cruel assaults of temptation, and; like the Son of God in the Garden of Gethsemane, endured hours of agony which left deep scars upon his soul and diminished, if they did not entirely destroy, his strength. Let us witness one of them. After he came out of the Ministerio, or from Congress, Mendoza was in the habit of riding in an open carriage through the Retiro. Miguel accompanied him. After whirling for a while among the throng of carriages the minister would begin to feel drowsy and would drop off to sleep, lulled by the gentle motion of the carriage. Miguel, almost always neglectful of the curious and gay sights of the promenade, would meditate, with his eyes fixed on the sky or on the landscape. It was a mild afternoon, the mildest and most brilliant that spring had as yet bestowed that year on the citizens of Madrid. The sun was setting. Through the open window our young secretary saw it descending between the trees over the wide plains of Vallecas, descending majestically till it reached the edge of a cloud, and casting a golden trail over the earth. Carried away by the train of thought which often took possession of him, he began to speculate upon the time during which this orb had thus been hurtling through space. Toward what mysterious region of heaven, was it taking the earth in its tremendous march? From whence had that immense mass originally sprung? When and how would its light become extinguished? He thought how its history, long as it seems, is only an instant in the history of Creation. In the numberless worlds which are forever forming and perishing, what an insignificant rôle is played by this poor sun, which is the prime actor for us! Why, then, does it seem to us so great and so beautiful? Who saw, before we were created, that "wake of gold," as it is called by the poets? How many thousand years had it been sweeping across the earth without gilding other heads than those of gigantic saurians, pterodactyls, megalosauruses, and other fearful monsters? The veil that hides the infinite mysteries of space--will it some day be removed? will there be creatures who will ever understand them? He spent much time buried in such thoughts, in ecstatic contemplation of the horizons, brought up before him by the frequent and long turns that they took in the carriage. When he came down from these heights, and cast his eyes on the equipages which were gathered in that delectable place, he was given the same impression as though he were looking upon an anthill; and what else was it, except that the ants, instead of working, were riding? By his side there were crowded together a multitude of atomic animals, with their faces fixed on the ground, carried along by other animals whom they had made their slaves. But ants also own slaves. All the masters, and the horses also, appeared to believe that they themselves, and nothing else, constituted the world; and their schemes, their desires, their loves, their _restaurants_, and their daily allowance of oats, the only and highest ends of creation. But there among the pedestrians he saw a pale face adorned with a long white beard, with melancholy, dreamy eyes likewise fastened on the skies. As he passed, this face smiled affectionately. Miguel replied, saying, "Good afternoon, Don Ventura." It was the tenderest and most spontaneous of Spanish poets, the famous Ruiz Aguilera. Then his eyes fell upon Mendoza, who was dozing deliciously. He looked at him attentively for a few moments, and suddenly felt inclined to laugh. "Poor man! he thinks that he is on the pinnacle of glory because he has the disposal for a few months of a few dozen offices, and to this he has consecrated his whole life, all the powers that God has given him. To-morrow this man will die, and he will not have known the love of a tender and innocent wife, nor the enthusiasm awakened in the soul by a heroic action, nor the deep emotion caused by the study of nature, nor the pure delight in contemplating a work of art; he will never have thought, never felt, never loved! Nevertheless, he thinks in good faith that it is his right to swell with pride because a bell rings at the Ministerio when he comes in, and a few unhappy wretches take off their hats before him! How much energy and fawning meanness this ant has had to exercise in order that other ants may greet him respectfully!" He could not help laughing out loud. Mendoza opened his eyes on hearing him, but being accustomed to these original sallies of his secretary, he instantly closed them again, and once more slumbered. Miguel, however, went on with his thinking. "Religion, art, love, heroism, these signs in which I think that I can see the expression of a more elevated nature--may they not also be illusions, like those which this poor devil has, of his own importance? May not the far-off country to which I aspire be a false reflection of my own desires?" The idea of annihilation came into his mind, and made him tremble. "If all vanishes at the end like smoke, like a shadow, if the purest emotions of my soul, if my wife's love, if my boy's innocent smile, have the same worth in nature as the hate of the miscreant and the coarse laughter of the vicious; if two beings unite and love only to be separated for an eternity, oh! how gladly would I hate you, infamous universe! If beyond those spaces, beautiful as they are, there is no one capable of compassion, what is the worth of your mighty masses, or your rythmic movements, or your tremendous rivers of light? I, miserable atom, am more noble, because I can love and can feel compassion...." He remained a few moments lost in suspense, with his eyes fixed on vacancy. A strange depression, such as he had rarely felt, was gradually taking possession of his spirit. In thought he took a rapid survey of his past life, and it appeared to him like a chain of misfortunes; even the pleasures of his youth seemed to him detestable and beneath contempt. In it there was only one delicious and sweet oasis,--the two years of his marriage. "If all men," he said to himself, "were to look back, they would find it the same; perhaps even worse, because the majority have not been blessed as I have, by Heaven, for a few short moments." His memory brought up a few friends who had died in the flower of life after cruel sufferings; others, who, weary of struggling against fate, had fallen at last into the depths of misery; he saw the noblest and most intelligent of them filling humble stations, and elevating the low and degraded ones; he remembered his good father, whose last years were embittered by a proud and wilful wife; he remembered his sister, a creature all light and joy, vilely deceived and forever disgraced; he remembered finally that angelic half of his own being snatched from the world when she had just touched her lips to the cup of happiness.... Creation suddenly presented itself before him in a terrible aspect; beings pitilessly devouring each other; the stronger constantly pushing the weaker to the wall--all deceived by the illusion of happiness which is beyond the reach of any, working, suffering for the advantage of other species, and these for still others, and so on to infinity! The world, in fine, appeared to him like an immense fraud, a place of torment for all living beings, more cruel still for those gifted with consciousness; absolute happiness for the All-existent because It is and ever will be: absolute misery for individuals, because they will eternally be created anew to suffer and to die. Before that terrible picture which he saw in the intensest light, his soul was tormented, and a shudder of horror shook his frame. "My God! my God! why hast thou forsaken me?" his trembling lips repeated again and again, and a wrenching sob which had been gathering for some time in the depths of his breast suddenly burst forth. The minister opened his eyes; in affright. "Man alive!" said he, "you spend your life either laughing or crying." "That is true," replied the secretary, raising his handkerchief to his eyes. END OF THE NOVEL. FOOTNOTES: [1] Foolish maiden. [2] She says _Usted está_ instead of _tu estás_. [3] Galicia is the northwestern province of Spain. [4] Using _Usted_, contraction for _Vuestra merced_; literally, your grace. [5] Brigadier-General Rivera's widow, Miguel's step-mother. [6] _El buen Retiro_, a public park and drive in Madrid, formerly the pleasure ground of the Spanish kings. [7] _El reservado del Suizo._ [8] Lady-killers, literally, drivers of cattle. [9] _Hasta mañana_, literally, till morning. [10] Dollars: _pesos duros_ or _pesos fuertos_ is the full expression. It contains twenty _reales_. [11] Twenty-five dollars. [12] Equivalent to Mr. Such-an-one. [13] Sweetmeats made of flour, sugar, and rose-water. [14] Academia de Estado Mayor. [15] _De tre manera lo sé ési ... percurador, porcurador, precurador._ [16] Almost corresponding to our vulgar "son of a gun." [17] _Pasacalle_; song with guitar accompaniment sung on the street. [18] _Bonita_, _graciosa_, _elegante_, _encantadora_. [19] _Tertulia._ [20] All Madrid apartments have a small opening, called _ventanilla_, in the entrance door. [21] A word similar in meaning to our "sympathetic," but not quite synonymous; more akin to "congenial." [22] Lucía Poblacion, _la generala_ of "Riverita," was the lady to whom Miguel, when a young man, had been quite too attentive. [23] _Guindillas_, red peppers. [24] _Novillada_, bull-driving. [25] Bull-fighter who uses a long knife. [26] Little Manuela. [27] _Cabayero for caballero._ [28] _Onza de oro_, $16. [29] _Seo morral_; _seo_, vulgar for señor. [30] Señorito de _bomba_. [31] A native of Biscay; a Basque. [32] _Santander_, known to the sailors as St. Andrew's, is a seaport on the Bay of Biscay; _astillero_ means, originally, a shipyard. [33] Diminutive of Ana (Anna). [34] From _cervecería_, a tavern or alehouse. [35] Carlos II., _el Hechizado_, reigned over Spain 1665-1700. [36] Literally, Enamels and Cameos. [37] The central square in Madrid. [38] _Rota de la Nunciatura Apostólica_, a supreme ecclesiastical court of last appeal in Spain, composed of judges nominated by the king and confirmed by the Pope. [39] _Ayuntamiento_, municipal council in Spanish towns. [40] _Diputación provincial_, district assembly. [41] Spanish nickname for an old man. [42] A kind of pulse much affected by the Spanish. [43] _Chiquirritin_, affectionate diminutive of _chiquetin_, little one. [44] Civil magistrates, judges or mayors. [45] _Ea, ea, ea,_ _¡Qué gallina tan fea!_ _¡Comó se sube al palo!_ _¡Cómo se balancea!_ [46] _Lyones_, in Spanish. [47] In Spanish, _reña_, a big rock; a slang expression. [48] A Spanish weight of twenty-five pounds. [49] _Perro nuevo y perro viejo, Nunca han hecho buen trebejo._ Literally: young dog and old dog never play together well. [50] "Barley Square," formerly famous for its executions. [51] The _ayuntamiento_; consisting of _alcalde_, or mayor, and the _regidores_, or aldermen. [52] The collective name of the town or district authorities. [53] $175.00. [54] In Spain the _estanquillos_, where snuff and tobacco are sold, are under special government license. [55] A skin dressed and lined with pitch, made for carrying wine. [56] _Prima instancia._ [57] The Madrid Ateneo or Athenæum, the literary headquarters of Spain. [58] _Majadero._ [59] The Guipuzcoana, native of the province of Guipúzcoa. [60] _Falua._ [61] _Casa de socorro._ [62] $300.00. 
51145	----	http://www.freeliterature.org ASMODEUS; OR, The Devil on Two Sticks. By ALAIN RENÉ LE SAGE. WITH A BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE OF THE AUTHOR, By JULES JANIN. [Illustration: Asmodeus and Zambullo fly over Madrid] Illustrated by TONY JOHANNOT. [Translated by Joseph Thomas.] GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS, LONDON: BROADWAY, LUDGATE HILL. NEW YORK: 416 BROOME STREET. 1879. TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE. When I first determined on the publication of a new edition of "THE DEVIL ON TWO STICKS," I had certainly no idea of engaging in a new translation. I had not read an English version since my boyhood, and naturally conceived that the one which had passed current for upwards of a century must possess sufficient merit to render anything beyond a careful revision, before passing it again through the press, unnecessary. However, on reading a few pages, and on comparing them with the much-loved original, I no longer wondered, as I had so often done, why LE DIABLE BOITEUX was so little esteemed by those who had only known him in his English dress, while Gil Blas was as great a favourite with the British public as any of its own heroes of story. To account for this, I will not dwell on the want of literal fidelity in the old version, although in some instances that is amusing enough; but the total absence of style, and that too in the translation of a work by one of the greatest masters of verbal melody that ever existed, was so striking as to induce me, rashly perhaps, to endeavour more worthily to interpret the witty and satirical ASMODEUS for the benefit of those who have not the inestimable pleasure of comprehending him in his _native_ tongue--for, as Jules Janin observes, he is a Devil truly French. In the translation which I here present, I do not myself pretend, at all times, to have rendered the words of the 'graceful Cupid' with strict exactness, but I have striven to convey to my reader the ideas which those words import. Whether I have succeeded in so doing is for others to determine; but, if I have not, I shall at all events have the satisfaction of failing in company,--which, I am told, however, is only an Old Bailey sort of feeling after all. I have not thought it necessary to attempt the Life of the Author; it will be enough to me, for fame, not to have murdered one of his children. I have therefore adopted the life, character, and behaviour of Le Sage from one of the most talented of modern French writers, and my readers will doubtless congratulate themselves on my resolve. Neither have I deemed it needful to enter into the controversy as to the originality of this work, except by a note in page 162: and this I should probably not have appended, had I, while hunting over the early editions there referred to, observed the original dedication of Le Sage to 'the illustrious Don Luis Velez de Guevara,' in which are the following words: "I have already declared, and do now again declare to the world, that to your Diabolo Cojuelo I owe the title and plan of this work ...; and I must further own, that if the reader look narrowly into some passages of this performance, he will find I have adopted several of your thoughts. I wish from my soul he could find more, and that the necessity I was under of accommodating my writings to the genius of my own country had not prevented me from copying you exactly." This is surely enough to exonerate Le Sage from the many charges which have been urged against him; and I quote the concluding sentence of the above, because it is an excuse, from his own pen, for some little liberties which I have, in my turn, thought it necessary to take with his work in the course of my labours. JOSEPH THOMAS. TABLE OF CONTENTS. TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE. BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE OF LE SAGE. CHAPTER I. WHAT SORT OF A DEVIL HE OF THE TWO STICKS WAS--WHEN AND BY WHAT ACCIDENT DON CLEOPHAS LEANDRO PEREZ ZAMBULLO FIRST GAINED THE HONOUR OF HIS ACQUAINTANCE. CHAPTER II. WHAT FOLLOWED THE DELIVERANCE OF ASMODEUS. CHAPTER III. WHERE THE DEVIL TRANSLATED THE STUDENT; AND THE FIRST FRUITS OF HIS ECCLESIASTICAL ELEVATION. CHAPTER IV. STORY OF THE LOVES OF THE COUNT DE BELFLOR AND LEONORA DE CESPEDES. CHAPTER V. CONTINUATION OF THE STORY OF THE LOVES OF THE COUNT DE BELFLOR AND LEONORA DE CESPEDES. CHAPTER VI. NEW OBJECTS DISPLAYED TO DON CLEOPHAS; AND HIS REVENGE ON DONNA THOMASA. CHAPTER VII. THE PRISON, AND THE PRISONERS. CHAPTER VIII. OF VARIOUS PERSONS EXHIBITED TO DON CLEOPHAS BY ASMODEUS, WHO REVEALS TO THE STUDENT WHAT EACH HAS DONE IN HIS DAY. CHAPTER IX. THE MADHOUSE, AND ITS INMATES. CHAPTER X. THE SUBJECT OF WHICH IS INEXHAUSTIBLE. CHAPTER XI. OF THE FIRE, AND THE DOINGS OF ASMODEUS ON THE OCCASION, OUT OF FRIENDSHIP FOR DON CLEOPHAS. CHAPTER XII. OF THE TOMBS, OF THEIR SHADES, AND OF DEATH. CHAPTER XIII. THE FORCE OF FRIENDSHIP. CHAPTER XIV. THE SQUABBLE BETWEEN THE TRAGIC POET AND THE COMIC AUTHOR. CHAPTER XV. CONTINUATION, AND CONCLUSION, OF THE FORCE OF FRIENDSHIP. CHAPTER XVI. THE DREAMERS. CHAPTER XVII. IN WHICH ORIGINALS ARE SEEN OF WHOM COPIES ARE RIFE. CHAPTER XVIII. RELATING TO OTHER MATTERS WHICH THE DEVIL EXHIBITED TO THE STUDENT. CHAPTER XIX. THE CAPTIVES. CHAPTER XX. OF THE LAST HISTORY RELATED BY ASMODEUS: HOW, WHILE CONCLUDING IT, HE WAS SUDDENLY INTERRUPTED; AND OF THE DISAGREEABLE MANNER, FOR THE WITTY DEMON, IN WHICH HE AND DON CLEOPHAS WERE SEPARATED. CHAPTER XXI. OF THE DOINGS OF DON CLEOPHAS AFTER ASMODEUS HAD LEFT HIM; AND OF THE MODE IN WHICH THE AUTHOR OF THIS WORK HAS THOUGHT FIT TO END IT. [Illustration: bust of Le Sage between Asmodeus and Gil Blas] NOTICE OF LE SAGE. I shall at once place LE SAGE by the side of Molière; he is a comic poet in all the acceptation of that great word,--COMEDY. He possesses its noble instincts, its good-natured irony, its animated dialogue, its clear and flowing style, its satire without bitterness, he has studied profoundly the various states of life in the heights and depths of the world. He is perfectly acquainted with the manners of comedians and courtiers,--of students and pretty women. Exiled from the Théâtre-Français, of which he would have been the honour, and less fortunate than Molière, who had comedians under his direction, and who was the proprietor of his own theatre, Le Sage found himself obliged more than once to bury in his breast this Comedy, from want of a fitting stage for its exhibition, and actors to represent it. Thus circumstanced, the author of "Turcaret" was compelled to seek a new form, under which he might throw into the world the wit, the grace, the gaiety, the instruction which possessed him. In writing the biography of such men, there is but one thing to do, and that is to praise. The more humble and obscure have they been in their existence, the greater is the duty of him who tells the story of their lives, to heap upon them eulogy and honour. This is a tardy justice, if you will, but it is a justice nevertheless; and besides, of what importance, after all, are these vulgar events? All these biographies are alike. A little more of poverty, a little less of misery, a youth expended in energy, a manhood serious and filled with occupation, an old age respected, honourable; and, at the end of all these labours, all these troubles, all these anguishes of mind and heart, of which your great men alone have the secret,--the Académie-Française in perspective. Then, are you possessed of mediocre talents only? all doors are open to you;--are you a man of genius? the door opens with difficulty;--but, are you perchance one of those excelling spirits who appear but from century to century? it may turn out that the Académie-Française will not have you at any price. Thus did it with the great Molière; thus also has it done for Le Sage; which, by-the-bye, is a great honour for the illustrious author of "Gil Blas." René Le Sage was born in the Morbihan, on the 8th of May, 1668:[1] and in that year Racine produced "Les Plaideurs," and Molière was playing his "Avare." The father of Le Sage was a man slightly lettered,--as much so as could be expected of an honourable provincial attorney, one who lived from day to day like a lord, without troubling himself too much as to the future fortunes of his only son. The father died when the child was only fourteen years of age; and soon afterwards the youthful René lost his mother. He was now alone, under the guardianship of an uncle, and he was fortunate enough to be placed under the tutelage of those learned masters of the youth of the seventeenth century, the Jesuits who subsequently became the instructors of Voltaire, as they have been of all France of the great age. Thanks to this talented and paternal teaching, our young orphan quickly penetrated into the learned and poetical mysteries of that classic antiquity, which is yet in our days, and will be to the end of time, the exhaustless source of taste, of style, of reason, and of good sense. It is to praise Le Sage to say that he was educated with as much care and assiduity as Molière and Racine, as La Fontaine and Voltaire; they one and all prepared themselves, by severest study, and by respect for their masters, to become masters in their turn; and they have themselves become classic writers, because they reverenced their classic models,--which may, in case of need, serve as an example for the beaux-esprits of our own time. [1] According to Moreri, in his "Grand Dictionnaire Historique," (folio, Paris, 1759,) and he cites as his authority M. Titon de Tillet's second supplement to the "Parnasse Français," Le Sage was born at Ruis in Brittany, in 1677. There is, however, every reason to believe that M. Jules Janin is correct, both as to the year and the place of his birth, notwithstanding that Mr. Chalmers, in his "Biographical Dictionary," while he assigns to the former the year 1668, places the latter at Vannes, as does also the "Biographie Universelle," which he appears to have followed. But, when this preliminary education was completed, and when he left these learned mansions, all filled with Greek and Latin, all animated with poetic fervour, Le Sage encountered those terrible obstacles that await invariably, as he emerges from his studies, every young man without family, and destitute of fortune. The poet Juvenal has well expressed it, in one of his sublimest verses: "They with difficulty rise, whose virtues are opposed by the pinching wants of home." "Haud facile emergunt, quorum virtutibus obstat Res angusta domi." But what matters poverty when one is so young,--when our hopes are so vast, our thoughts so powerful and rich? You have nothing, it is true; but the world itself belongs to you,--the world is your patrimony; you are sovereign of the universe; and around you, the twentieth year touches every thing with its golden wand. Your clear and sparkling eye may look in the sun's bright face as dauntless as the eagle's. It is accomplished: all the powers of your soul are awakened, all the passions of your heart join in one swelling choir, to chant _Hosanna in excelsis!_ What matter then that you are poor! A verse sublime, a noble thought, a well-turned phrase, the hand of a friend, the soft smile of some bright-eyed damsel as she flits across your path,--there is a fortune for a week. Those who, at the commencement of every biography, enter into all sorts of lamentation, and deplore with pathetic voice the mournful destiny of their hero, are not in the secret of the facile joys of poetry, of the exquisite happiness of youth,--the simpletons! They amuse themselves in counting, one by one, the rags that cover yonder handsome form; and they see not, through the holes of the cloak which envelopes it, those Herculean arms, or that athletic breast! They look with pity on that poor young man with well-worn hat, and beneath that covering deformed they see not those abundant, black, and tended locks, the flowing diadem of youth! They will tell you, with heart-rending sighs, how happy Diderot esteemed himself, when to his crust of bread he joined the luxury of cheese, and how this poor René le Sage drank at his repasts but pure spring water;--a lamentable matter, truly! But Diderot, while he ate his cheese, already meditated the shocks of his "Encyclopædia"; but this same clear fountain from which you drink, at twenty, in the hollow of your hand, as pure, will intoxicate more surely than will, after twenty other years, alas! the sparkling produce of Champagne, poured out in cups of crystal. This is sufficient reason why we should not trouble ourselves overmuch as to the early life of Le Sage; he was young and handsome, and as he marched, his head upturned like a poet, he met as he went along with those first loves which one always meets when the heart is honest and devoted. A charming woman loved him, and he let her love him to her heart's content; and, without concerning himself as to his good fortune, more than would master Gil Blas have done on a similar occasion, these first amours of our poet lasted just as long as such sort of amours ought to last--long enough that they should leave no subject for regret, not enough that they should evoke hatred. When, therefore, they had loved each other as much as they could, she and he, they separated, still to please themselves; she found a husband of riper age and better off than her lover; he took a wife more beauteous and less wealthy than his mistress. And blessings on the amiable and devoted girl who consented, with a joyous heart, to encounter all the risks, all the vexations, and also to expose herself to the seducing pleasures of a poetic life! Thus Le Sage entered, almost without thinking of it, into that laborious life in which one must daily expend the rarest and most charming treasures of his mind and soul. As a commencement, he made a translation of the Letters of Calisthenes, without imagining that he was himself possessed of more wit than all the Greeks of the fourth century. The work had no success, and it ought not to have had. He who has the genius of Le Sage must create original works, or not meddle in the craft. To translate is a trade of manual skill--to imitate, is one of plagiary. However, the failure of this first book rendered Le Sage less proud and haughty; and he accepted, what he would never have done had he at once succeeded, a pension from M. l'Abbé de Lyonne. This pension amounted to six hundred francs; and thereupon the biographers of our author are in extacies at the generosity of the Abbé de Lyonne. Six hundred francs! and when we reflect that had Le Sage lived in our day, depending only on his Théâtre de la Foire, he would have gained thirty thousand francs a year! In our days, a romance like "Gil Blas" would not be worth less than five hundred thousand francs; "Le Diable Boiteux" would have brought him a hundred thousand, at least: still, we must not be angry with M. l'Abbé de Lyonne, for having bestowed a pension of six hundred on the author of "Gil Blas." The abbé did more; he opened to Le Sage an admirable treasure of wit, of imagination, and of poetry; he taught him the Spanish tongue, that lovely and noble instructress of the great Corneille; and it is doubtless no slight honour for the language of Cervantes to have given birth in our land to "The Cid" and to "Gil Blas." You may imagine with what delight Le Sage accepted this instruction, and how perfectly at home he found himself in those elegant and gracious manners; with what good will he studied that smiling gallantry, that loyal jealousy; those duennas in appearance so austere, in reality so accessible; those lovely women, their feet ensatined, their head in the mantilla; those charming mansions, all carved without, and within all silence; those exciting windows, lighted by smiles above, while concerts murmur at their feet! You may imagine if he adopted those lively and coquetish waiting-women, those ingenious and rascally valets, those enormous mantles so favourable to love, those ancient bowers so friendly to its modest blisses! Thus, when he had discovered this new world of poesy, of which he was about to be the Pizarro and the Fernando Cortes, and of which Corneille had been the Christopher Columbus, René le Sage clapped his hands for joy. In his noble pride, he stamped his feet on this enchanted land; he began to read, you may fancy with what delight, that admirable epic, "Don Quixote," which he studied for its grace, its charms, its poetry, its passion; putting for the time aside its satire, and the sarcasm concealed in this splendid drama, as weapons for a later use, when he should attack the financiers. Certainly, the Abbé de Lyonne never dreamt that he was opening to the light this exhaustless mine for the man who was to become the first comic poet of France--since Molière is one of those geniuses apart, of whom all the nations of the earth, all literary ages, claim alike with equal right the honour and the glory. The first fruit of this Spanish cultivation was a volume of comedies which Le Sage published, and in which he had translated some excellent pieces of the Spanish stage. It contained only one from Lopez de Vega, so ingenious and so fruitful; that was certainly too few: there was in it not one of Calderon de la Barca; and that was as certainly not enough. In this book, which I have read with care, in search of some of those luminous rays which betoken the presence of the man of genius wherever he has passed, I have met with nothing but the translator. The original writer does not yet display himself: it is because style is a thing which comes but slowly; it is because, in this heart of comedy more especially, there are certain secrets of trade which no talent can replace, and which must be learned at whatever cost. These secrets Le Sage learned, as every thing is learned, at his own expense. From a simple translator as he was, he became an arranger of dramatic pieces, and in 1702 (the eighteenth century had begun its course, but with timid steps, and none could have predicted what it would become) Le Sage brought out at the Théâtre Français a comedy in five acts, "Le Point d'Honneur:" it was a mere imitation from the Spanish. The imitation had small success, and Le Sage comprehended not this lesson of the public; he understood not that something whispered to the pit, so reserved in its applause, that there was in this translator an original poet. To avenge himself, what did Le Sage? He fell into a greater error still: he set to work translating--will you believe it?--the continuation of "Don Quixote," as if "Don Quixote" could have a continuation; as if there were a person in the world, even Cervantes himself, who had the right to add a chapter to this famous history! Verily, it is strange, indeed, that with his taste so pure, his judgment so correct, Le Sage should have ever thought of this unhappy _continuation_. This time, therefore, again his new attempt had no success; the Parisian public, which, whatever may be said to the contrary, is a great judge, was more just for the veritable Quixote than Le Sage himself; and he had once more to begin anew. However, he yet once more attempted this new road, which could lead him to nothing good. He returned to the charge, still with a Spanish comedy, "Don César Ursin," imitated from Calderon. This piece was played for the first time at Versailles, and applauded to the skies by the court, which deceived itself almost as often as the town. Le Sage now thought that the battle at last was won. Vain hope! it was again a battle lost, for, brought from Versailles to Paris, the comedy of "Don César Ursin" was hissed off the stage by the Parisian pit, which thus unmercifully annihilated the eulogies of the court, and the first victory of the author. It was now full time to yield to the force of evidence. Enlightened by these rude instructions, Le Sage at last comprehended that it was not permitted to him, to him less than to all others, to be a plagiarist; that originality was one of the grand causes of success; and that to confine himself for ever to this servile imitation of the Spanish poets was to become a poet lost. Now, therefore, behold him, determined in his turn to be an original poet. This time he no longer copies, he invents; he arranges his fable to his mind, and seeks no further refuge in the phantasmagoria of Spain. With original ideas, comes to him originality of style; and he at last lights on that wondrous and imperishable dialogue which may be compared to the dialogue of Molière, not for its ease, perhaps, but unquestionably for its grace and elegance. He found at the same time, to his great joy, now that he was himself--that he walked in the footsteps of nobody, he found that the business was much more simple; this time he was at his ease in his plot, which he disposed as it pleased him; he breathed freely in the space which he had opened to himself; nothing constrained his march, any more than his poetical caprice. Well! at last then we behold him the supreme moderator of his work, we behold him such as the pit would have him, such as we all hoped he was. This happy comedy, which is, beyond all doubt, the first work of Le Sage, is entitled "Crispin, Rival de son Maître." When he had finished it, Le Sage, grateful for the reception which the court had given to "Don César Ursin," was desirous that the court should also have the first hearing of "Crispin, Rival de son Maître." He remembered, with great delight, that the first applauses he had received had been echoed from Versailles! Behold him then producing his new comedy before the court. But, alas! this time the opinion of the court had changed: without regard for the plaudits of Versailles, the pit of the Paris theatre had hissed "Don César Ursin"; Versailles in its turn, and as if to take its revenge, now hissed "Crispin, Rival de son Maître." We must allow that, for a mind less strong, here was enough to confound a man for ever, and to make him comprehend nothing either as to the success or the failure of his productions. Happily, Le Sage appealed from the public of Versailles to the pit of Paris; and as much as "Crispin, Rival de son Maître" had been hissed at Versailles, so much was this charming comedy applauded at Paris. On this occasion, it was not alone to give the lie to the court, that the pit applauded; Paris had refound, in truth, in this new piece, all the qualities of true comedy,--the wit, the grace, the easy irony, the exhaustless pleasantry, a noble frankness, much biting satire, and a moderate seasoning of love. As to those who would turn into accusation the hisses of Versailles, they should recollect that more than one chef-d'oeuvre, hissed at Paris, has been raised again by the suffrages of Versailles;--"Les Plaideurs" of Racine, for instance, which the court restored to the poet with extraordinary applause, with the bursting laughter of Louis XIV., which come deliciously to trouble the repose of Racine, at five o'clock in the morning. Happy times, on the contrary, when poets had, to approve them, to try them, this double jurisdiction; when they could appeal from the censures of the court to the praises of the town, from the hisses of Versailles to the plaudits of Paris! Now we behold René le Sage, to whom nothing opposes: he has divined his true vocation, which is comedy; he understands what may be made of the human race, and by what light threads are suspended the human heart. These threads of gold, of silver, or of brass, he holds them at this moment in his hand, and you will see with what skill he weaves them. Already in his head, which bears Gil Blas and his fortune, ferment the most charming recitals of "Le Diable Boiteux." Silence! "Turcaret" is about to appear,--Turcaret, whom Molière would not have forgotten if Turcaret had lived in his day; but it was necessary to wait till France should have escaped from the reign, so decorous, of Louis XIV., to witness the coming, after the man of the Church, after the man of the sword, this man without heart and without mind,--the man of money. In a society like our own, the man of money is one of those bastard and insolent powers which grow out of the affairs of every day, as the mushroom grows out from the dunghill. We know not whence comes this inert force,--we know not how it is maintained on the surface of the world, and nothing tells how it disappears, after having thrown its phosphorus of an instant. It is necessary, in truth, that an epoch should be sufficiently corrupt, and sufficiently stained with infamy, when it replaces, by money, the sword of the warrior, by money the sentence of the judge, by money the intelligence of the legislator, by money the sceptre of the king himself. Once that a nation has descended so low, as to adore money on its knees--to require neither fine arts, nor poesy, nor love, it is debased as was the Jewish people, when it knelt before the golden calf. Happily, of all the ephemeral powers in the world, money is the most ephemeral; we extend to it our right hand, it is true, but we buffet it with our left; we prostrate ourselves before it as it passes along,--yes; but when it has passed, we kick it with our foot! This is what Le Sage marvellously comprehended, like a great comic poet as he was. He found the absurd and frightful side of those gilded men who divide our finances, menials enriched overnight, who, more than once, by a perfectly natural mistake, have mounted behind their own coaches. And such is Turcaret. The poet has loaded him with vices the most disgraceful, with follies the most dishonouring; he tears from this heart, debased by money, every natural affection; and nevertheless, even in this fearful picture, Le Sage has confined himself within the limits of comedy, and not once in this admirable production does contempt or indignation take the place of laughter. It was then with good cause that the whole race of financiers, as soon as they had heard of Turcaret, caballed against this chef-d'oeuvre; the cry resounded in all the rich saloons of Paris; it was echoed from the usurers who lent their money to the nobles, and re-echoed by the nobles who condescended to borrow from the usurers; it was a general hue and cry. "Le Tartufe" of Molière never met with greater opposition among the devotees than "Turcaret" experienced from financiers; and, to make use of the expression of Beaumarchais in reference to "Figaro," it required as much mind for Le Sage to cause his comedy to be played as it did to write it. But on this occasion, again, the public, which is the all-powerful manager in these matters, was more potent than intrigue; Monseigneur le Grand Dauphin, that Prince so illustrious by his piety and virtue, protected the comedy of Le Sage, as his ancestor, Louis XIV., had protected that of Molière. On this, the financiers, perceiving that all was lost as far as intrigue was concerned, had recourse to money, which is the last reason of this description of upstarts, as cannon is the _ultima ratio_ of kings. This time again the attack availed not: the great poet refused a fortune that his comedy might be played, and unquestionably he made a good bargain by his resolve, preferable a hundred thousand times to all the fortunes which have been made and lost in the Rue Quincampoix.[2] The success of "Turcaret" (1709) was immense; the Parisian enjoyed with rare delight the spectacle of these grasping money-hunters devoted to the most cruel ridicule. What if Le Sage had deferred the production of this masterpiece! These men would have disappeared, to make room for others of the kind, and they would have carried with them into oblivion the comedy they had paid for. It would have been a _chef-d'oeuvre_ lost to us for ever; and never, that we know of, would the good men on 'Change have dealt us a more fatal blow. [2] In this street, in 1716, the famous projector Law established his bank; and the rage for speculation which followed, made it for a time the Bourse of Paris. A hump-backed man made a large fortune by lending himself as a desk, whereon the speculators might sign their contracts, or the transfer of shares. The Rue Quincampoix is still a leading street for business, but its trade is now confined to more honest wares, such as drugs and grocery. Who would credit it, however? After this superb production, which should have rendered him the master of French comedy, Le Sage was soon compelled to abandon that ungrateful theatre which understood him not. He renounced,--he, the author of "Turcaret,"--pure comedy, to write, as a pastime, farces, little one-act pieces mingled with couplets, which made the life of the Théâtre de la Foire Saint Laurent, and of the Théâtre de la Foire Saint Germain. Unfortunate example for Le Sage to set, in expending, without thought, all his talent, from day to day, without pity for himself, without profit for anyone. What! the author of "Turcaret" to fill exactly the same office as M. Scribe; to waste his time, his style, and his genius upon that trifling comedy which a breath can hurry away! And the French comedians were all unmoved, and hastened not to throw themselves at the feet of Le Sage, to pray, to supplicate him to take under his all-powerful protection that theatre elevated by the genius and by the toils of Molière! But these senseless comedians were unable to foresee anything. Nevertheless, if he had renounced the Théâtre Français, Le Sage had not abandoned true comedy. All the comedies which thronged his brain, he heaped them up in that grand work which is called "Gil Blas," and which includes within itself alone the history of the human heart. What can be said of "Gil Blas" which has not already been written? How can I sufficiently eulogise the only book truly gay in the French language? The man who wrote "Gil Blas" has placed himself in the first rank among all the authors of this world; he has made himself, by the magic of his pen, the cousin-german of Rabelais and Montaigne, the grandfather of Voltaire, the brother of Cervantes, and the younger brother of Molière; he takes his place, in plenitude of right, in the family of comic poets, who have themselves been philosophers. In the same vein, he has further composed the "Bachelier de Salamanque," which would be a charming book if "Gil Blas" existed not, if above all, before writing his "Gil Blas," he had not written this charming book, "LE DIABLE BOITEUX." And now, _sauve qui peut!_ the Devil is let loose upon the town, a devil truly French, who has the wit, the grace, and the vivacity of Gil Blas. Beware! Look to yourselves, you the ridiculous and the vicious, who have escaped the high comedy of the stage, for, by the virtue of this all-potent wand, not alone your mansions but your very souls shall in a twinkling change to glass. Beware! I say; for Asmodeus, the terrible scoffer, is about to plunge his pitiless eye into those mysterious places which you deemed so impenetrable, and to each of you he will reveal his secret history; he will strike you without mercy with that ivory crutch which opens all doors and all hearts; he will proclaim aloud your follies and your vices. None shall escape from that vigilant observer, who, astride upon his crutch, glides upon the roofs of the best secured houses, and divines their ambitions, their jealousies, their inquietudes, and, above all, their midnight wakefulness. Considered with relation to its wit without bitterness, its satire which laughs at everything, and with regard to its style, which is admirable, "Le Diable Boiteux" is perhaps the book most perfectly French in our language; it is perhaps the only book that Molière would have put his name to after "Gil Blas." Such was this life, all filled with most delightful labour, as also with the most serious toil; thus did this man, who was born a great author, and who has raised to perfection the talent of writing, go on from chef-d'oeuvre to chef-d'oeuvre without pause. The number of his productions is not exactly known; at sixty-five years of age, he yet wrote a volume of _mélanges_, and he died without imagining to himself the glories which were reserved for his name. An amiable and light-hearted philosopher, he was to the end full of wit and good sense; an agreeable gossiper, a faithful friend, an indulgent father, he retired to the little town of Boulogne-sur-Mer, where he became without ceremony a good citizen, whom everybody shook by the hand without any great suspicion that he was a man of genius. Of three sons who had been born to him, two became comedians, to the great sorrow of their noble father, who had preserved for the players, as is plainly perceptible in "Gil Blas," a well-merited dislike. However, Le Sage pardoned his two children, and he even frequently went to applaud the elder, who had taken the name of Monmenil; and when Monmenil died, before his father, Le Sage wept for him, and never from that time (1743) entered a theatre. His third son, the brother of these two comedians, was a good canon of Boulogne-sur-Mer; and it was to his house that Le Sage retired with his wife and his daughter, deserving objects of his affection, and who made all the happiness of his latest days. One of the most affable gentlemen of that time, who would have been remarkable by his talents, even though he had not been distinguished by his nobility, M. le Comte de Tressan, governor of Boulogne-sur-Mer, was in the habit of seeing the worthy old man during the last year of his life; and upon that fine face, shaded with thick white hairs, he could still discern that love and genius had been there. Le Sage rose early, and his first steps took him to seek the sun. By degrees, as the luminous rays fell upon him, thought returned to his forehead, motion to his heart, gesture to his hand, and his eyes were lighted with their wonted fire: as the sun mounted in the skies, this awakened intelligence appeared, on its side, more brilliant and more clear; so much so, that you beheld again before you the author of "Gil Blas." But, alas! all this animation drooped in proportion as the sun declined; and, when night was come, you had before your eyes but a good old man, whose steps must be tended to his dwelling. Thus died he, one day in summer. The sun had shown itself in heaven's topmost height on that bright day; and it had not quite left the earth when Le Sage called the members of his family around to bless them. He was little less than ninety when he died (1747). To give you an idea of the popularity that this man enjoyed even during his life-time, I will finish with this anecdote: When the "Diable Boiteux" appeared, in 1707, the success of this admirable and ingenious satire upon human life was so great, the public esteemed the lively epigrams it contains so delightful, that the publisher was obliged to print two editions in one week. On the last day of this week, two gentlemen, their swords by their sides, as was then the custom, entered the bookseller's shop to buy the new romance. A single copy remained to sell: one of these gentlemen would have it, the other also claimed it; what was to be done? Why, in a moment, there were our two infuriate readers with their swords drawn, and fighting for the first blood, and the last "Diable Boiteux." But what, I pray you, had they done, were it a question then of the "DIABLE BOITEUX" illustrated by TONY JOHANNOT? JULES JANIN. [Illustration: a street in Madrid] ASMODEUS; OR, THE DEVIL ON TWO STICKS. CHAPTER I. WHAT SORT OF A DEVIL HE OF THE TWO STICKS WAS--WHEN AND BY WHAT ACCIDENT DON CLEOPHAS LEANDRO PEREZ ZAMBULLO FIRST GAINED THE HONOUR OF HIS ACQUAINTANCE. A night in the month of October covered with its thick darkness the famous city of Madrid. Already the inhabitants, retired to their homes, had left the streets free for lovers who desired to sing their woes or their delights beneath the balconies of their mistresses; already had the tinkling of guitars aroused the care of fathers, or alarmed the jealousy of husbands; in short, it was near midnight, when Don Cleophas Leandro Perez Zambullo, a student of Alcala, suddenly emerged, by the skylight, from a house into which the incautious son of the Cytherean goddess had induced him to enter. He sought to preserve his life and his honour, by endeavouring to escape from three or four hired assassins, who followed him closely, for the purpose of either killing him or compelling him to wed a lady with whom they had just surprised him. [Illustration: Zambullo fleeing from the hired assassins] Against such fearful odds he had for some time valiantly defended himself; and had only flown, at last, on losing his sword in the combat. The bravos followed him for some time over the roofs of the neighbouring houses; but, favoured by the darkness, he evaded their pursuit; and perceiving at some distance a light, which Love or Fortune had placed there to guide him through this perilous adventure, he hastened towards it with all his remaining strength. After having more than once endangered his neck, he at length reached a garret, whence the welcome rays proceeded, and without ceremony entered by the window; as much transported with joy as the pilot who safely steers his vessel into port when menaced with the horrors of shipwreck. He looked cautiously around him; and, somewhat surprised to find nobody in the apartment, which was rather a singular domicile, he began to scrutinize it with much attention. A brass lamp was hanging from the ceiling; books and papers were heaped in confusion on the table; a globe and mariner's compass occupied one side of the room, and on the other were ranged phials and quadrants; all which made him conclude that he had found his way into the haunt of some astrologer, who, if he did not live there, was in the habit of resorting to this hole to make his observations. He was reflecting on the dangers he had by good fortune escaped, and was considering whether he should remain where he was until the morning, or what other course he should pursue, when he heard a deep sigh very near him. He at first imagined it was a mere phantasy of his agitated mind, an illusion of the night; so, without troubling himself about the matter, he was in a moment again busied with his reflections. [Illustration: Lucifer, the mountebank's devil] But having distinctly heard a second sigh, he no longer doubted its reality; and, although he saw no one in the room, he nevertheless called out,--"Who the devil is sighing here?" "It is I, Signor Student," immediately answered a voice, in which there was something rather extraordinary; "I have been for the last six months enclosed in one of these phials. In this house lodges a learned astrologer, who is also a magician: he it is who, by the power of his art, keeps me confined in this narrow prison." "You are then a spirit?" said Don Cleophas, somewhat perplexed by this new adventure. "I am a demon," replied the voice; "and you have come in the very nick of time to free me from slavery. I languish in idleness; for of all the devils in hell, I am the most active and indefatigable." [Illustration: Uriel, patron of tradesmen] These words somewhat alarmed Signor Zambullo; but, as he was naturally brave, he quickly recovered himself, and said in a resolute tone: "Signor Diabolus, tell me, I pray you, what rank you may hold among your brethren. Are you an aristocrat, or a burgess?" "I am," replied the voice, "a devil of importance, nay, the one of highest repute in this, as in the other world." "Perchance," said Don Cleophas, "you are the renowned Lucifer?" "Bah," replied the spirit; "why, he is the mountebank's devil." "Are you Uriel then?" asked the Student. "For shame!" hastily interrupted the voice; "no, he is the patron of tradesmen; of tailors, butchers, bakers, and other cheats of the middle classes." "Well, perhaps you are Beelzebub?" said Leandro. "Are you joking?" replied the spirit; "he is the demon of duennas and footmen." "That astonishes me," said Zambullo; "I thought Beelzebub one of the greatest persons at your court." "He is one of the meanest of its subjects," answered the Demon; "I see you have no very clear notions of our hell." [Illustration: Leviathan, Belphegor and Ashtaroth] "There is no doubt then," said Don Cleophas, "that you are either Leviathan, Belphegor, or Ashtaroth." "Ah! those three now," replied the voice, "are devils of the first order, veritable spirits of diplomacy. They animate the councils of princes, create factions, excite insurrections, and light the torches of war. They are not such peddling devils as the others you have named." "By the bye! tell me," interrupted the Scholar, "what post is assigned to Flagel?" "He is the soul of special pleading, and the spirit of the bar. He composes the rules of court, invented the law of libel, and that for the imprisonment of insolvent debtors; in short, he inspires pleaders, possesses barristers, and besets even the judges. [Illustration: Flagel] "For myself, I have other occupations: I make absurd matches; I marry greybeards with minors, masters with servants, girls with small fortunes with tender lovers who have none. It is I who introduced into this world luxury, debauchery, games of chance, and chemistry. I am the author of the first cookery book, the inventor of festivals, of dancing, music, plays, and of the newest fashions; in a word, I am ASMODEUS, surnamed THE DEVIL ON TWO STICKS." "What do I hear," cried Don Cleophas; "are you the famed Asmodeus, of whom such honourable mention is made by Agrippa and in the Clavicula Salamonis? Verily, you have not told me all your amusements; you have forgotten the best of all. I am well aware that you sometimes divert yourself by assisting unhappy lovers: by this token, last year only, a young friend of mine obtained, by your favour, the good graces of the wife of a Doctor in our university, at Alcala." "That is true," said the spirit: "I reserved that for my last good quality. I am the Demon of voluptuousness, or, to express it more delicately, Cupid, the god of love; that being the name for which I am indebted to the poets, who, I must confess, have painted me in very flattering colours. They say I have golden wings, a fillet bound over my eyes; that I carry a bow in my hand, a quiver full of arrows on my shoulders, and have withal inexpressible beauty. Of this, however, you may soon judge for yourself, if you will but restore me to liberty." "Signor Asmodeus," replied Leandro Perez, "it is, as you know, long since I have been devoted to you: the perils I have just escaped will prove to you how entirely. I am rejoiced to have an opportunity of serving you; but the vessel in which you are confined is undoubtedly enchanted, and I should vainly strive to open, or to break it: so I do not see clearly in what manner I can deliver you from your bondage. I am not much used to these sorts of disenchantments; and, between ourselves, if, cunning devil as you are, you know not how to gain your freedom, what probability is there that a poor mortal like myself can effect it?" "Mankind has this power," answered the Demon. "The phial which encloses me is but a mere glass bottle, easy to break. You have only to throw it on the ground, and I shall appear before you in human form." "In that case," said the Student, "the matter is easier of accomplishment than I imagined. But tell me in which of the phials you are; I see a great number of them, and all so like one another, that there may be a devil in each, for aught I know." "It is the fourth from the window," replied the spirit. "There is the impress of a magical seal on its mouth; but the bottle will break, nevertheless." "Enough," said Don Cleophas; "I am ready to do your bidding. There is, however, one little difficulty which deters me: when I shall have rendered you the service you require, how know I that I shall not have to pay the magician, in my precious person, for the mischief I have done?" "No harm shall befall you," replied the Demon: "on the contrary, I promise to content you with the fruits of my gratitude. I will teach you all you can desire to know; I will discover to you the shifting scenes of this world's great stage; I will exhibit to you the follies and the vices of mankind; in short, I will be your tutelary demon: and, more wise than the Genius of Socrates, I undertake to render you a greater sage than that unfortunate philosopher. In a word, I am yours, with all my good and bad qualities; and they shall be to you equally useful." "Fine promises, doubtless," replied the Student; "but if report speak truly, you devils are accused of not being religiously scrupulous in the performance of your undertakings." "Report is not always a liar," said Asmodeus, "and this is an instance to the contrary. The greater part of my brethren think no more of breaking their word than a minister of state; but for myself, not to mention the service you are about to render me, and which I can never sufficiently repay, I am a slave to my engagements; and I swear by all a devil holds sacred, that I will not deceive you. Rely on my word, and the assurances I offer: and what must be peculiarly pleasing to you, I engage, this night, to avenge your wrongs on Donna Thomasa, the perfidious woman who had concealed within her house the four scoundrels who surprised you, that she might compel you to espouse her, and patch up her damaged reputation." The young Zambullo was especially delighted with this last promise. To hasten its accomplishment, he seized the phial; and, without further thought on the event, he dashed it on the floor. It broke into a thousand pieces, inundating the apartment with a blackish liquor: this, evaporating by degrees, was converted into a thick vapour, which, suddenly dissipating, revealed to the astonished sight of the Student the figure of a man in a cloak, about two feet six inches high, and supported by two crutches. This little monster had the legs of a goat, a long visage, pointed chin, a dark sallow complexion, and a very flat nose; his eyes, to all appearance very small, resembled two burning coals; his enormous mouth was surmounted by a pair of red mustachios, and ornamented with two lips of unequalled ugliness. [Illustration: Asmodeus revealed to Zambullo] The head of this graceful Cupid was enveloped in a sort of turban of red crape, relieved by a plume of cock's and peacock's feathers. Round his neck was a collar of yellow cloth, upon which were embroidered divers patterns of necklaces and earrings. He wore a short white satin gown, or tunic, encircled about the middle by a large band of parchment of the same colour, covered with talismanic characters. On the gown, also, were painted various bodices, beautifully adapted for the display of the fair wearers' necks; scarfs of different patterns, worked or coloured aprons, and head-dresses of the newest fashion;--all so extravagant, that it was impossible to admire one more than another. [Illustration: Detail of the cloak: the Spanish lady and her admirer] But all this was nothing as compared with his cloak, the foundation of which was also white satin. Its exterior presented an infinity of figures delicately tinted in Indian ink, and yet with so much freedom and expression that you would have wondered who the devil could have painted it. On one side appeared a Spanish lady covered with her mantilla, and leering at a stranger on the promenade; and on the other a Parisian grisette, who before her mirror was studying new airs to victimize a young abbé, at that moment opening the door. Here, the gay Italian was singing to the guitar beneath the balcony of his mistress; and there, the sottish German, with vest unbuttoned, stupefied with wine, and more begrimed with snuff than a French petit-maître, was sitting, surrounded by his companions, at a table covered with the filthy remnants of their debauch. In one place could be perceived a Turkish bashaw coming from the bath, attended by all the houris of his seraglio, each watchful for the handkerchief; and in another an English gentleman, who was gallantly presenting to his lady-love a pipe and a glass of porter. [Illustration: The gamesters] Besides these there were gamesters, marvellously well portrayed; some, elated with joy, filling their hats with pieces of gold and silver; and others, who had lost all but their honour, and willing to stake on that, now turning their sacrilegious eyes to heaven, and now gnawing the very cards in despair. In short, there were as many curious things to be seen on this cloak as on the admirable shield which Vulcan forged for Achilles, at the prayer of his mother Thetis; with this difference however,--the subjects on the buckler of the Grecian hero had no relation to his own exploits, while those on the mantle of Asmodeus were lively images of all that is done in this world at his suggestion. CHAPTER II. WHAT FOLLOWED THE DELIVERANCE OF ASMODEUS. Upon perceiving that his appearance had not prepossessed the student very greatly in his favour, the Demon said to him, smiling: "Well, Signor Don Cleophas Leandro Perez Zambullo, you behold the charming god of love, that sovereign master of the human heart. What think you of my air and beauty? Confess that the poets are excellent painters." "Frankly!" replied Don Cleophas, "I must say they have a little flattered you. I fancy, it was not in this form that you won the love of Psyche." "Certainly not," replied the Devil: "I borrowed the graces of a little French marquis, to make her dote upon me. Vice must be hidden under a pleasing veil, or it wins not even woman. I take what shape best pleases me; and I could have discovered myself to you under the form of the Apollo Belvi, but that as I have nothing to disguise from you, I preferred you should see me under a figure more agreeable to the opinion which the world generally entertains of me and my performances." "I am not surprised," said Leandro, "to find you rather ugly--excuse the phrase, I pray you; the transactions we are about to have with each other demand a little frankness: your features indeed almost exactly realise the idea I had formed of you. But tell me, how happens it that you are on crutches?" "Why," replied the Demon, "many years ago, I had an unfortunate difference with Pillardoc, the spirit of gain, and the patron of pawnbrokers. The subject of our dispute was a stripling who came to Paris to seek his fortune. As he was capital game, a youth of promising talents, we contested the prize with a noble ardour. We fought in the regions of mid-air; and Pillardoc, who excelled me in strength, cast me on the earth after the mode in which Jupiter is related by the poets to have tumbled Vulcan. The striking resemblance of our mishaps gained me, from my witty comrades, the sobriquet of the Limping Devil, or the Devil on Two Sticks, which has stuck to me from that time to this. Nevertheless, limping as I am, I am tolerably quick in my movements; and you shall witness for my agility. "But," added he, "a truce to idle talk; let us get out of this confounded garret. My friend the magician will be here shortly; as he is hard at work on rendering a handsome damsel, who visits him nightly, immortal. If he should surprise us, I shall be snug in a bottle in no time; and it may go hard but he finds one to fit you also. So let us away! But first to throw the pieces, of that which was once my prison, out of the window; for such 'dead men' as these _do_ tell tales." "What if your friend does find out that you are 'missing?'" "What!" hastily replied the Demon; "I see you have never studied the Treatise on Compulsions. Were I hidden at the extremity of the earth, or in the region where dwells the fiery salamander; though I sought the murkiest cavern of the gnomes, or plunged in the most unfathomable depths of the ocean, I should vainly strive to evade the terrors of his wrath. Hell itself would tremble at the potency of his spells. In vain should I struggle: despite myself should I be dragged before my master, to feel the weight of his dreaded chains." [Illustration: Asmodeus carried off] "That being the case," said the Student, "I fear that our intimacy will not be of long duration: this redoubtable necromancer will doubtless soon discover your flight." "That is more than I know," replied the Spirit; "there is no foreseeing what may happen." "What!" cried Leandro Perez; "a demon, and ignorant of the future!" "Exactly so," answered the Devil; "and they are only our dupes who think otherwise. However, there are enough of them to find good employment for diviners and fortune-tellers, especially among your women of quality; for those are always most eager about the future who have best reason to be contented with the present, which and the past are all we know or care for. I am ignorant, therefore, whether my master will soon discover my absence; but let us hope he will not: there are plenty of phials similar to the one in which I was enclosed, and he may never miss that. Besides, in his laboratory, I am something like a law-book in the library of a financier. He never thinks of me; or if he does, he would think he did me too great an honour if he condescended to notice me. He is the most haughty enchanter of my acquaintance: long as he has deprived me of my liberty, we have never exchanged a syllable." "That is extraordinary!" said Don Cleophas; "what have you done to deserve so much hatred or scorn?" "I crossed him in one of his projects," replied Asmodeus. "There was a chair vacant in a certain Academy, which he had designed for a friend of his, a professor of necromancy; but which I had destined for a particular friend of my own. The magician set to work with one of the most potent talismans of the Cabala; but I knew better than that: I had placed my man in the service of the prime minister; whose word is worth a dozen talismans, with the Academicians, any day." While the Demon was thus conversing, he was busily engaged in collecting every fragment of the broken phial; which having thrown out of the window, "Signor Zambullo," said he, "let us begone! Hold fast by the end of my mantle, and fear nothing." However perilous this appeared to Leandro Perez, he preferred the possible danger to the certainty of the magician's resentment; and, accordingly, he fastened himself as well as he could to the Demon, who in an instant whisked him out of the apartment. [Illustration: Asmodeus and Zambullo flying over Madrid] CHAPTER III. WHERE THE DEVIL TRANSLATED THE STUDENT; AND THE FIRST FRUITS OF HIS ECCLESIASTICAL ELEVATION. Cleophas found that Asmodeus had not vainly boasted of his agility. They darted through the air like an arrow from the bow, and were soon perched on the tower of San Salvador. "Well, Signor Leandro," said the Demon as they alighted; "what think you now of the justice of those who, as they slowly rumble in some antiquated vehicle, talk of a devilish bad carriage?" "I must, hereafter, think them most unreasonable," politely replied Zambullo. "I dare affirm that his majesty of Castile has never travelled so easily; and then for speed, at your rate, one might travel round the world nor care to stretch a leg." "You are really too polite," replied the Devil; "but can you guess now why I have brought you here? I intend to show you all that is passing in Madrid; and as this part of the town is as good to begin with as any, you will allow that I could not have chosen a more appropriate situation. I am about, by my supernatural powers, to take away the roofs from the houses of this great city; and notwithstanding the darkness of the night, to reveal to your eyes whatever is doing within them." As he spake, he extended his right arm, the roofs disappeared, and the Student's astonished sight penetrated the interior of the surrounding dwellings as plainly as if the noon-day sun shone over them. "It was," says Luis Velez de Guevara, "like looking into a pasty from which a set of greedy monks had just removed the crust." [Illustration: the miser counting his gold and silver] The spectacle was, as you may suppose, sufficiently wonderful to rivet all the Student's attention. He looked amazedly around him, and on all sides were objects which most intensely excited his curiosity. At length the Devil said to him: "Signor Don Cleophas, this confusion of objects, which you regard with an evident pleasure, is certainly very agreeable to look upon; but I must render useful to you what would be otherwise but a frivolous amusement. To unlock for you the secret chambers of the human heart, I will explain in what all these persons that you see are engaged. All shall be open to you; I will discover the hidden motives of their deeds, and reveal to you their unbidden thoughts. [Illustration: the miser's nephews consulting the sorceress] "Where shall we begin? See! do you observe this house to my right? Observe that old man, who is counting gold and silver into heaps. He is a miserly citizen. His carriage, which he bought for next to nothing at the sale of an alcade of the Cortes, and which to save expense still sports the arms of its late owner, is drawn by a pair of worthless mules, which he feeds according to the law of the Twelve Tables, that is to say, he gives each, daily, one pound of barley: he treats them as the Romans treated their slaves--wisely, but not too well. It is now two years since he returned from the Indies, bringing with him innumerable bars of gold, which he has since converted into coin. Look at the old fool! with what satisfaction he gloats over his riches. And now, see what is passing in an adjoining chamber of the same house. Do you observe two young men with an old woman?" "Yes," replied Cleophas, "they are probably his children." "No, no!" said the Devil, "they are his nephews, and, what is better in their opinion, his heirs. In their anxiety for his welfare, they have invited a sorceress to ascertain when death will take from them their dear uncle, and leave to them the division of his spoil. In the next house there are a pair of pictures worth remarking. One is an antiquated coquette who is retiring to rest, after depositing on her toilet, her hair, her eyebrows and her teeth; the other is a gallant sexagenarian, who has just returned from a love campaign. He has already closed one eye, in its case, and placed his whiskers and peruke on the dressing table. His valet is now easing him of an arm and one leg, to put him to bed with the rest." [Illustration: the valet removing the sexagenarian's wooden leg] "If I may trust my eyes," cried Zambullo, "I see in the next room a tall young damsel, quite a model for an artist. What a lovely form and air!" "I see," said the Devil. "Well! that young beauty is an elder sister of the gallant I have just described, and is a worthy pendant to the coquette who is under the same roof. Her figure, that you so much admire, is really good; but then she is indebted for it to an ingenious mechanist, whom I patronise. Her bust and hips are formed after my own patent; and it is only last Sunday that she generously dropped her bustle at the door of this very church, on the occasion of a charity sermon. Nevertheless, as she affects the juvenile, she has two cavaliers who ardently dispute her favour;--nay, they have even come to blows on the occasion. Madmen! two dogs fighting for a bone. [Illustration: the old lady being unlaced by her maid] "Prithee, laugh with me at an amateur concert which is performing in a neighbouring mansion; an after-supper offering to Apollo. They are singing cantatas. An old counsellor has composed the air; and the words are by an alguazil, who does the amiable after that fashion among his friends--an ass who writes verses for his own pleasure, and for the punishment of others. A harpsichord and clarionet form the accompaniment; a lanky chorister, who squeaks marvellously, takes the treble, and a young girl with a hoarse voice the bass." "What a delightful party!" cried Don Cleophas. "Had they tried expressly to get up a musical extravaganza, they could not have succeeded better." [Illustration: the amateur concert] "Cast your eyes on that superb mansion," continued the Demon; "and you will perceive a nobleman lying in a splendid apartment. He has, near his couch, a casket filled with billets-doux; in which he is luxuriating, that the sweet nothings they contain may lull his senses gently to repose. They ought to be dear to him, for they are from a signora he adores; and who so well appreciates the value of her favours, that she will soon reduce him to the necessity of soliciting the exile of a viceroyalty, for his own support. Let us leave him to his slumbers, to watch the stir they are making in the next house to the left. Can you distinguish a lady in a bed with red damask furniture? Her name is Donna Fabula. She is of high rank, and is about to present an heir to her spouse, the aged Don Torribio, whom you see by her side, endeavouring to soothe the pangs of his lady until the arrival of the midwife. Is it not delightful to witness so much tenderness? The cries of his dear better-half pierce him to the soul: he is overwhelmed with grief; he suffers as much as his wife. With what care,--with what earnestness does he bend over her!" "Really," said Leandro, "the man does appear deeply affected; but I perceive, in the room above, a youngster apparently a domestic, who sleeps soundly enough: he troubles himself not for the event." "And yet it ought to interest him," replied Asmodeus; "for the sleeper is the first cause of his mistress's sufferings. [Illustration: Don Torribio soothing Donna Fabula] "But see,--a little beyond," continued the Demon: "in that low room, you may observe an old wretch who is anointing himself with lard. He is about to join an assembly of wizards, which takes place to-night between San Sebastian and Fontarabia. I would carry you thither in a moment, as it would amuse you; but that I fear I might be recognised by the devil who personates the goat." "That devil and you then," said the Scholar, "are not good friends?" "No, indeed! you are right," replied Asmodeus, "he is that same Pillardoc of whom I told you. The scoundrel would betray me, and soon inform the magician of my flight." "You have perhaps had some other squabble with this gentleman?" "Precisely so," said the Demon: "some ten years ago we had a second difference about a young Parisian who was thinking of commencing life. He wanted to make him a banker's clerk; and I, a lady-killer. Our comrades settled the dispute by making him a wretched monk. This done, they reconciled us: we embraced; and from that time have been mortal foes." "But, have done with this belle assemblée," said Don Cleophas; "I am not at all curious to witness it: let us continue our scrutiny into what is before us. What is the meaning of those sparks of fire which issue from yonder cellar?" "They proceed from one of the most absurd occupations of mankind," replied the Devil. "The grave personage whom you behold near the furnace is an alchymist; and the flames are gradually consuming his rich patrimony, never to yield him what he seeks in return. Between ourselves, the philosopher's stone is a chimera that I myself invented to amuse the wit of man, who ever seeks to pass those bounds which the laws of nature have prescribed for his intelligence. "The alchymist's neighbour is an honest apothecary, who you perceive is still at his labours, with his aged wife and assistant. You would never guess what they are about. The apothecary is compounding a progenerative pill for an old advocate who is to be married to-morrow; the assistant is mixing a laxative potion; and the old lady is pounding astringent drugs in a mortar." [Illustration: the apothecary, his wife, and his assistant] "I perceive, in the house facing the apothecary's," said Zambullo, "a man who has just jumped out of bed, and is hastily dressing." "Pshaw!" replied the Spirit, "he need not hurry himself. He is a physician; and has been sent for by a prelate who since he has retired to rest--about an hour--has absolutely coughed two or three times. "But look a little further, in a garret on the right, and try if you cannot distinguish a man half dressed, who is walking up and down the room, dimly lighted by a single lamp." "I see," said the Student; "and so clearly that I would undertake to furnish you with an inventory of his chattels,--to wit, a truckle-bed, a three-legged stool, and a deal table; the walls seem to be daubed all over with black paint." "That exalted personage," said Asmodeus, "is a poet; and what appears to you black paint, are tragic verses with which he has ornamented his apartment, being obliged, for want of paper, to commit his effusions to the wall." "By his agitation and phrenzied air, I conclude he is now busily engaged on some work of importance," said Don Cleophas. "You are not far out," replied the Devil: "he only yesterday completed the last act of an interesting tragedy, intitled The Universal Deluge. He cannot be reproached with having violated the unity of place, at all events, as the entire action is limited to Noah's ark. [Illustration: The poet, composing his dedication] "I can assure you it is a first-rate drama: all the animals talk as learnedly as professors. It of course must have a dedication, upon which he has been labouring for the last six hours; and he is, at this moment, turning the last period. It will be indeed a masterpiece of adulatory composition: every social and political virtue; every grace that can adorn; all that tends to render man illustrious, either by his own deeds or those of his ancestors, are attributed to its object;--never was praise more lavishly bestowed, never was incense burnt more liberally." "For whom, then, of all the world, is so magnificent an apotheosis intended?" "Why," replied the Demon, "the poet himself has not yet determined that; he has put in every thing but the name. However, he hopes to find some vain noble who may be more liberal than those to whom he has dedicated his former productions; although the purchasers of imaginary virtues are becoming every day more rare. It is not my fault that it is so; for it is a fault corrected in the wealthy patrons of literature, and a great benefit rendered to the public, who were certain to be deluged by trash from the Swiss of the press, so long as books were written merely for the produce of their dedications. "Apropos of this subject," added the Demon, "I will relate to you a curious anecdote. It is not long since an illustrious lady accepted the honour of a dedication from a celebrated novelist, who, by the bye, writes so much in praise of other women, that he thinks himself at liberty to abuse the one peculiarly his own. The lady in question was anxious to see the address before it was printed; and not finding herself described to her taste, she wisely undertook the task, and gave herself all those inconvenient virtues, which the world so much admires. She then sent it to the author, who of course had weighty reasons for adopting it." "Hollo!" cried Leandro, "surely those are robbers who are entering that house by the balcony." "Precisely so," said Asmodeus; "they are brigands, and the house is a banker's. Watch them! you will be amused. See! they have opened the safe, and are ferreting everywhere; but the banker has been before them. He set out yesterday for Holland, and has taken with him the contents of his coffers for fear of accidents. They may make a merit of their visit, by informing his unfortunate depositors of their loss." [Illustration: The brigands opening the banker's safe] "There is another thief," said Zambullo, "mounting by a silken ladder into a neighbouring dwelling." "You are mistaken there," replied the Devil; "at all events it is not gold he seeks. He is a marquis, who would rob a young maiden of the name, of which, however, she is not unwilling to part. Never was 'stand and deliver' more graciously received: he of course has sworn he will marry her, and she of course believes him; for a marquis's 'promises' have unlimited credit upon Love's Exchange." [Illustration: the registrar and Griffael] "I am curious to learn," interrupted the Student, "what that man in a night-cap and dressing-gown is about. He is writing very studiously, and near him is a little black figure, who occasionally guides his hand." "He is a registrar of the civil courts," replied the Demon; "and to oblige a guardian, is, for a consideration, altering a decree made in favour of the ward: the gentleman in black, who seems enjoying the sport, is Griffael the registrars' devil." "Griffael, then," said Don Cleophas, "is a sort of deputy to Flagel; for, as he is the spirit of the bar, the registrars are doubtless included in his department." "Not so," replied Asmodeus; "the registrars have been thought deserving of their peculiar demon, and I assure you they find him quite enough to do." [Illustration: the widow, her lover, and her uncle] "Near the registrar's house, you will perceive a young lady on the first floor. She is a widow; and the man, whom you see in the same room, is her uncle, who lodges in an apartment over hers. Admire the bashfulness of the dame! She is ashamed to put on her chemise before her aged relative; so, modestly seeks the assistance of her lover, who is hidden in her dressing-room. [Illustration: Donoso receives the pages in his apartment] "In the same house with the registrar lives a stout graduate, who has been lame from his birth, but who has not his equal in the world for pleasantry. Volumnius, so highly spoken of by Cicero for his delicate yet pungent wit, was a fool to him. He is known throughout Madrid as 'the bachelor Donoso,' or 'the facetious graduate;' and his company is sought by old and young, at the court and in the town: in short, wherever there is, or should be, conviviality, he is so much the rage, that he has discharged his cook, as he never dines at home; to which he seldom returns until long after midnight. He is at present with the marquis of Alcazinas, who is indebted for this visit to chance only." "How, to chance?" interrupted Leandro. "Why," replied the Demon, "this morning, about noon, the graduate's door was besieged by at least half-a-dozen carriages, each sent for the especial honour of securing his society. The bachelor received the assembled pages in his apartment, and, displaying a pack of cards, thus addressed them:--'My friends, as it is impossible for me to dine in six places at one time, and as it would not appear polite to show an undue preference, these cards shall decide the matter. Draw! I will dine with the king of clubs.'" [Illustration: The cavalier serenades his inamorata] "What object," said Don Cleophas, "has yonder cavalier, who is sitting at a door on the other side of the street? Is he waiting for some pretty waiting-woman to usher him to his lady's chamber?" "No, no," answered Asmodeus; "he is a young Castilian, whose modesty exceeds his love; so, after the fashion of the gallants of antiquity, he has come to pass the night at his mistress's portal. Listen to the twang of that wretched guitar, with which he accompanies his tender strains! On the second floor you may behold his inamorata: she is weeping as she hears him;--but it is for the absence of his rival. "You observe that new building, which is divided into two wings. One is occupied by the proprietor, the old gentleman whom you see now pacing the apartment, now throwing himself into an easy chair." "He is evidently immersed in some grand project," said Zambullo: "who is he? If one may judge by the splendour which is displayed in his mansion, he is a grandee of the first order." "Nevertheless," said Asmodeus, "he is but an ancient clerk of the treasury, who has grown old in such lucrative employment as to enable him to amass four millions of reals. As he has some compunctions of conscience for the means by which all this wealth has been acquired, and as he expects shortly to be called upon to render his account in another world, where bribery is impracticable, he is about to compound for his sins in this, by building a monastery; which done, he flatters himself that peace will revisit his heart. He has already obtained the necessary permission; but, as he has resolved that the establishment shall consist of monks who are extremely chaste, sober, and of the most Christian humility, he is much embarrassed in the selection. He need not build a very extensive convent. "The other wing is inhabited by a fair lady, who has just retired to rest after the luxury of a milk bath. This voluptuary is widow of a knight of the order of Saint James, who left her at his death her title only; but fortunately her charms have secured for her valuable friends in the persons of two members of the council of Castile, who generously divide her favours and the expenses of her household." "Hark!" cried the Student; "surely I hear the cries of distress. What dreadful misfortune has occurred?" "A very common one," said the Demon: "two young cavaliers have been gambling in a hell (the name is a scandal on the infernal regions), which you perceive so brilliantly illuminated. They quarrelled upon an interesting point of the game, and I naturally drew their swords to settle it: unluckily, they were equally skilful with their weapons, and are both mortally wounded. The elder is married, which is unfortunate; and the younger an only son. The wife and father have just come in time to receive their last sighs; and it is their lamentations that you hear. 'Unhappy boy,' cries the fond parent over the still breathing body of his son, 'how often have I conjured thee to renounce this dreadful vice!--how often have I warned thee it would one day cost thee thy life. Heaven is my witness, that the fault is none of mine!' Men," added the Demon, "are always selfish, even in their griefs. Meanwhile the wife is in despair. Although her husband has dissipated the fortune she brought him on their marriage; although he has sold, to maintain his shameful excesses, her jewels, and even her clothes, not a word of reproach escapes her lips. She is inconsolable for her loss. Her grief is vented in frantic exclamations, mixed with curses on the cards, and the devil who invented them; on the place in which her husband fell, and on the people who surround her, and to whom she fondly attributes his ruin." [Illustration: the expiring duellists] "How much to be lamented," interrupted the Student, "is the love of gaming which possesses so large a portion of mankind; in what an awful state of excitement does it plunge its victims. Heaven be praised! I am not included in their legion." "You are in high feather," replied the Demon, "in another, whose exploits are not much more ennobling, and scarcely less dangerous. Is the conquest of a courtezan a glory worth achievement? Is the possession of charms common to a whole city worth the peril of a life? Man is an amusing animal! The vision of a mole would enable him to discover the vices of his fellows, while that of the vulture could scarce detect a folly of his own. But let us turn to another affecting spectacle. You can discern, in the house just beyond the one we have been contemplating, a fat old man extended on a bed: he is a canon, who is now in a fit of apoplexy. The two persons, whom you see in his room, are said to be his nephew and niece: they are too much affected by his situation to be able to assist him; so, are securing his valuable effects. By the time this is accomplished, he will be dead; and they will be sufficiently recovered, and at leisure, to weep over his remains. [Illustration: the canon's nephew and niece steal his possessions] "Close by, you may perceive the funeral of two brothers; who, seized with the same disorder, took equally successful but different means of ensuring its fatality. One of them had the most utter confidence in his apothecary; the other eschewed the aid of medicine: the first died because he took all the trash his doctor sent him; the last because he would take nothing." "Well! that is very perplexing," said Leandro; "what is a poor sick devil to do?" "Why," replied Asmodeus, "that is more than the one who has the honour of addressing you can determine. I know, for certain, that there are remedies for most ills; but I am not so sure that there are good physicians to administer them when necessary." "And now I have something more amusing to unriddle. Do you not hear a frightful din in the next street? A widow of sixty was married this morning to an Adonis of seventeen; and all the merry fellows of that part of the town have assembled to celebrate the wedding by a concert of pots and pans, marrow-bones and cleavers." "You told me," said the Student, "that these matches were under your control: at all events, you had no hand in this." "No, truly," answered the Demon, "not I. Had I been free, I should not have meddled with them. The widow had her scruples; and has married for no better reason than that she may enjoy, without remorse, the pleasures she so dearly loves. These are not the unions I care to form; I prefer troubling people's consciences to setting them at rest." "Notwithstanding this charming serenade," said Zambullo, "it seems to me that it is not the only concert performing in the neighbourhood." "No," said the cripple; "in a tavern in the same street, a lusty Flemish captain, a chorister of the French opera, and an officer of the German guard are singing a trio. They have been drinking since eight in the morning; and each deems it a duty to his country, to see the others under the table." [Illustration: the three drinkers] "Look for a moment on the house which stands by itself, nearly opposite to that of the apoplectic canon: you will see three very pretty but very notorious courtezans enjoying themselves with as many young courtiers." "They are, indeed, lovely!" exclaimed Don Cleophas. "I am not surprised that they should be notorious: happy are the lovers who possess them! They seem, however, very partial to their present companions: I envy them their good fortune." "Why, you are very green!" replied the Demon: "their faces are not disguised with greater skill than are their hearts. However prodigal of their caresses, they have not the slightest tenderness for their foolish swains; their affection is bounded to the purses of their lovers. One of them has just secured the promise of a liberal establishment; and the others are prepared with settlements which they are in expectation of securing ere they part. It is the same with them all. Men vainly ruin themselves for the sex: gold buys not love. The well-paid mistress soon treats her lover as a husband: that is a rule which I found necessary to establish in my code of intrigue. But we will leave these fools to taste the pleasures they so dearly purchase; while their valets, who are waiting in the street, console themselves with the pleasing anticipation of enjoying them gratis." "Tell me," interrupted Leandro Perez, "what is passing in that splendid mansion on the left. The house is filled with well-dressed cavaliers and ladies; and all seems dancing and conviviality. It is indeed a joyous festival." "It is another wedding," said Asmodeus; "and happy as they now are, it is not three days since that house witnessed the deepest affliction. It is a story worth hearing: it is rather long, certainly; but it will repay your patience." The Devil then began as follows. CHAPTER IV. STORY OF THE LOVES OF THE COUNT DE BELFLOR AND LEONORA DE CESPEDES. Leonora de Cespedes was passionately beloved by the young Count de Belflor, one of the most distinguished nobles of the court. He had, however, no thoughts of suing for her hand; the daughter of a private gentleman might command his love, but had no pretensions in his eyes to rank above his mistress; and such was the honour he designed for her. Accordingly, he followed her everywhere; and lost no opportunity of testifying by his glances the extent of his affection for her person; but he was unable to converse with her, or even to communicate by letter, so incessantly and vigilantly was she guarded by an austere duenna, the lady Marcella. He was almost in despair; yet, incited by the obstacles which were thus opposed to his desires, he was constantly occupied in devising means for their attainment, and for deceiving the Argus who so carefully watched his Io. In the meanwhile, Leonora had perceived the attention with which the Count regarded her; and flattered by that first homage, so delightful to the unworn heart, she soon yielded to the soft persuasion of his eyes, and insensibly formed for him a passion as violent as his own. The flames of love are seldom kindled at the altar but they burn the temple. I did not, however, fan those thus lighted in her bosom, for the magician had put a stopper on my operations; but Nature, and woman's nature especially, is generally potent enough in such cases, without my assistance. Indeed, I doubt if she does not manage these matters best by herself; the only difference in our modes of procedure being, that Nature saps the heart by slow degrees, while I love to carry it by storm. Affairs were in this posture, when Leonora, and her eternal governante, going one morning to church, were accosted by an old woman, carrying in her hand one of the largest chaplets ever framed by hypocrisy. "Heaven bless you!" said she, addressing herself, with a saintly smile, to the duenna, "the peace of God be with you! Have I not the honour of speaking to the lady Marcella, the chaste widow of the lamented Signor Martin Rosetta?" "You have," replied the governante. "How fortunate!" exclaimed the old hypocrite; "I have a relation, at this moment lying at my house, who would see you ere he dies. He was intimately acquainted with your dear husband, and has matters of the utmost importance to communicate to you. It is only three days since he arrived in Madrid, from Flanders, for the express purpose of seeing you; but scarcely had he entered my house when he was stretched on a bed of sickness, and he has now, I fear, but a few hours to live. Let us hasten, while there is yet time, to soothe the pangs of his passing spirit: a few steps will bring us to his side." [Illustration: Leonora, Marcella and the old woman] The wary duenna, who had seen enough of the world to be suspicious of the best even of her own sex, still, however, hesitated to follow: which the old lady perceiving, "My dear lady Marcella," said she, "surely you do not doubt me. You must have heard of La Chichona. Why! the licentiate Marcos de Figuerna and the bachelor Mira de Mesqua would answer for me as for their grandmothers. If I desire that you accompany me to my house, it is for your good only. Heaven forbid that I should touch the smallest portion of that which is your due, and which my poor relation is so anxious to repay to the wife of his friend!" At the word "repay," the lady Marcella hesitated no longer: "Let us go, my child," said she to Leonora; "we will see this good woman's relation;--to visit the sick is among the first of our duties." "Verily," said the Demon, "charity does cover a multitude of sins!" [Illustration: at the house of La Chichona] They soon arrived at the house of La Chichona, who introduced them to a mean apartment, where they found a man in bed: he had a long beard, and if he were not really desperately ill, he at least appeared to be so. "See, cousin!" said the old woman, presenting the governante; "behold the person whom you sought so anxiously; this is the lady Marcella, the respected widow of your friend Rosetta." At these words, the old man raised himself on his pillow with apparent difficulty; and, making signs for the duenna to approach him, said with a feeble voice,--"Heaven be praised, for its mercy in permitting me to live till now!--to see you, my dear lady, was all that I desired upon earth. Indeed, I feared to die, without the satisfaction of seeing you, and of rendering into your hands the hundred ducats which your late husband, my dearest friend, so kindly lent me in my dire necessity, at Bruges, when but for that assistance my honour had been for ever lost:--but you must have often heard of me and my adventures." "Alas! no," replied Marcella, "he never mentioned it to me. God rest his soul! he was ever so generous as to forget the services he rendered to his friends; and so far from boasting of such kindnesses as these, I can declare that I even never heard of his doing a good action in his life." "His was indeed a noble mind," replied the sick man, "as I have perhaps better reason to know than most persons; and to prove this to you I must relate the history of the unfortunate affair from which his liberality so happily released me. But as I shall have to speak of things which should be disclosed to no other ears than thine, honourable as they are to the memory of my deceased friend, it were better that we should be alone." "Oh, certainly!" cried Chichona, "though it would delight me to hear of the good Rosetta, whom you are always praising, we will retire to my closet;" saying which, she led Leonora into the next apartment. No sooner had she done so, and closed the door, than without ceremony the old woman thus addressed her companion:--"Charming Leonora, our moments are too precious to be wasted. You know the young Count de Belflor, at least by sight. Need I say how long he has loved you, and how ardently he desires to tell you so? Driven to despair by the vigilance and austerity of Marcella, he has had recourse to my assistance to procure him an interview; and I, who could refuse nothing to so handsome a cavalier, have dressed up his valet as the sick man you have just seen, that I might engage your governante's attention and bring you hither." As she finished speaking, the Count, who was concealed by the drapery of a little window, discovered himself, and, falling at the feet of Leonora: "Madam," said he, "pardon the stratagem of a lover, who could no longer conceal from you the passion that is destroying the life to which it alone gives value:--but for this good woman's kindness, I had perished in despair." These words, uttered with respectful earnestness, by a man whose appearance was far from displeasing, affected, while they perplexed Leonora, and she remained for some time speechless. But at length recovering herself, she looked, or endeavoured to look, haughtily on her prostrate lover, and replied: "Truly you are deeply indebted to your obliging confidante for this attention, but I am not so sure that I have equal reason to be thankful, or that you will gain by her kindness the object you desire." In saying these words, she moved towards the door; but the Count, gently detaining her, exclaimed: "Stay, adorable Leonora! deign to listen to me but for an instant. Be not alarmed! my affection for you is pure as your own thoughts. I feel that the artifice to which I have descended must revolt you; but consider how vainly I have striven by more honourable means to address you. You cannot be ignorant that for many months, at the church, in the public walk, at the theatre, I have vainly sought to confirm with my lips that passion which my eyes could not disguise. Alas! while I implore pardon for a crime to which the cruelty of the merciless duenna has compelled me, let me also entreat your pity for the torments I have endured; and judge, by the charms which your happy mirror discloses, of the extent of his wretchedness who is banished from their sight." [Illustration: Belflor woos Leonora] Belflor did not fail to accompany these words with all the arts of persuasion commonly practised with so much success by my devotees: tender looks, heart-broken sighs, and even a few tears were not wanting; and Leonora was of course affected. Despite herself, she began to feel those little flutterings of the heart, which are the usual preludes of capitulation with woman; but far from yielding without a struggle to her tenderness, or pity, or weakness, the more sensible she became of treason in the garrison, the more hastily she resolved to vacate the place. "Count," she exclaimed, "it is in vain you tell me this. I will listen no longer. Do not attempt to detain me: let me leave a house in which my honour is exposed to suspicion; or my cries shall alarm the neighbourhood, and expose your audacity which has dared to insult me." This she uttered with so resolute an air that Chichona, who was on very punctilious terms with the police, prayed the Count not to push matters to extremity. Finding his entreaties useless, he released Leonora, who hastened from the apartment, and, what never happened to any maiden before, left it as she had entered it. "Let us quit this dangerous house," said Leonora, on rejoining her governante: "finish this idle talk,--we are deceived." "What ails you, child?" cried Marcella in reply; "and why should we leave this poor man so hastily?" "I will tell you," said Leonora; "but let us fly: every instant I remain here but adds to my affliction." However desirous was the duenna to learn the cause of her ward's anxiety, she saw that the best way to be satisfied was to yield to her entreaties; and they quitted the apartment with a celerity which quite discomposed the stately governante, leaving Chichona, the Count, and his valet as much disconcerted as a company of comedians, when the curtain falls on a wretched farce, which the presiding deities of the pit have consigned to a lower deep. When Leonora found herself safely in the street, she related, as well as her extreme agitation, and Marcella's exclamations of astonishment, would permit, all that had passed in the chamber with the Count and Chichona. "I must confess, child," said the duenna, when they had reached home, "that I am exceedingly mortified to hear what you have just been telling me. To think that I have been the dupe of that wicked woman! You will allow, however, that I was not without my doubts. Why did I yield them? I should have been suspicious of so much kindness and honesty. I have committed a folly which is absolutely inexcusable in a person of my sagacity and experience. Ah! why did you not tell me this in her presence? I would have torn her eyes out: I would have loaded the Count de Belflor with reproaches for his perfidy: and as for the scoundrel with his ducats and his beard, he should not have had a hair left on his head. But I will return, this instant, with the money which I have received as a real restitution; and if I find them still together, they shall not have waited for nothing." So saying, the enraged widow of the generous Rosetta folded her mantilla around her, and left Leonora to weep over the treachery of mankind. Marcella found the Count with Chichona, in despair at the failure of his design. Most of my pupils, in his place, would have been abashed at seeing her: it is extraordinary what scruples I have to overcome. But Belflor was of another stamp: to a thousand good qualities, he added that of yielding implicit obedience to my inspirations. When he loved, nothing could exceed the ardour with which he followed the devoted object of his affections; and though naturally what the world calls an honourable man, he was then capable of violating the most sacred duties for the attainment of his desires. No sooner, therefore, did he perceive Marcella, than, as he saw that their fulfilment could only be completed through the duenna's agency, he resolved to spare nothing to win her to his interests. He shrewdly guessed that, rigidly virtuous as the lady appeared, she, like her betters, had her price; and as he was disposed to bid pretty liberally, you will own he did no great injustice to a duenna's fidelity: for so rare a commodity will only be found where lovers are not over-rich, or not sufficiently liberal. The instant Marcella entered the room, and perceived the three persons she sought, her tongue went as though possessed; and while she poured a torrent of abuse on the Count and Chichona, she sent the restitution flying at the head of the valet. The Count patiently endured the storm; and throwing himself on his knees before the duenna, to render the scene more moving, he pressed her to take back the purse she had rejected; and offering to add to it a thousand pistoles, he besought her compassion on his sufferings. As Marcella had never before been so earnestly entreated, it is no wonder that she was, on this occasion, not inexorable: her invectives, therefore, speedily ceased; and on comparing the tempting sum now offered to her, with the paltry recompence she expected from Don Luis de Cespedes, she was not slow in discovering that it would be much more profitable to turn Leonora from her duty, than to keep her in its path. Accordingly, after some little affectation, she again received the purse, accepted the offer of the thousand pistoles, promised to assist the Count in his designs, and departed at once to labour for their accomplishment. [Illustration: Belflor bribes Marcella] As she knew Leonora to be strictly virtuous, she was extremely cautious of exciting the least suspicion of her intelligence with the Count, lest the plot should be discovered to Don Luis, her father; so, desirous of skilfully effecting her ruin, she thus addressed her on her return: "My dear Leonora, I have revenged myself on the wretches who deceived us. I found them quite confounded at your virtuous resolution; and, threatening the infamous Chichona with your father's resentment, and the most rigorous severity of the law, I bestowed on the Count de Belflor all the insulting epithets that my anger could suggest. I warrant that the Signor will make no more attempts of this kind on you; and that henceforth his gallantries will cease to engage my attention. I thank Heaven that, by your firmness, you have escaped the snare that was laid for you. I could weep for joy to think that the deceiver has gained nothing by his stratagem; for these noble signors make it their amusement to seduce the young and innocent. Indeed, the greater part even of those who pique themselves on their honourable conduct have no scruples on this point, as though it were no disgrace to carry ruin into virtuous families. Not that I think the Count absolutely of this character, nor even that he intends studiously to deceive you: we should not judge too harshly of our neighbours; and perhaps, after all, he meant you honourably. Although his rank would give him pretensions to the hand of the noblest at our court, your beauty may yet have induced him to resolve on marriage with yourself. In fact, I recollect that in his answers to my reproaches, which I heeded not at the time, I might have perceived something of the sort." "What say you, dear Marcella?" interrupted Leonora. "If that were his intention, he would have sought me of my father, who would never have refused his daughter to a person of his rank." "What you say is perfectly just," replied the governante, "and I am quite of your opinion; the Count's proceedings are certainly suspicious, or rather his designs cannot be good: for a trifle, I would return and scold him again." "No, good Marcella," replied Leonora, "we had better forget the past, and revenge ourselves by contempt." "Very true," said the duenna; "I believe that is the best plan: you are more prudent than myself. But, after all, may we not do the Count injustice? Who knows that he has not been actuated by the purest and most delicate motives? It is possible that, before obtaining your father's consent, he may have resolved to deserve and to please you; to render your union more delightful by first gaining your heart. If that were so, child, would it be a very great sin to listen to him? Tell me your thoughts, love; you know my affection: does your heart incline towards the Count, or would it be very disagreeable to marry such a man?" To this malicious question, the too-sincere Leonora replied, with down-cast eyes, and face suffused with blushes, by avowing that she had no aversion to the Count; but, as modesty prevented her explaining herself more openly, the duenna still pressed her to conceal nothing from her; and at last succeeded, by affected tenderness, in obtaining a full confession of her love. "Dearest Marcella," said the unsuspicious girl, "since you desire me to speak to you without disguise, I must confess that Belflor has appeared to me not unworthy of my love. I was struck by his appearance; and I have heard him so much praised, that I could not remain insensible to the affection he displayed for me. Your watchful care to guard me from his addresses has cost me many a sigh: nay, I will own I have in secret wept his absence; and repaid with my tears the sufferings your vigilance has caused him. Even at this moment, instead of hating him for the insult he has offered to my honour, my heart against my will excuses him, and throws his fault on your severity." "My child," said the governante, "since you give me reason to believe that his attentions are pleasing to you, I will endeavour to secure this lover." "I am very sensible," replied Leonora, "of the kindness you intend me. It is not that the Count holds the first place at court; were he but an honourable private gentleman, I should prefer him to all others upon earth, but let us not flatter ourselves: Belflor is a noble signor, destined, without doubt, for one of the richest heiresses in our kingdom. Let us not expect that he would descend to ally himself with Don Luis, who has but a moderate fortune to offer with his daughter. No, no," she added, "he entertains for me no such favourable thoughts: he thinks not of me as one worthy to bear his name, but seeks only my dishonour." "Ah! wherefore," said the duenna, "will you insist he loves you not well enough to seek your hand? Love daily works much greater miracles. One would imagine, to hear you, that Heaven had made some infinite distinction between you and the Count. Do yourself more justice, Leonora! He would not condescend, in uniting his destiny with yours. You are of an ancient and noble family, and your alliance would never call a blush upon his cheek. However, you love him," continued she; "and I must therefore see him, and sound him on the subject; and if I find his designs as honourable as they should be, I will indulge him with some slight hopes." "Not for the world!" cried Leonora; "on no account would I have you seek him: should he but suspect my knowledge of your proceedings, he must cease even to esteem me." "Oh! I am more cunning than you think me," answered Marcella. "I shall begin by accusing him of a design to seduce you. He of course will not fail to defend himself; I shall listen to his excuses, and shall mark the event: in short, my dear child, leave it to me; I will be as careful of your honour as of my own." Towards night, the duenna left the house, and found Belflor watching in the neighbourhood. She informed him of her conversation with his mistress, not forgetting to boast of the address with which she had elicited from Leonora the confession of her love. Nothing could more agreeably surprise the Count than this discovery; and accordingly his gratitude was displayed in the most ardent manner; that is to say, he promised to Marcella the thousand ducats on the morrow, and to himself the most complete success of his enterprise; well knowing, as he did, that a woman prepossessed is half seduced. They then separated, extremely well satisfied with each other, and the duenna returned to her home. Leonora, who had waited for her with extreme anxiety, timidly inquired if she brought any news of the Count. "The best news you could hear," replied the governante. "I have seen him, and I can assure you of the purity of his intentions: he declared that his only object is to marry you; and this he confirmed by every oath that man holds sacred. I did not, however, as you may suppose, yield implicitly to these protestations. 'If you are sincere,' said I to him, 'why do you not at once apply to Don Luis, her father?' 'Ah! my dear Marcella,' replied he, without appearing in the least embarrassed by this question, 'could you, even, approve that, without assuring myself of Leonora's affection, and following, blindly, the dictates of a devouring passion, I should seek her of Don Luis as a slave? No! her happiness is dearer to me than my own desires; and I have too nice a sense of honour, even to endanger that happiness by an indiscreet avowal.' "While he thus spoke," continued the duenna, "I observed him with extreme attention; and employed all my experience to discover in his eyes if he were really possessed of all the love that he expressed. What shall I say?--He appeared to me penetrated by the truest love; I felt elated with joy, which I took good care, however, to conceal: nevertheless, when I felt persuaded of his sincerity, I thought that, in order to secure for you so important a conquest, it would be but proper to give him some faint idea of your feelings towards him. 'Signor,' said I, 'Leonora has no aversion for you; I know that she esteems you; and, as far as I can judge, her heart would not be grieved by your addresses.' 'Great God,' he cried, transported with delight, 'what do I hear? Is it possible, that the charming Leonora should be disposed so favourably towards me? What do I not owe to you, kindest Marcella, for thus relieving me from such torturing suspense? I am the more rejoiced, too, that this should be announced by you;--you, who have ever opposed my love; you, who have inflicted on me such lengthened suffering. But, my dear Marcella, complete my bliss! let me see my divine Leonora, and pledge to her my faith; let me swear, in your presence, to be hers only for ever.' "To all these expressions of his devotion," continued the governante, "he added others still more touching. At last, my dear child, he entreated me in so pressing a manner to procure for him a secret interview, that I could not forbear promising he should see you." "Ah! why have you done so?" exclaimed Leonora, with emotion. "How often have you told me, that a virtuous girl should ever shun such secret conversations,--always wrong, and almost always dangerous?" "Certainly," replied the duenna, "I acknowledge to have said so, and a very good maxim it is; but you are not obliged to adhere to it strictly on this occasion; for you may look upon the Count as your husband." "He is not so yet," said Leonora, "and I ought not to see him until my father permits his addresses." Marcella, at this moment, repented of having imbued the mind of her pupil with those notions of propriety which she found so much trouble to overcome. Determined, however, at any rate to effect her object, she thus recommenced her attack: "My dear Leonora! I am proud to witness so much virtuous delicacy. Happy fruit of all my cares! You have truly profited by the lessons I have taught you. I am delighted with the result of my labours. But, child, you have read rather too literally; you construe my maxims too rigidly; your susceptibility is indeed somewhat prudish. However much I pique myself on my severity, I do not quite approve of that precise chastity which arms itself indifferently against guilt or innocence. A girl ceases not to be virtuous who yields her ear only to her lover, especially when she is conscious of the purity which chastens his desires; and she is then no more wrong in responding to his love, than she is for her sensibility to the passion. Rely upon me, Leonora; I have too much experience, and am too much interested in your welfare, to suffer you to take a step that might be prejudicial to it." "But where would you have me see the Count?" said Leonora. "In this room, to be sure," replied the duenna. "Where could you see him so safely? I will introduce him to-morrow evening." "You are not surely serious, Marcella!" exclaimed Leonora. "What! think you I would permit a man----" "To be sure you will!" interrupted the duenna; "there is nothing so wonderful in that, as you imagine. It happens daily; and would to heaven that every damsel who receives such visits, had desires as pure as those by which you are animated! Besides, what have you to fear? shall not I be with you?" "Alas!" said Leonora, "should my father surprise us!" "Do not trouble yourself about that," replied Marcella. "Your father is perfectly satisfied as to your conduct: he knows my fidelity, and would not do me so much wrong as to suspect it." Poor Leonora, thus artfully instigated by the duenna, and secretly moved by her own feelings, could withstand no longer; and at last yielded, although unwillingly, to her governante's proposal. The Count was soon informed of Marcella's success, of which he was so well satisfied, that he at once gave her five hundred pistoles, and a ring of equal value. The duenna, finding his promises so well performed, was determined to be as scrupulously exact in the fulfilment of her own; and, accordingly, on the following night, when she felt assured that every one in the house was fast asleep, she fastened to the balcony a silken ladder, which the Count had provided, and introduced his lordship to the chamber of his mistress. In the meanwhile, the fair Leonora was immersed in reflections of the most painfully agitating nature. Notwithstanding her affection for the Count, and despite her governante's assurances, she bitterly reproached herself for her weakness, in yielding a consent to an interview which she still felt was in violation of her duty; nor could a knowledge of the purity of her intentions bring comfort to her bosom. To receive, by night, in her apartment, a man whose love was unsanctioned by her parent, and not certainly known even by herself, now appeared to her not only criminal, but calculated to degrade her in the estimation of her lover also; and this last thought tortured her almost to madness, when that lover entered. He threw himself on his knees before her; and, apparently penetrated by love and gratitude, thanked her for that confidence in his honour, which had permitted this visit, and assured her of his determination to merit it, by shortly espousing her. However, as he was not as explicit upon this point as Leonora desired, "Count," said she to him, "I am too anxious to believe that you have no other views than those you express to me; but whatever assurances you may offer must always appear to me suspicious, so long as my father is ignorant of your designs, and has not ratified them by his consent." "Madam," replied Belflor, "that would have been long since demanded by me, had I not feared to have obtained it at the sacrifice of your repose." "Alas!" said Leonora, "I do not reproach you that you have not yet sought Don Luis,--I cannot but be sensible of your delicacy; but nothing now restrains you, and you must at once resolve to see my father, or never to see me more." [Illustration: Belflor climbs up to Leonora's balcony] "What do I hear?" exclaimed the Count,--"never to see you more! Beauteous Leonora! how little sensible are you to the charms of love! Did you know how to love like me, you would delight in secret to receive my vows; and, for some time at least, to conceal them from your father as from all the world. Oh! who can paint the charms of that mysterious intercourse, in which two hearts indulge, united by a passion as intense as pure." "It may have charms for you," replied Leonora; "to me, such intercourse would bring but sorrow: this refinement of tenderness but ill becomes a virtuous maiden. Speak not to me of such impure delights! Did you esteem me, you had not dared to do so; and were your intentions such as you would persuade me, you would, from your soul, reproach me that I could listen to you with patience. But, alas!" she added, while tears filled her eyes, "my weakness alone has exposed me to this outrage: I have indeed deserved it, that I see you here." "Adorable Leonora!" cried the Count, "you wrong my love most cruelly! Your virtue, too scrupulous, is causelessly alarmed. What! can you conceive that, because I have been so happy as to prevail on you to favour my passion, I should cease to esteem you? What injustice! No, madam, I know, too well, the value of your kindness; it can never deprive you of my esteem; and I am ready to do as you require me. I will, to-morrow, see Don Luis; and nothing shall be wanting on my part to ensure my happiness: but I cannot conceal from you, that I scarcely indulge a hope." "How!" replied; Leonora, with extreme surprise; "is it possible that my father should refuse me to the Count de Belflor?"--"Ah! it is that very title which gives me cause for alarm. But I see this surprises you: your astonishment, however, will soon cease. "Only a few days ago," continued he, "the King was pleased to declare his will, that I should marry: you know how these matters are managed at our Court. He has not, however, named the lady for whom I am intended; but has contented himself with intimating that she is one who will do me honour, and that he has set his mind upon our union. As I was then ignorant of your disposition towards me,--for, as you well know, your rigorous severity has never until now, permitted me to divine it,--I did not let him perceive in me any aversion to the accomplishment of his desires. You may now therefore, judge, madam, whether Don Luis would hazard the King's displeasure, by accepting me as his son-in-law." "No, doubtless," said Leonora; "I know my father well: however desirable he might esteem your alliance, he would not hesitate to renounce it, rather than expose himself to the anger of his Majesty. But, even though my father had consented to our union, we should not be less unfortunate; for, Belflor, how could you possibly bestow on me a hand which the King has destined for another?" "Madam," replied the Count, "I will not disguise that your question embarrasses me. Still, I am not without hope that, by prudent management with the King, and by availing myself of the influence which his friendship for me secures, I should find means to avoid the misfortune which threatens me; and yourself, lovely Leonora, might assist me in so doing, did you but deem me worthy of the happiness of being yours." "I assist you!" she exclaimed; "how could I possibly enable you to avert an union which the King proposes for you?" "Ah! madam," he replied, with impassioned looks, "would you deign to receive my vows of eternal fidelity to you, I should have no difficulty in preserving my faith inviolate, without offending my sovereign. Permit, charming Leonora," he continued, throwing himself at her feet, "permit me to espouse you in the presence of our friend Marcella; she is a witness who will vouch for the sanctity of our engagements. I shall thus escape the hateful bonds they would impose upon me; for, should the King still press me to accept the lady he designs for me, I will prostrate myself before him, and, on my knees, confess how long and ardently my love has been devoted to you, and that we are secretly married. However desirous he may be to unite me with another, he is too gracious to think of tearing me from the object I adore, and too just to offer so grievous an affront to your honourable family. "What is your opinion, discreet Marcella?" added he, turning towards the governante; "what think you of this project with which love has so opportunely inspired me?" "I am charmed with it," said the duenna; "the rogue, Cupid, is never at a loss for an expedient." "And you, dearest Leonora," resumed the Count, "what do you say to it? Can your heart, always mistrustful, refuse its assent to my proposal?" "No," she replied, "provided my father consent to it; and I do not doubt that he will, when you have explained to him your reasons for secrecy." "You must be very cautious how you consult him upon the subject," interrupted the abominable duenna; "you do not know Don Luis: his notions of honour are too scrupulous to permit him to engage himself with secret amours. The proposal of a private marriage would shock him; besides which, he is too prudent not to foresee the possible consequences of one which interfered with the designs of the King. And, once proposed to him, and his suspicion aroused, his eyes will be constantly upon you; and he will take good care to prevent your marriage, by separating you for ever." "And I should die with grief and despair," cried our courtier. "But madam," continued he, addressing himself to Marcella, with an air of profound disappointment, "do you really think, then, that there is no chance of Don Luis yielding to our prayer?" "Not the slightest!" replied the governante. "But suppose he should! Exact and scrupulous as he is, he would never consent to the omission of a single religious ceremony on the occasion; and if they are all to be observed in your marriage, the secret will be soon known in Madrid." "Ah! my dear Leonora," said the Count, taking her hand, and tenderly pressing it within his own, "must we, then, to satisfy a vain notion of decorum, expose ourselves to the frightful danger of an eternal separation? Our happiness is in your hands; since it depends on you alone to bestow yourself on me. A father's consent might, perhaps, spare you some uneasiness; but since our kind Marcella has convinced us of the impossibility of obtaining it, yield yourself, without further scruple, to my innocent desires. Receive my heart and hand; and when the time shall have arrived, that we may inform Don Luis of our union, we shall have no difficulty in satisfying him as to our reasons for its concealment." "Well, Count," said Leonora, "I consent to your not at once speaking to my father, but that you first sound the King upon the subject. Before, however, I receive thus secretly your hand, I would have this done. See his Majesty; tell him even, if necessary, that we are married. Let us endeavour, by this show of confidence,----" "Alas! madam," interrupted Belflor, "what do you ask of me? No, my soul revolts at the thoughts of falsehood. I cannot lie; and you would despise me, could I thus dissemble with the King;--besides, how could I hope for pardon at his hands, should he discover the meanness of which I had been guilty?" "I should never have done, Signor Don Cleophas," continued the Demon, "were I to repeat word for word all that Belflor said, in order to seduce his lovely mistress; I will only add, that he repeated, without my assistance, all those passionate phrases with which I usually inspire gallants upon similar occasions. But in vain did he swear he would publicly confirm, as soon as possible, the faith which he proposed to pledge in secret: Leonora's virtue was proof against his oaths; and the blushing day, which surprised him while he called Heaven to witness for his fidelity, compelled him to retire less triumphant than he had anticipated." On the following morning, the duenna, conceiving that her honour, or rather her interest, engaged her not to abandon the enterprise, took an opportunity of reverting to the subject. "Leonora," said she, "I am confounded by what passed last evening; you appear to disdain the Count's affection, or to regard it as inspired by an unworthy motive. Perhaps, however, after all, you remarked something in his person or manner that displeased you?" "No, good governante," replied Leonora; "he never appeared to me more amiable; and his conversation discovered to me a thousand new charms." "If that be the case," said the duenna, "I am still more perplexed. You acknowledge to be strongly prepossessed in his favour, and yet refuse to yield in a point, the absolute necessity of which he has so clearly demonstrated." "My dear Marcella," replied her ward, "you are wiser, and have had more experience in these matters, than myself; but have you sufficiently reflected on the consequences of a marriage contracted without my father's knowledge?" "Yes, certainly," answered the duenna, "I have maturely considered all that; and I regret to find you oppose yourself, with an obstinacy of which I deemed you incapable, to the brilliant establishment which fortune presents so uselessly. Have a care that your perverseness does not weary and repel your lover; remember that he may discover the inequality of your station and fortune, which his passion overlooks. While he offers you his faith, receive it without hesitation. His word is his bond; there is no tie more sacred with a man of honour, like Belflor: besides, I am witness that he acknowledges you as his wife; and I need not tell you that a testimony like mine would be more than sufficient to condemn a lover who should dare to perjure himself, and attempt to evade a legal contract." By this and similar conversations, the resolution of the artless Leonora was at last shaken; and the perils which surrounded her were so adroitly concealed by her perfidious governante, that, some days afterwards, she abandoned herself, without further reflection, to the will of the Count. Belflor was introduced nightly, by the balcony, into his mistress's apartment; which he left again before daybreak, when summoned by the duenna. One morning, the old lady overslept herself; and Aurora had already half opened the golden chambers of the east, when the Count hastily departed, as usual. Unfortunately, in his hurry to descend the ladder, his foot missed, and he fell heavily on the ground. Don Luis de Cespedes, who slept in the room over Leonora's, had that morning risen earlier than usual to attend to some important engagements; and hearing the noise of Belflor's fall he opened his window to learn whence it proceeded. To his astonishment, he perceived a man just raising himself, with difficulty, from the earth, while Marcella was busily engaged in the balcony with the silken ladder, of which the Count had made such bad use in his descent. Scarcely believing his eyes, and rubbing them to make sure that he was awake, Don Luis stood for some time in amazement; but he was too soon convinced that what he saw was no illusion; and that the light of day, although just breaking, was bright enough to discover to him, too clearly, his disgrace. [Illustration: Don Luis de Cespedes looking out of the window] Afflicted at this fatal sight, transported by a just wrath, he instantly sought the apartment of Leonora, holding the light by which he had been writing in one hand, and his sword in the other. With a frantic determination of sacrificing his daughter and her governante to his resentment, he struck the door of their chamber violently, and commanded them to admit him. Trembling, they obeyed his summons; when he entered with infuriated looks, and displaying his naked sword: "I come," he cried, "to wash out, in the blood of an infamous child, the stains on the wounded honour of her father; and to punish the crime of a perfidious wretch, who has betrayed his confidence." [Illustration: Don Luis confronts Leonora and Marcella] They were in a moment on their knees before him; and, as he raised his arm, the trembling duenna exclaimed: "In mercy hold, Signor! Before you inflict on us the punishment you meditate, deign but to listen to me for a moment." "Speak, then, unhappy woman," said Don Luis; "I will retard my vengeance but for the instant you require: speak, I repeat! tell me all the circumstances of my misfortune. But what do I say,--all the circumstances? Alas! I am ignorant but of one; it is, the name of the villain who has dishonoured me." "Signor," replied Marcella, "the cavalier who has just left us is the Count de Belflor." "The Count de Belflor!" repeated Don Luis; "and where did he see my daughter? By what means has he seduced her? On your life, hide nothing from me!" "Signor," replied the governante, "I will relate the whole history to you, with all the sincerity of which I am capable." She then related, with infinite art, all the conversations she had previously narrated to Leonora, as having passed between herself and the Count; whom she painted in the most flattering colours, as a lover tender, delicate, and sincere, beyond description. As, however, there was no escaping the event in which this heroic love most naturally terminated, she was obliged to avow the truth. But she managed this so adroitly, insisting on the weighty reasons which Belflor had for secrecy in his nuptials, and on the regret he had always expressed for its necessity, that she gradually appeased the fury of her master. This she was not slow to perceive; and, to completely soften the old man, she wound up by a peroration that would have done as much honour to a wig as to a gown:--"Signor," said she, "I have thus told you the simple truth: now punish us if you will, and plunge your sword into your daughter's bosom! But what say I? No! Leonora is innocent; she has but followed the faithful counsels of her to whom you confided the guidance of her conduct. It is my heart against which your sword should be directed; it was I who first introduced the Count to her apartment; it is I who formed those ties which bind him to your daughter. I would not perceive the irregularity of his engagement, although unauthorised by you: I saw in him but a son-in-law, whom I was anxious to secure to you; but the channel through which the favours of our Court might reach you. I forgot all but the happiness of Leonora, and the advancement of your family, in the brilliant alliance of the Count. I have erred: the excess of my zeal has made me forgetful of my duty." While the subtle Marcella was speaking thus, poor Leonora was not sparing of her tears; and her grief appeared so excessive that the good old man could not resist it. He was affected. His anger was changed into compassion; his sword fell on the ground; and, quitting the air of an irritated parent: "Ah! my daughter," he cried, while tears sprung from his aged eyes, like water from the rock of Horeb, "what a fatal passion is love! Alas! you know not yet all the causes it will bring you for affliction. The shame which a father's presence alone excites, can bring tears to your eyes at this moment; but you foresee not the woes which your lover is, perhaps even now, preparing for the future. And you, imprudent Marcella, what have you done? Into what an abyss has your indiscreet zeal for my family plunged us! I allow that an alliance with a man like Belflor might dazzle you, and it is that which alone excuses and saves you; but, miserable that you are, why were you not more cautious with a lover of his station? The greater his credit and favour at court, the more guarded should you have been against his approaches. Should he not scruple to break his faith with my daughter, how shall I avenge the insult? Shall I implore the power of our laws? A person of his rank can easily shelter himself from its severity. I will suppose that, faithful to his oaths, he would abide by his engagements with my daughter: if the King, as you say, has decreed that he shall marry with another, is it likely that our sovereign will fail to be obeyed?" "Oh! my father," replied Leonora, "that need not alarm us. The Count has assured us that the King would never do so great a violence to his feelings--" "Of which I am convinced," interrupted the duenna; "for, besides that the monarch loves Belflor too much to exercise so great a tyranny upon his favourite, he is of too noble a character to afflict so grievously the valiant Don Luis de Cespedes, who has devoted to the service of the state the best years of his life." "Heaven grant," exclaimed the old man, sighing, "that all my fears are vain! I will seek the Count, and demand a full explanation of his conduct: the eyes of a father, alarmed for a daughter's welfare, will pierce his very soul. If I find him what I would hope, and what you would persuade me he is, I will pardon what has passed; but," added he firmly, "if in his discourse I discern the perfidy of his heart, you go, both of you, to bewail in retirement, for the rest of your days, the imprudence of which you have been guilty." As he finished, he took up his sword, and retired to his own room, leaving his daughter and her governante to recover themselves from the fright into which this discovery had so unexpectedly thrown them. [Illustration: The lady, her husband and her lover] Asmodeus was at this moment interrupted in his recital by the Student, who thus addressed him:--"My dear Devil, interesting as is the history you are relating to me, my eyes have wandered to an object which prevents my listening to you as attentively as I could wish. I see a lady, who is rather good-looking, seated between a young man and a gentleman old enough to be his grandfather. They seem to enjoy the liqueurs which are on the table near them, but what amuses me, is, that as from time to time the amorous old dotard embraces his mistress, the deceiver conveys her hand to the lips of the other, who covers it with silent kisses. He is doubtless her gallant." "On the contrary," replied the cripple, "he is her husband, and the old fool is her lover. He is a man of consequence,--no less than a commandant of the military order of Calatrava; and is ruining himself for the lady, whose complaisant husband holds some inferior place at court She bestows her caresses on the sighing knight, for the sake of his gold; and is unfaithful to him in favour of her husband, from inclination." "That is a marvellously pretty picture," said Zambullo. "The husband of course is French?" "No, no," replied the Demon: "he is a Spaniard. Oh! the good city of Madrid can boast within its walls a fair proportion of such well-bred spouses: still, they do not swarm here as in Paris, which is, beyond contradiction, the most fruitful city of the world in such inhabitants." "I thought so," said Don Cleophas; "but pardon me, Signor Asmodeus, if I have broken the thread of the fair Leonora's story. Continue it, I pray you; it interests me exceedingly; and exhibits such variety in the art of seduction as transports me with admiration." CHAPTER V. CONTINUATION OF THE STORY OF THE LOVES OF THE COUNT DE BELFLOR AND LEONORA DE CESPEDES. Don Luis, (continued Asmodeus), on returning to his apartment, dressed himself hastily, and, while it was still early, repaired to the Count; who, not suspecting a discovery, was much surprised by this visit. On the old man's entrance, however, Belflor ran to meet him, and, embracing him cordially, exclaimed, "Ah Signor Don Luis; I am delighted to see you. To what do I owe this happiness? Am I so fortunate as to have an opportunity of serving you?" "Signor," replied Don Luis sternly, "I would speak with you alone." Belflor desired his attendants to withdraw; and as soon as they were seated, "Signor," said Cespedes, "I come to ask of you an explanation of circumstances in which my honour and happiness are deeply interested. I saw you this morning leaving the apartment of my daughter. She has disguised nothing from me: she informed that----" "She has told you that I love her," interrupted the Count, to avoid hearing what he knew could not be very agreeable; "but she can but have feebly described all that I feel for her. I am enchanted with her; she is an adorable creature: beauty, wit, virtue,--nothing is wanting to perfect her charms. I am told you have a son, too, who is finishing his studies at Alcala: does he resemble his sister? If he have her beauty, and have at all inherited the noble bearing of his father, he must be a perfect cavalier. I die with anxiety to see him; and I assure you that I shall be proud to advance his fortunes." "I am obliged to you for so kind an offer," gravely replied Don Luis; "but to return to the subject of----" "He must enter the service at once," again interrupted the Count: "I charge myself with the care of his interests: he shall not grow old among the crowd of subalterns; on that you may depend." "Answer me, Count!" replied the old man vehemently, "and cease these interruptions. Do you intend, or not, to fulfil the promise----?" "Yes, certainly," interrupted Belflor for the third time; "I engage faithfully to support your son with all the interest I possess: rely on me; I am a man of my word." "This is too much, Count," cried Cespedes, rising: "after having seduced my daughter, you dare thus to insult me! But I also am a noble; and the injury you have done me shall not remain unpunished." In finishing these words, he left the Count, his heart swelling with anger, and his mind tormented with a thousand projects of revenge. [Illustration: Don Luis de Cespedes interviews Belflor] On arriving at home, still greatly agitated, he immediately went to Leonora's apartment, where he found her with Marcella. "It was not without reason," said he, addressing them, "that I was suspicious of the Count: he is a traitor; but I will avenge myself. For you, you shall at once hide your shame within a convent: both of you, prepare to leave this house to-morrow; and thank Heaven that my wrath contents itself with so moderate a punishment." He then left them, to shut himself in his cabinet, that he might maturely reflect on the conduct it would be proper to observe in so delicate a conjuncture. How poignant was the grief of Leonora, when thus informed of Belflor's perfidy! She remained for some time motionless; a death-like paleness overspread her lovely features; life itself seemed about to abandon her, and she fell senseless into the arms of her governante. The alarmed duenna at first thought that the victim of her intrigues was really dead; but, on perceiving that she still breathed, used every effort to restore her to consciousness, and at last succeeded. Existence, however, had no longer charms for Leonora; and when, somewhat recovered, she unclosed her eyelids, and perceived the officious governante busy about her person, "Cruel Marcella!" she exclaimed, sighing deeply; "wherefore have you drawn me from the happy state in which I was? Then, I felt not the horror of my destiny. Why did you not let me perish? You, who know so well that life henceforth must be but one long misery, why have you sought to preserve it?" The duenna endeavoured to console her, but her words only added to Leonora's sufferings. "It is in vain you would comfort me," she cried, "I will not hear you: strive not to combat my despair. Rather seek to add to its profundity; you, who have plunged me into the frightful gulph in which all my hopes are swallowed:--you it was who assured me of the Count's sincerity; but for you I had never yielded to my passion for him; I should have insensibly triumphed over it, or at least, he would never have had cause to boast of my weakness. But no! I will not," she continued, "attribute to you my misfortunes; it is myself alone I should accuse. I ought not to have followed your advice, in accepting the faith of a man, without the sanction of my father. However flattering to me were the attentions of Count de Belflor, I should have despised them, rather than have endeavoured to secure them at the price of my honour: I should have mistrusted him, you! Marcella, and myself. For my folly in listening to his perfidious oaths, for the affliction I have caused to the unhappy Don Luis, and for the dishonour I have brought upon my family, I detest myself; and, far from fearing the state of seclusion with which I am menaced, I would willingly conceal my guilt and shame in the most frightful dungeon in the world." [Illustration: Marcella tries to console Leonora] While her grief thus vented itself in exclamations, and tears streamed from her eyes, she frantically tore her clothes, and revenged the injustice of her lover on the beautiful locks which fell around her neck. The duenna, also, to appear in keeping with her mistress's grief, was not sparing of grimaces; she managed to squeeze out some convenient tears, and directed a thousand imprecations against mankind in general, and against Belflor in particular. "Is it possible," she cried, "that the Count, who had all the semblance of amiability and rectitude, should be so great a villain as to have deceived us both? I cannot get over my surprise, or rather, I cannot even yet persuade myself that he is so." "Indeed," said Leonora, "when I picture him myself at my feet, what maiden could but have confided to so much tenderness,--to his oaths, which he so daringly called on Heaven to witness,--to his boundless transports, which seemed so sincere? His eyes to me discovered a love far more intense than his lips could express; and the very sight of me appeared to charm him:--no, he did not deceive me; I cannot believe it. My father has not spoken to him with sufficient caution; they have quarrelled, and the Count has replied to his reproaches less as the lover than the lord. Still, may I not deceive myself? I will, however, end this horrible suspense. I will write to Belflor,--tell him I expect him here this night: I am resolved he comes to reassure my troubled heart, or to confirm, himself, his treachery." Marcella loudly applauded this resolution; she even conceived a hope that the Count, all ambitious as he was, might yet be affected by the tears of his Leonora, which could not fail at this interview, and that he might determine on espousing her in truth. Meanwhile, Belflor, relieved of the presence of Don Luis, was revolving in his mind the probable consequences of the reception he had given to the good old man. He felt certain that all the Cespedes, enraged at the injury he had done their family, would unite to avenge it: this, however, gave him but little trouble; the possible loss of Leonora occasioned him far greater anxiety. She would, he imagined, at once be placed in a convent, or, at least, that she would be carefully guarded from his sight; and that she was consequently lost to him for ever. This thought afflicted him; and he was occupied in devising some means to prevent so great a misfortune, when his valet entered the apartment, and presented a letter which Marcella had placed in his hands. It was from Leonora, and ran as follows:-- "MY STILL DEAREST BELFLOR, "I shall to-morrow quit the world, to bury myself in a convent. Dishonoured, odious to my family and to myself, such is the deplorable condition to which I am reduced by listening to you. Still I will expect you to-night. In my despair, I seek new tortures: come, and avow to me that your heart disowned the protestations which your lips have made to me; or come to confirm them by your sympathy, which alone can soften the harshness of my destiny. As there may, however, be some danger in this meeting, after what has passed between you and my father, be sure you are accompanied by a friend. Although you have rendered life worthless to me, I cannot cease to interest myself in thine. "LEONORA." While the Count perused this letter, which he read over several times, his imagination depicted the situation of Leonora, in colours more sombre even than the reality, and he was deeply affected. He bitterly reflected on his past conduct: reason, probity, honour, all whose laws he had violated in the phrenzy of his passion, now regained their empire in his breast. The blindness which selfishness inflicts upon its victims was dissipated; and as the fevered convalescent blushes for the follies which, in the access of his disorder, he has committed, so was Belflor ashamed of the meanness and artifice of which he had been guilty to satisfy his lust. "What have I done?" he cried; "wretch that I am, what demon has possessed me? I promised Leonora to espouse her, and called on Heaven to witness for the lie; I falsely told her that the King had designed me for another; lying, treachery, perjury,--I have hesitated at nothing to corrupt innocence itself. What madness! Oh! had I used, to control it, the efforts I have made to gratify my passion! To seduce one of whose beauty and virtue I was unworthy, to abandon her to the wrath of her relations, whom I have equally dishonoured, and to plunge her in misery as a return for the happiness she bestowed on me,--what ingratitude! Ought I not then to repair the injury I have inflicted? Yes, I ought, and I will; my hand shall at the altar fulfil the pledge I gave for it. Who shall oppose me in so righteous a determination? Should her tenderness for me at all prejudice her virtue? No, I know too well what that cost me to vanquish. She yielded less to my love than to her confidence in my integrity, and to my vows of fidelity. But, on the other hand, if I resolve on this marriage, I make a great sacrifice,--I, who may pretend to the heiresses of the richest and most noble houses in the kingdom, shall I content myself with the daughter of a respectable gentleman, of small fortune? What will they think of me at court? They will say that I have made a splendid alliance indeed!" Belflor, thus divided between love and ambition, knew not how to resolve; but although undetermined whether he should marry Leonora or not, he had no difficulty in making up his mind to see her that evening, and at once directed his valet so to inform Marcella. Don Luis was all this time in his cabinet, engaged in reflections on the mode he should adopt to vindicate his honour; and he was not a little embarrassed in his choice. To have recourse to the laws, was to publish his disgrace, besides which, he suspected with great reason that justice was likely to be one side, and the judges on the other. Again, he dared not to seek reparation of the King himself; as he believed that prince had views with regard to Belflor which must render such an application useless. There remained, then, but his own sword and those of his friends, and on these he concluded to rely. In the heat of his resentment, he at first meditated a challenge to the Count; but on consideration of his great age and weakness, he feared to trust his arm; so resolved to confide the matter to his son, whose thrust he thought was likely to be surer than his own. He therefore sent one of his domestics to Alcala, with a letter commanding his son's immediate presence in Madrid, to revenge, as he stated it, an insult offered to the family of the Cespedes. "This son, Don Pedro, is a cavalier of eighteen years of age, perfectly handsome, and so brave, that he passes at Alcala for the most valiant student of that university; but you know him," added the Devil, "and I need not enlarge on the subject." "I can answer," said Don Cleophas, "for his having all the valour and all the merit that can adorn a gentleman." "But this young man," resumed Asmodeus, "was not then at Alcala, as his father imagined. Love had brought him also to Madrid, where the object of his passion resided; and where he had met her for the first time, on the Prado, on the occasion of his last visit to his family. Who she was, he knew not: and his fair conquest had exacted of him a pledge that he would take no steps to inform himself on this head,--and although he was as good as his word, it cost him some trouble to keep it. I need hardly add, that she was of higher rank than her lover; and that, wisely mistrusting the discretion and constancy of a student--no offence to your highness--she thought proper to test him as to these necessary qualifications for a suitor, before she disclosed to him her station or name." [Illustration: portrait of Don Pedro] His thoughts were, of course, more occupied by his lovely incognita than with the philosophy of Aristotle; and the vicinity of Alcala to Madrid occasioned the youthful Pedro to play truant to his studies as frequent as yourself; but, I must say, with a better excuse than your Donna Thomasa afforded. To conceal from his father, Don Luis, his amorous excursions, he usually lodged at a tavern at the other end of the town, where he passed under a borrowed name; and only went abroad at a certain hour in the morning, that he might repair to a house where the lady, for the love of whom he neglected his Ovid, did him the honour to wait, in company with a trusty female attendant. During the rest of the day he shut himself up in his hotel; but as soon as night was come, he wandered fearlessly throughout the city. He happened one evening, as he was traversing a bye-street, to hear the sound of instruments and voices, which attracted his attention, and he stopped to listen. It was a serenade, and tolerably performed; but the cavalier, who was drunk, and naturally brutish, no sooner perceived our student than he hurried towards him, and, without preface,--"Friend," said he, with an insolent air, "make yourself scarce; or your curiosity may find you more than you expect." "I would have withdrawn," replied Don Pedro, proudly, "had you requested me to do so with civility; but I shall now stay, to teach you better manners." "We shall see, then," said the serenading gallant, drawing his sword, "which of us two will give place to the other." Don Pedro also drew his sword, their weapons were crossed in a moment, and a furious combat ensued; but although the Student's adversary was not wanting in skill, he could not parry a mortal thrust of Don Pedro, and fell dead upon the pavement. The musicians, who had already quitted their instruments, or stopped their singing, and had drawn their swords to protect their patron, now came in a body to avenge his death, and attacked Don Pedro all together. He, however, gave them satisfactory proofs of what he could do upon occasion; for, besides parrying, with surprising dexterity, all the thrusts which they designed for him, he dealt furiously among them, and found work for them all to protect themselves. Still, they were so numerous, and apparently so determined on the Student's death, that, skilful as he was with his weapon, they would have most probably accomplished their object, had not the Count de Belflor, who was accidentally passing through the street, come to his assistance. The Count was of too noble a nature to see so many armed men striving against one man to hesitate upon the part he should take. His sword was therefore instantly directed against the musicians, and with so much vigour that they were soon put to flight, some wounded, and the others for fear they should be. The field thus cleared, the Student, with what breath remained to him, began to express his sense of the valuable service he had so seasonably received; but Belflor at once stopped him: "Not a word, my dear Sir," said he; "are you not wounded?" "No," replied Don Pedro. "Then let us leave this place at once," said the Count: "I see you have killed your man; and it will be dangerous to stay in his company, lest the officers of justice surprise you." They immediately decamped as quickly as possible, and did not stop until they had gained a street at some distance from the field of battle. Don Pedro, filled with a natural gratitude, then begged the Count not to conceal from him the name of a person to whom he owed so great an obligation. Belflor made no difficulty in complying with this request; but when in turn he asked that of the Student, the latter, unwilling to discover himself to any person in Madrid, replied, that he was Don Juan de Maros, and that he should eternally bear in his remembrance the debt of gratitude which he owed to the Count. [Illustration: the swordfight] "Well," said Belflor to him, "I will this night give you an opportunity of repaying it in full. I have an appointment, which is not without risk; and I was about, when I fell in with you, to seek the protection of a friend. However, I know your valour, Don Juan: will you accompany me?" "To doubt it, were to insult me," replied the Student: "I cannot better employ the life you have preserved, than in exposing it in your defence. Go! I am ready to follow you." Accordingly, Belflor conducted Don Pedro to the house of Don Luis, and they both entered, by the balcony, the apartment of Leonora. Here Don Cleophas interrupted the Devil: "Signor Asmodeus," said he, "impossible! What! not know his own father's house? No, no, no; that will never do." "It was not possible he should know it," replied the Demon; "for it was a new one: Don Luis had lately changed his habitation, and had only taken this house a week before; which was just what Don Pedro did not know, and was what I was just going to tell you when you stopped me. You are too sharp; and have that shocking habit of displaying your intelligence by interrupting people in their stories: get rid of that fault, I pray you." "Well," continued the Devil, "Don Pedro did not think he was in his father's house; nor did he even perceive that it was Marcella who let him into it; since she received him without a light, in an antechamber, where Belflor requested his companion to remain while he was in the next room with his mistress. To this the Student made no demur; so quietly sat himself down in a chair, with his drawn sword in his hand for fear of surprise, while his thoughts ran on the favours which he suspected love was heaping on the Count, and his wishes that he might be as happy with his incognita,--for although he had no great cause of complaint as to her kindness, still it was not exactly paid after the kind of that of Leonora for the Count." While he was making, upon this subject, all those pleasing reflections which occur so readily to an impassioned lover, he heard some one endeavouring quietly to open a door, which was not that of The Delights, but one which discovered a light through the keyhole. He rose quickly, and advanced towards it; and, as the door opened, presented the point of his sword to his father; for he it was who entered Leonora's apartments, for the purpose of seeing that the Count was not there. The good old man did not exactly suppose, after what had passed, that his daughter and Marcella would dare to receive him again, which had prevented his assigning to them other chambers; but he had thought it probable that, as they were to go to a nunnery on the following day, they might desire to converse with him, for the last time, ere they left his roof. "Whoever thou art," said the Student, "enter not this room, or it may cost thee thy life." At these words, Don Luis stared at Don Pedro, who also regarding the old man with attention, they soon recognised each other. "Ah! my son," cried the old man, "with what impatience have I expected you: why did you not inform me of your arrival? Did you fear to disturb my rest? Alas! that is for ever banished, in the cruel situation in which I am placed." "Ah, my father!" said Don Pedro, utterly amazed, "is it you whom I behold? Are not my eyes deceived by some fantastic vision?" "Whence this astonishment?" replied Don Luis; "are you not within your father's house? Have I not, a week ago, informed you where to find me?" "Just Heaven!" cried the Student, "what do I hear?--and this then is my sister's apartment." As he finished these words, the Count, whom the noise had alarmed, and who expected that his escort was attacked, came out, sword in hand, from Leonora's chamber. No sooner did the old man perceive him than, with fury in his eyes, he pointed to Belflor, and exclaimed to his son,--"There is the villain who has robbed me of my happiness, and who has stained our honour with a mortal taint. Revenge! Let us hasten to punish the traitor!" As he thus vented his rage, he opened his dressing-gown, and drew from beneath it his sword, with which he was about to fall on the Count, when Don Pedro restrained him. "Stay, my father," said he; "moderate, I entreat you, the fury of your wrath: what are you about to do?" "My son," replied the old man, "you withhold my arm. You doubtless think it is too weak to revenge our wrongs. Be it so! Do you then exact full satisfaction for the injury he has done us: it was for this purpose that I summoned you to Madrid. Should you perish, I will take your place; for either shall the Count fall beneath our arms, or he shall take from both of us our lives, after having blasted our reputation." "My father," said Don Pedro, "I cannot yield to your impatience that which it requires of me. Far from attempting the life of the Count, I am now here to defend it. For that my word is pledged,--to that my honour is assured. Let us depart, Count," continued he, addressing himself to Belflor. "Ah! wretch," interrupted Don Luis, while he surveyed his son with anger and astonishment,--"thus to oppose thyself to a vengeance, which it should be the business of thy life to accomplish! My son, my own son, is leagued, then, with the villain who has corrupted my daughter! But think not to escape my resentment: I will place a sword in the hand of every servant in my house, to punish his treachery and thy despicable meanness." [Illustration: Don Pedro restrains Don Luis from attacking Belflor] "Signor," replied Don Pedro, "be more just towards your son. Call him not despicable or mean--he merits not those odious appellations. The Count this night saved my life. He proposed to me, in ignorance of my real name, to accompany him here; and I freely consented to share the perils he might run, without knowing that my gratitude imprudently engaged my arm against the honour of my family. My word is passed, then, here to defend his life; that done, I stand acquitted of my obligation towards him: but I am not the less insensible of the wrong that he has done to you and to us all; and to-morrow you shall find that I will as readily shed his blood, as you behold me now determined to preserve it from your hands." The Count had witnessed in silence all that passed, so much was he surprised at this extraordinary adventure; he now, however, thus addressed the Student: "It is possible that the injury I have inflicted might be but imperfectly avenged by your sword; I will, therefore, present to you a means much more certain of repairing it. I will confess to you that, until this day, I did not intend to marry Leonora; but I this morning received from her a letter which touched my heart, and her tears have finished what her letter began. The happiness of being united to your sister is now my dearest hope." "But if the King has destined you for another," said Don Luis, "how can you dispense----?" "The King has not troubled himself upon the subject," interrupted Belflor, blushing: "pardon, I beseech you, that fiction, to a man whose reason was deranged by love; it is a crime that the violence of my passion incited me to commit, and which I expiate in avowing to you my shame." "Signor," replied the old man, "after this frankness, which belongs only to noble minds, I cannot doubt your sincerity. I see, with joy, that you are anxious to repair the injury you have done us; my anger yields to this assurance of your contrition; I will forget it for ever in your arms." He advanced towards the Count, who rushed to meet him, and they embraced each other cordially. Then, turning towards Don Pedro, "And you, false Don Juan," said Belflor,--"you, who have already gained my esteem by your valour, come, let me vow to you a brother's love." Don Pedro received the Count's embraces with a submissive and respectful air, saying, "Signor, in offering to me so valuable a friendship, you secure mine for yourself: rely on me, as one devoted to your service to the last moment of his life." While these cavaliers were thus discoursing, Leonora was at the door of her chamber, intently listening to every syllable they uttered. She had been, at the first, tempted to discover herself, and to throw herself in the midst of their swords; but fear, and Marcella, had withheld her. But when the adroit duenna saw that matters were arranging very amicably, she guessed that the presence of her mistress, and her own, would spoil nothing. Accordingly, she appeared, her handkerchief in one hand and her ward in the other; and, with tears in their eyes, they prostrated themselves before Don Luis. Neither of them, indeed, felt perfectly assured; for they recollected the surprise of the previous night, and feared the old man's reproaches for this renewal of their disobedience. However, raising Leonora,--"My child," said he, "dry your tears; I will not upbraid you now: since your lover is disposed to keep the faith he has sworn to you, it is fitting that I should forget the past." "Yes, Signor Don Luis," interrupted Belflor, "I will indeed keep my faith with Leonora; and as some amends for the insult I had intended, as the fullest satisfaction I can give to you, and as a pledge of that friendship I have vowed to Don Pedro, I offer him in marriage my sister Eugenia." "Signor!" cried Don Luis, "how can I express my satisfaction at the honour you confer upon my son? Was ever father happier than myself? You overpay me, in joy, for the grief you have caused me." [Illustration: Don Luis raises Leonora] Though the old man was charmed with the Count's proposals, I cannot say as much for his son. Being sincerely taken with love for his incognita, he was so overcome with surprise and chagrin at Belflor's offer, that he had not a word to say for himself; when the latter, who did not observe his embarrassment, took leave, stating that he should at once order the necessary preparations for this double union, and that he was impatient to be bound to them eternally, by ties so endearing. After his departure, Don Luis left Leonora with the duenna, taking with him his son, who, when they had reached his father's apartment, said, with all the frankness of a student: "Signor, do not insist, I pray you, on my marriage with the Count's sister; it is enough for the honour of our family, that he should espouse Leonora." "What! my son," replied the old man, "can you have any objection to an union with Eugenia de Belflor?" "Yes, my father," said Don Pedro; "I must confess to you, that union would prove to me the most cruel of punishments; and I will not disguise from you the reason. I love, or, rather, I adore another: for the last six months she has listened to my vows: and now, on her alone depends the happiness of my life." "How miserable is the condition of a father!" exclaimed Don Luis: "how rarely does he find his children disposed to do as he desires them. But who is this lady that has made such deep impression on your heart?" "That, I do not yet know," replied Don Pedro. "She has promised to inform me of her name when I shall have satisfied her of my constancy and discretion; but I doubt not she does honour to one of the noblest houses of Spain." "And you think then," said the old man, changing his tone, "that I shall be so obliging as to sanction this romantic love!--that I shall permit you to renounce an alliance, as glorious as fortune could offer to you, that you may remain faithful to an illustrious lady of whose very name you are ignorant! Do not expect so much of my kindness. No, rather strive to vanquish feelings that are inspired by an object which is most probably unworthy of them; and seek, in so doing, to merit the honour which the Count proposes for you." "You speak to me in vain, my father," replied the Student; "I feel that I can never forget her whom I have sworn to love--unknown though she be,--and that nothing can tear me from her. Were the Infanta proposed to me----" "Hold!" cried the old man angrily; "it is too much to boast thus insolently of a constancy which excites my displeasure: leave me, and let me not see you again until you are prepared to obey my will." Don Pedro did not dare to reply to these words, for fear of hearing others more unpleasant still; so he retired to his chamber, where he passed the remainder of the night in reflections in which sorrow was not all unmixed with joy. He thought with grief that he was about to estrange himself from his family, by refusing the hand of Belflor's sister; but then he was consoled, when he reflected that his incognita would worthily esteem the greatness of the sacrifice. He even flattered himself that, after so convincing a proof of his fidelity, she would no longer conceal from him her station, which he imagined also must be equal at least to that of Eugenia. In this hope, as soon as day appeared, he went out, and directed his steps towards the Prado, that he might pass away the time until the hour of his meeting with his mistress. With what impatience did he count the minutes as they lingered,--with what joy did he hail the happy moment when it arrived! He found his fair unknown with Donna Juanna, the lady at whose house they met; but alas, he found her in tears, and apparently in the deepest affliction. What a sight for a lover! His own grief was forgotten: he approached her with tenderness; and throwing himself on his knees before her, "Madam," he exclaimed, "what must I think of the condition in which I see you? What dreadful misfortune do these tears, which pierce my heart, forbode?" "You dream not," she replied, "of the fatal news I bring you. Cruel fortune is about to separate us for ever;--yes! we shall meet no more." [Illustration: Don Pedro kneels before his fair unknown] She accompanied these words with so many and such heart-rending sighs, that I know not if Don Pedro was more affected at what she told him, than at the affliction with which she appeared oppressed in telling it. "Just Heaven!" he cried, in a transport of fury, which he could not control, "is it thy will that they prevent an union whose innocence is worthy of thy protection? But, Madam," he continued, "you are perhaps falsely alarmed! Is it certain that they would snatch you from the most faithful of lovers? Can it be possible that I should be so unhappy?" "Our misfortune is but too certain," answered the Unknown; "my brother, upon whom my hand depends, has bestowed it this very day; he has this moment announced to me his decision." "And who is the happy man?" exclaimed Don Pedro. "Tell me! In my despair I will seek him, and----" "I do not know his name," interrupted the Unknown. "I cared not to ask, nor did my brother inform me; he told me indeed that it was his wish that I should first see the cavalier." "But, Madam," said Don Pedro, "will you then yield without resistance to your brother's will? Will you be dragged to the altar, without complaint? Will you go, a willing sacrifice, and abandon me so easily? Alas! I have not hesitated to expose myself to the anger of a father for love of you; nor could his menaces for a moment shake my fidelity. No! nor threats, nor persuasion, could move me to espouse another, although the lady he proposed for me was one to whom I had hardly dared aspire." "And who is this lady?" asked the Unknown. "She is the sister of the Count de Belflor," replied the scholar. "Ah, Don Pedro!" cried the Unknown, with extreme surprise, "surely, you are mistaken; it cannot be she whom they propose to you. What! Eugenia, the sister of Belflor? Are you sure of what you say?" "Yes, Madam," replied the Student; "the Count himself offered me her hand." "How!" cried she, "is it possible that you are the cavalier for whom my brother designs me?" "What do I hear?" cried the Student in his turn, "is it possible that my incognita is the Count de Belflor's sister?" "Yes, Don Pedro," replied Eugenia. "But I can hardly believe it myself, at this moment; so difficult do I find it to persuade myself of the happiness you assure to me." Don Pedro now fell again at her feet, and seizing her hand, he kissed it with all the transport that lovers only can feel who pass suddenly from the depths of despair to the highest pinnacle of hope and joy. While he abandoned himself to the feelings of his heart, Eugenia for the first time forgot her reserve, and freely returned his caress--she felt that her love was sanctioned, and gave, her lips where her heart had long been engaged. "Alas!" said she, when her love could form itself into words, "what tortures had my brother spared me, had he but here named the husband of his choice! What aversion had I already conceived for my future lord! Ah, my dear Don Pedro, how I have hated you!" "Lovely Eugenia," replied he, "what charms has that hatred for me now! I will endeavour to merit it by adoring you for ever." After the happy pair had exhausted love's vocabulary, and the tumult of their hearts was somewhat calmed, Eugenia was anxious to know by what means the Student had gained her brother's friendship. Don Pedro did not conceal from her the amours of the Count and his sister, and related all that had passed the night before. It was for Eugenia an additional pleasure to learn that Belflor was to marry the sister of her own lover. Donna Juanna was too much interested in the welfare of her friend not to partake of her joy for this happy event, and warmly congratulated her, as also Don Pedro thereon. At last the lovers separated, after having agreed that they should not appear to know each other when they met before the Count and Don Luis. Don Pedro returned to his father, who, finding his son disposed to obey him, was the more pleased, inasmuch as he attributed this ready compliance to the firm manner in which he had spoken to him overnight. They presently received a note from Belflor, in which he informed them that he had obtained the King's consent to his marriage, as also for that of his sister with Don Pedro, on whom his Majesty had been pleased to confer a considerable appointment. He added, so diligently had his orders for the nuptials been executed, that everything was arranged for their taking place on the following day; and he came soon after they had received his letter, to confirm what he had written, and to present to them his sister Eugenia. [Illustration: Belflor presents Eugenia] Don Luis received the lady with every mark of affection, and Leonora kissed her so much that her brother was almost jealous--although, whatever he might feel, he managed to constrain his love and delight, so as not to give the Count the least suspicion of their intelligence. As Belflor remarked his sister with great attention, he thought he could discover, notwithstanding her reserve, which he attributed to modesty, that Don Pedro was by no means displeasing to her. To be certain, however, he took an opportunity of speaking to her aside, and drew from her an avowal of her entire satisfaction. He then informed her of the name and rank of her intended, which he would not before communicate, lest the inequality of the stations should prejudice her against him; all which she feigned, marvellously well, to hear as for the first time. At last, after many compliments, which were remarkable for their sincerity, it was resolved that the weddings should take place at the house of Don Luis the next day, as Belflor had arranged. They were accordingly celebrated this evening, the rejoicing still continues, and now you know why they are so merry in that house. Every one is delighted--except the lady Marcella: she, while all else are laughing, is at this moment in tears. They are real tears too, this time! for the Count de Belflor, after the ceremony, informed Don Luis of the facts which preceded it; and the old gentleman has sent the duenna to the _Monasterio de las Arrepentidas_, where the thousand pistoles she received for seducing Leonora will enable her to repent having done so for the rest of her days. CHAPTER VI. NEW OBJECTS DISPLAYED TO DON CLEOPHAS; AND HIS REVENGE ON DONNA THOMASA. The Demon now directed the Student's attention to another part of the city. "You see," he continued, "that house which is directly under us: it contains something curious enough,--a man loaded with debt and sleeping profoundly." "Of course then," said Leandro, "he is a person of distinction?" "Precisely so," answered Asmodeus: "he is a marquis, possessed of a hundred thousand ducats per annum, but whose expenses, nevertheless, exceed his income. His table and his mistresses require that he should support them with credit, but that causes him no anxiety; on the contrary, when he opens an account with a tradesman, he thinks that the latter is indebted to him. 'It is you,' said he the other day to a draper, 'it is you, that I shall henceforth trust with the execution of my orders; it is a preference which you owe to my esteem.' "While the marquis enjoys so tranquilly the sweet repose of which he deprives his creditors, look at a man who----" "Stay, Signor Asmodeus," interrupted Don Cleophas hastily; "I perceive a carriage in the street, and cannot let it pass without asking what it contains." "Hush," said the Cripple, lowering his voice, as though he feared he should be heard:--"learn that that vehicle conceals one of the most dignified personages in this kingdom, a president, who is going to amuse himself with an elderly lady of Asturia, who is devoted to his pleasures. That he may not be known, he has taken the precaution of imitating Caligula, who on a similar occasion disguised himself in a wig. "But,--to return to the picture I was about to present to your sight when you interrupted me,--observe, in the very highest part of the mansion, where sleeps the marquis, a man who is writing in a chamber filled with books and manuscripts." "He is probably," said Zambullo, "the steward, labouring to devise some means for discharging his master's obligations." "Excellent," exclaimed the Devil; "that, indeed, forms a great part of the amusement of such gentry in the service of noblemen! They seek rather to profit from derangement of their masters' affairs than to put them in order. He is not, then, the steward whom you see; he is an author: the marquis keeps him in his house, to obtain the reputation of a patron of literature." "This author," replied Don Cleophas, "is apparently a man of eminence." "Judge for yourself!" replied the Demon. "He is surrounded by a thousand volumes, and is composing one, on Natural History, in which there will not be a line of his own. He pillages these books and manuscripts without mercy; and, although he does nothing but arrange and connect his larcenies, he has more vanity than the most original writer upon earth. [Illustration: the author at work] "You are not aware," continued the Spirit, "who lives three doors from this mansion: it is La Chichona, the very lady who acted so honourable a part in the story of the Count de Belflor." "Ah!" said Leandro, "I am delighted to behold her. The dear creature, so considerate for youth, is doubtless one of the two old ladies whom I perceive in that room. One of them is leaning with both her elbows on the table, looking attentively at the other, who is counting out some money. Which of them is La Chichona?" "Not the one who is counting," said the Demon; "her name is La Pebrada, and she is a distinguished member of the same profession: they are, indeed, partners; and are at this moment dividing the profits of an adventure which, by their assistance, has terminated favourably. [Illustration: La Chichona and La Pebrada divide the profits] "La Pebrada is the more successful of the two: she has among her clients several rich widows, who subscribe to her daily register." "What do you mean by her register?" interrupted the Student. "Why," replied Asmodeus, "it contains the names of all handsome foreigners, and particularly Frenchmen, who come to Madrid. The instant La Pebrada hears of an arrival, away she posts to the hotel of the new comer, to learn every particular as to his country, birth, parentage, and education,--his age, form, and appearance, all which are duly reported to her subscribers; and if, on reflection, the heart of any of her widows is inclined to an acquaintance, she adroitly manages a speedy interview with the stranger." "That is extremely convenient," replied Zambullo, smiling, "and in some sort very proper; for, in truth, without these kind ladies and their agents, the youthful foreigner, who comes without introductions to Madrid, would lose an immense deal of time in gaining them. But, tell me, are there in other countries widows as generous and women as intriguing?" "Capital!" exclaimed the Devil--"if there are? Why! can you doubt it? I should be unworthy of my demonship if I neglected to provide all large towns with them in plenty." "Cast your eyes upon Chichona's neighbour,--yon printer, who is working at his press, alone. He has dismissed the devils in his employ these three hours; and he is now engaged, for the night, on a work which he is printing privately." "Ah! what may it be?" said Leandro. "It treats of insults," replied the Demon; "and endeavours to prove that Religion is preferable to Honour; and that it is better to pardon than to avenge an affront." "Oh! the scoundrel!" exclaimed the Student "Well may he print in secret his infamous book. Its author had better not acknowledge his production: I would be one of the first to answer it with a horsewhip. What! can Religion forbid the preservation of one's honour?" "Let us not discuss that point," interrupted Asmodeus, with a malicious smile. "It appears that you have made the most of the lectures on morality you listened to at Alcala; and I give you joy of the result." "You may say what you please," interrupted Cleophas in his turn, "and so may the writer of this wretched absurdity: but though his reasonings were clear as the noon-day sun, I should despise him and them. I am a Spaniard, and nothing is to me so delightful as revenge; and, by the by, since you have pledged yourself to satisfy me for the perfidy of my mistress, I call on you at once to keep your promise." "I yield with pleasure," replied the Demon, "to the wrath which agitates your breast. Oh! how I love those noble spirits who follow without scruple the dictates of their passions! I will obey your will at once; and indeed, the hour to avenge your wrongs is come: but first I wish to show you something which will amuse you vastly. Look beyond the printing-office, and observe with attention what is passing in an apartment, hung with drab cloth." "I perceive," said Leandro, "five or six women, who are with eagerness offering phials of something to a sort of valet, and they appear desperately agitated." "They are," replied Asmodeus, "devotees, who have great reason to be agitated. There is in the next room a sick inquisitor. This venerable personage, who is about thirty-five years old, is attended by two of his dearest penitents, with untiring watchfulness. One is concocting his gruel, while the other at his pillow is employed in keeping his head warm, and is covering his stomach with a kind of blanket made of at least fifty lamb-skins." "What on earth is the matter with him, then?" asked Zambullo. "He has a cold in his head," answered the Devil; "and there is danger lest the disorder should extend to his lungs." [Illustration: the inquisitor nursed by two penitents] "The ladies whom you see in his antechamber have hastened, on the alarm of his indisposition, with all sorts of remedies. One brings, to allay his apprehended cough, syrups of jujubes, mallows, coral, and coltsfoot; another, to preserve the said lungs of his reverence, syrups of long-life, speedwell, amaranth, and the elixir vitæ; this one, to fortify his brain and stomach, has brought balm, cinnamon, and treacle waters, besides gutta vitæ, and the essences of nutmegs and ambergris; that offers anacardine and bezoardic confections; while a fifth carries tinctures of cloves, gilly-flowers, sunflowers, and of coral and emeralds. All these zealous penitents are boasting to the valet of the virtues of the medicines they offer; and each by turns, drawing him aside, and slipping a ducat in his hand, whispers in his ear: 'Laurence, my dear Laurence, manage so, I beg of you, that what I bring for the dear man may have the preference.'" "By Jupiter!" cried Don Cleophas, "it must be allowed that inquisitors--even sick inquisitors--are happy mortals." "I can answer for that," replied Asmodeus; "I almost envy them their lot, myself; and, like the son of Philip of Macedon, who once said that he would have been Diogenes, if he had not been Alexander, I can unhesitatingly say, that, if I were not a devil I would be an inquisitor." "But, Signor Student," continued he, "let us go! Let us away, to punish the ingrate who so ill-requited your tenderness." Zambullo instantly seized the end of the Demon's cloak, and a second time was whirled with him through the air, until they alighted on the house of Donna Thomasa. This frail damsel was seated at table, with the four gentlemen who, a few hours before, had so eagerly sought the acquaintance of Don Cleophas on the roof of her house. He trembled with rage, as he beheld them feasting on a brace of partridges and a rabbit, which, with some choice wine, he had sent to the traitress for his own supper; and, to add to his mortification, he perceived that joy reigned in the repast; and that it was evident, by the deportment of the lady, that the company of these scoundrels was much more agreeable to her than that of himself. "Oh! the wretches!" he cried, in a perfect fury, "to see them enjoying themselves at my expense! Vastly pleasant, is it not?" "Why, I must confess," replied the Demon, "that you have witnessed spectacles more pleasing; but he who rejoices in the favours of such fair ones must expect to share them. This sort of thing has happened a thousand times; especially in France, among the abbés, the gentlemen of the long robe, and the financiers." "If I had a sword, though," said Leandro, "I would fall upon the villains, and spoil their sport for them." "You would be hardly matched," replied the Demon;--"what were one among so many? Leave your revenge to me! I will manage it better than you could. I will soon set them together by the ears, in inspiring each of them with a fit of tenderness for your mistress: their swords will be out in no time, and you will be delighted with the uproar." [Illustration: The guests quarrel over Donna Thomasa] Asmodeus had no sooner spoken than he breathed forcibly, and from his mouth issued a violet-coloured vapour which descended tortuously, like a fiery serpent, and spread itself round the table of Donna Thomasa. In an instant, one of her guests, more inflammable than his companions, rose from his seat, and, approaching the lady, embraced her amorously; when the others, in whom the spirit had begun to work, hastened together to snatch from him the dainty prize. Each claimed a preference: words ensued; a jealous rage possessed them; blows succeeded, and, as the Devil had foretold, they drew their weapons and commenced a furious combat. In the meanwhile Donna Thomasa exerted her lungs, and the neighbourhood was speedily alarmed by her cries. They call for the police; the police arrive: they break open the door, and find two of the Hectors extended on the floor. They seize upon the others, and take them with the Helen of the party to prison. In vain did she weep; in vain did she tear her locks, and exclaim in despair:--the tears of unfortunate beauty had no more effect on the cavaliers who conducted her, than they had on her former knight Zambullo, who almost died with laughter, in which the god of love most unnaturally joined him. "Well!" said the Demon to the Student, "are you content?" "No, no!" replied Don Cleophas; "to satisfy me in full, place me upon the prison, that I may have the pleasure of beholding in her dungeon, the miserable who trifled with my love. I feel for her, now, a hatred which exceeds even the affection with which she formerly inspired me." "Be it so!" said the Devil; "you shall ever find me a slave to your will, though it interfered with mine and my interests,--provided always, that it is safe to indulge you." [Illustration: Donna Thomasa in prison] They flew through the air, and were on the prison before the officers arrived with their captives. The two assassins were at once consigned to one of its lowest deeps, while Thomasa was led to a bed of straw, which she was to share with three or four other abandoned women, who had fallen into the hands of justice the same day; and with whom she was destined to be transported to the colonies, which a grateful mother country generally endows with this description of female inhabitants. "I am satisfied," said Zambullo; "I have tasted a delicious revenge: my dear Thomasa will not pass the night quite so pleasantly as she had anticipated. So, now, if you please, we will continue our observations." "We could not be in a better place, then," replied the Spirit. "Within these walls is much to interest you. Innocent and guilty, in somewhat equal numbers, are here enclosed: it is the hell in which commences the punishment of the one, and the purgatory in which the virtue of the others may be purified,--you see I'm a good Catholic, Signor Student! Of both of these species of prisoners I will show you examples, and I will inform you why they are here enfettered." CHAPTER VII. THE PRISON, AND THE PRISONERS. "And before I commence my memoirs, just observe the gaolers at the entrance of this horrible place. The poets of antiquity placed but one Cerberus at the gate of their hell: there are many more here, however, as you perceive. They are creatures who have lost all the feelings of humanity, if they ever possessed any;--the most malicious of my brethren could hardly replace one of them. But I observe that you are looking with horror on those cells whose only furniture consists of a wretched bed,--those fearful dungeons appear to you so many tombs. You are reasonably astonished at the misery you behold; and you deplore the fate of those unhappy persons whom the law restrains; still, they are not all equally to be pitied; and I will enable you to distinguish between them. "To begin, in that large cell to the right are four men sleeping in two beds; one of them is an innkeeper, accused of having poisoned a foreigner who died suddenly the other day in his house. They assert that the deceased owed his death to the quality of the wine he partook of; the host maintains, that the quantity, alone, killed him: and the accused will be believed, for the stranger was a German." "Well! who is in the right, the innkeeper or his accusers?" said Don Cleophas. "It is difficult to decide," replied the Devil "The wine was certainly drugged; but, i' faith, the Baron drank so largely, that the judges may for the nonce most conscientiously acquit a tavern-keeper of poisoning his customer." "His bedfellow is an assassin by profession;--not a soldier, but one of those scoundrels who are called _Valientes_, and who for four or five pistoles obligingly minister to all who will go to so great an expense for the purpose of secretly ridding themselves of some one to whom they owe an obligation. The third prisoner is a dancing-master, who has been teaching one of his female pupils a step not usually practised in genteel society; and the fourth is an unlucky gallant caught by the patrole in the act of entering, by the balcony, the apartment of a lady, whom he was about to console for the absence of her husband. He has only to declare the charitable object of his visit, to withdraw himself from the hands of justice; but he nobly prefers to suffer as a robber, rather than endanger the reputation of his mistress." "He is a model of discretion, indeed," said the Student; "but it must be allowed that the cavaliers of Spain excel those of all other nations in affairs of gallantry; I would bet anything that a Frenchman, for example, would never permit himself to be hanged under similar circumstances." "And I would back you for that," answered the Devil; "he would rather scale the balcony of a lady, of whose favours he could boast, in broad day-light, for the express purpose of proclaiming her disgrace." "In a cell near that of the four men I have just spoken of," continued Asmodeus, "is a celebrated witch, who enjoys the reputation of doing all impossible things. By the power of her magic, old dowagers can find, they say, youthful admirers who will love them for their bloom; husbands are rendered faithful to their wives; and coquettes sincerely devoted to the rich fools who keep them: all which is, I need not tell you, absurd enough. Her only secret is in persuading people that she has one, and in making the most of that opinion. The Holy Office is jealous of the poor creature, so have called her to account; and she is likely to be burnt at the first _aúto de fé_." "Under this cell, in a dark dungeon, lodges a young tavern keeper."--"What! another?" cried Leandro,--"surely these people are going to poison all the world." "Mine host, in this case," replied Asmodeus, "will not suffer for his wine; it is for an illegal traffic in spirits that he was arrested yesterday, at the instance of the Holy Office also. I will explain the matter to you in a few words. "An old soldier, having risen by his courage, or rather by his patience, to the rank of serjeant, came to Madrid in search of recruits, and demanded a lodging in a tavern to which he was directed by his billet. The host told the serjeant that he certainly had spare rooms in his house, but that he could not think of putting him into any one of them, as they were haunted by a ghost who visited them nightly, and most shockingly ill-treated those who had the temerity to occupy them. The serjeant was not however to be daunted: 'Place me,' said he, 'in any room you please; give me a light, some wine, a pipe and tobacco, and never trouble yourself for my safety; ghosts, depend upon it, have the highest respect for an old campaigner, whose hairs have whitened under arms.' "As he appeared so resolute, they showed the old soldier to a chamber, gave him all he had required; and he began to smoke and drink at his ease. The hour of midnight sounded, but no ghost appeared to disturb the profound silence that reigned throughout the house; it seemed as though the spirit did indeed respect the valiant bearing of his new guest: but, between one and two o'clock, the wakeful sentinel was alarmed by a horrible din, as of rattling chains, and beheld, entering his apartment, a fearful spectre, clothed in black, and enveloped with iron chains. Our old smoker, not in the least alarmed at this spectacle, rose calmly from his chair, advanced towards the spirit, drew his sword, and gave him with the flat side of it, a terrible blow on the head. "The phantom, unaccustomed to find such courageous tenants in his domain, and perceiving that the soldier was preparing to repeat the blow, fell upon his knees before him, crying out,--'Pardon, signor serjeant; for the love of Heaven, do not kill me: have pity upon a poor devil, who throws himself at your feet to implore your clemency. I conjure you by St James, who, like yourself, was a valiant soldier----' 'If you would preserve your life,' interrupted the serjeant, 'tell me who you are, and what you do here. Speak the truth,--or, by our Lady, I will cut you in two, as the knights of old split the giants they encountered.' At these words, the spirit, finding with whom he had to do, saw that he had better lose no time in his explanation. [Illustration: William kneels before the serjeant] "'I am,' said he, 'the head-waiter of this inn; my name is William; and I love Juanilla, the only daughter of the landlord, and I do not love without return; but as her parents have a better match in view, my sweetheart and myself have arranged that, in order to compel them to choose me for their son-in-law, I shall nightly disguise myself in this manner. I clothe myself in a long black cloak, and put the jack-chain round my neck; and, thus equipped, I go about the house, from the cellar to the garret, making all the noise I can, of which you have heard a specimen. When I arrive at the door of my master and mistress's bed-room, I rattle my chains, and cry loud enough for them to hear,--"Hope not to rest in peace, until you have married Juanilla to your head-waiter, William!"' "'After having pronounced these words in a hoarse and broken voice, I continue my clatter, and vanish by a window into the chamber where Juanilla sleeps alone, to inform her of what I have done. And now, signor serjeant, you may be assured that I have told you the whole truth. I know that after this confession you may ruin me, by informing my master of the affair; but if, instead of thus injuring me, you are inclined to serve me, I swear that my gratitude----' 'Ah!' interrupted the soldier, 'what service can you hope from me?' 'You have only in the morning,' replied the young man, 'to say that you have seen the ghost, and that it has so terribly frightened you,----' 'What, the deuce! frightened me!' again interrupted the old warrior; 'do you expect that Serjeant Hannibal Antonio Quebrantador is going to say that he was frightened? I would rather say that a hundred thousand devils had me----' 'That is not absolutely necessary,' in his turn interrupted William; 'and after all, it is of no great consequence what you say, provided that you but assist me in my design: only let me marry Juanilla, and see myself established by the assistance of her father, and I promise to keep open house for you and all your friends.' "'You are a regular seducer, master William,' cried the soldier; 'you want to join me in a downright cheat: the matter may be serious, and you take it so lightly, as to make me, even, tremble for the consequences. But away with you! continue your infernal noise, and go to Juanilla to render your account: I will manage the rest.' [Illustration: the serjeant speaks to his host and hostess] "Accordingly, on the following morning, the serjeant said to his host and hostess: 'Well! I have seen the ghost, conversed with it, and found it very civil and reasonable.' "I am," said he to me, "the great-great-grandfather of the master of this house. I had a daughter, whom I solemnly promised to the father of master William's grandfather: nevertheless, despite my pledge, I gave her hand to another, and died shortly afterwards. Ever since then, I have remained in purgatory, suffering for this perjury; and I shall continue in torment until some one of my descendants has married into the family of the head waiter. To accomplish this, I come here nightly; but it is in vain that I command them to unite Juanilla and young William,--the son of my grandchild turns a deaf ear to my entreaties, as well as his wife; but tell them, if you please, signor serjeant, that if they do not as I desire of them soon, I shall come to extremities with them, and will plague them both in a way they little dream of."' "The host, who is simple enough, was somewhat shaken by this discourse; but the hostess, still more silly than her husband, was so much affected by it, that she fancied she already saw the ghost at her heels, and at once consented to the match, which took place on the following day. William shortly afterwards took an inn in another part of the town, and serjeant Quebrantador failed not to visit him frequently. The new tavern-keeper at first, out of gratitude, filled him with wine at discretion; which so pleased the old moustache, that he took all his friends to the house: he even there enrolled his recruits, and made them drunk at the host's expense. "At last, therefore, master William became tired of constantly wetting so many parching throats; but, on communicating his ideas upon the subject to the serjeant, the latter, with a disregard of his own infraction of their treaty which would have fitted him to command an army, was unjust enough to accuse mine host of ingratitude. William replied, the other rejoined, and the conversation ended, as their first had begun, with a blow of the serjeant's long sword on the thick head of the unfortunate tavern-keeper. Some passers-by naturally sided with the civilian: of these Quebrantador wounded three or four; and his wrath was yet unsatisfied, when he was suddenly assailed by a host of archers, who arrested him as a disturber of the peace. They conducted him to prison, where he declared all that I have told you; and upon his deposition the ex-head-waiter was encaged also. His father-in-law demands a divorce; and the Holy Office, hearing that William has acquired some considerable property, has kindly undertaken to investigate the matter." [Illustration: the serjeant is restrained from attacking William] "Egad!" cried Don Cleophas, "our holy inquisition is ever alive to its interests. No sooner do they light upon a profitable----" "Softly!" interrupted the devil, "have a care how you launch out against that tribunal:--for it, the very walls have ears. They echo even words that the mouth has never spoken; and for myself, I hardly dare to mention it without trembling." "Over the unfortunate William, in the first chamber to the left, are two men worthy of your pity; one of them is a youthful valet, whom his master's wife privately indulged with the use of more than her husband's clothes. One day, however, the husband surprised them together; when the lady immediately began crying out for help, and accused the valet of having violated her person. The poor fellow was arrested, of course; and, according to appearances, will be sacrificed to his mistress's reputation. His companion, still less guilty than the valet, is also about to pay the forfeit of his life. He was footman to a duchess who has been robbed of a valuable diamond, which they accuse him of having taken. He will be to-morrow put to the torture, until the rack wrings from him a confession of the theft; and in the meanwhile the lady's maid, who is the real culprit, and whom no one dares to suspect, will moralise with the duchess on the depravity of modern servants." "Ah! Signor Asmodeus," said Leandro, "let not the wretched footman perish, I entreat you! His innocence interests me for his life. Save him, by your power, from the unjust and cruel torture they would inflict: he deserves----" "You cannot expect it, Signor Student!" interrupted the demon. "What! do you suppose that I would prevent injustice?--that I would snatch the guiltless from destruction? As well might you pray an attorney to desist from the ruin of the widow or the orphan!" "Oh! and it please you," added the Devil, "expect not of me that which is contrary to my interest, unless indeed it be of great advantage to yourself. Besides, were I willing to deliver yonder prisoner from bondage, how could I effect it?" "How!" repeated Zambullo, "do you mean to say that you have not the power so to do?" "Certainly," replied the Cripple. "Had you read the Enchiridion, or Albertus Magnus, you would know that neither I, nor any of my brethren, can liberate a prisoner from his cell: even I, were I so unfortunate as to be within the talons of the law, could only hope to escape by bribing my jailer, or my judges. "In the next room, on the same side, lodges a surgeon convicted of having, in a fit of jealousy, drained the warm blood which wantoned in the veins of his handsome wife, after the model of the death of Seneca. He was yesterday tenderly questioned on the rack; and having confessed the crime of which he was accused, he let out the secrets of his profession, by detailing a very novel and interesting mode which he had especially adopted for increasing his practice. He stated that he had been in the habit of wounding persons in the street with a bayonet, and of then lancing himself into his house by a back-door. Of course the patient used to call out lustily at this unexpected operation; and as the neighbours flocked around at his cries, the surgeon, mingling with the crowd, and finding a man bathed in his blood, very charitably had him carried to his shop, and dressed the wound with the same hand that had given it. "Although the rascally practitioner has confessed to this atrocity, for which a thousand deaths were not one too many, he still hopes that his life will be spared; and it is not improbable that it may be so, seeing that he is related to the lady who has the honour of clouting the little princes of Spain: besides which, he is the inventor of a marvellous wash, of which the secret would die with him, and which has the virtues of whitening the skin, and of giving to the wrinkled front the juvenile appearance of fifteen. Now, as this incomparable water serves as the fountain of youth to three ladies of the palace, who have united their efforts to save him, he relies so confidently on their credit at court, or rather on that of his wash, that he sleeps tranquilly in the soothing hope that he will awaken to the agreeable intelligence of his pardon." "I perceive, upon a bed in the same room," said the Student, "another man, who appears to me to be sleeping peaceably enough; his business is not a very bad one, I expect." "It is a very ticklish affair, though," replied the Demon. "That cavalier is a gentleman of Biscay, who has enriched himself by the fire of a carbine: I will tell you how. About a fortnight ago, shooting in a forest with his elder and only brother, who was in possession of a large estate, he killed him, by mistake, instead of a partridge." "A very lucky mistake, that," cried Don Cleophas, laughing, "for a younger son." "Yes," replied Asmodeus: "but a collateral branch of the family, the members of which would have no objection to see the deceased's estate fall within their line, have disinterestedly prosecuted his murderer on the charge of having designedly shot him, that he might succeed to his property. The accused, however, immediately rendered himself into the hands of justice; and he appears to be so deeply afflicted by the death of his brother, that they can scarcely imagine him guilty of deliberately taking his life." "And has he really nothing with which to reproach himself, beyond his fatal awkwardness?" asked Leandro. "No," replied Asmodeus; "his design was innocent enough; but when an elder son is in possession of all the wealth of his family, I should certainly not advise him to make a shooting-party in company with his younger brother. "Observe attentively those two youths who, in a retreat near to that of the fatal shot, are conversing as merrily as though they were at liberty. They are a pair of veritable _picaros;_ and there is one, especially, who may some day amuse the public with one of those details of roguery which never fail to delight it. He is a modern Guzman d'Alfarache: it is he who wears the brown velvet vest, and has a plume of feathers in his hat. "Not three months since, in this very town, he was page to the Count d'Onato; and he would still have been in the suite of that nobleman but for a little piece of rascality, which gained for him his present lodging, and which I will narrate to you. "One day, this youth, whose name is Domingo, received a hundred lashes, which the Count's intendant, otherwise governor of the pages, directed to be bestowed on him as a reward for some trick which appeared to deserve it. Domingo was, however, impatient under such a load of obligation; and so, proudly resolved to return it on the first opportunity. He had remarked more than once that the Signor Don Como, as the intendant styled himself, delighted to wash his hands with orange-flower water, and to anoint himself with pastes redolent of the pink or jessamine; that he was more careful of his person than an old coquette, and that, in short, he was one of those coxcombs who imagine that no woman of taste can behold them without loving them. These observations inspired Domingo with a scheme for revenge, which he communicated to a young waiting-woman who resided in the neighbourhood, whose assistance he required for the execution of his project, and in whose favour he stood so high that she had none left to grant him. "This damsel, called Floretta, in order to have the pleasure of an unrestrained intercourse with the page, introduced him as her cousin into the house of Donna Luziana, her mistress, whose father was at that time absent from Madrid. The cunning Domingo, after having informed his pretended relative of her part in his design, going one morning into the apartment of Don Como, found my gentleman trying on a new dress, looking with complacency at his figure in a mirror, and evidently by no means displeased with its reflection. The page affected to be struck with admiration of this Narcissus, and exclaimed, in well-feigned transport: 'Upon my honour, Signor Don Como, you have the air of royalty itself. I see, daily, nobles richly clad; but notwithstanding the elegance and splendour of their vestments, I discern in none that dignity of mien which distinguishes you. I will not assert,' added he, 'that with the respect I have for you, I may not regard you with eyes somewhat prepossessed in your favour; but this I can say, that I know of no cavalier at court whom you would not totally eclipse.' "The intendant smiled at this discourse, which offered so agreeable a tribute to his vanity, and graciously replied:--'You flatter me, my friend; or rather, as you say, you esteem me so highly, that your friendship endows me with graces that nature has refused.' 'I cannot think so,' replied the parasite; 'for there is no one who does not speak of you in terms which I dare not repeat, lest you should think I flattered you indeed. I wish you had heard what was said to me yesterday by one of my cousins, who is in the service of a lady of quality.' "Don Como failed not to ask what it was that Domingo's cousin had said of him. 'Why,' replied the page, 'I ought hardly to tell you; but she enlarged on the majesty of your figure,--on the charms which are everywhere visible in your person; and, what is better, she told me, in confidence, that the greatest delight of Donna Luziana, her mistress, is to watch for your passing her house, and to feast her eyes with beholding you.' [Illustration: The page flattering Don Como] "'And who is this lady?' said the intendant,--'where does she live?' 'What!' replied Domingo; 'do you not know the only daughter of general Don Fernando, our neighbour?' 'Ah! to be sure I do,' replied Don Como: 'I remember to have frequently heard of the wealth and surpassing beauty of this Luziana; she is not to be despised. But is it possible that I can have attracted her attention?' 'Can you doubt it?' exclaimed the page. 'Besides, my own cousin told me of the fact; and, though in a humble situation, she is incapable of falsehood, and I would answer for her word with my life.' 'In that case,' said the intendant, 'I should be glad to have a little private conversation with your relative, to engage her in my interest by the customary trifling presents to which her situation entitles her; and if she should advise me to pay court to her mistress, egad! I'll try my fortune. And why not? It is true that there is some difference between my rank and that of Don Fernando; but still I am a gentleman, and have a good four hundred ducats per annum. There are more extraordinary matches than this made every day.' "The page fortified his governor in his resolution, and procured for him an interview with his cousin; who, finding the intendant disposed to swallow anything, assured him of her mistress's inclination in his favour. 'You have no idea,' said she, 'how often Luziana has questioned me as to the handsome cavalier who had made such an impression on her heart; and you may be sure that my replies were neither unpleasing to her, nor unfavourable to you: in short, Signor, she loves you; and you have everything to hope from her affection. Seek then her hand, openly and without hesitation; justify her secret passion, by showing that she loves a cavalier, not only the most charming and well-made, but the most gallant, of all Madrid. Give her, in serenades, the delightful assurance that your heart responds to hers; and rely on me to picture your devotion in the most pleasing colours,--an office as agreeable to myself as I hope it will be useful to you.' Don Como, transported with joy at finding the maid so warmly disposed to serve him, almost stifled her with his caresses; and, placing a worthless ring upon her finger, which he had liberally purchased of a Jew, and which had served the same purpose fifty times, he exclaimed,--'Dearest Floretta! accept this ring as an earnest of my gratitude, until I have an opportunity of more worthily recompensing the favours you are about to shower on me.' "Never was lover in greater ecstacy than was our intendant at the result of his conversation with Floretta; and as he was indebted to Domingo for this happiness, the page not only received his thanks, but was rewarded by the magnificent present of a pair of silk stockings, some shirts trimmed with lace, and a promise of the Signor's losing no opportunity which might offer for promoting his interests. 'My dear friend,' said he, on leaving Floretta, 'what is your opinion of the steps I should take in this matter? Do you think I should commence with an impassioned and sublime epistle to my Luziana?' 'Decidedly,' replied the page. 'Make her a declaration of your love in fitting terms: I have a presentiment that it will not be badly received.' 'Well! I think so too,' replied the intendant; 'at all events, I will try the experiment.' Accordingly, down he sat to compose the missive; and after having torn in pieces at least fifty scrawls, which would have made the fortune of a German romancist, he at last succeeded in composing a billet-doux which satisfied his scruples. It was conceived in the following grandiloquent and affecting terms:-- "'Months have rolled like centuries, oh! lovely Luziana, since, inspired by the renown which everywhere proclaims your perfections, my too-sensible soul has yielded to the flames of love, to burn for you alone! My heart consumed in secret, a willing prey to the fires that devoured me; and I never dared proclaim my sufferings to you, much less to seek for consolation. But a happy chance has recently revealed the soothing secret that, from behind the jealous screen which conceals your celestial charms from the eyes of men, you sometimes deign to look with pity on me as I pass;--that, directed by the divinity who guards you, and the destiny of your star,--oh, happy star for me!--you even think of me with kindness. I hasten then in all humility to consecrate my life unto your service; and should I be so fortunate as to obtain permission so to do, to renounce in your favour all ladies past, or present, or to come. "'DON COMO DE LA HIGUERA.' "Domingo and Floretta were not a little amused, on the receipt of this letter, at the expense of the poor intendant. But, not contented with the folly they had already induced him to commit, they set their wits to work to compose an answer to the billet which should be sufficiently tender. This done, it was copied by Floretta, and delivered by the page on the following day to Don Como. It was in these words:-- "'I know not who can have so well informed you of my secret sentiments. Some one has however betrayed me. Still, I pardon the treachery, since, to it I owe an avowal of your love. I see many pass before my window, but I look with pleasure upon you alone; and I am too happy to find that I am dear to you. Perhaps I am wrong to feel this delight, and still more wrong to dare to tell you so. If it be a fault in me, your virtues have caused, and must excuse it. "'DONNA LUZIANA.' "Although this letter was rather too warm for the daughter of a Spanish general, as its authors had not thought much about ceremony, the presumptuous Don Como received it without suspicion. He thought sufficiently well of himself to imagine that for him a lady might well forget somewhat of the usages of society. 'Ah! Domingo,' he cried, with an air of triumph, after having read the letter aloud, 'you see, my friend, that the fish bites. Congratulate me! I shall soon be son-in-law to Don Fernando, or my name's not Don Como de la Higuera.' "'It is beyond a doubt,' said the rascally confidant; 'you seem to have made a tremendous impression on the girl. But, à-propos,' added he, 'I must not forget to tell you that my cousin particularly desired me to say, that to-morrow, at latest, you should serenade your mistress, in order to complete her infatuation.' 'I will on no account omit it,' replied the intendant. 'You may assure your cousin that I will in all things follow her advice; and that to-morrow, without fail, in the middle of the night, the street shall resound with one of the most gallant concerts that was ever heard in Madrid.' And away went the intendant to secure the assistance of a celebrated musician, to whom he communicated his project, and whom he charged with the care of its execution. "In the meanwhile, Floretta, informed of the intended serenade, and finding her mistress in a desirable mood, said to her,--'Madam, I am preparing for you an agreeable diversion.' 'What may that be?' asked Luziana. 'Why,' replied the waiting-maid, laughing until the tears ran from her eyes, 'there is much to amuse you. An original, one Don Como, governor of the pages of the Count d'Onato, has taken it into his head to choose you as the sovereign lady of his thoughts; and he intends, to-morrow, in order that you may no longer remain ignorant of his devotion, to gratify you with the sound of music and sweet voices, in an evening serenade.' Donna Luziana, whose composition was none of the most grave, and who was far from foreseeing an unpleasant consequence to her in the gallantries of the intendant, instead of regarding the matter seriously, was delighted at the anticipated tribute to her charms; and thus, without knowing what she did, assisted in confirming the amorous Don Como in an illusion, of which it would have shocked her greatly to have been supposed designedly the author. "The night came, and with it appeared, before the balcony of the lady, two carriages, from which descended the gallant Como and his confidant, accompanied by six musicians, vocal and instrumental, who commenced a very decent concert, which lasted for a considerable time. They performed many of the newest airs, and sang all the songs in vogue whose verses told the power of love in uniting hearts despite the obstacles of fortune, and the inequality of rank; while at every couplet, which the general's daughter perceived to be directed to herself, her merriment knew no bounds. "When the serenade was over, and the performers had departed in the carriages which brought them, the crowd which the music had attracted dispersed, and our lover remained in the street with Domingo alone. He approached the balcony, whence, in a few minutes, the servant-girl, with her mistress's permission, said to him in a feigned voice: 'Is that you, Signor Don Como?' 'Who asks me that question?' replied the Don in a languishing tone. 'It is,' rejoined the girl, 'Donna Luziana, who would know if the concert she has heard but now, is an offering of your gallantry to her.' 'It is,' exclaimed the intendant, 'but a shadow of those festivals my love prepares for her who is the marvel of our days, if she will deign receive them from a lover who is sacrificed on the altar of her beauty.' "At this brilliant metaphor, Luziana with difficulty restrained her laughter; but, coming forward and putting her head partially out of the little window from which her maid had addressed him, she said to the intendant, as seriously as possible: 'Signor Don Como, you are, I perceive, no novice in the art of love; in you, each gallant cavalier who would gain his lady's heart, may find a model for his conduct. I thank you for your serenade, and feel flattered by your attention; but,' added she, 'retire now, lest we should be observed; another time we may, unrestrained, indulge in further conversation.' As she finished these words, she closed the window, leaving the intendant in the street, highly delighted at the kindness she had displayed for him, and the page greatly astonished that the lady had herself undertaken a part in the comedy. "This little fête, including the carriages and the enormous quantity of wine which its bibulous performers had consumed, cost Don Como upwards of a hundred ducats; and, two days afterwards, his confidant engaged him in a further outlay, in the following manner. Having learned that, on the night of St. John,--a night so celebrated in this city,--Floretta was about to join the damsels of her class at the _fiesta del sotillo_, Domingo undertook to enliven this dance by a magnificent breakfast at the intendant's expense. [Illustration: Don Como serenades Luziana] "'Accordingly, Signor Don Como,' said he, on the eve of this festival, 'you are aware of what takes place to-morrow. I thought, however, you would like to be informed that Donna Luziana intends to repair at break of day to the banks of the Mançanarez, to witness the _sotillo_. I need say no more to the Corypheus of gallant cavaliers;--you are not the man to neglect so favourable an opportunity, and I am certain that your mistress and her companions will not fare badly to-morrow.' 'Of that you may be sure,' replied the governor, 'and I am obliged to you for informing me of her intention: you shall see if I know how to kick the ball as it bounds.' In effect, very early on the following day, four of the Count's servants, conducted by Domingo, and loaded with every description of cold meat, cooked in all fashions, with an infinite number of small loaves and bottles of delicious wines, arrived on the bank of the river, where Floretta and her companions were dancing, like nymphs before the golden throne of Aurora. "Had that goddess herself appeared, she would hardly have been more cordially greeted than were the wines and cold collation which the page brought on the part of Don Como; offering, as they did, so agreeable a repast after the delightful fatigues of the dance, which they so agreeably interrupted. The damsels seated themselves on the velvet turf of the meadow, and lost no time in paying due honour to the feast, the while laughing immoderately at the dupe who gave it; for Domingo's kind cousin had not omitted to inform them of their benefactor, and his amorous adventure. "While they were in the midst of their rejoicing and their breakfast, they perceived the squire, richly dressed, and mounted on one of the Count's steeds, which was ambling towards them. He rode up to his confidant, and gaily saluted the ladies, who rose at his approach, and politely thanked him for his generosity. His eyes wandered among the company in search of Donna Luziana, as he was anxious to deliver himself of a speech, glittering with compliments as the sward beneath his horse's feet with flowers, and which he had composed during his ride in honour of his mistress. Great therefore was his grief, when Floretta, taking him aside, informed him that a slight indisposition had prevented her lady from joining in the festival. The Don, with a proper display of sensibility on the occasion, was particular in his inquiries as to the ailment; but when the girl informed him that Luziana suffered from a cold, caught on the previous night from exposure in the balcony without her veil, talking of him and of his serenade, he was not without consolation to find so sad an accident proceeded from a cause so good. He therefore contented himself with the usual expressions of condolence; and, after praying Floretta to continue to interest herself in his behalf with his mistress, took the road to his dwelling, rejoicing more and more at his great good fortune. [Illustration: Don Como at the _sotillo_] "About this time, the intendant received a bill of exchange for a thousand crowns from Andalusia, as his portion of the effects of one of his uncles, who had died at Seville. On turning this bill into cash, he happened to count it over and place it in a coffer in the presence of Domingo, who took so lively an interest in the operation, that, in order to repeat it, he was tempted to appropriate, if possible, the shining gold; and resolved, if successful in so doing, to escape with it into Portugal. He related his project in confidence to Floretta, and even proposed to her that she should accompany him. Now this proposition was undoubtedly one which most people would think worthy of reflection; but the girl, as interested in the matter as the page, accepted it without a moment's hesitation. Consequently, one night, while the intendant was labouring in his cabinet to compose a touching letter to his mistress, Domingo found means to open the coffer in which the money was confined, to release it from its captivity, and to hasten with the enfranchised crowns into the street. He instantly repaired to the balcony of Luziana, and, as a signal which had been agreed upon between him and his confederate, commenced a caterwauling, which disturbed the gravity of all the tabbies in the neighbourhood. The girl, ready to wander with him through the world, promptly responded to the amatory call; and in a few minutes they were on the high road from Madrid, together. "They reckoned that, in the event of pursuit, they would have plenty of time to gain the frontiers of Portugal before they could be overtaken; but, unfortunately for them, Don Como discovered the theft, and the flight of his confidant that very night. He gave immediate information to the police, whose officers were without loss of time dispersed on all sides in pursuit of the fugitives, and Domingo was taken, near Zebreros, in company with his lady. They were quickly brought back to Madrid: the girl has been sent to join our friend Marcella in _las Arrepentidas_, and Domingo is, as you perceive, as gay as ever within the walls of this prison." "And the intendant," added Don Cleophas, "has saved his golden crowns; as of course they have been restored to him." "Of course they have not," replied the Devil: "the thousand pieces are the proof of the robbery, and the officers of justice understand their business too well to give them up; so that Don Como, whose loving history is spread throughout Madrid, has lost his money and his mistress, and is laughed at by everybody into the bargain." "Domingo and his fellow-prisoner have for a neighbour," continued the Cripple, "a young Castilian who has been arrested for having, in the presence of too many witnesses, struck his father." "Oh heaven!" cried Leandro, "is it possible? Lives there a child, however lost to shame, who can raise his impious hand against a father?" "Oh yes," said the Demon: "yon Castilian is not without example; and I will cite you one whose history is rather remarkable. Under the reign of Don Pedro I., surnamed the Just and the Cruel, the eighth king of Portugal, a youth of twenty fell into the hands of justice for the same crime. Don Pedro, as much surprised as yourself at the novelty of the case, was curious to interrogate the mother of the criminal, and he examined her so adroitly as to obtain from her a confession, that the real father of this child was a certain reverend prelate. If the Castilian's judges were discreet enough to interrogate his mother with equal address, it is probable that it would be attended with a similar avowal. "Cast your eyes into a large dungeon beneath the prisoners I have just pointed out to you, and observe what is passing there. Do you see those three ill-looking rascals? They are highwaymen. See! they are effecting their escape. Some one has furnished them with a dumb-file in a loaf of bread; and they have already cut through one of the thick bars of a window, by which they may gain the court-yard, and from thence the street. They have been more than ten months in prison, and it is upwards of eight since they should have received the public recompense due to their exploits; but, thanks to the tardiness of justice, they are about to begin again their career of robbery and murder. [Illustration: a prisoner being beaten up by his fellow inmates] "And now look into that low roofed cell where you perceive twenty or thirty men, some of them stretched upon straw. They are mostly pickpockets, shop-lifters, or professors of other branches of the Spartan craft. Do you observe five or six of them worrying a sort of labourer, who was introduced to their society this morning for having wounded an alguazil with a stone?" "And what are they thrashing him for?" asked Zambullo. "Why," replied Asmodeus, "because he has not paid his entrance-fees. But," added he, "let us leave this horrible place, and the miserable wretches it contains; they are not in my vocation: we will go elsewhere, in search of objects less disgusting." CHAPTER VIII. OF VARIOUS PERSONS EXHIBITED TO DON CLEOPHAS BY ASMODEUS, WHO REVEALS TO THE STUDENT WHAT EACH HAS DONE IN HIS DAY. In a few moments, the Demon and his pupil were on the roof of a large mansion, at a considerable distance from that part of the city in which they had left the prisoners. "I have brought you here," said Asmodeus, "because I am desirous of informing you what the mass of people who reside in the neighbourhood of the house we are on, have been doing in the course of to-day;--it will amuse you." "Doubtless!" replied Leandro. "Begin, I beseech you: and first for yonder cavalier who is booting in such haste: what weighty matters call him from his home in such a night as this, my Mentor?" "He is a captain," replied the Cripple, "whose steeds are waiting in the street to carry him to Catalonia, where his regiment is stationed. "Well! yesterday, our hero, being without cash, applied to one of those gentry who, instead of giving to the poor, wisely lend unto the lords, or captains. 'Signor Sanguisuela,' said he, 'can you not oblige me with the loan of a thousand ducats?' 'Signor Captain,' replied the usurer, 'I have them not; but I think I know a friend who has, and will lend them to you:--that is to say, if you will give him your note of hand for a thousand ducats, he will give you four hundred; out of which I shall be content to receive sixty only, as my commission. Money is so extremely scarce, that----' 'What usury!' interrupted the officer, hastily. 'What! ask six hundred and sixty ducats for the loan of three hundred and forty? Infamous extortion! Such hard-hearted scoundrels deserve to be hanged.' "'Keep your temper, at all events, Signor Captain, and go elsewhere for your money,' replied the usurer, with the greatest coolness. 'Of what do you complain? Do I force you to take the three hundred and forty ducats? Heaven forbid! you are free to take them or to leave them.' To this the Captain had no reply to make, and went his way; but, on reflecting that he must set out for the camp on the morrow, and that he had no time to lose, he resolved to lose his money; so he returned this morning to the usurer, whom he met at his door, dressed in a short black mantle, a plain collar round his neck, his hair closely trimmed, and with a rosary in his hand, garnished with saintly medals. 'Here I am again, Signor Sanguisuela,' said he; 'I will take the three hundred and forty ducats,--necessity compels me to accept your terms.' 'I am going to mass,' gravely replied the usurer; 'on my return, I will give you that amount.' 'Ah! no,' exclaimed the Captain; 'I pray you give it me at once: it will but delay you for an instant. I would not entreat you, but my haste is great as is my need.' 'I cannot,' replied Sanguisuela: 'I hear mass daily, before I think of following my worldly avocations; it is a rule I have prescribed for my conduct, and I will endeavour religiously to observe it while I live.' [Illustration: the captain and the usurer leaving church] "However impatient might be our captain to lay his hands upon the money, he was obliged to comport himself with the rule of the pious Sanguisuela: he therefore armed himself with patience, and even, as though he feared that the ducats would escape him, followed the usurer to church. Mass performed, he was preparing to leave; when Sanguisuela inclined his head towards him, and whispered in his ear: 'Stay! one of the most talented men in Madrid preaches here this morning, and I would not lose his sermon for the world.' "The Captain, to whom the mass had appeared over-long, was in despair at this further call on his endurance: however, needs must--and he remained where he had been driven. The preacher mounted the pulpit, and happened to discourse against usury. The officer was delighted; and observing Sanguisuela's countenance, he said within himself: 'If this Jew is capable of being touched, now,--if he will but give me six hundred ducats, I shall really think he is not too bad, after all.' The sermon ended, they left the church together, when the Captain, addressing his companion, said: 'Well, what think you of the preacher? Did you not find his sermon extremely forcible? For myself, I was quite affected by it.' 'I am quite of your opinion,' replied the usurer; 'he treated his subject admirably. He is a learned man, and deeply skilled in his profession; and now, let us go, and show that we understand ours as well.'" "Hollo!" cried Don Cleophas, "who are those two women in bed together, and laughing so loudly? Egad! they seem merry enough." "They are sisters," replied the Devil, "who this morning buried their father. He was an old curmudgeon, who had so great a distaste for matrimony, or rather to portioning his daughters, that he would never listen to a word about their marrying, however advantageous might be the offers made to them. They are at this moment discussing the virtues of the dear deceased. 'He is dead at last,' exclaimed the elder; 'he is dead,--the unnatural father, who so cruelly delighted still to keep us maids: he will, however, no longer oppose our innocent desires.' 'Well, sister,' said the younger, 'for myself, I love the substantial; I shall look out for a good rich husband,--stupid, if you please; and the fat Don Blanco is just the man for my money.' 'Softly, sister,' replied the elder; 'we shall have for husbands those to whom we are destined; for marriages, they say, are written in heaven.' 'So much the worse for us,' replied the younger; 'for if dear papa has the luck to be there, he will assuredly tear out our leaf.' The eldest could not help laughing at this sally, and it is that which still amuses them both. [Illustration: the two sisters in bed] "In the next house to that of these ladies, in a furnished apartment, lodges an Aragonese adventuress. You may see her, while others sleep, admiring in a glass those charms on which she relies, and which have gained for her to-day a conquest to be proud of: like a good general, she studies her positions for attack; and she has just discovered a new one, which will finish her campaign with her lover to-morrow. He is well worth all the pains she can take to secure him, and she is well aware of his promising qualities. To-day, for instance, one of her creditors calling to remind her of an account, which he insists on having settled in cash: 'Wait, my good friend,' said she; 'wait but for a few days longer: I am on the point of concluding a most advantageous arrangement with one of the principal persons in the Customs.'" "I need not ask you," said Leandro, "how a certain cavalier, whom I perceive at this moment, has been passing his day: he appears to be a complete letter-writer. What enormous quantities I behold on his table!" "Yes," replied the Demon; "and, what is most amusing, all these letters are alike in their contents. He is writing to all his absent friends an account of an adventure which befel him this afternoon. He is in love with a widow of thirty, charming and discreet; he pays to her devotions which she does not despise; he proposes for her hand, and she consents to yield it without hesitation. While preparations are making for their nuptials, he has permission to visit her without ceremony. He went to her house to-day after dinner, and as he chanced to meet with no one to announce his coming, he entered the lady's apartment, where he found her stretched on a couch, _en déshabille_, or, to speak more correctly, almost naked. She was sleeping profoundly. What lover could resist the temptation thus offered to his eyes? He approaches her softly, and steals a gentle kiss. She starts, exclaiming as she wakes, 'What, again! I beseech you, Ambrose, leave me to repose.' "The cavalier, as an honourable man, made up his mind on the instant to renounce all pretensions to the widow. He therefore immediately left the apartment; and meeting the servant at the door: 'Ambrose,' said he, 'stay! your mistress prays you to indulge her with a brief repose.' [Illustration: the lover about to kiss the widow] "Two doors beyond the house of this cavalier, I perceive an original of a husband, who is sleeping tranquilly,--lulled to rest by reproaches with which his wife is upbraiding him for having passed the entire day from home. She would be still more bitter against her spouse, did she know how he had spent his day." "It has been most probably occupied in some amorous adventure?" said Zambullo. "You have guessed it," replied Asmodeus; "and shall hear the detail. "The man is a tradesman, named Patricio: he is one of those wedded libertines who live without care, as though they had neither wife nor children: the partner of this fellow, nevertheless, is pretty, amiable, and virtuous; and he has two daughters and one son, all three still in their infancy. He left his family this morning, careless if they had bread to eat, which is not unfrequently the case, and directed his steps toward the great square, attracted thither by the preparations which Were making for the bull-fight of to-day. The scaffolds were already erected around the place, and already the more curious in these matters began to take their places. "While gazing at the company, examining first one and then another, he observed a lady finely made and very neatly dressed, who discovered, as she descended from the scaffold, a well-turned leg and foot; and their effect was heightened by rose-tinted silken stockings, and garters of silver lace, the ends of which hung down to her ankles: it was enough to have tempted a saint, and our excitable citizen was almost out of his wits at the sight. He advanced towards the lady, who was accompanied by another whose air sufficiently disclosed that they were both damsels of easy virtue. 'Ladies,' said he, accosting them, 'can I be of service to you? you have only to command me, and it will be my happiness to obey.' 'Signor cavalier,' replied the nymph with the rose-coloured stockings, 'you appear so obliging, that we will take advantage of your kindness: we have already taken our places, but are leaving them to go to breakfast, as we were unwise enough to leave home this morning without first taking our chocolate. Since you are so gallant as to offer your services, may we trouble you to escort us to some hotel, where we may eat a morsel of something? but we must beg you will select as retired a place as possible, for ladies, as you know, cannot be too careful of their reputation.' "At these words, Patricio, becoming even more civil and polite than the occasion demanded, took the princesses to a tavern in the neighbourhood, and ordered breakfast. 'What would you like to have, sir?' inquired the host. 'I have the remains of a magnificent dinner, which took place here yesterday: there are larded fowls, partridges from Léon, pigeons from Old Castile, and the best part of a ham from Estremadura.' 'More than enough, mine host!' exclaimed the conductor of the two vestals. 'Ladies, it is for you to choose;--what would you prefer?' 'Whatever you please,' replied they: 'your choice shall be ours.' Thereupon the citizen ordered a brace of partridges and a couple of cold fowls, to be served in a private room, as the ladies were too modest to think of eating in public. "They were immediately conducted to a small chamber, and in a few minutes the host appeared with the chosen dishes, some bread, and some wine. Our Lucretias fell to eating with most unfashionable appetites, and the fowls rapidly disappeared; while the simpleton, who was to pay, was occupied in ogling his Luisita,--the name of the lady who had taken his fancy,--in admiring the whiteness of her hand, upon which glittered an enormous ring she had gained by her profession,--and, unable to eat for joy of his good fortune, in lavishing upon the lady all the tender epithets, such as his star or his sun, that his imagination could invent. On inquiring of his goddess if she were married, she told him she was not, but was living under the protection of her brother;--had she added,--by descent from our father Adam, she would not have been far from the truth. [Illustration: breakfast at the inn] "Good eating is nothing without good drinking; so the two harpies, having each demolished a fowl, washed them down with a proportionate quantity of wine; and, consequently, the two flagons which had been placed upon the table were soon exhausted. That they might be more speedily replenished, our gallant left the room with the empty vessels; and he had no sooner closed the door than Jacintha, Luisita's companion, clawed hold of the two partridges, which were yet untouched, and put them in a spacious pocket which her gown conveniently afforded. Our Adonis, on returning from his chase of the wine, and remarking that the eatables had vanished, was anxious to know if his Venus had eaten enough. 'Why,' said she, 'if the pigeons of which the host has spoken be very good, perhaps I might be tempted to taste them; or else a morsel of the ham of Estremadura will do.' These words were no sooner uttered than away went Patricio again in search of provender, and quickly returned, followed by three of the loving birds and a substantial dish of the ham. The two vultures pounced on their prey like lightning; and as the witless citizen was obliged a third time to leave the room for bread, they sent a pair of the pigeons to keep company with the imprisoned partridges. "After the repast, which ended with a dessert composed of all the fruits the season afforded, the amorous Patricio began to press Luisita for that payment in kind which he expected from her gratitude. The lady, however, was resolved to look upon it as a treat; but at the same time indulged him with the hopes of a return, telling him there was a time for all things, and that a tavern was not a fitting place in which to testify, without reserve, her satisfaction for all his kindness. Then, hearing the clock strike one, she assumed an uneasy air, and said to her companion: 'Ah! my dear Jacintha, how unfortunate! We shall be too late to find a place to see the bull-fight.' 'Excuse me,' replied Jacintha; 'this gentleman has only to conduct us where he so politely accosted us, and never fear for our finding a place.' "Before leaving the tavern, however, it was necessary to settle with the host, who presented an account amounting to fifty reals. The citizen pulled out his purse; but, as it contained but thirty of the requisite pieces, he was obliged to leave, in pawn, his rosary adorned with numerous medals of silver. This done he esquired the frail ones to the place from whence they came, and obtained for them convenient seats upon one of the scaffolds, the proprietor of which, being known to him, gave him credit for their price. "They were no sooner seated, then they demanded further refreshment, 'I am dying with thirst,' cried one,--'that ham was terribly salt.' 'And so am I', replied the other; 'I could drink an ocean of lemonade.' Patricio, who understood but too well what all this meant, left them, in search of what they wanted; but suddenly stopping on his way, he exclaimed to himself: 'Madman! where art thou going? Would one not think thou hadst a hundred pistoles in thy purse, or in thy house? And thou halt not a single maravedi! What shall I do?' added he. 'To return to the lady without that which she requires is impossible;--and must I, then, abandon so promising an adventure? I cannot resolve on that either.' "While thus embarrassed, he perceived among the spectators one of his friends who had frequently tendered him services, which his pride had always prevented him accepting. But now, lost to shame, he hastened towards him, and without hesitation, begged the loan of a double pistole; possessed of which his courage returned, and hurrying to a confectioner's, he ordered them to carry to his princesses so many iced liqueurs, so many biscuits and sweetmeats, that the doubloon hardly sufficed to meet this new expense. "At length the day ended, and with it the festival; when our citizen conducted his lady to her house, in the pleasing hope of at last reaping the reward of all his thoughtless extravagance. But as they arrived near the door of a house which Luisita indicated, as her dwelling, a servant-girl came to meet her, saying with much apparent agitation: 'Ah! Where have you been until now? Your brother, Don Gaspard Heridor, has been waiting for you these two hours, swearing like a trooper.' Upon this the sister, in well-feigned alarm, turned towards her gallant, and pressing his hand, said to him in a whisper: 'My brother is a man of most violent temper, but his anger is soon appeased. Wait here awhile with patience: I will soon set all to rights; and as he sups from home every night, as soon as he has left the house, Jacintha shall inform you, and bring you to me.' [Illustration: Patricio kisses Luisita's hand] "Patricio, consoled by this promise, kissed with transport the hand of Luisita, who returned his caresses, in order to keep up his spirits, and then entered the house with Jacintha and the girl. The poor dupe took patience, as directed, and sat himself down on a stone, a few yards from the door, where he waited for a considerable time, never dreaming of the possibility of their playing him a trick. He only wondered at the stay of Don Gaspard, and began to fear that this cursed brother had lost his appetite with his passion. "Ten o'clock, eleven o'clock, the hour of midnight, sounded; and not until then did his confidence begin to evaporate, and some slight doubts of the good faith of his lady to infuse themselves into his mind. All was darkness around him; when, approaching the door, he entered on tip-toe, and found himself in a narrow passage, in the middle of which his hand encountered a staircase. He dared not ascend it; but, listening attentively, his ears were greeted with the discordant concert which might be expected to proceed from a barking dog, a mewing cat, and a crying child, all performing their parts to admiration. He felt that he was deceived; and he was convinced of the fact when, having explored the passage to its termination, he found himself in another street, parallel with that in which he had, so long, waited for his love. "The ghost of his money rose in judgment against him; and he returned to his own house, moralising on the deceptive influences of rose-coloured stockings. He knocked at the door; it was opened by his wife, a chaplet in her hand, and tears in her eyes. 'Ah! Patricio,' she said, in a voice which told her affliction; 'how can you thus abandon your home? how can you thus neglect your wife--your children? Where have you been from six this morning, when you left us?' The husband, whom this question would have puzzled to answer satisfactorily, and who was, besides, somewhat ashamed of himself, had not a word to say; so he undressed, and got into bed in silence. His wife, however, was not in want of a text; and she read him a lecture, the continuous hum of which, as you perceive, has soothed him to sleep." [Illustration: Patricio lulled to sleep by his wife's lecture] "And now," continued Asmodeus, "cast your eyes upon the large house by the side of that in which the cavalier is writing to his friends the story of his rupture with the mistress of Ambrose. Do you not remark a young lady sleeping in a bed of crimson satin, embroidered with gold?" "Wait!--oh, yes!--I see a lady sleeping; and I fancy I see a book, open, on her pillow." "Precisely so," answered the Demon. "That lady is a talented young countess, full of life and spirit: she has recently suffered extremely from sleepless nights, and having sent for a physician, one of the most dignified of his class, he has prescribed for her a remedy, derived, he says, from Hippocrates himself. The lady, nevertheless, ridiculed his prescription; at which the physician, a crabbed sort of animal, who does not understand joking, said to her, with a proper professional gravity: 'Madam, Hippocrates is not a man to be laughed at.' 'Certainly not, signor doctor,' replied the Countess, with the most serious air imaginable; 'far from laughing at so celebrated and learned an author, I think so highly of him, that I feel assured the mere opening of his work will cure me of my sleeplessness. I have in my library a new translation from the pen of Azero; it is, I believe, the best: here! find it for me,' added she, turning to her attendant. You behold the magic power of Hippocrates! She had not read three pages before she sank into profound repose. "In the Countess's stables there is a poor, one-armed soldier, whom the grooms, out of charity, permit, by night, to sleep upon the straw. During the day he begs about the city; and a few hours ago, he had an amusing conversation with another mendicant, who lives near Buen-Retiro, on the road to the palace. The latter has an excellent business, which he manages so well, that his daughter, who is of a marriageable age, passes among the beggars for a rich heiress. This morning, the soldier accosting the father, said to him: 'Signor Mendigo, I have lost my right arm; I can no longer serve the king; and, like yourself, I am obliged to gain a livelihood by doing the civil to the passers-by. I know well that of all trades there is not one which does more for those who follow it; and that all that is wanting to it is, that it should be a little more highly esteemed.' 'If it were a bit more honourable,' replied the old man, 'it would not be worth following at all, as we should have too much competition;--all the world would beg if it were not for shame.' [Illustration: the two beggars in conversation] "'Very true!' replied he of the one arm. 'Well, now! I am a brother beggar; and I should be happy to ally myself with so distinguished a member of our profession: you shall give me your daughter.' 'Hold! my dear sir,' replied the warm old gentleman; 'you cannot think of such a thing. She must have a better match than you will make. You are not half lame enough. My son-in-law must be a miserable-looking object, who would draw blood out of a stone.' 'Do you think, then, that you will find one worse off than I am?' 'To be sure! Why, you have only lost an arm; and ought to be absolutely ashamed of yourself, to expect that I will give you my daughter. I'd have you to know that I have already refused a fellow without legs, and who goes about the city in a bowl.' "I must on no account," continued the Devil, "omit to call your attention to the house which joins that of the sleeping countess, and which contains a drunken old painter and a satirical poet. The artist left home at seven o'clock this morning in search of a confessor, as his wife was at the point of death; but happening to meet with a boon companion, he went with him to a tavern, and forgot his wife until ten this evening, when he returned to find she had died unshriven. The poet, who enjoys the reputation of having frequently received most striking proofs of the merits of his caustic verses, was swaggering in a _café_ this morning; and in speaking of a person who was absent, exclaimed: 'He is a scoundrel, to whom, some of these days, I must give a good drubbing.' 'That is kind of you,' replied a wag who heard him; 'though I believe, by the bye, that you owe him a good many.' "I had nearly forgotten a scene which took place this morning at a banker's in this street. He is only recently established in Madrid, having returned with immense riches about three months ago from Peru. His father is an honest cobbler of Mediana,[3] a large village of Old Castile, near the Sierra d'Avila, where he lives, contented with his lot, and with his wife, who, like himself, is about sixty years of age. [3] It is curious, that in the original of the latest Paris edition, as also in the third edition, of 1707, the earliest I have been able to consult, and which was published under the superintendence of Le Sage, this passage stands, "un honnête _capareto_ de Viejo et de Mediana." There is a note to the word "_capareto_" giving its translation into French as _savetier_. Being puzzled by the double name of the village,--"de Viejo et de Mediana," I sought the assistance of a talented Spaniard, Signor Lazeu, and was surprised to find the Spanish for cobbler is "_zapatero de viejo_," or, "shoemaker of old (things)," and that it should consequently have stood in the original "_zapatero de viejo_ de Mediana." It has been doubted by many, among others the late H. D. Inglis, whether Le Sage were really the author of Le Diable Boiteux and Gil Blas; and it has been asserted that he merely translated these works from the unpublished manuscripts of some Spanish author. If the error in question were really that of Le Sage, it would certainly go far to confirm this assertion.--Trans. "It is upwards of twenty years since the banker left his father's house, for the Indies, in search of a better fortune than he could expect from his parents. During all this time, though lost to sight, he was ever present in their thoughts, and every night and morning saw the poor couple on their knees, praying Heaven to shield him with its protection; nor did they fail, on each succeeding Sabbath, to entreat their friend the curate to recommend their child to the prayers of his humble flock. As soon as the banker had returned to Spain, having hastily established his house of business, he resolved to ascertain, in person, the condition of his parents, whom, in his prosperity, he had never forgotten. With this view, having told his domestics he should be absent for a few days, he set out alone, about a fortnight ago, and journeyed on horseback towards the place of his birth. [Illustration: the banker reunited with his parents] "It was about ten o'clock at night, and the good old cobbler was sleeping peaceably beside his spouse, when they were suddenly awakened by the noise which the banker made, as he knocked violently at the door of their little house. 'Who's there?' cried the startled pair, together. 'Open--open the door!' replied a voice; 'it is your son Francillo.' 'Tell that to the marines!" replied the ancient son of Crispin;--'be off with you, scoundrels! there is nothing here worth stealing. Francillo is at this moment in the Indies, if he be not dead.' 'Your son is not now in the Indies,' replied the banker; 'he is returned from Peru; it is he who speaks to you: will you refuse to receive him in your arms?' 'Let us go down, Jacobo,' said the wife; 'I think it is indeed Francillo; I seem to recollect his voice.' "They immediately dressed themselves hurriedly; and, as soon as the cobbler had struck a light, they descended, and opened the door. The old woman looked at Francillo but for an instant, and, with a mother's instinct, recognised her son: she fell upon his neck, and pressed him to her bosom; while master Jacobo, as much transported as his wife, threw his arms around them, and kissed them both by turns. It was some time before the happy family, reunited after so long a separation, could tear themselves apart, or cease those expressions of delight which filled their throbbing hearts. "At length, however, the banker was able to think of his horse, which he unsaddled and led to a stable, already occupied by a cow, whose teeming udders daily yielded their sweet food for his parents. On his return to the house, he related the adventures of his life in Peru, and told them of the wealth which he had brought with him to Spain. The story was somewhat long, and might have appeared annoying to uninterested listeners; but a son who unbosoms himself after a twenty years' absence, rarely fails to fix the attention of a father and mother. To them nothing was indifferent; they greedily devoured every syllable he uttered, and the most trifling details of his life made upon them the most lively impressions of sorrow or of joy. "He finished his history, by telling them that his wealth would lose all its value unless shared by them, and entreated his father to think no longer of working at his stall. 'No, no, my son,' said master Jacobo to him: 'no, no! I love my trade, and I will stick to my last.' 'What,' exclaimed Francillo, 'is it not time you lived in peace? I do not ask you to go with me to Madrid; I know well that a city life would have no charms for you: I do not propose, then, that you should leave the peaceful village where your days have passed; but, at least, spare yourself a painful toil, and live here at your ease, since it is in your power to do so.' "The mother joined her son in besieging the old cobbler with entreaties; and, at last, master Jacobo capitulated. 'Well! Francillo,' said he, 'to satisfy you I will be a gentleman; that is, I will not work any longer for all the village; I will only mend my own shoes, and those of our good friend the curate.' On this convention, the banker, having swallowed a couple of eggs that they had fried for his supper, went to bed beneath his father's roof, the first time for many years, and slept with a calmness of delight that the good alone are capable of enjoying. "The following day, Francillo returned to Madrid, after leaving with his father a purse of three hundred pistoles. But, this morning, he was not a little astonished at beholding master Jacobo suddenly enter his room. 'Ah! my father what brings you here!' 'Why, my son,' replied the old man, 'I bring you back your purse. There, take your money; I am determined to live by my trade: I have been miserable ever since I left off work.' 'Ah, well! my father,' said Francillo, 'return to the village, and continue to work as you will: but, at all events, let it be only to amuse you. Take back your purse, too, and do not spare mine.' 'And what, then, do you think I can do with so much money?' asked master Jacobo. 'It will enable you to relieve the poor,' replied the banker: 'do with it as the curate and your own conscience shall dictate.' The cobbler, satisfied to accept it on these terms, immediately departed for Mediana." [Illustration: the cobbler attempts to return the purse to his son] Don Cleophas had listened, with pleasure, to the history of Francillo; and he was about to express his admiration of the good-hearted banker's filial affection, when, at the very moment, his attention was distracted by the most piercing shrieks. "Signor Asmodeus!" he exclaimed, "what frightful noises do I hear?" "Those cries, which rend the air," replied the Devil, "proceed from a receptacle for madmen, who tear their throats with shouting, or with singing." "We are not far from the place of their confinement, then," said Leandro; "so let us look at them at once." "By all means," replied the Demon: "I will afford you that amusement and inform you of the causes of their madness." It was no sooner said than done; and, in a moment, the Student found himself on the _Casa de los locos_. CHAPTER IX. THE MADHOUSE, AND ITS INMATES. Zambullo surveyed, by turns, with much curiosity, the several rooms and the unfortunate creatures they contained; and while he was reflecting on the scene thus presented to his eyes, the Devil said to him: "There they are, my master! You see insanity in every form there;--men and women, laughing idiots and raging maniacs, locks grey with age, and cheeks which still retain their bloom. Well! now I will tell you what has turned their heads: we will go from room to room, but will begin with the men. "The first whom you observe, and who appears so violent, is a political fanatic of Castile. He is a proud citizen of Madrid, in the heart of which he was born; and he is more jealous of the honour of his country than was ever citizen of ancient Rome. He went mad with chagrin at reading in the gazette, that twenty-five Spaniards had suffered themselves to be beaten by a party of fifty Portuguese. "His neighbour is a licentiate, who was so anxious to obtain a benefice, that he played the hypocrite at court during ten long years; and whose brain was turned by despair at finding himself constantly overlooked among the promotions: his madness, however, is not without its advantage; seeing that he at present imagines himself to be Archbishop of Toledo. And what if he deceive himself? His pleasure is none the less: indeed, I think, that he is so much the more to be envied; since his error is a golden dream, which will only end with his life, and he will not be called to account in the other world for the application of his revenues in this. "The next in rotation is a ward, whom his guardian declared to be insane, that he might have the uncontrolled use of his property: the poor youth has become really mad from rage at his unjust confinement. After the minor, comes a schoolmaster, who lost his wits in search of the _paulo post futurum_ of the Greek verb; and, then again, we have a merchant, whose reason was shipwrecked with a vessel that belonged to him, although it had stood the shock of two bankruptcies which had before threatened to engulph him. "The person who is lodged in the next room is the ancient captain Zanubio, a Neapolitan cavalier, who came to establish himself in Madrid, and whom jealousy has settled where he is: you shall hear his history. "He delighted in a youthful spouse, the lady Aurora, whom he guarded as the apple of his eye. His house was absolutely inaccessible to all mankind; and Aurora never left it but for mass, always accompanied by her aged Tithon, or to breathe with him the pure air of the pleasant fields, at an estate near Alcantara, whither he sometimes led her. Despite his vigilance, however, she had been perceived at church by the cavalier Don Garcia Pacheco, who loved her from the instant that he saw her: he was an enterprising youth, and not unworthy the attention of a pretty woman whom Fortune had badly matched. [Illustration: Zanubio and Aurora at church, observed by Don Garcia] "The difficulty of introducing himself into the house of Zanubio was not sufficient to deprive Don Garcia of hope. As his chin was yet unreaped, and he was fair to behold, he disguised himself as a virgin, took with him a hundred pistoles, and betook himself to the captain's seat, where, he had learned, that gentleman and his lady were shortly expected. Watching his opportunity to accost the female who acted as gardener in Zanubio's establishment, he addressed her in the style of the heroines of chivalry, who fly from some giant's towers: 'Kind lady,' said he, 'I come to throw myself within your arms, and to entreat your pity. I am a maiden of Toledo, of wealth and name, but my parents would compel me to give my hand to one whom my heart disowns. To escape this tyranny, I have fled by night; and I now seek shelter from a cruel world. Here I shall be safe from pursuit. Do not deny me, then, to dwell with you until my friends shall be inspired with more kindly sentiments. There is my purse: do not hesitate to receive it, it is all that I can give you now: but I trust the day will come when I may more properly acknowledge the service which you will render me by your protection.' [Illustration: Don Garcia accosts the female gardener] "The gentle gardener, especially affected by the conclusion of this touching address, replied: 'Dear lady, I will receive you with pleasure. I know that there are too many youthful maidens who are sacrificed to aged men; and I know, too, that they are not usually reconciled to their lot. I sympathize with your afflictions: you could not have more fortunately addressed yourself than to me. Come! I will place you in a little room, where you may live in confidence of security.' "Don Garcia passed four days, shut up in the gardener's cottage, anxiously awaiting the arrival of Aurora. At last she came, guarded as ever by her jealous spouse, who immediately, according to his usual custom, searched every chamber, from the cellar to the garret, to make sure that he was free from the hated form of man, which might endanger his honour. The gardener, who expected this visitation, anticipated it by informing her master of the manner in which a refuge had been sought with her by a youthful female. Zanubio, although extremely mistrustful, had not the slightest suspicion of the deceit now practised on him; he was, however, curious to see the unknown. At the interview which followed, the lady begged him to excuse her concealing her name, stating that it was a reserve which she owed to her family, which she in some sort dishonoured by her flight. She then related to him so pathetic a tale, and in a style so romantic, that the captain was charmed; and while he listened to her narration, he felt a rising inclination for this amiable damsel, which ended in an offer of his services and protection; after which he led her to his wife, flattering himself that this adventure would not end disagreeably to himself. "As soon as Aurora beheld Don Garcia, she blushed and trembled, without knowing why. The cavalier, who perceived her uneasiness, shrewdly guessed that she had observed the attention with which he had regarded her at church. To ascertain this fact, as soon as they were alone, he said to her: 'Madam, I have a brother who has often spoken to me of you. He saw you for a moment at your devotions, and from that moment, which he delights to recall a thousand times each day, you have been the idol of his heart;--he loves you to madness.' "As he spoke, Aurora scrutinized the features of Don Garcia, and when he had finished she replied to him: 'You resemble your brother too closely to permit me to remain for an instant the dupe of your stratagem: I see too clearly you are that brother in disguise. I remember, one day while at mass, my mantilla fell back from my face; it was but for an instant, but I saw that you perceived me: I afterwards watched you from curiosity, and your eyes remained fixed on my person. When I left the church, I believe that you failed not to follow me, that you might learn who I was, and the house where I dwelt. I say--I believe you did this, for my head dared not turn to observe you; as my husband was with me, jealous of my slightest motions, and would have made, of one glance, a deep crime. On the morrow and following days, when I went to the church, I always saw you; and your features have become so familiar that I know you despite your disguise.' "'Well, Madam,' replied the lover, 'I must then unmask:--yes, I am a man, the victim of your charms:--it is indeed Don Garcia Pacheco whom Love brings here in the guise of the gentler sex----' 'And you doubtless anticipate,' interrupted Aurora, 'that I, sharing your foolish passion, shall lend myself to your design, and assist in confirming my husband in his error. You are, however, deceived: I shall at once expose the deception; my honour and my peace demand it of me. Besides, I am not sorry to have an opportunity of showing my husband that vigilance is a less certain safeguard than virtue, and that, jealous and mistrustful as he is, I am more difficult to surprise than himself.' "She had hardly spoken when the captain appeared. He had indistinctly heard a portion of his wife's discourse, and requested to be informed of the subject of their conversation. 'We were speaking,' replied Aurora, 'of those youthful cavaliers who dare to hope for love from ladies of a tender age, because united to a husband for whom respect claims the place of passion. As you entered I was saying, that should such a gallant dare to address himself to me,--should he endeavour to introduce himself beneath your roof by some of those artifices to which such madmen have recourse, I should know well how to punish his audacity.' "'And you, Madam,' said Zanubio, turning to Don Garcia, 'after what fashion should you treat a youthful cavalier in such a case?' Our assumption of a virgin was so much disconcerted at this question, that he was unable to reply; and his embarrassment would certainly have attracted Zanubio's attention, had not, at the moment, a servant entered the apartment, to inform the captain that a person who had just arrived from Madrid wished to speak with him. "Zanubio had no sooner gone out than Don Garcia, throwing himself at Aurora's feet, exclaimed: 'Ah, madam, how can you delight thus to perplex me? Could you be cruel enough to expose me to the wrath of an enraged husband?' 'No, Pacheco,' replied the lady, smiling; 'youthful dames who are so unfortunate as to have aged spouses are not so resentful. Be not alarmed! I could not resist the temptation to amuse myself at the expense of your fears; but that is the sum of your punishment; and it is surely not exacting too great a price for my kindness in permitting your continuance here.' At these consoling words all Don Garcia's alarms were dispelled, and they yielded to hopes, of which Aurora was too kind long to delay the realization. "One day, while their reciprocal affection was manifested in a form too clear to be misunderstood, the captain surprised them. Had he been the most confiding of men, it would have been impossible, unless his confidence were not extended to his own eyes, to doubt that the lovely unknown was a man in disguise. Furious at the scene which presented itself, he hastened to his dressing-room in search of his pistols; but, in the meanwhile, the fond couple escaped,--in their hurry to leave the apartment, double-locking the door, and taking with them the key. They lost no time in gaining a neighbouring village, in which Don Garcia had taken the precaution to leave his valet with two good horses. There, our hero, having abandoned his petticoats, and placed Aurora on a crupper on one of the steeds, mounted and rode with her to a convent, where she prayed him to leave her in the care of an aunt, its abbess; after which he returned to Madrid to await the termination of his adventure. [Illustration: Zanubio discovers Aurora in Garcia's embrace] "Poor Zanubio, finding himself imprisoned, shouted with all his lungs, and a servant, hearing his voice, hastened to his assistance: but, if Love laughs at locksmiths, locks are sometimes extremely unaccommodating. In vain did the servant and captain try to force the door; and at last the latter, his wrath increasing with his efforts, rushed to the window, and threw himself from it, his pistols in his hands: he fell upon his back, wounded his head, and when his attendants arrived they found him senseless. He was carried bleeding to his chamber, and by deluging him with water, and by other gentle torments used on such occasions, they succeeded in bringing him to life; but his fury returned with his senses. 'Where is my wife?' he cried. To this interrogatory they replied, by informing him that they had seen her pass from the garden, in company with the unknown lady, by a little private door. He immediately demanded his pistols, which they dared not refuse him, ordered a horse to be saddled, and without reflecting on his wound, set out, but by another road, in pursuit of the lovers. The day passed in this fruitless search; and when he stopped for the night at a village inn, to repose himself, the fatigue and irritation of his wound brought on a fever and delirium, which nearly cost him his life. [Illustration: Zanubio throws himself out of the window] "The rest is told in a few words. The captain, after being confined to his bed for a fortnight, in the village, returned still unwell to his country seat; and there, by continually dwelling on his misfortune, he shortly afterwards lost his reason. The relations of Aurora were no sooner informed of this event, than they caused him to be brought to Madrid, and confined where you now see him; and they have resolved that his wife shall remain in the convent for some years to come, as a punishment for her indiscretion, or, more properly, for a fault which their own cupidity placed her in a situation to be tempted to commit. "The next to whom I shall direct your attention," continued the Devil, "is the Signor Don Blaz Desdichado, a worthy cavalier, whose deplorable malady is also owing to the loss of his wife, but by death." "That indeed surprises me," said Don Cleophas. "A husband whom the death of his wife renders insane! Well! that is more than I ever expected to spring from conjugal love." "Not so fast!" interrupted Asmodeus: "Don Blaz did not lose his reason with his wife; but because, having no children, he was obliged to return to the parents of the deceased fifty thousand ducats which he had received with her, and which the marriage contract compelled him to restore." "Ah! that is another affair," replied Leandro; "the matter is by no means so wonderful as I imagined. But tell me, if you please, who is that young man that is skipping about like a kid in the next room, and from time to time stopping to laugh until he holds his sides? He is a lively fool enough." "Yes," replied the Cripple, "and it was excess of joy which made him mad. He was porter to a person of quality; when one day, hearing of the death of a rich contador, to whose wealth he was sole heir, he was so affected by the joyous news that his head was not proof against his good fortune. "We have now come to that tall youth who is twanging the guitar, and accompanying the pathetic strain with his voice: his is a melancholy madness. He is a lover, whom the excessive severity of his mistress reduced to despair, until they were obliged to enclose him here." "Alas! how I pity him," exclaimed the Student; "permit me to express my sorrow for his misfortune;--it is one to which every susceptible heart is exposed. Were it my own fate to love a disdainful beauty, I know not but that I too should love to madness." "I can believe you," replied the Demon: "that sentiment would stamp you for a true Castilian. One must be born in the centre of that ancient kingdom to be capable of loving until reason sinks with a despised heart. Your Frenchman is not so tender; and would you appreciate the difference between a gay Parisian and a fiery Spaniard in this respect, I need only repeat to you the song which yon poor fool is singing, and which his passion inspires even at this moment: SPANISH SONG. 'Mine eyes gush o'er with floods of wild desire, And hopeless love burns fiercely in my breast; Yet not my tears can quench my bosom's fire, Nor passion's fire my scalding tears arrest.'[4] [4] 'Ardo y lloro sin sosiego: Llorando y ardiendo tanto, Que ni el llanto apaga el fuego, Ni el fuego consume el llanto.' "It is thus sings a true Castilian whom his lady slights; and now I will repeat to you the words in which a Frenchman told his griefs, in a similar case, only a few days ago: FRENCH SONG. 'She who within my bosom reigns, A tyrant's stern control maintains; Nor sighs, nor tears, nor prayers can move The least relenting look of love. A kind word, kindly spoken, might Have turn'd my darkness into light; But, since my suit is urged in vain, I fly to feed my griefs with Payen.'[5] [5] 'L'objet qui règne dans mon coeur Est toujours insensible à mon amour fidèle, Mes soins, mes soupirs, ma langueur, Ne sauraient attendrir cette beauté cruelle. O ciel! est-il un sort plus affreux que le mien? Ah! puisque je ne puis lui plaire, Je renonce au jour qui m'éclaire; Venez, mes chers amis, m'enterrer chez Payen.' "This Payen is undoubtedly a tavern-keeper?" said Don Cleophas. "Exactly so," replied the Devil. "But let us continue our observations." "Let us then turn to the women," exclaimed Leandro; "I am impatient to hear their histories." "I will yield to your impatience," answered the Spirit; "but there are yet two or three unfortunates on this side of the house, whom I would first show to you: you may profit by their unhappiness. "You observe, close by the melancholy songster, that pale and haggard face; those teeth, which gnash as though they would make nothing of the iron bars that ornament the window. Yon is an honest man, born under influence of malignant star, who, with all the merit in the world, has vainly striven, during twenty years, to secure a modest competence; he has scarcely, with all his efforts, succeeded in gaining his daily bread. His reason fled its seat, on his perceiving a worthless fellow of his acquaintance suddenly mount the top of fortune's wheel by a lucky speculation. "His neighbour, again, is an old secretary, whose head was cracked by a stroke of ingratitude, which he received from a courtier, in whose service he lived during sixty years. No praises were too great for the zeal and fidelity of this ancient servant; who, however, never claimed their just reward, content to let his assiduity and services speak for themselves. His master, far from resembling Archelaus, king of Macedonia, who refused favours when demanded, and bestowed them when unasked, died forgetful of his merits, leaving him just enough to pass his days in misery, and the refuge of a madhouse. "I will only detain you with one more, and it is with the man who, leaning with his elbows on the window, appears plunged in profound meditation. You see in him a Signor Hidalgo, of Tafalla, a small town of Navarre, which he left for Madrid that he might make the best use of his wealth. He was bitten with a rage for surrounding himself with the literati of the day; and as these animals are always seen to most advantage at feeding-time, he kept open house for their entertainment. Authors are an unpolished and ungrateful race; but, although they despised and snarled at their keeper, he was not contented until they had eaten him out of house and home." "Poor fellow," said Zambullo: "he no doubt went mad with rage at his awful stupidity." "On the contrary," replied Asmodeus, "it was with regret at finding himself unable to keep up his menagerie. Well! now let us pay our respects to the ladies," added the Devil. "Why! how is this?" exclaimed the Student: "I only see seven or eight of them. I had expected to have found them here by scores." "Ah!" said the Devil, smiling, "but they are by no means all confined within these walls. I will take you instantly, if you wish it, to another quarter of the city, where there is a larger house than this, full of mad-women to the very roof." "Do not trouble yourself, I beg," replied Don Cleophas; "I am by no means anxious for their acquaintance: these will suffice." "You are right," replied the Devil; "and these too, are almost all youthful ladies of distinction. You may perceive by the attention which is paid to their persons, that they are not ordinary subjects. And now for the story of their madness. "In the first room is the wife of a corregidor, who went mad with rage at being termed plebeian by a lady of the court; in the second, is the spouse of the treasurer-general of the council of the Indies: anger also made her mad, at being obliged, in a narrow street, to turn back her carriage to make way for that of the duchess of Medina-Coeli. The third room is the residence of a merchant's widow, whom regret for the loss of a noble signor's hand robbed of her senses; and the fourth is occupied by a girl of highest rank, named Donna Beatrice, whose misfortunes are worth your attention. "This young lady was united by the most tender friendship with the Donna Mencia: they were indeed inseparable. It happened, however, that a handsome chevalier of the order of St. James became acquainted with them both, and they soon were rivals for his heart. As he could not marry the two, and as his affections inclined towards the Donna Mencia, he paid his court to that lady, and she shortly became his wife. "Donna Beatrice, jealous of the power of her charms, and mortified to excess by the preference shown to another, conceived a passion for revenge, which, like a woman, or a good Spaniard, she nourished at the bottom of her heart. While this passion was yet in its infancy, she received from Don Jacintho de Romarate, a neglected lover of the Donna Mencia, a letter stating that, being as much insulted as herself by the marriage of his mistress, he had resolved to demand satisfaction of the chevalier for their united wrongs. "This letter gave great delight to Beatrice, who desiring but the death of the sinner, wished for nothing more than that his rival should fall beneath Jacintho's hand. While anxiously awaiting for so christianly a gratification, it happened, however, that her own brother, having chanced to quarrel with this same Jacintho, came to blows with her champion, and fell pierced with wounds of which he died. Although duty prompted Donna Beatrice to avenge her brother's death by citing his murderer before the tribunals of his country, she neglected to do so, as this would have interfered with her revenge; which demonstrates, if such proof were needed, that there is no interest so dear to a woman as that of her beauty. Need I remind you, that when Ajax violated Cassandra in the temple of Pallas, that goddess did not on the instant punish the sacrilegious Greek? No! she reserved her wrath until its victim should have first redressed the insult offered to her charms by the Judgment of the hated Paris. But, alas! Donna Beatrice, less fortunate than Minerva, never tasted the sweetness of her anticipated vengeance. Romarate perished by the sword of the chevalier, and chagrin for her wrongs, still unpunished, drove the lady into this asylum. "The next who offer themselves to your notice are an attorney's grandmother and an aged marchioness. The ill-temper of the first so annoyed her descendant, that he very quietly got rid of her by placing her here: the other is a lady who has ever been an idol to herself, and instead of aging with becoming resignation, has never ceased to weep the decay of that beauty which formed her only happiness; and at last, one day, when her mirror told, too plainly to be doubted, that all her charms were flown, went mad." "So much the better for the ancient dame," added Leandro. "In the derangement of her mind, she will no more perceive the ravages of time." "Most assuredly not," replied the Devil; "far from beholding in her face the marks of age, her complexion seems to her now a happy blending of the lily and the rose; she sees around her but the Graces and the Loves,--in a word, she thinks that she is Venus herself." "Ah! well!" exclaimed the Student, "were it not better that thousands should be mad, than that they should know themselves for what they are?" "Undoubtedly," replied Asmodeus; "but come, we have only one other female to observe; and that is she who dwells in the furthest room, and whom sleep has just visited with rest, after three days and nights of raving. Look at her well! What think you of the Donna Emerenciana?" "That she is beautiful, indeed," answered Zambullo. "What horror, that so lovely a creature should be mad! By what fatal accident is she reduced to this dreadful situation?" "Listen!" replied the Demon; "I will tell you the story of her woes. "Donna Emerenciana, only daughter of Don Guillem Stephani, lived tranquilly at Siguença, in the mansion of her father, when Don Kimen de Lizana came to trouble her repose by those attentions with which he sought to win her heart. Flattered by his gallantries, she received their homage with delight; she even had the weakness to lend herself to the artifices to which he resorted that he might speak with her in private; and in a short time exchanged with him vows of eternal love and fidelity. [Illustration: the mad-woman Donna Emerenciana] "The lovers were of equal birth; but the lady was one of the richest heiresses of Spain, while Don Kimen was a younger son. But there was still another obstacle to their union,--Don Guillem hated the family of the Lizana. This he never affected to conceal, whenever they were mentioned; and he seemed more averse to Don Kimen himself, than to any other of his race. Emerenciana, though deeply afflicted at her father's sentiments on this subject, which she felt boded unhappily for her passion, could not resolve to abandon its object; and she therefore continued her secret interviews with her lover, who from time to time, through the assistance of a waiting-maid, ventured even into her chamber by night. "It happened, one of these nights, that Don Guillem chanced to be awake when the gallant was thus introduced, and thought he heard a noise in his daughter's apartment, which was not far from his own. This was quite enough to arouse a father, and especially one so mistrustful as Don Guillem. Suspicious as he was, he had never imagined the possibility of his daughter's intelligence with Don Kimen; but not being of a disposition to place too much confidence in any one, he rose quietly from his bed, opened a window which looked into the street, and there patiently waited until he saw that cavalier, whom the light of the moon enabled him to recognize, descending from the balcony by a silken ladder. "What a sight for Stephani!--for the most vindictive, the most relentless mortal, that even Sicily, which gave him birth, had ever produced. He controlled the first emotions of his terrible wrath, and repressed every exclamation of surprise at what he beheld, that the chief victim which his wounded pride demanded might not be warned of his fate, and attempt to escape the avenger's hand. He so far constrained himself as to wait until the morning, when his daughter had risen, ere he entered her apartment. She was alone, as he approached her, with fury sparkling in his eyes; and, with a voice that made her tremble, he addressed her thus: 'Unworthy wretch! whom not the honour of thy race restrains from deeds of infamy, prepare to meet their due reward! This steel,' he added, as he drew a dagger from his bosom, 'shall find a sheath within your heart, unless with truth upon your lips you name the daring villain who brought, last night, dishonour on my house.' [Illustration: Stephani threatens Emerenciana with a dagger] "Emerenciana was so overcome by this unexpected discovery and her father's threats, that her tongue refused its office. 'Ah! miserable,' continued Don Guillem, 'thy silence and confusion tell me too plainly all thy guilt! Dost think, child, whom I blush to call mine own, that I know not what has passed? I know too well! I saw, myself, the villain, and recognized him for Don Kimen. 'Twas not enough, then, to receive a cavalier at night within thy room!--that cavalier must be the man whom most I loathe! But come! tell me how much I owe him. Speak without disguise,--thy sincerity alone can save thy shameful life.' "These last words, terrible as they were, brought with them some slight hope to the unfortunate girl of escaping the fate which menaced her, and she recovered from her fright sufficiently to enable her to reply: 'Signor, I cannot deny that I am guilty of listening to Lizana; but I call Heaven to witness for the purity of his sentiments and conduct. Aware as he was of your hatred for his name, he dared not to ask your sanction for his addresses; but it was for no other end than to confer with me how that sanction might be obtained that he sought, and I permitted, his coming here.' 'And who, then,' asked Stephani, 'was the willing instrument through which you exchanged your communications?' 'It was,' replied his daughter, 'one of your pages to whom we were indebted for that kindness.' 'Enough,' interrupted the father; 'and now to execute the design for which I come!' Thereupon displaying his poniard, he made Emerenciana sit down, and placing paper and ink before her, compelled her to write to her lover the following letter which he dictated:-- "'Dearest Love,--only delight of my life,--I hasten to inform you that my father has just set out for his estate, whence he will not return until to-morrow. Lose not this happy opportunity. I doubt not you will watch for the coming night with as much impatience as your beloved "'EMERENCIANA.' "As soon as this treacherous letter was written and sealed, Don Guillem said to his daughter: 'And now summon the page who so well performs the duties you impose on him, and direct him to carry this note to Don Kimen: but hope not to deceive me; I shall conceal myself behind the drapery of your room, whence I can observe your slightest movement; and if while you charge him with this commission you speak one word, or make the smallest sign which may give him suspicion of your message, I will plunge this dagger in your heart.' Emerenciana knew her father too well to dare to disobey him: the page was called, and the letter placed as usual in his hands. "Not until then did Stephani put up his weapon; but he did not leave his daughter for a moment during the day, nor would he let any one approach her, so that she could communicate to Lizana intelligence of the snare which was spread for him. Accordingly, when night came, the youthful gallant hastened to the wished-for meeting; but hardly had he entered the door of his mistress's house before he found himself seized by three powerful men, who disarmed him in a moment, tied a bandage over his mouth to prevent his cries, another over his eyes, and bound his hands behind his back. They then placed him in a carriage, which was waiting for the purpose, and having all mounted therein for complete security of the betrayed cavalier's person, they carried him to the seat of Stephani, situated near the village of Miedes, four leagues from Siguença, where they arrived before daybreak. [Illustration: Don Kimen is kidnapped] "The first care of the signor was to cause Don Kimen to be placed in a vault which received but a feeble light from a hole near the top, so small, that escape by that was impossible. He then ordered Julio, a confidential servant, to feed him with bread and water only, to give him but a truss of straw to sleep on, and to say to him every time he carried him food: 'Here, base seducer: it is thus that Don Guillem treats those who are mad enough to dare to insult him!' The cruel Sicilian was hardly less severe in his treatment of his daughter: he imprisoned her in a chamber which looked into a small courtyard, deprived her of her attendants, and placed her in the custody of a duenna whom he had chosen, because she was unequalled for her skill in tormenting those committed to her charge. "Having thus disposed of the two lovers, he was by no means contented with the punishment already inflicted on them: he had resolved to get rid of Don Kimen, and had only not done so at once because he wished to avoid any unpleasant consequences which might follow his crime; to manage which, appeared to be somewhat difficult. As he had employed three of his servants in the abduction of the cavalier, he could hardly hope that a secret known to so many persons would always remain undiscovered:--what then was he to do, to shun any impertinent explanations which justice might think it necessary to demand? His resolve was worthy of a conqueror; he assembled his accomplices in a small pavilion, a short distance from the chateau, and after telling them how highly satisfied he was with their zeal, he stated that he had brought them there to receive a substantial reward for their services in money, and that he had prepared a little festival, which he invited them to share. They sat down to enjoy themselves, little dreaming that it was a feast of death; for when their brains were heated with wine, the worthy Julio by his master's order brought in a poisoned bowl, which soon ended their rejoicing. The pair then fired the pavilion, and before the flames had brought around them the inhabitants of the neighbouring village, they assassinated Emerenciana's two female attendants and the page of whom I have spoken, and threw their bodies into the burning heap. It was really amusing, while the remains of these poor wretches were consuming in this infernal pile, which the peasants strove in vain to extinguish, to witness the profound grief displayed by our Sicilian: he appeared inconsolable for the loss of his domestics. [Illustration: assassination of the maid-servants and page] "Nothing remaining to be feared from any want of discretion on the part of his coadjutors, which might have betrayed him, he thus addressed his confidant: 'My dear Julio, my mind is now at peace, and the life of Don Kimen is at my mercy; but, before I immolate him to my wounded honour, I would enjoy the sweet delight of making him feel how much he has offended me;--the misery and horror of a long and solitary confinement will be more dreadful to him than death itself.' In truth, Lizana was by no means comfortable; and, hopeless of ever leaving the dungeon where he wasted, he would have welcomed death as a cheap release from his sufferings. "But, despite his boast of peace, the mind of Stephani knew no rest after the exploits he had recently achieved; and ere many days had passed, a new source of inquietude presented itself in the fear lest Julio, as he daily saw the prisoner for the purpose of taking him food, should suffer himself to be corrupted by promises. This fear made Don Guillem resolve to get rid of Lizana without loss of time, and then to blow out the brains of his friend Julio. But the latter was also not without his own misgivings; and, as he shrewdly suspected that were Don Kimen once out of the way, he would be found in it, he had made his resolution to take himself off some fine night, with all that was portable in the house, when the darkness would excuse his not distinguishing his master's property from his own. "While these honest gentlemen were each meditating an agreeable surprise for the other, they were one day both unwelcomely accosted at a short distance from the chateau, by about twenty archers of St. Hermandad, who surrounded, and greeted them in the name of the king and the law! At this salutation Don Guillem was somewhat confounded; but, calling the colour to his cheeks, he asked the commandant of the archers whom he sought. 'Yourself!' replied the officer: 'you are accused of having unlawfully seized on Don Kimen de Lizana; and I am directed to make strict search for that cavalier within your mansion, and further to make you my prisoner.' Stephani, convinced by this answer that he was lost, drew from his person a brace of pistols, exclaiming that he would suffer no one to enter his house; and that he would shoot the commandant without ceremony if he did not instantly take himself off with his troop. The leader of the holy brotherhood, despising this threat, advanced at once towards the Sicilian; who, as good as his word, fired, and wounded him slightly in the face. This wound, however, cost the life of the madman who gave it; for the archers in a moment stretched him lifeless at the feet of their injured chief. Julio surrendered himself without resistance; and, making a virtue of necessity, cleared his conscience by a frank avowal of all that had occurred,--except that, perceiving his master was really dead, he did him the honour to invest his memory with all the glory attaching to the transaction. "He then conducted the archers to the vault, where they found Lizana on his straw bed, securely bound. The unfortunate gentleman, who lived in continual expectation of death, thought it was come at last when he saw so many armed men enter his prison; and was, as you may expect, agreeably surprised to find liberators in those whom he had taken for his executioners. When they had released him from his dungeon, and received his thanks, he asked them how they had learned that he was confined in the place where they found him. 'That,' replied the commandant, 'I will tell you in a few words. [Illustration: the liberation of Don Kimen] "'The night you were entrapped,' said the officer, 'one of Don Guillem's assistants, whose mistress resided in the neighbourhood, stole a few moments while they were waiting for you, to bid adieu to his sweetheart before his departure, and was indiscreet enough to reveal to her the project of Stephani. For a wonder, the lady kept the secret for three whole days; but when the news of the fire at Miedes reached Siguença, as every body thought it strange that all the servants of the Sicilian should have perished in the flames, she naturally took it into her head also that the fire was the work of Guillem himself. To revenge her lover's death, therefore, she sought the Signor Don Felix, your father, and related to him all she knew. Don Felix, alarmed at finding you were in the hands of a man capable of everything, accompanied the lady to the corregidor, who on hearing her story had no doubt of Stephani's intentions towards you, and that he was the diabolical incendiary the woman suspected. To make inquiries into all the circumstances of the case, the corregidor instantly despatched orders to me at Retortillo, where I live, directing me to repair with my brigade to this chateau, to find you if possible, and to take Don Guillem, dead or alive. I have happily performed my commission as regards yourself; and I only regret that it is out of my power to conduct the criminal to Siguença alive. He compelled us by his furious resistance to dispatch him on the spot.' "The officer, having ended his story, thus continued: 'I will now, Signor Don Kimen, draw up a report of all that has happened here; I will not, however, detain you long, and we will then set out together to release your friends from the anxiety they suffer upon your account.' 'Stay, signor commandant,' interrupted Julio, 'I will furnish you with matter to lengthen your report: you have got another prisoner to liberate. Donna Emerenciana is confined in a dismal chamber of this chateau, guarded by a merciless duenna, who upbraids her without ceasing for her love of this cavalier, and torments her by every device she can imagine.' 'Oh Heaven!' cried Lizana, 'is it possible that the barbarous Stephani should not have been contented to exercise his cruelty on me alone? Let us hasten to deliver the unfortunate lady from the tyranny of her gaoler.' "Julio lost no time in conducting the commandant, four or five of the archers, and Lizana, to the prison of Don Guillem's daughter. They knocked at the door; it was opened by the surprised duenna, and you may conceive the delight of Don Kimen at again beholding his mistress, after having lost her as he supposed for ever. All his hopes revived; nor could he reasonably conceive the possibility of their non-fulfilment, since he who alone stood between him and his happiness, was dead. He threw himself in ecstacy at the feet of Emerenciana; when,--picture his horror if you can,--he found, instead of the gentle girl who had listened with tender transport to his vows, a maniac. Yes! so well had the duenna succeeded in her efforts, that she had effaced the image of the lover by destroying the canvas on which it was depicted. [Illustration: Don Kimen discovers Emerenciana has gone mad] "She remained for some time in apparent meditation, then imagining herself to be the fair Angelica, besieged by the Tartars in the towers of Albraca, and the persons who filled her apartment to be so many Paladins come to her rescue, she received them with much politeness. Addressing the chief of the holy brotherhood as Roland, Lizana as Brandimart, Julio as Hubert of the Lion, and the archers as Antifort, Clarion, Adrian, and the two sons of the Marquis Olivier, she said to them: 'Brave chevaliers, I no longer fear the Emperor Agrican, nor Queen Marphisa: your valour would suffice for my defence against the world itself in arms.' "The officer and his followers could not resist an inclination to laugh at this heroic reception; but poor Don Kimen was so much afflicted by the unexpected condition in which he found her for whom alone he had wished to live, that reason seemed to be on the point of abandoning him also. Recovering himself, however, from his first surprise, and hoping that she might be brought to recognize the unhappy author of her misfortunes, he addressed her tenderly: 'Dearest Emerenciana,' said he, 'it is Lizana speaks to thee: recall thy scattered thoughts, he comes to tell thee that thy griefs are at an end. Heaven has heard the prayer of those fond hearts itself united; and its wrath has fallen on the wicked head of him who would have separated two beings made for each other.' "The reply to these words was another speech from the daughter of king Galafron to the valiant defenders of Albraca, who this time however restrained their mirth. Even the commandant, whose profession was not favourable to the kindlier feelings of humanity, was touched with compassion, and observing the profound affliction of Don Kimen, said to him: 'Signor Cavalier, do not despair! We have, in Siguença, physicians celebrated for their skill in curing the disorders of the mind, and there is yet hope for your unfortunate lady. But let us away! You, Signor Hubert of the Lion,' added he, addressing himself to Julio, 'you who know the whereabouts of the stables of this castle, take with you Antifort and the two sons of the Marquis Olivier, bring out the fleetest coursers from their stalls and harness them to the car of our princess; in the meanwhile I will prepare my dispatches.' "So saying, he drew out his writing materials, and having finished his report, he presented his hand to Angelica and conducted her to the court-yard, where he found a carriage with four mules, which had been prepared for her reception by the paladins. The lady was placed therein by the side of Don Kimen; and the commandant having compelled the duenna to enter also, as he thought the corregidor would be glad to have some conversation with the dame, he mounted, and they set out for Siguença. This is not all: by order of their chief, the archers bound Julio, and placed him in another carriage with the body of Don Guillem; then mounting their horses they followed the same route. "During the journey, the daughter of Stephani uttered a thousand extravagancies, every one of which was as a dagger in the heart of her lover. The presence of the duenna was an additional source of disquiet to him. 'It is you, infamous old woman,' said he to her, 'it is you who by your cruelty have tortured Emerenciana to madness.' The old hypocrite endeavoured to justify herself by pleading the instructions of her defunct master. 'It is to Don Guillem alone,' said she, 'that her misfortunes are attributable: daily did that too rigid father visit her in her room; and it is to his reproaches and threats that the loss of her reason is owing.' "On reaching Siguença, the commandant immediately went to give an account of his mission to the corregidor, who after examining Julio and the duenna found them lodgings in the prisons of that town, where they reside to this time. Lizana, after deposing to all he had suffered from Don Guillem, repaired to his father's house, where his presence restored joy to his alarmed relations. Donna Emerenciana was sent by the judge to Madrid, where she has a kind uncle by her mother's side, who desired nothing better than the administration of his niece's property, and who was nominated her guardian. As he could not creditably do otherwise than appear desirous of her restoration to sanity, he had recourse to the most famed physicians of this city; but he had nothing to fear, for, after having taken a becoming number of fees, they declared her incurable. On this decision, the guardian, no doubt very reluctantly, placed her here; and here, most likely, she is destined to end her days." "And a sad destiny it is," cried Don Cleophas; "I am really touched by her misfortunes: Donna Emerenciana deserved a better fate. And Don Kimen," added he, "what is become of him? I am curious to learn how he acted." "Very reasonably," replied Asmodeus: "when he heard that the evil was past a remedy, he went to Spanish America. He hopes that by change of scene he may insensibly efface the remembrance of those charms that wisdom and his own peace require he should forget.----But," continued the Devil, "after having exhibited to you madmen who are confined, it is time I shewed to you those who deserve to be so." [Illustration: tailpiece of a physician taking Emerenciana's pulse] CHAPTER X. THE SUBJECT OF WHICH IS INEXHAUSTIBLE. "Run your eyes over the city, and as we discover subjects worthy of being placed in this museum, I will describe them to you. There is one, already; I must not let him escape: he is a newly-married man. It is just a week since, in consequence of reports which reached his ears relative to the coquetries of a damsel whom he affected, he went in a fury to her house, broke one portion of her furniture, threw the other out of windows, and on the next day mended the matter by espousing her." "A proper candidate, indeed," said Zambullo, "for a vacant place in this establishment!" "He has a neighbour," resumed the Cripple, "who is not much wiser than himself, a bachelor of forty-five, who, with plenty to live on, would yet swell the train of some noble pauper. And yonder is the widow of an advocate, who, having counted three-score years and more, is about to seek the shelter of a convent, that her reputation may not, as she says, suffer scandal in this wicked world. "I perceive also two virgins, or, to speak more properly, two girls of fifty years of age. They pray Heaven, in its mercy, to take to it their father, who keeps them mewed like minors; as they hope, when he is gone, to find handsome men who will marry them for love." "And why not?" inquired the Scholar; "there are stranger things than such men to be found." "I am perfectly of your opinion," replied Asmodeus: "they may find husbands, doubtless; but they ought not to expect to be so fortunate,--it is therein that their folly consists. "There is no country in the world in which women speak the truth in regard to their age. At Paris, about a month ago, a maiden of forty-eight and a woman of sixty-nine had occasion to go before a magistrate as witnesses in a case which concerned the honour of a widow of their acquaintance. The magistrate, first addressing himself to the married lady, asked her age; and, although her years might have been counted by the wrinkles on her brow, she unhesitatingly replied, that she was exactly forty. 'And you, madam,' said the man of law, addressing the single lady in her turn, 'may I ask your age also?' 'We can dispense with that, your worship,' replied the damsel; 'it is a question that ought not to be asked.' 'Impossible!' replied he; 'are you not aware that the law requires....' 'Oh!' interrupted the lady sharply, 'the law requires nothing of the kind: what matters it to the law what my age may be? It is none of its business.' 'But, madam,' said the magistrate, 'I cannot receive your testimony unless your age be stated; it is a necessary preliminary, I assure you.' 'Well,' replied the maiden, 'if it be absolutely necessary, look at me with attention, and put down my age conscientiously.' [Illustration: the two ladies before the magistrate] "The magistrate looked at her over his spectacles, and was polite enough to decree that she did not appear above twenty-eight. But when to his question, as to how long she had known the widow, the witness replied--before her marriage: 'I have made a mistake,' said he; 'for I have put you down for twenty-eight, whereas it is nine and twenty years since the lady became a wife.' 'You may state then,' cried the maiden, 'that I am thirty: I may have known the widow since I was one year old.' 'That will hardly do,' replied the magistrate; 'we may as well add a dozen years at once.' 'By no means,' said the lady; 'I will allow another year, if you please; but if my own honour were in question instead of the widow's, I would not add one month more to please the law, or any other body in the world.' "When the two witnesses had left the magistrate, the woman said to the maiden: 'Do not you wonder at this noodle, who thinks us young enough to tell him our ages to a day? It is enough, surely, that they should be inscribed on the parish registers, without his poking them into his depositions, for the information of all the world. It would be delightful, truly, to hear recited in open court,--Madame Richard, aged sixty and so many years, and Mademoiselle Perinelle, aged forty-five, depose such and so forth. It is too absurd: I have taken care to suppress a good score of years; and you were wise enough to follow my example.' 'What do you mean by following your example?' cried the ancient damsel, with youthful indignation: 'I am extremely obliged to you; but I would have you to know that thirty-five years are the utmost I have seen.' 'Why! child,' replied the matron, with a malicious smile, 'you forget yourself: I was present at your birth--ah! what a time it is ago! And your poor father! I knew him well. But we must all die; and he was not young, either: it is nearly forty years since we buried him.' 'Oh! my father,' interrupted the virgin, hastily, irritated at the precision of the old dame's tender recollections,--'my father was so old when he married my mother, that she was not likely to have any children by him.' "I perceive in that house opposite," continued the Spirit, "two men, who are not over-burdened with sense. One is a youth of family, who can neither keep money in his pocket, nor do entirely without it: he has discovered, therefore, an excellent means of always having a supply. When he is in cash, he lays it out in books, and when his purse is empty, he sells them for the half of their cost. The other is a foreign artist, who seeks for patronage among the ladies as a portrait painter: he is clever, draws correctly, colours to perfection, and is extraordinarily successful in the likeness; but--he never flatters his originals, yet expects the women will flock to him. Sheer stupidity! _Inter stultos referatur._" "What?" cried the Scholar, "have you studied the classics?" "You ought hardly to be surprised at that," replied the Devil: "I speak fluently all your barbarous tongues--Hebrew, Greek, Persic, and Arabic. Nevertheless, I am not vain of my attainments; and that, at all events, is an advantage I have over your learned pedants. "You may see in that large mansion, on the left, a sick lady surrounded by several others, who are in attendance upon her: she is the rich widow of a celebrated architect, whose love for her husband's profession has extended itself to the most foolish admiration of the Corinthian capital of society--the higher classes. She has just made her will, by which she bequeaths her immense wealth to grandees of the first class, who are ignorant of her very existence, but whose titles have gained for them their legacies. She was asked whether she would not leave something to a person who had rendered her most important services. 'Alas! no,' she replied, with an appearance of regret; 'and I am sorry that I cannot do so. I am not so ungrateful as to deny the obligation which I owe to him; but his humble name would disgrace my will.'" "Signor Asmodeus," interrupted Leandro, "tell me, I pray you, whether the old gentleman whom I perceive so busy reading in his study, does not chance to be one of those who merit to be here confined." "He does, indeed, deserve it," answered the Demon: "he is an old licentiate, who is reading a proof of a book which he is passing through the press." "Doubtless, some work on morals or theology?" said Don Cleophas. "Not it," replied the Cripple; "it is a collection of amatory songs, which he wrote in his youth: instead of burning them, or at least suffering them to fall into the oblivion to which he is fast hastening, he has resolved to print them himself, for fear his heirs should be tempted to do so after his death, and that, out of respect for his memory, they should deprive them of their point by rendering them decent. "There is a little lady living in the same house with our Anacreon, whom I must not forget: she is so entirely convinced of the power of her attractions, that no man ever spoke to her whom she did not at once place in the list of her admirers. "But let us turn to a wealthy canon, whom I see a few paces beyond her. He has a very singular phantasy. If he lives frugally, it is not with a view to mortify the flesh, or from a dislike to the grape; if his humility does without a coach and six, it is not from avarice. Ah! for what object then does he husband his resources? What does he with his revenues? Does he bestow them in alms? No! he expends them in the purchase of paintings, expensive furniture, and jewellery. Now, you would naturally expect he bought these things to enjoy them while he lived?--No such thing; he only seeks to swell the inventory of his effects when he shall be no more." "Oh! impossible!" cried Zambullo: "such a madman as you describe cannot exist on the earth!" "I repeat, nevertheless," replied the Devil, "that such is his mania. The only pleasure he derives from these things is in the imagination of how they will figure in his said inventory. Does he buy, for instance, a superbly inlaid cabinet; it is neatly packed upon the instant, and carefully stowed away; that it may appear quite new in the eyes of the brokers who may come when he is dead to bargain for his relics. "I will show you one of his neighbours that you will think quite as mad as he,--an old bachelor, recently arrived from the Philippine Isles, with an enormous fortune which he derived from his father, who was auditor of the court at Manilla: his conduct is extraordinary enough. You may see him daily in the antechambers of the king, or of the prime minister. Do not fancy, however, that it is ambition which leads him there, to solicit some important charge: he seeks no employment; he asks for nothing. 'What then!' you will say to me, 'does he go there simply to pay his devoirs?' Colder still! He never speaks to the minister, to whom indeed he is not even known, nor does he desire to be so. 'What then is his object?'--I will tell you. He wishes to persuade the world of his credit at Court." "An amusing original, indeed!" cried the Student, bursting with laughter; "he takes great pains to little purpose, truly: you may well place him in the list of madmen." "Oh! as to that," replied Asmodeus, "I shall shew you many others whom it would be unreasonable to think more wise. For instance, look in yonder house, so splendidly illumined, and you will perceive three men and two ladies sitting round a table. They have just supped together, and they are now playing at cards to while away the night, with which only will they leave their occupation. Such is the life these gentle cavaliers and ladies lead. They meet regularly every evening, and break up like fogs only with the sun; when they retire to sleep until darkness again calls them to light and life: they have renounced the face of day and the beauties of nature. Would not one say, to behold them thus surrounded with waxen tapers, that they were corpses, waiting for the last sad offices that are rendered to the dead?" "There is no necessity to shut those people from the world," said Don Cleophas;--"they have ceased to belong to it." "I perceive in the arms of sleep," resumed the Cripple, "a man whom I esteem, and who is also attached devotedly to me,--a being formed in my own mould. He is an old bachelor, who idolises the fair sex. You cannot speak to him of a pretty woman, without remarking the delight with which he hears you; if you say that her mouth is small, her lips rubies, her teeth pearls, her cheeks roses on an alabaster vase; in a word, if you paint her in detail, at every stroke he sighs and lifts his eyes, and is visibly excited by his voluptuous imagination. Only two days ago, passing the shop of a ladies' shoemaker, he stopped to look with admiration on a pair of diminutive slippers which were there exposed. After contemplating them for some time, with more attention than they deserved, he exclaimed with a languishing air, to a cavalier who accompanied him: 'Ah! my friend; there now are slippers which enchant my soul! what darling feet for which they were made! I look on them with too much interest: let us away! the very atmosphere around this place is dangerous.'" [Illustration: the old bachelor admires the diminutive slippers] "We may mark that gentleman with black, at all events," said Leandro Perez. "We may indeed," replied the Devil; "and you may tar his nearest neighbour with the same brush, while you are about it--an original of an auditor, who, because he keeps a carriage, blushes whenever he is obliged to put his foot into a public vehicle. He again may be worthily paired with one of his own relations, a wealthy dignitary of the church here, who almost always rides in a hired coach, in order to save two very neat ones, and four splendid mules, which he keeps in his stables. "In the immediate neighbourhood of the auditor and our amatory bachelor, I discover a man to whom, without injustice, no one could deny his title to a strait waistcoat. There he is--a cavalier of sixty, making love to a damsel of sixteen. He visits her daily, and thinks to win her affections by a recital of the conquests of his youth; he hopes that she will love him now for the charms of which he formerly could boast. [Illustration: the old cavalier wooing the young girl] "We may place in the same category with the aged swain, another who is sleeping about ten paces from us--a French count, who came to Madrid to see the court of Spain. This old gentleman, who is nearly seventy years of age, shone with great lustre in the court of his own sovereign, fifty years ago; he was indeed perfectly the rage; all the world envying his manly form, his gallant deportment, and above all the exquisite taste which he displayed in his apparel. He scrupulously preserved the dresses so much admired, and has continued to wear them on all occasions despite the changes of fashion, which in Paris occur every day. What, however, is most amusing in the matter is, that he fancies himself at this time as graceful and attractive as in the days of his youth." "There is not the slightest doubt," said Don Cleophas, "that we may book a place in the _Casa de los locos_ for this French signor." "I must reserve another though," replied the Demon, "for a lady who resides in a garret, next to the count's mansion. She is an elderly widow, who, from excess of affection for her children, has had the kindness to make over to them all her property; reserving only a small stipend for herself, which, with proper filial gratitude, they take good care never to pay. "I have another subject for the same establishment, in a youth of family, who no sooner has a ducat than he spends it; and who, as he cannot do without the ready, is capable of anything to obtain it. A fortnight ago, his washer-woman, to whom he owed thirty pistoles, came to dun him for that sum, stating that she wanted it particularly, as she was going to be married to a valet-de-chambre, who sought her hand. 'You must have more money than this,' said he, 'for where the devil is the valet-de-chambre who would take you to wife for thirty pistoles?' 'Oh! yes,' replied the sudorific dame, 'I have two hundred ducats besides.' 'The deuce!' replied our hero, with emotion--'two hundred ducats! You have only to give them to me, I will marry you myself, and we may then cry quits.' He was taken at his word, and the laundress became his wife. "We must retain three places also for the same number of persons, whom you see returning from supper at a celebrated countess's, and now stopping before that house on the left, where they at present reside. One is a nobleman of an inferior grade, who piques himself on his passion for the _belles lettres;_ the second is his brother, your ambassador to Timbuctoo, or some such place; and the third is their foster-brother, a literary toady who follows in their train. They are almost always together, and especially when visiting in the clique to which they belong. The noble praises himself only; the ambassador praises his brother and himself also; but the toady has three things to look after,--the praises of the other two, and the mixing of his own praises with theirs. "Two places more! One for a floricultural citizen, who, scarcely gaining his own bread, must need keep a gardener and his wife to look after a dozen plants that languish at his suburban villa; the other for an actor, who, complaining the other day to his brethren on the disagreeables inseparable from a strolling life, observed: 'Well, my friends, I am utterly disgusted with my profession; yes, so much so, that I would rather be a humble country gentleman with a thousand ducats a year.' "On whichever side I turn my eyes," continued the Spirit, "I see nothing but addled brains. There, for instance, is a chevalier of Calatrava, who is so proud, or rather vain, of being privately encouraged by the daughter of a noble signor, that he thinks himself on a par with the first persons of the court. He reminds me of Villius, who thought himself son-in-law of Sylla, because he was on good terms with the daughter of that dictator; and the resemblance is the more striking, because this chevalier, like the Roman, has a _Longarenus;_ that is to say, a rival of low degree, who, nevertheless, is still more favoured by the lady than himself. "One would be inclined to affirm that the same men are born anew from time to time, but under other circumstances. I recognize, in that secretary of department, Bollanus, who kept measures with nobody, and who affronted all whose appearance was, at first sight, unpleasing to him. I behold again, in that old president, Fufidius, who lent his money at five per cent. per month; and Marsoeus, who gave his paternal mansion to the actress Origo, lives once more in that noble stripling, who is spending with a dancer of the ballet the proceeds of a country seat which he has near the Escurial." Asmodeus was about to continue, when, suddenly hearing the sound of instruments which were tuning in the neighbourhood, he stopped, and said to Don Cleophas: "There are musicians at the end of this street, who are just commencing a serenade in honour of the daughter of an _alcade de corte;_ if you would like to witness this piece of gallantry, you have only to say so." "I am a great admirer of this sort of concert," replied Zambullo; "let us by all means get near them; there may chance to be some decent voices among the lot." He had hardly spoken, when he found himself on a house adjoining that of the alcade. The serenade was commenced by the instruments alone, which played some new Italian airs; and then two of the voices sang alternately the following couplets: "List, while the thousand charms I sing, Which round thee such enchantment fling, That even Love has plumed his wing To seek thy bower. "Thy neck, that shames the mountain snow, Thy lip, that mocks the peach's glow, Bid Cupid's self a captive bow Beneath thy power. "Thine arched brows as bows are bent To speed the shafts thine eyes have sent; E'en armed Love's own mail is rent, Resisting them. "Thou art, in sooth, a queenly maid; Yet hast thou every heart betray'd, That thee its trusting pole-star made; Thou priceless gem! "Oh! would that I some spell possess'd, While painting thee, to touch thy breast; Thou evening star, thou heaven of rest, Thou morning sun!"[6] [6] "Si de tu hermosura quieres Una copia con mil gracias; Escucha, porque pretendo El pintarla. "Es tu frente toda nieve Y el alabastro, batallas Offreciò al Amor, haziendo En ella vaya. "Amor labrò de tus cejas Dos arcos para su aljava: Y debaxo ha descubierto Quien le mata. "Eres duena de el lugar Vandolera de las almas, Iman de los alvedrios, Linda alhaja. "Un rasgo de tu hermosura Quisiera yo retratarla; Que es estrella, es cielo, es sol; No es sino el alva." "The couplets are gallant and delicate," cried the Student. "They seem so to you," replied the Demon, "because you are a Spaniard: if they were translated into French, for instance, they would not be greatly admired. The readers of that nation would think the expressions too figurative; and would discover an extravagance of imagination in the conceptions, which would be to them absolutely laughable. Every nation has its own standard of taste and genius, and will admit no other: but enough of these couplets," continued he, "you will hear music of another kind. "Follow with your eyes those four men who have suddenly appeared in the street. See! they pounce upon the serenaders: the latter raise their instruments to defend their heads, but their frail bucklers yield to the blows which fall on them, and are shattered into a thousand pieces. And now see, coming to their assistance, two cavaliers; one of whom is the gallant donor of the serenade. With what fury they charge on the four aggressors! Again, with what skill and valour do these latter receive them. What fire sparkles from their swords! See! one of the defenders of the serenade has fallen,--it is he who gave it,--he is mortally wounded. His companion, perceiving his fall, flies to preserve his own life; the aggressors, having effected their object, fly also; the musicians have disappeared during the combat; and there remains upon the spot the unfortunate cavalier alone, who has paid for his gallantry with his life. In the meanwhile, observe the alcade's daughter: she is at her window, whence she has observed all that has passed. This lady is so vain of her beauty,--although that is nothing extraordinary either,--that instead of deploring its fatal effect, she rejoices in the force of her attractions, of which she now thinks more than ever. [Illustration: the cavalier apprehended by the watch] "This will not be the end of it. You see another cavalier, who has this moment stopped in the street to assist, were it possible, the unfortunate being who is swimming in his blood. While occupied in this charitable office, see! he is surprised by the watch. They are taking him to prison, where he will remain many months: and he will almost pay as dearly for this transaction as though he were the murderer himself." "This is, indeed, a night of misfortunes!" said Zambullo. "And this will not be the last of them," added the Devil. "Were you, this moment, at the Gate of the Sun, you would be horror-stricken at the spectacle which is now exhibiting. Through the negligence of a domestic, a mansion is on fire, which in its rage has already reduced to ashes the magnificent furniture it contains, and threatens to consume the whole building; but great as might be his loss, Don Pedro de Escolano, to whom the house belongs, would not regret it for a moment, could he but save his only daughter, Seraphina, who is likely to perish in the flames." Don Cleophas expressing the greatest anxiety to see this fire, the Cripple transported him in an instant to the Gate of the Sun, and placed him in a house exactly opposite to that which was burning. CHAPTER XI. OF THE FIRE, AND THE DOINGS OF ASMODEUS ON THE OCCASION, OUT OF FRIENDSHIP FOR DON CLEOPHAS. In the street beneath them nothing was to be heard but a confused noise, arising from cries of fire from one half of the crowd, and the more appropriate one of water from the other. As soon as Leandro was able to comprehend the scene, he saw that the grand staircase, which led to the principal apartments of Don Pedro's mansion, was all in flames, which also were issuing with clouds of smoke, from every window in the house. "The fire is at its height," said the Demon; "it has just reached the roof, and its thousand tongues are spitting in the air millions of brilliant sparks. It is a magnificent sight: so much so, that the persons who have flocked from all parts around it, to assist in extinguishing the flames, are awed into helpless amazement. You may discern in the crowd of spectators an old man in a dressing-gown: it is the Signor de Escolano. Do you not hear his cries and lamentations? He is addressing the men who surround him, and conjuring them to rescue his child. But in vain does he implore them,--in vain does he offer all his wealth,--none dares expose his life to save the ill-fated lady, who is only sixteen, and whose beauty is incomparable. The old man is in despair: he accuses them of cowardice; he tears his hair and beard; he beats his breast; the excess of his grief has made him almost mad. Seraphina, poor girl, abandoned by her attendants, has just swooned with terror in her own apartment, where, in a few minutes, a dense smoke will stifle her. She is lost to him for ever: no mortal can save her." "Ah! Signor Asmodeus," exclaimed Leandro Perez, prompted by feelings of generous compassion, "if you love me, yield to the pity which desolates my heart: reject not my humble prayer when I entreat you to save this lovely girl from the horrid death which threatens her. I demand it, as the price of the service I rendered but now to you. Do not, this time, oppose yourself to my desires: I shall die with grief if you refuse me." The Devil smiled on witnessing the profound emotion of the Student. "The fire warms you, Signor Zambullo," said he. "Verily! you would have made an exquisite knight-errant: you are courageous, compassionate for the sufferings of others, and particularly prompt in the service of sorrowing damsels. You would be just the man, now, to throw yourself in the midst of the furnace yonder, like an Amadis, to attempt the deliverance of the beauteous Seraphina, and to restore her safe and sound to her disconsolate father." "Would to heaven!" replied Don Cleophas, "that it were possible. I would undertake the task without hesitation." "Pity that your death," resumed the Cripple, "would be the sole reward of so noble an exploit! I have already told you that human courage can avail nothing on the occasion. Well! I suppose, to gratify you, I must meddle in the matter; so observe how I shall set about it: you can watch from hence all my operations." He had no sooner spoken these words than, borrowing the form of Leandro Perez, to the great astonishment of the Student, he alighted unobserved amid the crowd, which he elbowed without ceremony, and quickly passing through it, rushed into the fire as into his natural element. The spectators who beheld him, alarmed at the apparent madness of the attempt, uttered a cry of horror. "What insanity!" said one; "is it possible that interest can blind a man to such an extent as this? None but a downright idiot could have been tempted by any proffered recompence to dare such certain death." "The rash youth," said another, "must be the lover of Don Pedro's daughter; and in the desperation of his grief has resolved to save his mistress or to perish with her." In short, they predicted for him the fate of Empedocles,[7] when, a minute afterwards, they saw him emerge from the flames with Seraphina in his arms. The air resounded with acclamations, and the people were loud in their praises of the brave cavalier who had performed so noble a feat. When rashness ends in success, critics are silent; and so this prodigy now appeared to the assembled multitude as a very natural result of a Spaniard's daring. [7] A Sicilian poet and philosopher, who threw himself into the crater of Mount Ætna. [Illustration: the rescue of Seraphina] As the lady was still insensible, her father did not dare to give himself up to joy: he feared that, although thus miraculously delivered from the fire, she would die before his eyes, from the terrible impression made upon her mind by the peril she had encountered. He was, however, soon reassured, when, recovering from her swoon, her eyes opened, and looking on the old man, she said to him with an affectionate voice: "Signor, I should have had more occasion for affliction than rejoicing at the preservation of my life, were not yours also in safety." "Ah! my child," replied her father, embracing her, "nothing is lost since you are saved. But let us thank," exclaimed he, presenting to her the double of Cleophas,--"let us testify our gratitude to this young cavalier. He is your preserver; it is to him you owe your life. How can we repay that debt? Not all that I possess would suffice to cancel the obligation he has conferred upon us." To these observations the Devil replied, with an air which would have done Don Cleophas credit: "Signor, I am noble, and a Castilian. I seek no other reward for the service I have had the happiness to render you than the pleasure of having dried your tears, and of having saved from the flames the lovely object which they threatened to devour;--surely such a service is its own reward." The disinterestedness and generosity of their benefactor raised for him the highest feelings of admiration and esteem in the breast of the Signor de Escolano, who entreated him to call upon them, and offered him his warmest friendship. The Devil replied in fitting terms to the frank advances of the old man; and, after many other compliments had passed, the father and daughter retired to a small building which remained uninjured, at the bottom of the garden. The Demon then rejoined the Student, who, seeing him return under his former guise, said to him: "Signor Asmodeus, have my eyes deceived me? Were you not but now in my shape and figure?" "Excuse the liberty," replied the Cripple; "and I will tell you the motive for this metamorphosis. I have formed a grand design: I intend that you should marry Seraphina, and, under your form, I have already inspired her with a violent passion for your lordship. Don Pedro, also, is highly satisfied with you, because I told him that in rescuing his daughter I had no other object than to render them both happy, and that the honour of having happily terminated so perilous an adventure was a sufficient reward for a Spanish gentleman. The good man has a noble soul, and will not easily be outdone in generosity; and he is at this moment deliberating within himself whether he shall not give you his daughter, as the most worthy return he can make to you for having saved her life. [Illustration: Don Pedro and Seraphina thank Zambullo] "Well! while he is hesitating," added the Cripple, "let us get out of this smother into a place more favourable for continuing our observations." And so saying, away he flew with the Student to the top of a high church filled with splendid tombs. CHAPTER XII. OF THE TOMBS, OF THEIR SHADES, AND OF DEATH. Asmodeus now said to the Student: "Before we continue our observations on the living, we will for a few moments disturb the peaceful rest of those who lie within this church. I will glance over all the tombs; reveal the secrets they contain, and the feelings which have prompted their elevation. "The first of those which are on our right contains the sad remains of a general officer, who, like another Agamemnon, on his return from the wars found an Ægisthus in his house; in the second, reposes a young cavalier of noble birth, who, desirous of displaying in the sight of his mistress his strength and skill at a bull-fight, was gored to death by his furious opponent; and in the third lies an old prelate who left this world rather unceremoniously. He had made his will in the vigour of health, and was imprudent enough to read it to his domestics, whom, like a good master, he had not forgotten: his cook was in a hurry to receive his legacy. "In the fourth mausoleum rests a courtier who never rested in his lifetime. Even at sixty years of age, he was daily seen in attendance on the king, from the levée until his majesty retired for the night: in recompense for all these attentions the king loaded him with favours." "And was he, now," said Don Cleophas, "the man to use his influence for others?" "For no one," replied the Devil: "he was liberal of his promises of service to his friends, but he was religiously scrupulous of never keeping them." "The scoundrel!" exclaimed Leandro. "Were we to think of lopping off the superfluous members of society,--men that like tumours on the body politic draw all its nourishment to themselves, it is with courtiers like this one would begin." "The fifth tomb," resumed Asmodeus, "encloses the mortal remains of a signor, ever zealous for the interests of his country, and jealous of the glory of the king his master, in whose service he spent the best years of his life as ambassador to Rome or France, to England or Portugal. He ruined himself so effectually by his embassies that he did not leave behind him enough to defray the expenses of his funeral, which the king has therefore paid out of gratitude for his services. "Let us turn to the monuments on the other side. The first is that of a great merchant who left enormous wealth to his children; but, lest they should forget, in its flood, the humble source from which it, like themselves, was derived, he directed that his name and occupation should be graven on his tomb, to the no small annoyance of his descendants. "The next stone which surpasses every other in the church for its magnificence, is regarded with much admiration by all travellers." "In truth," said Zambullo, "it appears to me deserving of its reputation. I am absolutely enchanted by those two kneeling figures--how exquisitely are they chiselled? Not Phidias himself could have surpassed the sculpture of this splendid work! But tell me, dear Asmodeus, what in their lives were those whom these all-breathing marbles represent?" The Cripple replied: "You behold a duke and his noble spouse: the former was grand chamberlain to his majesty, and the duchess was celebrated for her extreme piety. I must, however, relate to you an anecdote of her grace, which you will think rather lively for a devotee;--it is as follows. "She had been for a long time in the habit of confessing her sins to a monk of the order of Mercy, one Don Jerome d'Aguilar, a good man, and a famous preacher, with whom she was highly satisfied, when there suddenly appeared at Madrid a Dominican, who captivated the town by the novelty of his style, and the comfortable doctrines on which he insisted. This new orator was named the brother Placidus: the people flocked to his sermons as to those of Cardinal Ximenes; and as his reputation grew, the court, led to hear him by curiosity, became more loud in his praises than the town. "Our duchess at first made it a point of honour to hold out against the renown of the new-comer, nor could even curiosity induce her to go to hear him, that she might judge for herself of his eloquence. She acted thus from a desire to prove to her spiritual director, that, like a good and grateful penitent, she sympathised with him in the chagrin which the presence of brother Placidus must have caused him. But the Dominican made so much noise, that at last she yielded to the temptation of seeing him, still however assured of her own fidelity: she saw him, heard him preach, liked him, followed him; and the little inconstant absolutely formed the project of putting herself under his direction. "It was, however, necessary to get rid of her old confessor, and this was not an easy matter; a spiritual guide cannot be thrown off like a lover; a devotee would not like to be thought a coquette, or to lose the esteem of the director whom she abandons; so what did the duchess? She sought Don Jerome, and with an air of sorrow which spoke a real affliction, said to him: 'Father, I am in despair: you see me in amazement;--in a grief,--in a perplexity of mind which I cannot depict.' 'What ails you then, Madam?' replied d'Aguilar. 'Would you believe it?' she replied; 'my husband, who has ever had the most perfect confidence in my virtue, after having seen me for so long a time under your guidance, has, without appearing in the least suspicious of myself, become suddenly jealous of you, and desires that you may no longer be my confessor. Did you ever hear of a similar caprice? In vain have I objected that by his suspicions he insulted not only myself, but a man of the strictest piety, freed from the tyranny of the passions; I only increased his jealous fears by my vindication of your sacred honour.' "Don Jerome, despite his shrewdness, was taken in by this story: it is true that it was told with such demonstrations of candour as would have deceived all the world. Although sorry to lose a penitent of such importance, he did not fail to exhort her to obey her husband's will; but the eyes of his Reverence were opened at last, and the trick discovered, when he learned that the lady had chosen brother Placidus as his successor. "After the grand chamberlain and his cunning spouse," continued the Devil, "comes a more modest tomb, which has only recently received the ill-assorted remains of a president of the council of the Indies and his young wife. This president, in his sixty-third year, married a girl of twenty: he had by a former wife two children, whom he was about to leave penniless, when a fit of apoplexy carried him off; and his wife died twenty-four hours after him from vexation at his not having lived three days longer. "And now we have arrived at the most respectable monument this church contains. For it every Spaniard has as much veneration, as the Romans had for the tomb of Romulus." "Of what great personage, then, does it contain the ashes?" asked Leandro Perez. "Of a prime minister of Spain," replied Asmodeus; "and never did that monarchy possess his equal. The king left, with confidence, the cares of government to this great man; who so worthily acquitted himself of the charge, that monarch and subjects were equally contented. Under his ministry the state was ever flourishing, and its people happy; for his maxims of government were founded on the sure principles of humanity and religion. Still, although his life was blameless, he was not free from apprehension at his death,--the responsibility of his office might indeed make the best of mortals tremble. "In a corner, a little beyond the tomb of this worthy minister, you may discern a marble tablet placed against one of the columns. Say! shall I open the sepulchre beneath it, and display before your eyes all that remains of a lowly maiden who perished in the flower of her youth, when her modest beauty won for her the love and admiration of all who beheld her? It has returned to its primeval dust, that fragile form, which in its life possessed so dangerous a beauty as to keep her fond parent in continual alarm, lest its bright temptation should expose her to the wiles of the seducer;--a misfortune which might have befallen had she lived much longer, for already was she the idol of three young cavaliers, who, inconsolable for her loss, died shortly afterwards by their own hands. Their tragical history is engraven in letters of gold on the stone I shewed you, with three little figures which represent the despairing lovers in the act of self-destruction: one is draining a glass of poison; another is falling on his sword; and the third is tying a cord about his neck, having chosen to die by hanging." The Demon finding that the Student laughed with all his might at this sorrowful story, and that the idea of the three figures thus depicted on the maiden's monument amused him, said: "Since you find food for mirth in the artist's imagination, I am almost in the mind to carry you this moment to the banks of the Tagus, and there shew you a monument erected by the will of a dramatic author, in the church of a village near Almaraz, whither he had retired, after having led a long and joyous life at Madrid. This scribe had produced a vast number of comedies full of ribald wit and low obscenity; but repenting of his outrages upon decency ere he died, and desirous of expiating the scandal they had caused, he directed that they should carve upon his tomb a sort of pile, composed of books, bearing the names of the various pieces he had written, and that beside it they should place the image of Modesty, who, with lighted torch, should be about to consign them to the flames. "Besides the dead whose monuments I have described to you, there are within this church an infinity of others without a stone to mark the spot where their ashes repose. I see their shades wandering solemnly around: they glide along, passing and repassing one after another before us, without disturbing the profound quiet which reigns in this holy place. They speak not; but I read in their silence all their thoughts." "I am annoyed without measure," exclaimed Don Cleophas, "that I cannot, like you, have the pleasure of beholding them!" "That pleasure I can give you then," replied Asmodeus; "nothing is more easy." The Demon just touched the Student's eyes, and by a delusion caused him to perceive a great number of pallid spectres. [Illustration: the sculpture of Modesty burning the books] As he looked on these apparitions, Zambullo trembled. "What!" said the Devil to him, "you are agitated! Is it with fear of these ghostly visitants? Let not their ghastly apparel alarm you! Look at it well! It will adorn your own majestic person some of these days. It is the uniform of the shades: collect yourself, and fear nothing. Is it possible your assurance can fail you now,--you, who have had the daring to look on me? These gentry are harmless compared with myself." The Student, at these words, recalling his wonted courage, looked on the phantoms with tranquillity; which the Demon perceiving: "Bravo!" said he. "Well! now," he continued, "regard these shadows with attention! You will perceive that the occupant of the stately mausoleum is confounded with the inhabitant of the unstoned grave. The ranks by which they were distinguished in their lives died with them; and the grand chamberlain and the prime minister are no more now than the lowliest citizen that moulders in this church. The greatness of these noble shades ended with their days, as that of the strutting hero of a tragedy falls with the curtain." "I have a remark to make," interrupted Leandro. "I see a lonely spirit hovering about, and seeming to shun all contact with his fellows." "Rather say," replied the Demon, "and you will speak the truth, that his fellows shun all company with him: and what now think you is that poor ghost? He was an old notary, who had the vanity to be buried in a leaden coffin; which has so offended the self-love of the more humble tenants of the surrounding tombs, that they resolved to black-ball him, and will not therefore permit his shade to mix with theirs." "I have another observation yet to make," resumed Don Cleophas. "Two shadows, just now, on meeting, stopped for a moment to look upon each other, and then passed each on his way." "They are, or rather were, two intimate friends," replied the Devil; "one was a painter, and the other a musician: they both drew their inspiration from the bottle; but were, otherwise, honest fellows enough. It is worthy of note that they both brushed off in the same year; and when their spirits meet, struck by the remembrance of their former delights, they say to each other by their sorrowful but expressive silence: 'Ah! my friend, we shall drink no more.'" "Grammercy!" cried the Student, "what do I see. At the other end of the church are two spirits, who are passing along together, but badly matched. Their forms and manners are immensely different: one is of enormous height, and moves with corresponding gravity, while the other is of dwarf-like stature, and passes o'er the ground like a breath." "The giant," replied the Cripple, "was a German, who lost his life in a debauch, by drinking three healths with tobacco mixed inadvertently in his wine; and the little ghost is that of a Parisian, who, with the gallantry belonging to his countrymen, was imprudent enough, on entering this very church, to present the holy water to a young lady who was leaving it: as a reward for his politeness, he was saluted on the same day with the contents of a carbine, which left him here a moral for all too attentive Frenchmen. "For myself," continued Asmodeus, "I have been looking at three spirits which I discerned among the crowd; and I must tell you by what means they were separated from their earthly companions. They animated the charming forms of as many female performers, who made as much noise at Madrid, in their time, as did Origo, Cytheris and Arbuscula, in theirs, at Rome; and, like their said prototypes, they possessed the exquisite art of amusing mankind in public, and of privately ruining the same amiable animal. But, alas! all things must have an end, and these were the finales of those celebrated ladies: one died suddenly of envy, at an apopletic fit of applause, from the pit, which fell upon a lovely first-night; another found in excessive good cheer, at home, the infallible drop which follows it; and, the third, undertaking the dangerous character, for an actress, of a vestal, became so excited with her part that she died of a miscarriage behind the scenes. "But we will leave to their reposes(!) all these shades," again continued the Demon; "we have passed them sufficiently in review. I will now present to your sight a spectacle which, as a man, must impress you with a deeper feeling than the sight of the dead. I am about, by the same power which has rendered the shades of the departed visible to your sight, to present to you the vision of Death himself. Yes! you shall behold that insatiable enemy of the human race, who prowls unceasingly in the haunts of man, unperceived by his victims; who surrounds the earth, in his speed, in the twinkling of an eye; and who strikes by his power, its most distant inhabitants at the same moment. "Look towards the east! He rises on your sight. A million birds of baneful omen fly before his advent in terror, and announce his presence with funereal cries. His tireless hand is armed with the fatal scythe which mows successive generations as they spring from earth. But if, as mocking at humanity, on one wing is depicted war, pestilence, famine, shipwreck, conflagration, with other direful modes by which he sweeps upon his prey, the other shows the priests who offer to him daily hecatombs in sport; as youthful doctors, who receive from himself their diplomas, after swearing, in his presence, never to practise surgery or medicine contrary to the rules of the courts." Although Don Cleophas suspected that all he saw was an illusion, and that it was merely to gratify his taste for the marvellous that the Devil raised this form of Death before his eyes, he could not look on it without trembling. He assumed, however, all the courage he was possessed of, and said to the Demon: "This fearful spectre will not, I suppose, pass vainly over Madrid: he will doubtless leave some awful traces of his flight?" "Yes! certainly," replied the Cripple; "he comes not here for nothing; and it depends but on yourself to be the witness of his visitation." "I take you at your word," exclaimed the Student; "let us follow in his train; let me visit with him the unhappy families on whom he will expend his present wrath. What tears are about to flow!" "Beyond a doubt," replied Asmodeus; "but many which come at convenience. Death, despite his horrors, causes at least as much joy as grief." [Illustration: Death flies over the poor man's bed] Our two spectators took their flight, and followed the grim monarch in his progress. He entered first a modest house, whose owner lay in helpless sickness on his bed; the autocrat but touched the poor man with his scythe, and he expired in the midst of his weeping relations, who instantly commenced an affecting concert of cries and lamentions. "There is no mockery here," said the Demon: "the wife and children of this worthy citizen loved him with real affection: besides, they depended on him for their bread; and the belly is rarely a hypocrite. "Not so, however, is it in the next house, in which you perceive his grisly majesty now occupied in releasing a bed-ridden old gentleman from his pains. He is an aged counsellor who, having always lived a bachelor of law, has passed his life as badly as he could, that he might leave behind him a good round sum for the benefit of his three nephews, who have flocked round his bed on hearing that he is about to quit it, at last. They of course displayed an extreme affliction, and very well they did it; but are now, you see, letting fall the mask, and are preparing to do their duties as heirs, after having performed their parts as relations. How they will rummage the old gentleman's effects! What heaps of gold and silver will they discover! 'How delightful!' said one of these heart-broken descendants to another, this moment,--'how delightful is it for nephews to be blessed with avaricious old uncles, who renounce the pleasures of life for their sakes!'" "A superb funeral oration," said Leandro Perez. "Oh! as to that," replied the Devil, "the majority of wealthy parents, who live to a good old age, ought not to expect a better from their own children. "While these heritors are joyfully seeking the treasures of the deceased, Death is directing his flight to a large house, in which resides a young nobleman who has the small-pox. This noble, one of the brightest ornaments of the court, is about to perish, just as his star is rising, despite the famed physician who attends him,--or rather because he is attended by this learned doctor. [Illustration: Death approaches the pious monk] "But see! with what rapidity does the fatal scythe perform its operations. Already has it completed the destiny of the youthful lord, and its unblunted edge is turned elsewhere. It hovers over yonder convent; it darts into its deepest cell, sweeps over a pious monk, and cuts the thread of the penitent and mortifying life that he has led during forty years. Death, all-fearful as he is, had no terrors for this holy man; so, in revenge, he seeks a mansion where his presence will be unwelcome indeed. He flies towards a licentiate of importance, who has only recently been appointed to the bishopric of Albarazin. This prelate is busily occupied with preparations for repairing to his diocese with all the pomp which in our day accompanies the princes of the church. Nevertheless, he is about to take his departure for the other world, where he will arrive with as few followers as the poor monk; and I am not sure that he will be quite as favourably received." "Oh heavens!" cried Zambullo; "Death stoops upon the palace of the king. Alas! one stroke of his fatal scythe, and ail Spain will be plunged in dreadful consternation." "Well may you tremble," said the Cripple; "for the barbarian has no more respect for kings than for their meanest slaves. But be not alarmed," he added, a moment afterwards, "he aims not at the monarch yet; his business now is with a courtier only, one of those noble lords whose only occupation is to swell his master's train: such ministers as these are not exactly those the state can least afford to lose." "But it would seem," replied the Student, "that the spectre king is not contented with so mean a prize as the parasite you speak of. See! he hovers still about the royal house; and, this time, near the chamber of the Queen." "Just so," replied the Devil, "and he might be worse employed: he is about to cut the windpipe of an amiable dame who delights to sow divisions in her sovereign's court; and who is now mortally chagrined, because two ladies whom she had cleverly set by the ears, have been unreasonable enough to become sincerely reconciled with each other. [Illustration: the grieving wife tears her hair] "And now, my master, you will hear cries of real affliction," continued the Demon. "Death enters that splendid mansion to the left; and a scene as touching as the world's stage offers is about to be acted there. Look, if you can, on the heart-rending tragedy." "In truth," said Don Cleophas, "I perceive a lady struggling in the arms of her attendants, and tearing her hair with signs of deepest grief. Tell me its cause!" "Look in the room adjoining, and you will see cause enough," replied the Devil. "You observe the man stretched on that stately couch: it is her dying husband,--to her a loss indeed! Their story is affecting, and deserves to be written:--I have a great mind to relate it to you." "You will give me great pleasure in so doing," interrupted Leandro: "the sorrows of this world do not move less than its vices and follies amuse me." "It is rather long," resumed Asmodeus, "but it is too interesting to annoy you on that account. Besides, I will confess to you, that, all Demon as I am, I am sick of following the track of Death: let us leave him in his search of newer victims." "With all my heart," replied Zambullo: "I am more curious to hear your promised narrative Of suffering humanity, than to see my fellow-mortals, one after another, hurried into eternity." The Cripple then commenced as follows, after having transported the Student on to the roof of one of the highest houses in the Strada d'Alcala. CHAPTER XIII. THE FORCE OF FRIENDSHIP. A young cavalier of Toledo, accompanied by his valet-de-chambre, was journeying with all possible speed from the place of his birth, in order to avoid the consequences of a tragical adventure in which he had unfortunately been engaged. He was about two leagues from the town of Valencia, when, at the entrance of a wood, he fell in with a lady who was alighting hastily from a carriage. No veil obscured her charms, which were more than enough to dazzle a youthful beholder; and, as the lovely damsel appeared in trouble, it is not to be wondered that the cavalier, imagining that she sought assistance, offered her his protection and his services. "Generous unknown," said the lady, "I will not refuse your proffered aid: Heaven, it would seem, has sent you here to avert a dreadful misfortune. Two cavaliers have met to fight within this wood;--I this moment saw them enter. Hasten with me, I entreat you, and assist me to prevent their fatal design." As she spoke, she plunged into the forest, and the Toledan, throwing his horse's rein to his attendant, followed her as quickly as he was able. They had not gone a hundred yards before they heard the clashing of arms, and almost immediately discovered the two gentlemen, who were thrusting at each other with becoming fury. The Toledan drew his sword but to separate theirs; and by its assistance, and by entreaties uttered in exclamations, he managed to suspend their pastime, while he inquired the subject of their difference. "Brave cavalier," said one of the combatants, "you see in me, Don Fabricio de Mendoza, and in my opponent, Don Alvaro Ponza. We both love Donna Theodora, the lady by whom you are accompanied; but we love to little purpose, for, despite our endeavours to win her affections, she treats our attentions with disdain. For myself, I should have been contented to worship an unwilling deity; but my rival, instead of acting with as much wisdom, has resolved to have the shrine to himself, and so has brought me here." "It is true," interrupted Don Alvaro, "that I have so determined; and it is because I believe that, my rival away, Donna Theodora might deign to listen to my vows. I seek then the life of Don Fabricio, to rid myself of a man who stands in the way of my happiness." "Signor Cavalier," said the Toledan, "I cannot approve of your reasons for duelling; besides that, you are injuring the lady who is the object of your strife. You must be aware that it will soon be known that you have been fighting for her; and the honour of your mistress should surely be dearer to you than happiness or life itself. And what, too, can he who may be successful expect to gain by his victory? Can he hope that, after having staked a lady's reputation on the quarrel, she will thank him for his folly? What madness! Believe me, it were far better, that, acting as becomes the names you bear, you should control your jealous wrath. Be men and pledge me your sacred words to bind yourselves by the terms I shall propose to you, and your quarrel may be adjusted without a deed of blood." [Illustration: the Toledan cavalier parts the duellists] "Ah! but how?" cried Don Alvaro. "Why," replied the Toledan, "let the lady determine the question; let her choose between yourself and Don Fabricio; and let the slighted lover, instead of seeking to injure his more fortunate rival, leave the field at once." "Agreed!" said Don Alvaro; "and I swear it by all that is sacred. Let Donna Theodora decide between us. She may prefer, if she will, my rival to myself: this even would be less unbearable than the dread suspense in which I now exist." "And I," said Don Fabricio in his turn,--"I call Heaven to witness, that if the divine object of my love declares not in my favour, I will fly from the sight of her perfections; and if I cannot forget them, I will at least behold them no more." On this the Toledan, turning to Donna Theodora, said: "Madam, it is for you now, by a single word, to disarm these two rivals for your love: you have only to name him whose constancy your favours would reward." "Signor Cavalier," replied the lady, "try some other means of reconciling them. Why should I become the victim of their disagreement? I esteem, in all sincerity, both Don Fabricio and Don Alvaro; but I love neither: and it were surely unjust, that, to prevent the stain with which their disputes may sully my name, I should be compelled to excite hopes that my heart disavows." "It is too late to dissemble, Madam," resumed the Toledan; "you must now declare yourself. Although these cavaliers are equally good-looking, I doubt not that you can discern more merit in one than in the other; and I am confirmed in that opinion by the alarm with which but now I saw you agitated." "You misinterpret that alarm," replied Donna Theodora. "The loss of either of these gentlemen would affect me beyond a doubt, and I should never cease to reproach myself with his death, although its innocent cause; but if I appeared to you greatly agitated, I can assure you that it was the peril to which my own honour was exposed that excited all my fear." The impetuous Don Alvaro Ponza now lost all patience. "Enough!" he exclaimed, with an air of fury; "since the lady refuses to end the matter peaceably, let the fate of arms decide;" and as he spoke, he raised his weapon against Don Fabricio, who on his part prepared to receive him. On this, the lady, more alarmed by the fury of Don Alvaro than decided by her own inclination, exclaimed wildly: "Hold! noble cavaliers; I will do as you desire. Since there is no other means of preventing a strife in which my reputation is involved, I declare in favour of Don Fabricio de Mendoza." These words had no sooner escaped her lips, than the discarded Ponza, without uttering a syllable, hastened to his horse, which he had fastened to a tree, released it, threw himself into the saddle, and disappeared, after casting one look of intense fury on his rival and implacable mistress. The fortunate Mendoza, on the contrary, was in ecstasies; now humbling himself in his joy at the feet of Donna Theodora, and now embracing the Toledan, unable to contain the satisfaction with which his heart was filled, or to find words to express his gratitude. In the meanwhile the lady, freed from the presence of the burning Don Alvaro, had become more tranquil; and it was with grief she reflected that she had engaged to permit the addresses of a lover, whom, while she truly esteemed his merit, her heart told her she could never love. [Illustration: Don Fabricio at the feet of Donna Theodora] "Signor Don Fabricio," she said to him, timidly, "I trust you will not abuse the preference I have just avowed for you; you owe it only to the necessity in which I found myself placed of declaring between yourself and Don Alvaro. I can say with truth that I have ever thought more highly of you than of him;--there are noble qualities that you possess of which Alvaro cannot boast; I have always looked on you with justice as the most perfect cavalier Valencia contains; I have even no hesitation in saying that the attentions of such a man would be flattering to the vanity of any woman; but, how honourable soever they might be to me, I feel bound to tell you that my heart is still untouched, and that it is with sorrow I behold in you an affection for myself so great as your every action displays. I will not, however, take from you all hope of winning my affections; my present indifference may arise from the effects of that grief which still fills my bosom for the loss of my late husband, Don Andrea de Cifuentes, who died about a year ago. Although we were not long united, and although he was advanced in years when my parents, dazzled by his riches, compelled me to espouse him, I was yet much afflicted by his loss, and the wound is still green which his death inflicted. "Ah! was he not worthy of my regret?" she added. "He was indeed unlike those aged and jealous tyrants, who, unable to persuade themselves that a youthful wife can be virtuous enough to excuse their weakness, watch all her motions with suspicion, or place over her some hideous duenna as a spy. Alas! he had in my honour a confidence of which a young and much-loved husband would be hardly capable. His kindness was unbounded, and his only study, to anticipate my every wish. You may suppose, then, Mendoza, that such a man as Don Andrea de Cifuentes is not easily forgotten. No! he is ever present in my thoughts; and the fond recollection of his amiability and love for me may excuse my indifference for objects which might otherwise attract me." "Ah! Madam," exclaimed Don Fabricio, interrupting Donna Theodora, "how great is my delight to learn from those lovely lips that it is from no dislike for myself that you have slighted all my cares! I can still then hope that the day will come when my constancy may be rewarded." "It will not be my fault if that do not happen," replied the lady, "since I consent that you should visit me, and will not forbid you to speak to me of love. You shall strive, then, to win me to the world and to yourself by your attentions; and I promise to conceal not from you any favourable impression you may make: but if, Mendoza, despite your efforts, my heart refuses to be happy, remember that I give you no right to reproach me." Don Fabricio was about to reply; but the lady, placing her hand in that of the Toledan, turned away, and hastened towards her carriage. He therefore unbound his horse, and leading it through the thicket by the bridle, followed his mistress, and arrived just in time to see her enter the vehicle, which she did with as much agitation as she had left it, although arising from a very different cause. The Toledan and himself accompanied Donna Theodora to the gate of Valencia, where they separated,--she taking the road to her own house, and Don Fabricio taking the Toledan with him to his. After a slight repose, Mendoza entertained the stranger with a sumptuous repast, and in the course of conversation asked him what had brought him to Valencia, and whether he proposed to stay there for any time. "For as short a time as possible," replied the Toledan; "I am here only on my way to the sea, that I may embark in the first vessel that leaves the shores of Spain. It matters little to me in what part of the world I go to end a life of unhappiness, except that the more distant from this fatal clime the better." "What do I hear?" exclaimed Don Fabricio with surprise. "What can have disgusted you with your native land, and caused you to look with hate on that which all men love so fondly?" "After what has occurred to me," replied the Toledan, "my country is to me unbearable, and to leave it, for ever, my only desire." "Ah! Signor Cavalier," cried Mendoza, affected with compassion, "I am impatient to learn your misfortunes! If I cannot relieve them, I am at least disposed to share them. Your appearance from the first prepossessed me in your favour, your bearing and manners charmed me, and already I feel deeply interested in your destiny." "You afford me, Signor Don Fabricio," replied the Toledan, "the greatest consolation I could receive; and in return for the kindness you are pleased to express for me, it delights me to be able to say, with truth, that on seeing you with Don Alvaro Ponza my heart inclined towards yourself. A feeling, with which I never was inspired at the first sight of any one before, made me fear lest Donna Theodora should decide in favour of your rival; and it was with joy I heard her state her preference for you. Since then, you have so gained upon that first impression, that, far from desiring to conceal my griefs, I seek with a sort of pleasure to unbosom them to you: Learn then my misfortunes. "I was born in Toledo, and my name is Don Juan de Zarata. I lost my parents while almost in my infancy; so that at an early age I found myself in the enjoyment of a yearly income of four thousand ducats, which I inherited from them. As my hand was at my own disposal, and as I was rich enough to be able to bestow it where my heart should dictate, I married, early, a maiden of exquisite beauty; careless that she added nothing to my fortune, and that her rank was inferior to my own. I loved her, and I was happy; and that I might enjoy to the full the pleasure of possessing one so dear to me, I had not been long married before I sought with her a small estate which I possessed a few leagues from Toledo. "We lived there, for some time, in unity and bliss; when it chanced that the Duke de Naxera, whose seat was in the neighbourhood, came one day, when he was hunting, to refresh himself at my house. He saw my wife, and unfortunately became enamoured of her. I suspected his passion from the first; and was not long before I was too certainly convinced of its existence by the eagerness with which he sought my friendship, that up to this time he had wholly neglected. His hunting parties were now never complete without me; he loaded me with presents, and still more with his offers of service. "I became alarmed by his evident design, and prepared for our return to Toledo. Heaven doubtless inspired me with this resolution; for, had I acted upon it, and thus taken from the Duke his opportunities of seeing my wife, I should have avoided all the misfortunes which followed a contrary course. My confidence in her virtue, however, soon reassured me. It appeared to me impossible that a being whom I had raised from obscurity to her present position, from motives of affection alone, could be ungrateful enough to consent to my disgrace. Alas! I little thought that ambition and vanity, two feelings common to every woman, were the greatest vices in the character of my wife. "No sooner, therefore, had the Duke managed to inform her of his sentiments towards her, than she took credit to herself for so important a conquest. The attachment of a man approached by all the world with the titles of Your Grace and Your Highness tickled her pride, and filled her mind with the most absurd notions; so that she was indefinitely exalted in her own opinion, and thought the less of me. All that I had done for love of her, instead of exciting feelings of gratitude, now appeared but a contemptible offering to her charms, of which she no longer thought me worthy; and she seems not to have doubted that if the noble duke, who flattered her by his homage, had seen her before she had thrown herself away on me, he would have eagerly sought her hand. Infatuated by these absurd notions, and seduced by some well-timed presents which flattered her vanity, she yielded to the secret assiduities of his grace. "Although they corresponded frequently, I had not for some time the slightest suspicion of their communications; but, at last, my eyes were unfortunately opened to my disgrace. One day I returned from hunting somewhat earlier than usual, and went directly to the apartment of my wife, who expected nothing less than to see me. She had just received a letter from her paramour, and was at the moment preparing a reply. She could not disguise her emotion at my unexpected coming; and as I perceived on the table paper and ink, I trembled,--for the truth rushed on my mind with the speed of all unwelcome conclusions. I commanded her to show me what she was writing, which she refused; so that I was compelled to use violence in order to satisfy my jealous curiosity, and drew from her bosom, in spite of her resistance, a letter which was to the following effect:-- "'Must I for ever languish in the despair of seeing thee again? Hast thou then cruelty enough to call sweet hopes into my heart, and let the short-lived blisses perish from delay? Don Juan leaves thee daily for the chase, or to repair to Toledo: would not Love then snatch these happy opportunities with eager joy? Think of the passion which consumes my life! Pity me, lady! and remember that if the happiness is great we hope to share, the greater is the torment which bars us its possession.' [Illustration: The Toledan reads the Duke's letter] "As I read this epistle, my blood boiled with fury. My hand sought the hilt of my stiletto, and my first inclination was to plunge it in the unfaithful breast of her who had betrayed me; but a moment's reflection told me that I should thus revenge but half my shame, and that another victim was demanded to appease my wrath. I therefore controlled myself, and, dissimulating as well as I was able, said to my wife: 'Madam, you have done wrong in listening to the duke; the splendour of his rank should not have been sufficient to dazzle you. However, youth finds delight in the trappings of nobility; and I am willing to believe that your guilt extends no further, and that my honour is still in safe keeping with you. I forgive, then, your want of discretion; but it is on condition that you return to the paths of duty, and that henceforth, sensible to the affection which animates my bosom, you will think it enough to deserve it.' "I did not wait for a reply, but left the apartment; as much to give her an opportunity of collecting herself, as to seek that solitude in which alone my mind could free itself from the anger which inflamed me. If I did not regain my tranquillity, I at least affected an air of composure during that and the following day; and on the third, pretending to have business of importance which called me to Toledo, I told my wife that I was obliged to leave her for some time, and that I did so in full confidence of her virtue and good conduct. "I set out; but, instead of going to Toledo, as soon as night came to assist my project, I returned home secretly, and concealed myself in the room of a trusty servant, whence I could observe any one who entered the house. I had no doubt that the duke was informed of my absence, and that he would not fail to make the most of so desirable a circumstance. How I longed to surprise them together! I promised myself an ample vengeance. "Nevertheless, I was deceived in my expectations. Instead of remarking any preparations for the reception of an expected lover, I on the contrary perceived that the doors were scrupulously closed against everybody; and three days having passed without the appearance of the duke, or any of his people, I began to think that my wife had repented of her fault, and that she had broken off all connection with her seducer. "As this opinion took possession of my mind, my desire of revenge dissipated; until, at last, yielding to those emotions of affection for my wife which anger had only suspended, I hastened to her apartment, and, embracing her with transport, exclaimed: 'Madam, I restore you my esteem and my love. I come to tell you that I have not been to Toledo, but that I pretended to have gone there only to test your discretion. You can forgive this deception in a husband whose jealousy was not entirely without foundation. I feared lest your mind, seduced by too brilliant illusions, should be incapable of a return to virtue; but, thank Heaven! you have seen your error, and I trust that our felicity may henceforth be unbroken.' "My wife appeared affected at these words, and, while tears fell from her eyes, exclaimed: 'Unhappy have I been, to give you reason to suspect my fidelity! In vain do I detest myself for having so justly excited your anger against me! In vain is it that, since I saw you, my eyes have unceasingly o'erflowed with tears; my grief and my remorse are alike unavailing; I can never regain the confidence I have lost.' 'I restore it to you,' I replied, interrupting her, afflicted by the sorrow which she displayed--'I restore it to you; you have repented of the past; and I will, too gladly, forget it.' "I kept my word; and, from that moment, my love for her was as great and as confiding as ever. I began again to taste those joys which had been so cruelly interrupted; they came to me, indeed, with redoubled zest; for my wife, as though she had been anxious to efface from my recollection all traces of the injury she had done me, took greater pains to please me. I thought I found more warmth in her caresses; in short, I almost rejoiced at the event which had told me how much was still left for me to love. "Shortly after our reconciliation I was seized with illness. Although my ailment was not alarming, it is inconceivable how deeply it appeared to afflict my wife. All day she was by my side; and at night, as I was in a separate room, she never failed to visit me frequently, that she might convince herself of the progress of my recovery: her whole care appeared devoted to me, and all her anxiety to anticipate my every want; it seemed as though her whole life depended solely on mine. You may suppose that I was not insensible to all this show of tenderness, and I was never weary of expressing to her my gratitude for her attentions. However, Signor Mendoza, they were not so sincere as I imagined. "My health was beginning to improve, when, one night, my valet-de-chambre came to awaken me. 'Signor,' said he, with emotion, 'I am sorry to disturb your repose; but I am too much interested in your honour to conceal from you what is at this moment passing beneath your roof. The Duke of Naxera is with my mistress.' "I was so astounded by this information, that I looked for some time at my servant without being able to speak; and the more I thought of what he told me, the more difficulty I found in believing it. 'No! Fabio,' at last I said to him; 'no, it is impossible that my wife can be capable of such infamy! You must be mistaken.' 'Signor,' replied Fabio; 'would to Heaven that I could think so! But my eyes are not easily deceived. Ever since you have been ill, I have suspected that the duke was introduced almost nightly into my lady's apartment. This evening, I concealed myself, to confirm or dispel my suspicions; and I have but too good reason to know that they were not unfounded.' [Illustration: Fabio awakens his master] "I hesitated no longer; but arose, and putting on my dressing gown, armed myself with my sword, and went in a perfect phrenzy towards my wife's chamber, Fabio following with a light. As we entered the room, the alarmed duke, who was sitting on the bed, rose, and taking a pistol from his girdle, aimed at me and fired; but thanks to his confusion, he missed me. I rushed on him, and in a moment thrust my sword into his heart. Then turning to my wife, who was already more dead than alive: 'and you!' said I, 'infamous wretch, receive the reward of your perfidy.' And so saying, I plunged my sword, still reeking with the blood of her paramour, into her bosom. [Illustration: The Toledan prepares to kill his wife] "I am sensible of the crime my fury induced me to commit; and I acknowledge, Signor Don Fabricio, that a faithless spouse may be sufficiently punished without taking her life; but where is the man who, under such excitement, could have preserved the cool temperament of the judge? Picture to yourself this perfidious woman attending me in sickness; imagine if you can, all that display of affection which she lavished upon me; think of all the circumstances,--of the enormity of her deception, and then say if her death weighs heavily against a husband animated with rage, to whom all this comes suddenly as lightning from the cloud. "My tragical history is finished in a few words. My vengeance thus fully satiated, I dressed hastily, certain that I had no time to lose; for I knew well that the duke's relations would search for me in every corner of Spain, and that, as the power of my own family would be but as a feather in the scale to turn their wrath, there was no safety for me but in a foreign country. I therefore chose two of my best horses, and taking with me all the jewels and money I possessed, I left my house before daybreak, followed by the servant of whose fidelity I had recently been so well assured, and took the road to Valencia with the intention of sailing in the first vessel which should steer for Italy. It thus happened that, passing yesterday near the wood in which you were, I met Donna Theodora, and, at her entreaty, followed to assist in separating yourself and Don Alvaro." When the Toledan had ended this narrative, Don Fabricio said to him: "Signor Don Juan, you have justly avenged yourself on the Duke de Naxera. Be not alarmed as to anything his relations can do; you shall stay, if you please, with me, until an opportunity offers for your passage into Italy. My uncle is governor of Valencia; you will therefore be more secure from danger here than elsewhere, and you will remain with one who would be united with you henceforth in bonds of strictest friendship." Zarata replied to Mendoza in terms which expressed his grateful sense of the former's kindness, and at once accepted the proffered asylum. "And now it is, Signor Don Cleophas," continued Asmodeus, "that I shall exhibit to you the power of sympathy: such was the inclination which drew these two young cavaliers towards each other, that, in a few days, there existed between them a friendship not surpassed by that of Orestes and Pylades. With dispositions alike formed for virtue, they possessed a similarity of tastes which was certain to render that which pleased Don Fabricio equally agreeable to Don Juan--their characters were identical; in short, they were formed for each other. Don Fabricio, especially, was charmed with the deportment of his new friend; and lost no opportunity of endeavouring to exalt him in the estimation of the Donna Theodora. "This lady now received them frequently at her house; but, though her doors were open at the bidding of Mendoza, her heart was still inaccessible to his attentions. Mortified to find his love thus slighted, he could not forbear complaining of her indifference to his friend, who endeavoured to console him with the assurance that the most insensible of women might be won to feeling at the last, and that nothing was wanting to lovers but patience to await for the favourable moment: he bade him then to keep up his courage, and to hope that, sooner or later, his mistress would yield to his assiduity and affection. This advice, though philosophical enough, was insufficient to assure the timid Mendoza, who began to despair of success with the widow of Cifuentes; and the anxiety of suspense so preyed upon his spirits, that Don Juan could not behold him without feelings of compassion. Alas! poor Don Juan was himself ere long more to be pitied than his friend. "Whatever reason the Toledan had to be disgusted with the sex, after the abominable treachery he had met with, he could not long look upon the Donna Theodora without loving her. Far, however, from yielding to a passion which he felt to be an injury to Mendoza, he struggled with all his might to vanquish it; and convinced that this was only to be accomplished by flying from the bright eyes which had kindled the flame, he wisely resolved to shun the lady who possessed them. Consequently whenever Don Fabricio asked his company to his mistress's house, he managed to find some pretext to excuse himself from going with him. "On the other hand, Mendoza never went to see the Donna Theodora, but she asked him why he no longer was accompanied by Don Juan. One day, when, for the hundredth time she put this question to her lover, the latter answered, smiling, that his friend had his reasons for absenting himself. 'And what reasons, then, can he have for flying me?' said Donna Theodora. 'Why, madam,' replied Mendoza; 'yesterday, when I pressed him, as usual, to come with me, and expressed some surprise at his refusal to do so, he confided to me a secret, which I must reveal in order to justify him in your eyes. He told me that he had formed a liaison in Valencia; and, that as he had not long to stay in this town, every moment was precious to him.' "'I cannot exactly admit the validity of his excuse,' replied the widow of Cifuentes, blushing; 'it is not permitted to lovers that they should abandon their friends.' Don Fabricio, who observed the colour which tinged the cheeks of the Donna Theodora, thought that self-love alone had caused the blush, and that, like all pretty women, she could not bear to be neglected, even by a person who was indifferent to her. He was, however, deceived. A deeper feeling than wounded vanity inspired the emotion she displayed. She loved: but for fear that Mendoza should discover her sentiments, she changed the subject, and, during the conversation that followed, affected a gaiety which would have deceived him, had he not already deceived himself. "As soon as Donna Theodora was alone, she abandoned herself to reflection. Then, for the first time, she felt all the strength of the attachment she had conceived for Don Juan; and, little thinking how deeply that feeling was shared by its object,--'Oh Love!' she cried: 'cruel and unjust art thou, who delightest to kindle passion in the hearts of those who care not for each other! I love not Don Fabricio, and he adores me; I languish for Don Juan, and his heart is possessed by another. Ah! Mendoza, reproach me not with my indifference for thee; thy friend has indeed avenged thee.' "As she spoke, grief filled her eyes with tears, and jealousy possessed her breast; but Hope, who loves to soothe the sorrows of despairing lovers, took refuge in her mind, and filled it with bright images of joys to come. It suggested to her that her rival could not be very formidable, and that Don Juan was less the captive of her charms than the object of her favours, and that the ties which bound them could not therefore be difficult to break. She resolved, however, to judge for herself, and at once to see the Toledan. With this view she sent word that she wished to speak with him: he came; and, when they were alone, she thus addressed him: "'I could never have believed that love could make a gallant man forgetful of his duties to a lady; nevertheless, Don Juan, since it has possessed you, you have become a stranger to my house. I think I have a right to upbraid you for this neglect; I am unwilling, however, to believe that you have yourself resolved to shun me, and will suppose that your mistress has forbidden your coming here. Tell me, Don Juan, that it is so, and I will excuse you. I know a lover is not master of his will, and that he dares not disobey the woman to whom he has resigned it.' "'Madam,' replied the Toledan, 'I confess that my conduct may reasonably surprise you; but, in pity, ask me not to justify myself: content yourself with hearing from my lips that I shun you not without good cause.' 'Whatever may be that cause,' interrupted Donna Theodora, visibly affected, 'I request you will not conceal it.' 'Well, madam,' replied Don Juan, 'you shall be obeyed; but be not angry if you learn from me more than you would wish to know. "'Don Fabricio,' he continued, 'has doubtless related to you the adventure which compelled me to quit Castile. In flying from Toledo, my heart filled with hatred against womankind, I bade defiance to the sex ever to touch that heart again. With this disposition, I approached Valencia; I met you, and, what perhaps none have ever sustained before, I met your eyes without yielding to their influence. I saw you again and again with impunity; but, alas! dearly I have paid for my pride of heart. You have conquered! Your beauty, your mind,--all your charms were turned against a rebel to your sway; in a word, I feel for you now all the love that you were formed by nature to inspire. "'This, madam, is what has driven me from your sight. The mistress, to whom they told you I was devoted, exists but in the imagination of Mendoza; and it was to prevent in him a suspicion of the truth, which my constant refusals to accompany him here might have engendered, that I conjured her into life.' "This confession, unexpected as it was by Donna Theodora, could not fail to fill her bosom with delight, nor could she conceal it from the Toledan. It is true she took no great pains to do so, and that, instead of regarding him with indignation for his presumption, her eyes beamed with tenderness as she said: 'You have revealed to me your secret, Don Juan; it is fair that I should discover mine to you: Listen! "'Regardless of the overtures of Alvaro Ponza, and little affected by the addresses of Mendoza, I lived in tranquil joy, when chance brought you to the wood where we met. Agitated as I was by the scene which then was passing, I was nevertheless struck by the gentle and respectful manner in which you offered me your services; and the frankness and courage which you displayed in separating the two furious rivals for my love inspired me with the most favourable opinion of your character. The means by which you proposed to terminate their disputes, indeed, displeased me, and it was with repugnance that I resolved to choose between the combatants; but, I believe I must not disguise from you, that yourself in great part contributed to increase the difficulty of my decision. At the moment when, compelled by necessity, my tongue proclaimed the name of Don Fabricio, I felt that my heart had already declared in favour of the unknown. From that day, which, after what you have just avowed, I may call a happy one, your virtues have constantly augmented the esteem you then inspired. "'Why should I affect to hide these feelings from you? I confess them with no greater candour than I told Mendoza that I loved him not. A woman whose misfortune is to love a being whom she may not hope to wed, may bury in her heart the passion which consumes it; but when her bosom's lord is one who nourishes an equal tenderness for her, silence were weakness, and dissimulation shame. Yes, I am indeed happy that your love is mine, and I render thanks to Heaven which I trust has destined us for each other.' "Having thus spoken, the lady waited for Don Juan's answer, and to give him an opportunity of expressing all the gratitude which she naturally thought the declaration she had made must inspire; but her lover, instead of appearing enchanted by the confession he had just listened to, remained sad and thoughtful. "'What means this silence?' she at length exclaimed. 'What! when for you, Zarata, I forget my sex's pride; and, what another would have deemed a fate to envy, show you a heart all filled with love for you,--can you repel the bliss which such a heart bestows;--be coldly silent to its fond disclosure, and look with grief when all things promise joy? Alas! Don Juan, my kindness for you has a strange effect, indeed.' "'And what other, madam, can it have upon a heart like mine?' replied the Toledan, mournfully. 'The greater kindness you avow for me, the greater is the misery I suffer. You are not ignorant of all I owe to Don Fabricio; you know the tender friendship which unites us: can I then build my happiness upon the ruins of his dearest hopes?' 'You are too scrupulous,' resumed the Donna Theodora: 'I have promised to Mendoza nothing. I can bestow my love, nor merit his reproaches; and you may well accept it, nor yet do him a wrong. I acknowledge that the sorrows of your friend may cause you some unhappiness; but, Don Juan, can that o'erbalance in your mind the destiny which waits you?' "'Yes, madam,' replied the Toledan, with respectful firmness; 'a friend like Don Fabricio has greater weight with me than you can well imagine. Could you possibly conceive the tenderness, the strength of that feeling which binds us to each other, you would pity me indeed. Mendoza has no secrets now with me; my interests have become his own; the slightest matter which concerns myself commands his strict regard: in a word, madam, I share his soul with you. "'Ah! if you wished me to profit by your kindness, you should have disclosed it ere those ties were formed which bind me now to him. Delighted to have won your affections, I should then have seen in Don Fabricio but a rival; and my heart, steeled against the friendship which he offered to me, would have escaped its bonds; I should then have been free from all obligation towards him: but, madam, it is now too late. I have received all the services it was in his power to render me; I have indulged all the feelings which those services induced; gratitude and esteem now unite to reduce me to the cruel necessity of renouncing the inestimable prize you present for my acceptance.' "While the Toledan was speaking thus, tears fell fast from the eyes of Donna Theodora; and, as he concluded, she hid her face in her handkerchief to conceal her distress. Don Juan was of course affected; his constancy began to evaporate, and he felt that his stay was dangerous. 'Adieu, madam,' he continued, while sighs impeded his utterance,--'adieu! I must fly to preserve my honour; your tears overcome me--all else I could withstand. I leave you for ever; and go, far hence, to deplore the loss of that happiness which my friendship for Don Fabricio inexorably demands as a sacrifice.' And as he finished, he hastily retired, with as much resolution as just enabled him to do so. [Illustration: the Toledan bids farewell to Donna Theodora] "After his departure, the widow of Cifuentes was distracted by a thousand conflicting emotions. She felt ashamed at having declared her love to a man whom its bright temptation had not won; but, unable to doubt his affection for her person, and assured that his refusal of her hand originated in no other feeling than an unexampled constancy for his friend, she was sufficiently reasonable to admire so rare an instance of virtue. Nevertheless, as it is in the nature of men, and more particularly in the nature of women, to feel annoyed when all things do not happen as they wish, she resolved to go into the country on the morrow, in order to dissipate her grief, or rather to augment it; for Solitude is nurse to Love, and strengthens the young passion while he strives to hush its cries. "Meanwhile, Don Juan, not finding Mendoza on his return, shut himself in his own apartment, and gave way to the affliction he had restrained during his interview with Donna Theodora; for, after what he had sacrificed to friendship, he felt himself at liberty to indulge in grief for its loss. It was not long, however, before Mendoza came to break on his retirement, and judging by his friend's appearance that he was ill, he displayed so much uneasiness that Don Juan was obliged to plead a want of rest, in order to account for his altered looks. Mendoza left him to repose; but he went out with so much grief depicted on his countenance, that the Toledan was still more afflicted by his sympathy. 'Oh Heaven!' he exclaimed, 'why is it that the most tender friendship should bring to me nothing but misfortune?' "On the following day, Don Fabricio was yet in bed, when they came to inform him that Donna Theodora had set out, with all her establishment, for her seat at Villareal, and that it was unlikely she would shortly return to Valencia. This information caused him less inquietude on account of his severance from the object of his devotion, than because a mystery had been made to him of her departure. Without being able to determine on its cause, a gloomy presentiment pervaded his mind as to its effect on his happiness. "He instantly arose, that he might seek his friend, as much to converse with him on the subject which occupied his mind, as to inquire the state of Zarata's health; but, before he had completed his toilet, Don Juan entered his room, saying: 'I come to dissipate whatever apprehension you may entertain for me; I feel myself again restored to health.' 'The good news you tell me,' replied Mendoza, 'consoles me somewhat for the unwelcome intelligence I have just received.' 'Ah! what is that?' asked the Toledan anxiously. 'Why,' replied Don Fabricio, after having dismissed his attendants, 'Donna Theodora has gone this morning into the country, where they expect she will remain for some time. This sudden resolution astonishes me. Why has it been concealed? What think you, Don Juan? Have I not cause to be alarmed?' "Zarata took good care not to communicate his real thoughts upon the subject, but endeavoured to persuade Mendoza that Donna Theodora might change her residence without giving him any reason for alarm. Don Fabricio, however, unconvinced by the arguments of his friend, interrupted him, saying: 'That is all very well, Zarata; but you cannot remove my fears of having imprudently done or said something which has displeased the Donna Theodora; and it is to punish my indiscretion that she leaves me without deigning even to inform me of my fault. "'I will not, however, remain in uncertainty. Let us hasten, Don Juan, to follow her; I will at once order our horses.' 'I would advise you,' said the Toledan, 'to seek her alone; if it be as you think, witnesses are worse than needless.' 'Don Juan cannot be unwelcome,' replied Mendoza; 'Donna Theodora is aware that you know all that passes in my heart: she esteems you; and far from being in my way, you will assist me to appease her anger against me.' "'No, no, Fabricio,' replied the Toledan, 'my presence will avail you nothing. Take my advice, and go alone, I conjure you!' 'Again no, my dear Don Juan,' interrupted Mendoza, 'we will go together; I expect this kindness of your friendship.' 'What tyranny! exclaimed the Toledan, with evident vexation; 'why ask you of my friendship what that very feeling should deny you most?' "These words, which Don Fabricio could not comprehend, and the tone in which they were uttered, surprised him greatly. He looked at his friend for some time without speaking. At last, he said to him gravely: 'Don Juan, what mean you? What horrible suspicion breaks upon my mind? Ah! it is too much, to wound me by your terrible constraint! Speak! Whence arises this unwillingness to accompany me to Donna Theodora?' "'I would have concealed it from you,' replied the Toledan, 'but, since you compel me to disclose the truth, I will dissimulate no longer. Let us, my dear Mendoza, no more rejoice in the similarity of our dispositions; it is but too perfect: the shafts which wounded you, have neither spared your friend. Donna Theodora----' 'What! you my rival?' interrupted Don Fabricio, turning pale as death. 'From the instant that my love for the widow of Cifuentes became apparent to myself,' replied Don Juan, 'I strove to stifle the passion. I have, as you know, sedulously avoided her sight: I at least triumphed over my feelings, if I could not destroy them. "'Yesterday, however, Donna Theodora sent word that she desired to see me. I went to her; when she asked me why I seemed to shun her. I endeavoured to excuse myself as well as I was able; but, as my excuses did not satisfy her, I was compelled at last to avow the real cause of my absence. I imagined that, after this declaration, she would have approved the motives of my apparent neglect; but my unlucky star had decreed--shall I tell you? yes, Mendoza, it is useless attempting to deceive you,--I found Theodora disposed to favour my love.' "Although Don Fabricio was one of the mildest and most reasonable of men, yet, at this confession, he was seized with a fury beyond his control; and, again interrupting his friend, he exclaimed: 'Hold! Don Juan, plunge at once your dagger in my breast; but continue not this fatal recital. What! not contented with avowing your passion for her whom I adore, must you tell me too that your love is returned? By Heaven! this is a strange confidence you dare to venture on with me. You put our friendship to a test indeed. But what say I! our friendship? You have broken it, in nourishing the traitorous feelings you have just imparted. "'Oh! how have I been deceived! I thought you generous even to excess, and find you basely false; stooping to win the heart of her whose love were insult to your friend. This is indeed an unexpected blow; and falls with double weight since coming from the hand ...' 'Do me more justice,' in his turn interrupted the Toledan; 'reflect with patience ere you speak: I am not the traitor which you deem me. Hear me. You will repent the injuries you heap upon your friend.' "Don Juan then related all that had passed between the widow of Cifuentes and himself, the tender confession she had made to him of love, and all the arguments she used to win him to indulge his own. He repeated to him then his firm reply; and, as he spoke of the determination he displayed, the wrath of Don Fabricio yielded by degrees. 'In short,' added Don Juan, 'friendship conquered love; and I rejected that of Donna Theodora, despite her tears. But, Gods, those tears! what trouble filled my soul at sight of them! I cannot recollect them now without trembling at the danger I encountered. I began to feel myself relent; and, for a few moments, Mendoza, my heart indeed betrayed you. I did not, however, yield to my weakness, but escaped those dangerous tears by hasty flight. Still it is not enough to have gone safely through the past,--the future must be feared. I shall therefore hasten my departure from Valencia; I will no more behold the lovely Theodora. And now, will Don Fabricio accuse his friend of ingratitude and perfidy?' "'No!' replied Mendoza, embracing the Toledan; 'my eyes are opened, and I find him faithful as my heart could wish. Pardon those unjust reproaches to a jealous lover, who in a moment finds himself deprived of all his hopes. Alas! should I have expected that the Donna Theodora could have long beheld you, and have failed to love?--that she could resist the influence of those attractions which at once so drew you to myself? No! and I embrace my friend again. I attribute my misfortunes but to destiny; and, far from feeling hatred to yourself, my affection is increased by your noble conduct. What! can you renounce for me possession of the lovely Theodora,--can you yield for friendship's sake so great a prize, and shall I be insensible of the sacrifice? Can you conquer the passion which consumes you, and shall I make no endeavour so to vanquish mine? No! I will not be outdone in generosity of soul. Obey, Don Juan, the dictate of your heart; espouse the object of our mutual affections; my heart may groan in secret if it will; be it so! Mendoza intreats you to consult your own.' "'In vain do you intreat me,' replied Zarata: 'I love her but too dearly, as I have told you; but, Mendoza, your happiness shall never be the price of mine.' 'And the happiness of Donna Theodora,' said Don Fabricio, 'shall that then count for nothing? Let not false delicacy weigh with us now: her passion for yourself has ended all my hopes. What though, for me, you shunned those fatal eyes, to lead in distant lands a life of woe,--what would it serve me now? She loves me not, and never will; Heaven reserved that bliss for you alone. From the moment that she saw you, her heart declared for you; nature prompted the emotion: in a word, you alone can render her happy. Receive then the heart she offers with her hand; crown her desires and your own; leave me to my fate; and make not three persons miserable, when the wretchedness of one alone is all that destiny requires.'" Asmodeus was here obliged to suspend his narration, and listen to the Student, who said to him: "Well, all that you tell me is sufficiently surprising; but are there really such amiable people upon earth? I never met within this nether world but friends who strive, not for such mistresses as you depict the Donna Theodora, but for the arrantest coquettes. What! a lover to renounce the being he adores, by whom his love is shared, and all lest he should render some poor friend unhappy? That may do well for some romancer's pen, which fain would picture men the creatures they should be, for fear of telling them the things they are." "I own, with you," Asmodeus replied, "the virtue that I tell you of is rare; but still, my dear Cleophas, it exists; not in romances only, but in the principles of man's own nature. It is true that, since the deluge, I have seen but two examples of the like, and this is one; but, let us return to our history. "The two friends continued still their amicable strife, and, as each was still unwilling to yield the palm of generosity to the other, their amorous sentiments remained suspended, during several days. They ceased to talk of Donna Theodora, each seemed afraid to breathe her very name; but, while Friendship triumphed over Love in the city of Valencia, Love, as though he would revenge the insult offered to his power, reigned with tyranny without its walls, and was there obeyed without scruple. "Donna Theodora was all this time in the solitude of Villareal, which was not far distant from the sea. There, abandoning herself to her passion for Don Juan, she dreamt of its reward; and nuptial visions floated in her mind, despite the friendship the Toledan had recently displayed for Don Fabricio, his too much loved rival. "One day, while the glorious splendour of the setting sun chained her to the margin of its bed, she perceived a boat which made towards the shore. As it approached, she saw that it contained seven or eight men, whose aspect was far from prepossessing; and as they came still nearer, she observed that their faces were covered with masks, and that they were armed. "Trembling with fear, for it was not easy to divine any good object for this unlooked-for descent, she turned hastily towards her home. Looking from time to time behind her as she fled, she saw them land; and, as they instantly appeared to be endeavouring to overtake her, she began to run with all her might. But as she was not as swift of foot as Atalanta, and as the masks were light and fleet, they came up with her, just as she had reached the entrance of her grounds, and seized her. [Illustration: Donna Theodora carried off by the masked men] "The shrieks of the Donna Theodora, and a girl who accompanied her, were loud enough however to attract the attention of some servants without the house; and these giving the alarm to those within, the whole establishment, to a man, turned out armed with clubs and pitchforks. But in the meantime, two of the most robust among the masqueraders had taken the lady and her damsel in their arms, and bore them towards the boat, while the remainder remained to give battle to the domestics, who, albeit not paid for fighting, did their utmost. The combat was long, but swords carried the day against pitchforks, and the gentlemen in dominoes were fast regaining the vessel to join their prize. It was time indeed they did so; for ere their embarkation was completed, four or five cavaliers were to be distinguished on the road from Valencia, riding at their topmost speed, and apparently anxious to be in time for the rescue of the Donna Theodora. The ravishers saw them; and made such good haste to get out to sea, that the cavaliers arrived too late to attain the accomplishment of their object. [Illustration: the masked men rowing away] "These cavaliers were Don Fabricio and Don Juan. Mendoza had received a letter, only a few hours before, informing him, on good authority, that Don Alvaro was in the island of Majorca; that he had equipped a sort of sloop, and that with some twenty scoundrels who had nothing to lose, he intended to carry off the widow of Cifuentes on the first occasion of her visiting her seat at Villareal. On this, the Toledan and himself, with their personal attendants, had set out immediately from Valencia, in order to inform Donna Theodora of the projected attempt. They had, unfortunately, arrived just in time to discern on the sea-shore a number of persons who appeared to be engaged in mortal strife; and, suspecting that it might be as they feared, had hastened with all expedition to oppose the infamous design of Don Alvaro. But, with all their haste, they arrived but to witness the abduction they had especially come to prevent. "In the meanwhile, Alvaro Ponza, joyful at his success, was hurrying from the coast with his prey, and was observed to join a small armed vessel which was awaiting him in the distance. Words cannot convey an idea of the grief of the two friends; the air rang with imprecations against Don Alvaro: their grief and rage, however, were alike unavailing. The domestics of the Donna Theodora, excited by so laudable an example, were not sparing of their lamentations; the shore resounded with cries: fury, desolation, and despair reigned where all before had been tranquil joy, or the sweet grief of love. The rape of the beauteous Helen herself did not excite at the court of Sparta an equal consternation." CHAPTER XIV. THE SQUABBLE BETWEEN THE TRAGIC POET AND THE COMIC AUTHOR. Leandro Perez, at this point of the narrative, could not help again interrupting the Devil: "Signor Asmodeus," said he, "I really cannot control my curiosity to know the meaning of something which attracts my attention, in spite of the pleasure I receive in listening to you. I see, in a room near us, two men fighting in their shirts, and several others in their dressing-gowns who are hastening to part them: tell me, I pray you, what it is all about." The Demon, ever ready to please the Student, without further pressing replied as follows: "The persons whom you behold in their shirts, or so much of them as is left in the struggle, are two French authors; and the mediators in the strife are two Germans, a Fleming, and an Italian. They all lodge in that same house, which is a sort of lodging-house devoted exclusively to foreigners. One of these authors writes tragedies, and the other comedies. The former, disgusted for some reason or other with his own country, has come to Spain; and the latter also, discontented with his prospects in Paris, has performed the same journey, in the hope of finding in Madrid a better fortune. "The tragic poet is vain and presumptuous, having obtained, despite the opinions of those whose breath should be fame, a tolerable reputation in his own country. To keep his Pegasus in wind, he rides it daily; and not being able to sleep this night, he commenced a piece, the subject of which is taken from the Iliad. He has finished one scene; and as his smallest fault is that, so common to his brethren, of cramming into other people's throats the trash which he has ejected, he rose from his table, where he was writing in his shirt, took a candle, and, as he was, went to rouse the comic author, who, making a better use of his time, was sleeping profoundly. "The latter, awakened by the noise made at his door, went to open it to the other, who, with the air of one possessed, entered the room exclaiming: 'Down on your knees, my friend; down, and worship a genius whom Melpomene inspires. I have given birth to poetry--: but, what do I say?--I have done it! Apollo himself dictated the verses to me. Were I at Paris, I should go from house to house to read the precious lines; I only wait for day that I may charm with them our talented ambassador, and every other Frenchman who has the luck to be within Madrid; but, before I shew them to a soul, I come to recite them to you.' [Illustration: the tragic poet at the comic author's door] "'I am much obliged by the preference,' replied the comic author, yawning with all his might; 'it is rather unlucky though, that you did not choose a better time. I went to bed extremely late,--can hardly keep my eyes unclosed,--and I will not answer for hearing all the verses you have to read to me, without tumbling to sleep again.' 'Oh! I will answer for that myself,' interrupted the tragic poet. 'Were you dead, the scene that I have just composed would recall you to life again. In my writings, there are none of your namby-pamby sentiments,--none of your common-place expressions, sustained alone by rhyme: masculine thoughts, and easy versification, move the heart and strike upon the mind. I am none of those wretched poetasters, whose pitiable creations glide upon the stage like shadows, and like them depart;--which go to Utica to amuse the Africans. My compositions, worthy to be consecrated with my statue in the library of Apollo Palatinus, draw crowds after thirty representations. But come,' added this modest poet, 'you shall hear the verses of which I wish to offer you the first incense. [Illustration: Phoenix assists Achilles's captives] "'This is my tragedy, THE DEATH OF PATROCLUS. Scene the first, Brisëis and the other captives of Achilles appear. They tear their hair and beat their breasts, to express the grief with which they are filled by the death of Patroclus. Unable even to support themselves, utterly prostrated by despair, they fall upon the stage. This, you will say, is a little daring; but that is exactly what I aim at. Let the small fry who swim in the waters of Helicon keep within the narrow bounds of imitation, without daring to o'erleap them; it is well, there is prudence in their timidity: but for me, I love invention; and I hold that, to move and overcome your spectators, you must present to their minds images which they could never have expected. "'The captives, then, are lying on the earth. Phoenix, governor of Achilles, is with them. He assists them to rise, one after another; and, having placed them on their feet, he commences the argument of the drama in these lines:-- Hector shall fall; and Troy itself be spread In ruins, to avenge Patroclus dead. Proud Agamemnon, Camelus the grave, Nestor the wise, and Eumelus the brave, Leontes, skilled to hurl the spear along, Smooth-tongued Ulysses, Diomed the strong, Arm with Achilles. Lo! that hero drives Tow'rds Ilium's gates--appalling Ilium's wives-- His steeds immortal, urged across the plain So swift, the eye toils after them with pain. But still he cries: Dear Xanthus, Balius, fly! And when around ten thousand corses lie, When pallid Trojans scamper off like fillies, Regain your camp, but not without Achilles. Xanthus replies, bowing his head: You may Be sure, Achilles, we'll your will obey; But, while our pace with your impatience strives, Know that to you the fatal hour arrives-- The ox-eyed Juno thus the steed enlightening,-- And now the car moves with a speed quite frightening. The Greeks, beholding, utter cries of joy, So loud, they shake the very walls of Troy. Achilles, armed by Vulcan for the war, Appears more brilliant than the morning star; Or like the sun, when, in its bright career, It bursts on earth, dispelling night and fear; Or brilliant as the fires on mountains lighted, To guide poor swains, bewilder'd or benighted.[8] [8] Priam va perdre Hector et sa superbe ville; Les Grecs veulent venger le compagnon d'Achille, Le fier Agamemnon, le divin Camélus, Nestor, pareil aux dieux, le vaillant Eumélus, Léonte, de la pique adroit à l'exercice, Le nerveux Diomède, et l'éloquent Ulysse. Achille s'y prépare, et déjà ce héros Pousse vers Ilium ses immortels chevaux; Pour arriver plus tôt où sa fureur l'entraîne, Quoique l'oeil qui les voit ne les suive qu'à peine, Il leur dit: Chers Xanthus, Balius, avancez; Et lorsque vous serez du carnage lassés, Quand les Troyens fuyant rentreront dans leur ville, Regagnez notre camp, mais non pas sans Achille. Xanthus baisse la tête, et répond par ces mots: Achille, vous serez content de vos chevaux, Ils vont aller au gré de votre impatience; Mais de votre trépas l'instant fatal s'avance. Junon aux yeux de boeuf ainsi le fait parler, Et d'Achille aussitôt le char semble voler. Les Grecs, en le voynt, de mille cris de joie Soudain font retentir le rivage de Troie. Ce prince, revêtu des armes de Vulcain, Paraît plus éclatant que l'astre du matin, Ou tel que le soleil, commençant sa carrière, S'élève pour donner au monde la lumière; Ou brillant comme un feu que les villageois font Pendant l'obscure nuit sur le sommet du mont. "'I stop,' continued the tragic poet, 'to let you breathe a moment; for if I were to recite to you the whole of my scene at once, the beauty of my versification, and the great number of brilliant passages and sublime ideas that it contains, would smother you to a certainty. But remark the aptness of this comparison,-- Or brilliant as the fires on mountains lighted, To guide poor swains bewilder'd or benighted. "'It is not all the world who could appreciate that; but you, who have mind, and a clearness of perception,--you must be enchanted with it.' 'I am so, doubtless,' replied the comic author, smiling contemptuously; 'nothing can be more beautiful; and I am persuaded you will not fail to describe, in your tragedy, the care taken by Thetis to drive away the Trojan flies which approach the body of Patroclus.' 'You may spare your jests as to that,' replied the tragic poet;--'an author who has talent may venture everything. The very incident you mention is perhaps the one most capable of being rendered into heroic verse; and I shall not lose the opportunity, you may depend upon it. "'All my works,' he continued complacently, 'bear the impress of genius; so that when I read them it would delight you to witness the applause they elicit: I am compelled to stop after every verse, to receive its laudatory tribute. I remember that one day, at Paris, I was reading a tragedy in the house of a wealthy patron of literature, in which all the wits of the capital generally assemble about dinner-time, and in which I may say, without vanity, that I do not pass for a Pradon. The dowager countess of Vieille-Brune was there, a lady of exquisite taste--I am her favourite poet. Well, at the first scene, the hot tears ran down her cheeks; during the reading of my second act, she was obliged to change her handkerchief; her sobs were beyond her control in the third; at the end of the fourth she was nearly in hysterics; and I expected, at the catastrophe, that she would have absolutely died with the hero of my piece.' "At these words, although the comic author endeavoured strenuously to preserve his gravity, a burst of laughter escaped him. 'Ah!' he exclaimed, 'how well do I recognize her ladyship by your description! The good countess is one who cannot endure comedy: so strong is her aversion for the merry muse, that she hurries from her box after the dagger or the bowl has done its work, that she may not lose an atom of her mimic grief. Tragedy is her pet passion; and be it good or bad, so long as it presents unhappy love, so surely may you bid her tears to flow. Honestly, did I pretend to the heroics, I should wish for other admirers than the countess.' "'Oh! as to that, I have others too,' replied the tragic poet. 'I am the approved of thousands, male and female, of the highest rank----' 'I should also mistrust the suffrages of the quality,' interrupted the comic author; 'I should have no great confidence in their judgment: I will tell you why. Auditors of this description are, for the most part, too much occupied with themselves to pay great attention to the reading of a poem; or are caught for the moment by high-sounding verse, or the feeble delicacy of some sickly sentiment. Either is sufficient to induce their praise of an author's labours, whatever else of better they may lack. On the contrary, let but a line rustle their gentle ears too harshly, and it is enough that they exclaim against the piece, however good.' "'Well!' resumed the lachrymose inditer, 'since you would have me suspicious of this tribunal, I rely on the applauses of the pit.' 'Bah! talk not to me of your pit,' replied the other; 'its judgment is guided by caprice. Stupidly won by the novelty of a first representation, it will be for months enraptured by a wretched piece. It is true that in the end it discovers its folly; and, then, it never forgives an author for having received from it an undeserved renown, or cheated it into mercy.' "'That is a misfortune for which I have nothing to fear,' said the tragic poet; 'my pieces are reprinted as often as they are played. This, now, never occurs with comedies; printing exhibits their feebleness. Comedies being but trifles,--the lighter productions of mind....' 'Softly! my tragic friend; softly!' interrupted the other: 'you are getting somewhat warm. Speak, I beg of you, of comedy with less irreverence to me. Do you think, now, a comic piece less difficult to write than tragedy? Undeceive yourself! It is far less easy to make good men laugh, than it is to make them weep. Learn that a subject drawn from ordinary life requires talent of as high an order as do the stilted heroes of antiquity.' "'I'faith,' cried the tragic poet with an air of raillery, 'I am delighted to hear you so express yourself.' 'Well! monsieur Calidas, to avoid disputation, I agree henceforth to as greatly admire your productions as I have heretofore despised them.' 'I care little for your contempt, monsieur Giblet,' hastily replied the comic author; 'and in return for your insolence, I will plainly tell you my opinion of the rubbish you have just been inflicting on me: your verse is a mixture of bombast and absurdity, and the ideas, although borrowed from Homer, have, in passing through your brain, become tinctured with its vulgarity. Achilles talks to his horses, and his horses reply to him; what nonsense! It is a pity they were not asses, for then you could have put into their mouths with propriety your splendid comparison of the village bonfire on the top of a mountain. It is doing no honour to the ancients to pillage them after this fashion: their works are undoubtedly filled with beauties; but it requires greater taste than you possess to make of them a fitting use, or to enable you to borrow from them to advantage.' "'Since you have not sufficient elevation of soul,' retorted Giblet, 'to appreciate the merits of my poetry, and to punish you for having dared to criticise my scene, I will not read to you the remainder.' 'What, I wonder, have I done, that I should have been punished by being compelled to listen to the beginning?' replied Calidas. 'It well becomes you indeed to despise my comedies! Learn that the very worst that I could write will be clever compared with anything that you can compose, and that it is much easier to inflate the cheeks with hollow sentiments and sounding words, than it is to enlighten the mind by pointed wit or a delicate irony.' "'Thank Heaven!' exclaimed the tragic poet, with an awful expression of disdain, 'if in its rigour it denies me your esteem, I may easily console myself for my misfortune. The court, however, thinks more favourably of my tragedies; and the pension with which in its grace it has been pleased----' 'Pshaw! think not to dazzle me with your pensions,' interrupted Calidas; 'I know too well how they may be obtained to esteem your works the more for that. And to prove to you your folly, in thinking more highly of yourself than of comic authors, and that it is easier to compose serious dramas than comic pieces, I am resolved if I return to France, and do not succeed in my own line, that I will descend to making tragedies.' "'For a scribbler of farces,' said the tragic poet, 'you are not over modest.' 'For a versifier who only owes his reputation to borrowed plumes,' replied the comic author, 'you would fain have one think rather too highly of you.' 'You are an insolent scoundrel,' exclaimed the sombre genius. 'If I were not in your room, little monsieur Calidas, the catastrophe of this adventure should teach you to respect the buskin.' 'Let not that consideration restrain you, I entreat, lanky monsieur Giblet,' replied Calidas; 'if you wish to receive a thrashing, I would as soon give it you in my own room as elsewhere.' [Illustration: Calidas and Giblet come to blows] "Immediately, they seized each other by the throat and hair; and kicks and cuffs were exchanged with generous ardour. An Italian, who lay in a neighbouring chamber, having listened to the overture of this drama, and hearing the noise of the incidental combat, judged that it was quite time for the spectators to assemble when the play had begun. He rose, therefore, and out of compassion for the French authors, although Italian, he filled the house with his cries. On this the Fleming and the two Germans hastened with himself in their dressing-gowns to the theatre of strife, and the piece is, as you see, just terminating by the separation of the combatants." "This squabble is amusing enough," said Don Cleophas. "But, it would appear from what you tell me that tragic writers in France imagine themselves to be much more important personages than those who devote themselves to comedy." "Certainly!" replied Asmodeus. "The former think themselves as much exalted over the latter, as are the stately heroes of tragedies above the intriguing servants of comic pieces." "Indeed! and on what do they found this opinion of themselves?" inquired the Student. "Is it then really so much more difficult to write the one than the other?" "The question you put to me," replied the Devil, "is one which has been a hundred times debated, and is so to this day. For myself, this is my decision, with all deference to those who differ from me in opinion. I say that it is not more easy to compose a comic than a tragic piece; for if it were so, we must conclude that a tragic poet would be more capable of writing a comedy, than the best comic author; the which is not borne out by experience. According to me, then, each of these two descriptions of poem requires a genius of a different character, but of an equal capability. "It is time, however, to end this digression. I will therefore resume the thread of the history, which you so unceremoniously interrupted." CHAPTER XV. CONTINUATION, AND CONCLUSION, OF THE FORCE OF FRIENDSHIP. Success had not attended the endeavours of the servants of Donna Theodora to prevent her being carried away; but they had at least opposed it with courage, and their resistance had been fatal to some of the companions of Alvaro Ponza. Among others, whose wounds had not permitted them to follow their comrades, there was a man, stretched almost lifeless on the sand, whom they recognized as one of Alvaro's own attendants. Perceiving that he still breathed, they carried him to the house, and spared no pains to restore him to his senses. In this they at last succeeded, although the quantity of blood which had escaped from his numerous wounds had reduced his stream of life to its lowest ebb, and left him extremely weak. To induce him to speak, they promised to take every care to prolong his days, and not to deliver him into the hands of justice, provided that he would inform them of the place to which his master had designed to take the Donna Theodora. Gratified by these assurances, although the state to which he was reduced left him but small hope to profit by their realization, he rallied all his remaining strength, and, with a faltering voice, confirmed by his confession the information that Don Fabricio had received. He added, however, that Don Alvaro designed to conduct the widow of Cifuentes to Sassari, in the island of Sardinia, where he had a relation whose protection and power promised him a safe asylum. [Illustration: Alvaro's attendant is carried away] The deposition of the dying man, for he expired a few hours afterwards, raised Mendoza and the Toledan from complete despair; and as their stay at Donna Theodora's seat was now useless, they at once returned to Valencia. After debating for some time on the steps most expedient to be taken, they resolved to seek their common enemy in his chosen retreat, and in a few days embarked, without attendants, at Denia, for Port Mahon, not doubting that they would there find some means of transport to the island of Sardinia. It so happened that scarcely had they reached their destined port, when they learned that a vessel freighted for Cagliari was about to sail, and in it they immediately secured a passage. The vessel left the island of Minorca with breezes friendly to their hopes; but five or six hours after their departure there came on a calm, and night brought with it winds directly in their teeth; so that they were obliged to tack about and wait for a favourable change. Three days were thus passed in sailing without progress; when, on the fourth, about two hours after noon, they discovered a strange sail, all its canvas spread, and bearing down directly upon them. At first they took it for a merchantman, bound for the shores they steered from; but observing that it came within the range of cannon-shot without showing its colours, they began to fear it was a corsair. They were not deceived: it was a Tunisian pirate, which approached them in full expectation that the Christians would yield without a blow. As it came near enough, however, for the corsairs to discern what was passing on board of their expected prey, and to observe that the sails were reefed and the guns run out, they guessed that the affair was likely to turn out more seriously than they had expected. They therefore shortened sail, wore round, hurriedly cleared the deck, and prepared for action. A brisk exchange of shots soon commenced, and the Christians, taking advantage of the surprise which their unexpected resistance had occasioned, began to prevail over their opponent; but an Algerine pirate, larger and of heavier metal than either of the others, arriving in the middle of the action, took part with its brother of Tunis, and the Christians were thus placed between two fires. [Illustration: the slave on the bow of the Algerine pirate ship] Discouraged by this unlooked-for circumstance, and feeling that it was useless to continue the unequal strife, they gradually slackened their fire, and at last it ceased altogether. On this a slave appeared on the bow of the Algerine vessel, who hailed them in their own language, bidding them, if they hoped for mercy, to strike to Algiers. A Turk then advanced, holding in his hand a green silk flag studded with silver crescents interlacing each other, which he waved in the air. The Christians, looking upon further resistance as hopeless, gave themselves up to all the grief that the idea of slavery inspires in the breasts of freemen, until the master of the vessel, fearing that a further delay of submission would only serve to irritate their barbarian conqueror, hauled down his colours, threw himself into a boat with some of his sailors, and went to surrender to the Algerine corsair. [Illustration: surrender] The latter immediately sent a portion of his crew on board the Spanish vessel to examine, or rather to pillage it of all that it contained. The Tunisian pirate gave similar orders to some of his men, so that all the passengers it contained were in an instant disarmed and plundered, and were shortly afterwards exchanged into the Algerine vessel, when the two pirates divided their prisoners by lot. It would have been at least some consolation for Mendoza and his friend to have both fallen into the hands of the same corsair; they would have found their chains somewhat the less heavy to have borne them together; but Fortune, apparently disposed to make them feel the terrors of her caprice, allotted Don Fabricio to the pirate of Tunis, and Don Juan to his competitor of Algiers. Picture to yourself the grief of the two friends, when told that they must part. They threw themselves at the feet of the corsairs, and entreated them that they might not be separated. But their entreaties were vain; the barbarians before whom they knelt were too much accustomed to the sight of human misery not to be proof against the prayers of their present victims. On the contrary, judging by their demeanour that the two captives were men of wealth and station, and that they would consequently pay a weighty ransom, they were the more resolved to divide them. Mendoza and Zarata, perceiving that they were in the power of men with hearts insensible to all but gain, turned towards each other, their looks expressing the depth of their affliction. But when the booty had been shared, and the Tunisian pirate prepared to return to his own vessel with his proportion, and the slaves which it included, they seemed as though they would expire with despair. Mendoza rushed into the arms of the Toledan, and embracing him, exclaimed: "Must we then separate? Cruel necessity! Is it not enough that we should be borne to slavery, and unavenged? Must we even be denied to bear in union the sorrows to which we are destined? Ah! Don Juan, what have we done that Heaven should thus visit us with its terrible wrath?" "Seek not elsewhere the cause of our disgrace," replied Don Juan: "I only am to blame. The death of two unfortunates, immolated to my revenge, although excused to mortal eyes, is deep offence to Heaven; and you, my friend, are punished for the fault of loving one who took upon himself the vengeance that belongs to God alone." [Illustration: Mendoza and Zarata are separated] While they spoke thus, tears, strangers to the eyes of men, streamed down their cheeks, and sighs but choked their utterance. So touching was their grief, that those who shared their fate were yet as much affected by the sight as with their own misfortune. Not so the wretches who formed the crew of the Tunisian corsair. Perceiving that Mendoza was the last to quit the Algerine vessel, they tore him without ceremony from the arms of the Toledan; and, as they dragged him away, added blows to insult. "Adieu, dear friend," he cried: "adieu for ever! Donna Theodora is yet unavenged! and, parted from you, the miseries that these wretches prepare will be the least that slavery can bring to me." Don Juan was unable to reply to the exclamations of his friend; the treatment that he saw him endure filled his breast with a horror which deprived him of speech. And so, Signor Don Cleophas, as the course of my narrative requires that we should follow the Toledan, we will leave Don Fabricio, in solemn silence, to be conducted on board of the Tunisian pirate. The Algerine returned toward his port, where, having arrived, he conducted his slaves to the house of the superintending basha, and thence to the public market. An officer of the Dey, Mezzomorto, purchased Don Juan for his master; and the new slave was at once employed as an assistant in the gardens of the harem. This occupation, although laborious for a gentleman, was however, the less disagreeable to Don Juan, on account of the solitude to which it left him; for, situated as he was, it was a pleasure to have at least the liberty of indulging his own melancholy thoughts. Incessantly occupied with his misfortunes, his mind, far from endeavouring to lighten them with hope, seemed to delight in dwelling on the past, and to inspire his bosom with gloomiest presages for the future. [Illustration: Mezzomorto approaches Zarata in the garden] One day he was occupied with his work, murmuring the while one of his now usual songs of sorrow, when the Dey, who was walking in the garden, came upon him without being perceived, and stopped to listen. Pleased with his voice, and moved by curiosity, he approached the captive and asked his name. The Toledan replied, that he was called Alvaro; for, following the usual custom with slaves, of concealing their station, he thought fit to change his name, and, as the outrage upon Donna Theodora was ever uppermost in his thoughts, the name of the detested Alvaro had come soonest to his lips when suddenly asked his own. Mezzomorto, who spoke the Spanish language tolerably well, then questioned him as to the customs of Spain, and particularly as to the conduct observed by those of its cavaliers who would render themselves agreeable to their ladies;--to all of which Don Juan replied in such a manner as to greatly please the Dey. "Alvaro," said he to him at last, "you appear to be intelligent; and I judge you to have been a man of rank in your own country: but, however that may be, you are fortunate enough to please me, and I will honour you with my confidence." At these words, Don Juan prostrated himself before the Dey, and with well-affected humility, kissed the hem of his master's robe, and after touching with it his eyes and forehead, arose, and stood before him in silence. "To begin by giving you proof of my regard," resumed the Dey, "you know, that in my seraglio, I have some of the fairest women which Europe can offer for my pleasures. Among these, however, there is one whose beauty is beyond compare; nor do I believe that the Grand Signor himself possesses so exquisite a creature, although for him the winds of heaven daily waft ships with their lovely burden from all quarters of the globe. In her visage the dazzling sun seems reflected, and her form is graceful as the rose's stem which grows in the gardens of Eram. My soul is enchanted with her perfections. [Illustration: the unhappy beauty of the seraglio] "Alas! this miracle of nature, all beauteous as she is, maintains and nourishes the deepest grief; which neither time nor all the efforts of my love can dissipate. Although fortune has yielded her to my will, I have ever respected her grief, and controlled my desires; and unlike those who, placed as I am, seek but the momentary gratifications of sense, I fain would win her heart, and have striven to gain it by respectful attentions, such as the vilest Mussulman that lives would feel degraded to offer to the fairest Christian slave. "Still, all my cares seem but to add to her affliction; and I will not disguise that its obstinacy begins to weary me. The sense of slavery is not imprinted in the minds of others of my slaves in characters so deep, but that a look of favour from myself can soon efface or gild them; so that I may well tire of this incessant grief. Nevertheless, before I abandon myself to the passion which transports me, I would make one last endeavour to touch her insensible heart; and I will leave this task to you. As my fair slave is Christian, and even of your own country, she may confide in you, and you may persuade her to my wishes better than another. Go, then! tell her of my riches and my power; tell her that among my many slaves, I care for only her; and, if it must be so, bid her even hope that she may one day be the honoured wife of Mezzomorto. Tell her that I would rather win her love, than receive the hand of a Sultana from the grace of his Highness the Sultan himself." Don Juan threw himself a second time before the Dey; and although not over-delighted with this commission, assured him that he would do his utmost to execute it to his satisfaction. "Enough!" replied Mezzomorto, "leave your work and follow me. I am about, contrary to our usages, to permit you privately to see this slave. But, tremble, if you dare abuse the confidence I place in you! Tortures, such as even were never yet inflicted by the Turks, shall punish your temerity. Strive to overcome your own sorrows, and dream of liberty as the reward of ending the sufferings that I endure." Don Juan threw down his hoe, and silently followed the Dey, who, when they entered the palace, left him, that he might prepare the afflicted captive to receive his messenger of love. [Illustration: the unhappy beauty salutes Mezzomorto] She was with two aged slaves, who retired as soon as Mezzomorto appeared. The beauteous slave herself saluted the Dey with great respect, but she could not behold him without greater fear, as indeed had ever been the case when he presented himself before her. He perceived it, and to reassure her mind: "Amiable captive," he said, "I come but to inform you that among my slaves there is a Spaniard with whom you would perhaps be glad to converse. If you wish to see him, I will give him permission to speak with you, and even alone." As the lovely slave expressed no objection to receive her countryman: "I go," resumed the Dey, "to send him to you: may he, by the information he conveys, serve to relieve you of your troubles!" He left her as he spoke; and as he went out, meeting the Toledan, said to him in a low voice: "Enter! and when you have communicated what I desire, come to my cabinet and inform me of the result." Zarata entered as he was directed, closed the door, and bowed before the favoured slave, who returned his salute, without either particularly observing the other. When, however, their eyes at last met, a cry of surprise and joy escaped them both: "Oh Heaven!" exclaimed the Toledan, approaching the captive, "is it not a vision that deceives mine eyes? Can it be the Donna Theodora whom I see?" "Ah! Don Juan," ere he had uttered these words, cried the lady he addressed, "is it indeed yourself who speaks to me?" "Yes, madam," replied the Toledan, while he fell upon his knee and tenderly kissed her hand, "it is Don Juan. Let these tears, that my eyes, rejoiced to behold you again, cannot restrain; let this transport, that you alone can excite in the heart of him who kneels before you, witness for my presence! I murmur no longer against my destiny, since it conducts me to you--Alas! what does my ecstacy inspire? I forget that you are in chains. By what unhappy chance do I find you here? How have you escaped from the frantic passion of Alvaro? Ah, what horror fills my soul to mention his very name! How do I tremble to learn the fate for which Heaven reserved you, when it abandoned you to his perfidy!" [Illustration: Don Juan kisses Donna Theodora's hand] "Heaven," replied the Donna Theodora, "has avenged me on Alvaro Ponza. Had I but time to relate to you----" "Time!" interrupted Don Juan,--"you have plenty, and to spare. The Dey himself permitted me to see you, and, what may well surprise you, alone. Profit by the happy moments which his confidence affords, and inform me of all that has happened to you since you were carried off by Alvaro." "And who, then, told you that it was by him I was taken away?" inquired Donna Theodora. "Alas! madam, I know it but too well," replied the Toledan. He then shortly narrated the manner in which he had become acquainted with Alvaro's design, and had witnessed its execution; how Mendoza and himself had followed him in the hope of preserving her from his violence, or to revenge it; and of their unfortunate, but for this meeting, encounter with the pirates, and its consequence. As soon as he had finished this recital, Donna Theodora began the story of heir own sufferings, as follows: "I need not dwell upon my astonishment at finding myself seized by a masked band of ruffians--indeed, I had hardly time to wonder at the outrage, for I swooned in the arms of the first who laid hold of me; and when I recovered my senses, which must have been after the lapse of some hours, I found myself alone with Agnes, one of my own attendants, in a cabin on the poop of a vessel, in the open sea, sailing with all its canvass spread before the wind. "The perfidious Agnes, on perceiving my tears, exhorted me to bear my misfortune with patience; but from a few words which dropped from her as she spoke, I was not long in divining that she was in the confidence of Alvaro, who shortly afterwards appeared. Throwing himself at my feet: 'Madam,' he exclaimed, 'pardon to a too fond lover the means by which he has dared to possess himself of your person! You know how deeply I have loved you, and how ardently I disputed with Mendoza for your heart, up to the fatal day when you declared your preference for him. Had my passion been the cold and empty feeling that mortals dignify with the name of love, I might have vanquished it as easily as such a feeling is inspired; but my misfortune was beyond consolation. I live but to adore those charms; and, despised though I be, I cannot free myself from their spell. But, madam, let not the fury of my passion alarm you! I have not deprived you of liberty, that I may rob you of honour; I seek only that, in the retreat unto which we are hastening, a sacred tie may unite our hearts for ever.' "He continued in this strain for some time, but in terms which I cannot remember. To hear him, it would have seemed that, in forcing me to wed him, he did me no wrong; and that where I saw but an insolent ravisher, I should have beheld alone an impassioned lover. As, however, while he spoke thus, I answered him but with tears, and exhibited an evident despair, he left me; but not without making signs to Agnes, which I plainly understood as directions for her to second, as well as she was able, the splendid arguments by which he had sought to dazzle my weak understanding. "She did her best; representing to me that, after the éclat of an abduction, I could not do otherwise than graciously accept the offered hand of Alvaro Ponza; that, whatever aversion I might feel for his excessive tenderness, my reputation demanded of my heart this sacrifice. As, however, the necessity which she painted, of a hated marriage, was not exactly the way to dry my tears, I still remained inconsolable; and Agnes had exhausted all her eloquence, when we suddenly heard upon the deck a noise which attracted the attention of us both. "This noise, which proceeded from Alvaro's people, was caused by the apparition of a large ship, which was sweeping with its wings all spread upon us; and from which, as our vessel was by no means so good a sailer, there was no escaping. Down it came, and we soon heard cries of 'Lie to, and send a boat aboard!' But Alvaro Ponza and his men, who knew what they had to expect from yielding, chose rather to die, or at least to run the chance of a combat. The action was sharp, but of short duration: I cannot pretend to give you its details, and will therefore only say, that Alvaro and every one of his crew perished, after fighting like men who preferred death to slavery. For myself and Agnes, we were removed into the other vessel, which belonged to Mezzomorto, and was commanded by Aby Aly Osman, one of his officers. [Illustration: Alvaro and his crew are killed] "Aby Aly looked at me for some time, with much surprise; and recognizing me, by my dress, for a Spaniard, he said to me in almost pure Castilian: 'Moderate your grief, lady, for having fallen into slavery: it is a consolation in our woes to know that they are inevitable. But what do I speak of?--Woe! Happiness alone awaits you. You are far too lovely for the homage of Christian dogs. Heaven never made you for the pleasure of the miserable wretches whom we trample under foot. You were formed to receive the admiration of the men of the world; a Mussulman alone is worthy to possess such beauty. I shall return at once,' he added, 'to Algiers. Albeit I have made no other prize, I know our Dey too well not to be persuaded that with you I shall not be all unwelcome. I have no great fear that he will condemn my impatience to place within his hands a beauty whom our Prophet must have sent on earth expressly for his enjoyment, and to be the light of his harem.' "These compliments, Don Juan, told me too plainly all I had to fear, and my tears flowed the faster as he spoke. Aby Aly was pleased, however, to interpret my fears after his own fashion; and, laughing at my timidity, gave orders to sail towards Algiers. Never was port so dreaded by the ship-bound habitant of ocean! Sometimes I threw myself on my knees, and implored Heaven for its protection; at others, my doubting spirit wished for the assistance of man in Christian guise who might come to my rescue, or sink the pirate vessel, which contained me, in the waves,--or that these in their mercy would engulph us. Then, again, I hoped that my tears, and the sorrow which caused them, would render me so unsightly that the tyrant to whom they bore me might fly my sight with horror. Vain wishes, that my modesty had formed! We arrived at the dreaded port; they conducted me to the palace; I appeared before Mezzomorto. "I know not what Aby Aly said on presenting me to his master, nor what the latter replied, for they spoke in their own tongue; but I thought I could perceive by the looks and gestures of the Dey that I had the misfortune to please him. But what, after they had conversed thus for some time, was addressed to me in my own language, completed my despair by confirming me in the opinion I had formed. [Illustration: Donna Theodora and Aby Aly before Mezzomorto] "Vainly I cast myself before him, offering him whatever sum he chose to name as my ransom; in vain did I tempt his avarice by the promise of all that I possessed, or could command: he answered me by saying, that I offered him in my own person more than all the riches in the world could bestow. He then conducted me to this apartment, the most splendid his palace contains, and from that hour to the present moment, he has spared no pains to dispel the grief with which he sees me overcome. All his slaves who either dance, sing, or play, have tried by his command their skill before me. He removed from me Agnes, because he thought that she served to remind me of my home, and I am now attended by two aged female slaves, whose sole discourse is of love and the Dey, and of the happiness which through his favour I may secure. "Need I say, Don Juan, that all their efforts to divert my grief add but to its intensity, and that nothing can console me? Captive in this detestable palace, which resounds from day to day with the cries of innocence oppressed, I suffer less from the mere loss of liberty than from the terror which the hated tenderness of the Dey inspires. It is true I have hitherto found in him but a lover gentle and respectful; but I am not the less alarmed. I fear lest, wearied by a semblance of devotion, which cannot but constrain him to put on, he should resume the rights of power; and this fear agitates me without ceasing, making of my life but one long torment." As Donna Theodora finished these words, she wept; and her tears fell like iron on the heart of poor Don Juan. "It is not without cause," he at last exclaimed, "that you look on the future with dread; I am, myself, as much alarmed for it as you. The respect of the Dey is melting faster than even you imagine; your submissive lover will soon abandon all the mildness he assumes. Alas! I know too well the dangers which surround you. "But," he continued, his voice changing as he spoke, "shall I calmly witness your dishonour? Slave though I be, he may feel the weight of my despair. Before Mezzomorto injures you, I will plunge in his heart----" "Ah! Don Juan," interrupted the widow of Cifuentes, "what dreadful project do you dream of? For Heaven's sake, think of it no more! With what dreadful cruelties would they avenge his death! Torments the most refined--I cannot think of them without trembling! Besides, to what end would you encounter such a peril? In taking the life of the Dey, would you restore me to liberty? Alas! I should be sold to some other tyrant who would treat me with less respect than Mezzomorto. No!" she exclaimed, throwing herself on her knees, "it is thou, Almighty Father, who canst alone protect me. Thou knowest my weakness, and the infamous designs of him in whose power I am placed. Thou, who forbiddest me to save myself by poison or the steel, Thou wilt save me in Thy justice from a crime that is abhorrent in Thy sight." "Yes, madam," replied Zarata, "Heaven will avert the misfortune with which you are threatened! I feel already that it inspires me;--the ideas which flash across my mind are doubtless prompted by its mercy. Hear me! The Dey has permitted me to see you, only that I might induce you to return his love. It is time that I rendered him an account of our interview; and, in so doing, I shall deceive him. I will tell him that your grief may be overcome; that his conduct towards you has already won for him your esteem, and that, from a continuance in that conduct, he has everything to hope. Do you assist me in my design? When he comes next to visit you, let him find you less sorrowful than usual; and appear, at least, to be interested in his conversation." "What a task would you impose on me!" interrupted Donna Theodora. "How is my soul, always frank and open, to assume such a disguise, and what will be the fruit of so painful a deception?" "The Dey," replied Zarata, "will be flattered by this change in your deportment, and will be anxious to complete his conquest of you by gentle means. In the meanwhile, I will endeavour to effect your freedom: it will be difficult, I acknowledge; but I am acquainted with a slave on whose address and enterprise some reliance may be placed. "I leave you," he continued, "as no time is to be lost: we shall meet again. I now go to the Dey; whose impetuous ardour I hope to restrain by some well-invented fables. And you, madam, prepare to receive him; constrain yourself to deceit. Let your eyes, which his presence offends, display neither hatred nor pride; let your lips, which now unclose but to express your affliction, form for him honeyed words of respect; you must indirectly promise all, in order that you may concede nothing." "Enough!" replied the lady, "I will do as you desire, since the danger that impends over me compels me to this cruel necessity. Go! Don Juan, employ all your thoughts to end my slavery: my freedom will be doubly sweet, if owing to you." As soon as the Toledan repaired to Mezzomorto, the latter cried with great emotion: "Well! Alvaro, what news do you bring to me of my lovely captive? Have you inclined her to listen to my vows? Tell me not that her ceaseless grief refuses to yield to my tenderness; or I swear, by the head of the Commander of the Faithful himself, that force shall wring from her what affection cannot win." "Signor," replied Don Juan, "that oath were useless now: you will have no need of violence to gratify your passion. Your slave is young,--has never loved;--and she whose pride disdained the offers of the noblest of her native land, in which she lived as queen, and here exists in chains, may well ask time to reconcile her haughty spirit to her new condition. This, proud as she is, habit will soon effect; and even now, I dare affirm, the yoke is felt less heavy: the kindness you have shown, the respectful cares which she could never have expected from yourself, have already lessened her misfortune, and must triumph over her disdain. Continue, Signor, this gentle observance; continue--and complete the charm which dissipates her grief, by new attentions to each fond caprice; and you will shortly find her yield to your desires, and lose her love of liberty, encircled in your arms." "Your words enrapture me," exclaimed the Dey: "the hopes which you inspire engage me to what you will. Yes! I will restrain my impatient love, that I may satisfy it the more worthily. But, do you not deceive me, or are you not deceived yourself? I will this moment see my lovely mistress; I will endeavour to discern in her eyes some expression of the flattering appearances you speak of." And so saying, he hastened to seek Theodora; while the Toledan returned to the garden, where he found the slave whose skill he proposed to employ in the liberation of the widow of Cifuentes. This slave, named Francisco, was a Navarrese, and was perfectly acquainted with Algiers and its customs, having there served two or three masters before he was purchased by the Dey as a gardener. "Francisco, my friend," said Don Juan, accosting him, "you see me in deep affliction. There is, in the harem of the Dey, a young lady of the highest distinction of Valencia: she has entreated Mezzomorto to name a ransom of any amount; but he refuses to do so, having fallen in love with her." "And why should that annoy you so much?" asked Francisco. "Because I come from the same town," replied the Toledan; "her relations and my own are intimately connected; and there is nothing which I would not do to restore her to liberty." "Well! though that is no easy matter to accomplish," said Francisco, "I dare undertake to bring it about, provided her relations are disposed to come down pretty handsomely." "Be assured of that," replied Don Juan; "I answer for their gratitude, and especially for her own. Her name is Donna Theodora: she is the widow of a man who has left her immense possessions, and she is generous as rich. For myself, I am a Spaniard, and a noble; my word may suffice to convince you of what I state." "Well, again!" resumed the gardener: "on the faith of your word then, I will seek a Catalonian renegade whom I know, and propose to him----" "What say you?" interrupted the Toledan, in alarm;--"would you confide in a wretch who has not been ashamed to abandon his religion for----" "Although a renegade," interrupted Francisco, in his turn, "he is nevertheless an honest man. He is rather deserving of your pity than contempt; and, if the crime he has committed can be excused at all, I think he may be pardoned. I will tell you his history in a few words. "He was born in Barcelona, where he practised as a surgeon. Finding, however, that he was worse off there than his patients, he resolved to establish himself at Carthagena, thinking of course to better his condition. He accordingly embarked with his mother, for that town; but they were taken on the way by a pirate, who brought them hither. They were sold; his mother to a Moor, and he to a Turk, who used him so badly that he assumed the turban to release himself from slavery, as also to enable him to free his parent, who was no better off in the house of the Moor, her master. With this view, he entered into service with the Dey, and made several voyages, in which he gained four hundred patacoons: he employed a portion of this in the ransom of his mother; and, to make the best use of the remainder, took it in his head to scour the seas on his own account. "Appointed captain, he purchased a small open vessel, and with some Turkish seamen who had sailed with him before, he set out to cruize between Alicant and Carthagena, and returned to Algiers, laden with booty. He repeated this several times; and succeeded always so well that at last he was able to arm a large vessel, with which he made several prizes, but was in the end unfortunate. One day, he was imprudent enough to attack a French frigate, which so mauled his ship that it was with difficulty he escaped, and regained Algiers. As pirates are judged here, like their betters elsewhere, according to their success, the renegade gained the contempt of the Turks as the reward of his misfortune. Disgusted by this injustice, he sold his vessel, and retired to a house without the town; where, since then, he has lived on the produce of his ship, and what remained of the fruits of his former enterprises, in company with his mother, and attended by several slaves. "I often go to see him, for he served with me under my first master, and we are intimate friends. He conceals nothing from me; and, only three days ago, he told me, with tears in his eyes, that, despite his wealth, he had known no peace since he had renounced his faith; that to appease the remorse which preyed on him without ceasing, he was sometimes tempted to trample his turban under foot, and, at the risk of being burned alive, to repair, by a public avowal of his repentance, the insult he had offered to the Mediator whom in secret he still adored. "Such is the renegade whom I am about to consult," continued Francisco: "surely, a man like him may be trusted by you. I will seek him, under pretext of going to the bagnio; I will represent to him, that instead of consuming his life in vain regret at his exclusion from the bosom of the church, he should act so as to assure his forgiveness and reception; that to do this he has only to equip a vessel, as if, disgusted with a life of inaction, he intended to resume his piracies; and that, with this vessel, we may gain the coast of Valencia, where, once arrived, Donna Theodora will give him wherewith to pass the remainder of his life in tranquillity at Barcelona." "Yes! my dear Francisco," cried Don Juan, transported with joy at the hope thus raised by the Navarrese slave,--"yes! you may promise all this, and more, to your renegade friend; both he and yourself may be sure of a rich reward. But, do you conceive it possible to execute the project you conceive?" "There may be difficulties," replied Francisco, "which I do not contemplate; but, rely on it, that I and my friend will overcome them all." "Alvaro," he added, as they parted, "I hope well for our enterprise; and I trust that, when we meet again, I shall have good news to tell you." With what anxiety did the Toledan await the return of Francisco! At last he came. "I have seen the renegade," he said, "and have opened to him our design. After much deliberation, we have arranged that, to save time, he shall purchase a vessel already fitted for sea; that, as it is permitted to employ slaves as sailors, he shall take with him those who now serve him; that, however, to guard against suspicion, he shall also engage some dozen others, as if he really designed what he pretended; but that, two days before the time fixed for his departure, he shall embark, by night, with his own people, and weigh anchor, after coming for us with his boat to a little door which leads from the garden, close by the sea. This is our plan; of which you can inform the captive lady, assuring her that in a fortnight from this time she shall be free." How great was the joy of Zarata, to be able to convey such welcome intelligence to the Donna Theodora! To obtain permission to see her, on the following day, he sought, without appearing to do so, Mezzomorto; and, having met with him: "Signor," said he, "dare I enquire how you have found your lovely slave? Are my hopes fulfilled?--" "I am delighted," interrupted the Dey; "her eyes no longer shun the tender glance of mine; her words, which heretofore presented but the picture of her griefs, no longer breathe complaint; and for the first time, she seemed to listen to my own without aversion. "It is to you, Alvaro," he continued, "that I owe this happy change: I see," he added, good-humouredly, "that you are in favour with the ladies of your country. I will trust you, however, to speak with her again, that you may finish well what you have so well begun. Exhaust thy fertile genius to attain the bliss I seek, and thy chains are turned to gold. Yes! I swear, by the spirit of our Holy Prophet, that I will restore you to your home, so loaded with my favours, that your Christian friends shall not believe you, when you tell them you return from slavery." The Toledan, although somewhat conscience-stricken, did not fail to continue Mezzomorto in the flattering error he indulged. Affecting gratitude for his kindness, and under pretext of hastening its accomplishment, he left the Dey at once to see the charming slave; and, finding her alone in her apartment, he lost no time in informing her of what the Navarrese and the renegade intended on her behalf. The lady was of course greatly delighted to hear that already such strides were making towards her deliverance. "Is it possible," she cried, "that I may hope again to see Valencia, my own dear native land? Joy, joy!" she continued,--"after so many dangers and alarms, to live in peace once more with you! Ah! Don Juan, this is happiness indeed! Can I doubt that your heart partakes of it? Remember, Zarata, that, in snatching me from the Dey, you bear away your wife!" "Alas!" replied the Toledan, sighing deeply, "how delicious were those words to my expecting soul, did not the remembrance of an unhappy aspirant for thy love dash their sweet fragrance with alloy! Pardon me, madam, that at such a moment I should think of aught but you! But you must acknowledge that a friend like Mendoza merits thy pity as my own. It was for thee he left Valencia; it was in search of thee that he became a slave; and I feel sure that, at Tunis, he is not bowed down so much by the weight of his chains, as with despair at failing to avenge thee." "He merited indeed a happier lot," said Donna Theodora; "and I call Heaven to witness that I am deeply affected at what he suffers on my account. Yes! I accuse myself of the pains which he endures; but, such is my destiny, my heart can never be their recompense." This conversation was interrupted by the coming of the two old dames who attended on the widow of Cifuentes. Don Juan immediately assumed the confidant of the Dey: "Yes, fair lady," said he to Theodora, "you have deprived him of liberty who keeps you in chains. Mezzomorto, your master and my own, the most loving and the most amiable of Turks, is your slave. Treat him with the favour you now deign to show him, and soon will a joyous end arrive to his sufferings and your own." Zarata bowed respectfully as he pronounced these words, the purport of which was well understood by the lady to whom they were addressed, and left the apartment. [Illustration: portrait of Mezzomorto] During the following week, affairs remained in this position in the palace of the Dey. In the meantime, however, the renegade had purchased a small sloop, and was making preparations for its putting to sea; but, six days before it was ready, a new subject for alarm occurred to Don Juan. Mezzomorto sent for him, and, taking him into his cabinet: "Alvaro," he said, "thou art free!--free to return when thou wilt to Spain; the reward that I have promised now awaits thee. I have seen my lovely slave this day;--ah! how unlike the creature whose sorrow filled my breast with anguish! Daily does the feeling of captivity grow weaker; and so bright are now her charms, that I have resolved at once to make her mine: in two days she shall be my wife." Don Juan changed colour at these words, and, with all the effort that he made to constrain them, could not conceal his trouble and surprise from the Dey, who asked him the cause of this emotion. "Signor," replied the Toledan, with embarrassment, "I cannot control my astonishment at hearing one of the greatest princes of the Ottoman empire avow his intention of so far humbling himself as to wed with a slave. I know that this is not without precedent; but, for the illustrious Mezzomorto, who might aspire to the daughter of the highest in the service of the Sultan, to"--"I agree to what you say," interrupted the Dey; "I might marry with the daughter of the Grand Vizier, and even hope to succeed him in his office: but I have great wealth, and small ambition. I prefer repose, and the delights I enjoy here in my vice-royalty, to the dangerous honours to which we are no sooner elevated, than the fear of our sovereign, or the jealousy of the envious who surround him, prepares for us a fall. Besides, I love this slave; and her beauty and virtue render her worthy of the rank to which my affection calls her. "It is however necessary," he added, "that she should at once renounce her religion, to attain the honour for which I destine her. Think you that absurd prejudices will induce her to despise that honour?" "No, Signor," replied Don Juan; "I am persuaded that on reflection, she will hold her faith as too small a sacrifice to your love. But, permit me to say that this should not be proposed too hastily. There is no doubt that the idea of abandoning the creed she lisped almost on her mother's bosom will at first revolt her: give her therefore time to reflect on the inducements to a change. When she remembers that, instead of using your power over her person, and then abandoning her to grow old among the neglected slaves of your caprice, you seek to unite her to yourself for ever, by a marriage which crowns her with honour, her gratitude--her woman's vanity--will by degrees vanquish her scruples. Defer therefore for a week, at least, the execution of your design." The Dey remained for some time in deep thought: the delay that his confidant proposed suited but ill to his desires; nevertheless, the counsel appeared judicious. "I yield to your advice, Alvaro," at last he said, "impatient as I am to press the lovely captive to my heart. I will wait a week, as you request. Go!" he continued, "see her at once, and dispose her to fulfil my wishes, when that time shall have passed. I am anxious that Alvaro, who so well has tutored the fair one to my will, should have the honour of tendering to her my hand." Don Juan hastened to the apartment of Theodora, and informed her of what had passed between the Dey and himself, that she might conduct herself accordingly. He also informed her that in six days the vessel would be ready; and, as she was anxious to know how, when the time arrived, she was to escape, seeing that all the doors of the rooms she had to traverse, in the usual way of reaching the staircase, were well secured: "Let not that embarrass you," he answered; "a window of your ante-room looks upon the garden; and you may thence descend, by a ladder which I will take care to provide." The six days added their units to eternity, and Francisco informed the Toledan that the renegade was prepared to sail on the coming night: you may guess with what impatience it was expected. It came, and, graciously for the fugitives, shrouded in its thickest mantle to cover their flight. At the appointed moment, Don Juan placed the ladder against the window of the ante-room, and the watchful captive hastened to descend, trembling with agitation and suspense. She reached the ground in safety, and leaning on the arm of the Toledan, the latter lost no time in conducting her to the little door which opened on the sea. [Illustration: Donna Theodora descends the ladder] They walked with hasty steps, enjoying, by anticipation, the happiness of recovered freedom; but fortune, not even now disposed to favour these unhappy lovers, plunged them into grief more dire than they had yet experienced, and of a nature that they least expected. [Illustration: Donna Theodora and Zarata hurry away] They had already left the garden, and were advancing to the shore, where the sloop awaited them, when a man whom they took for an accomplice in their escape, and of whom, therefore, they had no suspicion, came upon Don Juan, sword in hand, and thrust it in his breast. "Perfidious Alvaro Ponza!" he exclaimed, "it is thus that Don Fabricio de Mendoza punishes a base seducer: you deserve not that I should attack you openly as an honest man." The Toledan could not resist the force of the blow, which stretched him on the earth; and, at the same moment, Donna Theodora, whom he supported, struck with surprise, with grief and fear, fell in a swoon beside him. "Ah! Mendoza," cried Don Juan, "what have you done? It is your friend whose bosom you have pierced!" "Gracious Heaven!" exclaimed Don Fabricio, "is it possible that I have assassinated----" "I pardon you my death," interrupted Zarata; "destiny is alone to blame, or rather it has so willed it, to end our misfortunes. Yes! my dear Mendoza, I die contented, since I restore to your hands the Donna Theodora, who will convince you that my friendship for you has never belied itself for an instant." [Illustration: Zarata stabbed by Mendoza] "Too generous friend," said Don Fabricio, prompted by a feeling of despair, "you shall not die alone; the same point which wounded you shall punish your assassin: if my error may excuse my crime, it cannot console me for its committal." As he spoke, he turned his sword against his breast, plunged it therein nearly to the hilt, and fell upon the body of Don Juan, who fainted less from loss of blood, than from horror at the frenzy of his friend. Francisco and the renegade, who were not ten paces from the spot, and who had their reasons for not having defended the slave Alvaro, were amazed to hear the last words of Don Fabricio, and still more so to witness his last act. They had heard enough, however, to know that he had been mistaken, and that the wounded pair were friends, instead of deadly enemies, as they had believed. They now therefore hastened to their assistance; but, finding them both senseless, as also the Donna Theodora, they were at a loss how to proceed. Francisco advised that they should content themselves with bearing off the lady, leaving the two cavaliers on the shore; where, according to him, if they were not already dead, they would soon be so. The renegade, however, was not of this opinion: he said that it would be cruel to abandon the two unfortunates; that their wounds were probably not mortal, and that he would look to them when on board his vessel, where he had been provident enough to stow away all the implements of his ancient trade. To this, Francisco made no objection; so, as they both agreed that there was no inducement to stay where they were, by the assistance of some slaves, they carried the unhappy widow of Cifuentes, and her still more unfortunate lovers, to the boat, and soon joined their ship. There, no time was lost in spreading the sails; while some upon their knees poured forth to Heaven the most fervent prayers which fear could suggest, that they might escape the cruisers of the Dey. [Illustration: Theodora, Zarata and Mendoza are carried to the boat] The renegade, having left the management of the vessel to a French slave whom he could trust, gave his attention to his passengers. The lady, of course, claimed his first care; and, having restored her to life, he took his measures so skilfully, that Don Fabricio and the Toledan also speedily recovered their senses. Donna Theodora, who had swooned the instant Don Juan was struck, was greatly astonished on her recovery to behold Mendoza; and, although she soon comprehended that the latter had wounded himself for having incautiously assailed his friend, she could not look upon him but as the murderer of the man she loved. "You would have been affected, Don Cleophas, could you have seen these three persons at the moment I speak of: the deathlike stillness from which they had emerged would not have commanded half your pity. There was Donna Theodora, gazing on Don Juan with eyes which spoke all the feelings of a soul filled with grief and despair; while the two friends, each fondly turning upon her their dying looks, were striving to control the sighs which rent their hearts." The scene lasted for some time in silence, which Mendoza was the first to break. "Madam," said he, addressing Donna Theodora, "I die; but I have the satisfaction of knowing you are free. Would to Heaven that thy liberty were owing to myself! But it has decreed that you should owe that obligation to him whose image you cherish in your heart. I love too much my rival to complain; and trust that the blow which my blindness dealt may be too light to prevent his sweet reward." The lady answered not this touching speech. Insensible, for the time, to the fate of Mendoza, she could not restrain the feelings of aversion which the condition of the Toledan, over whom she hung, inspired in her bosom towards him who had caused it. The regenade surgeon now examined and probed the wounds of the two friends. Beginning with Zarata, he pronounced it favourable, inasmuch as the sword had only glanced through the muscles of the left breast, without touching any of the vital parts. This report, while it lessened the grief of Donna Theodora, gave great delight to Don Fabricio, who, turning his head towards the lady, exclaimed, "Madam, I die without regret, since the life of my friend is out of danger: you will forgive me now." He pronounced these words with so much pathos, that the widow of Cifuentes was moved beyond expression. As she no longer feared for Don Juan, she ceased to hate Mendoza, and beheld in him now but an object of the deepest pity. "Ah! Don Fabricio," she exclaimed, her generous nature resuming its influence, "let them attend to your wound; it is, I trust, not more dangerous than that of your friend. Let not your feelings interfere to render the cares of those who love you useless. Live!--if I cannot yield felicity to you, at least I will never bestow it on another. Friendship and compassion shall restrain the hand that I would give to Don Juan: I will sacrifice for you, as he has done, the dearest wishes of my heart." [Illustration: Mendoza addresses Donna Theodora] Don Fabricio would have replied; but the surgeon, fearing that in his case, as in trouble generally, talking would only increase the ill, imposed silence, while he examined his wound. On so doing, he saw that it was likely to prove mortal, as the sword had penetrated the lungs, and the consequent loss of blood had been excessive. Having however dressed it with care, he left the cavaliers to repose; and that a matter so essential to them, in their present state, might be secured, he took with him, as he left the cabin, Donna Theodora, whose presence seemed likely to disturb it. But despite all these precautions, Mendoza was seized with fever, and towards midnight the wound began to bleed afresh. The renegade then thought it right to inform him that all hope of recovery was over, and that, if he had anything which he wished to communicate to his friend, or to Donna Theodora, he had no time to lose. The Toledan was greatly affected on hearing the declaration of the surgeon: for Don Fabricio, he listened to it with indifference. He calmly requested that the regenade would summon the widow of Cifuentes to his side. Donna Theodora hastened to the dying man, in a state more easy to conceive than to describe: tears streamed down her cheeks, and sobs choked her utterance;--so violent was her affliction, that Mendoza could not repress his agitation at the sight. "Madam," he exclaimed, "I am unworthy of the precious drops which dim those lovely eyes: restrain them, I entreat you, and listen to me for a few moments. And you also, my dear Zarata," he continued, observing the excess of grief in which his friend indulged, "control your feelings for a while, and hear me. I well know that to you this separation is a painful shock; your friendship is too well assured for me to doubt it; but wait, both of you, until the earth shall have hidden me from your sight; and honour, with those marks of tenderness and pity, my silent grave. "Suspend until then your affliction; I feel it now more than the loss of life. Let me relate to you the way by which the fate that pursues me conducted me this night to the fatal shore which I have stained with the blood of my friend, and my own. You must be anxious to learn how it happened that I mistook Don Juan for Alvaro; I will tell you, if the short time which it is permitted me to live will enable me to do so. "Some hours after the vessel in which I was had quitted that wherein I had left Don Juan, we met a French privateer, which attacked and took the Tunisian pirate, and landed us near Alicant. I was no sooner free, than I thought on the ransom of my friend; and, to effect this I went to Valencia to obtain the necessary funds. There, learning that at Barcelona some brothers of the Holy Order of Redemption were just about to sail for Algiers, I set out for the former town. Before leaving Valencia, however, I begged my uncle the governor, Don Francisco de Mendoza, to use all his influence with the court of Madrid to obtain the pardon of Zarata, that, on his return with me, he might be reinstated in his former possessions, which had been confiscated in consequence of the death of the Duke of Naxera. "As soon as we had arrived at Algiers, I went to all the places frequented by the slaves; but in vain did I run them through, I found not the object of my search. This morning, I met the regenade Catalonian, to whom this vessel belongs, and whom I recognized as a man who had formerly attended my uncle. I told him the motive of my voyage, and requested him to make strict inquiry for my friend. 'I am sorry,' he replied, 'that it is out of my power to serve you. I leave Algiers to-night, with a lady of Valencia, one of the Dey's slaves.' 'And who is this lady,' I demanded. 'She is called the Donna Theodora,' was his startling answer. "The surprise which I exhibited at this information told the regenade at once that I was interested in this lady's fate. He therefore informed me of the design which he had formed for her liberation; and as, during his recital, he mentioned the slave Alvaro, I had no doubt that it was Alvaro Ponza himself of whom he spoke. When he had finished: 'Assist me in my resentment!' I exclaimed, with transport; 'furnish me with the means of avenging myself upon my enemy!' 'You shall soon be satisfied,' replied the regenade; 'but, tell me first what subject of complaint you have against this same Alvaro.' I related to him all our history; which, when he had heard: 'Enough!' he cried, 'you shall accompany me to-night. They will point out to you your rival; and, when you have punished him for his villany, you shall take his place, and join with us in conducting Donna Theodora to Valencia.' "Nevertheless, my impatience did not cause me to forget Don Juan. I left the money for his ransom in the hands of Francisco Capati, an Italian merchant, who resides at Algiers, and who promised me to effect it, if by any means he could discover him. At last, the night arrived; I went to the house of the regenade, who led me, as he had promised to the sea shore. We concealed ourselves near a little door, whence shortly issued a man who came directly towards us, and, pointing to two persons who followed him, said 'There are Alvaro and Donna Theodora.' "Furious at this sight, I drew my sword, ran to meet the unfortunate Alvaro, and, imagining that it was my hated rival whom I struck, I thrust my weapon into the bosom of the faithful friend whom I had come to seek. But, Heaven be praised!" he continued with emotion, "my error will not cost him his life, nor cause eternal grief to Donna Theodora." "Ah! Mendoza," interrupted the lady, "you do injustice to my tears; never shall I console myself for your own loss. Even should I espouse your friend, it will be only to unite our griefs: your love, your friendship, your misfortunes will ever be present to our recollection,--the sole topic for our tongues." "It is too much, madam," replied Don Fabrido; "I am not worthy thus to trouble thy repose. Permit, I entreat thee, Zarata to call thee his, on the day when he shall have revenged thy wrongs on Alvaro Ponza." "Don Alvaro," said the widow of Cifuentes, "is no more; on the same day that he forced me from my home, he was killed by the pirate who enslaved me." "Madam," replied Mendoza, "my wavering soul rejoices at the welcome news; my friend will be the sooner happy. Follow without control your mutual inclinations. I see, with joy, the hour approach which removes from you, for ever, the obstacle which your generous compassion has raised against your happiness. May your days glide in peace, and in an union which the envy of fortune may never dare to trouble! Adieu, Madam;--adieu, Don Juan!--think sometimes, in your joy, of one who has never loved but you." Donna Theodora and the Toledan were unable to reply to this affectionate address, except by tears, which redoubled as he spoke. Mendoza, therefore, perceiving their grief, thus continued: "But I have done with earth! Death already points me out my way; and I have not yet supplicated the Divine mercy to pardon me for having, by my own folly, shortened a life of which it should have alone disposed." He spoke no more; but, raising his eyes to Heaven, appeared to be engaged in mental prayer for its forgiveness; when a gurgling in his throat told that a last outbreaking of his wound had taken place, and he expired. Don Juan, as he heard the fatal rattling which indicated what was passing, was maddened with despair. His hands sought his own wound; and tearing it open, he would have soon joined his friend, but that the renegade and Francisco threw themselves upon him, and withheld his fury: Donna Theodora, woman-like, forgetful of her own woes at sight of the transport of the Toledan, hastened to soothe him by her tenderness; and--what will not love do?--soon brought him to himself: in short, the lover triumphed over the friend. But, if reason regained its sway, it was only to resist the insensate frenzy of his grief, and not to weaken its sentiment. The renegade, who, among the many things which he was bearing from Algiers, happened to have balsam of Arabia, and other precious requisites, undertook to embalm the body of Mendoza, at the request of Donna Theodora and her now unrivalled lover; who were anxious to render to their friend's remains all proper honours of sepulture at Valencia. Love, with them, did nothing but sigh and moan, during the voyage; not so, however, with their companions: they were rejoiced by favourable winds, which soon brought them in sight of the coast of Spain, to the inexpressible delight of those, which included the whole crew, who had never expected to behold it again. When the vessel had happily arrived at the port of Denia, every one took his own course. For the widow of Cifuentes and the Toledan, they sent a courier to Valencia, with letters for the governor and the friends of Donna Theodora. Alas! while the intelligence of the return of this lady brought joy to her relations, that of the death of his nephew caused the deepest affliction to Don Francisco de Mendoza. The poor old man, accompanied by the relatives of the released lady, lost no time in repairing to Denia; and there, insisting on beholding the body of the unhappy Don Fabricio, he bathed it with his tears, uttering such deep complaints as melted the hearts of the beholders. Then, turning to the Toledan, he requested to be informed of the unfortunate events which had brought his nephew to so sad an end. [Illustration: Don Francisco de Mendoza mourning his nephew] "I will tell you," replied Zarata: "far from seeking to efface them from my memory, I feel a mournful pleasure in recalling them to my mind, and in indulging my grief." He then related to Don Francisco all that had occurred; and this recital, while it brought fresh tears to his own eyes, added to those which flowed from those of his aged listener. Meanwhile the friends of Theodora were occupied in testifying the delight which was elidted by her unexpected return, and in felicitating her on the miraculous manner in which she had been delivered from the tyranny of Mezzomorto. After all things had been satisfactorily explained, they placed the body of Don Fabricio in a hearse, and bore it to Valencia. It was not, however, buried there, because, as the period of the vice-royalty of Don Francisco was nearly expired, that nobleman was preparing to return to Madrid, where he had resolved that his nephew should be interred. While the preparations for the funeral were making, the widow of Cifuentes was employed in loading Francisco and the renegade with the fruits of her gratitude. The Navarrese retired to his own province, and the surgeon returned with his mother to Barcelona, where he sought once more the bosom of the church, in which he lives to this day snugly enough. And now, when all was completed, Don Francisco received an express from the court, conveying the pardon of Don Juan, which the king, notwithstanding his consideration for the house of Naxera, had been unable to refuse to all the Mendozas who had united to ask the grace. This pardon was the more welcome to the Toledan, inasmuch as it gave him liberty to accompany the body of his friend to its last home, which he would not otherwise have dared to do. At last the sorrowful procession, attended by a numerous concourse of noble mourners, set out for Madrid; where it was no sooner arrived, than all that remained of Don Fabricio was deposited in yonder church, where Zarata and the Donna Theodora, with the permission of the Mendozas, erected a splendid monument to his memory. Nor did they bury their grief with their friend: they bore at least its outward sign for the unusual space of an entire year, that the world might know how deeply they deplored his loss. [Illustration: Zarata falls from his horse] After having exhibited such signal proofs of their affection for Mendoza, they married; but by an inconceivable effort of the force of friendship, Don Juan for a length of time still preserved a melancholy that not even love could banish. Don Fabricio, his dear Don Fabricio, was ever present in his thoughts by day; and, by night, he saw him in his dreams, and mostly as he had beheld him when the last sigh escaped him. His mind, however, began to be relieved from these saddening visions,--the charms of his beloved Theodora, which had ever possessed his soul, commenced their triumph over his baneful remembrances; in short, Don Juan once more touched upon happiness. But, a few days since, while hunting, he was thrown from his horse, fell upon his head, and fractured his skull. Physicians could not save him; he is just dead: and it is Theodora whom you see, in the arms of the two women, and who will probably soon follow him to the grave. CHAPTER XVI. THE DREAMERS. Leandro Perez, as soon as Asmodeus had finished this narrative, said to him: "A very pretty picture of friendship have you presented! But, rare though it be to see two men so bound by love as the Toledan and Don Fabricio, I imagine it were quite impossible to find two rivals of the softer sex, who could so generously sacrifice to each other, for friendship's sake, the man they love." "Doubtless!" replied the Devil: "that is a sight the world ne'er saw, and one that, as it grows older, it probably never will see. Women have no affection for each other. I will suppose two who think themselves friends; I will even go the length to suppose that they never speak ill of one another when apart,--so extraordinary are the ties which bind them. Well! see them together; and incline the least towards the one, and rage shall fill the bosom of the other; not that she cares an atom for yourself, but because she would be preferred by all. Such is the character of woman: jealousy occupies too large a portion of her heart to leave room for friendship." "The history of these peerless friends," replied Don Cleophas, "possesses a slight touch of the romantic, and has led us somewhat from our object. The night is far advanced, and we shall soon behold the brilliant heralds of the coming day: I expect of you, therefore, a new pleasure. I perceive a great number of persons still sleeping, and wish you to satisfy my curiosity by informing me of their dreams." "Willingly!" replied the Demon. "You are, I see, an admirer of _les tableaux changeants;_ I will gratify your taste." "Thanks!" said Zambullo: "I expect that I am about to hear of rare absurdities in these same dreams." "And why?" asked the Cripple: "you, so well versed in Ovid, do you not know that it is towards break of day that dreams visit the mind with presages of truth, because at that time the soul is disengaged from the vapours of digestion?" "Oh! as to that," replied the Student, "despite of master Ovid, I have no faith in dreams." "You are wrong, then," exclaimed Asmodeus: "you should neither treat them as fantastic visions, nor yet believe them all; they are liars, who sometimes speak the truth. The emperor Augustus, whose head had well adorned a student's shoulders, despised not dreams which turned upon his fate; and nearly took it in his head, at the battle of Philippi, to strike his tent, on hearing of a dream which regarded himself. I could cite a thousand examples to you, which would convince you of your folly in this respect; but I forbear to do so, that I may at once satisfy the new desire which prompts you. "We will begin by this handsome mansion on our right. Its proprietor, whom you see ensconced in that superb apartment, is a liberal and gallant noble. He is dreaming that he is at the opera, listening to a new prima donna; and that the voice of the syren is just enslaving his heart. "In the next apartment lies the countess, his wife, who loves play to madness. She dreams that she has no money, and that she is pawning her diamonds with a jeweller, who is lending her thereon three hundred pistoles, deducting only a very moderate discount. "In the next house, on the same side, lives a marquis of the same stamp as the count, and who, for the moment, is in love with a celebrated, but capricious, beauty. He dreams that he is borrowing largely of an usurer for the purpose of securing her to himself; while his steward, who is sleeping at the top of the house, is dreaming that he is growing rich as fast as his master is hastening to ruin. Well! what think you of these dreams? Is there anything in them so extravagant?" "No! on my life," replied Don Cleophas, "I begin to think Ovid is right: but who is that man whom I see, lying with his mustachios in paper, and preserving in his sleep an air of gravity which would indicate that he is no ordinary cavalier." "He is a country gentleman," replied the Demon,--"a viscount of Aragon, imbued with all the pride of that province. His soul at this moment swims in delight; he dreams that he is with a grandee who is yielding to him precedence in a public ceremony. "But," continued Asmodeus, "I observe in the same house two brothers, apothecaries, whose dreams are particularly unpleasant. One of them is reading, in his sleep, an ordinance which decrees that doctors shall not be paid, except when they have cured their patients; and his brother is occupied with a similar law, which ordains that medical attendants shall head the procession at the funeral of all who die in their hands." "I could wish," interrupted Zambullo, "that these decrees were as true as they would be just; and that your doctor were thus compelled to be present at the burial of his innocent patient, as a _lieutenant criminel_, in France, is bound to witness the execution of the guilty wretch whom he has condemned." "I like your comparison," exclaimed the Devil: "it might be said in such a case, however, that the one merely superintends the execution of his own sentence; but that the other, having already performed his especial function, pursues his victim after death." "Hollo!" cried the Student, "who is that personage rubbing his eyes, and rising in such tremendous haste?" "He," replied Asmodeus, "is a noble signor who is soliciting an appointment, as governor, in the Indies. A frightful dream has startled him from sleep: he fancied himself at court, and that the premier had passed him with averted eyes. And there, too, is a youthful damsel, waking to the world, not over contented with her dream. She is a lady of rank, and not more handsome than discreet. She has two lovers; for one of whom she nourishes a passion the most tender, and for the other an aversion, almost amounting to horror. Well! in her sleep just now, she saw, upon his knees before her, the gallant she detests; and he was so impassioned, so assiduous, that had she not awakened, she would have treated him with even greater kindness than she ever bestowed on the lover whom she favours: nature, during sleep, signor Student, throws off the yoke of reason, and of virtue. "Cast your eyes upon that house at the corner of this street: it belongs to an attorney. Behold him and his wife sleeping in twin bedsteads, in that room hung with ancient tapestry, embroidered with grotesque figures. The man of law dreams that he is about to visit one of your hospitals for the charitable purpose of relieving a sick client with his own money; while the lady imagines that her husband is driving out of his house a sturdy clerk, of whom he has become suddenly jealous." [Illustration: the lady of rank's dream] "I hear ungentle snorings break on the stillness round us," said Leandro Perez; "and I fancy they proceed from yonder plump old man, whom I discern in the house adjoining that of the attorney." "Precisely so," answered Asmodeus. "It is a canon chanting in his sleep his _Benedicite_. "His neighbour, there, is a silk-mercer, who vends his costly wares, at his own price, to titled customers, for their time. His lordly ledger is inscribed with debts amounting to above a hundred thousand ducats; and he is dreaming that his debtors are bringing him their gold; while his creditors are horrified with visions of his own bankruptcy." "These dreams," said the Student, "certainly have not emerged from Sleep's dark temple by the same gate." "I fancy not, indeed," replied the Demon: "the first has passed by the ivory portal of the leaden god, and the other from that of horn. "The house adjoining that of the mercer is occupied by a celebrated bookseller. He has recently published a work which has been extremely successful. On bringing it out, he promised to give the author fifty pistoles, in addition to the price agreed for, should the book run to a second edition; and he is at this moment dreaming that he is reprinting it without informing the unfortunate scribe of the fact." "Ah!" exclaimed Zambullo, "there is no need to ask from which door that dream proceeded; and I have not the slightest doubt of its proving one of the least deceitful visions he ever had in his life. I am perfectly acquainted with those worthy gentlemen, the booksellers. Heaven help the poor authors who fall into their hands! To cheat them, is the mystery of their craft." "Nothing can be more true," replied the Cripple; "but, it appears, you have yet to become acquainted with those as worthy gentry--the authors. They are six of one and half-a-dozen of the other: it is impossible to decide on their relative merits. By the bye, I will relate to you an adventure which occurred not a century ago, in this very town, and which will enlighten you on the subject. "Three booksellers were supping together at a tavern; and the conversation naturally turned on the scarcity of good modern authors. Thereupon, one of them said to his brethren: 'My friends, I must tell you, however, in confidence, that I have been in luck's way within these few days. I have purchased a manuscript, for which I paid rather dearly, it is true, but it is by an author--oh! it is uncoined gold.' One of those whom he addressed now interrupted him; and boasted of having been equally fortunate on the preceding day in a similar purchase. 'And I, gentlemen,' at last exclaimed the third, in his turn,--'I will not be behindhand in confidence with you; I will show you the gem of manuscripts, of which I only this morning became the happy owner.' As he finished, each drew from his capacious pocket the precious acquisition he had made; when these miracles of authorship turned out to be as many copies of a new theatrical piece, entitled the Wandering Jew, which the astonished bibliopoles found had been sold to each of them separately. "Near the bookseller, in the next house," continued the Devil, "you may perceive a timid and respectful lover just awaking. He loves one of the most sprightly of widows; and was dreaming, but this moment, that, beside her in the covert of a dusky wood, whose shade lent courage to his modest spirit, he was so tender,--so gallant in his speech, that his fair mistress could not help exclaiming: 'Ah! you are becoming absolutely dangerous! If I were not steeled against the flattery of men, I should be lost. But you are all deceivers! I never trust to words;--actions alone can win me,'--'And what actions, madam, do you ask of me?' interrupted the gentle swain: 'must I, to prove the excess of my passion, undertake the twelve labours of Hercules?' 'Lord! no, Nicaise,' replied the lady, 'much less would content me.' Thereupon--he awoke." [Illustration: the timid lover's dream] "Prythee, tell me," said the Student, "why yonder man, in that dark-coloured bed, tosses about so furiously." "He," replied the Cripple, "is a talented licentiate; and his present agitation arises from a dream, in which he is disputing in favour of the immortality of the soul, with a little doctor of medicine, who is as good a catholic as he is a physician. In the same house, over the licentiate, lodges a gentleman of Estramadura, named Don Balthazar Fanfarronico, who has come post-haste to court, to demand a reward for having valiantly slain a Portuguese, by a musket-shot, in ambush. And of what do you imagine he is dreaming? Nothing less than that he is appointed to the government of Antequera, at which he is very naturally dissatisfied: he thinks he deserves a viceroyalty at least. [Illustration: man on horseback shot by another, in ambush] "In a furnished house close by, I discover two distinguished personages, whose dreams are far from pleasant. One of them is governor of a fortress, where he is now sustaining a fancied siege, and which, after a faint resistance, he is on the point of surrendering, with himself and garrison, at discretion. The other is the bishop of Murcia, whom his majesty has charged with the task of eulogising a deceased princess, whose funeral takes place in a day or two. He has, in imagination, just ascended the pulpit; and there has his imagination left him, for he has stopped short in the exordium of his discourse." "It is not impossible," said Don Cleophas, "that this misfortune may really befall the worthy prelate." "No, truly," replied the Devil; "for it is not very long since his grace found himself in a similar predicament on a like occasion. "And now, if you would like to behold a somnambulist, look into the stables of this same house: what see you?" "I perceive," answered Leandro Perez, "a man walking in his shirt, and holding, what seems to me, a horse-comb in his hand." "Well!" replied the Demon, "he is a sleeping groom. Nightly does he rise in sleep to curry his pampered charge, and then betake himself to bed again. His fellow-servants look on the sleek coats of the horses as the frolic work of some wanton sprite; and the groom himself shares this opinion with them. "In the large house, opposite, lives an aged chevalier of the Fleece, who was formerly viceroy of Mexico. He has fallen sick; and, as he fears he is about to die, his viceroyalty begins to trouble him: true it is that he exercised his functions so as to justify his present inquietude; the chronicles of New Spain, unless they be belied, make no too honourable mention of his name. He has just started from a dream, whose horrid visions float before him still, and which will probably bring about their own fulfilment in his death." "Ah!" exclaimed Zambullo, "that must be something extraordinary." "You shall hear," replied Asmodeus: "there is really something in it rather singular. The sickly lordling dreamt he was in the valley of the dead, where all the victims of his injustice and inhumanity thronged fiercely round, and heaped upon him menaces and insult. They pressed upon, and would have torn him limb from limb; but, as their hot breath seemed to burn his very brain, he thought he took to flight, and saved himself from their fury. He had no sooner escaped, than he found himself in a large hall, hung all around with black cloth, where, sitting at a table upon which were three covers, he saw his father and his grandfather. His two dismal companions solemnly beckoned him to approach; and, with all the gravity which belongs to the dead, said to him: 'We have waited for you long: come, take your place beside us.'" "Oh! the wretched dream," interrupted the Student; "I could forgive the poor devil, for the fright he is in!" "To make up for it," resumed the Cripple, "his niece, who reposes in the apartment over his, passes the night in bliss: sleep brings to her its brightest illusions. She is a maiden of from twenty-five to thirty, ugly as myself, and not much better made. She dreams that her uncle, to whom she is sole heiress, has ceased to live; and that she sees, in swarms around her, amiable signors, who dispute for the honour of her slightest glance." "If I do not deceive myself," said Don Cleophas, "I hear some one laughing behind us." "It is no deception," replied the Devil; "it is a widow laughing in her sleep, a few paces from us. She is a woman who affects the prude, and who loves nothing so well as a little friendly scandal: she dreams that she is chatting with an ancient devotee, whose conversation could hardly fail to delight one of her taste. "I cannot help laughing in my turn, to see, in the room under that of the widow, an honest cit, who lives with difficulty on the little he possesses, but who dreams that he is picking up pieces of gold and silver, and that the more he gathers the more remain to glean: he has already filled a large coffer." "Poor fellow!" said Leandro; "he will not enjoy his treasure long." "No!" replied the Cripple; "and when he awakes he will be like the really rich, when dying: he will see all his wealth disappear." "If you are curious to know the dreams of two actresses who live near each other, I will relate them to you. One is dreaming that she is catching birds with a call; that she strips them as she takes them, and then throws them to be devoured by a large tom-cat in which she delights, and which has all the profit of her skill. The other dreams that she is driving from her house greyhounds and coach-dogs, which for a long time have sunned themselves in her presence, having resolved to confine her affections to a pretty little lap-dog, which has recently gained her favour." "Two dreams absurd enough!" cried the Student; "I fancy that if at Madrid, as formerly in Rome, there were interpreters of dreams, they would be sadly puzzled to explain these." "Not so much as you think," replied the Devil: "a very small acquaintance with the domestic habits of your syrens of the stage, would enable them to render their sense perfectly intelligible." [Illustration: the actress feeding birds to the tom-cat] "Well! for myself," exclaimed Don Cleophas, "they are past my comprehension, and that troubles me little: I would rather be informed who is that lady sleeping in a bed with amber velvet hangings, bordered with silver fringe, and near which, upon a small table, I perceive a book and a wax-candle." "She is a lady of illustrious family," replied the Demon, "whose establishment is mounted in gallant style, and who loves to see her livery adorned by young and handsome men. She is accustomed to read in bed, and cannot sleep without her favourite author. Last night she was indulging in the Metamorphoses of Ovid: in consequence, she is at this moment dreaming, extravagantly enough, that Jupiter has become amorous of her charms, and has entered her service in the form of a favourite page. [Illustration: the actress, lap-dog under her arm, driving out the other dogs] "Apropos of metamorphoses, there is another subject who will amuse you. You perceive that man, tasting in the calm of sleep the exquisite pleasure of imagined flattery. He is an actor, a veteran of such ancient service, that there is not a grey-beard in Madrid who can say he witnessed his first appearance. He has been so long behind the scenes, that he may be said to have become theatrified. He is not without talent, but, like most of his profession, he is so vain that he thinks the part of Man beneath him. Of what think you is this hero of the slips now dreaming. He imagines that he is on the point of death; and that round his couch are assembled all the deities of Olympus, to decide on what they are to do with a mortal of his importance. He listens while Mercury insists before the council of the gods that a comedian so famed, after having so often had the honour of mimicking themselves, and Jove's own person, on the stage, should not be subject to the common fate of man, but merits a reception as a brother god by those who now surround him. Mercury finishes by moving accordingly, and Momus seconds the motion; but the male and female members of the celestial parliament murmuring at the proposition of so extraordinary an apotheosis, Jupiter, to put an end to the debate, is about to decree, of his sovereign authority, that the aged son of Thespis shall be transformed into a theatrical statue, for the amusement of future generations." The Devil was about to continue, but Zambullo interrupted him, exclaiming: "Hold! Signor Asmodeus, you forget that it is day. I am afraid they will perceive us from the street. If the gentle public should remark your lordship, we shall hear such an uproar as we may be glad to put an end to." [Illustration: the actor transformed into a statue] "Never fear!" replied the Demon; "they will not see us. I have the power ascribed to the fabulous deities of whom I spoke but now; and like to the amorous son of Saturn, who, upon Mount Ida, shrouded himself in a cloud, to hide from the world the blisses he shared with Juno, I am about to envelope you and myself in a misty veil which the searching eye of man cannot pierce, but which shall not prevent you from beholding those things which I wish you to observe." As he spoke, they were suddenly surrounded by a vapour, which, although dense as the smoke of a battle-field, offered no obstacle to the sight of the Student. "So now to return to our dreamers," continued the Cripple,----"but I do not consider," he added, "that the mode in which you have consumed the night must have fatigued you. I advise, therefore, that you let me bear you to your home, and leave you to a few hours' sleep. In the meanwhile, I will just take a turn round the earth, and amuse myself after my fashion; taking care to rejoin you by the time you awake, when we will continue our laugh at the expense of the swarming world." "I have no desire to sleep, and am not in the least fatigued," replied Don Cleophas; "so, instead of leaving me, do me the pleasure to expound the various objects which occupy the yawning brains of the persons whom I see already risen, and who are preparing as it seems to me, to leave their houses: what can possibly call them out so early?" "What you ask me is well worth your knowledge," answered the Demon; "you shall gaze on a picture of the cares, the emotions, the anguish that poor mortal man gives himself during life, to occupy, with the vain hope of happiness, the little space which is granted him between the cradle and the tomb." CHAPTER XVII. IN WHICH ORIGINALS ARE SEEN OF WHOM COPIES ARE RIFE. "Observe, in the first place, that troop of beggars which you see already in the street. They are libertines, mostly of good birth, who, like the monks, live on the principle of community of property; and who pass their nights in debauch at their haunts, where they are at all times well supplied with bread, meat, and wine. They are about to separate, each to perform his part in the churches of this godly city; and to-night, when reassembled, they will drink to the charitable fools who piously contribute to their orgies. You cannot but admire these scoundrels, who so well know the semblances which art adopts to inspire pity: why, coquettes are less adept to elicit love. "Look at those three rogues who are walking off together. He who, leaning upon crutches, trembles as he moves, and seems to halt with pain,--who, as he hobbles on, you would momentarily think must fall upon his face,--despite his long white beard and wrinkled front, he is a youthful scamp, so strong and swift, would head the hunted deer. The one beside him, with that awful scald, is a graceful adolescent, whose head is covered with a bladder skin which hides as beauteous curls as ever adorned a courtly page. The third, who gyrates in a bowl, is a comic rascal, that can bring such lamentable noises from his stomach as to move the bowels of all ancient ladies, who even hasten from the topmost floors to his relief. "While these mummers, under the mask of poverty, prepare to cheat the public into charity, I observe hosts of worthy artisans, who, Spaniards though they be, are on the road to earn their bread by the sweat of their careworn brows. On all sides you may behold men rising from their beds, or dressing hastily, that they may begin anew their various parts upon this busy stage. How many projects formed in the visionary night are about to be carried into execution, or to vanish with the sober light of morn! What schemes prompted by love, by interest, or ambition, are about to be attempted!" "What see I in the street?" interrupted Don Cleophas. "Who is that woman loaded with saintly medals, who walks, preceded by a footman, in such anxious haste? She has some pressing business in hand, beyond a doubt." "Indeed she has," replied the Devil; "she is a venerable matron, hurrying to a neighbouring house where her ministry is suddenly required. She seeks a fair comedian who suffers for the fault of Eve, and near whom are a brace of cavaliers in sore perplexity. One of these is her spouse, and the other a noble friend, who is greatly interested as to the result: for the labours of your actresses resemble those of Alcmena; there being ever a Jupiter and an Amphitryon who share in their production. "Would not one swear now, to look on that mounted cavalier, carrying a carbine in his hand, that he was a sportsman about to war with the hares and partridges who besiege the neighbourhood of Madrid? Nevertheless, it is no love of shooting which calls him forth so early: he is after other game; and is bent towards a village, where he will disguise himself as a peasant, that he may enter, without suspicion, the farm where his mistress resides, under the vigilant eye of an experienced mother. "That young graduate, passing along with such enormous strides, is going, according to his daily custom, to inquire after the health of an aged canon, his uncle, whose prebendary he has in his eye. Do you see, in that house opposite to us, a man putting on his cloak, evidently preparing to go out? He is an honest and rich citizen, whom a matter of grave interest has kept awake all night. He has an only daughter, of marriageable years, and he is unable to make up his mind whether he shall give her hand to a young attorney who solicits it, or to a proud hidalgo who demands it; and he is therefore going to consult his friends on the subject: in truth, he may well feel embarrassed. He is justly alarmed lest, by resolving on the gentleman, he should have a son-in-law who would despise him; and on the other hand he fears, that if he decide for the attorney, he will introduce into his house a worm which will consume all that it contains. "Look at the neighbour of this anxious parent. You may perceive, in that house so magnificently furnished, a man in a dressing-gown of scarlet brocade, embroidered with flowers of gold: there is a wit for you, who affects the lord in spite of his lowly origin. Ten years ago, he had not twenty maravedis wherewith to bless himself; and now, he boasts an annual revenue of ten thousand ducats. His equipage is in the best taste; but he keeps it on the savings of his table; whose frugality is such that he generally picks his chicken by himself. Sometimes, however, his ostentation compels him to regale his illustrious friends: to-day, for instance, he gives a dinner to some councillors of state; and, in anticipation, he has just sent for a pastry-cook, with whom he will haggle for a maravedi, before he agrees with him on the bill of fare, which it will be his next care to display to advantage." "You are describing a scaly villain, indeed!" cried Zambullo. "Oh! as to that," replied Asmodeus, "all beggars whom fortune suddenly enriches become either misers or spendthrifts: it is the rule." "Tell me," said the Student, "who is that lovely woman at her toilet, talking with that handsome cavalier?" "Ah! truly," exclaimed the Cripple, "you have hit on a subject which well deserves your attention. The lady is a German widow, who lives at Madrid on her dower, and who visits in the best society; and the young man who is with her is the Signor Don Antonio de Monsalva. "This cavalier, although a member of one of the noblest families in Spain, has pledged himself to the widow to espouse her; he has even given her a conditional promise of forfeiture to the amount of three thousand pistoles. He is, however, crossed in his love by his relations, who threaten to confine him if he do not immediately break off all connexion with the fair German, whom they look upon as an adventurer. The gallant, mortified to find his friends all thus opposed to his design, went yesterday evening to his mistress, who, perceiving his uneasiness, asked him its cause. This, after some hesitation, he told her, assuring her at the same time that whatever obstacles his family might raise, nothing should shake his constancy. The widow appeared delighted at his firmness, and they parted at midnight highly satisfied with each other. [Illustration: the cavalier visits the German widow] "Monsalva has returned this morning, as you see, to pay his devoirs to the lady, whom finding at her toilet, he used every effort to beguile the time by new protestations of devotion. During the conversation, his Saxon mistress was releasing her auburn curls from the papers which had confined them during the night; and our cavalier, happening to take up one of these, heedlessly unfolded it, and, to his great surprise, observed therein his own hand-writing. 'What! madam,' said he, smiling, 'is this the use you make of these pledges of my affection?' 'Yes! Monsalva,' replied the lady; 'you behold the value that I put upon the promises of lovers who would marry me in opposition to their friends; they make excellent _papillotes_.' When, indeed, the cavalier discovered that it was his pledge of forfeiture which his mistress had thus destroyed, he was filled with admiration at this unlooked-for proof of disinterestedness, and he is now very properly vowing to her for the thousandth time, eternal fidelity. "Cast your eyes," continued the Devil, "upon that tall man who is passing beneath us; he has a large common-place book under his arm, an ink-bottle hanging at his girdle, and a guitar slung at his back." "He is an odd-looking fellow indeed," cried the Student: "I would lay my life he is an original." "It is beyond a doubt," replied the Demon, "that he is a curious compound enough. There are such things as cynical philosophers in Spain; and there goes one. He is walking towards the Buen-Retiro, to reach a meadow in which there is a fountain, whose refreshing waters form a brook that glides like a silver serpent through the flowers. There will he pass the day, contemplating the beauties of nature, tinkling his guitar, and noting the reflections that the scene inspires in his common-place book. He carries in his pockets his ordinary food, that is to say, a piece of bread and some onions. Such is the sober life that he has led during ten years past; and were some Aristippus to say to him, as was erst spoken to Diogenes: 'If thou knewest how to pay thy court to the great, thou wouldst not eat onions;' this modern philosopher would reply: 'I could pay my court to the great as well as thou, if I would abase one man so low, as to make him cringe before another.' "In truth, however, this philosopher formerly mixed greatly with the nobility; he even owes his fortune to their patronage; but, compelled to feel, as all must who move among persons more exalted than themselves, that the friendship of these lordlings was to him but an honourable species of servitude, he broke off all connection with them. At the time I speak of he kept his carriage; this he subsequently put down, on reflecting that, as he rolled along, the mud from his wheels was splashed perhaps upon his betters. Distributing his wealth among his indigent friends, he reserved for himself no more than would enable him to live as moderately as he does; and he kept so much, only because it appeared to him no less shameful for a philosopher to beg his bread from the people than from the aristocracy. "Pity the cavalier who follows this philosopher, and whom you see accompanied by a dog. He can boast his descent from one of the most ancient and noble houses of Castile. He has been rich; but he ruined himself, like the Timon of Lucian, by feasting his friends every day; and, particularly, by giving splendid fêtes on the births and marriages of all the princes and princesses of Spain; in a word, on every occasion for rejoicing that he could make or find. No sooner did the discreet parasites who flocked round him see the ring slip over his purse than they abandoned his house and himself; one friend alone remains faithful to him now;--it is his dog." [Illustration: the ruined cavalier and his dog] "Tell me! Signor Asmodeus," cried Leandro Perez; "to whom belongs the carriage stopping before that house?" "It is the property of a rich contador, who comes here every morning to visit a frail beauty, whom this ancient sinner of Moorish race protects, and whom he loves to distraction. He learned last night that his female friend had been unfaithful, and in the fury which this intelligence induced, he wrote her a letter full of reproaches and threats. You would never guess what part the lady took on this occasion: instead of having the impudence to deny the fact, she sent to the treasurer this morning, owning that he was justly angered at her conduct; that he ought henceforth to despise her, since she had been capable of deceiving so gallant a lover; that she acknowledged and detested her fault; and that, to punish herself, she had already sacrificed those locks which he had so often admired; in short, that she had resolved to consecrate, in a nunnery, the remainder of her days to repentance. "The old dotard was unable to withstand the well-feigned remorse of his mistress, and has risen thus early to console her. He found her in tears; and so well has she played her part that he has just assured her of a full pardon for the past: nay, more, to compensate for the sacrifice of her much-prized tresses, he is, at this moment, promising to enable her to cut a figure in the world, by purchasing for her a handsome country-house, which is just about to be sold, near the Escurial." "All the shops are opened, I perceive," said the Student; "and I observe already a cavalier now entering a tavern." "That cavalier," replied Asmodeus, "is a youth of family, who is troubled with the prevailing mania for writing nonsense, that he may pass as an author. He is not absolutely without talent; he has even enough to enable him to detect its want in the dramas which are at present produced on your stage; but not so much as to qualify him to write a tolerable one himself. He has gone into that house to order a grand repast: he gives a dinner to-day to four comedians, whose good graces he would purchase in favour of a wretched comedy of his concoction, which he is on the point of presenting to their company. What will not money do? "Apropos of authors," continued the Devil, "there now are two just meeting in the street. Do you notice the mocking style of their salutes? They despise each other thoroughly: and they are right. One of them writes as easily as the poet Crispinus, whom Horace compares to the bellows of a forge; and the other wastes a vast deal of time in composing works as cold and insipid as a water ice." "Who is the little man descending from his carriage at the door of that church?" asked Zambullo. "He is a person worthy your remark," replied the Cripple. "It is not yet ten years since he abandoned the office of a notary, in which he was senior clerk, to shut himself up in the Carthusian monastery of Saragoza. At the end of a six-months noviciate, however, he left the convent, and re-appeared in Madrid; where those who had formerly known him were amazed to see him all at once become one of the principal members of the Council of the Indies. His sudden fortune is still the wonder of the town. Some say he has sold himself to the Devil; others, that he is the beloved of some rich dowager; and some, again, insist that he must have found a treasure." "Well! you know all about it, of course," interrupted Don Cleophas. "I should wonder if I did not," replied the Demon; "but I will unveil this mystery for you. [Illustration: the novice unearths the casket] "During his aforesaid noviciate, it happened one day that our intended monk, in digging a deep hole in his appointed garden, lighted on a brazen coffer, which he opened, of course, and within which he found a golden casket containing some thirty diamonds of the purest water. Although the pious horticulturist knew little enough of precious stones, he shrewdly suspected that whoever had placed them there was wiser; so resolving on the course which, in one of the comedies of Plautus, is adopted by Gripus, who abandons fishing when he has found a treasure, he threw off his gown, returned to Madrid, and by the assistance of a friendly jeweller, transmuted his diamonds into pieces of gold, and his pieces of gold into an office which has procured for him an exalted station in society." CHAPTER XVIII. RELATING TO OTHER MATTERS WHICH THE DEVIL EXHIBITED TO THE STUDENT. "I must indulge you with a laugh," continued Asmodeus, "at the cost of an amusing character whom you see walking into that coffee-house, over the way. He is a Biscayan physician, and is going to sip his cup of chocolate; after which he will return to his home to pass the day at chess. "While he is thus engaged, do not be alarmed for his patients; he has none: and if he had, the moments he employs in play would not be the worst for them. He moves from his chess-board in the evening to repair to the house of a rich and handsome widow, with whom he would be happy to mate, and for whom he affects a knightly passion. When he is with her, a rascally valet, his only domestic, and who is aware of his practice with the widow, brings him a false list, studded with the names of noble lords and ladies who have sent to seek the doctor. The lady dreams not he is playing false, and the Biscayan is therefore fast entrapping her into a false move, which will win him the game. [Illustration: three girls getting up] "But," continued the Devil, "let us stop a moment at that house close by; I would have you remark what is passing there before we look elsewhere. Run your eyes over the rooms: what do you observe?" "Why, I can discern some maidens, whose beauty dazzles me," replied the Student. "Some are just leaving their beds, and others have already risen. What charms do they present to my feasting eyes! I can fancy I behold the nymphs of Diana, but more lovely than the poets have depicted them." "If those maidens, as you call them, and whom you admire so much," replied the Cripple, "have the graces of Diana's nymphs, they assuredly want their chastity to complete the picture. They are a parcel of good-natured females, who live upon a common fund. As dangerous as the fair damsels of chivalry who arrested, by their charms, the knights who passed before their castle walls, they seek to draw your less heroic youths within their bowers. And woe betide those whom they ensnare! To warn the passer-by of the peril which awaits him, beacons should be set before their doors, as such friendly monitors are placed on dangerous coasts to mark the places mariners should shun." "I need not ask you," said Leandro Perez, "whither go those signors whom I see lolling in their carriages: they are doubtless going to the levée of the king." "You have said it," replied the Devil; "and if you also would attend it, I will carry you there before them: we shall have amusement enough, I promise you." "You could not have proposed a thing more suited to my taste," replied Zambullo; "and I anticipate all the pleasure you have promised me." The Demon, although eager to satisfy Don Cleophas in his desires, carried him leisurely towards the palace, so that, in their way, the Student, perceiving some workmen employed upon a lofty doorway, asked if it were the portal of a church they were constructing. "No," replied Asmodeus, "it is the entrance to a new market; and it is magnificent as you see. However, though they raised its arch until its point were lost in clouds, it would be still unworthy of two Latin lines which are to adorn its front." "What say you?" cried Leandro;--"what a notion would you give me of the verses that you speak of! I die with anxiety to hear them." "I will repeat them, then," replied the Devil; "and do you prepare to admire them. 'Quam bene Mercurius nunc merces vendit opimas, Momus ubi fatuos vendidit ante sales! "In these two lines is concealed one of the most delicate puns imaginable." "I cannot say I yet perceive its point," said the Student; "I do not clearly understand what is referred to by your _fatuos sales_." "You are not then aware," replied the Devil, "that on the spot where they are building this market for the sale of provisions, there formerly stood a monkish college in which youth was inducted to the humanities. The rectors of this college were in the habit of getting up plays, in which the students figured on the stage. These plays were, as you may suppose, flat enough as to effect and language; and were enlivened by ballets, so amusingly absurd, that everything danced, even to preterites and supines." "There! that is quite enough," interrupted Zambullo; "I am quite alive to the stuff of which college pieces are composed--excuse my pun--but the inscription is admirable." Asmodeus and Don Cleophas had scarcely reached the grand staircase of the palace, when the courtiers commenced the inflating labour of mounting its polished steps. As they passed our unseen watchers, the Devil did the honour of announcing them to the Student: "There," said he, pointing with his finger as he spoke, "there is the Count de Villalonso, of the house of Puebla d'Ellerena; this is the Marquis de Castro Fueste; that is Don Lopez de Los Rios, president of the council of finance; and here is the Count de Villa Hombrosa." He did not, however, content himself thus with naming them; each had his legend: and the Demon's sardonic spirit found in the character of each some weakness to laugh at, or some vices to lay bare. None passed before him unnoted. "That signor," said he of one, "is affable and obliging; and listens to you with an air of kindness. Do you ask his protection, he grants it freely; nay, proffers you his interest. It is pity that a man who loves so much to assist his fellow-creatures should have a memory so bad, that a quarter of an hour after you have spoken to him, he should forget all you have asked and he has promised. "That duke," said he, speaking of another, "is one of the best characters that haunts the court. He is not, like most of his equals, one man at this moment and another the next; there is no caprice, no inequality in his disposition. I may add to this, that he pays not with ingratitude the affection that is shown for him, or the services that are rendered in his behalf. Unfortunately, again, he is too slothful to reward these kindnesses as they deserve: he leaves so long to be desired what is so rightfully expected, that when the favour is at last obtained, it is felt to have been dearly purchased." After the Demon had thus exhibited to the Student the good and evil qualities of a great number of signors, he conducted him into a room in which there were all sorts and conditions of men, but especially so many chevaliers, that Don Cleophas could not help exclaiming: "What numberless knights! By our Lady! there must be enough and to spare of them in Spain." "I can answer for that," replied the Cripple; "and it is not at all surprising, since to be dubbed companion of St. Jago, or of Calatrava, your vigilants require no five-and-twenty thousand crowns in pocket or estate, as did formerly the knights of ancient Rome: you perceive therefore that knighthood is an article most admirably assorted. "Observe," continued the Devil, "that common-looking fellow behind us." "Hush!" interrupted Zambullo; "speak softly, or the man will hear you." "No, no," replied Asmodeus; "the same charm which renders us invisible, prevents our being heard. Examine him well: he is a Catalonian, returned from the Philippines, where he ranged the seas as a pirate. Could you conceive, to look on him, that you beheld a thunderbolt of war? Nevertheless, he has performed, in his vocation, prodigies of valour. He is here this morning, to present a petition to the king, in which he asks, as a recompense for his services, a certain post, which is vacant. I doubt, however, if he will succeed, inasmuch as he has neglected duly to possess the prime minister with a proper notion of his merits." "I perceive on the right of the pirate," said Leandro Perez, "a tall and bulky man, who is sufficiently impressed with an idea of his own importance: to judge of his station by the pride of his bearing, he is some wealthy grandee, certainly." "Nothing can be further from the truth," replied the Demon: "he is one of the poorest of Hidalgos, who lives on the profits of a gaming-table, under the protection of one of the ministers. "But I see a licentiate, who must not pass without your notice: it is he whom you can perceive near the first window, in conversation with a cavalier clad in velvet of a silver grey. They are discoursing of a matter yesterday decided by the king; but I will tell you its history. "Two months ago, this licentiate, who is an academician of Toledo, published a work on morals, which shocked the orthodox opinions of all your grey-headed authors of Castile: they found it full of vigorous expressions and words newly introduced. It required no more to unite them against so singular a production; and they therefore instantly assembled, and agreed upon a petition to his majesty, praying him to condemn the book as one written in a style dangerous to the purity and simplicity of the Spanish tongue. [Illustration: the three commissioners reporting to the king] "The petition appearing worthy of attention to his majesty, he named three commissioners to examine the work; and they estimating its style to be really reprehensible, and the more so from its peculiar brilliancy, upon their report the king has decreed that, under pain of his displeasure, those academicians of Toledo who write after the manner of the licentiate shall not dare to publish another book; and further that, in order to preserve the language of Castile in all its purity, such academicians, after their decease, shall be replaced by persons of the first quality alone." "That is indeed a marvellous decision!" cried Zambullo, laughing: "the lovers of our vulgar tongue have henceforth nought to fear." "Excuse me," replied the Devil; "but your writers who endanger that noble chastity of style which forms the delight of all discerning readers, are not confined to the Toledan academy." Don Cleophas was now curious to learn who was the cavalier in silver-grey habiliments, whom he beheld conversing with the hardy moralist. "He," said the Cripple, "is a Catalonian, an officer of the Spanish guard, and of course a younger son; but he is a youth whose tongue is pointed as the sword he wears. To give you an example of his wit, I will tell you of a repartee that he made yesterday to a lady whom he met in high society. But to enable you to enjoy its pungency, I must inform you that he has a brother, Don Andrea de Prada, who was some years since, an officer, like himself, in the same corps. "It happened one day that a farmer of the king's revenues came to this Don Andrea, and said to him: 'Signor de Prada, I bear the same name as you, but our families are different. I am aware that you belong to one of the noblest houses in Catalonia, but at the same time that you are not rich. Now, I am of a poor family, and have lots of wealth. Can we not find a means, therefore, to communicate to each other that which we mutually want? Have you your titles of nobility?' 'Certainly!' replied Don Andrea. 'That being the case,' continued the other, 'if you will confide the documents to my hands, I will place them in those of an ingenious genealogist, who will set to work upon them, and will make us relations in spite of our ancestors. On my part, as in duty bound, I will make my kinsman a present of thirty thousand pistoles: is it a bargain?' Don Andrea, dazzled by the proposition, accepted it at once, gave the parchments to the farmer, and with the money he received purchased an estate in his native province, where he now resides at his ease. "His younger brother, who gained nothing by the transaction, was dining yesterday at a house where the conversation turned by chance on the Signor de Prada, farmer of the king's revenues. On this, the lady of whom I spoke, turning to the young officer, asked if the wealthy signor were not related to him. 'No,' replied he, 'I have not that honour; but I believe he is a relation of my brother's.'" The Student laughed, as well he might, at this family distinction, which appeared to him rather novel. But perceiving at the moment a little man following a courtier, he cried out: "Bah! but yon homunculus will lose nothing for the want of reverence to the signor whom he shadows. He has some precious favour to intreat, beyond all doubt." "I shall not occupy your time in vain," replied the Devil, "in telling you the object of the obsequiousness you observe. The little man is an honest citizen, who is proprietor of a country house in the suburbs of Madrid, near which are some mineral springs of fashionable celebrity. He has lent this house, rent free, for three months to this signor, that the latter may drink the waters: he is at this moment very humbly beseeching his noble tenant to serve him on a pressing opportunity which offers; and the signor is very politely declining to do so. "I must not let yon cavalier of plebeian race escape me. See, where he wades through the expecting throng with all the air of one of note. He has become immensely rich by force of calculation, and in his proud mansion has as many servants as your first grandee; his table would put to shame for delicacy and abundance that of a minister of state. He has a carriage for himself, one for his wife, and another for his children; and in his stables may be seen the best of mules and the most splendid horses in the world. Only yesterday, he bought, and paid for on the nail, a superb train of noble animals, that the prince of Spain had partially agreed for, but had thought too dear." "What insolence!" exclaimed Leandro. "A Turk, now, who beheld that lump of arrogance, poised on so dangerous a height, would watch each instant for its sudden fall." "I know nothing of the time to come," replied Asmodeus, "but think your Turk would not be far from right. "Ah! what is that I see?" continued the Demon with surprise. "Did I wonder at any thing, I should disbelieve my eyes. I absolutely discern within this room a poet--the last whom I should expect to see. How dares he come within these walls?--he who could write in terms offensive to their noblest visitants. He must count indeed on the contempt that he is held in! [Illustration: the chief magistrate and his page] "But mark particularly that venerable man who enters now, supported by a page. Observe with what respect the crowd divides to make way for him. That is the signor Don José de Reynaste e Ayala, chief magistrate of the police: he comes hither to inform the king of the events of last night in the capital. Methinks, signor Student, that we could assist him in his report! However, regard him with admiration, for he deserves it." "In truth," replied Zambullo, "he looks like a man of worth." "It would be well for Spain," replied the Cripple, "if all its corregidors would take him for their model. He has none of that intemperate zeal which urges those who should administer the law to violate its spirit from impetuosity or caprice; and he respects too much the sacred freedom of the person to deprive the meanest of his fellow-subjects of that blessed right on the mere information of an alguazil, a clerk, or even a secretary of police. He knows those gentlemen too well; and that, for the most of them, their venal souls will scruple not to traffic on the fund of his authority. When a man stands before him, accused of crime, he may be sure that justice will be done towards him; the evidence is sifted until truth is discovered; and thus the prisons, instead of echoing the sighs of innocence, perform their proper office of holding the guilty. Even these are not abandoned to the licence which ordinarily reigns in gaols. He visits, as a man, those whom, as a magistrate, he has condemned, and is careful that inhumanity, in its dispensers, shall not add rigour to the law." [Illustration: the chief magistrate visiting a prisoner] "What an eulogium!" exclaimed Leandro; "you paint a man whom angels might agree to worship! You rouse my curiosity to witness his reception by the king." "I am annoyed," replied the Devil, "to be obliged to tell you of my inability to gratify a wish that I expected, without at least exposing myself to insult. It is not in my vocation, nor am I permitted, to intrude myself on kings; their cabinet is the domain of Leviathan, Belphegor, and Ashtaroth; I informed you, from my bottle, that these three demons preside over the councils of princes. All others of our craft are denied the entrée at court; and I know not what I could have been thinking of, when I offered to bring you here: it was a dangerous flight to take, I can assure you. If my three loving brethren should perceive me, they would show me no favour, I promise you, and between ourselves, I would rather avoid the conflict." "That being so," replied the Student, "let us be off as quickly as you please: I should die with grief to see you curried by those wretched grooms, without being able to help you; for if I lent you a hand, I expect you would shine none the brighter for my assistance." "Most decidedly not," replied Asmodeus; "they would never feel the blows that you could deal them, and you would have the satisfaction of dying under theirs. "But," he continued, "to console you for your exclusion from the cabinet of your potent sovereign, I will procure you a pleasure quite equal to the one you lose." And as he finished these words, he took the Student's hand, and away they went, as fast as the Devil could fly, toward the monastery of Mercy. CHAPTER XIX. THE CAPTIVES. In a moment they were on a house adjoining the monastery, at the gate of which there was a vast concourse of persons, of all ages and of both sexes. "Here's a crowd!" exclaimed Leandro Perez. "What ceremony can call so many good folks together?" "Why," replied Asmodeus, "it is one which you have never witnessed, though it may be seen from time to time within Madrid. Three hundred slaves, all subjects of the crown of Spain, are expected to arrive each minute: they return from Algiers, where they have been recently purchased by some fathers of the Redemption. Every street through which they are to pass will be lined with spectators to welcome them." "It is true, indeed," replied Zambullo, "that I have never had the curiosity to behold a similar exhibition; and, if this be the treat which your worship has reserved to gratify my taste, I must tell you frankly that you need not have so boasted of its piquancy." "Oh! I know you well enough," replied the Devil, "not to be aware that it is no joyous spectacle for you to look upon the misery of your fellows; but when I tell you that, in bringing you here to view it under its present form, I am about to reveal certain singular circumstances attending the captivity of some, and the equally curious embarrassment in which others will find themselves on returning to their homes, I am persuaded that you will not be unthankful for the amusement I have provided." "Certainly not," replied the Student; "you put another face upon the matter; and you will afford me much pleasure by your promised revelations." During this discussion, loud shouts were suddenly heard from the populace as they beheld the approaching captives, who marched two by two, in their slaves' dresses, each bearing his chain upon his shoulders. They were preceded by a considerable number of monks of the order of Mercy, who had been to meet them, and who rode on mules caparisoned in black serge, as if they headed a funeral: one of these good fathers carried the standard of Redemption. The younger captives came first; the more aged followed; and the procession was closed by an aged monk of the same order as the first, who, mounted on a diminutive steed, had all the air of a prophet: this was the chief of the missionary expedition. To him every eye was attracted, as much by his excessive gravity, as by a long white beard which flowed down his bosom, and gave to the features of this Moses of the Spaniards a venerable aspect, lighted as they were by a heartfelt joy at having been the instrument of restoring so many of his Christian brethren to their country. "The captives whom you see," commenced the Cripple, "are not all equally rejoiced at their restoration to liberty. If there be some whose hearts beat with pleasure at the thought that they are about to see once more their dearest friends, there are others not a little fearful that, during the time they have been estranged from their families, events may have occurred which will bring tortures to their minds more cruel than the most refined of slavery itself. [Illustration: the procession] "For instance, the two who first approach are in the latter category. The one, a native of the little town of Velilla in Aragon, after having passed ten years in bondage with the Turk, without once hearing of his much-loved wife, comes home to find her bound again in wedlock, and the mother of five little ones who can claim no kin with him. The other, son of a wool-merchant of Segovia, was carried off by a corsair nearly twenty years ago: he returns with a lively apprehension that matters have gravely changed during that time with his family, and he will find himself a prophet in his loss. His father and mother are dead; and his brothers, who shared their wealth, have dissipated it foolishly enough." "My attention is rivetted," exclaimed the Student, "upon a slave whom, by his looks, I judge to be delighted that he is no longer exposed to the seducing influence of the bastinado." "The captive whom you speak of," replied the Devil, "has good reason to rejoice at his deliverance: he has learnt, since his return, that an aunt to whom he is sole heir has just been released from her troubles, and that he is consequently about to enjoy the free use of her brilliant fortune. This it is which now occupies his thoughts so agreeably, and gives to his appearance that air of satisfaction which you remark. "How all unlike is he to the unhappy cavalier who walks beside him; the tortures of suspense fill his bosom incessantly: I will tell you on what they impend. When he was taken by a pirate of Algiers, as he was passing into Italy from Spain, he loved a maiden and by her was loved: he dreads lest, while he was in chains, his fair one's constancy may have failed her." "Has he been long a slave then?" asked Zambullo. "Eighteen months," replied Asmodeus. "Pooh!" exclaimed Leandro Perez, "I fancy our gallant is a prey to causeless fear; he has hardly put his mistress's fidelity to such a test as to have need for great alarm." "There you are mistaken," replied the Cripple; "his princess no sooner heard that he was captive to the Moor, than she hastened to provide herself with a more fortunate lover. "Would you credit now," continued the Demon, "that the man who follows immediately behind the two we have been speaking of, and whom that thick and sandy beard so horribly disfigures, was once a very handsome man? Nothing, however, can be more certain; and you see, in that bent and hideous figure, the hero of a story remarkable enough to induce me to relate it to you. [Illustration: Fabricio] "His name is Fabricio, and he was hardly fifteen years of age when his father, a wealthy cultivator of Cinquello, a large village of the kingdom of Leon, died. He lost his mother shortly afterwards; so that, being an only son, he became thus early the master of a considerable property, the management of which was confided to an uncle, who happened to be honest. Fabricio completed his studies at Salamanca, where he had been previously placed; he then particularly devoted himself to the noble accomplishments of riding and fencing; in a word, he neglected nothing which might concur to render him worthy the sweet regards of Donna Hippolita, sister of a vegetating signor, whose cottage was about a couple of gun-shots from Cinquello. "This lady was beautiful in the extreme, and about the age of Fabricio, who, having seen her from his infancy, had, to speak vulgarly, sucked in with his mother's milk the love which occupied his soul in manhood. Hippolita, on her side, could not help perceiving that Fabricio was not ill-made; but, knowing him to be the son of a husbandman, she had never deigned to look on him with attention. Her pride was only equalled by her loveliness, and by the haughty bearing of her brother, Don Thomaso de Xaral, who was probably unsurpassed, even in Spain, for his lordly want of money, and his beggarly pride. "This inflated country gentleman lived in a small house which he dignified by the name of castle, but which to speak properly was a ruin, so little had the winds respected his nobility. However, although his means did not enable him to repair his mansion, and although he had hardly enough to sustain himself, he must needs keep a valet to attend upon his person; nay, he even kept a Moorish female to wait upon his sister. "It was a refreshing sight to witness, in the village, on Sundays and at every festival, Don Thomaso habited in crimson velvet, but sadly faded, and a little hat, overshadowed with an ancient plume of yellow feathers, which were carefully enshrined, like relics, on the common days of the year. Disporting this frippery, which to him was proof apparent of his noble birth, he would affect the grandee, and seemed to think that he amply repaid the reverence that was offered to him when he condescended to notice it by an approving smile. His fair sister was not less vain than himself of the antiquity of her race; and she joined to this folly that of such self-congratulation on her charms, that she lived in the most perfect confidence that ere long some noble signor would come to beg the honour of her hand. "Such were the characters of Don Thomaso and the beauteous Hippolita. Fabricio, aware of their foibles, and in order to insinuate himself into the estimation of persons so exalted, lost no opportunity of flattering their pride by the most respectful seeming; and so well did he manage, that the brother and sister at last were graciously pleased to allow him frequent occasions for paying his homage to them. As he was as well informed of their poverty as of their vanity, he was tempted every day to make offer of his purse; and was only withheld from doing so by the uncertainty as to which of their failings was the greater: nevertheless, his ingenious generosity found a way of relieving the one without causing the other to blush. 'Signor,' said he one day to Don Thomaso in private, 'I have a thousand ducats which I would entrust in safe hands: have the kindness to take care of them for me;--permit me to owe this obligation to you.' "I need hardly tell you that Xaral consented; but besides being short of money, he had the very soul for a trustee. He therefore made no scruple of taking charge of the sum proposed; and no sooner was it in his possession, than, without ceremony, he employed a good part of it in putting his house in order, and adding thereto sundry little conveniences. A new dress of splendid light blue velvet was bought, and made at Salamanca; and a green plume, also purchased there, came to snatch from the olden plume of yellow the glory which had pertained to it from time immemorial, of adorning the noble front of Don Thomaso. The lovely Hippolita had also her compliment, and was entirely new-rigged. And thus did Xaral quickly melt the ducats which had been confided to him, not once reflecting that they did not belong to him, or that he would never be able to restore them. Indeed, he would not have scrupled thus to use them, had such extraordinary thoughts occurred to him; he would have felt that it was perfectly proper a plebeian should pay for the patronage of so noble a person as himself. "Fabricio had foreseen all this; but had at the same time flattered himself, that out of love for his money, if not for himself, Don Thomaso would live with him on terms of greater intimacy; that Hippolita by degrees would become accustomed to his attentions, and finally pardon the audacity which had inspired him to elevate his thoughts to her. In effect, his intercourse with them certainly increased, and they displayed for him a consideration that he had never before appeared to deserve: a rich man is ever appreciated by the great, when he will consent to act for them the part of the wolf to Romulus and Remus. Xaral and his sister, who until now had nothing known of riches but the name, had no sooner tasted the intoxicating draught, than they deemed Fabricio, the source whence it flowed, an object not to be neglected; and they therefore exhibited towards him such marks of respect, and almost affection, as made him think his money well bestowed. He was soon convinced that he had really won upon them; and that wisely reflecting it is the lot of the proudest signors to be obliged, in order to sustain their pretensions, to graft their noble scions on the stocks of the fortunate vulgar, they now looked on him without disdain. With this notion, which flattered his own self-love, Fabricio resolved to propose for Hippolita to her brother. "On the first favourable opportunity which offered to speak with Don Thomaso on the subject, he informed him that he had dared aspire to the honour of becoming his brother-in-law; and that, as the price of such concession, not only would he abandon all claim to the money deposited in his hands, but that he would add to it a present of a thousand pistoles. The haughty Xaral coloured at this proposition, which awakened his slumbering pride; and in the excitation of the moment, could scarcely refrain from displaying the utter contempt in which he held the son of an industrious father. But, however insulted he felt at the temerity of Fabricio, he constrained himself; and, as respectfully as his nature would permit, replied that in a matter of such importance he could not at once determine; that he must consult Hippolita, and that it would even be necessary to summon a conclave of his noble relatives thereupon. "With this answer he dismissed the gallant, and forthwith convoked a diet composed of certain hidalgos of his neighbourhood, with whom he claimed affinity, and who, like himself, were all infected with demophobia. With these he consulted, not as to whether they were of opinion that he should bestow his sister upon Fabricio, but on the most proper steps to be adopted in order sufficiently to punish the insolent young man, who, forgetful of the meanness of his origin, had dared pretend to the hand of a lady of the rank of Hippolita. "As soon as he had exposed to the assembly this presumptuous demand,--as he mentioned the name of Fabricio, and uttered the words, 'Son of a husbandman,'--you should have seen how the eyes of all the nobles lighted up with fury. Each of them vomited fire and flame against the audacious groundling; and with one voice they all insisted, that his death beneath the cudgels of their domestics alone could expiate the vile affront he had offered to their family by the proposal of so scandalous an union. However, on mature consideration, the offended members of the diet agreed to spare the culprit's life; but, in order to teach him that first and far most useful knowledge--of himself, they resolved to play him such a trick as he should have reason to remember while he lived. "Various were the schemes proposed: the one on which they at last decided was as follows. Hippolita was to feign a sensibility for the passion of Fabricio; and, under pretence of consoling her unhappy lover for the refusal which Don Thomaso would have given to his proposal for her hand, she was to make an assignation for some particular evening to receive him at the castle; where, at the moment of his introduction by the Moorish female, the friends of the signor would surprise him with the waiting-maid, and compel him to espouse her. "The sister of Xaral at first inclined to favour this piece of rascality; she even joined in thinking that her reputation demanded of her to consider as an insult the addresses of a person in a station so inferior to her own. But these haughty feelings soon yielded to others more gentle, prompted by pity; or rather, love suddenly vanquished all pride of heart in the bosom of Hippolita. "From that moment, she looked on all things with a different eye. The obscure origin of Fabricio now appeared to her more than compensated by a nobility of disposition; and she perceived in him but a cavalier worthy of her tenderest affection. Remark again, Signor Student, and with all due admiration, how prodigious are the changes which this passion can effect: the very girl who yesterday imagined that a monarch's heir scarce merited the honour of possessing her, to-day is all enamoured of a ploughman's son, and is flattered by pretensions which before she had regarded as disgraceful. Far therefore from assisting her brother in his purposed revenge, and yielding to the new-born passion which now reigned supreme within her soul, Hippolita entered into secret correspondence with Fabricio, by means of her Moorish attendant, who frequently of an evening introduced the gallant into the cottage. Thus baffled in his design, Don Thomaso soon became suspicious of the truth; and watching his sister, he was convinced by his own eyes that, instead of fulfilling the wishes of her relations, she had betrayed them. [Illustration: Hippolita's Moorish servant admits Fabricio] "He instantly informed two of his cousins of the discovery he had made: 'Vengeance! Don Thomaso, vengeance!' they exclaimed, infuriate at such baseness in one of their illustrious race. Xaral, who did not require urging to exact satisfaction for an indignity of this nature, replied, with true Spanish modesty, 'that they should find he knew well how to use his sword when its employment was called for to avenge his honour;' and he entreated them to come to his house on a particular night. [Illustration: Don Thomaso and his cousins surprise Fabricio and Hippolita] "They came at the appointed time, and were secretly received and concealed in a small room by Don Thomaso; who left them, saying that he would return the instant the lover entered his doors, should he think fit to come at all that evening. This did not fail to happen; the unlucky stars of our lovers had decreed that they should choose that very night for their meeting. "Don Fabricio was already with his dear Hippolita, listening to and repeating for the hundredth time those sweet avowals which make up the dialogue of lovers, but which, though spoken from eternity, have still the charm of novelty, when they were disagreeably interrupted by the cavaliers who waited to surprise them. Don Thomaso and his cousins, with all the courage of three against one, rushed upon Fabricio, who had scarcely time to draw in his defence; but perceiving at once that their object was to assassinate him, he fought with a courage which makes one equal to three; he wounded all his assailants, and exerting the skill he had acquired at Salamanca, managed to keep them at his sword's point till he had gained the door, when he made off at full speed. "Upon this, Xaral, maddened with rage at beholding his enemy escape him, after having with impunity dishonoured his house, turned all his fury against the unfortunate Hippolita, and plunged his sword into her heart. After which his two relatives returned to their homes, extremely mortified at the bad success of their plot, and with no other consolation than their wounds. There we will leave them," continued Asmodeus. "When we have passed in review the other captives, I will finish the history of this one. I will relate to you how, after justice, or rather the law, had possessed itself of his effects on account of this mournful event, the pirates seized his person, with about as good reason, when he happened to be making a voyage." "While you were telling me this story of love and pride," said Don Cleophas, "I observed a young man whose countenance bespeaks such sorrow at his heart, that I wonder I did not interrupt you to inquire its cause." "You will lose nothing by your discretion," replied the Demon; "I can tell you now all you desire to know. The captive whose dejection attracted your notice, is a youth of family from Valladolid. Two years was he in slavery, but with a patron who possessed a very pretty wife. The lady looked with favour on the slave, and the slave, as in duty bound, repaid the lady's favours with interest. The patron, becoming suspicious as to the nature of his slave's labours, hastened to sell the Christian to the brothers of the Redemption, lest he should be irreligiously employed in the propagation of Mahometanism. The tender Castilian, ever since, has done nothing but weep for the loss of his patroness; liberty itself cannot console him." "An old man of good appearance attracts my attention there," said Leandro Perez; "who, and what, is he?" The Devil replied: "He is a barber, of Guipuscoa, who is about to return to Biscay after a captivity of forty years. When he fell into the hands of a corsair, in going from Valencia to the island of Sardinia, he had a wife, two sons, and a daughter. Of all these, one son alone remains; and he, more lucky than his father, has been to Peru, whence he has safely returned with immense wealth to his native province, in which he has recently purchased two handsome estates." "What pleasure!" exclaimed the Student, "what delight awaits this happy son, to behold again his long-lost parent, and to be enabled to render his declining years peaceful and agreeable!" "You," replied the Cripple, "speak like a child whom tenderness and duty prompt; the son of the Biscayan barber is of a sterner mould: the unlooked-for coming of his sire to him will bring more grief than joy. Instead of welcoming him to his mansion at Guipuscoa, and sparing nothing to mark the bliss he feels at pressing him once more to his bosom, he will probably be filial enough to make him steward of one of his estates. "Behind this captive, whose good looks you admire so much, is another as like an old baboon as are two drops of water to each other: he is a little Aragonese physician. He has not been a fortnight in Algiers; for as soon as the Turks knew what was his profession, they resolved, rather than suffer him to remain among them, to place him without ransom in the hands of the fathers of Mercy, who would certainly never have purchased him, and who bring him back with compunction to Spain. "You who feel so sensibly the woes of others, ah! how would you grieve for that other slave, he who wears upon his head that little cap of brown cloth, did you but know the ills he has endured during twelve years, in the house of an English renegade, his patron." "And who is this unhappy captive?" asked Zambullo. "He is a cordelier of Navarre," replied the Demon. "I must own, however, that for myself, I rejoice that he has suffered so severely; since, by his eternal preaching, he has prevented more than a hundred Christian slaves from adopting the turban." "Well! to imitate your frankness," replied Don Cleophas, "I must say that I am really afflicted to think that this good father should have been so long at the mercy of the barbarian." "As to that," replied Asmodeus, "you are as unwise to regret it, as I to rejoice. The good monk has turned his dozen years' captivity to so good account, that he will find his advantage in having passed that time in suffering instead of in his cell, where he would have striven with temptations that he would not at all times have vanquished." "The first captive after the monks," said Leandro Perez, "has a most complacent air for a man who returns from slavery: he excites my curiosity to know his history." "You anticipate me," replied the Cripple; "I was just about to tell you all about him. You see in him, a citizen of Salamanca, an unfortunate father, a mortal rendered insensible to misfortune by the weight of those he has experienced. I am tempted to relate to you the painful details of his life, and to leave the rest of the captives to their fates; besides, there is scarcely another whose adventures are worth the trouble of telling." The Student, who began to tire of this sombre procession, stated that he asked for nothing better; whereupon, the Devil began the history contained in the following chapter. [Illustration: tailpiece of the Aragonese physician and the cordelier of Navarre] CHAPTER XX. OF THE LAST HISTORY RELATED BY ASMODEUS: HOW, WHILE CONCLUDING IT, HE WAS SUDDENLY INTERRUPTED; AND OF THE DISAGREEABLE MANNER, FOR THE WITTY DEMON, IN WHICH HE AND DON CLEOPHAS WERE SEPARATED. "Pablos de Bahabon, son of an alcade of a village in Old Castile, after having divided with his sister and brother the small inheritance which their father, although one of the most avaricious of men, had left them, set out for Salamanca with the intention of increasing the number of students in its university. He was well made, not without wit, and was just entering upon his twenty-third year. "With a thousand ducats in his possession, and a disposition fitted to get rid of them, it was not long before he was the talk of the town. The young men, without exception, were eager to cultivate his friendship; the strife, was who were to be included in the joyous parties which Don Pablos gave every day. I say Don Pablos, because he had assumed the Don, that he might live on equal terms with the students whose nobility would otherwise have demanded a formality in his intercourse with them, anything but pleasant. So well did he love gaiety and the good things of this world, and so badly did he manage the only thing which can always command them,--his purse, that at the end of fifteen months he found it one morning empty. He contrived, however, to get on for some time longer, partly by credit and partly by borrowing; but he soon found that these are resources which speedily fail when a man has no other. "This having come to pass, his friends perceiving that their visits were anything but agreeable,--to themselves, they ceased to call; and his creditors commenced paying him their respects, with an assiduity which was anything but delightful to poor Don Pablos. For although he assured the latter that he was in daily expectation of receiving bills of exchange from his relations, there were some who were uncivil enough to decline waiting their arrival; and they were so sharp in their legal proceedings that our hero was on the point of finishing his studies in jail, when one day he met an acquaintance while walking on the banks of the Tormes, who said to him: 'Signor Don Pablos, beware! I warn you that an alguazil and his archers are on the look-out for you, and they intend to pay you the honour of a guard on your return to the city.' "Bahabon, alarmed at this intended public attention to his person, which suited so ill to the state of his private affairs, resolved to shun this demonstration of respect, and instantly took to flight and the road to Corita. In his anxiety for privacy, he had not walked far before he turned off to plunge into a neighbouring wood, in which he resolved to conceal himself until night should lend her friendly shades to enable him to travel more secure from observation. It was at that season of the year when the trees are decked in their proudest apparel, and he therefore chose the best dressed in the forest, that it might spare a covering for him: into this he mounted, and arranged himself upon a branch whose wavy ornaments shrouded him from sight. "Feeling secure in his elevated seat, he by degrees soon lost all fear of the too attentive alguazil; and as men usually make the best reflections on their conduct when thought is too late to avail them, he recalled all the follies he had committed, and promised to himself, that if ever he again should be in fortune's way, he would make a better use of her favours. Most especially he vowed to be no more the dupe of seeming friends, who lead young men into dissipation, and whose attachment finishes with the last bottle. "While thus occupied with the busy thoughts which come like creditors into the distressed mind, night recalled him to his situation. Disengaging himself from the sheltering leaves, and shaking hands with the friendly branch, he was preparing to descend, when, by as much light as the moon could throw into the forest, he thought he could discern the figure of a man. As he looked, his former fears returned: and he imagined it must be the alguazil, who, having tracked his footsteps, was seeking him in the wood. His fears redoubled when he saw the man, after walking round it two or three times, sit himself down at the foot of the very tree in which he was." Asmodeus interrupted the course of his narrative in this place: "Signor Don Cleophas," said he, "permit me to enjoy for a while the perplexity I occasion in your mind at this moment. You are desperately anxious to know now, who can this mortal be that comes so inopportunely, and what can have brought him thither. Well, that is what you shall learn: I will not abuse your patience. [Illustration: Bahabon watches the bag being buried] "After the man had seated himself at the foot of the tree, whose thick foliage almost hid him from the sight of Don Pablos, he reposed for a few seconds, and then rose and began digging the ground with a poniard. Having made a deep hole, and placed therein a leathern bag, he refilled it, covered it over carefully with the moss-grown turf he had removed, and then retired. Bahabon, who had strained his eyes to watch these operations, and whose fears were changed to anxious joy during their progress, scarcely waited until the man was out of sight ere he descended from his hiding-place to disinter the sack, in which he doubted not to find a good store of silver or of gold. His knife was sufficient for the purpose; but, had he wanted that, he felt such ardour for the work, that he would have penetrated with his nails into the bowels of the earth. "The instant that he had the bag in his possession, just handling it sufficiently to feel convinced that it contained good sounding coin, he hastened to quit the wood with his prey, less fearing to meet the alguazil in his altered state, than the man to whom the bag of right belonged. Intoxicated with delight at having made so good a stroke, our student walked lightly all the night, without caring whither he went, or feeling in the least degree incommoded with his burden. But, as day broke, he stopped under some trees near the village of Molorido, less, in truth, to repose, than to satisfy at last the curiosity which burned within him to know what it was indeed the sack enclosed. Untying it with that agreeable trembling which you experience at the moment you are about to enjoy an anticipated but unknown pleasure, he found therein honest double-pistoles, and, to his unspeakable delight, counted no less of these than two hundred and fifty. "After having contemplated them for some time with a voluptuous eagerness, he began seriously to reflect on what he ought to do; and having made up his mind, he stowed away the doubloons in his pockets, threw the bag into a ditch, and repaired to Molorido. He entered the first decent inn; and then, while they were preparing his breakfast, he hired a mule, upon which he returned the same day to Salamanca. "He clearly perceived, by the surprise which his acquaintances displayed at seeing him again, that they were in the secret of his sudden evasion; but he had his story by heart. He stated that, being short of money, and not receiving it from home, although he had written twenty times to relate his pressing need, he had determined to go for it himself, and that, the evening previous, as he entered Molorido, he had met his steward with the needful, so that he was now in a situation to undeceive all those who had decreed him a man of straw. He added, that he intended to convince his creditors that they were wrong in distressing an honest man who would have long since satisfied their claims, had his steward been more punctual in the remittance of his rents. "In reality, on the following day he called a meeting of his creditors, and paid them all to the last maravedi. No sooner did the very friends who had abandoned him in poverty hear of these extraordinary proceedings, than they quickly flocked around him, to flatter him by their homage, hoping to enjoy themselves again at his expense; but he was not to be caught a second time. Faithful to the vow he had made in the forest, he treated them with disdain, and changing entirely his course of life, he devoted himself to the study of the law with zeal and assiduity. "However, you will say, he was all this while conscientiously expending double-pistoles not very honestly acquired. To this I have no reply to make than that he did what nine-tenths of the world are daily doing in similar circumstances. He of course intended to make proper restitution at some future time; that is, if he should chance to discover to whom the doubloons belonged. In the meantime, tranquillizing himself with the goodness of his intentions, he disposed of the money without scruple, patiently awaiting this discovery, which nevertheless he made before twelve months were over. "About this time, it was reported in Salamanca that a citizen of that town, one Ambrosio Piquillo, having gone to the neighbouring wood to seek for a bag, filled with gold and silver coin, which he had there deposited nearly a year before, had turned up only the earth in which he had buried it, and that this misfortune had reduced the poor man to beggary. "I must say, in justice to Bahabon, that the secret reproaches of his conscience were not made in vain. He ascertained the dwelling of Ambrosio, whom he found in a wretched chamber whose entire furniture consisted of a truckle-bed and a single chair. 'My friend,' said he with admirable hypocrisy as he entered, 'I have heard the public report of the cruel accident which has befallen you, and, charity obliging us to aid one another according to our means, I have come to bring you a trifling assistance; but I should like to hear from yourself the story of your misfortune.' "'Signor cavalier,' replied Piquillo, 'I will relate it to you in a few words. I had the misfortune to have a son who robbed me. Discovering his dishonesty, and fearing that he would help himself to a leathern sack in which there were two hundred and fifty doubloons, I thought I could not do better than bury them in the wood to which I had the imprudence to take them. Since that unlucky day, my son has stripped me of all else that I possessed, and he at last disappeared with a woman whom he had carried off by force. Finding myself thus reduced by the libertinage of my worthless child, or rather by my misplaced indulgence for his faults, I determined on recourse to the leathern bag; but alas! my only remaining means of subsistence had been cruelly carried away.' "As the poor man recounted his loss, his grief was renewed, and his tears fell fast as he spoke, Don Pablos, affected at beholding them, said to him: 'My dear Ambrosio, we must console ourselves for all the crosses we encounter during life. Your tears are useless; they cannot bring back your double-pistoles, which, if some scoundrel has laid hands on them, are indeed lost to you. But who knows? They may have fallen into the possession of some worthy man, who, when he learns that they belong to you, will hasten to restore them. You may yet see them again: live at least in that hope; and, in the meanwhile,' added he, giving him ten of his own doubloons, 'take these, and come to me in a week from this time.' He then gave his name and address, and went out overwhelmed with confusion at the benedictions heaped upon him by Ambrosio, who could not find words to express his gratitude. Such, for the most part, are your generous actions: you would find little cause for admiration, could you but penetrate their motives. "At the week's end, Piquillo, mindful of what Don Pablos had said to him, went to his house. Bahabon received him kindly, and said to him: 'My friend, from the excellent character I everywhere hear of you, I have resolved to contribute all in my power to set you on your feet again: my interest and my purse shall not be wanting to effect this. As a beginning in the business,' he continued, 'what think you I have already done? I am intimate with several persons as much distinguished by their charity as their station: these I have sought; and I have so effectually inspired them with compassion for your situation, that I have collected from them two hundred crowns, which I am about to give you.' As he finished, he went into his cabinet, whence he returned in a moment with a linen bag, in which he had placed this sum in silver, and not in doubloons, for fear that the citizen, on receiving so many double-pistoles, should begin to suspect the truth; whereas, by this piece of management, he effectually secured his object, which was to make restitution in such a manner as might conciliate his reputation with his conscience. "Ambrosio, far from thinking that these crowns were a portion of his money restored, took them, in good faith, as the product of a collection made on his behalf; and, after repeatedly thanking Don Pablos for his kindness, he returned to his habitation, grateful to Heaven for having created a cavalier who took so much interest in his misfortunes. "On the following day he met one of his friends, who was in no better plight than himself, and who said to him: 'I leave Salamanca to-morrow, to set out for Cadiz, where I intend to embark in a vessel bound for New Spain. I have no great reason to be contented with my position here, and my heart tells me I shall be more fortunate in Mexico. If you will take my advice, you will go with me; that is, if you have but a hundred crowns.' 'I should not have much trouble to find two hundred,' replied Piquillo; 'and I would undertake this voyage willingly, were I sure to gain a living in the Indies.' Thereupon, his friend boasted of the fertility of New Spain, and represented to him so many ways of there enriching himself, that Ambrosio, yielding to his powers of persuasion, now thought of nothing but the necessary preparations for setting out with his friend to Cadiz. But before he left Salamanca, he took care to address a letter to Bahabon, informing him that, finding a promising opportunity of going to the Indies, he was anxious to profit by it, in order to see whether Fortune could be induced to smile more kindly on him in another country than in his own; that he took the liberty of stating this to him, assuring him that he should gratefully preserve during life the remembrance of his goodness. "The departure of Ambrosio somewhat annoyed Don Pablos, as it disconcerted the plan he had formed for discharging the debt he owed him. But, when he reflected that the poor citizen might in a few years return to Salamanca, he became gradually reconciled to what had happened, and applied himself more diligently than ever to master the complications of civil and ecclesiastical legalities. So great was the progress he made, as much by the powers of his mind and its aptitude for his profession, as by the application I have spoken of, that he became a shining light in the university, of which he was ultimately chosen rector. In this position he was not contented to sustain its dignity by the extent and solidity of his scientific acquirements; he searched so deeply into his own heart, that he acquired all those habits of virtue which constitute a man of worth. "During his rectorship, he learned that in one of the prisons of Salamanca there was a young man accused of rape. On hearing this, he remembered that Piquillo's son had carried off a woman by force. He therefore made inquiries as to this prisoner, and, finding that it was indeed the son of Ambrosio, he generously undertook his defence. What deserves most to be admired in the science of the law, Signor Student, is, that it furnishes arms for offence and defence equally; and as our rector was an adroit fencer with these deadly weapons, he used them to good effect on this occasion in favour of the accused. It is true, that he joined to his legal skill the interest of his friends, and the most pressing solicitation, which, probably, as in most cases, did more than all the rest. "The guilty youth, therefore, came out of this affair whiter than snow. On going to thank his liberator, the latter said to him: 'It is out of respect for your father that I have rendered you this service. I love him; and to give you a further proof of my affection for him, if you will live in this town, and here lead the life of an honest man, I will take care of your welfare; if, on the contrary, you desire, like Ambrosio, to seek your fortune in the Indies, you may reckon on fifty pistoles for your outfit: I present them to you.' The young Piquillo replied: 'Since I am honoured by the protection of your lordship, I should be wrong to quit a place where I enjoy so great an advantage. I will not leave Salamanca, and I promise you solemnly that I will conduct myself to your satisfaction.' On this assurance, the rector placed in his hands twenty pistoles, saying: 'Take this, my friend; embrace some honest profession; employ your time well, and rely on it that I will not abandon you.' "Two months afterwards, it happened that the young Piquillo, who from time to time paid his respects to Don Pablos, one day appeared before him in tears. 'What ails you?' asked Bahabon. 'Signor,' replied the son of Ambrosio, 'I have just heard news which cuts me to the soul. My father has been taken by a corsair of Algiers, and is at this moment in chains: an old Salamancan, lately returned from Barbary, where he was ten years in captivity, and whom the fathers of Mercy have redeemed, told me not an hour since that he had left Ambrosio in slavery. Alas!' he added, striking his breast and tearing his hair, 'wretch that I am! it was my infamous behaviour which reduced my father to the necessity of burying his money, and afterwards to leave his country! It is I who have delivered him to the barbarian who loads him with fetters. Ah! Signor Don Pablos, why did you shield me from the vengeance of the law? Since you love my father, you should have avenged him, and have suffered me to expiate, by an ignominious death, the crime of having caused all his misfortunes.' [Illustration: Piquillo's son before Bahabon] "These exclamations, evidently betokening an erring mind's return to virtue, together with the natural expressions of the young Piquillo's sincere grief, greatly affected the rector. 'My child,' he said to him, 'I see with pleasure that you repent of your past transgressions. Dry up your tears: it is enough for me to know what has become of Ambrosio to give you assurance of beholding him again. His deliverance depends but on an easy ransom, which I shall cheerfully provide; and how great soever may have been the sufferings he has endured, I feel persuaded that on his return, to find in you a son restored to virtue, and filled with tenderness for him, he will not complain of the rigour of his destiny.' "Don Pablos, by this assurance, dismissed the son of Ambrosio with a lightened heart; and, a few days afterwards, he set out for Madrid. On his arrival in this capital, he placed in the hands of the fathers of Mercy a purse containing a hundred pistoles, to which was attached a label bearing these words: 'This sum is given to the fathers of the Redemption, for the ransom of a poor citizen of Salamanca, named Ambrosio Piquillo, now captive in Algiers.' The good monks, in their recent voyage, acting in pursuance of the directions of the rector, did not fail to purchase Ambrosio, and you beheld him in that slave whose tranquil air excited your attention." "In my opinion," said Don Cleophas, "Bahabon has worthily repaid the debt he owed to this luckless citizen." "Don Pablos, however," replied Asmodeus, "thinks differently. He will not be contented until he has restored to him both principal and interest; the delicacy of his conscience even extends so far as to scruple at his retention of the wealth he has gained since he has become rector of the university; and when he sees Ambrosio, he intends saying to him: 'Ambrosio, my friend, do not regard me as your benefactor; you behold in me the scoundrel who disinterred the money you had buried in the wood. It is not enough that I restore to you the doubloons I robbed you of, since by their means it is that I have raised myself to the station I now enjoy: all that I possess belongs to you; I will retain so much alone as you shall please to----'" Asmodeus suddenly stopped in his relation; a trembling seized him as he spoke, and an unearthly paleness overspread his visage. [Illustration: the magician discovers Asmodeus's absence] "Why, what's the matter now?" exclaimed the Student; "what wonderful emotion agitates you thus, and chains your willing tongue?" "Ah! Signor Leandro," answered the Demon with tremulous voice, "what misery for me! The magician who kept me prisoned in my bottle, has discovered that I am absent without leave; and prepares e'en now such mighty spiritings, to call me back to his laboratory, as I must fain obey." "Alas!" exclaimed Zambullo, quite affected, "I am mortified beyond expression! What a loss am I about to suffer! Must we, then, my dear Asmodeus, separate for ever?" "I trust not," replied the Devil. "The magician may require some office of my ministry; and if I have the fortune to assist him in his projects, perhaps, out of gratitude, he may restore me to liberty. Should that arrive, as I hope it may, rely on my rejoining you at once; on condition, however, that you reveal not to mortal ears what has this night passed between us. Should you be weak enough to confide this to any one, I warn you," continued Asmodeus emphatically, "that you will never see me more. [Illustration: Asmodeus embraces Zambullo] "I have one consolation in leaving you," he resumed, "which is, that at least I have made your fortune. You will marry the lovely Seraphina, into whose bosom it has been my business to instil a doting passion for your lordship. The Signor Don Pedro de Escolano, too, has made up his mind to bestow her hand upon you: and do you take care not to let so splendid a gift escape your own. But, mercy on me!" he concluded, "I hear already the potent master who constrains me; all Hell resounds with the echoes of the fearful words pronounced by this redoubtable magician: I dare not stay a moment longer. Farewell, my dear Zambullo! We may meet again." As he ceased, he embraced Don Cleophas, and, after having dropped the Student in his own apartment on his way to the laboratory, disappeared. CHAPTER XXI. OF THE DOINGS OF DON CLEOPHAS AFTER ASMODEUS HAD LEFT HIM; AND OF THE MODE IN WHICH THE AUTHOR OF THIS WORK HAS THOUGHT FIT TO END IT. Upon the retreat of Asmodeus, the Student, feeling fatigued at having passed all the night upon his legs, and by the extraordinary bustle in which he had been occupied, undressed himself and went to bed. Agitated as his mind may be supposed to have been, it is no wonder that he lay for some time restless; but at last, paying with compound interest to Morpheus the tribute which all mortals owe to his sombre majesty, he fell into a deathlike sleep, in which he passed the whole of that day and the following night. Twenty-four hours had he been thus lost to the world, when Don Luis de Lujana, a young cavalier whom he numbered among his friends, entered his chamber, singing out lustily, "Hollo! Signor Don Cleophas, get up with you!" At this salutation, Zambullo awoke. "Are you aware," said Don Luis to him, "that you have been in bed since yesterday morning?" "Impossible!" exclaimed Leandro. "Not the less true for that," replied his friend; "twice have you slept the clock's dull round. All the inmates of the house assure me of this fact." [Illustration: Zambullo awakened by his friend] The Student, astonished at the trance from which he emerged, feared at first that his adventures with Asmodeus were but an illusion. He could not, however, persist in this belief; and when he recalled to himself certain circumstances of his intercourse with the Demon, he soon ceased to doubt of its reality. But, to make assurance doubly sure, he rose, dressed himself quickly, and went out with Don Luis, whom he took, without saying why, in the direction of the Gate of the Sun. Arrived there, and perceiving the mansion of Don Pedro almost reduced to ashes, Don Cleophas feigned surprise. "What do I behold?" he cried. "What dreadful ravages has fire made here! To whom did this unlucky house belong, and when was it thus consumed?" Don Luis de Lujana, having replied to these two questions, thus continued: "This fire is less spoken of in the town on account of the great damage it has done, than for a circumstance which attended it, and of which I will tell you. The Signor Don Pedro de Escolano has an only daughter, who is lovely as the day: they say that she was in a room all filled with fire and smoke, in which it seemed certain she must perish; but that nevertheless her life was saved by a youthful cavalier, whose name I have not heard;--it forms the subject of conversation throughout Madrid. The young man's daring is lauded to the skies; and it is believed that, as a reward for his success, however humble my gentleman may be, he may well hope to gain a life interest in the daughter of the Don." Leandro Perez listened to Don Luis without appearing to take the slightest interest in what he heard; then getting rid of his friend, under some specious pretext, he gained the Prado, where, seating himself beneath a tree, he was soon plunged in a profound reverie. The Devil first came flitting through his mind. "Ah! my dear Asmodeus," he exclaimed, "I cannot too much regret you. You, in a moment, would have borne me round the world; and, with you, should I have journeyed without any of the usual devilries of travelling: gentle spirit, you are a loss indeed! But," he added a moment afterwards, "my loss, perhaps, is not quite irreparable: why should I despair of seeing the Demon again? It may fall out, as he himself suggested, that the magician will shortly restore him to freedom and to me." As the Devil left his mind the lady entered it; upon which he resolved at once to seek Don Pedro in his temporary abode, moved principally by curiosity to see the lovely Seraphina. As soon as he appeared before Don Pedro, that signor rushed towards him with open arms, and embracing him, exclaimed: "Welcome! generous cavalier, I began to feel angry at your absence. 'What!' said I, 'Don Cleophas, after the pressing invitation which I gave him to my house, still to shun my sight! He ill indeed repays the impatience of my soul to testify for him the friendship and esteem which fill it.'" Zambullo bowed respectfully at this kindly objurgation; and, in order to excuse his seeming coldness, replied to the old man, that he had feared to incommode him in the confusion which the event of the preceding day must have occasioned. "I cannot listen to such an excuse," resumed Don Pedro; "you can never be unwelcome in a house which but for your noble conduct would have been a house of mourning indeed. But," he added, "follow me, if you please; you have other thanks than mine to receive." And taking the Student's hand, he led him to the apartment of Seraphina. "My child," said Don Pedro, as he entered the room, where this lady was reposing from the noon-day heat, "I present to you the gentleman who so courageously saved your life. Show to him now, if you can, how deeply sensible you are of the obligation he conferred, since the danger from which he rescued you deprived you of the power to do so on the spot." On this, the Signora Seraphina, opening a mouth of roses to express the gratitude of her heart to Leandro Perez, paid him in compliments so warm and graceful, as would charm my readers as much as they did their blushing object, could I repeat each honeyed word; but as they have not been faithfully reported, I think it better to omit them altogether, than chance to spoil them by my own imperfect knowledge in such matters. [Illustration: Seraphina thanks Zambullo] I will only say, that Don Cleophas thought he beheld and listened to some bright divinity, and that he was at once the victim of his eyes and ears. To say that he loved her, is a thing of course; but, far from regarding the beauteous form before him as a possession to which he might aspire, his heart foreboded, despite all that the Demon had assured him, that they would never pay at such a price the service they imagined him to have rendered. As her charms increased in their effect upon his mind, doubts, teasing doubts, came threatening to destroy the infant Hope, first-cherished child of Love. What completed his mystification on the subject, was, that Don Pedro during the lengthened conversation which ensued, not once e'en touched upon the tender theme; but contented himself with loading him with civilities, without hinting in the slightest degree that he had any desire for the honour of his relationship. Seraphina, too, as polite as her father, while she did not fail in expressions of the deepest gratitude, dropped no one word whose magic charm would serve Zambullo to conjure visions of wedding joys; so that our Student left the Signor Escolano and his daughter with Love as his companion, but leaving Hope behind him. "Asmodeus, my friend," he muttered as he walked along, as though the Devil still were by his side, "when you assured me that Don Pedro was disposed to adopt me as his son-in-law, and that Seraphina burned with passion lighted in her heart by you for me, it must have pleased you to make merry at my cost, or else you know as little of the present time as of that which is to come." He now regretted that he had ever seen the dangerous beauty; and looking on the love which filled his breast as an unhappy passion which he ought to stifle in its infancy, he resolved to set about it in earnest. He even reproached himself for having desired to gain his point, supposing he had found the father all disposed to give his daughter to him; and represented to himself that it would have been disgraceful to have owed his happiness to a deception like that he had projected. He was yet occupied with these reflections, when Don Pedro, having sent to seek him on the following day, said to him: "Signor Leandro Perez, it is time I proved to you by deeds, that in obliging me you have not to do with one of those who repay a benefit in courtly phrases. You saved my daughter: and I wish that she, herself, should recompense the peril you encountered for her sake. I have consulted Seraphina thereupon, and find her ready to obey my will; nay, I can say with pride, I recognized her for my child indeed when I proposed that she should give her hand to him who saved her life. She showed her joy by transports which at once convinced my soul her generosity responds to mine. It is settled therefore that you shall marry with my daughter." After having spoken thus, the good Signor de Escolano, who reasonably expected that Don Cleophas would have gone down on his knees to thank him for so great a boon, was sufficiently surprised to find him speechless, and displaying an evident embarrassment. "Speak, Zambullo!" he at length exclaimed. "What am I to infer from the confusion which my proposition to you has occasioned? What possible objection can you have? What! a private gentleman--although respectable--to refuse an alliance which a noble would have courted! Has then the honour of my house some blemish of which I am ignorant?" [Illustration: the marriage of Zambullo and Seraphina] "Signor," replied Leandro, "I know too well the space that Heaven has set between us." "Why then," returned Don Pedro, "seem you to care so little for a marriage which does you so much honour? Confess! Don Cleophas, you love some maiden, and have pledged your faith; and it is your honour now which bars your road to fortune." "Had I," replied the Student, "a mistress to whom my vows had bound my future fate, it is not fortune that should bid me break them; but it is no such tie that now compels me to reject your proffered bounty. Honour, it is true, compels me to renounce the glorious destiny that you would tempt me with; but, far from seeking to abuse your kindness, I am about to undeceive you to my own undoing. I am not the deliverer of Seraphina." "What do I hear!" exclaimed Don Pedro, in utter astonishment. "It was not you who rescued Seraphina from the flames which threatened her with instant death! It was not Don Cleophas who had the courage to risk his life to save her!" "No, Signor," replied Zambullo; "mortal man would have vainly essayed to shield her from her fate; learn that it was a devil to whom you owe your daughter's life." These words only increased the astonishment of Don Pedro, who, not conceiving that he was to understand them literally, entreated the Student to explain himself. Upon which Leandro, regardless of the loss of the Demon's friendship, related all that had passed between Asmodeus and himself. Having finished, the old man resumed, and said to Don Cleophas: "The confidence you have reposed in me confirms me in my design of giving you my daughter. You were her chief deliverer. Had you not thus intreated the Devil whom you speak of to snatch her from the death which menaced her, it is clear that he would have suffered her to perish. It is you then who preserved the life of Seraphina, which cannot be better devoted than to the happiness of your own. You deserve her; and I again offer you her hand with the half of my estate." Leandro Perez at these words, which removed all his conscientious scruples, threw himself at the feet of Don Pedro to thank him for his generosity. In a few weeks, the marriage was celebrated with a magnificence suitable to the espousal of the heir of the Signor de Escolano, and to the great satisfaction of the relations of our Student, who was thus amply repaid for the few hours' freedom he had procured for the Devil on Two Sticks. [Illustration: tailpiece of Asmodeus in his bottle] 
601	----	THE MONK A ROMANCE by MATTHEW LEWIS Somnia, terrores magicos, miracula, sagas, Nocturnos lemures, portentaque. Horat. Dreams, magic terrors, spells of mighty power, Witches, and ghosts who rove at midnight hour. PREFACE IMITATION OF HORACE Ep. 20.--B. 1. Methinks, Oh! vain ill-judging Book, I see thee cast a wishful look, Where reputations won and lost are In famous row called Paternoster. Incensed to find your precious olio Buried in unexplored port-folio, You scorn the prudent lock and key, And pant well bound and gilt to see Your Volume in the window set Of Stockdale, Hookham, or Debrett. Go then, and pass that dangerous bourn Whence never Book can back return: And when you find, condemned, despised, Neglected, blamed, and criticised, Abuse from All who read you fall, (If haply you be read at all Sorely will you your folly sigh at, And wish for me, and home, and quiet. Assuming now a conjuror's office, I Thus on your future Fortune prophesy:-- Soon as your novelty is o'er, And you are young and new no more, In some dark dirty corner thrown, Mouldy with damps, with cobwebs strown, Your leaves shall be the Book-worm's prey; Or sent to Chandler-Shop away, And doomed to suffer public scandal, Shall line the trunk, or wrap the candle! But should you meet with approbation, And some one find an inclination To ask, by natural transition Respecting me and my condition; That I am one, the enquirer teach, Nor very poor, nor very rich; Of passions strong, of hasty nature, Of graceless form and dwarfish stature; By few approved, and few approving; Extreme in hating and in loving; Abhorring all whom I dislike, Adoring who my fancy strike; In forming judgements never long, And for the most part judging wrong; In friendship firm, but still believing Others are treacherous and deceiving, And thinking in the present aera That Friendship is a pure chimaera: More passionate no creature living, Proud, obstinate, and unforgiving, But yet for those who kindness show, Ready through fire and smoke to go. Again, should it be asked your page, 'Pray, what may be the author's age?' Your faults, no doubt, will make it clear, I scarce have seen my twentieth year, Which passed, kind Reader, on my word, While England's Throne held George the Third. Now then your venturous course pursue: Go, my delight! Dear Book, adieu! Hague, Oct. 28, 1794. M. G. L. ADVERTISEMENT The first idea of this Romance was suggested by the story of the Santon Barsisa, related in The Guardian.--The Bleeding Nun is a tradition still credited in many parts of Germany; and I have been told that the ruins of the Castle of Lauenstein, which She is supposed to haunt, may yet be seen upon the borders of Thuringia.--The Water-King, from the third to the twelfth stanza, is the fragment of an original Danish Ballad--And Belerma and Durandarte is translated from some stanzas to be found in a collection of old Spanish poetry, which contains also the popular song of Gayferos and Melesindra, mentioned in Don Quixote.--I have now made a full avowal of all the plagiarisms of which I am aware myself; but I doubt not, many more may be found, of which I am at present totally unconscious. VOLUME I CHAPTER I ----Lord Angelo is precise; Stands at a guard with envy; Scarce confesses That his blood flows, or that his appetite Is more to bread than stone. Measure for Measure. Scarcely had the Abbey Bell tolled for five minutes, and already was the Church of the Capuchins thronged with Auditors. Do not encourage the idea that the Crowd was assembled either from motives of piety or thirst of information. But very few were influenced by those reasons; and in a city where superstition reigns with such despotic sway as in Madrid, to seek for true devotion would be a fruitless attempt. The Audience now assembled in the Capuchin Church was collected by various causes, but all of them were foreign to the ostensible motive. The Women came to show themselves, the Men to see the Women: Some were attracted by curiosity to hear an Orator so celebrated; Some came because they had no better means of employing their time till the play began; Some, from being assured that it would be impossible to find places in the Church; and one half of Madrid was brought thither by expecting to meet the other half. The only persons truly anxious to hear the Preacher were a few antiquated devotees, and half a dozen rival Orators, determined to find fault with and ridicule the discourse. As to the remainder of the Audience, the Sermon might have been omitted altogether, certainly without their being disappointed, and very probably without their perceiving the omission. Whatever was the occasion, it is at least certain that the Capuchin Church had never witnessed a more numerous assembly. Every corner was filled, every seat was occupied. The very Statues which ornamented the long aisles were pressed into the service. Boys suspended themselves upon the wings of Cherubims; St. Francis and St. Mark bore each a spectator on his shoulders; and St. Agatha found herself under the necessity of carrying double. The consequence was, that in spite of all their hurry and expedition, our two newcomers, on entering the Church, looked round in vain for places. However, the old Woman continued to move forwards. In vain were exclamations of displeasure vented against her from all sides: In vain was She addressed with--'I assure you, Segnora, there are no places here.'--'I beg, Segnora, that you will not crowd me so intolerably!'--'Segnora, you cannot pass this way. Bless me! How can people be so troublesome!'--The old Woman was obstinate, and on She went. By dint of perseverance and two brawny arms She made a passage through the Crowd, and managed to bustle herself into the very body of the Church, at no great distance from the Pulpit. Her companion had followed her with timidity and in silence, profiting by the exertions of her conductress. 'Holy Virgin!' exclaimed the old Woman in a tone of disappointment, while She threw a glance of enquiry round her; 'Holy Virgin! What heat! What a Crowd! I wonder what can be the meaning of all this. I believe we must return: There is no such thing as a seat to be had, and nobody seems kind enough to accommodate us with theirs.' This broad hint attracted the notice of two Cavaliers, who occupied stools on the right hand, and were leaning their backs against the seventh column from the Pulpit. Both were young, and richly habited. Hearing this appeal to their politeness pronounced in a female voice, they interrupted their conversation to look at the speaker. She had thrown up her veil in order to take a clearer look round the Cathedral. Her hair was red, and She squinted. The Cavaliers turned round, and renewed their conversation. 'By all means,' replied the old Woman's companion; 'By all means, Leonella, let us return home immediately; The heat is excessive, and I am terrified at such a crowd.' These words were pronounced in a tone of unexampled sweetness. The Cavaliers again broke off their discourse, but for this time they were not contented with looking up: Both started involuntarily from their seats, and turned themselves towards the Speaker. The voice came from a female, the delicacy and elegance of whose figure inspired the Youths with the most lively curiosity to view the face to which it belonged. This satisfaction was denied them. Her features were hidden by a thick veil; But struggling through the crowd had deranged it sufficiently to discover a neck which for symmetry and beauty might have vied with the Medicean Venus. It was of the most dazzling whiteness, and received additional charms from being shaded by the tresses of her long fair hair, which descended in ringlets to her waist. Her figure was rather below than above the middle size: It was light and airy as that of an Hamadryad. Her bosom was carefully veiled. Her dress was white; it was fastened by a blue sash, and just permitted to peep out from under it a little foot of the most delicate proportions. A chaplet of large grains hung upon her arm, and her face was covered with a veil of thick black gauze. Such was the female, to whom the youngest of the Cavaliers now offered his seat, while the other thought it necessary to pay the same attention to her companion. The old Lady with many expressions of gratitude, but without much difficulty, accepted the offer, and seated herself: The young one followed her example, but made no other compliment than a simple and graceful reverence. Don Lorenzo (such was the Cavalier's name, whose seat She had accepted) placed himself near her; But first He whispered a few words in his Friend's ear, who immediately took the hint, and endeavoured to draw off the old Woman's attention from her lovely charge. 'You are doubtless lately arrived at Madrid,' said Lorenzo to his fair Neighbour; 'It is impossible that such charms should have long remained unobserved; and had not this been your first public appearance, the envy of the Women and adoration of the Men would have rendered you already sufficiently remarkable.' He paused, in expectation of an answer. As his speech did not absolutely require one, the Lady did not open her lips: After a few moments He resumed his discourse: 'Am I wrong in supposing you to be a Stranger to Madrid?' The Lady hesitated; and at last, in so low a voice as to be scarcely intelligible, She made shift to answer,--'No, Segnor.' 'Do you intend making a stay of any length?' 'Yes, Segnor.' 'I should esteem myself fortunate, were it in my power to contribute to making your abode agreeable. I am well known at Madrid, and my Family has some interest at Court. If I can be of any service, you cannot honour or oblige me more than by permitting me to be of use to you.'--'Surely,' said He to himself, 'She cannot answer that by a monosyllable; now She must say something to me.' Lorenzo was deceived, for the Lady answered only by a bow. By this time He had discovered that his Neighbour was not very conversible; But whether her silence proceeded from pride, discretion, timidity, or idiotism, He was still unable to decide. After a pause of some minutes--'It is certainly from your being a Stranger,' said He, 'and as yet unacquainted with our customs, that you continue to wear your veil. Permit me to remove it.' At the same time He advanced his hand towards the Gauze: The Lady raised hers to prevent him. 'I never unveil in public, Segnor.' 'And where is the harm, I pray you?' interrupted her Companion somewhat sharply; 'Do not you see that the other Ladies have all laid their veils aside, to do honour no doubt to the holy place in which we are? I have taken off mine already; and surely if I expose my features to general observation, you have no cause to put yourself in such a wonderful alarm! Blessed Maria! Here is a fuss and a bustle about a chit's face! Come, come, Child! Uncover it; I warrant you that nobody will run away with it from you--' 'Dear aunt, it is not the custom in Murcia.' 'Murcia, indeed! Holy St. Barbara, what does that signify? You are always putting me in mind of that villainous Province. If it is the custom in Madrid, that is all that we ought to mind, and therefore I desire you to take off your veil immediately. Obey me this moment Antonia, for you know that I cannot bear contradiction--' Her niece was silent, but made no further opposition to Don Lorenzo's efforts, who, armed with the Aunt's sanction hastened to remove the Gauze. What a Seraph's head presented itself to his admiration! Yet it was rather bewitching than beautiful; It was not so lovely from regularity of features as from sweetness and sensibility of Countenance. The several parts of her face considered separately, many of them were far from handsome; but when examined together, the whole was adorable. Her skin though fair was not entirely without freckles; Her eyes were not very large, nor their lashes particularly long. But then her lips were of the most rosy freshness; Her fair and undulating hair, confined by a simple ribband, poured itself below her waist in a profusion of ringlets; Her throat was full and beautiful in the extreme; Her hand and arm were formed with the most perfect symmetry; Her mild blue eyes seemed an heaven of sweetness, and the crystal in which they moved sparkled with all the brilliance of Diamonds: She appeared to be scarcely fifteen; An arch smile, playing round her mouth, declared her to be possessed of liveliness, which excess of timidity at present represt; She looked round her with a bashful glance; and whenever her eyes accidentally met Lorenzo's, She dropt them hastily upon her Rosary; Her cheek was immediately suffused with blushes, and She began to tell her beads; though her manner evidently showed that She knew not what She was about. Lorenzo gazed upon her with mingled surprise and admiration; but the Aunt thought it necessary to apologize for Antonia's mauvaise honte. ''Tis a young Creature,' said She, 'who is totally ignorant of the world. She has been brought up in an old Castle in Murcia; with no other Society than her Mother's, who, God help her! has no more sense, good Soul, than is necessary to carry her Soup to her mouth. Yet She is my own Sister, both by Father and Mother.' 'And has so little sense?' said Don Christoval with feigned astonishment; 'How very Extraordinary!' 'Very true, Segnor; Is it not strange? However, such is the fact; and yet only to see the luck of some people! A young Nobleman, of the very first quality, took it into his head that Elvira had some pretensions to Beauty--As to pretensions, in truth, She had always enough of THEM; But as to Beauty....! If I had only taken half the pains to set myself off which She did....! But this is neither here nor there. As I was saying, Segnor, a young Nobleman fell in love with her, and married her unknown to his Father. Their union remained a secret near three years, But at last it came to the ears of the old Marquis, who, as you may well suppose, was not much pleased with the intelligence. Away He posted in all haste to Cordova, determined to seize Elvira, and send her away to some place or other, where she would never be heard of more. Holy St. Paul! How He stormed on finding that She had escaped him, had joined her Husband, and that they had embarked together for the Indies. He swore at us all, as if the Evil Spirit had possessed him; He threw my Father into prison, as honest a painstaking Shoe-maker as any in Cordova; and when He went away, He had the cruelty to take from us my Sister's little Boy, then scarcely two years old, and whom in the abruptness of her flight, She had been obliged to leave behind her. I suppose, that the poor little Wretch met with bitter bad treatment from him, for in a few months after, we received intelligence of his death.' 'Why, this was a most terrible old Fellow, Segnora!' 'Oh! shocking! and a Man so totally devoid of taste! Why, would you believe it, Segnor? When I attempted to pacify him, He cursed me for a Witch, and wished that to punish the Count, my Sister might become as ugly as myself! Ugly indeed! I like him for that.' 'Ridiculous', cried Don Christoval; 'Doubtless the Count would have thought himself fortunate, had he been permitted to exchange the one Sister for the other.' 'Oh! Christ! Segnor, you are really too polite. However, I am heartily glad that the Conde was of a different way of thinking. A mighty pretty piece of business, to be sure, Elvira has made of it! After broiling and stewing in the Indies for thirteen long years, her Husband dies, and She returns to Spain, without an House to hide her head, or money to procure her one! This Antonia was then but an Infant, and her only remaining Child. She found that her Father-in-Law had married again, that he was irreconcileable to the Conde, and that his second Wife had produced him a Son, who is reported to be a very fine young Man. The old Marquis refused to see my Sister or her Child; But sent her word that on condition of never hearing any more of her, He would assign her a small pension, and She might live in an old Castle which He possessed in Murcia; This had been the favourite habitation of his eldest Son; But since his flight from Spain, the old Marquis could not bear the place, but let it fall to ruin and confusion--My Sister accepted the proposal; She retired to Murcia, and has remained there till within the last Month.' 'And what brings her now to Madrid?' enquired Don Lorenzo, whom admiration of the young Antonia compelled to take a lively interest in the talkative old Woman's narration. 'Alas! Segnor, her Father-in-Law being lately dead, the Steward of his Murcian Estates has refused to pay her pension any longer. With the design of supplicating his Son to renew it, She is now come to Madrid; But I doubt, that She might have saved herself the trouble! You young Noblemen have always enough to do with your money, and are not very often disposed to throw it away upon old Women. I advised my Sister to send Antonia with her petition; But She would not hear of such a thing. She is so obstinate! Well! She will find herself the worse for not following my counsels: the Girl has a good pretty face, and possibly might have done much.' 'Ah! Segnora,' interrupted Don Christoval, counterfeiting a passionate air; 'If a pretty face will do the business, why has not your Sister recourse to you?' 'Oh! Jesus! my Lord, I swear you quite overpower me with your gallantry! But I promise you that I am too well aware of the danger of such Expeditions to trust myself in a young Nobleman's power! No, no; I have as yet preserved my reputation without blemish or reproach, and I always knew how to keep the Men at a proper distance.' 'Of that, Segnora, I have not the least doubt. But permit me to ask you; Have you then any aversion to Matrimony?' 'That is an home question. I cannot but confess, that if an amiable Cavalier was to present himself....' Here She intended to throw a tender and significant look upon Don Christoval; But, as She unluckily happened to squint most abominably, the glance fell directly upon his Companion: Lorenzo took the compliment to himself, and answered it by a profound bow. 'May I enquire,' said He, 'the name of the Marquis?' 'The Marquis de las Cisternas.' 'I know him intimately well. He is not at present in Madrid, but is expected here daily. He is one of the best of Men; and if the lovely Antonia will permit me to be her Advocate with him, I doubt not my being able to make a favourable report of her cause.' Antonia raised her blue eyes, and silently thanked him for the offer by a smile of inexpressible sweetness. Leonella's satisfaction was much more loud and audible: Indeed, as her Niece was generally silent in her company, She thought it incumbent upon her to talk enough for both: This She managed without difficulty, for She very seldom found herself deficient in words. 'Oh! Segnor!' She cried; 'You will lay our whole family under the most signal obligations! I accept your offer with all possible gratitude, and return you a thousand thanks for the generosity of your proposal. Antonia, why do not you speak, Child? While the Cavalier says all sorts of civil things to you, you sit like a Statue, and never utter a syllable of thanks, either bad, good, or indifferent!' 'My dear Aunt, I am very sensible that....' 'Fye, Niece! How often have I told you, that you never should interrupt a Person who is speaking!? When did you ever know me do such a thing? Are these your Murcian manners? Mercy on me! I shall never be able to make this Girl any thing like a Person of good breeding. But pray, Segnor,' She continued, addressing herself to Don Christoval, 'inform me, why such a Crowd is assembled today in this Cathedral?' 'Can you possibly be ignorant, that Ambrosio, Abbot of this Monastery, pronounces a Sermon in this Church every Thursday? All Madrid rings with his praises. As yet He has preached but thrice; But all who have heard him are so delighted with his eloquence, that it is as difficult to obtain a place at Church, as at the first representation of a new Comedy. His fame certainly must have reached your ears--' 'Alas! Segnor, till yesterday I never had the good fortune to see Madrid; and at Cordova we are so little informed of what is passing in the rest of the world, that the name of Ambrosio has never been mentioned in its precincts.' 'You will find it in every one's mouth at Madrid. He seems to have fascinated the Inhabitants; and not having attended his Sermons myself, I am astonished at the Enthusiasm which He has excited. The adoration paid him both by Young and Old, by Man and Woman is unexampled. The Grandees load him with presents; Their Wives refuse to have any other Confessor, and he is known through all the city by the name of the "Man of Holiness".' 'Undoubtedly, Segnor, He is of noble origin--' 'That point still remains undecided. The late Superior of the Capuchins found him while yet an Infant at the Abbey door. All attempts to discover who had left him there were vain, and the Child himself could give no account of his Parents. He was educated in the Monastery, where He has remained ever since. He early showed a strong inclination for study and retirement, and as soon as He was of a proper age, He pronounced his vows. No one has ever appeared to claim him, or clear up the mystery which conceals his birth; and the Monks, who find their account in the favour which is shewn to their establishment from respect to him, have not hesitated to publish that He is a present to them from the Virgin. In truth the singular austerity of his life gives some countenance to the report. He is now thirty years old, every hour of which period has been passed in study, total seclusion from the world, and mortification of the flesh. Till these last three weeks, when He was chosen superior of the Society to which He belongs, He had never been on the outside of the Abbey walls: Even now He never quits them except on Thursdays, when He delivers a discourse in this Cathedral which all Madrid assembles to hear. His knowledge is said to be the most profound, his eloquence the most persuasive. In the whole course of his life He has never been known to transgress a single rule of his order; The smallest stain is not to be discovered upon his character; and He is reported to be so strict an observer of Chastity, that He knows not in what consists the difference of Man and Woman. The common People therefore esteem him to be a Saint.' 'Does that make a Saint?' enquired Antonia; 'Bless me! Then am I one?' 'Holy St. Barbara!' exclaimed Leonella; 'What a question! Fye, Child, Fye! These are not fit subjects for young Women to handle. You should not seem to remember that there is such a thing as a Man in the world, and you ought to imagine every body to be of the same sex with yourself. I should like to see you give people to understand, that you know that a Man has no breasts, and no hips, and no ...'. Luckily for Antonia's ignorance which her Aunt's lecture would soon have dispelled, an universal murmur through the Church announced the Preacher's arrival. Donna Leonella rose from her seat to take a better view of him, and Antonia followed her example. He was a Man of noble port and commanding presence. His stature was lofty, and his features uncommonly handsome. His Nose was aquiline, his eyes large black and sparkling, and his dark brows almost joined together. His complexion was of a deep but clear Brown; Study and watching had entirely deprived his cheek of colour. Tranquillity reigned upon his smooth unwrinkled forehead; and Content, expressed upon every feature, seemed to announce the Man equally unacquainted with cares and crimes. He bowed himself with humility to the audience: Still there was a certain severity in his look and manner that inspired universal awe, and few could sustain the glance of his eye at once fiery and penetrating. Such was Ambrosio, Abbot of the Capuchins, and surnamed, 'The Man of Holiness'. Antonia, while She gazed upon him eagerly, felt a pleasure fluttering in her bosom which till then had been unknown to her, and for which She in vain endeavoured to account. She waited with impatience till the Sermon should begin; and when at length the Friar spoke, the sound of his voice seemed to penetrate into her very soul. Though no other of the Spectators felt such violent sensations as did the young Antonia, yet every one listened with interest and emotion. They who were insensible to Religion's merits, were still enchanted with Ambrosio's oratory. All found their attention irresistibly attracted while He spoke, and the most profound silence reigned through the crowded Aisles. Even Lorenzo could not resist the charm: He forgot that Antonia was seated near him, and listened to the Preacher with undivided attention. In language nervous, clear, and simple, the Monk expatiated on the beauties of Religion. He explained some abstruse parts of the sacred writings in a style that carried with it universal conviction. His voice at once distinct and deep was fraught with all the terrors of the Tempest, while He inveighed against the vices of humanity, and described the punishments reserved for them in a future state. Every Hearer looked back upon his past offences, and trembled: The Thunder seemed to roll, whose bolt was destined to crush him, and the abyss of eternal destruction to open before his feet. But when Ambrosio, changing his theme, spoke of the excellence of an unsullied conscience, of the glorious prospect which Eternity presented to the Soul untainted with reproach, and of the recompense which awaited it in the regions of everlasting glory, His Auditors felt their scattered spirits insensibly return. They threw themselves with confidence upon the mercy of their Judge; They hung with delight upon the consoling words of the Preacher; and while his full voice swelled into melody, They were transported to those happy regions which He painted to their imaginations in colours so brilliant and glowing. The discourse was of considerable length; Yet when it concluded, the Audience grieved that it had not lasted longer. Though the Monk had ceased to speak, enthusiastic silence still prevailed through the Church: At length the charm gradually dissolving, the general admiration was expressed in audible terms. As Ambrosio descended from the Pulpit, His Auditors crowded round him, loaded him with blessings, threw themselves at his feet, and kissed the hem of his Garment. He passed on slowly with his hands crossed devoutly upon his bosom, to the door opening into the Abbey Chapel, at which his Monks waited to receive him. He ascended the Steps, and then turning towards his Followers, addressed to them a few words of gratitude, and exhortation. While He spoke, his Rosary, composed of large grains of amber, fell from his hand, and dropped among the surrounding multitude. It was seized eagerly, and immediately divided amidst the Spectators. Whoever became possessor of a Bead, preserved it as a sacred relique; and had it been the Chaplet of thrice-blessed St. Francis himself, it could not have been disputed with greater vivacity. The Abbot, smiling at their eagerness, pronounced his benediction, and quitted the Church, while humility dwelt upon every feature. Dwelt She also in his heart? Antonia's eyes followed him with anxiety. As the Door closed after him, it seemed to her as had she lost some one essential to her happiness. A tear stole in silence down her cheek. 'He is separated from the world!' said She to herself; 'Perhaps, I shall never see him more!' As she wiped away the tear, Lorenzo observed her action. 'Are you satisfied with our Orator?' said He; 'Or do you think that Madrid overrates his talents?' Antonia's heart was so filled with admiration for the Monk, that She eagerly seized the opportunity of speaking of him: Besides, as She now no longer considered Lorenzo as an absolute Stranger, She was less embarrassed by her excessive timidity. 'Oh! He far exceeds all my expectations,' answered She; 'Till this moment I had no idea of the powers of eloquence. But when He spoke, his voice inspired me with such interest, such esteem, I might almost say such affection for him, that I am myself astonished at the acuteness of my feelings.' Lorenzo smiled at the strength of her expressions. 'You are young and just entering into life,' said He; 'Your heart, new to the world and full of warmth and sensibility, receives its first impressions with eagerness. Artless yourself, you suspect not others of deceit; and viewing the world through the medium of your own truth and innocence, you fancy all who surround you to deserve your confidence and esteem. What pity, that these gay visions must soon be dissipated! What pity, that you must soon discover the baseness of mankind, and guard against your fellow-creatures as against your Foes!' 'Alas! Segnor,' replied Antonia; 'The misfortunes of my Parents have already placed before me but too many sad examples of the perfidy of the world! Yet surely in the present instance the warmth of sympathy cannot have deceived me.' 'In the present instance, I allow that it has not. Ambrosio's character is perfectly without reproach; and a Man who has passed the whole of his life within the walls of a Convent cannot have found the opportunity to be guilty, even were He possessed of the inclination. But now, when, obliged by the duties of his situation, He must enter occasionally into the world, and be thrown into the way of temptation, it is now that it behoves him to show the brilliance of his virtue. The trial is dangerous; He is just at that period of life when the passions are most vigorous, unbridled, and despotic; His established reputation will mark him out to Seduction as an illustrious Victim; Novelty will give additional charms to the allurements of pleasure; and even the Talents with which Nature has endowed him will contribute to his ruin, by facilitating the means of obtaining his object. Very few would return victorious from a contest so severe.' 'Ah! surely Ambrosio will be one of those few.' 'Of that I have myself no doubt: By all accounts He is an exception to mankind in general, and Envy would seek in vain for a blot upon his character.' 'Segnor, you delight me by this assurance! It encourages me to indulge my prepossession in his favour; and you know not with what pain I should have repressed the sentiment! Ah! dearest Aunt, entreat my Mother to choose him for our Confessor.' 'I entreat her?' replied Leonella; 'I promise you that I shall do no such thing. I do not like this same Ambrosio in the least; He has a look of severity about him that made me tremble from head to foot: Were He my Confessor, I should never have the courage to avow one half of my peccadilloes, and then I should be in a rare condition! I never saw such a stern-looking Mortal, and hope that I never shall see such another. His description of the Devil, God bless us! almost terrified me out of my wits, and when He spoke about Sinners He seemed as if He was ready to eat them.' 'You are right, Segnora,' answered Don Christoval; 'Too great severity is said to be Ambrosio's only fault. Exempted himself from human failings, He is not sufficiently indulgent to those of others; and though strictly just and disinterested in his decisions, his government of the Monks has already shown some proofs of his inflexibility. But the crowd is nearly dissipated: Will you permit us to attend you home?' 'Oh! Christ! Segnor,' exclaimed Leonella affecting to blush; 'I would not suffer such a thing for the Universe! If I came home attended by so gallant a Cavalier, My Sister is so scrupulous that She would read me an hour's lecture, and I should never hear the last of it. Besides, I rather wish you not to make your proposals just at present.' 'My proposals? I assure you, Segnora....' 'Oh! Segnor, I believe that your assurances of impatience are all very true; But really I must desire a little respite. It would not be quite so delicate in me to accept your hand at first sight.' 'Accept my hand? As I hope to live and breathe....' 'Oh! dear Segnor, press me no further, if you love me! I shall consider your obedience as a proof of your affection; You shall hear from me tomorrow, and so farewell. But pray, Cavaliers, may I not enquire your names?' 'My Friend's,' replied Lorenzo, 'is the Conde d'Ossorio, and mine Lorenzo de Medina.' ''Tis sufficient. Well, Don Lorenzo, I shall acquaint my Sister with your obliging offer, and let you know the result with all expedition. Where may I send to you?' 'I am always to be found at the Medina Palace.' 'You may depend upon hearing from me. Farewell, Cavaliers. Segnor Conde, let me entreat you to moderate the excessive ardour of your passion: However, to prove to you that I am not displeased with you, and prevent your abandoning yourself to despair, receive this mark of my affection, and sometimes bestow a thought upon the absent Leonella.' As She said this, She extended a lean and wrinkled hand; which her supposed Admirer kissed with such sorry grace and constraint so evident, that Lorenzo with difficulty repressed his inclination to laugh. Leonella then hastened to quit the Church; The lovely Antonia followed her in silence; but when She reached the Porch, She turned involuntarily, and cast back her eyes towards Lorenzo. He bowed to her, as bidding her farewell; She returned the compliment, and hastily withdrew. 'So, Lorenzo!' said Don Christoval as soon as they were alone, 'You have procured me an agreeable Intrigue! To favour your designs upon Antonia, I obligingly make a few civil speeches which mean nothing to the Aunt, and at the end of an hour I find myself upon the brink of Matrimony! How will you reward me for having suffered so grievously for your sake? What can repay me for having kissed the leathern paw of that confounded old Witch? Diavolo! She has left such a scent upon my lips that I shall smell of garlick for this month to come! As I pass along the Prado, I shall be taken for a walking Omelet, or some large Onion running to seed!' 'I confess, my poor Count,' replied Lorenzo, 'that your service has been attended with danger; Yet am I so far from supposing it be past all endurance that I shall probably solicit you to carry on your amours still further.' 'From that petition I conclude that the little Antonia has made some impression upon you.' 'I cannot express to you how much I am charmed with her. Since my Father's death, My Uncle the Duke de Medina, has signified to me his wishes to see me married; I have till now eluded his hints, and refused to understand them; But what I have seen this Evening....' 'Well? What have you seen this Evening? Why surely, Don Lorenzo, You cannot be mad enough to think of making a Wife out of this Grand-daughter of "as honest a painstaking Shoe-maker as any in Cordova"?' 'You forget, that She is also the Grand-daughter of the late Marquis de las Cisternas; But without disputing about birth and titles, I must assure you, that I never beheld a Woman so interesting as Antonia.' 'Very possibly; But you cannot mean to marry her?' 'Why not, my dear Conde? I shall have wealth enough for both of us, and you know that my Uncle thinks liberally upon the subject. From what I have seen of Raymond de las Cisternas, I am certain that he will readily acknowledge Antonia for his Niece. Her birth therefore will be no objection to my offering her my hand. I should be a Villain could I think of her on any other terms than marriage; and in truth She seems possessed of every quality requisite to make me happy in a Wife. Young, lovely, gentle, sensible....' 'Sensible? Why, She said nothing but "Yes," and "No".' 'She did not say much more, I must confess--But then She always said "Yes," or "No," in the right place.' 'Did She so? Oh! your most obedient! That is using a right Lover's argument, and I dare dispute no longer with so profound a Casuist. Suppose we adjourn to the Comedy?' 'It is out of my power. I only arrived last night at Madrid, and have not yet had an opportunity of seeing my Sister; You know that her Convent is in this Street, and I was going thither when the Crowd which I saw thronging into this Church excited my curiosity to know what was the matter. I shall now pursue my first intention, and probably pass the Evening with my Sister at the Parlour grate.' 'Your Sister in a Convent, say you? Oh! very true, I had forgotten. And how does Donna Agnes? I am amazed, Don Lorenzo, how you could possibly think of immuring so charming a Girl within the walls of a Cloister!' 'I think of it, Don Christoval? How can you suspect me of such barbarity? You are conscious that She took the veil by her own desire, and that particular circumstances made her wish for a seclusion from the World. I used every means in my power to induce her to change her resolution; The endeavour was fruitless, and I lost a Sister!' 'The luckier fellow you; I think, Lorenzo, you were a considerable gainer by that loss: If I remember right, Donna Agnes had a portion of ten thousand pistoles, half of which reverted to your Lordship. By St. Jago! I wish that I had fifty Sisters in the same predicament. I should consent to losing them every soul without much heart-burning--' 'How, Conde?' said Lorenzo in an angry voice; 'Do you suppose me base enough to have influenced my Sister's retirement? Do you suppose that the despicable wish to make myself Master of her fortune could....' 'Admirable! Courage, Don Lorenzo! Now the Man is all in a blaze. God grant that Antonia may soften that fiery temper, or we shall certainly cut each other's throat before the Month is over! However, to prevent such a tragical Catastrophe for the present, I shall make a retreat, and leave you Master of the field. Farewell, my Knight of Mount Aetna! Moderate that inflammable disposition, and remember that whenever it is necessary to make love to yonder Harridan, you may reckon upon my services.' He said, and darted out of the Cathedral. 'How wild-brained!' said Lorenzo; 'With so excellent an heart, what pity that He possesses so little solidity of judgment!' The night was now fast advancing. The Lamps were not yet lighted. The faint beams of the rising Moon scarcely could pierce through the gothic obscurity of the Church. Lorenzo found himself unable to quit the Spot. The void left in his bosom by Antonia's absence, and his Sister's sacrifice which Don Christoval had just recalled to his imagination, created that melancholy of mind which accorded but too well with the religious gloom surrounding him. He was still leaning against the seventh column from the Pulpit. A soft and cooling air breathed along the solitary Aisles: The Moonbeams darting into the Church through painted windows tinged the fretted roofs and massy pillars with a thousand various tints of light and colours: Universal silence prevailed around, only interrupted by the occasional closing of Doors in the adjoining Abbey. The calm of the hour and solitude of the place contributed to nourish Lorenzo's disposition to melancholy. He threw himself upon a seat which stood near him, and abandoned himself to the delusions of his fancy. He thought of his union with Antonia; He thought of the obstacles which might oppose his wishes; and a thousand changing visions floated before his fancy, sad 'tis true, but not unpleasing. Sleep insensibly stole over him, and the tranquil solemnity of his mind when awake for a while continued to influence his slumbers. He still fancied himself to be in the Church of the Capuchins; but it was no longer dark and solitary. Multitudes of silver Lamps shed splendour from the vaulted Roof; Accompanied by the captivating chaunt of distant choristers, the Organ's melody swelled through the Church; The Altar seemed decorated as for some distinguished feast; It was surrounded by a brilliant Company; and near it stood Antonia arrayed in bridal white, and blushing with all the charms of Virgin Modesty. Half hoping, half fearing, Lorenzo gazed upon the scene before him. Sudden the door leading to the Abbey unclosed, and He saw, attended by a long train of Monks, the Preacher advance to whom He had just listened with so much admiration. He drew near Antonia. 'And where is the Bridegroom?' said the imaginary Friar. Antonia seemed to look round the Church with anxiety. Involuntarily the Youth advanced a few steps from his concealment. She saw him; The blush of pleasure glowed upon her cheek; With a graceful motion of her hand She beckoned to him to advance. He disobeyed not the command; He flew towards her, and threw himself at her feet. She retreated for a moment; Then gazing upon him with unutterable delight;--'Yes!' She exclaimed, 'My Bridegroom! My destined Bridegroom!' She said, and hastened to throw herself into his arms; But before He had time to receive her, an Unknown rushed between them. His form was gigantic; His complexion was swarthy, His eyes fierce and terrible; his Mouth breathed out volumes of fire; and on his forehead was written in legible characters--'Pride! Lust! Inhumanity!' Antonia shrieked. The Monster clasped her in his arms, and springing with her upon the Altar, tortured her with his odious caresses. She endeavoured in vain to escape from his embrace. Lorenzo flew to her succour, but ere He had time to reach her, a loud burst of thunder was heard. Instantly the Cathedral seemed crumbling into pieces; The Monks betook themselves to flight, shrieking fearfully; The Lamps were extinguished, the Altar sank down, and in its place appeared an abyss vomiting forth clouds of flame. Uttering a loud and terrible cry the Monster plunged into the Gulph, and in his fall attempted to drag Antonia with him. He strove in vain. Animated by supernatural powers She disengaged herself from his embrace; But her white Robe was left in his possession. Instantly a wing of brilliant splendour spread itself from either of Antonia's arms. She darted upwards, and while ascending cried to Lorenzo, 'Friend! we shall meet above!' At the same moment the Roof of the Cathedral opened; Harmonious voices pealed along the Vaults; and the glory into which Antonia was received was composed of rays of such dazzling brightness, that Lorenzo was unable to sustain the gaze. His sight failed, and He sank upon the ground. When He woke, He found himself extended upon the pavement of the Church: It was Illuminated, and the chaunt of Hymns sounded from a distance. For a while Lorenzo could not persuade himself that what He had just witnessed had been a dream, so strong an impression had it made upon his fancy. A little recollection convinced him of its fallacy: The Lamps had been lighted during his sleep, and the music which he heard was occasioned by the Monks, who were celebrating their Vespers in the Abbey Chapel. Lorenzo rose, and prepared to bend his steps towards his Sister's Convent. His mind fully occupied by the singularity of his dream, He already drew near the Porch, when his attention was attracted by perceiving a Shadow moving upon the opposite wall. He looked curiously round, and soon descried a Man wrapped up in his Cloak, who seemed carefully examining whether his actions were observed. Very few people are exempt from the influence of curiosity. The Unknown seemed anxious to conceal his business in the Cathedral, and it was this very circumstance, which made Lorenzo wish to discover what He was about. Our Hero was conscious that He had no right to pry into the secrets of this unknown Cavalier. 'I will go,' said Lorenzo. And Lorenzo stayed, where He was. The shadow thrown by the Column, effectually concealed him from the Stranger, who continued to advance with caution. At length He drew a letter from beneath his cloak, and hastily placed it beneath a Colossal Statue of St. Francis. Then retiring with precipitation, He concealed himself in a part of the Church at a considerable distance from that in which the Image stood. 'So!' said Lorenzo to himself; 'This is only some foolish love affair. I believe, I may as well be gone, for I can do no good in it.' In truth till that moment it never came into his head that He could do any good in it; But He thought it necessary to make some little excuse to himself for having indulged his curiosity. He now made a second attempt to retire from the Church: For this time He gained the Porch without meeting with any impediment; But it was destined that He should pay it another visit that night. As He descended the steps leading into the Street, a Cavalier rushed against him with such violence, that Both were nearly overturned by the concussion. Lorenzo put his hand to his sword. 'How now, Segnor?' said He; 'What mean you by this rudeness?' 'Ha! Is it you, Medina?' replied the Newcomer, whom Lorenzo by his voice now recognized for Don Christoval; 'You are the luckiest Fellow in the Universe, not to have left the Church before my return. In, in! my dear Lad! They will be here immediately!' 'Who will be here?' 'The old Hen and all her pretty little Chickens! In, I say, and then you shall know the whole History.' Lorenzo followed him into the Cathedral, and they concealed themselves behind the Statue of St. Francis. 'And now,' said our Hero, 'may I take the liberty of asking, what is the meaning of all this haste and rapture?' 'Oh! Lorenzo, we shall see such a glorious sight! The Prioress of St. Clare and her whole train of Nuns are coming hither. You are to know, that the pious Father Ambrosio (The Lord reward him for it!) will upon no account move out of his own precincts: It being absolutely necessary for every fashionable Convent to have him for its Confessor, the Nuns are in consequence obliged to visit him at the Abbey; since when the Mountain will not come to Mahomet, Mahomet must needs go to the Mountain. Now the Prioress of St. Clare, the better to escape the gaze of such impure eyes as belong to yourself and your humble Servant, thinks proper to bring her holy flock to confession in the Dusk: She is to be admitted into the Abbey Chapel by yon private door. The Porteress of St. Clare, who is a worthy old Soul and a particular Friend of mine, has just assured me of their being here in a few moments. There is news for you, you Rogue! We shall see some of the prettiest faces in Madrid!' 'In truth, Christoval, we shall do no such thing. The Nuns are always veiled.' 'No! No! I know better. On entering a place of worship, they ever take off their veils from respect to the Saint to whom 'tis dedicated. But Hark! They are coming! Silence, silence! Observe, and be convinced.' 'Good!' said Lorenzo to himself; 'I may possibly discover to whom the vows are addressed of this mysterious Stranger.' Scarcely had Don Christoval ceased to speak, when the Domina of St. Clare appeared, followed by a long procession of Nuns. Each upon entering the Church took off her veil. The Prioress crossed her hands upon her bosom, and made a profound reverence as She passed the Statue of St. Francis, the Patron of this Cathedral. The Nuns followed her example, and several moved onwards without having satisfied Lorenzo's curiosity. He almost began to despair of seeing the mystery cleared up, when in paying her respects to St. Francis, one of the Nuns happened to drop her Rosary. As She stooped to pick it up, the light flashed full upon her face. At the same moment She dexterously removed the letter from beneath the Image, placed it in her bosom, and hastened to resume her rank in the procession. 'Ha!' said Christoval in a low voice; 'Here we have some little Intrigue, no doubt.' 'Agnes, by heaven!' cried Lorenzo. 'What, your Sister? Diavolo! Then somebody, I suppose, will have to pay for our peeping.' 'And shall pay for it without delay,' replied the incensed Brother. The pious procession had now entered the Abbey; The Door was already closed upon it. The Unknown immediately quitted his concealment and hastened to leave the Church: Ere He could effect his intention, He descried Medina stationed in his passage. The Stranger hastily retreated, and drew his Hat over his eyes. 'Attempt not to fly me!' exclaimed Lorenzo; 'I will know who you are, and what were the contents of that Letter.' 'Of that Letter?' repeated the Unknown. 'And by what title do you ask the question?' 'By a title of which I am now ashamed; But it becomes not you to question me. Either reply circumstantially to my demands, or answer me with your Sword.' 'The latter method will be the shortest,' rejoined the Other, drawing his Rapier; 'Come on, Segnor Bravo! I am ready!' Burning with rage, Lorenzo hastened to the attack: The Antagonists had already exchanged several passes before Christoval, who at that moment had more sense than either of them, could throw himself between their weapons. 'Hold! Hold! Medina!' He exclaimed; 'Remember the consequences of shedding blood on consecrated ground!' The Stranger immediately dropped his Sword. 'Medina?' He cried; 'Great God, is it possible! Lorenzo, have you quite forgotten Raymond de las Cisternas?' Lorenzo's astonishment increased with every succeeding moment. Raymond advanced towards him, but with a look of suspicion He drew back his hand, which the Other was preparing to take. 'You here, Marquis? What is the meaning of all this? You engaged in a clandestine correspondence with my Sister, whose affections....' 'Have ever been, and still are mine. But this is no fit place for an explanation. Accompany me to my Hotel, and you shall know every thing. Who is that with you?' 'One whom I believe you to have seen before,' replied Don Christoval, 'though probably not at Church.' 'The Conde d'Ossorio?' 'Exactly so, Marquis.' 'I have no objection to entrusting you with my secret, for I am sure that I may depend upon your silence.' 'Then your opinion of me is better than my own, and therefore I must beg leave to decline your confidence. Do you go your own way, and I shall go mine. Marquis, where are you to be found?' 'As usual, at the Hotel de las Cisternas; But remember, that I am incognito, and that if you wish to see me, you must ask for Alphonso d'Alvarada.' 'Good! Good! Farewell, Cavaliers!' said Don Christoval, and instantly departed. 'You, Marquis,' said Lorenzo in the accent of surprise; 'You, Alphonso d'Alvarada?' 'Even so, Lorenzo: But unless you have already heard my story from your Sister, I have much to relate that will astonish you. Follow me, therefore, to my Hotel without delay.' At this moment the Porter of the Capuchins entered the Cathedral to lock up the doors for the night. The two Noblemen instantly withdrew, and hastened with all speed to the Palace de las Cisternas. 'Well, Antonia!' said the Aunt, as soon as She had quitted the Church; 'What think you of our Gallants? Don Lorenzo really seems a very obliging good sort of young Man: He paid you some attention, and nobody knows what may come of it. But as to Don Christoval, I protest to you, He is the very Phoenix of politeness. So gallant! so well-bred! So sensible, and so pathetic! Well! If ever Man can prevail upon me to break my vow never to marry, it will be that Don Christoval. You see, Niece, that every thing turns out exactly as I told you: The very moment that I produced myself in Madrid, I knew that I should be surrounded by Admirers. When I took off my veil, did you see, Antonia, what an effect the action had upon the Conde? And when I presented him my hand, did you observe the air of passion with which He kissed it? If ever I witnessed real love, I then saw it impressed upon Don Christoval's countenance!' Now Antonia had observed the air, with which Don Christoval had kissed this same hand; But as She drew conclusions from it somewhat different from her Aunt's, She was wise enough to hold her tongue. As this is the only instance known of a Woman's ever having done so, it was judged worthy to be recorded here. The old Lady continued her discourse to Antonia in the same strain, till they gained the Street in which was their Lodging. Here a Crowd collected before their door permitted them not to approach it; and placing themselves on the opposite side of the Street, they endeavoured to make out what had drawn all these people together. After some minutes the Crowd formed itself into a Circle; And now Antonia perceived in the midst of it a Woman of extraordinary height, who whirled herself repeatedly round and round, using all sorts of extravagant gestures. Her dress was composed of shreds of various-coloured silks and Linens fantastically arranged, yet not entirely without taste. Her head was covered with a kind of Turban, ornamented with vine leaves and wild flowers. She seemed much sun-burnt, and her complexion was of a deep olive: Her eyes looked fiery and strange; and in her hand She bore a long black Rod, with which She at intervals traced a variety of singular figures upon the ground, round about which She danced in all the eccentric attitudes of folly and delirium. Suddenly She broke off her dance, whirled herself round thrice with rapidity, and after a moment's pause She sang the following Ballad. THE GYPSY'S SONG Come, cross my hand! My art surpasses All that did ever Mortal know; Come, Maidens, come! My magic glasses Your future Husband's form can show: For 'tis to me the power is given Unclosed the book of Fate to see; To read the fixed resolves of heaven, And dive into futurity. I guide the pale Moon's silver waggon; The winds in magic bonds I hold; I charm to sleep the crimson Dragon, Who loves to watch o'er buried gold: Fenced round with spells, unhurt I venture Their sabbath strange where Witches keep; Fearless the Sorcerer's circle enter, And woundless tread on snakes asleep. Lo! Here are charms of mighty power! This makes secure an Husband's truth And this composed at midnight hour Will force to love the coldest Youth: If any Maid too much has granted, Her loss this Philtre will repair; This blooms a cheek where red is wanted, And this will make a brown girl fair! Then silent hear, while I discover What I in Fortune's mirror view; And each, when many a year is over, Shall own the Gypsy's sayings true. 'Dear Aunt!' said Antonia when the Stranger had finished, 'Is She not mad?' 'Mad? Not She, Child; She is only wicked. She is a Gypsy, a sort of Vagabond, whose sole occupation is to run about the country telling lyes, and pilfering from those who come by their money honestly. Out upon such Vermin! If I were King of Spain, every one of them should be burnt alive who was found in my dominions after the next three weeks.' These words were pronounced so audibly that they reached the Gypsy's ears. She immediately pierced through the Crowd and made towards the Ladies. She saluted them thrice in the Eastern fashion, and then addressed herself to Antonia. THE GYPSY 'Lady! gentle Lady! Know, I your future fate can show; Give your hand, and do not fear; Lady! gentle Lady! hear!' 'Dearest Aunt!' said Antonia, 'Indulge me this once! Let me have my fortune told me!' 'Nonsense, Child! She will tell you nothing but falsehoods.' 'No matter; Let me at least hear what She has to say. Do, my dear Aunt! Oblige me, I beseech you!' 'Well, well! Antonia, since you are so bent upon the thing, ... Here, good Woman, you shall see the hands of both of us. There is money for you, and now let me hear my fortune.' As She said this, She drew off her glove, and presented her hand; The Gypsy looked at it for a moment, and then made this reply. THE GYPSY 'Your fortune? You are now so old, Good Dame, that 'tis already told: Yet for your money, in a trice I will repay you in advice. Astonished at your childish vanity, Your Friends all tax you with insanity, And grieve to see you use your art To catch some youthful Lover's heart. Believe me, Dame, when all is done, Your age will still be fifty one; And Men will rarely take an hint Of love, from two grey eyes that squint. Take then my counsels; Lay aside Your paint and patches, lust and pride, And on the Poor those sums bestow, Which now are spent on useless show. Think on your Maker, not a Suitor; Think on your past faults, not on future; And think Time's Scythe will quickly mow The few red hairs, which deck your brow. The audience rang with laughter during the Gypsy's address; and--'fifty one,'--'squinting eyes,' 'red hair,'--'paint and patches,' &c. were bandied from mouth to mouth. Leonella was almost choaked with passion, and loaded her malicious Adviser with the bitterest reproaches. The swarthy Prophetess for some time listened to her with a contemptuous smile: at length She made her a short answer, and then turned to Antonia. THE GYPSY 'Peace, Lady! What I said was true; And now, my lovely Maid, to you; Give me your hand, and let me see Your future doom, and heaven's decree.' In imitation of Leonella, Antonia drew off her glove, and presented her white hand to the Gypsy, who having gazed upon it for some time with a mingled expression of pity and astonishment, pronounced her Oracle in the following words. THE GYPSY 'Jesus! what a palm is there! Chaste, and gentle, young and fair, Perfect mind and form possessing, You would be some good Man's blessing: But Alas! This line discovers, That destruction o'er you hovers; Lustful Man and crafty Devil Will combine to work your evil; And from earth by sorrows driven, Soon your Soul must speed to heaven. Yet your sufferings to delay, Well remember what I say. When you One more virtuous see Than belongs to Man to be, One, whose self no crimes assailing, Pities not his Neighbour's Failing, Call the Gypsy's words to mind: Though He seem so good and kind, Fair Exteriors oft will hide Hearts, that swell with lust and pride! Lovely Maid, with tears I leave you! Let not my prediction grieve you; Rather with submission bending Calmly wait distress impending, And expect eternal bliss In a better world than this. Having said this, the Gypsy again whirled herself round thrice, and then hastened out of the Street with frantic gesture. The Crowd followed her; and Elvira's door being now unembarrassed Leonella entered the House out of honour with the Gypsy, with her Niece, and with the People; In short with every body, but herself and her charming Cavalier. The Gypsy's predictions had also considerably affected Antonia; But the impression soon wore off, and in a few hours She had forgotten the adventure as totally as had it never taken place. CHAPTER II Forse se tu gustassi una sol volta La millesima parte delle gioje, Che gusta un cor amato riamando, Diresti ripentita sospirando, Perduto e tutto il tempo Che in amar non si sponde. Tasso. Hadst Thou but tasted once the thousandth part Of joys, which bless the loved and loving heart, Your words repentant and your sighs would prove, Lost is the time which is not past in love. The monks having attended their Abbot to the door of his Cell, He dismissed them with an air of conscious superiority in which Humility's semblance combated with the reality of pride. He was no sooner alone, than He gave free loose to the indulgence of his vanity. When He remembered the Enthusiasm which his discourse had excited, his heart swelled with rapture, and his imagination presented him with splendid visions of aggrandizement. He looked round him with exultation, and Pride told him loudly that He was superior to the rest of his fellow-Creatures. 'Who,' thought He; 'Who but myself has passed the ordeal of Youth, yet sees no single stain upon his conscience? Who else has subdued the violence of strong passions and an impetuous temperament, and submitted even from the dawn of life to voluntary retirement? I seek for such a Man in vain. I see no one but myself possessed of such resolution. Religion cannot boast Ambrosio's equal! How powerful an effect did my discourse produce upon its Auditors! How they crowded round me! How they loaded me with benedictions, and pronounced me the sole uncorrupted Pillar of the Church! What then now is left for me to do? Nothing, but to watch as carefully over the conduct of my Brothers as I have hitherto watched over my own. Yet hold! May I not be tempted from those paths which till now I have pursued without one moment's wandering? Am I not a Man, whose nature is frail, and prone to error? I must now abandon the solitude of my retreat; The fairest and noblest Dames of Madrid continually present themselves at the Abbey, and will use no other Confessor. I must accustom my eyes to Objects of temptation, and expose myself to the seduction of luxury and desire. Should I meet in that world which I am constrained to enter some lovely Female, lovely ... as you, Madona....!' As He said this, He fixed his eyes upon a picture of the Virgin, which was suspended opposite to him: This for two years had been the Object of his increasing wonder and adoration. He paused, and gazed upon it with delight. 'What Beauty in that countenance!' He continued after a silence of some minutes; 'How graceful is the turn of that head! What sweetness, yet what majesty in her divine eyes! How softly her cheek reclines upon her hand! Can the Rose vie with the blush of that cheek? Can the Lily rival the whiteness of that hand? Oh! if such a Creature existed, and existed but for me! Were I permitted to twine round my fingers those golden ringlets, and press with my lips the treasures of that snowy bosom! Gracious God, should I then resist the temptation? Should I not barter for a single embrace the reward of my sufferings for thirty years? Should I not abandon.... Fool that I am! Whither do I suffer my admiration of this picture to hurry me? Away, impure ideas! Let me remember that Woman is for ever lost to me. Never was Mortal formed so perfect as this picture. But even did such exist, the trial might be too mighty for a common virtue, but Ambrosio's is proof against temptation. Temptation, did I say? To me it would be none. What charms me, when ideal and considered as a superior Being, would disgust me, become Woman and tainted with all the failings of Mortality. It is not the Woman's beauty that fills me with such enthusiasm; It is the Painter's skill that I admire, it is the Divinity that I adore! Are not the passions dead in my bosom? Have I not freed myself from the frailty of Mankind? Fear not, Ambrosio! Take confidence in the strength of your virtue. Enter boldly into a world to whose failings you are superior; Reflect that you are now exempted from Humanity's defects, and defy all the arts of the Spirits of Darkness. They shall know you for what you are!' Here his Reverie was interrupted by three soft knocks at the door of his Cell. With difficulty did the Abbot awake from his delirium. The knocking was repeated. 'Who is there?' said Ambrosio at length. 'It is only Rosario,' replied a gentle voice. 'Enter! Enter, my Son!' The Door was immediately opened, and Rosario appeared with a small basket in his hand. Rosario was a young Novice belonging to the Monastery, who in three Months intended to make his profession. A sort of mystery enveloped this Youth which rendered him at once an object of interest and curiosity. His hatred of society, his profound melancholy, his rigid observation of the duties of his order, and his voluntary seclusion from the world at his age so unusual, attracted the notice of the whole fraternity. He seemed fearful of being recognised, and no one had ever seen his face. His head was continually muffled up in his Cowl; Yet such of his features as accident discovered, appeared the most beautiful and noble. Rosario was the only name by which He was known in the Monastery. No one knew from whence He came, and when questioned in the subject He preserved a profound silence. A Stranger, whose rich habit and magnificent equipage declared him to be of distinguished rank, had engaged the Monks to receive a Novice, and had deposited the necessary sums. The next day He returned with Rosario, and from that time no more had been heard of him. The Youth had carefully avoided the company of the Monks: He answered their civilities with sweetness, but reserve, and evidently showed that his inclination led him to solitude. To this general rule the Superior was the only exception. To him He looked up with a respect approaching idolatry: He sought his company with the most attentive assiduity, and eagerly seized every means to ingratiate himself in his favour. In the Abbot's society his Heart seemed to be at ease, and an air of gaiety pervaded his whole manners and discourse. Ambrosio on his side did not feel less attracted towards the Youth; With him alone did He lay aside his habitual severity. When He spoke to him, He insensibly assumed a tone milder than was usual to him; and no voice sounded so sweet to him as did Rosario's. He repayed the Youth's attentions by instructing him in various sciences; The Novice received his lessons with docility; Ambrosio was every day more charmed with the vivacity of his Genius, the simplicity of his manners, and the rectitude of his heart: In short He loved him with all the affection of a Father. He could not help sometimes indulging a desire secretly to see the face of his Pupil; But his rule of self-denial extended even to curiosity, and prevented him from communicating his wishes to the Youth. 'Pardon my intrusion, Father,' said Rosario, while He placed his basket upon the Table; 'I come to you a Suppliant. Hearing that a dear Friend is dangerously ill, I entreat your prayers for his recovery. If supplications can prevail upon heaven to spare him, surely yours must be efficacious.' 'Whatever depends upon me, my Son, you know that you may command. What is your Friend's name?' 'Vincentio della Ronda.' ''Tis sufficient. I will not forget him in my prayers, and may our thrice-blessed St. Francis deign to listen to my intercession!--What have you in your basket, Rosario?' 'A few of those flowers, reverend Father, which I have observed to be most acceptable to you. Will you permit my arranging them in your chamber?' 'Your attentions charm me, my Son.' While Rosario dispersed the contents of his Basket in small Vases placed for that purpose in various parts of the room, the Abbot thus continued the conversation. 'I saw you not in the Church this evening, Rosario.' 'Yet I was present, Father. I am too grateful for your protection to lose an opportunity of witnessing your Triumph.' 'Alas! Rosario, I have but little cause to triumph: The Saint spoke by my mouth; To him belongs all the merit. It seems then you were contented with my discourse?' 'Contented, say you? Oh! you surpassed yourself! Never did I hear such eloquence ... save once!' Here the Novice heaved an involuntary sigh. 'When was that once?' demanded the Abbot. 'When you preached upon the sudden indisposition of our late Superior.' 'I remember it: That is more than two years ago. And were you present? I knew you not at that time, Rosario.' ''Tis true, Father; and would to God! I had expired, ere I beheld that day! What sufferings, what sorrows should I have escaped!' 'Sufferings at your age, Rosario?' 'Aye, Father; Sufferings, which if known to you, would equally raise your anger and compassion! Sufferings, which form at once the torment and pleasure of my existence! Yet in this retreat my bosom would feel tranquil, were it not for the tortures of apprehension. Oh God! Oh God! how cruel is a life of fear!--Father! I have given up all; I have abandoned the world and its delights for ever: Nothing now remains, Nothing now has charms for me, but your friendship, but your affection. If I lose that, Father! Oh! if I lose that, tremble at the effects of my despair!' 'You apprehend the loss of my friendship? How has my conduct justified this fear? Know me better, Rosario, and think me worthy of your confidence. What are your sufferings? Reveal them to me, and believe that if 'tis in my power to relieve them....' 'Ah! 'tis in no one's power but yours. Yet I must not let you know them. You would hate me for my avowal! You would drive me from your presence with scorn and ignominy!' 'My Son, I conjure you! I entreat you!' 'For pity's sake, enquire no further! I must not ... I dare not... Hark! The Bell rings for Vespers! Father, your benediction, and I leave you!' As He said this, He threw himself upon his knees and received the blessing which He demanded. Then pressing the Abbot's hand to his lips, He started from the ground and hastily quitted the apartment. Soon after Ambrosio descended to Vespers (which were celebrated in a small chapel belonging to the Abbey), filled with surprise at the singularity of the Youth's behaviour. Vespers being over, the Monks retired to their respective Cells. The Abbot alone remained in the Chapel to receive the Nuns of St. Clare. He had not been long seated in the confessional chair before the Prioress made her appearance. Each of the Nuns was heard in her turn, while the Others waited with the Domina in the adjoining Vestry. Ambrosio listened to the confessions with attention, made many exhortations, enjoined penance proportioned to each offence, and for some time every thing went on as usual: till at last one of the Nuns, conspicuous from the nobleness of her air and elegance of her figure, carelessly permitted a letter to fall from her bosom. She was retiring, unconscious of her loss. Ambrosio supposed it to have been written by some one of her Relations, and picked it up intending to restore it to her. 'Stay, Daughter,' said He; 'You have let fall....' At this moment, the paper being already open, his eye involuntarily read the first words. He started back with surprise! The Nun had turned round on hearing his voice: She perceived her letter in his hand, and uttering a shriek of terror, flew hastily to regain it. 'Hold!' said the Friar in a tone of severity; 'Daughter, I must read this letter.' 'Then I am lost!' She exclaimed clasping her hands together wildly. All colour instantly faded from her face; she trembled with agitation, and was obliged to fold her arms round a Pillar of the Chapel to save herself from sinking upon the floor. In the meanwhile the Abbot read the following lines. 'All is ready for your escape, my dearest Agnes. At twelve tomorrow night I shall expect to find you at the Garden door: I have obtained the Key, and a few hours will suffice to place you in a secure asylum. Let no mistaken scruples induce you to reject the certain means of preserving yourself and the innocent Creature whom you nourish in your bosom. Remember that you had promised to be mine, long ere you engaged yourself to the church; that your situation will soon be evident to the prying eyes of your Companions; and that flight is the only means of avoiding the effects of their malevolent resentment. Farewell, my Agnes! my dear and destined Wife! Fail not to be at the Garden door at twelve!' As soon as He had finished, Ambrosio bent an eye stern and angry upon the imprudent Nun. 'This letter must to the Prioress!' said He, and passed her. His words sounded like thunder to her ears: She awoke from her torpidity only to be sensible of the dangers of her situation. She followed him hastily, and detained him by his garment. 'Stay! Oh! stay!' She cried in the accents of despair, while She threw herself at the Friar's feet, and bathed them with her tears. 'Father, compassionate my youth! Look with indulgence on a Woman's weakness, and deign to conceal my frailty! The remainder of my life shall be employed in expiating this single fault, and your lenity will bring back a soul to heaven!' 'Amazing confidence! What! Shall St. Clare's Convent become the retreat of Prostitutes? Shall I suffer the Church of Christ to cherish in its bosom debauchery and shame? Unworthy Wretch! such lenity would make me your accomplice. Mercy would here be criminal. You have abandoned yourself to a Seducer's lust; You have defiled the sacred habit by your impurity; and still dare you think yourself deserving my compassion? Hence, nor detain me longer! Where is the Lady Prioress?' He added, raising his voice. 'Hold! Father, Hold! Hear me but for one moment! Tax me not with impurity, nor think that I have erred from the warmth of temperament. Long before I took the veil, Raymond was Master of my heart: He inspired me with the purest, the most irreproachable passion, and was on the point of becoming my lawful husband. An horrible adventure, and the treachery of a Relation, separated us from each other: I believed him for ever lost to me, and threw myself into a Convent from motives of despair. Accident again united us; I could not refuse myself the melancholy pleasure of mingling my tears with his: We met nightly in the Gardens of St. Clare, and in an unguarded moment I violated my vows of Chastity. I shall soon become a Mother: Reverend Ambrosio, take compassion on me; take compassion on the innocent Being whose existence is attached to mine. If you discover my imprudence to the Domina, both of us are lost: The punishment which the laws of St. Clare assign to Unfortunates like myself is most severe and cruel. Worthy, worthy Father! Let not your own untainted conscience render you unfeeling towards those less able to withstand temptation! Let not mercy be the only virtue of which your heart is unsusceptible! Pity me, most reverend! Restore my letter, nor doom me to inevitable destruction!' 'Your boldness confounds me! Shall I conceal your crime, I whom you have deceived by your feigned confession? No, Daughter, no! I will render you a more essential service. I will rescue you from perdition in spite of yourself; Penance and mortification shall expiate your offence, and Severity force you back to the paths of holiness. What; Ho! Mother St. Agatha!' 'Father! By all that is sacred, by all that is most dear to you, I supplicate, I entreat....' 'Release me! I will not hear you. Where is the Domina? Mother St. Agatha, where are you?' The door of the Vestry opened, and the Prioress entered the Chapel, followed by her Nuns. 'Cruel! Cruel!' exclaimed Agnes, relinquishing her hold. Wild and desperate, She threw herself upon the ground, beating her bosom and rending her veil in all the delirium of despair. The Nuns gazed with astonishment upon the scene before them. The Friar now presented the fatal paper to the Prioress, informed her of the manner in which he had found it, and added, that it was her business to decide, what penance the delinquent merited. While She perused the letter, the Domina's countenance grew inflamed with passion. What! Such a crime committed in her Convent, and made known to Ambrosio, to the Idol of Madrid, to the Man whom She was most anxious to impress with the opinion of the strictness and regularity of her House! Words were inadequate to express her fury. She was silent, and darted upon the prostrate Nun looks of menace and malignity. 'Away with her to the Convent!' said She at length to some of her Attendants. Two of the oldest Nuns now approaching Agnes, raised her forcibly from the ground, and prepared to conduct her from the Chapel. 'What!' She exclaimed suddenly shaking off their hold with distracted gestures; 'Is all hope then lost? Already do you drag me to punishment? Where are you, Raymond? Oh! save me! save me!' Then casting upon the Abbot a frantic look, 'Hear me!' She continued; 'Man of an hard heart! Hear me, Proud, Stern, and Cruel! You could have saved me; you could have restored me to happiness and virtue, but would not! You are the destroyer of my Soul; You are my Murderer, and on you fall the curse of my death and my unborn Infant's! Insolent in your yet-unshaken virtue, you disdained the prayers of a Penitent; But God will show mercy, though you show none. And where is the merit of your boasted virtue? What temptations have you vanquished? Coward! you have fled from it, not opposed seduction. But the day of Trial will arrive! Oh! then when you yield to impetuous passions! when you feel that Man is weak, and born to err; When shuddering you look back upon your crimes, and solicit with terror the mercy of your God, Oh! in that fearful moment think upon me! Think upon your Cruelty! Think upon Agnes, and despair of pardon!' As She uttered these last words, her strength was exhausted, and She sank inanimate upon the bosom of a Nun who stood near her. She was immediately conveyed from the Chapel, and her Companions followed her. Ambrosio had not listened to her reproaches without emotion. A secret pang at his heart made him feel, that He had treated this Unfortunate with too great severity. He therefore detained the Prioress and ventured to pronounce some words in favour of the Delinquent. 'The violence of her despair,' said He, 'proves, that at least Vice is not become familiar to her. Perhaps by treating her with somewhat less rigour than is generally practised, and mitigating in some degree the accustomed penance....' 'Mitigate it, Father?' interrupted the Lady Prioress; 'Not I, believe me. The laws of our order are strict and severe; they have fallen into disuse of late, But the crime of Agnes shows me the necessity of their revival. I go to signify my intention to the Convent, and Agnes shall be the first to feel the rigour of those laws, which shall be obeyed to the very letter. Father, Farewell.' Thus saying, She hastened out of the Chapel. 'I have done my duty,' said Ambrosio to himself. Still did He not feel perfectly satisfied by this reflection. To dissipate the unpleasant ideas which this scene had excited in him, upon quitting the Chapel He descended into the Abbey Garden. In all Madrid there was no spot more beautiful or better regulated. It was laid out with the most exquisite taste. The choicest flowers adorned it in the height of luxuriance, and though artfully arranged, seemed only planted by the hand of Nature: Fountains, springing from basons of white Marble, cooled the air with perpetual showers; and the Walls were entirely covered by Jessamine, vines, and Honeysuckles. The hour now added to the beauty of the scene. The full Moon, ranging through a blue and cloudless sky, shed upon the trees a trembling lustre, and the waters of the fountains sparkled in the silver beam: A gentle breeze breathed the fragrance of Orange-blossoms along the Alleys; and the Nightingale poured forth her melodious murmur from the shelter of an artificial wilderness. Thither the Abbot bent his steps. In the bosom of this little Grove stood a rustic Grotto, formed in imitation of an Hermitage. The walls were constructed of roots of trees, and the interstices filled up with Moss and Ivy. Seats of Turf were placed on either side, and a natural Cascade fell from the Rock above. Buried in himself the Monk approached the spot. The universal calm had communicated itself to his bosom, and a voluptuous tranquillity spread languor through his soul. He reached the Hermitage, and was entering to repose himself, when He stopped on perceiving it to be already occupied. Extended upon one of the Banks lay a man in a melancholy posture. His head was supported upon his arm, and He seemed lost in mediation. The Monk drew nearer, and recognised Rosario: He watched him in silence, and entered not the Hermitage. After some minutes the Youth raised his eyes, and fixed them mournfully upon the opposite Wall. 'Yes!' said He with a deep and plaintive sigh; 'I feel all the happiness of thy situation, all the misery of my own! Happy were I, could I think like Thee! Could I look like Thee with disgust upon Mankind, could bury myself for ever in some impenetrable solitude, and forget that the world holds Beings deserving to be loved! Oh God! What a blessing would Misanthropy be to me!' 'That is a singular thought, Rosario,' said the Abbot, entering the Grotto. 'You here, reverend Father?' cried the Novice. At the same time starting from his place in confusion, He drew his Cowl hastily over his face. Ambrosio seated himself upon the Bank, and obliged the Youth to place himself by him. 'You must not indulge this disposition to melancholy,' said He; 'What can possibly have made you view in so desirable a light, Misanthropy, of all sentiments the most hateful?' 'The perusal of these Verses, Father, which till now had escaped my observation. The Brightness of the Moonbeams permitted my reading them; and Oh! how I envy the feelings of the Writer!' As He said this, He pointed to a marble Tablet fixed against the opposite Wall: On it were engraved the following lines. INSCRIPTION IN AN HERMITAGE Who-e'er Thou art these lines now reading, Think not, though from the world receding I joy my lonely days to lead in This Desart drear, That with remorse a conscience bleeding Hath led me here. No thought of guilt my bosom sowrs: Free-willed I fled from courtly bowers; For well I saw in Halls and Towers That Lust and Pride, The Arch-Fiend's dearest darkest Powers, In state preside. I saw Mankind with vice incrusted; I saw that Honour's sword was rusted; That few for aught but folly lusted; That He was still deceiv'd, who trusted In Love or Friend; And hither came with Men disgusted My life to end. In this lone Cave, in garments lowly, Alike a Foe to noisy folly, And brow-bent gloomy melancholy I wear away My life, and in my office holy Consume the day. Content and comfort bless me more in This Grot, than e'er I felt before in A Palace, and with thoughts still soaring To God on high, Each night and morn with voice imploring This wish I sigh. 'Let me, Oh! Lord! from life retire, Unknown each guilty worldly fire, Remorseful throb, or loose desire; And when I die, Let me in this belief expire, "To God I fly"!' Stranger, if full of youth and riot As yet no grief has marred thy quiet, Thou haply throw'st a scornful eye at The Hermit's prayer: But if Thou hast a cause to sigh at Thy fault, or care; If Thou hast known false Love's vexation, Or hast been exil'd from thy Nation, Or guilt affrights thy contemplation, And makes thee pine, Oh! how must Thou lament thy station, And envy mine! 'Were it possible' said the Friar, 'for Man to be so totally wrapped up in himself as to live in absolute seclusion from human nature, and could yet feel the contented tranquillity which these lines express, I allow that the situation would be more desirable, than to live in a world so pregnant with every vice and every folly. But this never can be the case. This inscription was merely placed here for the ornament of the Grotto, and the sentiments and the Hermit are equally imaginary. Man was born for society. However little He may be attached to the World, He never can wholly forget it, or bear to be wholly forgotten by it. Disgusted at the guilt or absurdity of Mankind, the Misanthrope flies from it: He resolves to become an Hermit, and buries himself in the Cavern of some gloomy Rock. While Hate inflames his bosom, possibly He may feel contented with his situation: But when his passions begin to cool; when Time has mellowed his sorrows, and healed those wounds which He bore with him to his solitude, think you that Content becomes his Companion? Ah! no, Rosario. No longer sustained by the violence of his passions, He feels all the monotony of his way of living, and his heart becomes the prey of Ennui and weariness. He looks round, and finds himself alone in the Universe: The love of society revives in his bosom, and He pants to return to that world which He has abandoned. Nature loses all her charms in his eyes: No one is near him to point out her beauties, or share in his admiration of her excellence and variety. Propped upon the fragment of some Rock, He gazes upon the tumbling waterfall with a vacant eye, He views without emotion the glory of the setting Sun. Slowly He returns to his Cell at Evening, for no one there is anxious for his arrival; He has no comfort in his solitary unsavoury meal: He throws himself upon his couch of Moss despondent and dissatisfied, and wakes only to pass a day as joyless, as monotonous as the former.' 'You amaze me, Father! Suppose that circumstances condemned you to solitude; Would not the duties of Religion and the consciousness of a life well spent communicate to your heart that calm which....' 'I should deceive myself, did I fancy that they could. I am convinced of the contrary, and that all my fortitude would not prevent me from yielding to melancholy and disgust. After consuming the day in study, if you knew my pleasure at meeting my Brethren in the Evening! After passing many a long hour in solitude, if I could express to you the joy which I feel at once more beholding a fellow-Creature! 'Tis in this particular that I place the principal merit of a Monastic Institution. It secludes Man from the temptations of Vice; It procures that leisure necessary for the proper service of the Supreme; It spares him the mortification of witnessing the crimes of the worldly, and yet permits him to enjoy the blessings of society. And do you, Rosario, do YOU envy an Hermit's life? Can you be thus blind to the happiness of your situation? Reflect upon it for a moment. This Abbey is become your Asylum: Your regularity, your gentleness, your talents have rendered you the object of universal esteem: You are secluded from the world which you profess to hate; yet you remain in possession of the benefits of society, and that a society composed of the most estimable of Mankind.' 'Father! Father! 'tis that which causes my Torment! Happy had it been for me, had my life been passed among the vicious and abandoned! Had I never heard pronounced the name of Virtue! 'Tis my unbounded adoration of religion; 'Tis my soul's exquisite sensibility of the beauty of fair and good, that loads me with shame! that hurries me to perdition! Oh! that I had never seen these Abbey walls!' 'How, Rosario? When we last conversed, you spoke in a different tone. Is my friendship then become of such little consequence? Had you never seen these Abbey walls, you never had seen me: Can that really be your wish?' 'Had never seen you?' repeated the Novice, starting from the Bank, and grasping the Friar's hand with a frantic air; 'You? You? Would to God, that lightning had blasted them, before you ever met my eyes! Would to God! that I were never to see you more, and could forget that I had ever seen you!' With these words He flew hastily from the Grotto. Ambrosio remained in his former attitude, reflecting on the Youth's unaccountable behaviour. He was inclined to suspect the derangement of his senses: yet the general tenor of his conduct, the connexion of his ideas, and calmness of his demeanour till the moment of his quitting the Grotto, seemed to discountenance this conjecture. After a few minutes Rosario returned. He again seated himself upon the Bank: He reclined his cheek upon one hand, and with the other wiped away the tears which trickled from his eyes at intervals. The Monk looked upon him with compassion, and forbore to interrupt his meditations. Both observed for some time a profound silence. The Nightingale had now taken her station upon an Orange Tree fronting the Hermitage, and poured forth a strain the most melancholy and melodious. Rosario raised his head, and listened to her with attention. 'It was thus,' said He, with a deep-drawn sigh; 'It was thus, that during the last month of her unhappy life, my Sister used to sit listening to the Nightingale. Poor Matilda! She sleeps in the Grave, and her broken heart throbs no more with passion.' 'You had a Sister?' 'You say right, that I HAD; Alas! I have one no longer. She sunk beneath the weight of her sorrows in the very spring of life.' 'What were those sorrows?' 'They will not excite YOUR pity: YOU know not the power of those irresistible, those fatal sentiments, to which her Heart was a prey. Father, She loved unfortunately. A passion for One endowed with every virtue, for a Man, Oh! rather let me say, for a divinity, proved the bane of her existence. His noble form, his spotless character, his various talents, his wisdom solid, wonderful, and glorious, might have warmed the bosom of the most insensible. My Sister saw him, and dared to love though She never dared to hope.' 'If her love was so well bestowed, what forbad her to hope the obtaining of its object?' 'Father, before He knew her, Julian had already plighted his vows to a Bride most fair, most heavenly! Yet still my Sister loved, and for the Husband's sake She doted upon the Wife. One morning She found means to escape from our Father's House: Arrayed in humble weeds She offered herself as a Domestic to the Consort of her Beloved, and was accepted. She was now continually in his presence: She strove to ingratiate herself into his favour: She succeeded. Her attentions attracted Julian's notice; The virtuous are ever grateful, and He distinguished Matilda above the rest of her Companions.' 'And did not your Parents seek for her? Did they submit tamely to their loss, nor attempt to recover their wandering Daughter?' 'Ere they could find her, She discovered herself. Her love grew too violent for concealment; Yet She wished not for Julian's person, She ambitioned but a share of his heart. In an unguarded moment She confessed her affection. What was the return? Doating upon his Wife, and believing that a look of pity bestowed upon another was a theft from what He owed to her, He drove Matilda from his presence. He forbad her ever again appearing before him. His severity broke her heart: She returned to her Father's, and in a few Months after was carried to her Grave.' 'Unhappy Girl! Surely her fate was too severe, and Julian was too cruel.' 'Do you think so, Father?' cried the Novice with vivacity; 'Do you think that He was cruel?' 'Doubtless I do, and pity her most sincerely.' 'You pity her? You pity her? Oh! Father! Father! Then pity me!' The Friar started; when after a moment's pause Rosario added with a faltering voice,--'for my sufferings are still greater. My Sister had a Friend, a real Friend, who pitied the acuteness of her feelings, nor reproached her with her inability to repress them. I ...! I have no Friend! The whole wide world cannot furnish an heart that is willing to participate in the sorrows of mine!' As He uttered these words, He sobbed audibly. The Friar was affected. He took Rosario's hand, and pressed it with tenderness. 'You have no Friend, say you? What then am I? Why will you not confide in me, and what can you fear? My severity? Have I ever used it with you? The dignity of my habit? Rosario, I lay aside the Monk, and bid you consider me as no other than your Friend, your Father. Well may I assume that title, for never did Parent watch over a Child more fondly than I have watched over you. From the moment in which I first beheld you, I perceived sensations in my bosom till then unknown to me; I found a delight in your society which no one's else could afford; and when I witnessed the extent of your genius and information, I rejoiced as does a Father in the perfections of his Son. Then lay aside your fears; Speak to me with openness: Speak to me, Rosario, and say that you will confide in me. If my aid or my pity can alleviate your distress....' 'Yours can! Yours only can! Ah! Father, how willingly would I unveil to you my heart! How willingly would I declare the secret which bows me down with its weight! But Oh! I fear! I fear!' 'What, my Son?' 'That you should abhor me for my weakness; That the reward of my confidence should be the loss of your esteem.' 'How shall I reassure you? Reflect upon the whole of my past conduct, upon the paternal tenderness which I have ever shown you. Abhor you, Rosario? It is no longer in my power. To give up your society would be to deprive myself of the greatest pleasure of my life. Then reveal to me what afflicts you, and believe me while I solemnly swear....' 'Hold!' interrupted the Novice; 'Swear, that whatever be my secret, you will not oblige me to quit the Monastery till my Noviciate shall expire.' 'I promise it faithfully, and as I keep my vows to you, may Christ keep his to Mankind. Now then explain this mystery, and rely upon my indulgence.' 'I obey you. Know then.... Oh! how I tremble to name the word! Listen to me with pity, revered Ambrosio! Call up every latent spark of human weakness that may teach you compassion for mine! Father!' continued He throwing himself at the Friar's feet, and pressing his hand to his lips with eagerness, while agitation for a moment choaked his voice; 'Father!' continued He in faltering accents, 'I am a Woman!' The Abbot started at this unexpected avowal. Prostrate on the ground lay the feigned Rosario, as if waiting in silence the decision of his Judge. Astonishment on the one part, apprehension on the other, for some minutes chained them in the same attitudes, as had they been touched by the Rod of some Magician. At length recovering from his confusion, the Monk quitted the Grotto, and sped with precipitation towards the Abbey. His action did not escape the Suppliant. She sprang from the ground; She hastened to follow him, overtook him, threw herself in his passage, and embraced his knees. Ambrosio strove in vain to disengage himself from her grasp. 'Do not fly me!' She cried; 'Leave me not abandoned to the impulse of despair! Listen, while I excuse my imprudence; while I acknowledge my Sister's story to be my own! I am Matilda; You are her Beloved.' If Ambrosio's surprise was great at her first avowal, upon hearing her second it exceeded all bounds. Amazed, embarrassed, and irresolute He found himself incapable of pronouncing a syllable, and remained in silence gazing upon Matilda: This gave her opportunity to continue her explanation as follows. 'Think not, Ambrosio, that I come to rob your Bride of your affections. No, believe me: Religion alone deserves you; and far is it from Matilda's wish to draw you from the paths of virtue. What I feel for you is love, not licentiousness; I sigh to be possessor of your heart, not lust for the enjoyment of your person. Deign to listen to my vindication: A few moments will convince you that this holy retreat is not polluted by my presence, and that you may grant me your compassion without trespassing against your vows.'--She seated herself: Ambrosio, scarcely conscious of what He did, followed her example, and She proceeded in her discourse. 'I spring from a distinguished family: My Father was Chief of the noble House of Villanegas. He died while I was still an Infant, and left me sole Heiress of his immense possessions. Young and wealthy, I was sought in marriage by the noblest Youths of Madrid; But no one succeeded in gaining my affections. I had been brought up under the care of an Uncle possessed of the most solid judgment and extensive erudition. He took pleasure in communicating to me some portion of his knowledge. Under his instructions my understanding acquired more strength and justness than generally falls to the lot of my sex: The ability of my Preceptor being aided by natural curiosity, I not only made a considerable progress in sciences universally studied, but in others, revealed but to few, and lying under censure from the blindness of superstition. But while my Guardian laboured to enlarge the sphere of my knowledge, He carefully inculcated every moral precept: He relieved me from the shackles of vulgar prejudice; He pointed out the beauty of Religion; He taught me to look with adoration upon the pure and virtuous, and, woe is me! I have obeyed him but too well! 'With such dispositions, Judge whether I could observe with any other sentiment than disgust the vice, dissipation, and ignorance, which disgrace our Spanish Youth. I rejected every offer with disdain. My heart remained without a Master till chance conducted me to the Cathedral of the Capuchins. Oh! surely on that day my Guardian Angel slumbered neglectful of his charge! Then was it that I first beheld you: You supplied the Superior's place, absent from illness. You cannot but remember the lively enthusiasm which your discourse created. Oh! how I drank your words! How your eloquence seemed to steal me from myself! I scarcely dared to breathe, fearing to lose a syllable; and while you spoke, Methought a radiant glory beamed round your head, and your countenance shone with the majesty of a God. I retired from the Church, glowing with admiration. From that moment you became the idol of my heart, the never-changing object of my Meditations. I enquired respecting you. The reports which were made me of your mode of life, of your knowledge, piety, and self-denial riveted the chains imposed on me by your eloquence. I was conscious that there was no longer a void in my heart; That I had found the Man whom I had sought till then in vain. In expectation of hearing you again, every day I visited your Cathedral: You remained secluded within the Abbey walls, and I always withdrew, wretched and disappointed. The Night was more propitious to me, for then you stood before me in my dreams; You vowed to me eternal friendship; You led me through the paths of virtue, and assisted me to support the vexations of life. The Morning dispelled these pleasing visions; I woke, and found myself separated from you by Barriers which appeared insurmountable. Time seemed only to increase the strength of my passion: I grew melancholy and despondent; I fled from society, and my health declined daily. At length no longer able to exist in this state of torture, I resolved to assume the disguise in which you see me. My artifice was fortunate: I was received into the Monastery, and succeeded in gaining your esteem. 'Now then I should have felt compleatly happy, had not my quiet been disturbed by the fear of detection. The pleasure which I received from your society, was embittered by the idea that perhaps I should soon be deprived of it: and my heart throbbed so rapturously at obtaining the marks of your friendship, as to convince me that I never should survive its loss. I resolved, therefore, not to leave the discovery of my sex to chance, to confess the whole to you, and throw myself entirely on your mercy and indulgence. Ah! Ambrosio, can I have been deceived? Can you be less generous than I thought you? I will not suspect it. You will not drive a Wretch to despair; I shall still be permitted to see you, to converse with you, to adore you! Your virtues shall be my example through life; and when we expire, our bodies shall rest in the same Grave.' She ceased. While She spoke, a thousand opposing sentiments combated in Ambrosio's bosom. Surprise at the singularity of this adventure, Confusion at her abrupt declaration, Resentment at her boldness in entering the Monastery, and Consciousness of the austerity with which it behoved him to reply, such were the sentiments of which He was aware; But there were others also which did not obtain his notice. He perceived not, that his vanity was flattered by the praises bestowed upon his eloquence and virtue; that He felt a secret pleasure in reflecting that a young and seemingly lovely Woman had for his sake abandoned the world, and sacrificed every other passion to that which He had inspired: Still less did He perceive that his heart throbbed with desire, while his hand was pressed gently by Matilda's ivory fingers. By degrees He recovered from his confusion. His ideas became less bewildered: He was immediately sensible of the extreme impropriety, should Matilda be permitted to remain in the Abbey after this avowal of her sex. He assumed an air of severity, and drew away his hand. 'How, Lady!' said He; 'Can you really hope for my permission to remain amongst us? Even were I to grant your request, what good could you derive from it? Think you that I ever can reply to an affection, which...' 'No, Father, No! I expect not to inspire you with a love like mine. I only wish for the liberty to be near you, to pass some hours of the day in your society; to obtain your compassion, your friendship and esteem. Surely my request is not unreasonable.' 'But reflect, Lady! Reflect only for a moment on the impropriety of my harbouring a Woman in the Abbey; and that too a Woman, who confesses that She loves me. It must not be. The risque of your being discovered is too great, and I will not expose myself to so dangerous a temptation.' 'Temptation, say you? Forget that I am a Woman, and it no longer exists: Consider me only as a Friend, as an Unfortunate, whose happiness, whose life depends upon your protection. Fear not lest I should ever call to your remembrance that love the most impetuous, the most unbounded, has induced me to disguise my sex; or that instigated by desires, offensive to YOUR vows and my own honour, I should endeavour to seduce you from the path of rectitude. No, Ambrosio, learn to know me better. I love you for your virtues: Lose them, and with them you lose my affections. I look upon you as a Saint; Prove to me that you are no more than Man, and I quit you with disgust. Is it then from me that you fear temptation? From me, in whom the world's dazzling pleasures created no other sentiment than contempt? From me, whose attachment is grounded on your exemption from human frailty? Oh! dismiss such injurious apprehensions! Think nobler of me, think nobler of yourself. I am incapable of seducing you to error; and surely your Virtue is established on a basis too firm to be shaken by unwarranted desires. Ambrosio, dearest Ambrosio! drive me not from your presence; Remember your promise, and authorize my stay!' 'Impossible, Matilda; YOUR interest commands me to refuse your prayer, since I tremble for you, not for myself. After vanquishing the impetuous ebullitions of Youth; After passing thirty years in mortification and penance, I might safely permit your stay, nor fear your inspiring me with warmer sentiments than pity. But to yourself, remaining in the Abbey can produce none but fatal consequences. You will misconstrue my every word and action; You will seize every circumstance with avidity, which encourages you to hope the return of your affection; Insensibly your passions will gain a superiority over your reason; and far from these being repressed by my presence, every moment which we pass together, will only serve to irritate and excite them. Believe me, unhappy Woman! you possess my sincere compassion. I am convinced that you have hitherto acted upon the purest motives; But though you are blind to the imprudence of your conduct, in me it would be culpable not to open your eyes. I feel that Duty obliges my treating you with harshness: I must reject your prayer, and remove every shadow of hope which may aid to nourish sentiments so pernicious to your repose. Matilda, you must from hence tomorrow.' 'Tomorrow, Ambrosio? Tomorrow? Oh! surely you cannot mean it! You cannot resolve on driving me to despair! You cannot have the cruelty....' 'You have heard my decision, and it must be obeyed. The Laws of our Order forbid your stay: It would be perjury to conceal that a Woman is within these Walls, and my vows will oblige me to declare your story to the Community. You must from hence!--I pity you, but can do no more!' He pronounced these words in a faint and trembling voice: Then rising from his seat, He would have hastened towards the Monastery. Uttering a loud shriek, Matilda followed, and detained him. 'Stay yet one moment, Ambrosio! Hear me yet speak one word!' 'I dare not listen! Release me! You know my resolution!' 'But one word! But one last word, and I have done!' 'Leave me! Your entreaties are in vain! You must from hence tomorrow!' 'Go then, Barbarian! But this resource is still left me.' As She said this, She suddenly drew a poignard: She rent open her garment, and placed the weapon's point against her bosom. 'Father, I will never quit these Walls alive!' 'Hold! Hold, Matilda! What would you do?' 'You are determined, so am I: The Moment that you leave me, I plunge this Steel in my heart.' 'Holy St. Francis! Matilda, have you your senses? Do you know the consequences of your action? That Suicide is the greatest of crimes? That you destroy your Soul? That you lose your claim to salvation? That you prepare for yourself everlasting torments?' 'I care not! I care not!' She replied passionately; 'Either your hand guides me to Paradise, or my own dooms me to perdition! Speak to me, Ambrosio! Tell me that you will conceal my story, that I shall remain your Friend and your Companion, or this poignard drinks my blood!' As She uttered these last words, She lifted her arm, and made a motion as if to stab herself. The Friar's eyes followed with dread the course of the dagger. She had torn open her habit, and her bosom was half exposed. The weapon's point rested upon her left breast: And Oh! that was such a breast! The Moonbeams darting full upon it enabled the Monk to observe its dazzling whiteness. His eye dwelt with insatiable avidity upon the beauteous Orb. A sensation till then unknown filled his heart with a mixture of anxiety and delight: A raging fire shot through every limb; The blood boiled in his veins, and a thousand wild wishes bewildered his imagination. 'Hold!' He cried in an hurried faultering voice; 'I can resist no longer! Stay, then, Enchantress; Stay for my destruction!' He said, and rushing from the place, hastened towards the Monastery: He regained his Cell and threw himself upon his Couch, distracted irresolute and confused. He found it impossible for some time to arrange his ideas. The scene in which He had been engaged had excited such a variety of sentiments in his bosom, that He was incapable of deciding which was predominant. He was irresolute what conduct He ought to hold with the disturber of his repose. He was conscious that prudence, religion, and propriety necessitated his obliging her to quit the Abbey: But on the other hand such powerful reasons authorized her stay that He was but too much inclined to consent to her remaining. He could not avoid being flattered by Matilda's declaration, and at reflecting that He had unconsciously vanquished an heart which had resisted the attacks of Spain's noblest Cavaliers: The manner in which He had gained her affections was also the most satisfactory to his vanity: He remembered the many happy hours which He had passed in Rosario's society, and dreaded that void in his heart which parting with him would occasion. Besides all this, He considered, that as Matilda was wealthy, her favour might be of essential benefit to the Abbey. 'And what do I risque,' said He to himself, 'by authorizing her stay? May I not safely credit her assertions? Will it not be easy for me to forget her sex, and still consider her as my Friend and my disciple? Surely her love is as pure as She describes. Had it been the offspring of mere licentiousness, would She so long have concealed it in her own bosom? Would She not have employed some means to procure its gratification? She has done quite the contrary: She strove to keep me in ignorance of her sex; and nothing but the fear of detection, and my instances, would have compelled her to reveal the secret. She has observed the duties of religion not less strictly than myself. She has made no attempts to rouze my slumbering passions, nor has She ever conversed with me till this night on the subject of Love. Had She been desirous to gain my affections, not my esteem, She would not have concealed from me her charms so carefully: At this very moment I have never seen her face: Yet certainly that face must be lovely, and her person beautiful, to judge by her ... by what I have seen.' As this last idea passed through his imagination, a blush spread itself over his cheek. Alarmed at the sentiments which He was indulging, He betook himself to prayer; He started from his Couch, knelt before the beautiful Madona, and entreated her assistance in stifling such culpable emotions. He then returned to his Bed, and resigned himself to slumber. He awoke, heated and unrefreshed. During his sleep his inflamed imagination had presented him with none but the most voluptuous objects. Matilda stood before him in his dreams, and his eyes again dwelt upon her naked breast. She repeated her protestations of eternal love, threw her arms round his neck, and loaded him with kisses: He returned them; He clasped her passionately to his bosom, and ... the vision was dissolved. Sometimes his dreams presented the image of his favourite Madona, and He fancied that He was kneeling before her: As He offered up his vows to her, the eyes of the Figure seemed to beam on him with inexpressible sweetness. He pressed his lips to hers, and found them warm: The animated form started from the Canvas, embraced him affectionately, and his senses were unable to support delight so exquisite. Such were the scenes, on which his thoughts were employed while sleeping: His unsatisfied Desires placed before him the most lustful and provoking Images, and he rioted in joys till then unknown to him. He started from his Couch, filled with confusion at the remembrance of his dreams. Scarcely was He less ashamed, when He reflected on his reasons of the former night which induced him to authorize Matilda's stay. The cloud was now dissipated which had obscured his judgment: He shuddered when He beheld his arguments blazoned in their proper colours, and found that He had been a slave to flattery, to avarice, and self-love. If in one hour's conversation Matilda had produced a change so remarkable in his sentiments, what had He not to dread from her remaining in the Abbey? Become sensible of his danger, awakened from his dream of confidence, He resolved to insist on her departing without delay. He began to feel that He was not proof against temptation; and that however Matilda might restrain herself within the bounds of modesty, He was unable to contend with those passions, from which He falsely thought himself exempted. 'Agnes! Agnes!' He exclaimed, while reflecting on his embarrassments, 'I already feel thy curse!' He quitted his Cell, determined upon dismissing the feigned Rosario. He appeared at Matins; But his thoughts were absent, and He paid them but little attention. His heart and brain were both of them filled with worldly objects, and He prayed without devotion. The service over, He descended into the Garden. He bent his steps towards the same spot where, on the preceding night, He had made this embarrassing discovery. He doubted not but that Matilda would seek him there: He was not deceived. She soon entered the Hermitage, and approached the Monk with a timid air. After a few minutes during which both were silent, She appeared as if on the point of speaking; But the Abbot, who during this time had been summoning up all his resolution, hastily interrupted her. Though still unconscious how extensive was its influence, He dreaded the melodious seduction of her voice. 'Seat yourself by my side, Matilda,' said He, assuming a look of firmness, though carefully avoiding the least mixture of severity; 'Listen to me patiently, and believe, that in what I shall say, I am not more influenced by my own interest than by yours: Believe, that I feel for you the warmest friendship, the truest compassion, and that you cannot feel more grieved than I do, when I declare to you that we must never meet again.' 'Ambrosio!' She cried, in a voice at once expressive of surprise and sorrow. 'Be calm, my Friend! My Rosario! Still let me call you by that name so dear to me! Our separation is unavoidable; I blush to own, how sensibly it affects me.-- But yet it must be so. I feel myself incapable of treating you with indifference, and that very conviction obliges me to insist upon your departure. Matilda, you must stay here no longer.' 'Oh! where shall I now seek for probity? Disgusted with a perfidious world, in what happy region does Truth conceal herself? Father, I hoped that She resided here; I thought that your bosom had been her favourite shrine. And you too prove false? Oh God! And you too can betray me?' 'Matilda!' 'Yes, Father, Yes! 'Tis with justice that I reproach you. Oh! where are your promises? My Noviciate is not expired, and yet will you compell me to quit the Monastery? Can you have the heart to drive me from you? And have I not received your solemn oath to the contrary?' 'I will not compell you to quit the Monastery: You have received my solemn oath to the contrary. But yet when I throw myself upon your generosity, when I declare to you the embarrassments in which your presence involves me, will you not release me from that oath? Reflect upon the danger of a discovery, upon the opprobrium in which such an event would plunge me: Reflect that my honour and reputation are at stake, and that my peace of mind depends on your compliance. As yet my heart is free; I shall separate from you with regret, but not with despair. Stay here, and a few weeks will sacrifice my happiness on the altar of your charms. You are but too interesting, too amiable! I should love you, I should doat on you! My bosom would become the prey of desires which Honour and my profession forbid me to gratify. If I resisted them, the impetuosity of my wishes unsatisfied would drive me to madness: If I yielded to the temptation, I should sacrifice to one moment of guilty pleasure my reputation in this world, my salvation in the next. To you then I fly for defence against myself. Preserve me from losing the reward of thirty years of sufferings! Preserve me from becoming the Victim of Remorse! YOUR heart has already felt the anguish of hopeless love; Oh! then if you really value me, spare mine that anguish! Give me back my promise; Fly from these walls. Go, and you bear with you my warmest prayers for your happiness, my friendship, my esteem and admiration: Stay, and you become to me the source of danger, of sufferings, of despair! Answer me, Matilda; What is your resolve?'--She was silent--'Will you not speak, Matilda? Will you not name your choice?' 'Cruel! Cruel!' She exclaimed, wringing her hands in agony; 'You know too well that you offer me no choice! You know too well that I can have no will but yours!' 'I was not then deceived! Matilda's generosity equals my expectations.' 'Yes; I will prove the truth of my affection by submitting to a decree which cuts me to the very heart. Take back your promise. I will quit the Monastery this very day. I have a Relation, Abbess of a Covent in Estramadura: To her will I bend my steps, and shut myself from the world for ever. Yet tell me, Father, shall I bear your good wishes with me to my solitude? Will you sometimes abstract your attention from heavenly objects to bestow a thought upon me?' 'Ah! Matilda, I fear that I shall think on you but too often for my repose!' 'Then I have nothing more to wish for, save that we may meet in heaven. Farewell, my Friend! my Ambrosio!-- And yet methinks, I would fain bear with me some token of your regard!' 'What shall I give you?' 'Something.--Any thing.--One of those flowers will be sufficient.' (Here She pointed to a bush of Roses, planted at the door of the Grotto.) 'I will hide it in my bosom, and when I am dead, the Nuns shall find it withered upon my heart.' The Friar was unable to reply: With slow steps, and a soul heavy with affliction, He quitted the Hermitage. He approached the Bush, and stooped to pluck one of the Roses. Suddenly He uttered a piercing cry, started back hastily, and let the flower, which He already held, fall from his hand. Matilda heard the shriek, and flew anxiously towards him. 'What is the matter?' She cried; 'Answer me, for God's sake! What has happened?' 'I have received my death!' He replied in a faint voice; 'Concealed among the Roses ... A Serpent....' Here the pain of his wound became so exquisite, that Nature was unable to bear it: His senses abandoned him, and He sank inanimate into Matilda's arms. Her distress was beyond the power of description. She rent her hair, beat her bosom, and not daring to quit Ambrosio, endeavoured by loud cries to summon the Monks to her assistance. She at length succeeded. Alarmed by her shrieks, Several of the Brothers hastened to the spot, and the Superior was conveyed back to the Abbey. He was immediately put to bed, and the Monk who officiated as Surgeon to the Fraternity prepared to examine the wound. By this time Ambrosio's hand had swelled to an extraordinary size; The remedies which had been administered to him, 'tis true, restored him to life, but not to his senses; He raved in all the horrors of delirium, foamed at the mouth, and four of the strongest Monks were scarcely able to hold him in his bed. Father Pablos, such was the Surgeon's name, hastened to examine the wounded hand. The Monks surrounded the Bed, anxiously waiting for the decision: Among these the feigned Rosario appeared not the most insensible to the Friar's calamity. He gazed upon the Sufferer with inexpressible anguish; and the groans which every moment escaped from his bosom sufficiently betrayed the violence of his affliction. Father Pablos probed the wound. As He drew out his Lancet, its point was tinged with a greenish hue. He shook his head mournfully, and quitted the bedside. ''Tis as I feared!' said He; 'There is no hope.' 'No hope?' exclaimed the Monks with one voice; 'Say you, no hope?' 'From the sudden effects, I suspected that the Abbot was stung by a Cientipedoro: The venom which you see upon my Lancet confirms my idea: He cannot live three days.' 'And can no possible remedy be found?' enquired Rosario. 'Without extracting the poison, He cannot recover; and how to extract it is to me still a secret. All that I can do is to apply such herbs to the wound as will relieve the anguish: The Patient will be restored to his senses; But the venom will corrupt the whole mass of his blood, and in three days He will exist no longer.' Excessive was the universal grief at hearing this decision. Pablos, as He had promised, dressed the wound, and then retired, followed by his Companions: Rosario alone remained in the Cell, the Abbot at his urgent entreaty having been committed to his care. Ambrosio's strength worn out by the violence of his exertions, He had by this time fallen into a profound sleep. So totally was He overcome by weariness, that He scarcely gave any signs of life; He was still in this situation, when the Monks returned to enquire whether any change had taken place. Pablos loosened the bandage which concealed the wound, more from a principle of curiosity than from indulging the hope of discovering any favourable symptoms. What was his astonishment at finding, that the inflammation had totally subsided! He probed the hand; His Lancet came out pure and unsullied; No traces of the venom were perceptible; and had not the orifice still been visible, Pablos might have doubted that there had ever been a wound. He communicated this intelligence to his Brethren; their delight was only equalled by their surprize. From the latter sentiment, however, they were soon released by explaining the circumstance according to their own ideas: They were perfectly convinced that their Superior was a Saint, and thought, that nothing could be more natural than for St. Francis to have operated a miracle in his favour. This opinion was adopted unanimously: They declared it so loudly, and vociferated,--'A miracle! a miracle!'--with such fervour, that they soon interrupted Ambrosio's slumbers. The Monks immediately crowded round his Bed, and expressed their satisfaction at his wonderful recovery. He was perfectly in his senses, and free from every complaint except feeling weak and languid. Pablos gave him a strengthening medicine, and advised his keeping his bed for the two succeeding days: He then retired, having desired his Patient not to exhaust himself by conversation, but rather to endeavour at taking some repose. The other Monks followed his example, and the Abbot and Rosario were left without Observers. For some minutes Ambrosio regarded his Attendant with a look of mingled pleasure and apprehension. She was seated upon the side of the Bed, her head bending down, and as usual enveloped in the Cowl of her Habit. 'And you are still here, Matilda?' said the Friar at length. 'Are you not satisfied with having so nearly effected my destruction, that nothing but a miracle could have saved me from the Grave? Ah! surely Heaven sent that Serpent to punish....' Matilda interrupted him by putting her hand before his lips with an air of gaiety. 'Hush! Father, Hush! You must not talk!' 'He who imposed that order, knew not how interesting are the subjects on which I wish to speak.' 'But I know it, and yet issue the same positive command. I am appointed your Nurse, and you must not disobey my orders.' 'You are in spirits, Matilda!' 'Well may I be so: I have just received a pleasure unexampled through my whole life.' 'What was that pleasure?' 'What I must conceal from all, but most from you.' 'But most from me? Nay then, I entreat you, Matilda....' 'Hush, Father! Hush! You must not talk. But as you do not seem inclined to sleep, shall I endeavour to amuse you with my Harp?' 'How? I knew not that you understood Music.' 'Oh! I am a sorry Performer! Yet as silence is prescribed you for eight and forty hours, I may possibly entertain you, when wearied of your own reflections. I go to fetch my Harp.' She soon returned with it. 'Now, Father; What shall I sing? Will you hear the Ballad which treats of the gallant Durandarte, who died in the famous battle of Roncevalles?' 'What you please, Matilda.' 'Oh! call me not Matilda! Call me Rosario, call me your Friend! Those are the names, which I love to hear from your lips. Now listen!' She then tuned her harp, and afterwards preluded for some moments with such exquisite taste as to prove her a perfect Mistress of the Instrument. The air which She played was soft and plaintive: Ambrosio, while He listened, felt his uneasiness subside, and a pleasing melancholy spread itself into his bosom. Suddenly Matilda changed the strain: With an hand bold and rapid She struck a few loud martial chords, and then chaunted the following Ballad to an air at once simple and melodious. DURANDARTE AND BELERMA Sad and fearful is the story Of the Roncevalles fight; On those fatal plains of glory Perished many a gallant Knight. There fell Durandarte; Never Verse a nobler Chieftain named: He, before his lips for ever Closed in silence thus exclaimed. 'Oh! Belerma! Oh! my dear-one! For my pain and pleasure born! Seven long years I served thee, fair-one, Seven long years my fee was scorn: 'And when now thy heart replying To my wishes, burns like mine, Cruel Fate my bliss denying Bids me every hope resign. 'Ah! Though young I fall, believe me, Death would never claim a sigh; 'Tis to lose thee, 'tis to leave thee, Makes me think it hard to die! 'Oh! my Cousin Montesinos, By that friendship firm and dear Which from Youth has lived between us, Now my last petition hear! 'When my Soul these limbs forsaking Eager seeks a purer air, From my breast the cold heart taking, Give it to Belerma's care. Say, I of my lands Possessor Named her with my dying breath: Say, my lips I op'd to bless her, Ere they closed for aye in death: 'Twice a week too how sincerely I adored her, Cousin, say; Twice a week for one who dearly Loved her, Cousin, bid her pray. 'Montesinos, now the hour Marked by fate is near at hand: Lo! my arm has lost its power! Lo! I drop my trusty brand! 'Eyes, which forth beheld me going, Homewards ne'er shall see me hie! Cousin, stop those tears o'er-flowing, Let me on thy bosom die! 'Thy kind hand my eyelids closing, Yet one favour I implore: Pray Thou for my Soul's reposing, When my heart shall throb no more; 'So shall Jesus, still attending Gracious to a Christian's vow, Pleased accept my Ghost ascending, And a seat in heaven allow.' Thus spoke gallant Durandarte; Soon his brave heart broke in twain. Greatly joyed the Moorish party, That the gallant Knight was slain. Bitter weeping Montesinos Took from him his helm and glaive; Bitter weeping Montesinos Dug his gallant Cousin's grave. To perform his promise made, He Cut the heart from out the breast, That Belerma, wretched Lady! Might receive the last bequest. Sad was Montesinos' heart, He Felt distress his bosom rend. 'Oh! my Cousin Durandarte, Woe is me to view thy end! 'Sweet in manners, fair in favour, Mild in temper, fierce in fight, Warrior, nobler, gentler, braver, Never shall behold the light! 'Cousin, Lo! my tears bedew thee! How shall I thy loss survive! Durandarte, He who slew thee, Wherefore left He me alive!' While She sung, Ambrosio listened with delight: Never had He heard a voice more harmonious; and He wondered how such heavenly sounds could be produced by any but Angels. But though He indulged the sense of hearing, a single look convinced him that He must not trust to that of sight. The Songstress sat at a little distance from his Bed. The attitude in which She bent over her harp, was easy and graceful: Her Cowl had fallen backwarder than usual: Two coral lips were visible, ripe, fresh, and melting, and a Chin in whose dimples seemed to lurk a thousand Cupids. Her Habit's long sleeve would have swept along the Chords of the Instrument: To prevent this inconvenience She had drawn it above her elbow, and by this means an arm was discovered formed in the most perfect symmetry, the delicacy of whose skin might have contended with snow in whiteness. Ambrosio dared to look on her but once: That glance sufficed to convince him, how dangerous was the presence of this seducing Object. He closed his eyes, but strove in vain to banish her from his thoughts. There She still moved before him, adorned with all those charms which his heated imagination could supply: Every beauty which He had seen, appeared embellished, and those still concealed Fancy represented to him in glowing colours. Still, however, his vows and the necessity of keeping to them were present to his memory. He struggled with desire, and shuddered when He beheld how deep was the precipice before him. Matilda ceased to sing. Dreading the influence of her charms, Ambrosio remained with his eyes closed, and offered up his prayers to St. Francis to assist him in this dangerous trial! Matilda believed that He was sleeping. She rose from her seat, approached the Bed softly, and for some minutes gazed upon him attentively. 'He sleeps!' said She at length in a low voice, but whose accents the Abbot distinguished perfectly; 'Now then I may gaze upon him without offence! I may mix my breath with his; I may doat upon his features, and He cannot suspect me of impurity and deceit!--He fears my seducing him to the violation of his vows! Oh! the Unjust! Were it my wish to excite desire, should I conceal my features from him so carefully? Those features, of which I daily hear him....' She stopped, and was lost in her reflections. 'It was but yesterday!' She continued; 'But a few short hours have past, since I was dear to him! He esteemed me, and my heart was satisfied! Now!... Oh! now how cruelly is my situation changed! He looks on me with suspicion! He bids me leave him, leave him for ever! Oh! You, my Saint! my Idol! You, holding the next place to God in my breast! Yet two days, and my heart will be unveiled to you.--Could you know my feelings, when I beheld your agony! Could you know, how much your sufferings have endeared you to me! But the time will come, when you will be convinced that my passion is pure and disinterested. Then you will pity me, and feel the whole weight of these sorrows!' As She said this, her voice was choaked by weeping. While She bent over Ambrosio, a tear fell upon his cheek. 'Ah! I have disturbed him!' cried Matilda, and retreated hastily. Her alarm was ungrounded. None sleep so profoundly, as those who are determined not to wake. The Friar was in this predicament: He still seemed buried in a repose, which every succeeding minute rendered him less capable of enjoying. The burning tear had communicated its warmth to his heart. 'What affection! What purity!' said He internally; 'Ah! since my bosom is thus sensible of pity, what would it be if agitated by love?' Matilda again quitted her seat, and retired to some distance from the Bed. Ambrosio ventured to open his eyes, and to cast them upon her fearfully. Her face was turned from him. She rested her head in a melancholy posture upon her Harp, and gazed on the picture which hung opposite to the Bed. 'Happy, happy Image!' Thus did She address the beautiful Madona; ''Tis to you that He offers his prayers! 'Tis on you that He gazes with admiration! I thought you would have lightened my sorrows; You have only served to increase their weight: You have made me feel that had I known him ere his vows were pronounced, Ambrosio and happiness might have been mine. With what pleasure He views this picture! With what fervour He addresses his prayers to the insensible Image! Ah! may not his sentiments be inspired by some kind and secret Genius, Friend to my affection? May it not be Man's natural instinct which informs him... Be silent, idle hopes! Let me not encourage an idea which takes from the brilliance of Ambrosio's virtue. 'Tis Religion, not Beauty which attracts his admiration; 'Tis not to the Woman, but the Divinity that He kneels. Would He but address to me the least tender expression which He pours forth to this Madona! Would He but say that were He not already affianced to the Church, He would not have despised Matilda! Oh! let me nourish that fond idea! Perhaps He may yet acknowledge that He feels for me more than pity, and that affection like mine might well have deserved a return; Perhaps, He may own thus much when I lye on my deathbed! He then need not fear to infringe his vows, and the confession of his regard will soften the pangs of dying. Would I were sure of this! Oh! how earnestly should I sigh for the moment of dissolution!' Of this discourse the Abbot lost not a syllable; and the tone in which She pronounced these last words pierced to his heart. Involuntarily He raised himself from his pillow. 'Matilda!' He said in a troubled voice; 'Oh! my Matilda!' She started at the sound, and turned towards him hastily. The suddenness of her movement made her Cowl fall back from her head; Her features became visible to the Monk's enquiring eye. What was his amazement at beholding the exact resemblance of his admired Madona? The same exquisite proportion of features, the same profusion of golden hair, the same rosy lips, heavenly eyes, and majesty of countenance adorned Matilda! Uttering an exclamation of surprize, Ambrosio sank back upon his pillow, and doubted whether the Object before him was mortal or divine. Matilda seemed penetrated with confusion. She remained motionless in her place, and supported herself upon her Instrument. Her eyes were bent upon the earth, and her fair cheeks overspread with blushes. On recovering herself, her first action was to conceal her features. She then in an unsteady and troubled voice ventured to address these words to the Friar. 'Accident has made you Master of a secret, which I never would have revealed but on the Bed of death. Yes, Ambrosio; In Matilda de Villanegas you see the original of your beloved Madona. Soon after I conceived my unfortunate passion, I formed the project of conveying to you my Picture: Crowds of Admirers had persuaded me that I possessed some beauty, and I was anxious to know what effect it would produce upon you. I caused my Portrait to be drawn by Martin Galuppi, a celebrated Venetian at that time resident in Madrid. The resemblance was striking: I sent it to the Capuchin Abbey as if for sale, and the Jew from whom you bought it was one of my Emissaries. You purchased it. Judge of my rapture, when informed that you had gazed upon it with delight, or rather with adoration; that you had suspended it in your Cell, and that you addressed your supplications to no other Saint. Will this discovery make me still more regarded as an object of suspicion? Rather should it convince you how pure is my affection, and engage you to suffer me in your society and esteem. I heard you daily extol the praises of my Portrait: I was an eyewitness of the transports, which its beauty excited in you: Yet I forbore to use against your virtue those arms, with which yourself had furnished me. I concealed those features from your sight, which you loved unconsciously. I strove not to excite desire by displaying my charms, or to make myself Mistress of your heart through the medium of your senses. To attract your notice by studiously attending to religious duties, to endear myself to you by convincing you that my mind was virtuous and my attachment sincere, such was my only aim. I succeeded; I became your companion and your Friend. I concealed my sex from your knowledge; and had you not pressed me to reveal my secret, had I not been tormented by the fear of a discovery, never had you known me for any other than Rosario. And still are you resolved to drive me from you? The few hours of life which yet remain for me, may I not pass them in your presence? Oh! speak, Ambrosio, and tell me that I may stay!' This speech gave the Abbot an opportunity of recollecting himself. He was conscious that in the present disposition of his mind, avoiding her society was his only refuge from the power of this enchanting Woman. 'You declaration has so much astonished me,' said He, 'that I am at present incapable of answering you. Do not insist upon a reply, Matilda; Leave me to myself; I have need to be alone.' 'I obey you--But before I go, promise not to insist upon my quitting the Abbey immediately.' 'Matilda, reflect upon your situation; Reflect upon the consequences of your stay. Our separation is indispensable, and we must part.' 'But not to-day, Father! Oh! in pity not today!' 'You press me too hard, but I cannot resist that tone of supplication. Since you insist upon it, I yield to your prayer: I consent to your remaining here a sufficient time to prepare in some measure the Brethren for your departure. Stay yet two days; But on the third,' ... (He sighed involuntarily)--'Remember, that on the third we must part for ever!' She caught his hand eagerly, and pressed it to her lips. 'On the third?' She exclaimed with an air of wild solemnity; 'You are right, Father! You are right! On the third we must part for ever!' There was a dreadful expression in her eye as She uttered these words, which penetrated the Friar's soul with horror: Again She kissed his hand, and then fled with rapidity from the chamber. Anxious to authorise the presence of his dangerous Guest, yet conscious that her stay was infringing the laws of his order, Ambrosio's bosom became the Theatre of a thousand contending passions. At length his attachment to the feigned Rosario, aided by the natural warmth of his temperament, seemed likely to obtain the victory: The success was assured, when that presumption which formed the groundwork of his character came to Matilda's assistance. The Monk reflected that to vanquish temptation was an infinitely greater merit than to avoid it: He thought that He ought rather to rejoice in the opportunity given him of proving the firmness of his virtue. St. Anthony had withstood all seductions to lust; Then why should not He? Besides, St. Anthony was tempted by the Devil, who put every art into practice to excite his passions: Whereas, Ambrosio's danger proceeded from a mere mortal Woman, fearful and modest, whose apprehensions of his yielding were not less violent than his own. 'Yes,' said He; 'The Unfortunate shall stay; I have nothing to fear from her presence. Even should my own prove too weak to resist the temptation, I am secured from danger by the innocence of Matilda.' Ambrosio was yet to learn, that to an heart unacquainted with her, Vice is ever most dangerous when lurking behind the Mask of Virtue. He found himself so perfectly recovered, that when Father Pablos visited him again at night, He entreated permission to quit his chamber on the day following. His request was granted. Matilda appeared no more that evening, except in company with the Monks when they came in a body to enquire after the Abbot's health. She seemed fearful of conversing with him in private, and stayed but a few minutes in his room. The Friar slept well; But the dreams of the former night were repeated, and his sensations of voluptuousness were yet more keen and exquisite. The same lust-exciting visions floated before his eyes: Matilda, in all the pomp of beauty, warm, tender, and luxurious, clasped him to her bosom, and lavished upon him the most ardent caresses. He returned them as eagerly, and already was on the point of satisfying his desires, when the faithless form disappeared, and left him to all the horrors of shame and disappointment. The Morning dawned. Fatigued, harassed, and exhausted by his provoking dreams, He was not disposed to quit his Bed. He excused himself from appearing at Matins: It was the first morning in his life that He had ever missed them. He rose late. During the whole of the day He had no opportunity of speaking to Matilda without witnesses. His Cell was thronged by the Monks, anxious to express their concern at his illness; And He was still occupied in receiving their compliments on his recovery, when the Bell summoned them to the Refectory. After dinner the Monks separated, and dispersed themselves in various parts of the Garden, where the shade of trees or retirement of some Grotto presented the most agreeable means of enjoying the Siesta. The Abbot bent his steps towards the Hermitage: A glance of his eye invited Matilda to accompany him. She obeyed, and followed him thither in silence. They entered the Grotto, and seated themselves. Both seemed unwilling to begin the conversation, and to labour under the influence of mutual embarrassment. At length the Abbot spoke: He conversed only on indifferent topics, and Matilda answered him in the same tone. She seemed anxious to make him forget that the Person who sat by him was any other than Rosario. Neither of them dared, or indeed wished to make an allusion, to the subject which was most at the hearts of both. Matilda's efforts to appear gay were evidently forced: Her spirits were oppressed by the weight of anxiety, and when She spoke her voice was low and feeble. She seemed desirous of finishing a conversation which embarrassed her; and complaining that She was unwell, She requested Ambrosio's permission to return to the Abbey. He accompanied her to the door of her cell; and when arrived there, He stopped her to declare his consent to her continuing the Partner of his solitude so long as should be agreeable to herself. She discovered no marks of pleasure at receiving this intelligence, though on the preceding day She had been so anxious to obtain the permission. 'Alas! Father,' She said, waving her head mournfully; 'Your kindness comes too late! My doom is fixed. We must separate for ever. Yet believe, that I am grateful for your generosity, for your compassion of an Unfortunate who is but too little deserving of it!' She put her handkerchief to her eyes. Her Cowl was only half drawn over her face. Ambrosio observed that She was pale, and her eyes sunk and heavy. 'Good God!' He cried; 'You are very ill, Matilda! I shall send Father Pablos to you instantly.' 'No; Do not. I am ill, 'tis true; But He cannot cure my malady. Farewell, Father! Remember me in your prayers tomorrow, while I shall remember you in heaven!' She entered her cell, and closed the door. The Abbot dispatched to her the Physician without losing a moment, and waited his report impatiently. But Father Pablos soon returned, and declared that his errand had been fruitless. Rosario refused to admit him, and had positively rejected his offers of assistance. The uneasiness which this account gave Ambrosio was not trifling: Yet He determined that Matilda should have her own way for that night: But that if her situation did not mend by the morning, he would insist upon her taking the advice of Father Pablos. He did not find himself inclined to sleep. He opened his casement, and gazed upon the moonbeams as they played upon the small stream whose waters bathed the walls of the Monastery. The coolness of the night breeze and tranquillity of the hour inspired the Friar's mind with sadness. He thought upon Matilda's beauty and affection; Upon the pleasures which He might have shared with her, had He not been restrained by monastic fetters. He reflected, that unsustained by hope her love for him could not long exist; That doubtless She would succeed in extinguishing her passion, and seek for happiness in the arms of One more fortunate. He shuddered at the void which her absence would leave in his bosom. He looked with disgust on the monotony of a Convent, and breathed a sigh towards that world from which He was for ever separated. Such were the reflections which a loud knocking at his door interrupted. The Bell of the Church had already struck Two. The Abbot hastened to enquire the cause of this disturbance. He opened the door of his Cell, and a Lay-Brother entered, whose looks declared his hurry and confusion. 'Hasten, reverend Father!' said He; 'Hasten to the young Rosario. He earnestly requests to see you; He lies at the point of death.' 'Gracious God! Where is Father Pablos? Why is He not with him? Oh! I fear! I fear!' 'Father Pablos has seen him, but his art can do nothing. He says that He suspects the Youth to be poisoned.' 'Poisoned? Oh! The Unfortunate! It is then as I suspected! But let me not lose a moment; Perhaps it may yet be time to save her!' He said, and flew towards the Cell of the Novice. Several Monks were already in the chamber. Father Pablos was one of them, and held a medicine in his hand which He was endeavouring to persuade Rosario to swallow. The Others were employed in admiring the Patient's divine countenance, which They now saw for the first time. She looked lovelier than ever. She was no longer pale or languid; A bright glow had spread itself over her cheeks; her eyes sparkled with a serene delight, and her countenance was expressive of confidence and resignation. 'Oh! torment me no more!' was She saying to Pablos, when the terrified Abbot rushed hastily into the Cell; 'My disease is far beyond the reach of your skill, and I wish not to be cured of it'--Then perceiving Ambrosio,-- 'Ah! 'tis He!' She cried; 'I see him once again, before we part for ever! Leave me, my Brethren; Much have I to tell this holy Man in private.' The Monks retired immediately, and Matilda and the Abbot remained together. 'What have you done, imprudent Woman!' exclaimed the Latter, as soon as they were left alone; 'Tell me; Are my suspicions just? Am I indeed to lose you? Has your own hand been the instrument of your destruction?' She smiled, and grasped his hand. 'In what have I been imprudent, Father? I have sacrificed a pebble, and saved a diamond: My death preserves a life valuable to the world, and more dear to me than my own. Yes, Father; I am poisoned; But know that the poison once circulated in your veins.' 'Matilda!' 'What I tell you I resolved never to discover to you but on the bed of death: That moment is now arrived. You cannot have forgotten the day already, when your life was endangered by the bite of a Cientipedoro. The Physician gave you over, declaring himself ignorant how to extract the venom: I knew but of one means, and hesitated not a moment to employ it. I was left alone with you: You slept; I loosened the bandage from your hand; I kissed the wound, and drew out the poison with my lips. The effect has been more sudden than I expected. I feel death at my heart; Yet an hour, and I shall be in a better world.' 'Almighty God!' exclaimed the Abbot, and sank almost lifeless upon the Bed. After a few minutes He again raised himself up suddenly, and gazed upon Matilda with all the wildness of despair. 'And you have sacrificed yourself for me! You die, and die to preserve Ambrosio! And is there indeed no remedy, Matilda? And is there indeed no hope? Speak to me, Oh! speak to me! Tell me, that you have still the means of life!' 'Be comforted, my only Friend! Yes, I have still the means of life in my power: But 'tis a means which I dare not employ. It is dangerous! It is dreadful! Life would be purchased at too dear a rate, ... unless it were permitted me to live for you.' 'Then live for me, Matilda, for me and gratitude!'-- (He caught her hand, and pressed it rapturously to his lips.)--'Remember our late conversations; I now consent to every thing: Remember in what lively colours you described the union of souls; Be it ours to realize those ideas. Let us forget the distinctions of sex, despise the world's prejudices, and only consider each other as Brother and Friend. Live then, Matilda! Oh! live for me!' 'Ambrosio, it must not be. When I thought thus, I deceived both you and myself. Either I must die at present, or expire by the lingering torments of unsatisfied desire. Oh! since we last conversed together, a dreadful veil has been rent from before my eyes. I love you no longer with the devotion which is paid to a Saint: I prize you no more for the virtues of your soul; I lust for the enjoyment of your person. The Woman reigns in my bosom, and I am become a prey to the wildest of passions. Away with friendship! 'tis a cold unfeeling word. My bosom burns with love, with unutterable love, and love must be its return. Tremble then, Ambrosio, tremble to succeed in your prayers. If I live, your truth, your reputation, your reward of a life past in sufferings, all that you value is irretrievably lost. I shall no longer be able to combat my passions, shall seize every opportunity to excite your desires, and labour to effect your dishonour and my own. No, no, Ambrosio; I must not live! I am convinced with every moment, that I have but one alternative; I feel with every heart-throb, that I must enjoy you, or die.' 'Amazement!--Matilda! Can it be you who speak to me?' He made a movement as if to quit his seat. She uttered a loud shriek, and raising herself half out of the Bed, threw her arms round the Friar to detain him. 'Oh! do not leave me! Listen to my errors with compassion! In a few hours I shall be no more; Yet a little, and I am free from this disgraceful passion.' 'Wretched Woman, what can I say to you! I cannot ... I must not ... But live, Matilda! Oh! live!' 'You do not reflect on what you ask. What? Live to plunge myself in infamy? To become the Agent of Hell? To work the destruction both of you and of Myself? Feel this heart, Father!' She took his hand: Confused, embarrassed, and fascinated, He withdrew it not, and felt her heart throb under it. 'Feel this heart, Father! It is yet the seat of honour, truth, and chastity: If it beats tomorrow, it must fall a prey to the blackest crimes. Oh! let me then die today! Let me die, while I yet deserve the tears of the virtuous! Thus will expire!'--(She reclined her head upon his shoulder; Her golden Hair poured itself over his Chest.)-- 'Folded in your arms, I shall sink to sleep; Your hand shall close my eyes for ever, and your lips receive my dying breath. And will you not sometimes think of me? Will you not sometimes shed a tear upon my Tomb? Oh! Yes! Yes! Yes! That kiss is my assurance!' The hour was night. All was silence around. The faint beams of a solitary Lamp darted upon Matilda's figure, and shed through the chamber a dim mysterious light. No prying eye, or curious ear was near the Lovers: Nothing was heard but Matilda's melodious accents. Ambrosio was in the full vigour of Manhood. He saw before him a young and beautiful Woman, the preserver of his life, the Adorer of his person, and whom affection for him had reduced to the brink of the Grave. He sat upon her Bed; His hand rested upon her bosom; Her head reclined voluptuously upon his breast. Who then can wonder, if He yielded to the temptation? Drunk with desire, He pressed his lips to those which sought them: His kisses vied with Matilda's in warmth and passion. He clasped her rapturously in his arms; He forgot his vows, his sanctity, and his fame: He remembered nothing but the pleasure and opportunity. 'Ambrosio! Oh! my Ambrosio!' sighed Matilda. 'Thine, ever thine!' murmured the Friar, and sank upon her bosom. CHAPTER III ----These are the Villains Whom all the Travellers do fear so much. --------Some of them are Gentlemen Such as the fury of ungoverned Youth Thrust from the company of awful Men. Two Gentlemen of Verona. The Marquis and Lorenzo proceeded to the Hotel in silence. The Former employed himself in calling every circumstance to his mind, which related might give Lorenzo's the most favourable idea of his connexion with Agnes. The Latter, justly alarmed for the honour of his family, felt embarrassed by the presence of the Marquis: The adventure which He had just witnessed forbad his treating him as a Friend; and Antonia's interests being entrusted to his mediation, He saw the impolicy of treating him as a Foe. He concluded from these reflections, that profound silence would be the wisest plan, and waited with impatience for Don Raymond's explanation. They arrived at the Hotel de las Cisternas. The Marquis immediately conducted him to his apartment, and began to express his satisfaction at finding him at Madrid. Lorenzo interrupted him. 'Excuse me, my Lord,' said He with a distant air, 'if I reply somewhat coldly to your expressions of regard. A Sister's honour is involved in this affair: Till that is established, and the purport of your correspondence with Agnes cleared up, I cannot consider you as my Friend. I am anxious to hear the meaning of your conduct, and hope that you will not delay the promised explanation.' 'First give me your word, that you will listen with patience and indulgence.' 'I love my Sister too well to judge her harshly; and till this moment I possessed no Friend so dear to me as yourself. I will also confess, that your having it in your power to oblige me in a business which I have much at heart, makes me very anxious to find you still deserving my esteem.' 'Lorenzo, you transport me! No greater pleasure can be given me, than an opportunity of serving the Brother of Agnes.' 'Convince me that I can accept your favours without dishonour, and there is no Man in the world to whom I am more willing to be obliged.' 'Probably, you have already heard your Sister mention the name of Alphonso d'Alvarada?' 'Never. Though I feel for Agnes an affection truly fraternal, circumstances have prevented us from being much together. While yet a Child She was consigned to the care of her Aunt, who had married a German Nobleman. At his Castle She remained till two years since, when She returned to Spain, determined upon secluding herself from the world.' 'Good God! Lorenzo, you knew of her intention, and yet strove not to make her change it?' 'Marquis, you wrong me. The intelligence, which I received at Naples, shocked me extremely, and I hastened my return to Madrid for the express purpose of preventing the sacrifice. The moment that I arrived, I flew to the Convent of St. Clare, in which Agnes had chosen to perform her Noviciate. I requested to see my Sister. Conceive my surprise when She sent me a refusal; She declared positively, that apprehending my influence over her mind, She would not trust herself in my society till the day before that on which She was to receive the Veil. I supplicated the Nuns; I insisted upon seeing Agnes, and hesitated not to avow my suspicions that her being kept from me was against her own inclinations. To free herself from the imputation of violence, the Prioress brought me a few lines written in my Sister's well-known hand, repeating the message already delivered. All future attempts to obtain a moment's conversation with her were as fruitless as the first. She was inflexible, and I was not permitted to see her till the day preceding that on which She entered the Cloister never to quit it more. This interview took place in the presence of our principal Relations. It was for the first time since her childhood that I saw her, and the scene was most affecting. She threw herself upon my bosom, kissed me, and wept bitterly. By every possible argument, by tears, by prayers, by kneeling, I strove to make her abandon her intention. I represented to her all the hardships of a religious life; I painted to her imagination all the pleasures which She was going to quit, and besought her to disclose to me, what occasioned her disgust to the world. At this last question She turned pale, and her tears flowed yet faster. She entreated me not to press her on that subject; That it sufficed me to know that her resolution was taken, and that a Convent was the only place where She could now hope for tranquillity. She persevered in her design, and made her profession. I visited her frequently at the Grate, and every moment that I passed with her, made me feel more affliction at her loss. I was shortly after obliged to quit Madrid; I returned but yesterday evening, and since then have not had time to call at St. Clare's Convent.' 'Then till I mentioned it, you never heard the name of Alphonso d'Alvarada?' 'Pardon me: my Aunt wrote me word that an Adventurer so called had found means to get introduced into the Castle of Lindenberg; That He had insinuated himself into my Sister's good graces, and that She had even consented to elope with him. However, before the plan could be executed, the Cavalier discovered that the estates which He believed Agnes to possess in Hispaniola, in reality belonged to me. This intelligence made him change his intention; He disappeared on the day that the elopement was to have taken place, and Agnes, in despair at his perfidy and meanness, had resolved upon seclusion in a Convent. She added, that as this adventurer had given himself out to be a Friend of mine, She wished to know whether I had any knowledge of him. I replied in the negative. I had then very little idea, that Alphonso d'Alvarada and the Marquis de las Cisternas were one and the same person: The description given me of the first by no means tallied with what I knew of the latter.' 'In this I easily recognize Donna Rodolpha's perfidious character. Every word of this account is stamped with marks of her malice, of her falsehood, of her talents for misrepresenting those whom She wishes to injure. Forgive me, Medina, for speaking so freely of your Relation. The mischief which She has done me authorises my resentment, and when you have heard my story, you will be convinced that my expressions have not been too severe.' He then began his narrative in the following manner. HISTORY OF DON RAYMOND, MARQUIS DE LAS CISTERNAS Long experience, my dear Lorenzo, has convinced me how generous is your nature: I waited not for your declaration of ignorance respecting your Sister's adventures to suppose that they had been purposely concealed from you. Had they reached your knowledge, from what misfortunes should both Agnes and myself have escaped! Fate had ordained it otherwise! You were on your Travels when I first became acquainted with your Sister; and as our Enemies took care to conceal from her your direction, it was impossible for her to implore by letter your protection and advice. On leaving Salamanca, at which University as I have since heard, you remained a year after I quitted it, I immediately set out upon my Travels. My Father supplied me liberally with money; But He insisted upon my concealing my rank, and presenting myself as no more than a private Gentleman. This command was issued by the counsels of his Friend, the Duke of Villa Hermosa, a Nobleman for whose abilities and knowledge of the world I have ever entertained the most profound veneration. 'Believe me,' said He, 'my dear Raymond, you will hereafter feel the benefits of this temporary degradation. 'Tis true, that as the Conde de las Cisternas you would have been received with open arms; and your youthful vanity might have felt gratified by the attentions showered upon you from all sides. At present, much will depend upon yourself: You have excellent recommendations, but it must be your own business to make them of use to you. You must lay yourself out to please; You must labour to gain the approbation of those, to whom you are presented: They who would have courted the friendship of the Conde de las Cisternas will have no interest in finding out the merits, or bearing patiently with the faults, of Alphonso d'Alvarada. Consequently, when you find yourself really liked, you may safely ascribe it to your good qualities, not your rank, and the distinction shown you will be infinitely more flattering. Besides, your exalted birth would not permit your mixing with the lower classes of society, which will now be in your power, and from which, in my opinion, you will derive considerable benefit. Do not confine yourself to the Illustrious of those Countries through which you pass. Examine the manners and customs of the multitude: Enter into the Cottages; and by observing how the Vassals of Foreigners are treated, learn to diminish the burthens and augment the comforts of your own. According to my ideas, of those advantages which a Youth destined to the possession of power and wealth may reap from travel, He should not consider as the least essential, the opportunity of mixing with the classes below him, and becoming an eyewitness of the sufferings of the People.' Forgive me, Lorenzo, if I seem tedious in my narration. The close connexion which now exists between us, makes me anxious that you should know every particular respecting me; and in my fear of omitting the least circumstance which may induce you to think favourably of your Sister and myself, I may possibly relate many which you may think uninteresting. I followed the Duke's advice; I was soon convinced of its wisdom. I quitted Spain, calling myself by the assumed title of Don Alphonso d'Alvarada, and attended by a single Domestic of approved fidelity. Paris was my first station. For some time I was enchanted with it, as indeed must be every Man who is young, rich, and fond of pleasure. Yet among all its gaieties, I felt that something was wanting to my heart. I grew sick of dissipation: I discovered, that the People among whom I lived, and whose exterior was so polished and seducing, were at bottom frivolous, unfeeling and insincere. I turned from the Inhabitants of Paris with disgust, and quitted that Theatre of Luxury without heaving one sigh of regret. I now bent my course towards Germany, intending to visit most of the principal courts: Prior to this expedition, I meant to make some little stay at Strasbourg. On quitting my Chaise at Luneville to take some refreshment, I observed a splendid Equipage, attended by four Domestics in rich liveries, waiting at the door of the Silver Lion. Soon after as I looked out of the window, I saw a Lady of noble presence, followed by two female Attendants, step into the Carriage, which drove off immediately. I enquired of the Host, who the Lady was, that had just departed. 'A German Baroness, Monsieur, of great rank and fortune. She has been upon a visit to the Duchess of Longueville, as her Servants informed me; She is going to Strasbourg, where She will find her Husband, and then both return to their Castle in Germany.' I resumed my journey, intending to reach Strasbourg that night. My hopes, however were frustrated by the breaking down of my Chaise. The accident happened in the middle of a thick Forest, and I was not a little embarrassed as to the means of proceeding. It was the depth of winter: The night was already closing round us; and Strasbourg, which was the nearest Town, was still distant from us several leagues. It seemed to me that my only alternative to passing the night in the Forest, was to take my Servant's Horse and ride on to Strasbourg, an undertaking at that season very far from agreeable. However, seeing no other resource, I was obliged to make up my mind to it. Accordingly I communicated my design to the Postillion, telling him that I would send People to assist him as soon as I reached Strasbourg. I had not much confidence in his honesty; But Stephano being well-armed, and the Driver to all appearance considerably advanced in years, I believed I ran no danger of losing my Baggage. Luckily, as I then thought, an opportunity presented itself of passing the night more agreeably than I expected. On mentioning my design of proceeding by myself to Strasbourg, the Postillion shook his head in disapprobation. 'It is a long way,' said He; 'You will find it a difficult matter to arrive there without a Guide. Besides, Monsieur seems unaccustomed to the season's severity, and 'tis possible that unable to sustain the excessive cold....' 'What use is there to present me with all these objections?' said I, impatiently interrupting him; 'I have no other resource: I run still greater risque of perishing with cold by passing the night in the Forest.' 'Passing the night in the Forest?' He replied; 'Oh! by St. Denis! We are not in quite so bad a plight as that comes to yet. If I am not mistaken, we are scarcely five minutes walk from the Cottage of my old Friend, Baptiste. He is a Wood-cutter, and a very honest Fellow. I doubt not but He will shelter you for the night with pleasure. In the meantime I can take the saddle-Horse, ride to Strasbourg, and be back with proper people to mend your Carriage by break of day.' 'And in the name of God,' said I, 'How could you leave me so long in suspense? Why did you not tell me of this Cottage sooner? What excessive stupidity!' 'I thought that perhaps Monsieur would not deign to accept....' 'Absurd! Come, come! Say no more, but conduct us without delay to the Wood-man's Cottage.' He obeyed, and we moved onwards: The Horses contrived with some difficulty to drag the shattered vehicle after us. My Servant was become almost speechless, and I began to feel the effects of the cold myself, before we reached the wished-for Cottage. It was a small but neat Building: As we drew near it, I rejoiced at observing through the window the blaze of a comfortable fire. Our Conductor knocked at the door: It was some time before any one answered; The People within seemed in doubt whether we should be admitted. 'Come! Come, Friend Baptiste!' cried the Driver with impatience; 'What are you about? Are you asleep? Or will you refuse a night's lodging to a Gentleman, whose Chaise has just broken down in the Forest?' 'Ah! is it you, honest Claude?' replied a Man's voice from within; 'Wait a moment, and the door shall be opened.' Soon after the bolts were drawn back. The door was unclosed, and a Man presented himself to us with a Lamp in his hand. He gave the Guide an hearty reception, and then addressed himself to me. 'Walk in, Monsieur; Walk in, and welcome! Excuse me for not admitting you at first: But there are so many Rogues about this place, that saving your presence, I suspected you to be one.' Thus saying, He ushered me into the room, where I had observed the fire: I was immediately placed in an Easy Chair, which stood close to the Hearth. A Female, whom I supposed to be the Wife of my Host, rose from her seat upon my entrance, and received me with a slight and distant reverence. She made no answer to my compliment, but immediately re-seating herself, continued the work on which She had been employed. Her Husband's manners were as friendly as hers were harsh and repulsive. 'I wish, I could lodge you more conveniently, Monsieur,' said He; 'But we cannot boast of much spare room in this hovel. However, a chamber for yourself, and another for your Servant, I think, we can make shift to supply. You must content yourself with sorry fare; But to what we have, believe me, you are heartily welcome.' ----Then turning to his wife--'Why, how you sit there, Marguerite, with as much tranquillity as if you had nothing better to do! Stir about, Dame! Stir about! Get some supper; Look out some sheets; Here, here; throw some logs upon the fire, for the Gentleman seems perished with cold.' The Wife threw her work hastily upon the Table, and proceeded to execute his commands with every mark of unwillingness. Her countenance had displeased me on the first moment of my examining it. Yet upon the whole her features were handsome unquestionably; But her skin was sallow, and her person thin and meagre; A louring gloom over-spread her countenance; and it bore such visible marks of rancour and ill-will, as could not escape being noticed by the most inattentive Observer. Her every look and action expressed discontent and impatience, and the answers which She gave Baptiste, when He reproached her good-humouredly for her dissatisfied air, were tart, short, and cutting. In tine, I conceived at first sight equal disgust for her, and prepossession in favour of her Husband, whose appearance was calculated to inspire esteem and confidence. His countenance was open, sincere, and friendly; his manners had all the Peasant's honesty unaccompanied by his rudeness; His cheeks were broad, full, and ruddy; and in the solidity of his person He seemed to offer an ample apology for the leanness of his Wife's. From the wrinkles on his brow I judged him to be turned of sixty; But He bore his years well, and seemed still hearty and strong: The Wife could not be more than thirty, but in spirits and vivacity She was infinitely older than the Husband. However, in spite of her unwillingness, Marguerite began to prepare the supper, while the Wood-man conversed gaily on different subjects. The Postillion, who had been furnished with a bottle of spirits, was now ready to set out for Strasbourg, and enquired, whether I had any further commands. 'For Strasbourg?' interrupted Baptiste; 'You are not going thither tonight?' 'I beg your pardon: If I do not fetch Workmen to mend the Chaise, How is Monsieur to proceed tomorrow?' 'That is true, as you say; I had forgotten the Chaise. Well, but Claude; You may at least eat your supper here? That can make you lose very little time, and Monsieur looks too kind-hearted to send you out with an empty stomach on such a bitter cold night as this is.' To this I readily assented, telling the Postillion that my reaching Strasbourg the next day an hour or two later would be perfectly immaterial. He thanked me, and then leaving the Cottage with Stephano, put up his Horses in the Wood-man's Stable. Baptiste followed them to the door, and looked out with anxiety. ''Tis a sharp biting wind!' said He; 'I wonder, what detains my Boys so long! Monsieur, I shall show you two of the finest Lads, that ever stept in shoe of leather. The eldest is three and twenty, the second a year younger: Their Equals for sense, courage, and activity, are not to be found within fifty miles of Strasbourg. Would They were back again! I begin to feel uneasy about them.' Marguerite was at this time employed in laying the cloth. 'And are you equally anxious for the return of your Sons?' said I to her. 'Not I!' She replied peevishly; 'They are no children of mine.' 'Come! Come, Marguerite!' said the Husband; 'Do not be out of humour with the Gentleman for asking a simple question. Had you not looked so cross, He would never have thought you old enough to have a Son of three and twenty: But you see how many years ill-temper adds to you!--Excuse my Wife's rudeness, Monsieur. A little thing puts her out, and She is somewhat displeased at your not thinking her to be under thirty. That is the truth, is it not, Marguerite? You know, Monsieur, that Age is always a ticklish subject with a Woman. Come! come! Marguerite, clear up a little. If you have not Sons as old, you will some twenty years hence, and I hope, that we shall live to see them just such Lads as Jacques and Robert.' Marguerite clasped her hands together passionately. 'God forbid!' said She; 'God forbid! If I thought it, I would strangle them with my own hands!' She quitted the room hastily, and went up stairs. I could not help expressing to the Wood-man how much I pitied him for being chained for life to a Partner of such ill-humour. 'Ah! Lord! Monsieur, Every one has his share of grievances, and Marguerite has fallen to mine. Besides, after all She is only cross, and not malicious. The worst is, that her affection for two children by a former Husband makes her play the Step-mother with my two Sons. She cannot bear the sight of them, and by her good-will they would never set a foot within my door. But on this point I always stand firm, and never will consent to abandon the poor Lads to the world's mercy, as She has often solicited me to do. In every thing else I let her have her own way; and truly She manages a family rarely, that I must say for her.' We were conversing in this manner, when our discourse was interrupted by a loud halloo, which rang through the Forest. 'My Sons, I hope!' exclaimed the Wood-man, and ran to open the door. The halloo was repeated: We now distinguished the trampling of Horses, and soon after a Carriage, attended by several Cavaliers stopped at the Cottage door. One of the Horsemen enquired how far they were still from Strasbourg. As He addressed himself to me, I answered in the number of miles which Claude had told me; Upon which a volley of curses was vented against the Drivers for having lost their way. The Persons in the Coach were now informed of the distance of Strasbourg, and also that the Horses were so fatigued as to be incapable of proceeding further. A Lady, who appeared to be the principal, expressed much chagrin at this intelligence; But as there was no remedy, one of the Attendants asked the Wood-man, whether He could furnish them with lodging for the night. He seemed much embarrassed, and replied in the negative; Adding that a Spanish Gentleman and his Servant were already in possession of the only spare apartments in his House. On hearing this, the gallantry of my nation would not permit me to retain those accommodations, of which a Female was in want. I instantly signified to the Wood-man, that I transferred my right to the Lady; He made some objections; But I overruled them, and hastening to the Carriage, opened the door, and assisted the Lady to descend. I immediately recognized her for the same person whom I had seen at the Inn at Luneville. I took an opportunity of asking one of her Attendants, what was her name? 'The Baroness Lindenberg,' was the answer. I could not but remark how different a reception our Host had given these newcomers and myself. His reluctance to admit them was visibly expressed on his countenance, and He prevailed on himself with difficulty to tell the Lady that She was welcome. I conducted her into the House, and placed her in the armed-chair, which I had just quitted. She thanked me very graciously; and made a thousand apologies for putting me to an inconvenience. Suddenly the Wood-man's countenance cleared up. 'At last I have arranged it!' said He, interrupting her excuses; 'I can lodge you and your suite, Madam, and you will not be under the necessity of making this Gentleman suffer for his politeness. We have two spare chambers, one for the Lady, the other, Monsieur, for you: My Wife shall give up hers to the two Waiting-women; As for the Men-servants, they must content themselves with passing the night in a large Barn, which stands at a few yards distance from the House. There they shall have a blazing fire, and as good a supper as we can make shift to give them.' After several expressions of gratitude on the Lady's part, and opposition on mine to Marguerite's giving up her bed, this arrangement was agreed to. As the Room was small, the Baroness immediately dismissed her Male Domestics: Baptiste was on the point of conducting them to the Barn which He had mentioned when two young Men appeared at the door of the Cottage. 'Hell and Furies!' exclaimed the first starting back; 'Robert, the House is filled with Strangers!' 'Ha! There are my Sons!' cried our Host. 'Why, Jacques! Robert! whither are you running, Boys? There is room enough still for you.' Upon this assurance the Youths returned. The Father presented them to the Baroness and myself: After which He withdrew with our Domestics, while at the request of the two Waiting-women, Marguerite conducted them to the room designed for their Mistress. The two new-comers were tall, stout, well-made young Men, hard-featured, and very much sun-burnt. They paid their compliments to us in few words, and acknowledged Claude, who now entered the room, as an old acquaintance. They then threw aside their cloaks in which they were wrapped up, took off a leathern belt to which a large Cutlass was suspended, and each drawing a brace of pistols from his girdle laid them upon a shelf. 'You travel well-armed,' said I. 'True, Monsieur;' replied Robert. 'We left Strasbourg late this Evening, and 'tis necessary to take precautions at passing through this Forest after dark. It does not bear a good repute, I promise you.' 'How?' said the Baroness; 'Are there Robbers hereabout?' 'So it is said, Madame; For my own part, I have travelled through the wood at all hours, and never met with one of them.' Here Marguerite returned. Her Stepsons drew her to the other end of the room, and whispered her for some minutes. By the looks which they cast towards us at intervals, I conjectured them to be enquiring our business in the Cottage. In the meanwhile the Baroness expressed her apprehensions, that her Husband would be suffering much anxiety upon her account. She had intended to send on one of her Servants to inform the Baron of her delay; But the account which the young Men gave of the Forest rendered this plan impracticable. Claude relieved her from her embarrassment. He informed her that He was under the necessity of reaching Strasbourg that night, and that would She trust him with a letter, She might depend upon its being safely delivered. 'And how comes it,' said I, 'that you are under no apprehension of meeting these Robbers?' 'Alas! Monsieur, a poor Man with a large family must not lose certain profit because 'tis attended with a little danger, and perhaps my Lord the Baron may give me a trifle for my pains. Besides, I have nothing to lose except my life, and that will not be worth the Robbers taking.' I thought his arguments bad, and advised his waiting till the Morning; But as the Baroness did not second me, I was obliged to give up the point. The Baroness Lindenberg, as I found afterwards, had long been accustomed to sacrifice the interests of others to her own, and her wish to send Claude to Strasbourg blinded her to the danger of the undertaking. Accordingly, it was resolved that He should set out without delay. The Baroness wrote her letter to her Husband, and I sent a few lines to my Banker, apprising him that I should not be at Strasbourg till the next day. Claude took our letters, and left the Cottage. The Lady declared herself much fatigued by her journey: Besides having come from some distance, the Drivers had contrived to lose their way in the Forest. She now addressed herself to Marguerite, desiring to be shown to her chamber, and permitted to take half an hour's repose. One of the Waiting-women was immediately summoned; She appeared with a light, and the Baroness followed her up stairs. The cloth was spreading in the chamber where I was, and Marguerite soon gave me to understand that I was in her way. Her hints were too broad to be easily mistaken; I therefore desired one of the young Men to conduct me to the chamber where I was to sleep, and where I could remain till supper was ready. 'Which chamber is it, Mother?' said Robert. 'The One with green hangings,' She replied; 'I have just been at the trouble of getting it ready, and have put fresh sheets upon the Bed; If the Gentleman chooses to lollop and lounge upon it, He may make it again himself for me.' 'You are out of humour, Mother, but that is no novelty. Have the goodness to follow me, Monsieur.' He opened the door, and advanced towards a narrow staircase. 'You have got no light!' said Marguerite; 'Is it your own neck or the Gentleman's that you have a mind to break?' She crossed by me, and put a candle into Robert's hand, having received which, He began to ascend the staircase. Jacques was employed in laying the cloth, and his back was turned towards me. Marguerite seized the moment, when we were unobserved. She caught my hand, and pressed it strongly. 'Look at the Sheets!' said She as She passed me, and immediately resumed her former occupation. Startled by the abruptness of her action, I remained as if petrified. Robert's voice, desiring me to follow him, recalled me to myself. I ascended the staircase. My conductor ushered me into a chamber, where an excellent wood-fire was blazing upon the hearth. He placed the light upon the Table, enquired whether I had any further commands, and on my replying in the negative, He left me to myself. You may be certain that the moment when I found myself alone was that on which I complied with Marguerite's injunction. I took the candle, hastily approached the Bed, and turned down the Coverture. What was my astonishment, my horror, at finding the sheets crimsoned with blood! At that moment a thousand confused ideas passed before my imagination. The Robbers who infested the Wood, Marguerite's exclamation respecting her Children, the arms and appearance of the two young Men, and the various Anecdotes which I had heard related, respecting the secret correspondence which frequently exists between Banditti and Postillions, all these circumstances flashed upon my mind, and inspired me with doubt and apprehension. I ruminated on the most probable means of ascertaining the truth of my conjectures. Suddenly I was aware of Someone below pacing hastily backwards and forwards. Every thing now appeared to me an object of suspicion. With precaution I drew near the window, which, as the room had been long shut up, was left open in spite of the cold. I ventured to look out. The beams of the Moon permitted me to distinguish a Man, whom I had no difficulty to recognize for my Host. I watched his movements. He walked swiftly, then stopped, and seemed to listen: He stamped upon the ground, and beat his stomach with his arms as if to guard himself from the inclemency of the season. At the least noise, if a voice was heard in the lower part of the House, if a Bat flitted past him, or the wind rattled amidst the leafless boughs, He started, and looked round with anxiety. 'Plague take him!' said He at length with impatience; 'What can He be about!' He spoke in a low voice; but as He was just below my window, I had no difficulty to distinguish his words. I now heard the steps of one approaching. Baptiste went towards the sound; He joined a man, whom his low stature and the Horn suspended from his neck, declared to be no other than my faithful Claude, whom I had supposed to be already on his way to Strasbourg. Expecting their discourse to throw some light upon my situation, I hastened to put myself in a condition to hear it with safety. For this purpose I extinguished the candle, which stood upon a table near the Bed: The flame of the fire was not strong enough to betray me, and I immediately resumed my place at the window. The objects of my curiosity had stationed themselves directly under it. I suppose that during my momentary absence the Wood-man had been blaming Claude for tardiness, since when I returned to the window, the latter was endeavouring to excuse his fault. 'However,' added He, 'my diligence at present shall make up for my past delay.' 'On that condition,' answered Baptiste, 'I shall readily forgive you. But in truth as you share equally with us in our prizes, your own interest will make you use all possible diligence. 'Twould be a shame to let such a noble booty escape us! You say, that this Spaniard is rich?' 'His Servant boasted at the Inn, that the effects in his Chaise were worth above two thousand Pistoles.' Oh! how I cursed Stephano's imprudent vanity! 'And I have been told,' continued the Postillion, 'that this Baroness carries about her a casket of jewels of immense value.' 'May be so, but I had rather She had stayed away. The Spaniard was a secure prey. The Boys and myself could easily have mastered him and his Servant, and then the two thousand Pistoles would have been shared between us four. Now we must let in the Band for a share, and perhaps the whole Covey may escape us. Should our Friends have betaken themselves to their different posts before you reach the Cavern, all will be lost. The Lady's Attendants are too numerous for us to overpower them: Unless our Associates arrive in time, we must needs let these Travellers set out tomorrow without damage or hurt.' ''Tis plaguy unlucky that my Comrades who drove the Coach should be those unacquainted with our Confederacy! But never fear, Friend Baptiste. An hour will bring me to the Cavern; It is now but ten o'clock, and by twelve you may expect the arrival of the Band. By the bye, take care of your Wife: You know how strong is her repugnance to our mode of life, and She may find means to give information to the Lady's Servants of our design.' 'Oh! I am secure of her silence; She is too much afraid of me, and fond of her children, to dare to betray my secret. Besides, Jacques and Robert keep a strict eye over her, and She is not permitted to set a foot out of the Cottage. The Servants are safely lodged in the Barn; I shall endeavour to keep all quiet till the arrival of our Friends. Were I assured of your finding them, the Strangers should be dispatched this instant; But as it is possible for you to miss the Banditti, I am fearful of being summoned to produce them by their Domestics in the Morning.' 'And suppose either of the Travellers should discover your design?' 'Then we must poignard those in our power, and take our chance about mastering the rest. However, to avoid running such a risque, hasten to the Cavern: The Banditti never leave it before eleven, and if you use diligence, you may reach it in time to stop them.' 'Tell Robert that I have taken his Horse: My own has broken his bridle, and escaped into the Wood. What is the watch-word?' 'The reward of Courage.' ''Tis sufficient. I hasten to the Cavern.' 'And I to rejoin my Guests, lest my absence should create suspicion. Farewell, and be diligent.' These worthy Associates now separated: The One bent his course towards the Stable, while the Other returned to the House. You may judge, what must have been my feelings during this conversation, of which I lost not a single syllable. I dared not trust myself to my reflections, nor did any means present itself to escape the dangers which threatened me. Resistance, I knew to be vain; I was unarmed, and a single Man against Three: However, I resolved at least to sell my life as dearly as I could. Dreading lest Baptiste should perceive my absence, and suspect me to have overheard the message with which Claude was dispatched, I hastily relighted my candle and quitted the chamber. On descending, I found the Table spread for six Persons. The Baroness sat by the fireside: Marguerite was employed in dressing a sallad, and her Step-sons were whispering together at the further end of the room. Baptiste having the round of the Garden to make, ere He could reach the Cottage door, was not yet arrived. I seated myself quietly opposite to the Baroness. A glance upon Marguerite told her that her hint had not been thrown away upon me. How different did She now appear to me! What before seemed gloom and sullenness, I now found to be disgust at her Associates, and compassion for my danger. I looked up to her as to my only resource; Yet knowing her to be watched by her Husband with a suspicious eye, I could place but little reliance on the exertions of her good-will. In spite of all my endeavours to conceal it, my agitation was but too visibly expressed upon my countenance. I was pale, and both my words and actions were disordered and embarrassed. The young Men observed this, and enquired the cause. I attributed it to excess of fatigue, and the violent effect produced on me by the severity of the season. Whether they believed me or not, I will not pretend to say: They at least ceased to embarrass me with their questions. I strove to divert my attention from the perils which surrounded me, by conversing on different subjects with the Baroness. I talked of Germany, declaring my intention of visiting it immediately: God knows, that I little thought at that moment of ever seeing it! She replied to me with great ease and politeness, professed that the pleasure of making my acquaintance amply compensated for the delay in her journey, and gave me a pressing invitation to make some stay at the Castle of Lindenberg. As She spoke thus, the Youths exchanged a malicious smile, which declared that She would be fortunate if She ever reached that Castle herself. This action did not escape me; But I concealed the emotion which it excited in my breast. I continued to converse with the Lady; But my discourse was so frequently incoherent, that as She has since informed me, She began to doubt whether I was in my right senses. The fact was, that while my conversation turned upon one subject, my thoughts were entirely occupied by another. I meditated upon the means of quitting the Cottage, finding my way to the Barn, and giving the Domestics information of our Host's designs. I was soon convinced, how impracticable was the attempt. Jacques and Robert watched my every movement with an attentive eye, and I was obliged to abandon the idea. All my hopes now rested upon Claude's not finding the Banditti: In that case, according to what I had overheard, we should be permitted to depart unhurt. I shuddered involuntarily as Baptiste entered the room. He made many apologies for his long absence, but 'He had been detained by affairs impossible to be delayed.' He then entreated permission for his family to sup at the same table with us, without which, respect would not authorize his taking such a liberty. Oh! how in my heart I cursed the Hypocrite! How I loathed his presence, who was on the point of depriving me of an existence, at that time infinitely dear! I had every reason to be satisfied with life; I had youth, wealth, rank, and education; and the fairest prospects presented themselves before me. I saw those prospects on the point of closing in the most horrible manner: Yet was I obliged to dissimulate, and to receive with a semblance of gratitude the false civilities of him who held the dagger to my bosom. The permission which our Host demanded, was easily obtained. We seated ourselves at the Table. The Baroness and myself occupied one side: The Sons were opposite to us with their backs to the door. Baptiste took his seat by the Baroness at the upper end, and the place next to him was left for his Wife. She soon entered the room, and placed before us a plain but comfortable Peasant's repast. Our Host thought it necessary to apologize for the poorness of the supper: 'He had not been apprized of our coming; He could only offer us such fare as had been intended for his own family:' 'But,' added He, 'should any accident detain my noble Guests longer than they at present intend, I hope to give them a better treatment.' The Villain! I well knew the accident to which He alluded; I shuddered at the treatment which He taught us to expect! My Companion in danger seemed entirely to have got rid of her chagrin at being delayed. She laughed, and conversed with the family with infinite gaiety. I strove but in vain to follow her example. My spirits were evidently forced, and the constraint which I put upon myself escaped not Baptiste's observation. 'Come, come, Monsieur, cheer up!' said He; 'You seem not quite recovered from your fatigue. To raise your spirits, what say you to a glass of excellent old wine which was left me by my Father? God rest his soul, He is in a better world! I seldom produce this wine; But as I am not honoured with such Guests every day, this is an occasion which deserves a Bottle.' He then gave his Wife a Key, and instructed her where to find the wine of which He spoke. She seemed by no means pleased with the commission; She took the Key with an embarrassed air, and hesitated to quit the Table. 'Did you hear me?' said Baptiste in an angry tone. Marguerite darted upon him a look of mingled anger and fear, and left the chamber. His eyes followed her suspiciously, till She had closed the door. She soon returned with a bottle sealed with yellow wax. She placed it upon the table, and gave the Key back to her Husband. I suspected that this liquor was not presented to us without design, and I watched Marguerite's movements with inquietude. She was employed in rinsing some small horn Goblets. As She placed them before Baptiste, She saw that my eye was fixed upon her; and at the moment when She thought herself unobserved by the Banditti, She motioned to me with her head not to taste the liquor, She then resumed her place. In the mean while our Host had drawn the Cork, and filling two of the Goblets, offered them to the Lady and myself. She at first made some objections, but the instances of Baptiste were so urgent, that She was obliged to comply. Fearing to excite suspicion, I hesitated not to take the Goblet presented to me. By its smell and colour I guessed it to be Champagne; But some grains of powder floating upon the top convinced me that it was not unadulterated. However, I dared not to express my repugnance to drinking it; I lifted it to my lips, and seemed to be swallowing it: Suddenly starting from my chair, I made the best of my way towards a Vase of water at some distance, in which Marguerite had been rinsing the Goblets. I pretended to spit out the wine with disgust, and took an opportunity unperceived of emptying the liquor into the Vase. The Banditti seemed alarmed at my action. Jacques half rose from his chair, put his hand into his bosom, and I discovered the haft of a dagger. I returned to my seat with tranquillity, and affected not to have observed their confusion. 'You have not suited my taste, honest Friend,' said I, addressing myself to Baptiste. 'I never can drink Champagne without its producing a violent illness. I swallowed a few mouthfuls ere I was aware of its quality, and fear that I shall suffer for my imprudence.' Baptiste and Jacques exchanged looks of distrust. 'Perhaps,' said Robert, 'the smell may be disagreeable to you.' He quitted his chair, and removed the Goblet. I observed, that He examined, whether it was nearly empty. 'He must have drank sufficient,' said He to his Brother in a low voice, while He reseated himself. Marguerite looked apprehensive, that I had tasted the liquor: A glance from my eye reassured her. I waited with anxiety for the effects which the Beverage would produce upon the Lady. I doubted not but the grains which I had observed were poisonous, and lamented that it had been impossible for me to warn her of the danger. But a few minutes had elapsed before I perceived her eyes grow heavy; Her head sank upon her shoulder, and She fell into a deep sleep. I affected not to attend to this circumstance, and continued my conversation with Baptiste, with all the outward gaiety in my power to assume. But He no longer answered me without constraint. He eyed me with distrust and astonishment, and I saw that the Banditti were frequently whispering among themselves. My situation became every moment more painful; I sustained the character of confidence with a worse grace than ever. Equally afraid of the arrival of their Accomplices and of their suspecting my knowledge of their designs, I knew not how to dissipate the distrust which the Banditti evidently entertained for me. In this new dilemma the friendly Marguerite again assisted me. She passed behind the Chairs of her Stepsons, stopped for a moment opposite to me, closed her eyes, and reclined her head upon her shoulder. This hint immediately dispelled my incertitude. It told me, that I ought to imitate the Baroness, and pretend that the liquor had taken its full effect upon me. I did so, and in a few minutes seemed perfectly overcome with slumber. 'So!' cried Baptiste, as I fell back in my chair; 'At last He sleeps! I began to think that He had scented our design, and that we should have been forced to dispatch him at all events.' 'And why not dispatch him at all events?' enquired the ferocious Jacques. 'Why leave him the possibility of betraying our secret? Marguerite, give me one of my Pistols: A single touch of the trigger will finish him at once.' 'And supposing,' rejoined the Father, 'Supposing that our Friends should not arrive tonight, a pretty figure we should make when the Servants enquire for him in the Morning! No, no, Jacques; We must wait for our Associates. If they join us, we are strong enough to dispatch the Domestics as well as their Masters, and the booty is our own; If Claude does not find the Troop, we must take patience, and suffer the prey to slip through our fingers. Ah! Boys, Boys, had you arrived but five minutes sooner, the Spaniard would have been done for, and two thousand Pistoles our own. But you are always out of the way when you are most wanted. You are the most unlucky Rogues!' 'Well, well, Father!' answered Jacques; 'Had you been of my mind, all would have been over by this time. You, Robert, Claude, and myself, why the Strangers were but double the number, and I warrant you we might have mastered them. However, Claude is gone; 'Tis too late to think of it now. We must wait patiently for the arrival of the Gang; and if the Travellers escape us tonight, we must take care to waylay them tomorrow.' 'True! True!' said Baptiste; 'Marguerite, have you given the sleeping-draught to the Waiting-women?' She replied in the affirmative. 'All then is safe. Come, come, Boys; Whatever falls out, we have no reason to complain of this adventure. We run no danger, may gain much, and can lose nothing.' At this moment I heard a trampling of Horses. Oh! how dreadful was the sound to my ears. A cold sweat flowed down my forehead, and I felt all the terrors of impending death. I was by no means reassured by hearing the compassionate Marguerite exclaim in the accents of despair, 'Almighty God! They are lost!' Luckily the Wood-man and his Sons were too much occupied by the arrival of their Associates to attend to me, or the violence of my agitation would have convinced them that my sleep was feigned. 'Open! Open!' exclaimed several voices on the outside of the Cottage. 'Yes! Yes!' cried Baptiste joyfully; 'They are our Friends sure enough! Now then our booty is certain. Away! Lads, Away! Lead them to the Barn; You know what is to be done there.' Robert hastened to open the door of the Cottage. 'But first,' said Jacques, taking up his arms; 'first let me dispatch these Sleepers.' 'No, no, no!' replied his Father; 'Go you to the Barn, where your presence is wanted. Leave me to take care of these and the Women above.' Jacques obeyed, and followed his Brother. They seemed to converse with the New-Comers for a few minutes: After which I heard the Robbers dismount, and as I conjectured, bend their course towards the Barn. 'So! That is wisely done!' muttered Baptiste; 'They have quitted their Horses, that They may fall upon the Strangers by surprise. Good! Good! and now to business.' I heard him approach a small Cupboard which was fixed up in a distant part of the room, and unlock it. At this moment I felt myself shaken gently. 'Now! Now!' whispered Marguerite. I opened my eyes. Baptiste stood with his back towards me. No one else was in the room save Marguerite and the sleeping Lady. The Villain had taken a dagger from the Cupboard and seemed examining whether it was sufficiently sharp. I had neglected to furnish myself with arms; But I perceived this to be my only chance of escaping, and resolved not to lose the opportunity. I sprang from my seat, darted suddenly upon Baptiste, and clasping my hands round his throat, pressed it so forcibly as to prevent his uttering a single cry. You may remember that I was remarkable at Salamanca for the power of my arm: It now rendered me an essential service. Surprised, terrified, and breathless, the Villain was by no means an equal Antagonist. I threw him upon the ground; I grasped him still tighter; and while I fixed him without motion upon the floor, Marguerite, wresting the dagger from his hand, plunged it repeatedly in his heart till He expired. No sooner was this horrible but necessary act perpetrated than Marguerite called on me to follow her. 'Flight is our only refuge!' said She; 'Quick! Quick! Away!' I hesitated not to obey her: but unwilling to leave the Baroness a victim to the vengeance of the Robbers, I raised her in my arms still sleeping, and hastened after Marguerite. The Horses of the Banditti were fastened near the door: My Conductress sprang upon one of them. I followed her example, placed the Baroness before me, and spurred on my Horse. Our only hope was to reach Strasbourg, which was much nearer than the perfidious Claude had assured me. Marguerite was well acquainted with the road, and galloped on before me. We were obliged to pass by the Barn, where the Robbers were slaughtering our Domestics. The door was open: We distinguished the shrieks of the dying and imprecations of the Murderers! What I felt at that moment language is unable to describe! Jacques heard the trampling of our Horses as we rushed by the Barn. He flew to the Door with a burning Torch in his hand, and easily recognised the Fugitives. 'Betrayed! Betrayed!' He shouted to his Companions. Instantly they left their bloody work, and hastened to regain their Horses. We heard no more. I buried my spurs in the sides of my Courser, and Marguerite goaded on hers with the poignard, which had already rendered us such good service. We flew like lightning, and gained the open plains. Already was Strasbourg's Steeple in sight, when we heard the Robbers pursuing us. Marguerite looked back, and distinguished our followers descending a small Hill at no great distance. It was in vain that we urged on our Horses; The noise approached nearer with every moment. 'We are lost!' She exclaimed; 'The Villains gain upon us!' 'On! On!' replied I; 'I hear the trampling of Horses coming from the Town.' We redoubled our exertions, and were soon aware of a numerous band of Cavaliers, who came towards us at full speed. They were on the point of passing us. 'Stay! Stay!' shrieked Marguerite; 'Save us! For God's sake, save us!' The Foremost, who seemed to act as Guide, immediately reined in his Steed. ''Tis She! 'Tis She!' exclaimed He, springing upon the ground; 'Stop, my Lord, stop! They are safe! 'Tis my Mother!' At the same moment Marguerite threw herself from her Horse, clasped him in her arms, and covered him with Kisses. The other Cavaliers stopped at the exclamation. 'The Baroness Lindenberg?' cried another of the Strangers eagerly; 'Where is She? Is She not with you?' He stopped on beholding her lying senseless in my arms. Hastily He caught her from me. The profound sleep in which She was plunged made him at first tremble for her life; but the beating of her heart soon reassured him. 'God be thanked!' said He; 'She has escaped unhurt.' I interrupted his joy by pointing out the Brigands, who continued to approach. No sooner had I mentioned them than the greatest part of the Company, which appeared to be chiefly composed of soldiers, hastened forward to meet them. The Villains stayed not to receive their attack: Perceiving their danger they turned the heads of their Horses, and fled into the wood, whither they were followed by our Preservers. In the mean while the Stranger, whom I guessed to be the Baron Lindenberg, after thanking me for my care of his Lady, proposed our returning with all speed to the Town. The Baroness, on whom the effects of the opiate had not ceased to operate, was placed before him; Marguerite and her Son remounted their Horses; the Baron's Domestics followed, and we soon arrived at the Inn, where He had taken his apartments. This was at the Austrian Eagle, where my Banker, whom before my quitting Paris I had apprised of my intention to visit Strasbourg, had prepared Lodgings for me. I rejoiced at this circumstance. It gave me an opportunity of cultivating the Baron's acquaintance, which I foresaw would be of use to me in Germany. Immediately upon our arrival the Lady was conveyed to bed; A Physician was sent for, who prescribed a medicine likely to counteract the effects of the sleepy potion, and after it had been poured down her throat, She was committed to the care of the Hostess. The Baron then addressed himself to me, and entreated me to recount the particulars of this adventure. I complied with his request instantaneously; for in pain respecting Stephano's fate, whom I had been compelled to abandon to the cruelty of the Banditti, I found it impossible for me to repose, till I had some news of him. I received but too soon the intelligence, that my trusty Servant had perished. The Soldiers who had pursued the Brigands returned while I was employed in relating my adventure to the Baron. By their account I found that the Robbers had been overtaken: Guilt and true courage are incompatible; They had thrown themselves at the feet of their Pursuers, had surrendered themselves without striking a blow, had discovered their secret retreat, made known their signals by which the rest of the Gang might be seized, and in short had betrayed ever mark of cowardice and baseness. By this means the whole of the Band, consisting of near sixty persons, had been made Prisoners, bound, and conducted to Strasbourg. Some of the Soldiers hastened to the Cottage, One of the Banditti serving them as Guide. Their first visit was to the fatal Barn, where they were fortunate enough to find two of the Baron's Servants still alive, though desperately wounded. The rest had expired beneath the swords of the Robbers, and of these my unhappy Stephano was one. Alarmed at our escape, the Robbers in their haste to overtake us, had neglected to visit the Cottage. In consequence, the Soldiers found the two Waiting-women unhurt, and buried in the same death-like slumber which had overpowered their Mistress. There was nobody else found in the Cottage, except a child not above four years old, which the Soldiers brought away with them. We were busying ourselves with conjectures respecting the birth of this little unfortunate, when Marguerite rushed into the room with the Baby in her arms. She fell at the feet of the Officer who was making us this report, and blessed him a thousand times for the preservation of her Child. When the first burst of maternal tenderness was over, I besought her to declare, by what means She had been united to a Man whose principles seemed so totally discordant with her own. She bent her eyes downwards, and wiped a few tears from her cheek. 'Gentlemen,' said She after a silence of some minutes, 'I would request a favour of you: You have a right to know on whom you confer an obligation. I will not therefore stifle a confession which covers me with shame; But permit me to comprise it in as few words as possible. 'I was born in Strasbourg of respectable Parents; Their names I must at present conceal: My Father still lives, and deserves not to be involved in my infamy; If you grant my request, you shall be informed of my family name. A Villain made himself Master of my affections, and to follow him I quitted my Father's House. Yet though my passions overpowered my virtue, I sank not into that degeneracy of vice, but too commonly the lot of Women who make the first false step. I loved my Seducer; dearly loved him! I was true to his Bed; this Baby, and the Youth who warned you, my Lord Baron, of your Lady's danger, are the pledges of our affection. Even at this moment I lament his loss, though 'tis to him that I owe all the miseries of my existence. 'He was of noble birth, but He had squandered away his paternal inheritance. His Relations considered him as a disgrace to their name, and utterly discarded him. His excesses drew upon him the indignation of the Police. He was obliged to fly from Strasbourg, and saw no other resource from beggary than an union with the Banditti who infested the neighbouring Forest, and whose Troop was chiefly composed of Young Men of family in the same predicament with himself. I was determined not to forsake him. I followed him to the Cavern of the Brigands, and shared with him the misery inseparable from a life of pillage. But though I was aware that our existence was supported by plunder, I knew not all the horrible circumstances attached to my Lover's profession. These He concealed from me with the utmost care; He was conscious that my sentiments were not sufficiently depraved to look without horror upon assassination: He supposed, and with justice, that I should fly with detestation from the embraces of a Murderer. Eight years of possession had not abated his love for me; and He cautiously removed from my knowledge every circumstance, which might lead me to suspect the crimes in which He but too often participated. He succeeded perfectly: It was not till after my Seducer's death, that I discovered his hands to have been stained with the blood of innocence. 'One fatal night He was brought back to the Cavern covered with wounds: He received them in attacking an English Traveller, whom his Companions immediately sacrificed to their resentment. He had only time to entreat my pardon for all the sorrows which He had caused me: He pressed my hand to his lips, and expired. My grief was inexpressible. As soon as its violence abated, I resolved to return to Strasbourg, to throw myself with my two Children at my Father's feet, and implore his forgiveness, though I little hoped to obtain it. What was my consternation when informed that no one entrusted with the secret of their retreat was ever permitted to quit the troop of the Banditti; That I must give up all hopes of ever rejoining society, and consent instantly to accepting one of their Band for my Husband! My prayers and remonstrances were vain. They cast lots to decide to whose possession I should fall; I became the property of the infamous Baptiste. A Robber, who had once been a Monk, pronounced over us a burlesque rather than a religious Ceremony: I and my Children were delivered into the hands of my new Husband, and He conveyed us immediately to his home. 'He assured me that He had long entertained for me the most ardent regard; But that Friendship for my deceased Lover had obliged him to stifle his desires. He endeavoured to reconcile me to my fate, and for some time treated me with respect and gentleness: At length finding that my aversion rather increased than diminished, He obtained those favours by violence, which I persisted to refuse him. No resource remained for me but to bear my sorrows with patience; I was conscious that I deserved them but too well. Flight was forbidden: My Children were in the power of Baptiste, and He had sworn that if I attempted to escape, their lives should pay for it. I had had too many opportunities of witnessing the barbarity of his nature to doubt his fulfilling his oath to the very letter. Sad experience had convinced me of the horrors of my situation: My first Lover had carefully concealed them from me; Baptiste rather rejoiced in opening my eyes to the cruelties of his profession, and strove to familiarise me with blood and slaughter. 'My nature was licentious and warm, but not cruel: My conduct had been imprudent, but my heart was not unprincipled. Judge then what I must have felt at being a continual witness of crimes the most horrible and revolting! Judge how I must have grieved at being united to a Man who received the unsuspecting Guest with an air of openness and hospitality, at the very moment that He meditated his destruction. Chagrin and discontent preyed upon my constitution: The few charms bestowed on me by nature withered away, and the dejection of my countenance denoted the sufferings of my heart. I was tempted a thousand times to put an end to my existence; But the remembrance of my Children held my hand. I trembled to leave my dear Boys in my Tyrant's power, and trembled yet more for their virtue than their lives. The Second was still too young to benefit by my instructions; But in the heart of my Eldest I laboured unceasingly to plant those principles, which might enable him to avoid the crimes of his Parents. He listened to me with docility, or rather with eagerness. Even at his early age, He showed that He was not calculated for the society of Villains; and the only comfort which I enjoyed among my sorrows, was to witness the dawning virtues of my Theodore. 'Such was my situation, when the perfidy of Don Alphonso's postillion conducted him to the Cottage. His youth, air, and manners interested me most forcibly in his behalf. The absence of my Husband's Sons gave me an opportunity which I had long wished to find, and I resolved to risque every thing to preserve the Stranger. The vigilance of Baptiste prevented me from warning Don Alphonso of his danger: I knew that my betraying the secret would be immediately punished with death; and however embittered was my life by calamities, I wanted courage to sacrifice it for the sake of preserving that of another Person. My only hope rested upon procuring succour from Strasbourg: At this I resolved to try; and should an opportunity offer of warning Don Alphonso of his danger unobserved, I was determined to seize it with avidity. By Baptiste's orders I went upstairs to make the Stranger's Bed: I spread upon it Sheets in which a Traveller had been murdered but a few nights before, and which still were stained with blood. I hoped that these marks would not escape the vigilance of our Guest, and that He would collect from them the designs of my perfidious Husband. Neither was this the only step which I took to preserve the Stranger. Theodore was confined to his bed by illness. I stole into his room unobserved by my Tyrant, communicated to him my project, and He entered into it with eagerness. He rose in spite of his malady, and dressed himself with all speed. I fastened one of the Sheets round his arms, and lowered him from the Window. He flew to the Stable, took Claude's Horse, and hastened to Strasbourg. Had He been accosted by the Banditti, He was to have declared himself sent upon a message by Baptiste, but fortunately He reached the Town without meeting any obstacle. Immediately upon his arrival at Strasbourg, He entreated assistance from the Magistrature: His Story passed from mouth to mouth, and at length came to the knowledge of my Lord the Baron. Anxious for the safety of his Lady, whom He knew would be upon the road that Evening, it struck him that She might have fallen into the power of the Robbers. He accompanied Theodore who guided the Soldiers towards the Cottage, and arrived just in time to save us from falling once more into the hands of our Enemies.' Here I interrupted Marguerite to enquire why the sleepy potion had been presented to me. She said that Baptiste supposed me to have arms about me, and wished to incapacitate me from making resistance: It was a precaution which He always took, since as the Travellers had no hopes of escaping, Despair would have incited them to sell their lives dearly. The Baron then desired Marguerite to inform him, what were her present plans. I joined him in declaring my readiness to show my gratitude to her for the preservation of my life. 'Disgusted with a world,' She replied, 'in which I have met with nothing but misfortunes, my only wish is to retire into a Convent. But first I must provide for my Children. I find that my Mother is no more, probably driven to an untimely grave by my desertion! My Father is still living; He is not an hard Man; Perhaps, Gentlemen, in spite of my ingratitude and imprudence, your intercessions may induce him to forgive me, and to take charge of his unfortunate Grand-sons. If you obtain this boon for me, you will repay my services a thousand-fold!' Both the Baron and myself assured Marguerite, that we would spare no pains to obtain her pardon: and that even should her Father be inflexible, She need be under no apprehensions respecting the fate of her Children. I engaged myself to provide for Theodore, and the Baron promised to take the youngest under his protection. The grateful Mother thanked us with tears for what She called generosity, but which in fact was no more than a proper sense of our obligations to her. She then left the room to put her little Boy to bed, whom fatigue and sleep had compleatly overpowered. The Baroness, on recovering and being informed from what dangers I had rescued her, set no bounds to the expressions of her gratitude. She was joined so warmly by her Husband in pressing me to accompany them to their Castle in Bavaria, that I found it impossible to resist their entreaties. During a week which we passed at Strasbourg, the interests of Marguerite were not forgotten: In our application to her Father we succeeded as amply as we could wish. The good old Man had lost his Wife: He had no Children but this unfortunate Daughter, of whom He had received no news for almost fourteen years. He was surrounded by distant Relations, who waited with impatience for his decease in order to get possession of his money. When therefore Marguerite appeared again so unexpectedly, He considered her as a gift from heaven: He received her and her Children with open arms, and insisted upon their establishing themselves in his House without delay. The disappointed Cousins were obliged to give place. The old Man would not hear of his Daughter's retiring into a Convent: He said that She was too necessary to his happiness, and She was easily persuaded to relinquish her design. But no persuasions could induce Theodore to give up the plan which I had at first marked out for him. He had attached himself to me most sincerely during my stay at Strasbourg; and when I was on the point of leaving it, He besought me with tears to take him into my service: He set forth all his little talents in the most favourable colours, and tried to convince me that I should find him of infinite use to me upon the road. I was unwilling to charge myself with a Lad but scarcely turned of thirteen, whom I knew could only be a burthen to me: However, I could not resist the entreaties of this affectionate Youth, who in fact possessed a thousand estimable qualities. With some difficulty He persuaded his relations to let him follow me, and that permission once obtained, He was dubbed with the title of my Page. Having passed a week at Strasbourg, Theodore and myself set out for Bavaria in company with the Baron and his Lady. These Latter as well as myself had forced Marguerite to accept several presents of value, both for herself, and her youngest Son: On leaving her, I promised his Mother faithfully that I would restore Theodore to her within the year. I have related this adventure at length, Lorenzo, that you might understand the means by which 'The Adventurer, Alphonso d'Alvarada got introduced into the Castle of Lindenberg.' Judge from this specimen how much faith should be given to your Aunt's assertions! VOLUME II CHAPTER I Avaunt! and quit my sight! Let the Earth hide thee! Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold! Thou hast no speculation in those eyes Which Thou dost glare with! Hence, horrible shadow! Unreal mockery hence! Macbeth. Continuation of the History of Don Raymond. My journey was uncommonly agreeable: I found the Baron a Man of some sense, but little knowledge of the world. He had past a great part of his life without stirring beyond the precincts of his own domains, and consequently his manners were far from being the most polished: But He was hearty, good-humoured, and friendly. His attention to me was all that I could wish, and I had every reason to be satisfied with his behaviour. His ruling passion was Hunting, which He had brought himself to consider as a serious occupation; and when talking over some remarkable chace, He treated the subject with as much gravity as it had been a Battle on which the fate of two kingdoms was depending. I happened to be a tolerable Sportsman: Soon after my arrival at Lindenberg I gave some proofs of my dexterity. The Baron immediately marked me down for a Man of Genius, and vowed to me an eternal friendship. That friendship was become to me by no means indifferent. At the Castle of Lindenberg I beheld for the first time your Sister, the lovely Agnes. For me whose heart was unoccupied, and who grieved at the void, to see her and to love her were the same. I found in Agnes all that was requisite to secure my affection. She was then scarcely sixteen; Her person light and elegant was already formed; She possessed several talents in perfection, particularly those of Music and drawing: Her character was gay, open, and good-humoured; and the graceful simplicity of her dress and manners formed an advantageous contrast to the art and studied Coquetry of the Parisian Dames, whom I had just quitted. From the moment that I beheld her, I felt the most lively interest in her fate. I made many enquiries respecting her of the Baroness. 'She is my Niece,' replied that Lady; 'You are still ignorant, Don Alphonso, that I am your Countrywoman. I am Sister to the Duke of Medina Celi: Agnes is the Daughter of my second Brother, Don Gaston: She has been destined to the Convent from her cradle, and will soon make her profession at Madrid.' (Here Lorenzo interrupted the Marquis by an exclamation of surprise. 'Intended for the Convent from her cradle?' said He; 'By heaven, this is the first word that I ever heard of such a design!' 'I believe it, my dear Lorenzo,' answered Don Raymond; 'But you must listen to me with patience. You will not be less surprised, when I relate some particulars of your family still unknown to you, and which I have learnt from the mouth of Agnes herself.' He then resumed his narrative as follows.) You cannot but be aware that your Parents were unfortunately Slaves to the grossest superstition: When this foible was called into play, their every other sentiment, their every other passion yielded to its irresistible strength. While She was big with Agnes, your Mother was seized by a dangerous illness, and given over by her Physicians. In this situation, Donna Inesilla vowed, that if She recovered from her malady, the Child then living in her bosom if a Girl should be dedicated to St. Clare, if a Boy to St. Benedict. Her prayers were heard; She got rid of her complaint; Agnes entered the world alive, and was immediately destined to the service of St. Clare. Don Gaston readily chimed in with his Lady's wishes: But knowing the sentiments of the Duke, his Brother, respecting a Monastic life, it was determined that your Sister's destination should be carefully concealed from him. The better to guard the secret, it was resolved that Agnes should accompany her Aunt, Donna Rodolpha into Germany, whither that Lady was on the point of following her new-married Husband, Baron Lindenberg. On her arrival at that Estate, the young Agnes was put into a Convent, situated but a few miles from the Castle. The Nuns to whom her education was confided performed their charge with exactitude: They made her a perfect Mistress of many talents, and strove to infuse into her mind a taste for the retirement and tranquil pleasures of a Convent. But a secret instinct made the young Recluse sensible that She was not born for solitude: In all the freedom of youth and gaiety, She scrupled not to treat as ridiculous many ceremonies which the Nuns regarded with awe; and She was never more happy than when her lively imagination inspired her with some scheme to plague the stiff Lady Abbess, or the ugly ill-tempered old Porteress. She looked with disgust upon the prospect before her: However no alternative was offered to her, and She submitted to the decree of her Parents, though not without secret repining. That repugnance She had not art enough to conceal long: Don Gaston was informed of it. Alarmed, Lorenzo, lest your affection for her should oppose itself to his projects, and lest you should positively object to your Sister's misery, He resolved to keep the whole affair from YOUR knowledge as well as the Duke's, till the sacrifice should be consummated. The season of her taking the veil was fixed for the time when you should be upon your travels: In the meanwhile no hint was dropped of Donna Inesilla's fatal vow. Your Sister was never permitted to know your direction. All your letters were read before She received them, and those parts effaced, which were likely to nourish her inclination for the world: Her answers were dictated either by her Aunt, or by Dame Cunegonda, her Governess. These particulars I learnt partly from Agnes, partly from the Baroness herself. I immediately determined upon rescuing this lovely Girl from a fate so contrary to her inclinations, and ill-suited to her merit. I endeavoured to ingratiate myself into her favour: I boasted of my friendship and intimacy with you. She listened to me with avidity; She seemed to devour my words while I spoke in your praise, and her eyes thanked me for my affection to her Brother. My constant and unremitted attention at length gained me her heart, and with difficulty I obliged her to confess that She loved me. When however, I proposed her quitting the Castle of Lindenberg, She rejected the idea in positive terms. 'Be generous, Alphonso,' She said; 'You possess my heart, but use not the gift ignobly. Employ not your ascendancy over me in persuading me to take a step, at which I should hereafter have to blush. I am young and deserted: My Brother, my only Friend, is separated from me, and my other Relations act with me as my Enemies. Take pity on my unprotected situation. Instead of seducing me to an action which would cover me with shame, strive rather to gain the affections of those who govern me. The Baron esteems you. My Aunt, to others ever harsh proud and contemptuous, remembers that you rescued her from the hands of Murderers, and wears with you alone the appearance of kindness and benignity. Try then your influence over my Guardians. If they consent to our union my hand is yours: From your account of my Brother, I cannot doubt your obtaining his approbation: And when they find the impossibility of executing their design, I trust that my Parents will excuse my disobedience, and expiate by some other sacrifice my Mother's fatal vow.' From the first moment that I beheld Agnes, I had endeavoured to conciliate the favour of her Relations. Authorised by the confession of her regard, I redoubled my exertions. My principal Battery was directed against the Baroness; It was easy to discover that her word was law in the Castle: Her Husband paid her the most absolute submission, and considered her as a superior Being. She was about forty: In her youth She had been a Beauty; But her charms had been upon that large scale which can but ill sustain the shock of years: However She still possessed some remains of them. Her understanding was strong and excellent when not obscured by prejudice, which unluckily was but seldom the case. Her passions were violent: She spared no pains to gratify them, and pursued with unremitting vengeance those who opposed themselves to her wishes. The warmest of Friends, the most inveterate of Enemies, such was the Baroness Lindenberg. I laboured incessantly to please her: Unluckily I succeeded but too well. She seemed gratified by my attention, and treated me with a distinction accorded by her to no one else. One of my daily occupations was reading to her for several hours: Those hours I should much rather have past with Agnes; But as I was conscious that complaisance for her Aunt would advance our union, I submitted with a good grace to the penance imposed upon me. Donna Rodolpha's Library was principally composed of old Spanish Romances: These were her favourite studies, and once a day one of these unmerciful Volumes was put regularly into my hands. I read the wearisome adventures of 'Perceforest,' 'Tirante the White,' 'Palmerin of England,' and 'the Knight of the Sun,' till the Book was on the point of falling from my hands through Ennui. However, the increasing pleasure which the Baroness seemed to take in my society, encouraged me to persevere; and latterly She showed for me a partiality so marked, that Agnes advised me to seize the first opportunity of declaring our mutual passion to her Aunt. One Evening, I was alone with Donna Rodolpha in her own apartment. As our readings generally treated of love, Agnes was never permitted to assist at them. I was just congratulating myself on having finished 'The Loves of Tristan and the Queen Iseult----' 'Ah! The Unfortunates!' cried the Baroness; 'How say you, Segnor? Do you think it possible for Man to feel an attachment so disinterested and sincere?' 'I cannot doubt it,' replied I; 'My own heart furnishes me with the certainty. Ah! Donna Rodolpha, might I but hope for your approbation of my love! Might I but confess the name of my Mistress without incurring your resentment!' She interrupted me. 'Suppose, I were to spare you that confession? Suppose I were to acknowledge that the object of your desires is not unknown to me? Suppose I were to say that She returns your affection, and laments not less sincerely than yourself the unhappy vows which separate her from you?' 'Ah! Donna Rodolpha!' I exclaimed, throwing myself upon my knees before her, and pressing her hand to my lips, 'You have discovered my secret! What is your decision? Must I despair, or may I reckon upon your favour?' She withdrew not the hand which I held; But She turned from me, and covered her face with the other. 'How can I refuse it you?' She replied; 'Ah! Don Alphonso, I have long perceived to whom your attentions were directed, but till now I perceived not the impression which they made upon my heart. At length I can no longer hide my weakness either from myself or from you. I yield to the violence of my passion, and own that I adore you! For three long months I stifled my desires; But grown stronger by resistance, I submit to their impetuosity. Pride, fear, and honour, respect for myself, and my engagements to the Baron, all are vanquished. I sacrifice them to my love for you, and it still seems to me that I pay too mean a price for your possession.' She paused for an answer.--Judge, my Lorenzo, what must have been my confusion at this discovery. I at once saw all the magnitude of this obstacle, which I had raised myself to my happiness. The Baroness had placed those attentions to her own account, which I had merely paid her for the sake of Agnes: And the strength of her expressions, the looks which accompanied them, and my knowledge of her revengeful disposition made me tremble for myself and my Beloved. I was silent for some minutes. I knew not how to reply to her declaration: I could only resolve to clear up the mistake without delay, and for the present to conceal from her knowledge the name of my Mistress. No sooner had She avowed her passion than the transports which before were evident in my features gave place to consternation and constraint. I dropped her hand, and rose from my knees. The change in my countenance did not escape her observation. 'What means this silence?' said She in a trembling voice; 'Where is that joy which you led me to expect?' 'Forgive me, Segnora,' I answered, 'if what necessity forces from me should seem harsh and ungrateful: To encourage you in an error, which, however it may flatter myself, must prove to you the source of disappointment, would make me appear criminal in every eye. Honour obliges me to inform you that you have mistaken for the solicitude of Love what was only the attention of Friendship. The latter sentiment is that which I wished to excite in your bosom: To entertain a warmer, respect for you forbids me, and gratitude for the Baron's generous treatment. Perhaps these reasons would not be sufficient to shield me from your attractions, were it not that my affections are already bestowed upon another. You have charms, Segnora, which might captivate the most insensible; No heart unoccupied could resist them. Happy is it for me that mine is no longer in my possession; or I should have to reproach myself for ever with having violated the Laws of Hospitality. Recollect yourself, noble Lady; Recollect what is owed by you to honour, by me to the Baron, and replace by esteem and friendship those sentiments which I never can return.' The Baroness turned pale at this unexpected and positive declaration: She doubted whether She slept or woke. At length recovering from her surprise, consternation gave place to rage, and the blood rushed back into her cheeks with violence. 'Villain!' She cried; 'Monster of deceit! Thus is the avowal of my love received? Is it thus that.... But no, no! It cannot, it shall not be! Alphonso, behold me at your feet! Be witness of my despair! Look with pity on a Woman who loves you with sincere affection! She who possesses your heart, how has She merited such a treasure? What sacrifice has She made to you? What raises her above Rodolpha?' I endeavoured to lift her from her Knees. 'For God's sake, Segnora, restrain these transports: They disgrace yourself and me. Your exclamations may be heard, and your secret divulged to your Attendants. I see that my presence only irritates you: permit me to retire.' I prepared to quit the apartment: The Baroness caught me suddenly by the arm. 'And who is this happy Rival?' said She in a menacing tone; 'I will know her name, and WHEN I know it.... ! She is someone in my power; You entreated my favour, my protection! Let me but find her, let me but know who dares to rob me of your heart, and She shall suffer every torment which jealousy and disappointment can inflict! Who is She? Answer me this moment. Hope not to conceal her from my vengeance! Spies shall be set over you; every step, every look shall be watched; Your eyes will discover my Rival; I shall know her, and when She is found, tremble, Alphonso for her and for yourself!' As She uttered these last words her fury mounted to such a pitch as to stop her powers of respiration. She panted, groaned, and at length fainted away. As She was falling I caught her in my arms, and placed her upon a Sopha. Then hastening to the door, I summoned her Women to her assistance; I committed her to their care, and seized the opportunity of escaping. Agitated and confused beyond expression I bent my steps towards the Garden. The benignity with which the Baroness had listened to me at first raised my hopes to the highest pitch: I imagined her to have perceived my attachment for her Niece, and to approve of it. Extreme was my disappointment at understanding the true purport of her discourse. I knew not what course to take: The superstition of the Parents of Agnes, aided by her Aunt's unfortunate passion, seemed to oppose such obstacles to our union as were almost insurmountable. As I past by a low parlour, whose windows looked into the Garden, through the door which stood half open I observed Agnes seated at a Table. She was occupied in drawing, and several unfinished sketches were scattered round her. I entered, still undetermined whether I should acquaint her with the declaration of the Baroness. 'Oh! is it only you?' said She, raising her head; 'You are no Stranger, and I shall continue my occupation without ceremony. Take a Chair, and seat yourself by me.' I obeyed, and placed myself near the Table. Unconscious what I was doing, and totally occupied by the scene which had just passed, I took up some of the drawings, and cast my eye over them. One of the subjects struck me from its singularity. It represented the great Hall of the Castle of Lindenberg. A door conducting to a narrow staircase stood half open. In the foreground appeared a Groupe of figures, placed in the most grotesque attitudes; Terror was expressed upon every countenance. Here was One upon his knees with his eyes cast up to heaven, and praying most devoutly; There Another was creeping away upon all fours. Some hid their faces in their cloaks or the laps of their Companions; Some had concealed themselves beneath a Table, on which the remnants of a feast were visible; While Others with gaping mouths and eyes wide-stretched pointed to a Figure, supposed to have created this disturbance. It represented a Female of more than human stature, clothed in the habit of some religious order. Her face was veiled; On her arm hung a chaplet of beads; Her dress was in several places stained with the blood which trickled from a wound upon her bosom. In one hand She held a Lamp, in the other a large Knife, and She seemed advancing towards the iron gates of the Hall. 'What does this mean, Agnes?' said I; 'Is this some invention of your own?' She cast her eye upon the drawing. 'Oh! no,' She replied; ''Tis the invention of much wiser heads than mine. But can you possibly have lived at Lindenberg for three whole Months without hearing of the Bleeding Nun?' 'You are the first, who ever mentioned the name to me. Pray, who may the Lady be?' 'That is more than I can pretend to tell you. All my knowledge of her History comes from an old tradition in this family, which has been handed down from Father to Son, and is firmly credited throughout the Baron's domains. Nay, the Baron believes it himself; and as for my Aunt who has a natural turn for the marvellous, She would sooner doubt the veracity of the Bible, than of the Bleeding Nun. Shall I tell you this History?' I answered that She would oblige me much by relating it: She resumed her drawing, and then proceeded as follows in a tone of burlesqued gravity. 'It is surprising that in all the Chronicles of past times, this remarkable Personage is never once mentioned. Fain would I recount to you her life; But unluckily till after her death She was never known to have existed. Then first did She think it necessary to make some noise in the world, and with that intention She made bold to seize upon the Castle of Lindenberg. Having a good taste, She took up her abode in the best room of the House: and once established there, She began to amuse herself by knocking about the tables and chairs in the middle of the night. Perhaps She was a bad Sleeper, but this I have never been able to ascertain. According to the tradition, this entertainment commenced about a Century ago. It was accompanied with shrieking, howling, groaning, swearing, and many other agreeable noises of the same kind. But though one particular room was more especially honoured with her visits, She did not entirely confine herself to it. She occasionally ventured into the old Galleries, paced up and down the spacious Halls, or sometimes stopping at the doors of the Chambers, She wept and wailed there to the universal terror of the Inhabitants. In these nocturnal excursions She was seen by different People, who all describe her appearance as you behold it here, traced by the hand of her unworthy Historian.' The singularity of this account insensibly engaged my attention. 'Did She never speak to those who met her?' said I. 'Not She. The specimens indeed, which She gave nightly of her talents for conversation, were by no means inviting. Sometimes the Castle rung with oaths and execrations: A Moment after She repeated her Paternoster: Now She howled out the most horrible blasphemies, and then chaunted De Profundis, as orderly as if still in the Choir. In short She seemed a mighty capricious Being: But whether She prayed or cursed, whether She was impious or devout, She always contrived to terrify her Auditors out of their senses. The Castle became scarcely habitable; and its Lord was so frightened by these midnight Revels, that one fine morning He was found dead in his bed. This success seemed to please the Nun mightily, for now She made more noise than ever. But the next Baron proved too cunning for her. He made his appearance with a celebrated Exorciser in his hand, who feared not to shut himself up for a night in the haunted Chamber. There it seems that He had an hard battle with the Ghost, before She would promise to be quiet. She was obstinate, but He was more so, and at length She consented to let the Inhabitants of the Castle take a good night's rest. For some time after no news was heard of her. But at the end of five years the Exorciser died, and then the Nun ventured to peep abroad again. However, She was now grown much more tractable and well-behaved. She walked about in silence, and never made her appearance above once in five years. This custom, if you will believe the Baron, She still continues. He is fully persuaded, that on the fifth of May of every fifth year, as soon as the Clock strikes One, the Door of the haunted Chamber opens. (Observe, that this room has been shut up for near a Century.) Then out walks the Ghostly Nun with her Lamp and dagger: She descends the staircase of the Eastern Tower; and crosses the great Hall! On that night the Porter always leaves the Gates of the Castle open, out of respect to the Apparition: Not that this is thought by any means necessary, since She could easily whip through the Keyhole if She chose it; But merely out of politeness, and to prevent her from making her exit in a way so derogatory to the dignity of her Ghost-ship.' 'And whither does She go on quitting the Castle?' 'To Heaven, I hope; But if She does, the place certainly is not to her taste, for She always returns after an hour's absence. The Lady then retires to her chamber, and is quiet for another five years.' 'And you believe this, Agnes?' 'How can you ask such a question? No, no, Alphonso! I have too much reason to lament superstition's influence to be its Victim myself. However I must not avow my incredulity to the Baroness: She entertains not a doubt of the truth of this History. As to Dame Cunegonda, my Governess, She protests that fifteen years ago She saw the Spectre with her own eyes. She related to me one evening how She and several other Domestics had been terrified while at Supper by the appearance of the Bleeding Nun, as the Ghost is called in the Castle: 'Tis from her account that I drew this sketch, and you may be certain that Cunegonda was not omitted. There She is! I shall never forget what a passion She was in, and how ugly She looked while She scolded me for having made her picture so like herself!' Here She pointed to a burlesque figure of an old Woman in an attitude of terror. In spite of the melancholy which oppressed me, I could not help smiling at the playful imagination of Agnes: She had perfectly preserved Dame Cunegonda's resemblance, but had so much exaggerated every fault, and rendered every feature so irresistibly laughable, that I could easily conceive the Duenna's anger. 'The figure is admirable, my dear Agnes! I knew not that you possessed such talents for the ridiculous.' 'Stay a moment,' She replied; 'I will show you a figure still more ridiculous than Dame Cunegonda's. If it pleases you, you may dispose of it as seems best to yourself.' She rose, and went to a Cabinet at some little distance. Unlocking a drawer, She took out a small case, which She opened, and presented to me. 'Do you know the resemblance?' said She smiling. It was her own. Transported at the gift, I pressed the portrait to my lips with passion: I threw myself at her feet, and declared my gratitude in the warmest and most affectionate terms. She listened to me with complaisance, and assured me that She shared my sentiments: When suddenly She uttered a loud shriek, disengaged the hand which I held, and flew from the room by a door which opened to the Garden. Amazed at this abrupt departure, I rose hastily from my knees. I beheld with confusion the Baroness standing near me glowing with jealousy, and almost choaked with rage. On recovering from her swoon, She had tortured her imagination to discover her concealed Rival. No one appeared to deserve her suspicions more than Agnes. She immediately hastened to find her Niece, tax her with encouraging my addresses, and assure herself whether her conjectures were well-grounded. Unfortunately She had already seen enough to need no other confirmation. She arrived at the door of the room at the precise moment, when Agnes gave me her Portrait. She heard me profess an everlasting attachment to her Rival, and saw me kneeling at her feet. She advanced to separate us; We were too much occupied by each other to perceive her approach, and were not aware of it, till Agnes beheld her standing by my side. Rage on the part of Donna Rodolpha, embarrassment on mine, for some time kept us both silent. The Lady recovered herself first. 'My suspicions then were just,' said She; 'The Coquetry of my Niece has triumphed, and 'tis to her that I am sacrificed. In one respect however I am fortunate: I shall not be the only one who laments a disappointed passion. You too shall know, what it is to love without hope! I daily expect orders for restoring Agnes to her Parents. Immediately upon her arrival in Spain, She will take the veil, and place an insuperable barrier to your union. You may spare your supplications.' She continued, perceiving me on the point of speaking; 'My resolution is fixed and immoveable. Your Mistress shall remain a close Prisoner in her chamber till She exchanges this Castle for the Cloister. Solitude will perhaps recall her to a sense of her duty: But to prevent your opposing that wished event, I must inform you, Don Alphonso, that your presence here is no longer agreeable either to the Baron or Myself. It was not to talk nonsense to my Niece that your Relations sent you to Germany: Your business was to travel, and I should be sorry to impede any longer so excellent a design. Farewell, Segnor; Remember, that tomorrow morning we meet for the last time.' Having said this, She darted upon me a look of pride, contempt, and malice, and quitted the apartment. I also retired to mine, and consumed the night in planning the means of rescuing Agnes from the power of her tyrannical Aunt. After the positive declaration of its Mistress, it was impossible for me to make a longer stay at the Castle of Lindenberg. Accordingly I the next day announced my immediate departure. The Baron declared that it gave him sincere pain; and He expressed himself in my favour so warmly, that I endeavoured to win him over to my interest. Scarcely had I mentioned the name of Agnes when He stopped me short, and said, that it was totally out of his power to interfere in the business. I saw that it was in vain to argue; The Baroness governed her Husband with despotic sway, and I easily perceived that She had prejudiced him against the match. Agnes did not appear: I entreated permission to take leave of her, but my prayer was rejected. I was obliged to depart without seeing her. At quitting him the Baron shook my hand affectionately, and assured me that as soon as his Niece was gone, I might consider his House as my own. 'Farewell, Don Alphonso!' said the Baroness, and stretched out her hand to me. I took it, and offered to carry it to my lips. She prevented me. Her Husband was at the other end of the room, and out of hearing. 'Take care of yourself,' She continued; 'My love is become hatred, and my wounded pride shall not be unatoned. Go where you will, my vengeance shall follow you!' She accompanied these words with a look sufficient to make me tremble. I answered not, but hastened to quit the Castle. As my Chaise drove out of the Court, I looked up to the windows of your Sister's chamber. Nobody was to be seen there: I threw myself back despondent in my Carriage. I was attended by no other servants than a Frenchman whom I had hired at Strasbourg in Stephano's room, and my little Page whom I before mentioned to you. The fidelity, intelligence, and good temper of Theodore had already made him dear to me; But He now prepared to lay an obligation on me, which made me look upon him as a Guardian Genius. Scarcely had we proceeded half a mile from the Castle, when He rode up to the Chaise-door. 'Take courage, Segnor!' said He in Spanish, which He had already learnt to speak with fluency and correctness. 'While you were with the Baron, I watched the moment when Dame Cunegonda was below stairs, and mounted into the chamber over that of Donna Agnes. I sang as loud as I could a little German air well-known to her, hoping that She would recollect my voice. I was not disappointed, for I soon heard her window open. I hastened to let down a string with which I had provided myself: Upon hearing the casement closed again, I drew up the string, and fastened to it I found this scrap of paper.' He then presented me with a small note addressed to me. I opened it with impatience: It contained the following words written in pencil: Conceal yourself for the next fortnight in some neighbouring Village. My Aunt will believe you to have quitted Lindenberg, and I shall be restored to liberty. I will be in the West Pavilion at twelve on the night of the thirtieth. Fail not to be there, and we shall have an opportunity of concerting our future plans. Adieu. Agnes. At perusing these lines my transports exceeded all bounds; Neither did I set any to the expressions of gratitude which I heaped upon Theodore. In fact his address and attention merited my warmest praise. You will readily believe that I had not entrusted him with my passion for Agnes; But the arch Youth had too much discernment not to discover my secret, and too much discretion not to conceal his knowledge of it. He observed in silence what was going on, nor strove to make himself an Agent in the business till my interests required his interference. I equally admired his judgment, his penetration, his address, and his fidelity. This was not the first occasion in which I had found him of infinite use, and I was every day more convinced of his quickness and capacity. During my short stay at Strasbourg, He had applied himself diligently to learning the rudiments of Spanish: He continued to study it, and with so much success that He spoke it with the same facility as his native language. He past the greatest part of his time in reading; He had acquired much information for his Age; and united the advantages of a lively countenance and prepossessing figure to an excellent understanding and the very best of hearts. He is now fifteen; He is still in my service, and when you see him, I am sure that He will please you. But excuse this digression: I return to the subject which I quitted. I obeyed the instructions of Agnes. I proceeded to Munich. There I left my Chaise under the care of Lucas, my French Servant, and then returned on Horseback to a small Village about four miles distant from the Castle of Lindenberg. Upon arriving there a story was related to the Host at whose Inn I descended, which prevented his wondering at my making so long a stay in his House. The old Man fortunately was credulous and incurious: He believed all I said, and sought to know no more than what I thought proper to tell him. Nobody was with me but Theodore; Both were disguised, and as we kept ourselves close, we were not suspected to be other than what we seemed. In this manner the fortnight passed away. During that time I had the pleasing conviction that Agnes was once more at liberty. She past through the Village with Dame Cunegonda: She seemed in health and spirits, and talked to her Companion without any appearance of constraint. 'Who are those Ladies?' said I to my Host, as the Carriage past. 'Baron Lindenberg's Niece with her Governess,' He replied; 'She goes regularly every Friday to the Convent of St. Catharine, in which She was brought up, and which is situated about a mile from hence.' You may be certain that I waited with impatience for the ensuing Friday. I again beheld my lovely Mistress. She cast her eyes upon me, as She passed the Inn-door. A blush which overspread her cheek told me that in spite of my disguise I had been recognised. I bowed profoundly. She returned the compliment by a slight inclination of the head as if made to one inferior, and looked another way till the Carriage was out of sight. The long-expected, long-wished for night arrived. It was calm, and the Moon was at the full. As soon as the Clock struck eleven I hastened to my appointment, determined not to be too late. Theodore had provided a Ladder; I ascended the Garden wall without difficulty; The Page followed me, and drew the Ladder after us. I posted myself in the West Pavilion, and waited impatiently for the approach of Agnes. Every breeze that whispered, every leaf that fell, I believed to be her footstep, and hastened to meet her. Thus was I obliged to pass a full hour, every minute of which appeared to me an age. The Castle Bell at length tolled twelve, and scarcely could I believe the night to be no further advanced. Another quarter of an hour elapsed, and I heard the light foot of my Mistress approaching the Pavilion with precaution. I flew to receive her, and conducted her to a seat. I threw myself at her feet, and was expressing my joy at seeing her, when She thus interrupted me. 'We have no time to lose, Alphonso: The moments are precious, for though no more a Prisoner, Cunegonda watches my every step. An express is arrived from my Father; I must depart immediately for Madrid, and 'tis with difficulty that I have obtained a week's delay. The superstition of my Parents, supported by the representations of my cruel Aunt, leaves me no hope of softening them to compassion. In this dilemma I have resolved to commit myself to your honour: God grant that you may never give me cause to repent my resolution! Flight is my only resource from the horrors of a Convent, and my imprudence must be excused by the urgency of the danger. Now listen to the plan by which I hope to effect my escape. 'We are now at the thirtieth of April. On the fifth day from this the Visionary Nun is expected to appear. In my last visit to the Convent I provided myself with a dress proper for the character: A Friend, whom I have left there and to whom I made no scruple to confide my secret, readily consented to supply me with a religious habit. Provide a carriage, and be with it at a little distance from the great Gate of the Castle. As soon as the Clock strikes 'one,' I shall quit my chamber, drest in the same apparel as the Ghost is supposed to wear. Whoever meets me will be too much terrified to oppose my escape. I shall easily reach the door, and throw myself under your protection. Thus far success is certain: But Oh! Alphonso, should you deceive me! Should you despise my imprudence and reward it with ingratitude, the World will not hold a Being more wretched than myself! I feel all the dangers to which I shall be exposed. I feel that I am giving you a right to treat me with levity: But I rely upon your love, upon your honour! The step which I am on the point of taking, will incense my Relations against me: Should you desert me, should you betray the trust reposed in you, I shall have no friend to punish your insult, or support my cause. On yourself alone rests all my hope, and if your own heart does not plead in my behalf, I am undone for ever!' The tone in which She pronounced these words was so touching, that in spite of my joy at receiving her promise to follow me, I could not help being affected. I also repined in secret at not having taken the precaution to provide a Carriage at the Village, in which case I might have carried off Agnes that very night. Such an attempt was now impracticable: Neither Carriage or Horses were to be procured nearer than Munich, which was distant from Lindenberg two good days journey. I was therefore obliged to chime in with her plan, which in truth seemed well arranged: Her disguise would secure her from being stopped in quitting the Castle, and would enable her to step into the Carriage at the very Gate without difficulty or losing time. Agnes reclined her head mournfully upon my shoulder, and by the light of the Moon I saw tears flowing down her cheek. I strove to dissipate her melancholy, and encouraged her to look forward to the prospect of happiness. I protested in the most solemn terms that her virtue and innocence would be safe in my keeping, and that till the church had made her my lawful Wife, her honour should be held by me as sacred as a Sister's. I told her that my first care should be to find you out, Lorenzo, and reconcile you to our union; and I was continuing to speak in the same strain, when a noise without alarmed me. Suddenly the door of the Pavilion was thrown open, and Cunegonda stood before us. She had heard Agnes steal out of her chamber, followed her into the Garden, and perceived her entering the Pavilion. Favoured by the Trees which shaded it, and unperceived by Theodore who waited at a little distance, She had approached in silence, and overheard our whole conversation. 'Admirable!' cried Cunegonda in a voice shrill with passion, while Agnes uttered a loud shriek; 'By St. Barbara, young Lady, you have an excellent invention! You must personate the Bleeding Nun, truly? What impiety! What incredulity! Marry, I have a good mind to let you pursue your plan: When the real Ghost met you, I warrant, you would be in a pretty condition! Don Alphonso, you ought to be ashamed of yourself for seducing a young ignorant Creature to leave her family and Friends: However, for this time at least I shall mar your wicked designs. The noble Lady shall be informed of the whole affair, and Agnes must defer playing the Spectre till a better opportunity. Farewell, Segnor-- Donna Agnes, let me have the honour of conducting your Ghost-ship back to your apartment.' She approached the Sopha on which her trembling Pupil was seated, took her by the hand, and prepared to lead her from the Pavilion. I detained her, and strove by entreaties, soothing, promises, and flattery to win her to my party: But finding all that I could say of no avail, I abandoned the vain attempt. 'Your obstinacy must be its own punishment,' said I; 'But one resource remains to save Agnes and myself, and I shall not hesitate to employ it.' Terrified at this menace, She again endeavoured to quit the Pavilion; But I seized her by the wrist, and detained her forcibly. At the same moment Theodore, who had followed her into the room, closed the door, and prevented her escape. I took the veil of Agnes: I threw it round the Duenna's head, who uttered such piercing shrieks that in spite of our distance from the Castle, I dreaded their being heard. At length I succeeded in gagging her so compleatly that She could not produce a single sound. Theodore and myself with some difficulty next contrived to bind her hands and feet with our handkerchiefs; And I advised Agnes to regain her chamber with all diligence. I promised that no harm should happen to Cunegonda, bad her remember that on the fifth of May I should be in waiting at the Great Gate of the Castle, and took of her an affectionate farewell. Trembling and uneasy She had scarce power enough to signify her consent to my plans, and fled back to her apartment in disorder and confusion. In the meanwhile Theodore assisted me in carrying off my antiquated Prize. She was hoisted over the wall, placed before me upon my Horse like a Portmanteau, and I galloped away with her from the Castle of Lindenberg. The unlucky Duenna never had made a more disagreeable journey in her life: She was jolted and shaken till She was become little more than an animated Mummy; not to mention her fright when we waded through a small River through which it was necessary to pass in order to regain the Village. Before we reached the Inn, I had already determined how to dispose of the troublesome Cunegonda. We entered the Street in which the Inn stood, and while the page knocked, I waited at a little distance. The Landlord opened the door with a Lamp in his hand. 'Give me the light!' said Theodore; 'My Master is coming.' He snatched the Lamp hastily, and purposely let it fall upon the ground: The Landlord returned to the Kitchen to re-light the Lamp, leaving the door open. I profited by the obscurity, sprang from my Horse with Cunegonda in my arms, darted up stairs, reached my chamber unperceived, and unlocking the door of a spacious Closet, stowed her within it, and then turned the Key. The Landlord and Theodore soon after appeared with lights: The Former expressed himself a little surprised at my returning so late, but asked no impertinent questions. He soon quitted the room, and left me to exult in the success of my undertaking. I immediately paid a visit to my Prisoner. I strove to persuade her submitting with patience to her temporary confinement. My attempt was unsuccessful. Unable to speak or move, She expressed her fury by her looks, and except at meals I never dared to unbind her, or release her from the Gag. At such times I stood over her with a drawn sword, and protested, that if She uttered a single cry, I would plunge it in her bosom. As soon as She had done eating, the Gag was replaced. I was conscious that this proceeding was cruel, and could only be justified by the urgency of circumstances: As to Theodore, He had no scruples upon the subject. Cunegonda's captivity entertained him beyond measure. During his abode in the Castle, a continual warfare had been carried on between him and the Duenna; and now that He found his Enemy so absolutely in his power, He triumphed without mercy. He seemed to think of nothing but how to find out new means of plaguing her: Sometimes He affected to pity her misfortune, then laughed at, abused, and mimicked her; He played her a thousand tricks, each more provoking than the other, and amused himself by telling her that her elopement must have occasioned much surprise at the Baron's. This was in fact the case. No one except Agnes could imagine what was become of Dame Cunegonda: Every hole and corner was searched for her; The Ponds were dragged, and the Woods underwent a thorough examination. Still no Dame Cunegonda made her appearance. Agnes kept the secret, and I kept the Duenna: The Baroness, therefore, remained in total ignorance respecting the old Woman's fate, but suspected her to have perished by suicide. Thus past away five days, during which I had prepared every thing necessary for my enterprise. On quitting Agnes, I had made it my first business to dispatch a Peasant with a letter to Lucas at Munich, ordering him to take care that a Coach and four should arrive about ten o'clock on the fifth of May at the Village of Rosenwald. He obeyed my instructions punctually: The Equipage arrived at the time appointed. As the period of her Lady's elopement drew nearer, Cunegonda's rage increased. I verily believe that spight and passion would have killed her, had I not luckily discovered her prepossession in favour of Cherry Brandy. With this favourite liquor She was plentifully supplied, and Theodore always remaining to guard her, the Gag was occasionally removed. The liquor seemed to have a wonderful effect in softening the acrimony of her nature; and her confinement not admitting of any other amusement, She got drunk regularly once a day just by way of passing the time. The fifth of May arrived, a period by me never to be forgotten! Before the Clock struck twelve, I betook myself to the scene of action. Theodore followed me on horseback. I concealed the Carriage in a spacious Cavern of the Hill, on whose brow the Castle was situated: This Cavern was of considerable depth, and among the peasants was known by the name of Lindenberg Hole. The night was calm and beautiful: The Moonbeams fell upon the antient Towers of the Castle, and shed upon their summits a silver light. All was still around me: Nothing was to be heard except the night breeze sighing among the leaves, the distant barking of Village Dogs, or the Owl who had established herself in a nook of the deserted Eastern Turret. I heard her melancholy shriek, and looked upwards. She sat upon the ride of a window, which I recognized to be that of the haunted Room. This brought to my remembrance the story of the Bleeding Nun, and I sighed while I reflected on the influence of superstition and weakness of human reason. Suddenly I heard a faint chorus steal upon the silence of the night. 'What can occasion that noise, Theodore?' 'A Stranger of distinction,' replied He, 'passed through the Village today in his way to the Castle: He is reported to be the Father of Donna Agnes. Doubtless, the Baron has given an entertainment to celebrate his arrival.' The Castle Bell announced the hour of midnight: This was the usual signal for the family to retire to Bed. Soon after I perceived lights in the Castle moving backwards and forwards in different directions. I conjectured the company to be separating. I could hear the heavy doors grate as they opened with difficulty, and as they closed again the rotten Casements rattled in their frames. The chamber of Agnes was on the other side of the Castle. I trembled lest She should have failed in obtaining the Key of the haunted Room: Through this it was necessary for her to pass in order to reach the narrow Staircase by which the Ghost was supposed to descend into the great Hall. Agitated by this apprehension, I kept my eyes constantly fixed upon the window, where I hoped to perceive the friendly glare of a Lamp borne by Agnes. I now heard the massy Gates unbarred. By the candle in his hand I distinguished old Conrad, the Porter. He set the Portal doors wide open, and retired. The lights in the Castle gradually disappeared, and at length the whole Building was wrapt in darkness. While I sat upon a broken ridge of the Hill, the stillness of the scene inspired me with melancholy ideas not altogether unpleasing. The Castle which stood full in my sight, formed an object equally awful and picturesque. Its ponderous Walls tinged by the moon with solemn brightness, its old and partly-ruined Towers lifting themselves into the clouds and seeming to frown on the plains around them, its lofty battlements oergrown with ivy, and folding Gates expanding in honour of the Visionary Inhabitant, made me sensible of a sad and reverential horror. Yet did not these sensations occupy me so fully, as to prevent me from witnessing with impatience the slow progress of time. I approached the Castle, and ventured to walk round it. A few rays of light still glimmered in the chamber of Agnes. I observed them with joy. I was still gazing upon them, when I perceived a figure draw near the window, and the Curtain was carefully closed to conceal the Lamp which burned there. Convinced by this observation that Agnes had not abandoned our plan, I returned with a light heart to my former station. The half-hour struck! The three-quarters struck! My bosom beat high with hope and expectation. At length the wished-for sound was heard. The Bell tolled 'One,' and the Mansion echoed with the noise loud and solemn. I looked up to the Casement of the haunted Chamber. Scarcely had five minutes elapsed, when the expected light appeared. I was now close to the Tower. The window was not so far from the Ground but that I fancied I perceived a female figure with a Lamp in her hand moving slowly along the Apartment. The light soon faded away, and all was again dark and gloomy. Occasional gleams of brightness darted from the Staircase windows as the lovely Ghost past by them. I traced the light through the Hall: It reached the Portal, and at length I beheld Agnes pass through the folding gates. She was habited exactly as She had described the Spectre. A chaplet of Beads hung upon her arm; her head was enveloped in a long white veil; Her Nun's dress was stained with blood, and She had taken care to provide herself with a Lamp and dagger. She advanced towards the spot where I stood. I flew to meet her, and clasped her in my arms. 'Agnes!' said I while I pressed her to my bosom, Agnes! Agnes! Thou art mine! Agnes! Agnes! I am thine! In my veins while blood shall roll, Thou art mine! I am thine! Thine my body! Thine my soul! Terrified and breathless She was unable to speak: She dropt her Lamp and dagger, and sank upon my bosom in silence. I raised her in my arms, and conveyed her to the Carriage. Theodore remained behind in order to release Dame Cunegonda. I also charged him with a letter to the Baroness explaining the whole affair, and entreating her good offices in reconciling Don Gaston to my union with his Daughter. I discovered to her my real name: I proved to her that my birth and expectations justified my pretending to her Niece, and assured her, though it was out of my power to return her love, that I would strive unceasingly to obtain her esteem and friendship. I stepped into the Carriage, where Agnes was already seated. Theodore closed the door, and the Postillions drove away. At first I was delighted with the rapidity of our progress; But as soon as we were in no danger of pursuit, I called to the Drivers, and bad them moderate their pace. They strove in vain to obey me. The Horses refused to answer the rein, and continued to rush on with astonishing swiftness. The Postillions redoubled their efforts to stop them, but by kicking and plunging the Beasts soon released themselves from this restraint. Uttering a loud shriek, the Drivers were hurled upon the ground. Immediately thick clouds obscured the sky: The winds howled around us, the lightning flashed, and the Thunder roared tremendously. Never did I behold so frightful a Tempest! Terrified by the jar of contending elements, the Horses seemed every moment to increase their speed. Nothing could interrupt their career; They dragged the Carriage through Hedges and Ditches, dashed down the most dangerous precipices, and seemed to vye in swiftness with the rapidity of the winds. All this while my Companion lay motionless in my arms. Truly alarmed by the magnitude of the danger, I was in vain attempting to recall her to her senses; when a loud crash announced, that a stop was put to our progress in the most disagreeable manner. The Carriage was shattered to pieces. In falling I struck my temple against a flint. The pain of the wound, the violence of the shock, and apprehension for the safety of Agnes combined to overpower me so compleatly, that my senses forsook me, and I lay without animation on the ground. I probably remained for some time in this situation, since when I opened my eyes, it was broad daylight. Several Peasants were standing round me, and seemed disputing whether my recovery was possible. I spoke German tolerably well. As soon as I could utter an articulate sound, I enquired after Agnes. What was my surprise and distress, when assured by the Peasants, that nobody had been seen answering the description which I gave of her! They told me that in going to their daily labour they had been alarmed by observing the fragments of my Carriage, and by hearing the groans of an Horse, the only one of the four which remained alive: The other Three lay dead by my side. Nobody was near me when they came up, and much time had been lost, before they succeeded in recovering me. Uneasy beyond expression respecting the fate of my Companion, I besought the Peasants to disperse themselves in search of her: I described her dress, and promised immense rewards to whoever brought me any intelligence. As for myself, it was impossible for me to join in the pursuit: I had broken two of my ribs in the fall: My arm being dislocated hung useless by my side; and my left leg was shattered so terribly, that I never expected to recover its use. The Peasants complied with my request: All left me except Four, who made a litter of boughs and prepared to convey me to the neighbouring Town. I enquired its name. It proved to be Ratisbon, and I could scarcely persuade myself that I had travelled to such a distance in a single night. I told the Countrymen that at one o'clock that morning I had past through the Village of Rosenwald. They shook their heads wistfully, and made signs to each other that I must certainly be delirious. I was conveyed to a decent Inn and immediately put to bed. A Physician was sent for, who set my arm with success. He then examined my other hurts, and told me that I need be under no apprehension of the consequences of any of them; But ordered me to keep myself quiet, and be prepared for a tedious and painful cure. I answered him that if He hoped to keep me quiet, He must first endeavour to procure me some news of a Lady who had quitted Rosenwald in my company the night before, and had been with me at the moment when the Coach broke down. He smiled, and only replied by advising me to make myself easy, for that all proper care should be taken of me. As He quitted me, the Hostess met him at the door of the room. 'The Gentleman is not quite in his right senses;' I heard him say to her in a low voice; ''Tis the natural consequence of his fall, but that will soon be over.' One after another the Peasants returned to the Inn, and informed me that no traces had been discovered of my unfortunate Mistress. Uneasiness now became despair. I entreated them to renew their search in the most urgent terms, doubling the promises which I had already made them. My wild and frantic manner confirmed the bye-standers in the idea of my being delirious. No signs of the Lady having appeared, they believed her to be a creature fabricated by my over-heated brain, and paid no attention to my entreaties. However, the Hostess assured me that a fresh enquiry should be made, but I found afterwards that her promise was only given to quiet me. No further steps were taken in the business. Though my Baggage was left at Munich under the care of my French Servant, having prepared myself for a long journey, my purse was amply furnished: Besides my equipage proved me to be of distinction, and in consequence all possible attention was paid me at the Inn. The day passed away: Still no news arrived of Agnes. The anxiety of fear now gave place to despondency. I ceased to rave about her and was plunged in the depth of melancholy reflections. Perceiving me to be silent and tranquil, my Attendants believed my delirium to have abated, and that my malady had taken a favourable turn. According to the Physician's order I swallowed a composing medicine; and as soon as the night shut in, my attendants withdrew and left me to repose. That repose I wooed in vain. The agitation of my bosom chased away sleep. Restless in my mind, in spite of the fatigue of my body, I continued to toss about from side to side, till the Clock in a neighbouring Steeple struck 'One.' As I listened to the mournful hollow sound, and heard it die away in the wind, I felt a sudden chillness spread itself over my body. I shuddered without knowing wherefore; Cold dews poured down my forehead, and my hair stood bristling with alarm. Suddenly I heard slow and heavy steps ascending the staircase. By an involuntary movement I started up in my bed, and drew back the curtain. A single rush-light which glimmered upon the hearth shed a faint gleam through the apartment, which was hung with tapestry. The door was thrown open with violence. A figure entered, and drew near my Bed with solemn measured steps. With trembling apprehension I examined this midnight Visitor. God Almighty! It was the Bleeding Nun! It was my lost Companion! Her face was still veiled, but She no longer held her Lamp and dagger. She lifted up her veil slowly. What a sight presented itself to my startled eyes! I beheld before me an animated Corse. Her countenance was long and haggard; Her cheeks and lips were bloodless; The paleness of death was spread over her features, and her eyeballs fixed stedfastly upon me were lustreless and hollow. I gazed upon the Spectre with horror too great to be described. My blood was frozen in my veins. I would have called for aid, but the sound expired ere it could pass my lips. My nerves were bound up in impotence, and I remained in the same attitude inanimate as a Statue. The visionary Nun looked upon me for some minutes in silence: There was something petrifying in her regard. At length in a low sepulchral voice She pronounced the following words. "Raymond! Raymond! Thou art mine! Raymond! Raymond! I am thine! In thy veins while blood shall roll, I am thine! Thou art mine! Mine thy body! Mine thy soul!----" Breathless with fear, I listened while She repeated my own expressions. The Apparition seated herself opposite to me at the foot of the Bed, and was silent. Her eyes were fixed earnestly upon mine: They seemed endowed with the property of the Rattlesnake's, for I strove in vain to look off her. My eyes were fascinated, and I had not the power of withdrawing them from the Spectre's. In this attitude She remained for a whole long hour without speaking or moving; nor was I able to do either. At length the Clock struck two. The Apparition rose from her seat, and approached the side of the bed. She grasped with her icy fingers my hand which hung lifeless upon the Coverture, and pressing her cold lips to mine, again repeated, "Raymond! Raymond! Thou art mine! Raymond! Raymond! I am thine! &c.----" She then dropped my hand, quitted the chamber with slow steps, and the Door closed after her. Till that moment the faculties of my body had been all suspended; Those of my mind had alone been waking. The charm now ceased to operate: The blood which had been frozen in my veins rushed back to my heart with violence: I uttered a deep groan, and sank lifeless upon my pillow. The adjoining room was only separated from mine by a thin partition: It was occupied by the Host and his Wife: The Former was rouzed by my groan, and immediately hastened to my chamber: The Hostess soon followed him. With some difficulty they succeeded in restoring me to my senses, and immediately sent for the Physician, who arrived in all diligence. He declared my fever to be very much increased, and that if I continued to suffer such violent agitation, He would not take upon him to ensure my life. Some medicines which He gave me in some degree tranquillized my spirits. I fell into a sort of slumber towards daybreak; But fearful dreams prevented me from deriving any benefit from my repose. Agnes and the Bleeding Nun presented themselves by turns to my fancy, and combined to harass and torment me. I awoke fatigued and unrefreshed. My fever seemed rather augmented than diminished; The agitation of my mind impeded my fractured bones from knitting: I had frequent fainting fits, and during the whole day the Physician judged it expedient not to quit me for two hours together. The singularity of my adventure made me determine to conceal it from every one, since I could not expect that a circumstance so strange should gain credit. I was very uneasy about Agnes. I knew not what She would think at not finding me at the rendezvous, and dreaded her entertaining suspicions of my fidelity. However, I depended upon Theodore's discretion, and trusted that my letter to the Baroness would convince her of the rectitude of my intentions. These considerations somewhat lightened my inquietude upon her account: But the impression left upon my mind by my nocturnal Visitor grew stronger with every succeeding moment. The night drew near; I dreaded its arrival. Yet I strove to persuade myself that the Ghost would appear no more, and at all events I desired that a Servant might sit up in my chamber. The fatigue of my body from not having slept on the former night, co-operating with the strong opiates administered to me in profusion, at length procured me that repose of which I was so much in need. I sank into a profound and tranquil slumber, and had already slept for some hours, when the neighbouring Clock rouzed me by striking 'One'. Its sound brought with it to my memory all the horrors of the night before. The same cold shivering seized me. I started up in my bed, and perceived the Servant fast asleep in an armed-Chair near me. I called him by his name: He made no answer. I shook him forcibly by the arm, and strove in vain to wake him. He was perfectly insensible to my efforts. I now heard the heavy steps ascending the staircase; The Door was thrown open, and again the Bleeding Nun stood before me. Once more my limbs were chained in second infancy. Once more I heard those fatal words repeated, "Raymond! Raymond! Thou art mine! Raymond! Raymond! I am thine! &c.----" The scene which had shocked me so sensibly on the former night, was again presented. The Spectre again pressed her lips to mine, again touched me with her rotting fingers, and as on her first appearance, quitted the chamber as soon as the Clock told 'Two.' Even night was this repeated. Far from growing accustomed to the Ghost, every succeeding visit inspired me with greater horror. Her idea pursued me continually, and I became the prey of habitual melancholy. The constant agitation of my mind naturally retarded the re-establishment of my health. Several months elapsed before I was able to quit my bed; and when at length I was moved to a Sopha, I was so faint, spiritless, and emaciated, that I could not cross the room without assistance. The looks of my Attendants sufficiently denoted the little hope, which they entertained of my recovery. The profound sadness, which oppressed me without remission made the Physician consider me to be an Hypochondriac. The cause of my distress I carefully concealed in my own bosom, for I knew that no one could give me relief: The Ghost was not even visible to any eye but mine. I had frequently caused Attendants to sit up in my room: But the moment that the Clock struck 'One,' irresistible slumber seized them, nor left them till the departure of the Ghost. You may be surprized that during this time I made no enquiries after your Sister. Theodore, who with difficulty had discovered my abode, had quieted my apprehensions for her safety: At the same time He convinced me that all attempts to release her from captivity must be fruitless till I should be in a condition to return to Spain. The particulars of her adventure which I shall now relate to you, were partly communicated to me by Theodore, and partly by Agnes herself. On the fatal night when her elopement was to have taken place, accident had not permitted her to quit her chamber at the appointed time. At length She ventured into the haunted room, descended the staircase leading into the Hall, found the Gates open as She expected, and left the Castle unobserved. What was her surprize at not finding me ready to receive her! She examined the Cavern, ranged through every Alley of the neighbouring wood, and passed two full hours in this fruitless enquiry. She could discover no traces either of me or of the Carriage. Alarmed and disappointed, her only resource was to return to the Castle before the Baroness missed her: But here She found herself in a fresh embarrassment. The Bell had already tolled 'Two:' The Ghostly hour was past, and the careful Porter had locked the folding gates. After much irresolution She ventured to knock softly. Luckily for her, Conrad was still awake: He heard the noise and rose, murmuring at being called up a second time. No sooner had He opened one of the Doors, and beheld the supposed Apparition waiting there for admittance, than He uttered a loud cry, and sank upon his knees. Agnes profited by his terror. She glided by him, flew to her own apartment, and having thrown off her Spectre's trappings, retired to bed endeavouring in vain to account for my disappearing. In the mean while Theodore having seen my Carriage drive off with the false Agnes, returned joyfully to the Village. The next morning He released Cunegonda from her confinement, and accompanied her to the Castle. There He found the Baron, his Lady, and Don Gaston, disputing together upon the Porter's relation. All of them agreed in believing the existence of Spectres: But the Latter contended, that for a Ghost to knock for admittance was a proceeding till then unwitnessed, and totally incompatible with the immaterial nature of a Spirit. They were still discussing this subject when the Page appeared with Cunegonda and cleared up the mystery. On hearing his deposition, it was agreed unanimously that the Agnes whom Theodore had seen step into my Carriage must have been the Bleeding Nun, and that the Ghost who had terrified Conrad was no other than Don Gaston's Daughter. The first surprize which this discovery occasioned being over, the Baroness resolved to make it of use in persuading her Niece to take the veil. Fearing lest so advantageous an establishment for his Daughter should induce Don Gaston to renounce his resolution, She suppressed my letter, and continued to represent me as a needy unknown Adventurer. A childish vanity had led me to conceal my real name even from my Mistress; I wished to be loved for myself, not for being the Son and Heir of the Marquis de las Cisternas. The consequence was that my rank was known to no one in the Castle except the Baroness, and She took good care to confine the knowledge to her own breast. Don Gaston having approved his Sister's design, Agnes was summoned to appear before them. She was taxed with having meditated an elopement, obliged to make a full confession, and was amazed at the gentleness with which it was received: But what was her affliction, when informed that the failure of her project must be attributed to me! Cunegonda, tutored by the Baroness, told her that when I released her, I had desired her to inform her Lady that our connexion was at an end, that the whole affair was occasioned by a false report, and that it by no means suited my circumstances to marry a Woman without fortune or expectations. To this account my sudden disappearing gave but too great an air of probability. Theodore, who could have contradicted the story, by Donna Rodolpha's order was kept out of her sight: What proved a still greater confirmation of my being an Impostor, was the arrival of a letter from yourself declaring that you had no sort of acquaintance with Alphonso d'Alvarada. These seeming proofs of my perfidy, aided by the artful insinuations of her Aunt, by Cunegonda's flattery, and her Father's threats and anger, entirely conquered your Sister's repugnance to a Convent. Incensed at my behaviour, and disgusted with the world in general, She consented to receive the veil. She past another Month at the Castle of Lindenberg, during which my non-appearance confirmed her in her resolution, and then accompanied Don Gaston into Spain. Theodore was now set at liberty. He hastened to Munich, where I had promised to let him hear from me; But finding from Lucas that I had never arrived there, He pursued his search with indefatigable perseverance, and at length succeeded in rejoining me at Ratisbon. So much was I altered, that scarcely could He recollect my features: The distress visible upon his sufficiently testified how lively was the interest which He felt for me. The society of this amiable Boy, whom I had always considered rather as a Companion than a Servant, was now my only comfort. His conversation was gay yet sensible, and his observations shrewd and entertaining: He had picked up much more knowledge than is usual at his Age: But what rendered him most agreeable to me, was his having a delightful voice, and some skill in Music. He had also acquired some taste in poetry, and even ventured sometimes to write verses himself. He occasionally composed little Ballads in Spanish, his compositions were but indifferent, I must confess; yet they were pleasing to me from their novelty, and hearing him sing them to his guitar was the only amusement, which I was capable of receiving. Theodore perceived well enough that something preyed upon my mind; But as I concealed the cause of my grief even from him, Respect would not permit him to pry into my secrets. One Evening I was lying upon my Sopha, plunged in reflections very far from agreeable: Theodore amused himself by observing from the window a Battle between two Postillions, who were quarrelling in the Inn-yard. 'Ha! Ha!' cried He suddenly; 'Yonder is the Great Mogul.' 'Who?' said I. 'Only a Man who made me a strange speech at Munich.' 'What was the purport of it?' 'Now you put me in mind of it, Segnor, it was a kind of message to you; but truly it was not worth delivering. I believe the Fellow to be mad, for my part. When I came to Munich in search of you, I found him living at 'The King of the Romans,' and the Host gave me an odd account of him. By his accent He is supposed to be a Foreigner, but of what Country nobody can tell. He seemed to have no acquaintance in the Town, spoke very seldom, and never was seen to smile. He had neither Servants or Baggage; But his Purse seemed well-furnished, and He did much good in the Town. Some supposed him to be an Arabian Astrologer, Others to be a Travelling Mountebank, and many declared that He was Doctor Faustus, whom the Devil had sent back to Germany. The Landlord, however told me, that He had the best reasons to believe him to be the Great Mogul incognito.' 'But the strange speech, Theodore.' 'True, I had almost forgotten the speech: Indeed for that matter, it would not have been a great loss if I had forgotten it altogether. You are to know, Segnor, that while I was enquiring about you of the Landlord, this Stranger passed by. He stopped, and looked at me earnestly. 'Youth!' said He in a solemn voice, 'He whom you seek, has found that which He would fain lose. My hand alone can dry up the blood: Bid your Master wish for me when the Clock strikes, 'One.' 'How?' cried I, starting from my Sopha. (The words which Theodore had repeated, seemed to imply the Stranger's knowledge of my secret) 'Fly to him, my Boy! Entreat him to grant me one moment's conversation!' Theodore was surprised at the vivacity of my manner: However, He asked no questions, but hastened to obey me. I waited his return impatiently. But a short space of time had elapsed when He again appeared and ushered the expected Guest into my chamber. He was a Man of majestic presence: His countenance was strongly marked, and his eyes were large, black, and sparkling: Yet there was a something in his look which, the moment that I saw him, inspired me with a secret awe, not to say horror. He was drest plainly, his hair was unpowdered, and a band of black velvet which encircled his forehead spread over his features an additional gloom. His countenance wore the marks of profound melancholy; his step was slow, and his manner grave, stately, and solemn. He saluted me with politeness; and having replied to the usual compliments of introduction, He motioned to Theodore to quit the chamber. The Page instantly withdrew. 'I know your business,' said He, without giving me time to speak. 'I have the power of releasing you from your nightly Visitor; But this cannot be done before Sunday. On the hour when the Sabbath Morning breaks, Spirits of darkness have least influence over Mortals. After Saturday the Nun shall visit you no more.' 'May I not enquire,' said I, 'by what means you are in possession of a secret which I have carefully concealed from the knowledge of everyone?' 'How can I be ignorant of your distress, when their cause at this moment stands beside you?' I started. The Stranger continued. 'Though to you only visible for one hour in the twenty-four, neither day or night does She ever quit you; Nor will She ever quit you till you have granted her request.' 'And what is that request?' 'That She must herself explain: It lies not in my knowledge. Wait with patience for the night of Saturday: All shall be then cleared up.' I dared not press him further. He soon after changed the conversation and talked of various matters. He named People who had ceased to exist for many Centuries, and yet with whom He appeared to have been personally acquainted. I could not mention a Country however distant which He had not visited, nor could I sufficiently admire the extent and variety of his information. I remarked to him that having travelled, seen, and known so much, must have given him infinite pleasure. He shook his head mournfully. 'No one,' He replied, 'is adequate to comprehending the misery of my lot! Fate obliges me to be constantly in movement: I am not permitted to pass more than a fortnight in the same place. I have no Friend in the world, and from the restlessness of my destiny I never can acquire one. Fain would I lay down my miserable life, for I envy those who enjoy the quiet of the Grave: But Death eludes me, and flies from my embrace. In vain do I throw myself in the way of danger. I plunge into the Ocean; The Waves throw me back with abhorrence upon the shore: I rush into fire; The flames recoil at my approach: I oppose myself to the fury of Banditti; Their swords become blunted, and break against my breast: The hungry Tiger shudders at my approach, and the Alligator flies from a Monster more horrible than itself. God has set his seal upon me, and all his Creatures respect this fatal mark!' He put his hand to the velvet, which was bound round his forehead. There was in his eyes an expression of fury, despair, and malevolence, that struck horror to my very soul. An involuntary convulsion made me shudder. The Stranger perceived it. 'Such is the curse imposed on me,' he continued: 'I am doomed to inspire all who look on me with terror and detestation. You already feel the influence of the charm, and with every succeeding moment will feel it more. I will not add to your sufferings by my presence. Farewell till Saturday. As soon as the Clock strikes twelve, expect me at your chamber door.' Having said this He departed, leaving me in astonishment at the mysterious turn of his manner and conversation. His assurances that I should soon be relieved from the Apparition's visits produced a good effect upon my constitution. Theodore, whom I rather treated as an adopted Child than a Domestic, was surprized at his return to observe the amendment in my looks. He congratulated me on this symptom of returning health, and declared himself delighted at my having received so much benefit from my conference with the Great Mogul. Upon enquiry I found that the Stranger had already past eight days in Ratisbon: According to his own account, therefore, He was only to remain there six days longer. Saturday was still at the distance of Three. Oh! with what impatience did I expect its arrival! In the interim, the Bleeding Nun continued her nocturnal visits; But hoping soon to be released from them altogether, the effects which they produced on me became less violent than before. The wished-for night arrived. To avoid creating suspicion I retired to bed at my usual hour: But as soon as my Attendants had left me, I dressed myself again, and prepared for the Stranger's reception. He entered my room upon the turn of midnight. A small Chest was in his hand, which He placed near the Stove. He saluted me without speaking; I returned the compliment, observing an equal silence. He then opened his Chest. The first thing which He produced was a small wooden Crucifix: He sank upon his knees, gazed upon it mournfully, and cast his eyes towards heaven. He seemed to be praying devoutly. At length He bowed his head respectfully, kissed the Crucifix thrice, and quitted his kneeling posture. He next drew from the Chest a covered Goblet: With the liquor which it contained, and which appeared to be blood, He sprinkled the floor, and then dipping in it one end of the Crucifix, He described a circle in the middle of the room. Round about this He placed various reliques, sculls, thigh-bones &c; I observed, that He disposed them all in the forms of Crosses. Lastly He took out a large Bible, and beckoned me to follow him into the Circle. I obeyed. 'Be cautious not to utter a syllable!' whispered the Stranger; 'Step not out of the circle, and as you love yourself, dare not to look upon my face!' Holding the Crucifix in one hand, the Bible in the other, He seemed to read with profound attention. The Clock struck 'One'! As usual I heard the Spectre's steps upon the Staircase: But I was not seized with the accustomed shivering. I waited her approach with confidence. She entered the room, drew near the Circle, and stopped. The Stranger muttered some words, to me unintelligible. Then raising his head from the Book, and extending the Crucifix towards the Ghost, He pronounced in a voice distinct and solemn, 'Beatrice! Beatrice! Beatrice!' 'What wouldst Thou?' replied the Apparition in a hollow faltering tone. 'What disturbs thy sleep? Why dost thou afflict and torture this Youth? How can rest be restored to thy unquiet Spirit?' 'I dare not tell!--I must not tell!--Fain would I repose in my Grave, but stern commands force me to prolong my punishment!' 'Knowest Thou this blood? Knowest Thou in whose veins it flowed? Beatrice! Beatrice! In his name I charge thee to answer me!' 'I dare not disobey my taskers.' 'Darest Thou disobey Me?' He spoke in a commanding tone, and drew the sable band from his forehead. In spite of his injunctions to the contrary, Curiosity would not suffer me to keep my eyes off his face: I raised them, and beheld a burning Cross impressed upon his brow. For the horror with which this object inspired me I cannot account, but I never felt its equal! My senses left me for some moments; A mysterious dread overcame my courage, and had not the Exorciser caught my hand, I should have fallen out of the Circle. When I recovered myself, I perceived that the burning Cross had produced an effect no less violent upon the Spectre. Her countenance expressed reverence, and horror, and her visionary limbs were shaken by fear. 'Yes!' She said at length; 'I tremble at that mark!--respect it!--I obey you! Know then, that my bones lie still unburied: They rot in the obscurity of Lindenberg Hole. None but this Youth has the right of consigning them to the Grave. His own lips have made over to me his body and his soul: Never will I give back his promise, never shall He know a night devoid of terror, unless He engages to collect my mouldering bones, and deposit them in the family vault of his Andalusian Castle. Then let thirty Masses be said for the repose of my Spirit, and I trouble this world no more. Now let me depart! Those flames are scorching!' He let the hand drop slowly which held the Crucifix, and which till then He had pointed towards her. The apparition bowed her head, and her form melted into air. The Exorciser led me out of the Circle. He replaced the Bible &c. in the Chest, and then addressed himself to me, who stood near him speechless from astonishment. 'Don Raymond, you have heard the conditions on which repose is promised you. Be it your business to fulfil them to the letter. For me nothing more remains than to clear up the darkness still spread over the Spectre's History, and inform you that when living, Beatrice bore the name of las Cisternas. She was the great Aunt of your Grandfather: In quality of your relation, her ashes demand respect from you, though the enormity of her crimes must excite your abhorrence. The nature of those crimes no one is more capable of explaining to you than myself: I was personally acquainted with the holy Man who proscribed her nocturnal riots in the Castle of Lindenberg, and I hold this narrative from his own lips. 'Beatrice de las Cisternas took the veil at an early age, not by her own choice, but at the express command of her Parents. She was then too young to regret the pleasures of which her profession deprived her: But no sooner did her warm and voluptuous character begin to be developed than She abandoned herself freely to the impulse of her passions, and seized the first opportunity to procure their gratification. This opportunity was at length presented, after many obstacles which only added new force to her desires. She contrived to elope from the Convent, and fled to Germany with the Baron Lindenberg. She lived at his Castle several months as his avowed Concubine: All Bavaria was scandalized by her impudent and abandoned conduct. Her feasts vied in luxury with Cleopatra's, and Lindenberg became the Theatre of the most unbridled debauchery. Not satisfied with displaying the incontinence of a Prostitute, She professed herself an Atheist: She took every opportunity to scoff at her monastic vows, and loaded with ridicule the most sacred ceremonies of Religion. 'Possessed of a character so depraved, She did not long confine her affections to one object. Soon after her arrival at the Castle, the Baron's younger Brother attracted her notice by his strong-marked features, gigantic Stature, and Herculean limbs. She was not of an humour to keep her inclinations long unknown; But She found in Otto von Lindenberg her equal in depravity. He returned her passion just sufficiently to increase it; and when He had worked it up to the desired pitch, He fixed the price of his love at his Brother's murder. The Wretch consented to this horrible agreement. A night was pitched upon for perpetrating the deed. Otto, who resided on a small Estate a few miles distant from the Castle, promised that at One in the morning He would be waiting for her at Lindenberg Hole; that He would bring with him a party of chosen Friends, by whose aid He doubted not being able to make himself Master of the Castle; and that his next step should be the uniting her hand to his. It was this last promise, which overruled every scruple of Beatrice, since in spite of his affection for her, the Baron had declared positively that He never would make her his Wife. 'The fatal night arrived. The Baron slept in the arms of his perfidious Mistress, when the Castle-Bell struck 'One.' Immediately Beatrice drew a dagger from underneath the pillow, and plunged it in her Paramour's heart. The Baron uttered a single dreadful groan, and expired. The Murderess quitted her bed hastily, took a Lamp in one hand, in the other the bloody dagger, and bent her course towards the cavern. The Porter dared not to refuse opening the Gates to one more dreaded in the Castle than its Master. Beatrice reached Lindenberg Hole unopposed, where according to promise She found Otto waiting for her. He received and listened to her narrative with transport: But ere She had time to ask why He came unaccompanied, He convinced her that He wished for no witnesses to their interview. Anxious to conceal his share in the murder, and to free himself from a Woman, whose violent and atrocious character made him tremble with reason for his own safety, He had resolved on the destruction of his wretched Agent. Rushing upon her suddenly, He wrested the dagger from her hand: He plunged it still reeking with his Brother's blood in her bosom, and put an end to her existence by repeated blows. 'Otto now succeeded to the Barony of Lindenberg. The murder was attributed solely to the fugitive Nun, and no one suspected him to have persuaded her to the action. But though his crime was unpunished by Man, God's justice permitted him not to enjoy in peace his blood-stained honours. Her bones lying still unburied in the Cave, the restless soul of Beatrice continued to inhabit the Castle. Drest in her religious habit in memory of her vows broken to heaven, furnished with the dagger which had drank the blood of her Paramour, and holding the Lamp which had guided her flying steps, every night did She stand before the Bed of Otto. The most dreadful confusion reigned through the Castle; The vaulted chambers resounded with shrieks and groans; And the Spectre, as She ranged along the antique Galleries, uttered an incoherent mixture of prayers and blasphemies. Otto was unable to withstand the shock which He felt at this fearful Vision: Its horror increased with every succeeding appearance: His alarm at length became so insupportable that his heart burst, and one morning He was found in his bed totally deprived of warmth and animation. His death did not put an end to the nocturnal riots. The bones of Beatrice continued to lie unburied, and her Ghost continued to haunt the Castle. 'The domains of Lindenberg now fell to a distant Relation. But terrified by the accounts given him of the Bleeding Nun (So was the Spectre called by the multitude), the new Baron called to his assistance a celebrated Exorciser. This holy Man succeeded in obliging her to temporary repose; But though She discovered to him her history, He was not permitted to reveal it to others, or cause her skeleton to be removed to hallowed ground. That Office was reserved for you, and till your coming, her Ghost was doomed to wander about the Castle and lament the crime which She had there committed. However, the Exorciser obliged her to silence during his lifetime. So long as He existed, the haunted chamber was shut up, and the Spectre was invisible. At his death which happened in five years after, She again appeared, but only once on every fifth year, on the same day and at the same hour when She plunged her Knife in the heart of her sleeping Lover: She then visited the Cavern which held her mouldering skeleton, returned to the Castle as soon as the Clock struck 'Two,' and was seen no more till the next five years had elapsed. 'She was doomed to suffer during the space of a Century. That period is past. Nothing now remains but to consign to the Grave the ashes of Beatrice. I have been the means of releasing you from your visionary Tormentor; and amidst all the sorrows which oppress me, to think that I have been of use to you, is some consolation. Youth, farewell! May the Ghost of your Relation enjoy that rest in the Tomb, which the Almighty's vengeance has denied to me for ever!' Here the Stranger prepared to quit the apartment. 'Stay yet one moment!' said I; 'You have satisfied my curiosity with regard to the Spectre, but you leave me in prey to yet greater respecting yourself. Deign to inform me, to whom I am under such real obligations. You mention circumstances long past, and persons long dead: You were personally acquainted with the Exorciser, who by your own account has been deceased near a Century. How am I to account for this? What means that burning Cross upon your forehead, and why did the sight of it strike such horror to my soul?' On these points He for some time refused to satisfy me. At length overcome by my entreaties, He consented to clear up the whole, on condition that I would defer his explanation till the next day. With this request I was obliged to comply, and He left me. In the Morning my first care was to enquire after the mysterious Stranger. Conceive my disappointment when informed that He had already quitted Ratisbon. I dispatched messengers in pursuit of him but in vain. No traces of the Fugitive were discovered. Since that moment I never have heard any more of him, and 'tis most probable that I never shall.' (Lorenzo here interrupted his Friend's narrative. 'How?' said He; 'You have never discovered who He was, or even formed a guess?' 'Pardon me,' replied the Marquis; 'When I related this adventure to my Uncle, the Cardinal-Duke, He told me that He had no doubt of this singular Man's being the celebrated Character known universally by the name of 'the wandering Jew.' His not being permitted to pass more than fourteen days on the same spot, the burning Cross impressed upon his forehead, the effect which it produced upon the Beholders, and many other circumstances give this supposition the colour of truth. The Cardinal is fully persuaded of it; and for my own part I am inclined to adopt the only solution which offers itself to this riddle. I return to the narrative from which I have digressed.') From this period I recovered my health so rapidly as to astonish my Physicians. The Bleeding Nun appeared no more, and I was soon able to set out for Lindenberg. The Baron received me with open arms. I confided to him the sequel of my adventure; and He was not a little pleased to find that his Mansion would be no longer troubled with the Phantom's quiennial visits. I was sorry to perceive that absence had not weakened Donna Rodolpha's imprudent passion. In a private conversation which I had with her during my short stay at the Castle, She renewed her attempts to persuade me to return her affection. Regarding her as the primary cause of all my sufferings, I entertained for her no other sentiment than disgust. The Skeleton of Beatrice was found in the place which She had mentioned. This being all that I sought at Lindenberg, I hastened to quit the Baron's domains, equally anxious to perform the obsequies of the murdered Nun, and escape the importunity of a Woman whom I detested. I departed, followed by Donna Rodolpha's menaces that my contempt should not be long unpunished. I now bent my course towards Spain with all diligence. Lucas with my Baggage had joined me during my abode at Lindenberg. I arrived in my native Country without any accident, and immediately proceeded to my Father's Castle in Andalusia. The remains of Beatrice were deposited in the family vault, all due ceremonies performed, and the number of Masses said which She had required. Nothing now hindered me from employing all my endeavours to discover the retreat of Agnes. The Baroness had assured me that her Niece had already taken the veil: This intelligence I suspected to have been forged by jealousy, and hoped to find my Mistress still at liberty to accept my hand. I enquired after her family; I found that before her Daughter could reach Madrid, Donna Inesilla was no more: You, my dear Lorenzo, were said to be abroad, but where I could not discover: Your Father was in a distant Province on a visit to the Duke de Medina, and as to Agnes, no one could or would inform me what was become of her. Theodore, according to promise, had returned to Strasbourg, where He found his Grandfather dead, and Marguerite in possession of his fortune. All her persuasions to remain with her were fruitless: He quitted her a second time, and followed me to Madrid. He exerted himself to the utmost in forwarding my search: But our united endeavours were unattended by success. The retreat which concealed Agnes remained an impenetrable mystery, and I began to abandon all hopes of recovering her. About eight months ago I was returning to my Hotel in a melancholy humour, having past the evening at the Play-House. The Night was dark, and I was unaccompanied. Plunged in reflections which were far from being agreeable, I perceived not that three Men had followed me from the Theatre; till, on turning into an unfrequented Street, they all attacked me at the same time with the utmost fury. I sprang back a few paces, drew my sword, and threw my cloak over my left arm. The obscurity of the night was in my favour. For the most part the blows of the Assassins, being aimed at random, failed to touch me. I at length was fortunate enough to lay one of my Adversaries at my feet; But before this I had already received so many wounds, and was so warmly pressed, that my destruction would have been inevitable, had not the clashing of swords called a Cavalier to my assistance. He ran towards me with his sword drawn: Several Domestics followed him with torches. His arrival made the combat equal: Yet would not the Bravoes abandon their design till the Servants were on the point of joining us. They then fled away, and we lost them in the obscurity. The Stranger now addressed himself to me with politeness, and enquired whether I was wounded. Faint with the loss of blood, I could scarcely thank him for his seasonable aid, and entreat him to let some of his Servants convey me to the Hotel de las Cisternas. I no sooner mentioned the name than He profest himself an acquaintance of my Father's, and declared that He would not permit my being transported to such a distance before my wounds had been examined. He added that his House was hard by, and begged me to accompany him thither. His manner was so earnest, that I could not reject his offer, and leaning upon his arm, a few minutes brought me to the Porch of a magnificent Hotel. On entering the House, an old grey-headed Domestic came to welcome my Conductor: He enquired when the Duke, his Master, meant to quit the Country, and was answered that He would remain there yet some months. My Deliverer then desired the family Surgeon to be summoned without delay. His orders were obeyed. I was seated upon a Sopha in a noble apartment; and my wounds being examined, they were declared to be very slight. The Surgeon, however, advised me not to expose myself to the night air; and the Stranger pressed me so earnestly to take a bed in his House, that I consented to remain where I was for the present. Being now left alone with my Deliverer, I took the opportunity of thanking him in more express terms, than I had done hitherto: But He begged me to be silent upon the subject. 'I esteem myself happy,' said He, 'in having had it in my power to render you this little service; and I shall think myself eternally obliged to my Daughter for detaining me so late at the Convent of St. Clare. The high esteem in which I have ever held the Marquis de las Cisternas, though accident has not permitted our being so intimate as I could wish, makes me rejoice in the opportunity of making his Son's acquaintance. I am certain that my Brother in whose House you now are, will lament his not being at Madrid to receive you himself: But in the Duke's absence I am Master of the family, and may assure you in his name, that every thing in the Hotel de Medina is perfectly at your disposal.' Conceive my surprize, Lorenzo, at discovering in the person of my Preserver Don Gaston de Medina: It was only to be equalled by my secret satisfaction at the assurance that Agnes inhabited the Convent of St. Clare. This latter sensation was not a little weakened, when in answer to my seemingly indifferent questions He told me that his Daughter had really taken the veil. I suffered not my grief at this circumstance to take root in my mind: I flattered myself with the idea that my Uncle's credit at the Court of Rome would remove this obstacle, and that without difficulty I should obtain for my Mistress a dispensation from her vows. Buoyed up with this hope I calmed the uneasiness of my bosom; and I redoubled my endeavours to appear grateful for the attention and pleased with the society of Don Gaston. A Domestic now entered the room, and informed me that the Bravo whom I had wounded discovered some signs of life. I desired that He might be carried to my Father's Hotel, and that as soon as He recovered his voice, I would examine him respecting his reasons for attempting my life. I was answered that He was already able to speak, though with difficulty: Don Gaston's curiosity made him press me to interrogate the Assassin in his presence, but this curiosity I was by no means inclined to gratify. One reason was, that doubting from whence the blow came, I was unwilling to place before Don Gaston's eyes the guilt of a Sister: Another was, that I feared to be recognized for Alphonso d'Alvarada, and precautions taken in consequence to keep me from the sight of Agnes. To avow my passion for his Daughter, and endeavour to make him enter into my schemes, what I knew of Don Gaston's character convinced me would be an imprudent step: and considering it to be essential that He should know me for no other than the Conde de las Cisternas, I was determined not to let him hear the Bravo's confession. I insinuated to him, that as I suspected a Lady to be concerned in the Business, whose name might accidentally escape from the Assassin, it was necessary for me to examine the Man in private. Don Gaston's delicacy would not permit his urging the point any longer, and in consequence the Bravo was conveyed to my Hotel. The next Morning I took leave of my Host, who was to return to the Duke on the same day. My wounds had been so trifling that, except being obliged to wear my arm in a sling for a short time, I felt no inconvenience from the night's adventure. The Surgeon who examined the Bravo's wound declared it to be mortal: He had just time to confess that He had been instigated to murder me by the revengeful Donna Rodolpha, and expired in a few minutes after. All my thoughts were now bent upon getting to the speech of my lovely Nun. Theodore set himself to work, and for this time with better success. He attacked the Gardener of St. Clare so forcibly with bribes and promises that the Old Man was entirely gained over to my interests; and it was settled that I should be introduced into the Convent in the character of his Assistant. The plan was put into execution without delay. Disguised in a common habit, and a black patch covering one of my eyes, I was presented to the Lady Prioress, who condescended to approve of the Gardener's choice. I immediately entered upon my employment. Botany having been a favourite study with me, I was by no means at a loss in my new station. For some days I continued to work in the Convent Garden without meeting the Object of my disguise: On the fourth Morning I was more successful. I heard the voice of Agnes, and was speeding towards the sound, when the sight of the Domina stopped me. I drew back with caution, and concealed myself behind a thick clump of Trees. The Prioress advanced and seated herself with Agnes on a Bench at no great distance. I heard her in an angry tone blame her Companion's continual melancholy: She told her that to weep the loss of any Lover in her situation was a crime; But that to weep the loss of a faithless one was folly and absurdity in the extreme. Agnes replied in so low a voice that I could not distinguish her words, but I perceived that She used terms of gentleness and submission. The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a young Pensioner who informed the Domina that She was waited for in the Parlour. The old Lady rose, kissed the cheek of Agnes, and retired. The newcomer remained. Agnes spoke much to her in praise of somebody whom I could not make out, but her Auditor seemed highly delighted, and interested by the conversation. The Nun showed her several letters; the Other perused them with evident pleasure, obtained permission to copy them, and withdrew for that purpose to my great satisfaction. No sooner was She out of sight, than I quitted my concealment. Fearing to alarm my lovely Mistress, I drew near her gently, intending to discover myself by degrees. But who for a moment can deceive the eyes of love? She raised her head at my approach, and recognised me in spite of my disguise at a single glance. She rose hastily from her seat with an exclamation of surprize, and attempted to retire; But I followed her, detained her, and entreated to be heard. Persuaded of my falsehood She refused to listen to me, and ordered me positively to quit the Garden. It was now my turn to refuse. I protested that however dangerous might be the consequences, I would not leave her till She had heard my justification. I assured her that She had been deceived by the artifices of her Relations; that I could convince her beyond the power of doubt that my passion had been pure and disinterested; and I asked her what should induce me to seek her in the Convent, were I influenced by the selfish motives which my Enemies had ascribed to me. My prayers, my arguments, and vows not to quit her, till She had promised to listen to me, united to her fears lest the Nuns should see me with her, to her natural curiosity, and to the affection which She still felt for me in spite of my supposed desertion, at length prevailed. She told me that to grant my request at that moment was impossible; But She engaged to be in the same spot at eleven that night, and to converse with me for the last time. Having obtained this promise I released her hand, and She fled back with rapidity towards the Convent. I communicated my success to my Ally, the old Gardener: He pointed out an hiding place where I might shelter myself till night without fear of a discovery. Thither I betook myself at the hour when I ought to have retired with my supposed Master, and waited impatiently for the appointed time. The chillness of the night was in my favour, since it kept the other Nuns confined to their Cells. Agnes alone was insensible of the inclemency of the Air, and before eleven joined me at the spot which had witnessed our former interview. Secure from interruption, I related to her the true cause of my disappearing on the fatal fifth of May. She was evidently much affected by my narrative: When it was concluded, She confessed the injustice of her suspicions, and blamed herself for having taken the veil through despair at my ingratitude. 'But now it is too late to repine!' She added; 'The die is thrown: I have pronounced my vows, and dedicated myself to the service of heaven. I am sensible, how ill I am calculated for a Convent. My disgust at a monastic life increases daily: Ennui and discontent are my constant Companions; and I will not conceal from you that the passion which I formerly felt for one so near being my Husband is not yet extinguished in my bosom. But we must part! Insuperable Barriers divide us from each other, and on this side the Grave we must never meet again!' I now exerted myself to prove that our union was not so impossible as She seemed to think it. I vaunted to her the Cardinal-Duke of Lerma's influence at the Court of Rome: I assured her that I should easily obtain a dispensation from her vows; and I doubted not but Don Gaston would coincide with my views, when informed of my real name and long attachment. Agnes replied that since I encouraged such an hope, I could know but little of her Father. Liberal and kind in every other respect, Superstition formed the only stain upon his character. Upon this head He was inflexible; He sacrificed his dearest interests to his scruples, and would consider it an insult to suppose him capable of authorising his daughter to break her vows to heaven. 'But suppose,' said I interrupting her; 'Suppose that He should disapprove of our union; Let him remain ignorant of my proceedings, till I have rescued you from the prison in which you are now confined. Once my Wife, you are free from his authority: I need from him no pecuniary assistance; and when He sees his resentment to be unavailing, He will doubtless restore you to his favour. But let the worst happen; Should Don Gaston be irreconcileable, my Relations will vie with each other in making you forget his loss: and you will find in my Father a substitute for the Parent of whom I shall deprive you.' 'Don Raymond,' replied Agnes in a firm and resolute voice, 'I love my Father: He has treated me harshly in this one instance; but I have received from him in every other so many proofs of love that his affection is become necessary to my existence. Were I to quit the Convent, He never would forgive me; nor can I think that on his deathbed He would leave me his curse, without shuddering at the very idea. Besides, I am conscious myself, that my vows are binding: Wilfully did I contract my engagement with heaven; I cannot break it without a crime. Then banish from your mind the idea of our being ever united. I am devoted to religion; and however I may grieve at our separation, I would oppose obstacles myself, to what I feel would render me guilty.' I strove to overrule these ill-grounded scruples: We were still disputing upon the subject, when the Convent Bell summoned the Nuns to Matins. Agnes was obliged to attend them; But She left me not till I had compelled her to promise that on the following night She would be at the same place at the same hour. These meetings continued for several Weeks uninterrupted; and 'tis now, Lorenzo, that I must implore your indulgence. Reflect upon our situation, our youth, our long attachment: Weigh all the circumstances which attended our assignations, and you will confess the temptation to have been irresistible; you will even pardon me when I acknowledge, that in an unguarded moment, the honour of Agnes was sacrificed to my passion.' (Lorenzo's eyes sparkled with fury: A deep crimson spread itself over his face. He started from his seat, and attempted to draw his sword. The Marquis was aware of his movement, and caught his hand: He pressed it affectionately. 'My Friend! My Brother! Hear me to the conclusion! Till then restrain your passion, and be at least convinced, that if what I have related is criminal, the blame must fall upon me, and not upon your Sister.' Lorenzo suffered himself to be prevailed upon by Don Raymond's entreaties. He resumed his place, and listened to the rest of the narrative with a gloomy and impatient countenance. The Marquis thus continued.) 'Scarcely was the first burst of passion past when Agnes, recovering herself, started from my arms with horror. She called me infamous Seducer, loaded me with the bitterest reproaches, and beat her bosom in all the wildness of delirium. Ashamed of my imprudence, I with difficulty found words to excuse myself. I endeavoured to console her; I threw myself at her feet, and entreated her forgiveness. She forced her hand from me, which I had taken, and would have prest to my lips. 'Touch me not!' She cried with a violence which terrified me; 'Monster of perfidy and ingratitude, how have I been deceived in you! I looked upon you as my Friend, my Protector: I trusted myself in your hands with confidence, and relying upon your honour, thought that mine ran no risque. And 'tis by you, whom I adored, that I am covered with infamy! 'Tis by you that I have been seduced into breaking my vows to God, that I am reduced to a level with the basest of my sex! Shame upon you, Villain, you shall never see me more!' She started from the Bank on which She was seated. I endeavoured to detain her; But She disengaged herself from me with violence, and took refuge in the Convent. I retired, filled with confusion and inquietude. The next morning I failed not as usual to appear in the Garden; but Agnes was no where to be seen. At night I waited for her at the place where we generally met; I found no better success. Several days and nights passed away in the same manner. At length I saw my offended Mistress cross the walk on whose borders I was working: She was accompanied by the same young Pensioner, on whose arm She seemed from weakness obliged to support herself. She looked upon me for a moment, but instantly turned her head away. I waited her return; But She passed on to the Convent without paying any attention to me, or the penitent looks with which I implored her forgiveness. As soon as the Nuns were retired, the old Gardener joined me with a sorrowful air. 'Segnor,' said He, 'it grieves me to say, that I can be no longer of use to you. The Lady whom you used to meet has just assured me that if I admitted you again into the Garden, She would discover the whole business to the Lady Prioress. She bade me tell you also, that your presence was an insult, and that if you still possess the least respect for her, you will never attempt to see her more. Excuse me then for informing you that I can favour your disguise no longer. Should the Prioress be acquainted with my conduct, She might not be contented with dismissing me her service: Out of revenge She might accuse me of having profaned the Convent, and cause me to be thrown into the Prisons of the Inquisition.' Fruitless were my attempts to conquer his resolution. He denied me all future entrance into the Garden, and Agnes persevered in neither letting me see or hear from her. In about a fortnight after, a violent illness which had seized my Father obliged me to set out for Andalusia. I hastened thither, and as I imagined, found the Marquis at the point of death. Though on its first appearance his complaint was declared mortal, He lingered out several Months; during which my attendance upon him during his malady, and the occupation of settling his affairs after his decease, permitted not my quitting Andalusia. Within these four days I returned to Madrid, and on arriving at my Hotel, I there found this letter waiting for me. (Here the Marquis unlocked the drawer of a Cabinet: He took out a folded paper, which He presented to his Auditor. Lorenzo opened it, and recognised his Sister's hand. The Contents were as follows. Into what an abyss of misery have you plunged me! Raymond, you force me to become as criminal as yourself. I had resolved never to see you more; if possible, to forget you; If not, only to remember you with hate. A Being for whom I already feel a Mother's tenderness, solicits me to pardon my Seducer, and apply to his love for the means of preservation. Raymond, your child lives in my bosom. I tremble at the vengeance of the Prioress; I tremble much for myself, yet more for the innocent Creature whose existence depends upon mine. Both of us are lost, should my situation be discovered. Advise me then what steps to take, but seek not to see me. The Gardener, who undertakes to deliver this, is dismissed, and we have nothing to hope from that quarter: The Man engaged in his place is of incorruptible fidelity. The best means of conveying to me your answer, is by concealing it under the great Statue of St. Francis, which stands in the Capuchin Cathedral. Thither I go every Thursday to confession, and shall easily have an opportunity of securing your letter. I hear that you are now absent from Madrid; Need I entreat you to write the very moment of your return? I will not think it. Ah! Raymond! Mine is a cruel situation! Deceived by my nearest Relations, compelled to embrace a profession the duties of which I am ill-calculated to perform, conscious of the sanctity of those duties, and seduced into violating them by One whom I least suspected of perfidy, I am now obliged by circumstances to chuse between death and perjury. Woman's timidity, and maternal affection, permit me not to balance in the choice. I feel all the guilt into which I plunge myself, when I yield to the plan which you before proposed to me. My poor Father's death which has taken place since we met, has removed one obstacle. He sleeps in his grave, and I no longer dread his anger. But from the anger of God, Oh! Raymond! who shall shield me? Who can protect me against my conscience, against myself? I dare not dwell upon these thoughts; They will drive me mad. I have taken my resolution: Procure a dispensation from my vows; I am ready to fly with you. Write to me, my Husband! Tell me, that absence has not abated your love, tell me that you will rescue from death your unborn Child, and its unhappy Mother. I live in all the agonies of terror: Every eye which is fixed upon me seems to read my secret and my shame. And you are the cause of those agonies! Oh! When my heart first loved you, how little did it suspect you of making it feel such pangs! Agnes. Having perused the letter, Lorenzo restored it in silence. The Marquis replaced it in the Cabinet, and then proceeded.) 'Excessive was my joy at reading this intelligence so earnestly-desired, so little expected. My plan was soon arranged. When Don Gaston discovered to me his Daughter's retreat, I entertained no doubt of her readiness to quit the Convent: I had, therefore, entrusted the Cardinal-Duke of Lerma with the whole affair, who immediately busied himself in obtaining the necessary Bull. Fortunately I had afterwards neglected to stop his proceedings. Not long since I received a letter from him, stating that He expected daily to receive the order from the Court of Rome. Upon this I would willingly have relyed: But the Cardinal wrote me word, that I must find some means of conveying Agnes out of the Convent, unknown to the Prioress. He doubted not but this Latter would be much incensed by losing a Person of such high rank from her society, and consider the renunciation of Agnes as an insult to her House. He represented her as a Woman of a violent and revengeful character, capable of proceeding to the greatest extremities. It was therefore to be feared, lest by confining Agnes in the Convent She should frustrate my hopes, and render the Pope's mandate unavailing. Influenced by this consideration, I resolved to carry off my Mistress, and conceal her till the arrival of the expected Bull in the Cardinal-Duke's Estate. He approved of my design, and profest himself ready to give a shelter to the Fugitive. I next caused the new Gardener of St. Clare to be seized privately, and confined in my Hotel. By this means I became Master of the Key to the Garden door, and I had now nothing more to do than prepare Agnes for the elopement. This was done by the letter, which you saw me deliver this Evening. I told her in it, that I should be ready to receive her at twelve tomorrow night, that I had secured the Key of the Garden, and that She might depend upon a speedy release. You have now, Lorenzo, heard the whole of my long narrative. I have nothing to say in my excuse, save that my intentions towards your Sister have been ever the most honourable: That it has always been, and still is my design to make her my Wife: And that I trust, when you consider these circumstances, our youth, and our attachment, you will not only forgive our momentary lapse from virtue, but will aid me in repairing my faults to Agnes, and securing a lawful title to her person and her heart. CHAPTER II O You! whom Vanity's light bark conveys On Fame's mad voyage by the wind of praise, With what a shifting gale your course you ply, For ever sunk too low, or borne too high! Who pants for glory finds but short repose, A breath revives him, and a breath o'er-throws. Pope. Here the Marquis concluded his adventures. Lorenzo, before He could determine on his reply, past some moments in reflection. At length He broke silence. 'Raymond,' said He taking his hand, 'strict honour would oblige me to wash off in your blood the stain thrown upon my family; But the circumstances of your case forbid me to consider you as an Enemy. The temptation was too great to be resisted. 'Tis the superstition of my Relations which has occasioned these misfortunes, and they are more the Offenders than yourself and Agnes. What has past between you cannot be recalled, but may yet be repaired by uniting you to my Sister. You have ever been, you still continue to be, my dearest and indeed my only Friend. I feel for Agnes the truest affection, and there is no one on whom I would bestow her more willingly than on yourself. Pursue then your design. I will accompany you tomorrow night, and conduct her myself to the House of the Cardinal. My presence will be a sanction for her conduct, and prevent her incurring blame by her flight from the Convent.' The Marquis thanked him in terms by no means deficient in gratitude. Lorenzo then informed him that He had nothing more to apprehend from Donna Rodolpha's enmity. Five Months had already elapsed since, in an excess of passion, She broke a blood-vessel and expired in the course of a few hours. He then proceeded to mention the interests of Antonia. The Marquis was much surprized at hearing of this new Relation: His Father had carried his hatred of Elvira to the Grave, and had never given the least hint that He knew what was become of his eldest Son's Widow. Don Raymond assured his friend that He was not mistaken in supposing him ready to acknowledge his Sister-in-law and her amiable Daughter. The preparations for the elopement would not permit his visiting them the next day; But in the meanwhile He desired Lorenzo to assure them of his friendship, and to supply Elvira upon his account with any sums which She might want. This the Youth promised to do, as soon as her abode should be known to him: He then took leave of his future Brother, and returned to the Palace de Medina. The day was already on the point of breaking when the Marquis retired to his chamber. Conscious that his narrative would take up some hours, and wishing to secure himself from interruption on returning to the Hotel, He ordered his Attendants not to sit up for him. Consequently, He was somewhat surprised on entering his Antiroom, to find Theodore established there. The Page sat near a Table with a pen in his hand, and was so totally occupied by his employment that He perceived not his Lord's approach. The Marquis stopped to observe him. Theodore wrote a few lines, then paused, and scratched out a part of the writing: Then wrote again, smiled, and seemed highly pleased with what He had been about. At last He threw down his pen, sprang from his chair, and clapped his hands together joyfully. 'There it is!' cried He aloud: 'Now they are charming!' His transports were interrupted by a laugh from the Marquis, who suspected the nature of his employment. 'What is so charming, Theodore?' The Youth started, and looked round. He blushed, ran to the Table, seized the paper on which He had been writing, and concealed it in confusion. 'Oh! my Lord, I knew not that you were so near me. Can I be of use to you? Lucas is already gone to bed.' 'I shall follow his example when I have given my opinion of your verses.' 'My verses, my Lord?' 'Nay, I am sure that you have been writing some, for nothing else could have kept you awake till this time of the morning. Where are they, Theodore? I shall like to see your composition.' Theodore's cheeks glowed with still deeper crimson: He longed to show his poetry, but first chose to be pressed for it. 'Indeed, my Lord, they are not worthy your attention.' 'Not these verses, which you just now declared to be so charming? Come, come, let me see whether our opinions are the same. I promise that you shall find in me an indulgent Critic.' The Boy produced his paper with seeming reluctance; but the satisfaction which sparkled in his dark expressive eyes betrayed the vanity of his little bosom. The Marquis smiled while He observed the emotions of an heart as yet but little skilled in veiling its sentiments. He seated himself upon a Sopha: Theodore, while Hope and fear contended on his anxious countenance, waited with inquietude for his Master's decision, while the Marquis read the following lines. LOVE AND AGE The night was dark; The wind blew cold; Anacreon, grown morose and old, Sat by his fire, and fed the chearful flame: Sudden the Cottage-door expands, And lo! before him Cupid stands, Casts round a friendly glance, and greets him by his name. 'What is it Thou?' the startled Sire In sullen tone exclaimed, while ire With crimson flushed his pale and wrinkled cheek: 'Wouldst Thou again with amorous rage Inflame my bosom? Steeled by age, Vain Boy, to pierce my breast thine arrows are too weak. 'What seek You in this desart drear? No smiles or sports inhabit here; Ne'er did these vallies witness dalliance sweet: Eternal winter binds the plains; Age in my house despotic reigns, My Garden boasts no flower, my bosom boasts no heat. 'Begone, and seek the blooming bower, Where some ripe Virgin courts thy power, Or bid provoking dreams flit round her bed; On Damon's amorous breast repose; Wanton--on Chloe's lip of rose, Or make her blushing cheek a pillow for thy head. 'Be such thy haunts; These regions cold Avoid! Nor think grown wise and old This hoary head again thy yoke shall bear: Remembering that my fairest years By Thee were marked with sighs and tears, I think thy friendship false, and shun the guileful snare. 'I have not yet forgot the pains I felt, while bound in Julia's chains; The ardent flames with which my bosom burned; The nights I passed deprived of rest; The jealous pangs which racked my breast; My disappointed hopes, and passion unreturned. 'Then fly, and curse mine eyes no more! Fly from my peaceful Cottage-door! No day, no hour, no moment shalt Thou stay. I know thy falsehood, scorn thy arts, Distrust thy smiles, and fear thy darts; Traitor, begone, and seek some other to betray!' 'Does Age, old Man, your wits confound?' Replied the offended God, and frowned; (His frown was sweet as is the Virgin's smile!) 'Do You to Me these words address? To Me, who do not love you less, Though You my friendship scorn, and pleasures past revile! 'If one proud Fair you chanced to find, An hundred other Nymphs were kind, Whose smiles might well for Julia's frowns atone: But such is Man! His partial hand Unnumbered favours writes on sand, But stamps one little fault on solid lasting stone. 'Ingrate! Who led Thee to the wave, At noon where Lesbia loved to lave? Who named the bower alone where Daphne lay? And who, when Caelia shrieked for aid, Bad you with kisses hush the Maid? What other was't than Love, Oh! false Anacreon, say! 'Then You could call me--"Gentle Boy! "My only bliss! my source of joy!"-- Then You could prize me dearer than your soul! Could kiss, and dance me on your knees; And swear, not wine itself would please, Had not the lip of Love first touched the flowing bowl! 'Must those sweet days return no more? Must I for aye your loss deplore, Banished your heart, and from your favour driven? Ah! no; My fears that smile denies; That heaving breast, those sparkling eyes Declare me ever dear and all my faults forgiven. 'Again beloved, esteemed, carest, Cupid shall in thine arms be prest, Sport on thy knees, or on thy bosom sleep: My Torch thine age-struck heart shall warm; My Hand pale Winter's rage disarm, And Youth and Spring shall here once more their revels keep.'-- A feather now of golden hue He smiling from his pinion drew; This to the Poet's hand the Boy commits; And straight before Anacreon's eyes The fairest dreams of fancy rise, And round his favoured head wild inspiration flits. His bosom glows with amorous fire Eager He grasps the magic lyre; Swift o'er the tuneful chords his fingers move: The Feather plucked from Cupid's wing Sweeps the too-long-neglected string, While soft Anacreon sings the power and praise of Love. Soon as that name was heard, the Woods Shook off their snows; The melting floods Broke their cold chains, and Winter fled away. Once more the earth was deckt with flowers; Mild Zephyrs breathed through blooming bowers; High towered the glorious Sun, and poured the blaze of day. Attracted by the harmonious sound, Sylvans and Fauns the Cot surround, And curious crowd the Minstrel to behold: The Wood-nymphs haste the spell to prove; Eager They run; They list, they love, And while They hear the strain, forget the Man is old. Cupid, to nothing constant long, Perched on the Harp attends the song, Or stifles with a kiss the dulcet notes: Now on the Poet's breast reposes, Now twines his hoary locks with roses, Or borne on wings of gold in wanton circle floats. Then thus Anacreon--'I no more At other shrine my vows will pour, Since Cupid deigns my numbers to inspire: From Phoebus or the blue-eyed Maid Now shall my verse request no aid, For Love alone shall be the Patron of my Lyre. 'In lofty strain, of earlier days, I spread the King's or Hero's praise, And struck the martial Chords with epic fire: But farewell, Hero! farewell, King! Your deeds my lips no more shall sing, For Love alone shall be the subject of my Lyre. The Marquis returned the paper with a smile of encouragement. 'Your little poem pleases me much,' said He; 'However, you must not count my opinion for anything. I am no judge of verses, and for my own part, never composed more than six lines in my life: Those six produced so unlucky an effect that I am fully resolved never to compose another. But I wander from my subject. I was going to say that you cannot employ your time worse than in making verses. An Author, whether good or bad, or between both, is an Animal whom everybody is privileged to attack; For though All are not able to write books, all conceive themselves able to judge them. A bad composition carries with it its own punishment, contempt and ridicule. A good one excites envy, and entails upon its Author a thousand mortifications. He finds himself assailed by partial and ill-humoured Criticism: One Man finds fault with the plan, Another with the style, a Third with the precept, which it strives to inculcate; and they who cannot succeed in finding fault with the Book, employ themselves in stigmatizing its Author. They maliciously rake out from obscurity every little circumstance which may throw ridicule upon his private character or conduct, and aim at wounding the Man, since They cannot hurt the Writer. In short, to enter the lists of literature is wilfully to expose yourself to the arrows of neglect, ridicule, envy, and disappointment. Whether you write well or ill, be assured that you will not escape from blame; Indeed this circumstance contains a young Author's chief consolation: He remembers that Lope de Vega and Calderona had unjust and envious Critics, and He modestly conceives himself to be exactly in their predicament. But I am conscious that all these sage observations are thrown away upon you. Authorship is a mania to conquer which no reasons are sufficiently strong; and you might as easily persuade me not to love, as I persuade you not to write. However, if you cannot help being occasionally seized with a poetical paroxysm, take at least the precaution of communicating your verses to none but those whose partiality for you secures their approbation.' 'Then, my Lord, you do not think these lines tolerable?' said Theodore with an humble and dejected air. 'You mistake my meaning. As I said before, they have pleased me much; But my regard for you makes me partial, and Others might judge them less favourably. I must still remark that even my prejudice in your favour does not blind me so much as to prevent my observing several faults. For instance, you make a terrible confusion of metaphors; You are too apt to make the strength of your lines consist more in the words than sense; Some of the verses only seem introduced in order to rhyme with others; and most of the best ideas are borrowed from other Poets, though possibly you are unconscious of the theft yourself. These faults may occasionally be excused in a work of length; But a short Poem must be correct and perfect.' 'All this is true, Segnor; But you should consider that I only write for pleasure.' 'Your defects are the less excusable. Their incorrectness may be forgiven in those who work for money, who are obliged to compleat a given task in a given time, and are paid according to the bulk, not value of their productions. But in those whom no necessity forces to turn Author, who merely write for fame, and have full leisure to polish their compositions, faults are impardonable, and merit the sharpest arrows of criticism.' The Marquis rose from the Sopha; the Page looked discouraged and melancholy, and this did not escape his Master's observation. 'However' added He smiling, 'I think that these lines do you no discredit. Your versification is tolerably easy, and your ear seems to be just. The perusal of your little poem upon the whole gave me much pleasure; and if it is not asking too great a favour, I shall be highly obliged to you for a Copy.' The Youth's countenance immediately cleared up. He perceived not the smile, half approving, half ironical, which accompanied the request, and He promised the Copy with great readiness. The Marquis withdrew to his chamber, much amused by the instantaneous effect produced upon Theodore's vanity by the conclusion of his Criticism. He threw himself upon his Couch; Sleep soon stole over him, and his dreams presented him with the most flattering pictures of happiness with Agnes. On reaching the Hotel de Medina, Lorenzo's first care was to enquire for Letters. He found several waiting for him; but that which He sought was not amongst them. Leonella had found it impossible to write that evening. However, her impatience to secure Don Christoval's heart, on which She flattered herself with having made no slight impression, permitted her not to pass another day without informing him where She was to be found. On her return from the Capuchin Church, She had related to her Sister with exultation how attentive an handsome Cavalier had been to her; as also how his Companion had undertaken to plead Antonia's cause with the Marquis de las Cisternas. Elvira received this intelligence with sensations very different from those with which it was communicated. She blamed her Sister's imprudence in confiding her history to an absolute Stranger, and expressed her fears lest this inconsiderate step should prejudice the Marquis against her. The greatest of her apprehensions She concealed in her own breast. She had observed with inquietude that at the mention of Lorenzo, a deep blush spread itself over her Daughter's cheek. The timid Antonia dared not to pronounce his name: Without knowing wherefore, She felt embarrassed when He was made the subject of discourse, and endeavoured to change the conversation to Ambrosio. Elvira perceived the emotions of this young bosom: In consequence, She insisted upon Leonella's breaking her promise to the Cavaliers. A sigh, which on hearing this order escaped from Antonia, confirmed the wary Mother in her resolution. Through this resolution Leonella was determined to break: She conceived it to be inspired by envy, and that her Sister dreaded her being elevated above her. Without imparting her design to anyone, She took an opportunity of dispatching the following note to Lorenzo; It was delivered to him as soon as He woke. 'Doubtless, Segnor Don Lorenzo, you have frequently accused me of ingratitude and forgetfulness: But on the word of a Virgin, it was out of my power to perform my promise yesterday. I know not in what words to inform you how strange a reception my Sister gave your kind wish to visit her. She is an odd Woman, with many good points about her; But her jealousy of me frequently makes her conceive notions quite unaccountable. On hearing that your Friend had paid some little attention to me, She immediately took the alarm: She blamed my conduct, and has absolutely forbidden me to let you know our abode. My strong sense of gratitude for your kind offers of service, and ... Shall I confess it? my desire to behold once more the too amiable Don Christoval, will not permit my obeying her injunctions. I have therefore stolen a moment to inform you, that we lodge in the Strada di San Iago, four doors from the Palace d'Albornos, and nearly opposite to the Barber's Miguel Coello. Enquire for Donna Elvira Dalfa, since in compliance with her Father-in-law's order, my Sister continues to be called by her maiden name. At eight this evening you will be sure of finding us: But let not a word drop which may raise a suspicion of my having written this letter. Should you see the Conde d'Ossorio, tell him ... I blush while I declare it ... Tell him that his presence will be but too acceptable to the sympathetic Leonella. The latter sentences were written in red ink, to express the blushes of her cheek, while She committed an outrage upon her virgin modesty. Lorenzo had no sooner perused this note than He set out in search of Don Christoval. Not being able to find him in the course of the day, He proceeded to Donna Elvira's alone, to Leonella's infinite disappointment. The Domestic by whom He sent up his name, having already declared his Lady to be at home, She had no excuse for refusing his visit: Yet She consented to receive it with much reluctance. That reluctance was increased by the changes which his approach produced in Antonia's countenance; nor was it by any means abated when the Youth himself appeared. The symmetry of his person, animation of his features, and natural elegance of his manners and address, convinced Elvira that such a Guest must be dangerous for her Daughter. She resolved to treat him with distant politeness, to decline his services with gratitude for the tender of them, and to make him feel, without offence, that his future visits would be far from acceptable. On his entrance He found Elvira, who was indisposed, reclining upon a Sopha: Antonia sat by her embroidery frame, and Leonella, in a pastoral dress, held 'Montemayor's Diana.' In spite of her being the Mother of Antonia, Lorenzo could not help expecting to find in Elvira Leonella's true Sister, and the Daughter of 'as honest a painstaking Shoe-maker, as any in Cordova.' A single glance was sufficient to undeceive him. He beheld a Woman whose features, though impaired by time and sorrow, still bore the marks of distinguished beauty: A serious dignity reigned upon her countenance, but was tempered by a grace and sweetness which rendered her truly enchanting. Lorenzo fancied that She must have resembled her Daughter in her youth, and readily excused the imprudence of the late Conde de las Cisternas. She desired him to be seated, and immediately resumed her place upon the Sopha. Antonia received him with a simple reverence, and continued her work: Her cheeks were suffused with crimson, and She strove to conceal her emotion by leaning over her embroidery frame. Her Aunt also chose to play off her airs of modesty; She affected to blush and tremble, and waited with her eyes cast down to receive, as She expected, the compliments of Don Christoval. Finding after some time that no sign of his approach was given, She ventured to look round the room, and perceived with vexation that Medina was unaccompanied. Impatience would not permit her waiting for an explanation: Interrupting Lorenzo, who was delivering Raymond's message, She desired to know what was become of his Friend. He, who thought it necessary to maintain himself in her good graces, strove to console her under her disappointment by committing a little violence upon truth. 'Ah! Segnora,' He replied in a melancholy voice 'How grieved will He be at losing this opportunity of paying you his respects! A Relation's illness has obliged him to quit Madrid in haste: But on his return, He will doubtless seize the first moment with transport to throw himself at your feet!' As He said this, his eyes met those of Elvira: She punished his falsehood sufficiently by darting at him a look expressive of displeasure and reproach. Neither did the deceit answer his intention. Vexed and disappointed Leonella rose from her seat, and retired in dudgeon to her own apartment. Lorenzo hastened to repair the fault, which had injured him in Elvira's opinion. He related his conversation with the Marquis respecting her: He assured her that Raymond was prepared to acknowledge her for his Brother's Widow; and that till it was in his power to pay his compliments to her in person, Lorenzo was commissioned to supply his place. This intelligence relieved Elvira from an heavy weight of uneasiness: She had now found a Protector for the fatherless Antonia, for whose future fortunes She had suffered the greatest apprehensions. She was not sparing of her thanks to him who had interfered so generously in her behalf; But still She gave him no invitation to repeat his visit. However, when upon rising to depart He requested permission to enquire after her health occasionally, the polite earnestness of his manner, gratitude for his services, and respect for his Friend the Marquis, would not admit of a refusal. She consented reluctantly to receive him: He promised not to abuse her goodness, and quitted the House. Antonia was now left alone with her Mother: A temporary silence ensued. Both wished to speak upon the same subject, but Neither knew how to introduce it. The one felt a bashfulness which sealed up her lips, and for which She could not account: The other feared to find her apprehensions true, or to inspire her Daughter with notions to which She might be still a Stranger. At length Elvira began the conversation. 'That is a charming young Man, Antonia; I am much pleased with him. Was He long near you yesterday in the Cathedral?' 'He quitted me not for a moment while I staid in the Church: He gave me his seat, and was very obliging and attentive.' 'Indeed? Why then have you never mentioned his name to me? Your Aunt lanched out in praise of his Friend, and you vaunted Ambrosio's eloquence: But Neither said a word of Don Lorenzo's person and accomplishments. Had not Leonella spoken of his readiness to undertake our cause, I should not have known him to be in existence.' She paused. Antonia coloured, but was silent. 'Perhaps you judge him less favourably than I do. In my opinion his figure is pleasing, his conversation sensible, and manners engaging. Still He may have struck you differently: You may think him disagreeable, and ...'. 'Disagreeable? Oh! dear Mother, how should I possibly think him so? I should be very ungrateful were I not sensible of his kindness yesterday, and very blind if his merits had escaped me. His figure is so graceful, so noble! His manners so gentle, yet so manly! I never yet saw so many accomplishments united in one person, and I doubt whether Madrid can produce his equal.' 'Why then were you so silent in praise of this Phoenix of Madrid? Why was it concealed from me that his society had afforded you pleasure?' 'In truth, I know not: You ask me a question which I cannot resolve myself. I was on the point of mentioning him a thousand times: His name was constantly upon my lips, but when I would have pronounced it, I wanted courage to execute my design. However, if I did not speak of him, it was not that I thought of him the less.' 'That I believe; But shall I tell you why you wanted courage? It was because, accustomed to confide to me your most secret thoughts, you knew not how to conceal, yet feared to acknowledge, that your heart nourished a sentiment which you were conscious I should disapprove. Come hither to me, my Child.' Antonia quitted her embroidery frame, threw herself upon her knees by the Sopha, and hid her face in her Mother's lap. 'Fear not, my sweet Girl! Consider me equally as your Friend and Parent, and apprehend no reproof from me. I have read the emotions of your bosom; you are yet ill-skilled in concealing them, and they could not escape my attentive eye. This Lorenzo is dangerous to your repose; He has already made an impression upon your heart. 'Tis true that I perceive easily that your affection is returned; But what can be the consequences of this attachment? You are poor and friendless, my Antonia; Lorenzo is the Heir of the Duke of Medina Celi. Even should Himself mean honourably, his Uncle never will consent to your union; Nor without that Uncle's consent, will I. By sad experience I know what sorrows She must endure, who marries into a family unwilling to receive her. Then struggle with your affection: Whatever pains it may cost you, strive to conquer it. Your heart is tender and susceptible: It has already received a strong impression; But when once convinced that you should not encourage such sentiments, I trust, that you have sufficient fortitude to drive them from your bosom.' Antonia kissed her hand, and promised implicit obedience. Elvira then continued. 'To prevent your passion from growing stronger, it will be needful to prohibit Lorenzo's visits. The service which He has rendered me permits not my forbidding them positively; But unless I judge too favourably of his character, He will discontinue them without taking offence, if I confess to him my reasons, and throw myself entirely on his generosity. The next time that I see him, I will honestly avow to him the embarrassment which his presence occasions. How say you, my Child? Is not this measure necessary?' Antonia subscribed to every thing without hesitation, though not without regret. Her Mother kissed her affectionately, and retired to bed. Antonia followed her example, and vowed so frequently never more to think of Lorenzo, that till Sleep closed her eyes She thought of nothing else. While this was passing at Elvira's, Lorenzo hastened to rejoin the Marquis. Every thing was ready for the second elopement of Agnes; and at twelve the two Friends with a Coach and four were at the Garden wall of the Convent. Don Raymond drew out his Key, and unlocked the door. They entered, and waited for some time in expectation of being joined by Agnes. At length the Marquis grew impatient: Beginning to fear that his second attempt would succeed no better than the first, He proposed to reconnoitre the Convent. The Friends advanced towards it. Every thing was still and dark. The Prioress was anxious to keep the story a secret, fearing lest the crime of one of its members should bring disgrace upon the whole community, or that the interposition of powerful Relations should deprive her vengeance of its intended victim. She took care therefore to give the Lover of Agnes no cause to suppose that his design was discovered, and his Mistress on the point of suffering the punishment of her fault. The same reason made her reject the idea of arresting the unknown Seducer in the Garden; Such a proceeding would have created much disturbance, and the disgrace of her Convent would have been noised about Madrid. She contented herself with confining Agnes closely; As to the Lover, She left him at liberty to pursue his designs. What She had expected was the result. The Marquis and Lorenzo waited in vain till the break of day: They then retired without noise, alarmed at the failure of their plan, and ignorant of the cause of its ill-success. The next morning Lorenzo went to the Convent, and requested to see his Sister. The Prioress appeared at the Grate with a melancholy countenance: She informed him that for several days Agnes had appeared much agitated; That She had been prest by the Nuns in vain to reveal the cause, and apply to their tenderness for advice and consolation; That She had obstinately persisted in concealing the cause of her distress; But that on Thursday Evening it had produced so violent an effect upon her constitution, that She had fallen ill, and was actually confined to her bed. Lorenzo did not credit a syllable of this account: He insisted upon seeing his Sister; If She was unable to come to the Grate, He desired to be admitted to her Cell. The Prioress crossed herself! She was shocked at the very idea of a Man's profane eye pervading the interior of her holy Mansion, and professed herself astonished that Lorenzo could think of such a thing. She told him that his request could not be granted; But that if He returned the next day, She hoped that her beloved Daughter would then be sufficiently recovered to join him at the Parlour grate. With this answer Lorenzo was obliged to retire, unsatisfied and trembling for his Sister's safety. He returned the next morning at an early hour. 'Agnes was worse; The Physician had pronounced her to be in imminent danger; She was ordered to remain quiet, and it was utterly impossible for her to receive her Brother's visit.' Lorenzo stormed at this answer, but there was no resource. He raved, He entreated, He threatened: No means were left untried to obtain a sight of Agnes. His endeavours were as fruitless as those of the day before, and He returned in despair to the Marquis. On his side, the Latter had spared no pains to discover what had occasioned his plot to fail: Don Christoval, to whom the affair was now entrusted, endeavoured to worm out the secret from the Old Porteress of St. Clare, with whom He had formed an acquaintance; But She was too much upon her guard, and He gained from her no intelligence. The Marquis was almost distracted, and Lorenzo felt scarcely less inquietude. Both were convinced that the purposed elopement must have been discovered: They doubted not but the malady of Agnes was a pretence, But they knew not by what means to rescue her from the hands of the Prioress. Regularly every day did Lorenzo visit the Convent: As regularly was He informed that his Sister rather grew worse than better. Certain that her indisposition was feigned, these accounts did not alarm him: But his ignorance of her fate, and of the motives which induced the Prioress to keep her from him, excited the most serious uneasiness. He was still uncertain what steps He ought to take, when the Marquis received a letter from the Cardinal-Duke of Lerma. It inclosed the Pope's expected Bull, ordering that Agnes should be released from her vows, and restored to her Relations. This essential paper decided at once the proceedings of her Friends: They resolved that Lorenzo should carry it to the Domina without delay, and demand that his Sister should be instantly given up to him. Against this mandate illness could not be pleaded: It gave her Brother the power of removing her instantly to the Palace de Medina, and He determined to use that power on the following day. His mind relieved from inquietude respecting his Sister, and his Spirits raised by the hope of soon restoring her to freedom, He now had time to give a few moments to love and to Antonia. At the same hour as on his former visit He repaired to Donna Elvira's: She had given orders for his admission. As soon as He was announced, her Daughter retired with Leonella, and when He entered the chamber, He found the Lady of the House alone. She received him with less distance than before, and desired him to place himself near her upon the Sopha. She then without losing time opened her business, as had been agreed between herself and Antonia. 'You must not think me ungrateful, Don Lorenzo, or forgetful how essential are the services which you have rendered me with the Marquis. I feel the weight of my obligations; Nothing under the Sun should induce my taking the step to which I am now compelled but the interest of my Child, of my beloved Antonia. My health is declining; God only knows how soon I may be summoned before his Throne. My Daughter will be left without Parents, and should She lose the protection of the Cisternas family, without Friends. She is young and artless, uninstructed in the world's perfidy, and with charms sufficient to render her an object of seduction. Judge then, how I must tremble at the prospect before her! Judge how anxious I must be to keep her from their society who may excite the yet dormant passions of her bosom. You are amiable, Don Lorenzo: Antonia has a susceptible, a loving heart, and is grateful for the favours conferred upon us by your interference with the Marquis. Your presence makes me tremble: I fear lest it should inspire her with sentiments which may embitter the remainder of her life, or encourage her to cherish hopes in her situation unjustifiable and futile. Pardon me when I avow my terrors, and let my frankness plead in my excuse. I cannot forbid you my House, for gratitude restrains me; I can only throw myself upon your generosity, and entreat you to spare the feelings of an anxious, of a doting Mother. Believe me when I assure you that I lament the necessity of rejecting your acquaintance; But there is no remedy, and Antonia's interest obliges me to beg you to forbear your visits. By complying with my request, you will increase the esteem which I already feel for you, and of which everything convinces me that you are truly deserving.' 'Your frankness charms me,' replied Lorenzo; 'You shall find that in your favourable opinion of me you were not deceived. Yet I hope that the reasons, now in my power to allege, will persuade you to withdraw a request which I cannot obey without infinite reluctance. I love your Daughter, love her most sincerely: I wish for no greater happiness than to inspire her with the same sentiments, and receive her hand at the Altar as her Husband. 'Tis true, I am not rich myself; My Father's death has left me but little in my own possession; But my expectations justify my pretending to the Conde de las Cisternas' Daughter.' He was proceeding, but Elvira interrupted him. 'Ah! Don Lorenzo, you forget in that pompous title the meanness of my origin. You forget that I have now past fourteen years in Spain, disavowed by my Husband's family, and existing upon a stipend barely sufficient for the support and education of my Daughter. Nay, I have even been neglected by most of my own Relations, who out of envy affect to doubt the reality of my marriage. My allowance being discontinued at my Father-in-law's death, I was reduced to the very brink of want. In this situation I was found by my Sister, who amongst all her foibles possesses a warm, generous, and affectionate heart. She aided me with the little fortune which my Father left her, persuaded me to visit Madrid, and has supported my Child and myself since our quitting Murcia. Then consider not Antonia as descended from the Conde de la Cisternas: Consider her as a poor and unprotected Orphan, as the Grand-child of the Tradesman Torribio Dalfa, as the needy Pensioner of that Tradesman's Daughter. Reflect upon the difference between such a situation, and that of the Nephew and Heir of the potent Duke of Medina. I believe your intentions to be honourable; But as there are no hopes that your Uncle will approve of the union, I foresee that the consequences of your attachment must be fatal to my Child's repose.' 'Pardon me, Segnora; You are misinformed if you suppose the Duke of Medina to resemble the generality of Men. His sentiments are liberal and disinterested: He loves me well; and I have no reason to dread his forbidding the marriage when He perceives that my happiness depends upon Antonia. But supposing him to refuse his sanction, what have I still to fear? My Parents are no more; My little fortune is in my own possession: It will be sufficient to support Antonia, and I shall exchange for her hand Medina's Dukedom without one sigh of regret.' 'You are young and eager; It is natural for you to entertain such ideas. But Experience has taught me to my cost that curses accompany an unequal alliance. I married the Conde de las Cisternas in opposition to the will of his Relations; Many an heart-pang has punished me for the imprudent step. Whereever we bent our course, a Father's execration pursued Gonzalvo. Poverty overtook us, and no Friend was near to relieve our wants. Still our mutual affection existed, but alas! not without interruption. Accustomed to wealth and ease, ill could my Husband support the transition to distress and indigence. He looked back with repining to the comforts which He once enjoyed. He regretted the situation which for my sake He had quitted; and in moments when Despair possessed his mind, has reproached me with having made him the Companion of want and wretchedness! He has called me his bane! The source of his sorrows, the cause of his destruction! Ah God! He little knew how much keener were my own heart's reproaches! He was ignorant that I suffered trebly, for myself, for my Children, and for him! 'Tis true that his anger seldom lasted long: His sincere affection for me soon revived in his heart; and then his repentance for the tears which He had made me shed tortured me even more than his reproaches. He would throw himself on the ground, implore my forgiveness in the most frantic terms, and load himself with curses for being the Murderer of my repose. Taught by experience that an union contracted against the inclinations of families on either side must be unfortunate, I will save my Daughter from those miseries which I have suffered. Without your Uncle's consent, while I live, She never shall be yours. Undoubtedly He will disapprove of the union; His power is immense, and Antonia shall not be exposed to his anger and persecution.' 'His persecution? How easily may that be avoided! Let the worst happen, it is but quitting Spain. My wealth may easily be realised; The Indian Islands will offer us a secure retreat; I have an estate, though not of value, in Hispaniola: Thither will we fly, and I shall consider it to be my native Country, if it gives me Antonia's undisturbed possession.' 'Ah! Youth, this is a fond romantic vision. Gonzalvo thought the same. He fancied that He could leave Spain without regret; But the moment of parting undeceived him. You know not yet what it is to quit your native land; to quit it, never to behold it more! You know not, what it is to exchange the scenes where you have passed your infancy, for unknown realms and barbarous climates! To be forgotten, utterly eternally forgotten, by the Companions of your Youth! To see your dearest Friends, the fondest objects of your affection, perishing with diseases incidental to Indian atmospheres, and find yourself unable to procure for them necessary assistance! I have felt all this! My Husband and two sweet Babes found their Graves in Cuba: Nothing would have saved my young Antonia but my sudden return to Spain. Ah! Don Lorenzo, could you conceive what I suffered during my absence! Could you know how sorely I regretted all that I left behind, and how dear to me was the very name of Spain! I envied the winds which blew towards it: And when the Spanish Sailor chaunted some well-known air as He past my window, tears filled my eyes while I thought upon my native land. Gonzalvo too ... My Husband ...'. Elvira paused. Her voice faltered, and She concealed her face with her handkerchief. After a short silence She rose from the Sopha, and proceeded. 'Excuse my quitting you for a few moments: The remembrance of what I have suffered has much agitated me, and I need to be alone. Till I return peruse these lines. After my Husband's death I found them among his papers; Had I known sooner that He entertained such sentiments, Grief would have killed me. He wrote these verses on his voyage to Cuba, when his mind was clouded by sorrow, and He forgot that He had a Wife and Children. What we are losing, ever seems to us the most precious: Gonzalvo was quitting Spain for ever, and therefore was Spain dearer to his eyes than all else which the World contained. Read them, Don Lorenzo; They will give you some idea of the feelings of a banished Man!' Elvira put a paper into Lorenzo's hand, and retired from the chamber. The Youth examined the contents, and found them to be as follows. THE EXILE Farewell, Oh! native Spain! Farewell for ever! These banished eyes shall view thy coasts no more; A mournful presage tells my heart, that never Gonzalvo's steps again shall press thy shore. Hushed are the winds; While soft the Vessel sailing With gentle motion plows the unruffled Main, I feel my bosom's boasted courage failing, And curse the waves which bear me far from Spain. I see it yet! Beneath yon blue clear Heaven Still do the Spires, so well beloved, appear; From yonder craggy point the gale of Even Still wafts my native accents to mine ear: Propped on some moss-crowned Rock, and gaily singing, There in the Sun his nets the Fisher dries; Oft have I heard the plaintive Ballad, bringing Scenes of past joys before my sorrowing eyes. Ah! Happy Swain! He waits the accustomed hour, When twilight-gloom obscures the closing sky; Then gladly seeks his loved paternal bower, And shares the feast his native fields supply: Friendship and Love, his Cottage Guests, receive him With honest welcome and with smile sincere; No threatening woes of present joys bereave him, No sigh his bosom owns, his cheek no tear. Ah! Happy Swain! Such bliss to me denying, Fortune thy lot with envy bids me view; Me, who from home and Spain an Exile flying, Bid all I value, all I love, adieu. No more mine ear shall list the well-known ditty Sung by some Mountain-Girl, who tends her Goats, Some Village-Swain imploring amorous pity, Or Shepherd chaunting wild his rustic notes: No more my arms a Parent's fond embraces, No more my heart domestic calm, must know; Far from these joys, with sighs which Memory traces, To sultry skies, and distant climes I go. Where Indian Suns engender new diseases, Where snakes and tigers breed, I bend my way To brave the feverish thirst no art appeases, The yellow plague, and madding blaze of day: But not to feel slow pangs consume my liver, To die by piece-meal in the bloom of age, My boiling blood drank by insatiate fever, And brain delirious with the day-star's rage, Can make me know such grief, as thus to sever With many a bitter sigh, Dear Land, from Thee; To feel this heart must doat on thee for ever, And feel, that all thy joys are torn from me! Ah me! How oft will Fancy's spells in slumber Recall my native Country to my mind! How oft regret will bid me sadly number Each lost delight and dear Friend left behind! Wild Murcia's Vales, and loved romantic bowers, The River on whose banks a Child I played, My Castle's antient Halls, its frowning Towers, Each much-regretted wood, and well-known Glade, Dreams of the land where all my wishes centre, Thy scenes, which I am doomed no more to know, Full oft shall Memory trace, my soul's Tormentor, And turn each pleasure past to present woe. But Lo! The Sun beneath the waves retires; Night speeds apace her empire to restore: Clouds from my sight obscure the village-spires, Now seen but faintly, and now seen no more. Oh! breathe not, Winds! Still be the Water's motion! Sleep, sleep, my Bark, in silence on the Main! So when to-morrow's light shall gild the Ocean, Once more mine eyes shall see the coast of Spain. Vain is the wish! My last petition scorning, Fresh blows the Gale, and high the Billows swell: Far shall we be before the break of Morning; Oh! then for ever, native Spain, farewell! Lorenzo had scarcely time to read these lines, when Elvira returned to him: The giving a free course to her tears had relieved her, and her spirits had regained their usual composure. 'I have nothing more to say, my Lord,' said She; 'You have heard my apprehensions, and my reasons for begging you not to repeat your visits. I have thrown myself in full confidence upon your honour: I am certain that you will not prove my opinion of you to have been too favourable.' 'But one question more, Segnora, and I leave you. Should the Duke of Medina approve my love, would my addresses be unacceptable to yourself and the fair Antonia?' 'I will be open with you, Don Lorenzo: There being little probability of such an union taking place, I fear that it is desired but too ardently by my Daughter. You have made an impression upon her young heart, which gives me the most serious alarm: To prevent that impression from growing stronger, I am obliged to decline your acquaintance. For me, you may be sure that I should rejoice at establishing my Child so advantageously. Conscious that my constitution, impaired by grief and illness, forbids me to expect a long continuance in this world, I tremble at the thought of leaving her under the protection of a perfect Stranger. The Marquis de las Cisternas is totally unknown to me: He will marry; His Lady may look upon Antonia with an eye of displeasure, and deprive her of her only Friend. Should the Duke, your Uncle, give his consent, you need not doubt obtaining mine, and my Daughter's: But without his, hope not for ours. At all events, what ever steps you may take, what ever may be the Duke's decision, till you know it let me beg your forbearing to strengthen by your presence Antonia's prepossession. If the sanction of your Relations authorises your addressing her as your Wife, my Doors fly open to you: If that sanction is refused, be satisfied to possess my esteem and gratitude, but remember, that we must meet no more.' Lorenzo promised reluctantly to conform to this decree: But He added that He hoped soon to obtain that consent which would give him a claim to the renewal of their acquaintance. He then explained to her why the Marquis had not called in person, and made no scruple of confiding to her his Sister's History. He concluded by saying that He hoped to set Agnes at liberty the next day; and that as soon as Don Raymond's fears were quieted upon this subject, He would lose no time in assuring Donna Elvira of his friendship and protection. The Lady shook her head. 'I tremble for your Sister,' said She; 'I have heard many traits of the Domina of St. Clare's character, from a Friend who was educated in the same Convent with her. She reported her to be haughty, inflexible, superstitious, and revengeful. I have since heard that She is infatuated with the idea of rendering her Convent the most regular in Madrid, and never forgave those whose imprudence threw upon it the slightest stain. Though naturally violent and severe, when her interests require it, She well knows how to assume an appearance of benignity. She leaves no means untried to persuade young Women of rank to become Members of her Community: She is implacable when once incensed, and has too much intrepidity to shrink at taking the most rigorous measures for punishing the Offender. Doubtless, She will consider your Sister's quitting the Convent as a disgrace thrown upon it: She will use every artifice to avoid obeying the mandate of his Holiness, and I shudder to think that Donna Agnes is in the hands of this dangerous Woman.' Lorenzo now rose to take leave. Elvira gave him her hand at parting, which He kissed respectfully; and telling her that He soon hoped for the permission to salute that of Antonia, He returned to his Hotel. The Lady was perfectly satisfied with the conversation which had past between them. She looked forward with satisfaction to the prospect of his becoming her Son-in-law; But Prudence bad her conceal from her Daughter's knowledge the flattering hopes which Herself now ventured to entertain. Scarcely was it day, and already Lorenzo was at the Convent of St. Clare, furnished with the necessary mandate. The Nuns were at Matins. He waited impatiently for the conclusion of the service, and at length the Prioress appeared at the Parlour Grate. Agnes was demanded. The old Lady replied, with a melancholy air, that the dear Child's situation grew hourly more dangerous; That the Physicians despaired of her life; But that they had declared the only chance for her recovery to consist in keeping her quiet, and not to permit those to approach her whose presence was likely to agitate her. Not a word of all this was believed by Lorenzo, any more than He credited the expressions of grief and affection for Agnes, with which this account was interlarded. To end the business, He put the Pope's Bull into the hands of the Domina, and insisted that, ill or in health, his Sister should be delivered to him without delay. The Prioress received the paper with an air of humility: But no sooner had her eye glanced over the contents, than her resentment baffled all the efforts of Hypocrisy. A deep crimson spread itself over her face, and She darted upon Lorenzo looks of rage and menace. 'This order is positive,' said She in a voice of anger, which She in vain strove to disguise; 'Willingly would I obey it; But unfortunately it is out of my power.' Lorenzo interrupted her by an exclamation of surprize. 'I repeat it, Segnor; to obey this order is totally out of my power. From tenderness to a Brother's feelings, I would have communicated the sad event to you by degrees, and have prepared you to hear it with fortitude. My measures are broken through: This order commands me to deliver up to you the Sister Agnes without delay; I am therefore obliged to inform you without circumlocution, that on Friday last, She expired.' Lorenzo started back with horror, and turned pale. A moment's recollection convinced him that this assertion must be false, and it restored him to himself. 'You deceive me!' said He passionately; 'But five minutes past since you assured me that though ill She was still alive. Produce her this instant! See her I must and will, and every attempt to keep her from me will be unavailing.' 'You forget yourself, Segnor; You owe respect to my age as well as my profession. Your Sister is no more. If I at first concealed her death, it was from dreading lest an event so unexpected should produce on you too violent an effect. In truth, I am but ill repaid for my attention. And what interest, I pray you, should I have in detaining her? To know her wish of quitting our society is a sufficient reason for me to wish her absence, and think her a disgrace to the Sisterhood of St. Clare: But She has forfeited my affection in a manner yet more culpable. Her crimes were great, and when you know the cause of her death, you will doubtless rejoice, Don Lorenzo, that such a Wretch is no longer in existence. She was taken ill on Thursday last on returning from confession in the Capuchin Chapel. Her malady seemed attended with strange circumstances; But She persisted in concealing its cause: Thanks to the Virgin, we were too ignorant to suspect it! Judge then what must have been our consternation, our horror, when She was delivered the next day of a stillborn Child, whom She immediately followed to the Grave. How, Segnor? Is it possible that your countenance expresses no surprize, no indignation? Is it possible that your Sister's infamy was known to you, and that still She possessed your affection? In that case, you have no need of my compassion. I can say nothing more, except repeat my inability of obeying the orders of his Holiness. Agnes is no more, and to convince you that what I say is true, I swear by our blessed Saviour, that three days have past since She was buried.' Here She kissed a small crucifix which hung at her girdle. She then rose from her chair, and quitted the Parlour. As She withdrew, She cast upon Lorenzo a scornful smile. 'Farewell, Segnor,' said She; 'I know no remedy for this accident: I fear that even a second Bull from the Pope will not procure your Sister's resurrection.' Lorenzo also retired, penetrated with affliction: But Don Raymond's at the news of this event amounted to Madness. He would not be convinced that Agnes was really dead, and continued to insist that the Walls of St. Clare still confined her. No arguments could make him abandon his hopes of regaining her: Every day some fresh scheme was invented for procuring intelligence of her, and all of them were attended with the same success. On his part, Medina gave up the idea of ever seeing his Sister more: Yet He believed that She had been taken off by unfair means. Under this persuasion, He encouraged Don Raymond's researches, determined, should He discover the least warrant for his suspicions, to take a severe vengeance upon the unfeeling Prioress. The loss of his Sister affected him sincerely; Nor was it the least cause of his distress that propriety obliged him for some time to defer mentioning Antonia to the Duke. In the meanwhile his emissaries constantly surrounded Elvira's Door. He had intelligence of all the movements of his Mistress: As She never failed every Thursday to attend the Sermon in the Capuchin Cathedral, He was secure of seeing her once a week, though in compliance with his promise, He carefully shunned her observation. Thus two long Months passed away. Still no information was procured of Agnes: All but the Marquis credited her death; and now Lorenzo determined to disclose his sentiments to his Uncle. He had already dropt some hints of his intention to marry; They had been as favourably received as He could expect, and He harboured no doubt of the success of his application. CHAPTER III While in each other's arms entranced They lay, They blessed the night, and curst the coming day. Lee. The burst of transport was past: Ambrosio's lust was satisfied; Pleasure fled, and Shame usurped her seat in his bosom. Confused and terrified at his weakness, He drew himself from Matilda's arms. His perjury presented itself before him: He reflected on the scene which had just been acted, and trembled at the consequences of a discovery. He looked forward with horror; His heart was despondent, and became the abode of satiety and disgust. He avoided the eyes of his Partner in frailty; A melancholy silence prevailed, during which Both seemed busied with disagreeable reflections. Matilda was the first to break it. She took his hand gently, and pressed it to her burning lips. 'Ambrosio!' She murmured in a soft and trembling voice. The Abbot started at the sound. He turned his eyes upon Matilda's: They were filled with tears; Her cheeks were covered with blushes, and her supplicating looks seemed to solicit his compassion. 'Dangerous Woman!' said He; 'Into what an abyss of misery have you plunged me! Should your sex be discovered, my honour, nay my life, must pay for the pleasure of a few moments. Fool that I was, to trust myself to your seductions! What can now be done? How can my offence be expiated? What atonement can purchase the pardon of my crime? Wretched Matilda, you have destroyed my quiet for ever!' 'To me these reproaches, Ambrosio? To me, who have sacrificed for you the world's pleasures, the luxury of wealth, the delicacy of sex, my Friends, my fortune, and my fame? What have you lost, which I preserved? Have _I_ not shared in YOUR guilt? Have YOU not shared in MY pleasure? Guilt, did I say? In what consists ours, unless in the opinion of an ill-judging World? Let that World be ignorant of them, and our joys become divine and blameless! Unnatural were your vows of Celibacy; Man was not created for such a state; And were Love a crime, God never would have made it so sweet, so irresistible! Then banish those clouds from your brow, my Ambrosio! Indulge in those pleasures freely, without which life is a worthless gift: Cease to reproach me with having taught you what is bliss, and feel equal transports with the Woman who adores you!' As She spoke, her eyes were filled with a delicious languor. Her bosom panted: She twined her arms voluptuously round him, drew him towards her, and glewed her lips to his. Ambrosio again raged with desire: The die was thrown: His vows were already broken; He had already committed the crime, and why should He refrain from enjoying its reward? He clasped her to his breast with redoubled ardour. No longer repressed by the sense of shame, He gave a loose to his intemperate appetites. While the fair Wanton put every invention of lust in practice, every refinement in the art of pleasure which might heighten the bliss of her possession, and render her Lover's transports still more exquisite, Ambrosio rioted in delights till then unknown to him: Swift fled the night, and the Morning blushed to behold him still clasped in the embraces of Matilda. Intoxicated with pleasure, the Monk rose from the Syren's luxurious Couch. He no longer reflected with shame upon his incontinence, or dreaded the vengeance of offended heaven. His only fear was lest Death should rob him of enjoyments, for which his long Fast had only given a keener edge to his appetite. Matilda was still under the influence of poison, and the voluptuous Monk trembled less for his Preserver's life than his Concubine's. Deprived of her, He would not easily find another Mistress with whom He could indulge his passions so fully, and so safely. He therefore pressed her with earnestness to use the means of preservation which She had declared to be in her possession. 'Yes!' replied Matilda; 'Since you have made me feel that Life is valuable, I will rescue mine at any rate. No dangers shall appall me: I will look upon the consequences of my action boldly, nor shudder at the horrors which they present. I will think my sacrifice scarcely worthy to purchase your possession, and remember that a moment past in your arms in this world o'er-pays an age of punishment in the next. But before I take this step, Ambrosio, give me your solemn oath never to enquire by what means I shall preserve myself.' He did so in a manner the most binding. 'I thank you, my Beloved. This precaution is necessary, for though you know it not, you are under the command of vulgar prejudices: The Business on which I must be employed this night, might startle you from its singularity, and lower me in your opinion. Tell me; Are you possessed of the Key of the low door on the western side of the Garden?' 'The Door which opens into the burying-ground common to us and the Sisterhood of St. Clare? I have not the Key, but can easily procure it.' 'You have only this to do. Admit me into the burying-ground at midnight; Watch while I descend into the vaults of St. Clare, lest some prying eye should observe my actions; Leave me there alone for an hour, and that life is safe which I dedicate to your pleasures. To prevent creating suspicion, do not visit me during the day. Remember the Key, and that I expect you before twelve. Hark! I hear steps approaching! Leave me; I will pretend to sleep.' The Friar obeyed, and left the Cell. As He opened the door, Father Pablos made his appearance. 'I come,' said the Latter, 'to enquire after the health of my young Patient.' 'Hush!' replied Ambrosio, laying his finger upon his lip; 'Speak softly; I am just come from him. He has fallen into a profound slumber, which doubtless will be of service to him. Do not disturb him at present, for He wishes to repose.' Father Pablos obeyed, and hearing the Bell ring, accompanied the Abbot to Matins. Ambrosio felt embarrassed as He entered the Chapel. Guilt was new to him, and He fancied that every eye could read the transactions of the night upon his countenance. He strove to pray; His bosom no longer glowed with devotion; His thoughts insensibly wandered to Matilda's secret charms. But what He wanted in purity of heart, He supplied by exterior sanctity. The better to cloak his transgression, He redoubled his pretensions to the semblance of virtue, and never appeared more devoted to Heaven as since He had broken through his engagements. Thus did He unconsciously add Hypocrisy to perjury and incontinence; He had fallen into the latter errors from yielding to seduction almost irresistible; But he was now guilty of a voluntary fault by endeavouring to conceal those into which Another had betrayed him. The Matins concluded, Ambrosio retired to his Cell. The pleasures which He had just tasted for the first time were still impressed upon his mind. His brain was bewildered, and presented a confused Chaos of remorse, voluptuousness, inquietude, and fear. He looked back with regret to that peace of soul, that security of virtue, which till then had been his portion. He had indulged in excesses whose very idea but four and twenty hours before He had recoiled at with horror. He shuddered at reflecting that a trifling indiscretion on his part, or on Matilda's, would overturn that fabric of reputation which it had cost him thirty years to erect, and render him the abhorrence of that People of whom He was then the Idol. Conscience painted to him in glaring colours his perjury and weakness; Apprehension magnified to him the horrors of punishment, and He already fancied himself in the prisons of the Inquisition. To these tormenting ideas succeeded Matilda's beauty, and those delicious lessons which, once learnt, can never be forgotten. A single glance thrown upon these reconciled him with himself. He considered the pleasures of the former night to have been purchased at an easy price by the sacrifice of innocence and honour. Their very remembrance filled his soul with ecstacy; He cursed his foolish vanity, which had induced him to waste in obscurity the bloom of life, ignorant of the blessings of Love and Woman. He determined at all events to continue his commerce with Matilda, and called every argument to his aid which might confirm his resolution. He asked himself, provided his irregularity was unknown, in what would his fault consist, and what consequences He had to apprehend? By adhering strictly to every rule of his order save Chastity, He doubted not to retain the esteem of Men, and even the protection of heaven. He trusted easily to be forgiven so slight and natural a deviation from his vows: But He forgot that having pronounced those vows, Incontinence, in Laymen the most venial of errors, became in his person the most heinous of crimes. Once decided upon his future conduct, his mind became more easy. He threw himself upon his bed, and strove by sleeping to recruit his strength exhausted by his nocturnal excesses. He awoke refreshed, and eager for a repetition of his pleasures. Obedient to Matilda's order, He visited not her Cell during the day. Father Pablos mentioned in the Refectory that Rosario had at length been prevailed upon to follow his prescription; But that the medicine had not produced the slightest effect, and that He believed no mortal skill could rescue him from the Grave. With this opinion the Abbot agreed, and affected to lament the untimely fate of a Youth, whose talents had appeared so promising. The night arrived. Ambrosio had taken care to procure from the Porter the Key of the low door opening into the Cemetery. Furnished with this, when all was silent in the Monastery, He quitted his Cell, and hastened to Matilda's. She had left her bed, and was drest before his arrival. 'I have been expecting you with impatience,' said She; 'My life depends upon these moments. Have you the Key?' 'I have.' 'Away then to the garden. We have no time to lose. Follow me!' She took a small covered Basket from the Table. Bearing this in one hand, and the Lamp, which was flaming upon the Hearth, in the other, She hastened from the Cell. Ambrosio followed her. Both maintained a profound silence. She moved on with quick but cautious steps, passed through the Cloisters, and reached the Western side of the Garden. Her eyes flashed with a fire and wildness which impressed the Monk at once with awe and horror. A determined desperate courage reigned upon her brow. She gave the Lamp to Ambrosio; Then taking from him the Key, She unlocked the low Door, and entered the Cemetery. It was a vast and spacious Square planted with yew trees: Half of it belonged to the Abbey; The other half was the property of the Sisterhood of St. Clare, and was protected by a roof of Stone. The Division was marked by an iron railing, the wicket of which was generally left unlocked. Thither Matilda bent her course. She opened the wicket and sought for the door leading to the subterraneous Vaults, where reposed the mouldering Bodies of the Votaries of St. Clare. The night was perfectly dark; Neither Moon or Stars were visible. Luckily there was not a breath of Wind, and the Friar bore his Lamp in full security: By the assistance of its beams, the door of the Sepulchre was soon discovered. It was sunk within the hollow of a wall, and almost concealed by thick festoons of ivy hanging over it. Three steps of rough-hewn Stone conducted to it, and Matilda was on the point of descending them when She suddenly started back. 'There are People in the Vaults!' She whispered to the Monk; 'Conceal yourself till they are past. She took refuge behind a lofty and magnificent Tomb, erected in honour of the Convent's Foundress. Ambrosio followed her example, carefully hiding his Lamp lest its beams should betray them. But a few moments had elapsed when the Door was pushed open leading to the subterraneous Caverns. Rays of light proceeded up the Staircase: They enabled the concealed Spectators to observe two Females drest in religious habits, who seemed engaged in earnest conversation. The Abbot had no difficulty to recognize the Prioress of St. Clare in the first, and one of the elder Nuns in her Companion. 'Every thing is prepared,' said the Prioress; 'Her fate shall be decided tomorrow. All her tears and sighs will be unavailing. No! In five and twenty years that I have been Superior of this Convent, never did I witness a transaction more infamous!' 'You must expect much opposition to your will;' the Other replied in a milder voice; 'Agnes has many Friends in the Convent, and in particular the Mother St. Ursula will espouse her cause most warmly. In truth, She merits to have Friends; and I wish I could prevail upon you to consider her youth, and her peculiar situation. She seems sensible of her fault; The excess of her grief proves her penitence, and I am convinced that her tears flow more from contrition than fear of punishment. Reverend Mother, would you be persuaded to mitigate the severity of your sentence, would you but deign to overlook this first transgression, I offer myself as the pledge of her future conduct.' 'Overlook it, say you? Mother Camilla, you amaze me! What? After disgracing me in the presence of Madrid's Idol, of the very Man on whom I most wished to impress an idea of the strictness of my discipline? How despicable must I have appeared to the reverend Abbot! No, Mother, No! I never can forgive the insult. I cannot better convince Ambrosio that I abhor such crimes, than by punishing that of Agnes with all the rigour of which our severe laws admit. Cease then your supplications; They will all be unavailing. My resolution is taken: Tomorrow Agnes shall be made a terrible example of my justice and resentment.' The Mother Camilla seemed not to give up the point, but by this time the Nuns were out of hearing. The Prioress unlocked the door which communicated with St. Clare's Chapel, and having entered with her Companion, closed it again after them. Matilda now asked, who was this Agnes with whom the Prioress was thus incensed, and what connexion She could have with Ambrosio. He related her adventure; and He added, that since that time his ideas having undergone a thorough revolution, He now felt much compassion for the unfortunate Nun. 'I design,' said He, 'to request an audience of the Domina tomorrow, and use every means of obtaining a mitigation of her sentence.' 'Beware of what you do!' interrupted Matilda; 'Your sudden change of sentiment may naturally create surprize, and may give birth to suspicions which it is most our interest to avoid. Rather, redouble your outward austerity, and thunder out menaces against the errors of others, the better to conceal your own. Abandon the Nun to her fate. Your interfering might be dangerous, and her imprudence merits to be punished: She is unworthy to enjoy Love's pleasures, who has not wit enough to conceal them. But in discussing this trifling subject I waste moments which are precious. The night flies apace, and much must be done before morning. The Nuns are retired; All is safe. Give me the Lamp, Ambrosio. I must descend alone into these Caverns: Wait here, and if any one approaches, warn me by your voice; But as you value your existence, presume not to follow me. Your life would fall a victim to your imprudent curiosity.' Thus saying She advanced towards the Sepulchre, still holding her Lamp in one hand, and her little Basket in the other. She touched the door: It turned slowly upon its grating hinges, and a narrow winding staircase of black marble presented itself to her eyes. She descended it. Ambrosio remained above, watching the faint beams of the Lamp as they still proceeded up the stairs. They disappeared, and He found himself in total darkness. Left to himself He could not reflect without surprize on the sudden change in Matilda's character and sentiments. But a few days had past since She appeared the mildest and softest of her sex, devoted to his will, and looking up to him as to a superior Being. Now She assumed a sort of courage and manliness in her manners and discourse but ill-calculated to please him. She spoke no longer to insinuate, but command: He found himself unable to cope with her in argument, and was unwillingly obliged to confess the superiority of her judgment. Every moment convinced him of the astonishing powers of her mind: But what She gained in the opinion of the Man, She lost with interest in the affection of the Lover. He regretted Rosario, the fond, the gentle, and submissive: He grieved that Matilda preferred the virtues of his sex to those of her own; and when He thought of her expressions respecting the devoted Nun, He could not help blaming them as cruel and unfeminine. Pity is a sentiment so natural, so appropriate to the female character, that it is scarcely a merit for a Woman to possess it, but to be without it is a grievous crime. Ambrosio could not easily forgive his Mistress for being deficient in this amiable quality. However, though he blamed her insensibility, He felt the truth of her observations; and though He pitied sincerely the unfortunate Agnes, He resolved to drop the idea of interposing in her behalf. Near an hour had elapsed, since Matilda descended into the Caverns; Still She returned not. Ambrosio's curiosity was excited. He drew near the Staircase. He listened. All was silent, except that at intervals He caught the sound of Matilda's voice, as it wound along the subterraneous passages, and was re-echoed by the Sepulchre's vaulted roofs. She was at too great a distance for him to distinguish her words, and ere they reached him they were deadened into a low murmur. He longed to penetrate into this mystery. He resolved to disobey her injunctions and follow her into the Cavern. He advanced to the Staircase; He had already descended some steps when his courage failed him. He remembered Matilda's menaces if He infringed her orders, and his bosom was filled with a secret unaccountable awe. He returned up the stairs, resumed his former station, and waited impatiently for the conclusion of this adventure. Suddenly He was sensible of a violent shock: An earthquake rocked the ground. The Columns which supported the roof under which He stood were so strongly shaken, that every moment menaced him with its fall, and at the same moment He heard a loud and tremendous burst of thunder. It ceased, and his eyes being fixed upon the Staircase, He saw a bright column of light flash along the Caverns beneath. It was seen but for an instant. No sooner did it disappear, than all was once more quiet and obscure. Profound Darkness again surrounded him, and the silence of night was only broken by the whirring Bat, as She flitted slowly by him. With every instant Ambrosio's amazement increased. Another hour elapsed, after which the same light again appeared and was lost again as suddenly. It was accompanied by a strain of sweet but solemn Music, which as it stole through the Vaults below, inspired the Monk with mingled delight and terror. It had not long been hushed, when He heard Matilda's steps upon the Staircase. She ascended from the Cavern; The most lively joy animated her beautiful features. 'Did you see any thing?' She asked. 'Twice I saw a column of light flash up the Staircase.' 'Nothing else?' 'Nothing.' 'The Morning is on the point of breaking. Let us retire to the Abbey, lest daylight should betray us.' With a light step She hastened from the burying-ground. She regained her Cell, and the curious Abbot still accompanied her. She closed the door, and disembarrassed herself of her Lamp and Basket. 'I have succeeded!' She cried, throwing herself upon his bosom: 'Succeeded beyond my fondest hopes! I shall live, Ambrosio, shall live for you! The step which I shuddered at taking proves to me a source of joys inexpressible! Oh! that I dared communicate those joys to you! Oh! that I were permitted to share with you my power, and raise you as high above the level of your sex, as one bold deed has exalted me above mine!' 'And what prevents you, Matilda?' interrupted the Friar; 'Why is your business in the Cavern made a secret? Do you think me undeserving of your confidence? Matilda, I must doubt the truth of your affection, while you have joys in which I am forbidden to share.' 'You reproach me with injustice. I grieve sincerely that I am obliged to conceal from you my happiness. But I am not to blame: The fault lies not in me, but in yourself, my Ambrosio! You are still too much the Monk. Your mind is enslaved by the prejudices of Education; And Superstition might make you shudder at the idea of that which experience has taught me to prize and value. At present you are unfit to be trusted with a secret of such importance: But the strength of your judgment; and the curiosity which I rejoice to see sparkling in your eyes, makes me hope that you will one day deserve my confidence. Till that period arrives, restrain your impatience. Remember that you have given me your solemn oath never to enquire into this night's adventures. I insist upon your keeping this oath: For though' She added smiling, while She sealed his lips with a wanton kiss; 'Though I forgive your breaking your vows to heaven, I expect you to keep your vows to me.' The Friar returned the embrace which had set his blood on fire. The luxurious and unbounded excesses of the former night were renewed, and they separated not till the Bell rang for Matins. The same pleasures were frequently repeated. The Monks rejoiced in the feigned Rosario's unexpected recovery, and none of them suspected his real sex. The Abbot possessed his Mistress in tranquillity, and perceiving his frailty unsuspected, abandoned himself to his passions in full security. Shame and remorse no longer tormented him. Frequent repetitions made him familiar with sin, and his bosom became proof against the stings of Conscience. In these sentiments He was encouraged by Matilda; But She soon was aware that She had satiated her Lover by the unbounded freedom of her caresses. Her charms becoming accustomed to him, they ceased to excite the same desires which at first they had inspired. The delirium of passion being past, He had leisure to observe every trifling defect: Where none were to be found, Satiety made him fancy them. The Monk was glutted with the fullness of pleasure: A Week had scarcely elapsed before He was wearied of his Paramour: His warm constitution still made him seek in her arms the gratification of his lust: But when the moment of passion was over, He quitted her with disgust, and his humour, naturally inconstant, made him sigh impatiently for variety. Possession, which cloys Man, only increases the affection of Woman. Matilda with every succeeding day grew more attached to the Friar. Since He had obtained her favours, He was become dearer to her than ever, and She felt grateful to him for the pleasures in which they had equally been Sharers. Unfortunately as her passion grew ardent, Ambrosio's grew cold; The very marks of her fondness excited his disgust, and its excess served to extinguish the flame which already burned but feebly in his bosom. Matilda could not but remark that her society seemed to him daily less agreeable: He was inattentive while She spoke: her musical talents, which She possessed in perfection, had lost the power of amusing him; Or if He deigned to praise them, his compliments were evidently forced and cold. He no longer gazed upon her with affection, or applauded her sentiments with a Lover's partiality. This Matilda well perceived, and redoubled her efforts to revive those sentiments which He once had felt. She could not but fail, since He considered as importunities the pains which She took to please him, and was disgusted by the very means which She used to recall the Wanderer. Still, however, their illicit Commerce continued: But it was clear that He was led to her arms, not by love, but the cravings of brutal appetite. His constitution made a Woman necessary to him, and Matilda was the only one with whom He could indulge his passions safely: In spite of her beauty, He gazed upon every other Female with more desire; But fearing that his Hypocrisy should be made public, He confined his inclinations to his own breast. It was by no means his nature to be timid: But his education had impressed his mind with fear so strongly, that apprehension was now become part of his character. Had his Youth been passed in the world, He would have shown himself possessed of many brilliant and manly qualities. He was naturally enterprizing, firm, and fearless: He had a Warrior's heart, and He might have shone with splendour at the head of an Army. There was no want of generosity in his nature: The Wretched never failed to find in him a compassionate Auditor: His abilities were quick and shining, and his judgment, vast, solid, and decisive. With such qualifications He would have been an ornament to his Country: That He possessed them, He had given proofs in his earliest infancy, and his Parents had beheld his dawning virtues with the fondest delight and admiration. Unfortunately, while yet a Child He was deprived of those Parents. He fell into the power of a Relation whose only wish about him was never to hear of him more; For that purpose He gave him in charge to his Friend, the former Superior of the Capuchins. The Abbot, a very Monk, used all his endeavours to persuade the Boy that happiness existed not without the walls of a Convent. He succeeded fully. To deserve admittance into the order of St. Francis was Ambrosio's highest ambition. His Instructors carefully repressed those virtues whose grandeur and disinterestedness were ill-suited to the Cloister. Instead of universal benevolence, He adopted a selfish partiality for his own particular establishment: He was taught to consider compassion for the errors of Others as a crime of the blackest dye: The noble frankness of his temper was exchanged for servile humility; and in order to break his natural spirit, the Monks terrified his young mind by placing before him all the horrors with which Superstition could furnish them: They painted to him the torments of the Damned in colours the most dark, terrible, and fantastic, and threatened him at the slightest fault with eternal perdition. No wonder that his imagination constantly dwelling upon these fearful objects should have rendered his character timid and apprehensive. Add to this, that his long absence from the great world, and total unacquaintance with the common dangers of life, made him form of them an idea far more dismal than the reality. While the Monks were busied in rooting out his virtues and narrowing his sentiments, they allowed every vice which had fallen to his share to arrive at full perfection. He was suffered to be proud, vain, ambitious, and disdainful: He was jealous of his Equals, and despised all merit but his own: He was implacable when offended, and cruel in his revenge. Still in spite of the pains taken to pervert them, his natural good qualities would occasionally break through the gloom cast over them so carefully: At such times the contest for superiority between his real and acquired character was striking and unaccountable to those unacquainted with his original disposition. He pronounced the most severe sentences upon Offenders, which, the moment after, Compassion induced him to mitigate: He undertook the most daring enterprizes, which the fear of their consequences soon obliged him to abandon: His inborn genius darted a brilliant light upon subjects the most obscure; and almost instantaneously his Superstition replunged them in darkness more profound than that from which they had just been rescued. His Brother Monks, regarding him as a Superior Being, remarked not this contradiction in their Idol's conduct. They were persuaded that what He did must be right, and supposed him to have good reasons for changing his resolutions. The fact was, that the different sentiments with which Education and Nature had inspired him were combating in his bosom: It remained for his passions, which as yet no opportunity had called into play, to decide the victory. Unfortunately his passions were the very worst Judges, to whom He could possibly have applied. His monastic seclusion had till now been in his favour, since it gave him no room for discovering his bad qualities. The superiority of his talents raised him too far above his Companions to permit his being jealous of them: His exemplary piety, persuasive eloquence, and pleasing manners had secured him universal Esteem, and consequently He had no injuries to revenge: His Ambition was justified by his acknowledged merit, and his pride considered as no more than proper confidence. He never saw, much less conversed with, the other sex: He was ignorant of the pleasures in Woman's power to bestow, and if He read in the course of his studies 'That Men were fond, He smiled, and wondered how!' For a time, spare diet, frequent watching, and severe penance cooled and represt the natural warmth of his constitution: But no sooner did opportunity present itself, no sooner did He catch a glimpse of joys to which He was still a Stranger, than Religion's barriers were too feeble to resist the overwhelming torrent of his desires. All impediments yielded before the force of his temperament, warm, sanguine, and voluptuous in the excess. As yet his other passions lay dormant; But they only needed to be once awakened, to display themselves with violence as great and irresistible. He continued to be the admiration of Madrid. The Enthusiasm created by his eloquence seemed rather to increase than diminish. Every Thursday, which was the only day when He appeared in public, the Capuchin Cathedral was crowded with Auditors, and his discourse was always received with the same approbation. He was named Confessor to all the chief families in Madrid; and no one was counted fashionable who was injoined penance by any other than Ambrosio. In his resolution of never stirring out of his Convent, He still persisted. This circumstance created a still greater opinion of his sanctity and self-denial. Above all, the Women sang forth his praises loudly, less influenced by devotion than by his noble countenance, majestic air, and well-turned, graceful figure. The Abbey door was thronged with Carriages from morning to night; and the noblest and fairest Dames of Madrid confessed to the Abbot their secret peccadilloes. The eyes of the luxurious Friar devoured their charms: Had his Penitents consulted those Interpreters, He would have needed no other means of expressing his desires. For his misfortune, they were so strongly persuaded of his continence, that the possibility of his harbouring indecent thoughts never once entered their imaginations. The climate's heat, 'tis well known, operates with no small influence upon the constitutions of the Spanish Ladies: But the most abandoned would have thought it an easier task to inspire with passion the marble Statue of St. Francis than the cold and rigid heart of the immaculate Ambrosio. On his part, the Friar was little acquainted with the depravity of the world; He suspected not that but few of his Penitents would have rejected his addresses. Yet had He been better instructed on this head, the danger attending such an attempt would have sealed up his lips in silence. He knew that it would be difficult for a Woman to keep a secret so strange and so important as his frailty; and He even trembled lest Matilda should betray him. Anxious to preserve a reputation which was infinitely dear to him, He saw all the risque of committing it to the power of some vain giddy Female; and as the Beauties of Madrid affected only his senses without touching his heart, He forgot them as soon as they were out of his sight. The danger of discovery, the fear of being repulsed, the loss of reputation, all these considerations counselled him to stifle his desires: And though He now felt for it the most perfect indifference, He was necessitated to confine himself to Matilda's person. One morning, the confluence of Penitents was greater than usual. He was detained in the Confessional Chair till a late hour. At length the crowd was dispatched, and He prepared to quit the Chapel, when two Females entered and drew near him with humility. They threw up their veils, and the youngest entreated him to listen to her for a few moments. The melody of her voice, of that voice to which no Man ever listened without interest, immediately caught Ambrosio's attention. He stopped. The Petitioner seemed bowed down with affliction: Her cheeks were pale, her eyes dimmed with tears, and her hair fell in disorder over her face and bosom. Still her countenance was so sweet, so innocent, so heavenly, as might have charmed an heart less susceptible, than that which panted in the Abbot's breast. With more than usual softness of manner He desired her to proceed, and heard her speak as follows with an emotion which increased every moment. 'Reverend Father, you see an Unfortunate, threatened with the loss of her dearest, of almost her only Friend! My Mother, my excellent Mother lies upon the bed of sickness. A sudden and dreadful malady seized her last night; and so rapid has been its progress, that the Physicians despair of her life. Human aid fails me; Nothing remains for me but to implore the mercy of Heaven. Father, all Madrid rings with the report of your piety and virtue. Deign to remember my Mother in your prayers: Perhaps they may prevail on the Almighty to spare her; and should that be the case, I engage myself every Thursday in the next three Months to illuminate the Shrine of St. Francis in his honour.' 'So!' thought the Monk; 'Here we have a second Vincentio della Ronda. Rosario's adventure began thus,' and He wished secretly that this might have the same conclusion. He acceded to the request. The Petitioner returned him thanks with every mark of gratitude, and then continued. 'I have yet another favour to ask. We are Strangers in Madrid; My Mother needs a Confessor, and knows not to whom She should apply. We understand that you never quit the Abbey, and Alas! my poor Mother is unable to come hither! If you would have the goodness, reverend Father, to name a proper person, whose wise and pious consolations may soften the agonies of my Parent's deathbed, you will confer an everlasting favour upon hearts not ungrateful.' With this petition also the Monk complied. Indeed, what petition would He have refused, if urged in such enchanting accents? The suppliant was so interesting! Her voice was so sweet, so harmonious! Her very tears became her, and her affliction seemed to add new lustre to her charms. He promised to send to her a Confessor that same Evening, and begged her to leave her address. The Companion presented him with a Card on which it was written, and then withdrew with the fair Petitioner, who pronounced before her departure a thousand benedictions on the Abbot's goodness. His eyes followed her out of the Chapel. It was not till She was out of sight that He examined the Card, on which He read the following words. 'Donna Elvira Dalfa, Strada di San Iago, four doors from the Palace d'Albornos.' The Suppliant was no other than Antonia, and Leonella was her Companion. The Latter had not consented without difficulty to accompany her Niece to the Abbey: Ambrosio had inspired her with such awe that She trembled at the very sight of him. Her fears had conquered even her natural loquacity, and while in his presence She uttered not a single syllable. The Monk retired to his Cell, whither He was pursued by Antonia's image. He felt a thousand new emotions springing in his bosom, and He trembled to examine into the cause which gave them birth. They were totally different from those inspired by Matilda, when She first declared her sex and her affection. He felt not the provocation of lust; No voluptuous desires rioted in his bosom; Nor did a burning imagination picture to him the charms which Modesty had veiled from his eyes. On the contrary, what He now felt was a mingled sentiment of tenderness, admiration, and respect. A soft and delicious melancholy infused itself into his soul, and He would not have exchanged it for the most lively transports of joy. Society now disgusted him: He delighted in solitude, which permitted his indulging the visions of Fancy: His thoughts were all gentle, sad, and soothing, and the whole wide world presented him with no other object than Antonia. 'Happy Man!' He exclaimed in his romantic enthusiasm; 'Happy Man, who is destined to possess the heart of that lovely Girl! What delicacy in her features! What elegance in her form! How enchanting was the timid innocence of her eyes, and how different from the wanton expression, the wild luxurious fire which sparkles in Matilda's! Oh! sweeter must one kiss be snatched from the rosy lips of the First, than all the full and lustful favours bestowed so freely by the Second. Matilda gluts me with enjoyment even to loathing, forces me to her arms, apes the Harlot, and glories in her prostitution. Disgusting! Did She know the inexpressible charm of Modesty, how irresistibly it enthralls the heart of Man, how firmly it chains him to the Throne of Beauty, She never would have thrown it off. What would be too dear a price for this lovely Girl's affections? What would I refuse to sacrifice, could I be released from my vows, and permitted to declare my love in the sight of earth and heaven? While I strove to inspire her with tenderness, with friendship and esteem, how tranquil and undisturbed would the hours roll away! Gracious God! To see her blue downcast eyes beam upon mine with timid fondness! To sit for days, for years listening to that gentle voice! To acquire the right of obliging her, and hear the artless expressions of her gratitude! To watch the emotions of her spotless heart! To encourage each dawning virtue! To share in her joy when happy, to kiss away her tears when distrest, and to see her fly to my arms for comfort and support! Yes; If there is perfect bliss on earth, 'tis his lot alone, who becomes that Angel's Husband.' While his fancy coined these ideas, He paced his Cell with a disordered air. His eyes were fixed upon vacancy: His head reclined upon his shoulder; A tear rolled down his cheek, while He reflected that the vision of happiness for him could never be realized. 'She is lost to me!' He continued; 'By marriage She cannot be mine: And to seduce such innocence, to use the confidence reposed in me to work her ruin.... Oh! it would be a crime, blacker than yet the world ever witnessed! Fear not, lovely Girl! Your virtue runs no risque from me. Not for Indies would I make that gentle bosom know the tortures of remorse.' Again He paced his chamber hastily. Then stopping, his eye fell upon the picture of his once-admired Madona. He tore it with indignation from the wall: He threw it on the ground, and spurned it from him with his foot. 'The Prostitute!' Unfortunate Matilda! Her Paramour forgot that for his sake alone She had forfeited her claim to virtue; and his only reason for despising her was that She had loved him much too well. He threw himself into a Chair which stood near the Table. He saw the card with Elvira's address. He took it up, and it brought to his recollection his promise respecting a Confessor. He passed a few minutes in doubt: But Antonia's Empire over him was already too much decided to permit his making a long resistance to the idea which struck him. He resolved to be the Confessor himself. He could leave the Abbey unobserved without difficulty: By wrapping up his head in his Cowl He hoped to pass through the Streets without being recognised: By taking these precautions, and by recommending secrecy to Elvira's family, He doubted not to keep Madrid in ignorance that He had broken his vow never to see the outside of the Abbey walls. Matilda was the only person whose vigilance He dreaded: But by informing her at the Refectory that during the whole of that day, Business would confine him to his Cell, He thought himself secure from her wakeful jealousy. Accordingly, at the hours when the Spaniards are generally taking their Siesta, He ventured to quit the Abbey by a private door, the Key of which was in his possession. The Cowl of his habit was thrown over his face: From the heat of the weather the Streets were almost totally deserted: The Monk met with few people, found the Strada di San Iago, and arrived without accident at Donna Elvira's door. He rang, was admitted, and immediately ushered into an upper apartment. It was here that He ran the greatest risque of a discovery. Had Leonella been at home, She would have recognized him directly: Her communicative disposition would never have permitted her to rest till all Madrid was informed that Ambrosio had ventured out of the Abbey, and visited her Sister. Fortune here stood the Monk's Friend. On Leonella's return home, She found a letter instructing her that a Cousin was just dead, who had left what little He possessed between Herself and Elvira. To secure this bequest She was obliged to set out for Cordova without losing a moment. Amidst all her foibles her heart was truly warm and affectionate, and She was unwilling to quit her Sister in so dangerous a state. But Elvira insisted upon her taking the journey, conscious that in her Daughter's forlorn situation no increase of fortune, however trifling, ought to be neglected. Accordingly, Leonella left Madrid, sincerely grieved at her Sister's illness, and giving some few sighs to the memory of the amiable but inconstant Don Christoval. She was fully persuaded that at first She had made a terrible breach in his heart: But hearing nothing more of him, She supposed that He had quitted the pursuit, disgusted by the lowness of her origin, and knowing upon other terms than marriage He had nothing to hope from such a Dragon of Virtue as She professed herself; Or else, that being naturally capricious and changeable, the remembrance of her charms had been effaced from the Conde's heart by those of some newer Beauty. Whatever was the cause of her losing him, She lamented it sorely. She strove in vain, as She assured every body who was kind enough to listen to her, to tear his image from her too susceptible heart. She affected the airs of a lovesick Virgin, and carried them all to the most ridiculous excess. She heaved lamentable sighs, walked with her arms folded, uttered long soliloquies, and her discourse generally turned upon some forsaken Maid who expired of a broken heart! Her fiery locks were always ornamented with a garland of willow; Every evening She was seen straying upon the Banks of a rivulet by Moonlight; and She declared herself a violent Admirer of murmuring Streams and Nightingales; 'Of lonely haunts, and twilight Groves, 'Places which pale Passion loves!' Such was the state of Leonella's mind, when obliged to quit Madrid. Elvira was out of patience at all these follies, and endeavoured at persuading her to act like a reasonable Woman. Her advice was thrown away: Leonella assured her at parting that nothing could make her forget the perfidious Don Christoval. In this point She was fortunately mistaken. An honest Youth of Cordova, Journeyman to an Apothecary, found that her fortune would be sufficient to set him up in a genteel Shop of his own: In consequence of this reflection He avowed himself her Admirer. Leonella was not inflexible. The ardour of his sighs melted her heart, and She soon consented to make him the happiest of Mankind. She wrote to inform her Sister of her marriage; But, for reasons which will be explained hereafter, Elvira never answered her letter. Ambrosio was conducted into the Antichamber to that where Elvira was reposing. The Female Domestic who had admitted him left him alone while She announced his arrival to her Mistress. Antonia, who had been by her Mother's Bedside, immediately came to him. 'Pardon me, Father,' said She, advancing towards him; when recognizing his features, She stopped suddenly, and uttered a cry of joy. 'Is it possible!' She continued; 'Do not my eyes deceive me? Has the worthy Ambrosio broken through his resolution, that He may soften the agonies of the best of Women? What pleasure will this visit give my Mother! Let me not delay for a moment the comfort which your piety and wisdom will afford her.' Thus saying, She opened the chamber door, presented to her Mother her distinguished Visitor, and having placed an armed-chair by the side of the Bed, withdrew into another department. Elvira was highly gratified by this visit: Her expectations had been raised high by general report, but She found them far exceeded. Ambrosio, endowed by nature with powers of pleasing, exerted them to the utmost while conversing with Antonia's Mother. With persuasive eloquence He calmed every fear, and dissipated every scruple: He bad her reflect on the infinite mercy of her Judge, despoiled Death of his darts and terrors, and taught her to view without shrinking the abyss of eternity, on whose brink She then stood. Elvira was absorbed in attention and delight: While She listened to his exhortations, confidence and comfort stole insensibly into her mind. She unbosomed to him without hesitation her cares and apprehensions. The latter respecting a future life He had already quieted: And He now removed the former, which She felt for the concerns of this. She trembled for Antonia. She had none to whose care She could recommend her, save to the Marquis de las Cisternas and her Sister Leonella. The protection of the One was very uncertain; and as to the Other, though fond of her Niece, Leonella was so thoughtless and vain as to make her an improper person to have the sole direction of a Girl so young and ignorant of the World. The Friar no sooner learnt the cause of her alarms than He begged her to make herself easy upon that head. He doubted not being able to secure for Antonia a safe refuge in the House of one of his Penitents, the Marchioness of Villa-Franca: This was a Lady of acknowledged virtue, remarkable for strict principles and extensive charity. Should accident deprive her of this resource, He engaged to procure Antonia a reception in some respectable Convent: That is to say, in quality of boarder; for Elvira had declared herself no Friend to a monastic life, and the Monk was either candid or complaisant enough to allow that her disapprobation was not unfounded. These proofs of the interest which He felt for her completely won Elvira's heart. In thanking him She exhausted every expression which Gratitude could furnish, and protested that now She should resign herself with tranquillity to the Grave. Ambrosio rose to take leave: He promised to return the next day at the same hour, but requested that his visits might be kept secret. 'I am unwilling' said He, 'that my breaking through a rule imposed by necessity should be generally known. Had I not resolved never to quit my Convent, except upon circumstances as urgent as that which has conducted me to your door, I should be frequently summoned upon insignificant occasions: That time would be engrossed by the Curious, the Unoccupied, and the fanciful, which I now pass at the Bedside of the Sick, in comforting the expiring Penitent, and clearing the passage to Eternity from Thorns.' Elvira commended equally his prudence and compassion, promising to conceal carefully the honour of his visits. The Monk then gave her his benediction, and retired from the chamber. In the Antiroom He found Antonia: He could not refuse himself the pleasure of passing a few moments in her society. He bad her take comfort, for that her Mother seemed composed and tranquil, and He hoped that She might yet do well. He enquired who attended her, and engaged to send the Physician of his Convent to see her, one of the most skilful in Madrid. He then launched out in Elvira's commendation, praised her purity and fortitude of mind, and declared that She had inspired him with the highest esteem and reverence. Antonia's innocent heart swelled with gratitude: Joy danced in her eyes, where a tear still sparkled. The hopes which He gave her of her Mother's recovery, the lively interest which He seemed to feel for her, and the flattering way in which She was mentioned by him, added to the report of his judgment and virtue, and to the impression made upon her by his eloquence, confirmed the favourable opinion with which his first appearance had inspired Antonia. She replied with diffidence, but without restraint: She feared not to relate to him all her little sorrows, all her little fears and anxieties; and She thanked him for his goodness with all the genuine warmth which favours kindle in a young and innocent heart. Such alone know how to estimate benefits at their full value. They who are conscious of Mankind's perfidy and selfishness, ever receive an obligation with apprehension and distrust: They suspect that some secret motive must lurk behind it: They express their thanks with restraint and caution, and fear to praise a kind action to its full extent, aware that some future day a return may be required. Not so Antonia; She thought the world was composed only of those who resembled her, and that vice existed, was to her still a secret. The Monk had been of service to her; He said that He wished her well; She was grateful for his kindness, and thought that no terms were strong enough to be the vehicle of her thanks. With what delight did Ambrosio listen to the declaration of her artless gratitude! The natural grace of her manners, the unequalled sweetness of her voice, her modest vivacity, her unstudied elegance, her expressive countenance, and intelligent eyes united to inspire him with pleasure and admiration, While the solidity and correctness of her remarks received additional beauty from the unaffected simplicity of the language in which they were conveyed. Ambrosio was at length obliged to tear himself from this conversation which possessed for him but too many charms. He repeated to Antonia his wishes that his visits should not be made known, which desire She promised to observe. He then quitted the House, while his Enchantress hastened to her Mother, ignorant of the mischief which her Beauty had caused. She was eager to know Elvira's opinion of the Man whom She had praised in such enthusiastic terms, and was delighted to find it equally favourable, if not even more so, than her own. 'Even before He spoke,' said Elvira, 'I was prejudiced in his favour: The fervour of his exhortations, dignity of his manner, and closeness of his reasoning, were very far from inducing me to alter my opinion. His fine and full-toned voice struck me particularly; But surely, Antonia, I have heard it before. It seemed perfectly familiar to my ear. Either I must have known the Abbot in former times, or his voice bears a wonderful resemblance to that of some other, to whom I have often listened. There were certain tones which touched my very heart, and made me feel sensations so singular, that I strive in vain to account for them.' 'My dearest Mother, it produced the same effect upon me: Yet certainly neither of us ever heard his voice till we came to Madrid. I suspect that what we attribute to his voice, really proceeds from his pleasant manners, which forbid our considering him as a Stranger. I know not why, but I feel more at my ease while conversing with him than I usually do with people who are unknown to me. I feared not to repeat to him all my childish thoughts; and somehow I felt confident that He would hear my folly with indulgence. Oh! I was not deceived in him! He listened to me with such an air of kindness and attention! He answered me with such gentleness, such condescension! He did not call me an Infant, and treat me with contempt, as our cross old Confessor at the Castle used to do. I verily believe that if I had lived in Murcia a thousand years, I never should have liked that fat old Father Dominic!' 'I confess that Father Dominic had not the most pleasing manners in the world; But He was honest, friendly, and well-meaning.' 'Ah! my dear Mother, those qualities are so common!' 'God grant, my Child, that Experience may not teach you to think them rare and precious: I have found them but too much so! But tell me, Antonia; Why is it impossible for me to have seen the Abbot before?' 'Because since the moment when He entered the Abbey, He has never been on the outside of its walls. He told me just now, that from his ignorance of the Streets, He had some difficulty to find the Strada di San Iago, though so near the Abbey.' 'All this is possible, and still I may have seen him BEFORE He entered the Abbey: In order to come out, it was rather necessary that He should first go in.' 'Holy Virgin! As you say, that is very true.--Oh! But might He not have been born in the Abbey?' Elvira smiled. 'Why, not very easily.' 'Stay, Stay! Now I recollect how it was. He was put into the Abbey quite a Child; The common People say that He fell from heaven, and was sent as a present to the Capuchins by the Virgin.' 'That was very kind of her. And so He fell from heaven, Antonia? He must have had a terrible tumble.' 'Many do not credit this, and I fancy, my dear Mother, that I must number you among the Unbelievers. Indeed, as our Landlady told my Aunt, the general idea is that his Parents, being poor and unable to maintain him, left him just born at the Abbey door. The late Superior from pure charity had him educated in the Convent, and He proved to be a model of virtue, and piety, and learning, and I know not what else besides: In consequence, He was first received as a Brother of the order, and not long ago was chosen Abbot. However, whether this account or the other is the true one, at least all agree that when the Monks took him under their care, He could not speak: Therefore, you could not have heard his voice before He entered the Monastery, because at that time He had no voice at all.' 'Upon my word, Antonia, you argue very closely! Your conclusions are infallible! I did not suspect you of being so able a Logician.' 'Ah! You are mocking me! But so much the better. It delights me to see you in spirits: Besides you seem tranquil and easy, and I hope that you will have no more convulsions. Oh! I was sure the Abbot's visit would do you good!' 'It has indeed done me good, my Child. He has quieted my mind upon some points which agitated me, and I already feel the effects of his attention. My eyes grow heavy, and I think I can sleep a little. Draw the curtains, my Antonia: But if I should not wake before midnight, do not sit up with me, I charge you.' Antonia promised to obey her, and having received her blessing drew the curtains of the Bed. She then seated herself in silence at her embroidery frame, and beguiled the hours with building Castles in the air. Her spirits were enlivened by the evident change for the better in Elvira, and her fancy presented her with visions bright and pleasing. In these dreams Ambrosio made no despicable figure. She thought of him with joy and gratitude; But for every idea which fell to the Friar's share, at least two were unconsciously bestowed upon Lorenzo. Thus passed the time, till the Bell in the neighbouring Steeple of the Capuchin Cathedral announced the hour of midnight: Antonia remembered her Mother's injunctions, and obeyed them, though with reluctance. She undrew the curtains with caution. Elvira was enjoying a profound and quiet slumber; Her cheek glowed with health's returning colours: A smile declared that her dreams were pleasant, and as Antonia bent over her, She fancied that She heard her name pronounced. She kissed her Mother's forehead softly, and retired to her chamber. There She knelt before a Statue of St. Rosolia, her Patroness; She recommended herself to the protection of heaven, and as had been her custom from infancy, concluded her devotions by chaunting the following Stanzas. MIDNIGHT HYMN Now all is hushed; The solemn chime No longer swells the nightly gale: Thy awful presence, Hour sublime, With spotless heart once more I hail. 'Tis now the moment still and dread, When Sorcerers use their baleful power; When Graves give up their buried dead To profit by the sanctioned hour: From guilt and guilty thoughts secure, To duty and devotion true, With bosom light and conscience pure, Repose, thy gentle aid I woo. Good Angels, take my thanks, that still The snares of vice I view with scorn; Thanks, that to-night as free from ill I sleep, as when I woke at morn. Yet may not my unconscious breast Harbour some guilt to me unknown? Some wish impure, which unreprest You blush to see, and I to own? If such there be, in gentle dream Instruct my feet to shun the snare; Bid truth upon my errors beam, And deign to make me still your care. Chase from my peaceful bed away The witching Spell, a foe to rest, The nightly Goblin, wanton Fay, The Ghost in pain, and Fiend unblest: Let not the Tempter in mine ear Pour lessons of unhallowed joy; Let not the Night-mare, wandering near My Couch, the calm of sleep destroy; Let not some horrid dream affright With strange fantastic forms mine eyes; But rather bid some vision bright Display the bliss of yonder skies. Show me the crystal Domes of Heaven, The worlds of light where Angels lie; Shew me the lot to Mortals given, Who guiltless live, who guiltless die. Then show me how a seat to gain Amidst those blissful realms of Air; Teach me to shun each guilty stain, And guide me to the good and fair. So every morn and night, my Voice To heaven the grateful strain shall raise; In You as Guardian Powers rejoice, Good Angels, and exalt your praise: So will I strive with zealous fire Each vice to shun, each fault correct; Will love the lessons you inspire, And Prize the virtues you protect. Then when at length by high command My body seeks the Grave's repose, When Death draws nigh with friendly hand My failing Pilgrim eyes to close; Pleased that my soul has 'scaped the wreck, Sighless will I my life resign, And yield to God my Spirit back, As pure as when it first was mine. Having finished her usual devotions, Antonia retired to bed. Sleep soon stole over her senses; and for several hours She enjoyed that calm repose which innocence alone can know, and for which many a Monarch with pleasure would exchange his Crown. CHAPTER IV ----Ah! how dark These long-extended realms and rueful wastes; Where nought but silence reigns, and night, dark night, Dark as was Chaos ere the Infant Sun Was rolled together, or had tried its beams Athwart the gloom profound! The sickly Taper By glimmering through thy low-browed misty vaults, Furred round with mouldy damps, and ropy slime, Lets fall a supernumerary horror, And only serves to make Thy night more irksome! Blair. Returned undiscovered to the Abbey, Ambrosio's mind was filled with the most pleasing images. He was wilfully blind to the danger of exposing himself to Antonia's charms: He only remembered the pleasure which her society had afforded him, and rejoiced in the prospect of that pleasure being repeated. He failed not to profit by Elvira's indisposition to obtain a sight of her Daughter every day. At first He bounded his wishes to inspire Antonia with friendship: But no sooner was He convinced that She felt that sentiment in its fullest extent, than his aim became more decided, and his attentions assumed a warmer colour. The innocent familiarity with which She treated him, encouraged his desires: Grown used to her modesty, it no longer commanded the same respect and awe: He still admired it, but it only made him more anxious to deprive her of that quality which formed her principal charm. Warmth of passion, and natural penetration, of which latter unfortunately both for himself and Antonia He possessed an ample share, supplied a knowledge of the arts of seduction. He easily distinguished the emotions which were favourable to his designs, and seized every means with avidity of infusing corruption into Antonia's bosom. This He found no easy matter. Extreme simplicity prevented her from perceiving the aim to which the Monk's insinuations tended; But the excellent morals which She owed to Elvira's care, the solidity and correctness of her understanding, and a strong sense of what was right implanted in her heart by Nature, made her feel that his precepts must be faulty. By a few simple words She frequently overthrew the whole bulk of his sophistical arguments, and made him conscious how weak they were when opposed to Virtue and Truth. On such occasion He took refuge in his eloquence; He overpowered her with a torrent of Philosophical paradoxes, to which, not understanding them, it was impossible for her to reply; And thus though He did not convince her that his reasoning was just, He at least prevented her from discovering it to be false. He perceived that her respect for his judgment augmented daily, and doubted not with time to bring her to the point desired. He was not unconscious that his attempts were highly criminal: He saw clearly the baseness of seducing the innocent Girl: But his passion was too violent to permit his abandoning his design. He resolved to pursue it, let the consequences be what they might. He depended upon finding Antonia in some unguarded moment; And seeing no other Man admitted into her society, nor hearing any mentioned either by her or by Elvira, He imagined that her young heart was still unoccupied. While He waited for the opportunity of satisfying his unwarrantable lust, every day increased his coldness for Matilda. Not a little was this occasioned by the consciousness of his faults to her. To hide them from her He was not sufficiently master of himself: Yet He dreaded lest, in a transport of jealous rage, She should betray the secret on which his character and even his life depended. Matilda could not but remark his indifference: He was conscious that She remarked it, and fearing her reproaches, shunned her studiously. Yet when He could not avoid her, her mildness might have convinced him that He had nothing to dread from her resentment. She had resumed the character of the gentle interesting Rosario: She taxed him not with ingratitude; But her eyes filled with involuntary tears, and the soft melancholy of her countenance and voice uttered complaints far more touching than words could have conveyed. Ambrosio was not unmoved by her sorrow; But unable to remove its cause, He forbore to show that it affected him. As her conduct convinced him that He needed not fear her vengeance, He continued to neglect her, and avoided her company with care. Matilda saw that She in vain attempted to regain his affections: Yet She stifled the impulse of resentment, and continued to treat her inconstant Lover with her former fondness and attention. By degrees Elvira's constitution recovered itself. She was no longer troubled with convulsions, and Antonia ceased to tremble for her Mother. Ambrosio beheld this reestablishment with displeasure. He saw that Elvira's knowledge of the world would not be the Dupe of his sanctified demeanour, and that She would easily perceive his views upon her Daughter. He resolved therefore, before She quitted her chamber, to try the extent of his influence over the innocent Antonia. One evening, when He had found Elvira almost perfectly restored to health, He quitted her earlier than was his usual custom. Not finding Antonia in the Antichamber, He ventured to follow her to her own. It was only separated from her Mother's by a Closet, in which Flora, the Waiting-Woman, generally slept. Antonia sat upon a Sopha with her back towards the door, and read attentively. She heard not his approach, till He had seated himself by her. She started, and welcomed him with a look of pleasure: Then rising, She would have conducted him to the sitting-room; But Ambrosio taking her hand, obliged her by gentle violence to resume her place. She complied without difficulty: She knew not that there was more impropriety in conversing with him in one room than another. She thought herself equally secure of his principles and her own, and having replaced herself upon the Sopha, She began to prattle to him with her usual ease and vivacity. He examined the Book which She had been reading, and had now placed upon the Table. It was the Bible. 'How!' said the Friar to himself; 'Antonia reads the Bible, and is still so ignorant?' But, upon a further inspection, He found that Elvira had made exactly the same remark. That prudent Mother, while She admired the beauties of the sacred writings, was convinced that, unrestricted, no reading more improper could be permitted a young Woman. Many of the narratives can only tend to excite ideas the worst calculated for a female breast: Every thing is called plainly and roundly by its name; and the annals of a Brothel would scarcely furnish a greater choice of indecent expressions. Yet this is the Book which young Women are recommended to study; which is put into the hands of Children, able to comprehend little more than those passages of which they had better remain ignorant; and which but too frequently inculcates the first rudiments of vice, and gives the first alarm to the still sleeping passions. Of this was Elvira so fully convinced, that She would have preferred putting into her Daughter's hands 'Amadis de Gaul,' or 'The Valiant Champion, Tirante the White;' and would sooner have authorised her studying the lewd exploits of 'Don Galaor,' or the lascivious jokes of the 'Damsel Plazer di mi vida.' She had in consequence made two resolutions respecting the Bible. The first was that Antonia should not read it till She was of an age to feel its beauties, and profit by its morality: The second, that it should be copied out with her own hand, and all improper passages either altered or omitted. She had adhered to this determination, and such was the Bible which Antonia was reading: It had been lately delivered to her, and She perused it with an avidity, with a delight that was inexpressible. Ambrosio perceived his mistake, and replaced the Book upon the Table. Antonia spoke of her Mother's health with all the enthusiastic joy of a youthful heart. 'I admire your filial affection,' said the Abbot; 'It proves the excellence and sensibility of your character; It promises a treasure to him whom Heaven has destined to possess your affections. The Breast, so capable of fondness for a Parent, what will it feel for a Lover? Nay, perhaps, what feels it for one even now? Tell me, my lovely Daughter; Have you known what it is to love? Answer me with sincerity: Forget my habit, and consider me only as a Friend.' 'What it is to love?' said She, repeating his question; 'Oh! yes, undoubtedly; I have loved many, many People.' 'That is not what I mean. The love of which I speak can be felt only for one. Have you never seen the Man whom you wished to be your Husband?' 'Oh! No, indeed!' This was an untruth, but She was unconscious of its falsehood: She knew not the nature of her sentiments for Lorenzo; and never having seen him since his first visit to Elvira, with every day his Image grew less feebly impressed upon her bosom. Besides, She thought of an Husband with all a Virgin's terror, and negatived the Friar's demand without a moment's hesitation. 'And do you not long to see that Man, Antonia? Do you feel no void in your heart which you fain would have filled up? Do you heave no sighs for the absence of some one dear to you, but who that some one is, you know not? Perceive you not that what formerly could please, has charms for you no longer? That a thousand new wishes, new ideas, new sensations, have sprang in your bosom, only to be felt, never to be described? Or while you fill every other heart with passion, is it possible that your own remains insensible and cold? It cannot be! That melting eye, that blushing cheek, that enchanting voluptuous melancholy which at times overspreads your features, all these marks belye your words. You love, Antonia, and in vain would hide it from me.' 'Father, you amaze me! What is this love of which you speak? I neither know its nature, nor if I felt it, why I should conceal the sentiment.' 'Have you seen no Man, Antonia, whom though never seen before, you seemed long to have sought? Whose form, though a Stranger's, was familiar to your eyes? The sound of whose voice soothed you, pleased you, penetrated to your very soul? In whose presence you rejoiced, for whose absence you lamented? With whom your heart seemed to expand, and in whose bosom with confidence unbounded you reposed the cares of your own? Have you not felt all this, Antonia?' 'Certainly I have: The first time that I saw you, I felt it.' Ambrosio started. Scarcely dared He credit his hearing. 'Me, Antonia?' He cried, his eyes sparkling with delight and impatience, while He seized her hand, and pressed it rapturously to his lips. 'Me, Antonia? You felt these sentiments for me?' 'Even with more strength than you have described. The very moment that I beheld you, I felt so pleased, so interested! I waited so eagerly to catch the sound of your voice, and when I heard it, it seemed so sweet! It spoke to me a language till then so unknown! Methought, it told me a thousand things which I wished to hear! It seemed as if I had long known you; as if I had a right to your friendship, your advice, and your protection. I wept when you departed, and longed for the time which should restore you to my sight.' 'Antonia! my charming Antonia!' exclaimed the Monk, and caught her to his bosom; 'Can I believe my senses? Repeat it to me, my sweet Girl! Tell me again that you love me, that you love me truly and tenderly!' 'Indeed, I do: Let my Mother be excepted, and the world holds no one more dear to me!' At this frank avowal Ambrosio no longer possessed himself; Wild with desire, He clasped the blushing Trembler in his arms. He fastened his lips greedily upon hers, sucked in her pure delicious breath, violated with his bold hand the treasures of her bosom, and wound around him her soft and yielding limbs. Startled, alarmed, and confused at his action, surprize at first deprived her of the power of resistance. At length recovering herself, She strove to escape from his embrace. 'Father! .... Ambrosio!' She cried; 'Release me, for God's sake!' But the licentious Monk heeded not her prayers: He persisted in his design, and proceeded to take still greater liberties. Antonia prayed, wept, and struggled: Terrified to the extreme, though at what She knew not, She exerted all her strength to repulse the Friar, and was on the point of shrieking for assistance when the chamber door was suddenly thrown open. Ambrosio had just sufficient presence of mind to be sensible of his danger. Reluctantly He quitted his prey, and started hastily from the Couch. Antonia uttered an exclamation of joy, flew towards the door, and found herself clasped in the arms of her Mother. Alarmed at some of the Abbot's speeches, which Antonia had innocently repeated, Elvira resolved to ascertain the truth of her suspicions. She had known enough of Mankind not to be imposed upon by the Monk's reputed virtue. She reflected on several circumstances, which though trifling, on being put together seemed to authorize her fears. His frequent visits, which as far as She could see, were confined to her family; His evident emotion, whenever She spoke of Antonia; His being in the full prime and heat of Manhood; and above all, his pernicious philosophy communicated to her by Antonia, and which accorded but ill with his conversation in her presence, all these circumstances inspired her with doubts respecting the purity of Ambrosio's friendship. In consequence, She resolved, when He should next be alone with Antonia, to endeavour at surprizing him. Her plan had succeeded. 'Tis true, that when She entered the room, He had already abandoned his prey; But the disorder of her Daughter's dress, and the shame and confusion stamped upon the Friar's countenance, sufficed to prove that her suspicions were but too well-founded. However, She was too prudent to make those suspicions known. She judged that to unmask the Imposter would be no easy matter, the public being so much prejudiced in his favour: and having but few Friends, She thought it dangerous to make herself so powerful an Enemy. She affected therefore not to remark his agitation, seated herself tranquilly upon the Sopha, assigned some trifling reason for having quitted her room unexpectedly, and conversed on various subjects with seeming confidence and ease. Reassured by her behaviour, the Monk began to recover himself. He strove to answer Elvira without appearing embarrassed: But He was still too great a novice in dissimulation, and He felt that He must look confused and awkward. He soon broke off the conversation, and rose to depart. What was his vexation, when on taking leave, Elvira told him in polite terms, that being now perfectly reestablished, She thought it an injustice to deprive Others of his company, who might be more in need of it! She assured him of her eternal gratitude, for the benefit which during her illness She had derived from his society and exhortations: And She lamented that her domestic affairs, as well as the multitude of business which his situation must of necessity impose upon him, would in future deprive her of the pleasure of his visits. Though delivered in the mildest language this hint was too plain to be mistaken. Still, He was preparing to put in a remonstrance when an expressive look from Elvira stopped him short. He dared not press her to receive him, for her manner convinced him that He was discovered: He submitted without reply, took an hasty leave, and retired to the Abbey, his heart filled with rage and shame, with bitterness and disappointment. Antonia's mind felt relieved by his departure; Yet She could not help lamenting that She was never to see him more. Elvira also felt a secret sorrow; She had received too much pleasure from thinking him her Friend, not to regret the necessity of changing her opinion: But her mind was too much accustomed to the fallacy of worldly friendships to permit her present disappointment to weigh upon it long. She now endeavoured to make her Daughter aware of the risque which She had ran: But She was obliged to treat the subject with caution, lest in removing the bandage of ignorance, the veil of innocence should be rent away. She therefore contented herself with warning Antonia to be upon her guard, and ordering her, should the Abbot persist in his visits, never to receive them but in company. With this injunction Antonia promised to comply. Ambrosio hastened to his Cell. He closed the door after him, and threw himself upon the bed in despair. The impulse of desire, the stings of disappointment, the shame of detection, and the fear of being publicly unmasked, rendered his bosom a scene of the most horrible confusion. He knew not what course to pursue. Debarred the presence of Antonia, He had no hopes of satisfying that passion which was now become a part of his existence. He reflected that his secret was in a Woman's power: He trembled with apprehension when He beheld the precipice before him, and with rage, when He thought that had it not been for Elvira, He should now have possessed the object of his desires. With the direct imprecations He vowed vengeance against her; He swore that, cost what it would, He still would possess Antonia. Starting from the Bed, He paced the chamber with disordered steps, howled with impotent fury, dashed himself violently against the walls, and indulged all the transports of rage and madness. He was still under the influence of this storm of passions when He heard a gentle knock at the door of his Cell. Conscious that his voice must have been heard, He dared not refuse admittance to the Importuner: He strove to compose himself, and to hide his agitation. Having in some degree succeeded, He drew back the bolt: The door opened, and Matilda appeared. At this precise moment there was no one with whose presence He could better have dispensed. He had not sufficient command over himself to conceal his vexation. He started back, and frowned. 'I am busy,' said He in a stern and hasty tone; 'Leave me!' Matilda heeded him not: She again fastened the door, and then advanced towards him with an air gentle and supplicating. 'Forgive me, Ambrosio,' said She; 'For your own sake I must not obey you. Fear no complaints from me; I come not to reproach you with your ingratitude. I pardon you from my heart, and since your love can no longer be mine, I request the next best gift, your confidence and friendship. We cannot force our inclinations; The little beauty which you once saw in me has perished with its novelty, and if it can no longer excite desire, mine is the fault, not yours. But why persist in shunning me? Why such anxiety to fly my presence? You have sorrows, but will not permit me to share them; You have disappointments, but will not accept my comfort; You have wishes, but forbid my aiding your pursuits. 'Tis of this which I complain, not of your indifference to my person. I have given up the claims of the Mistress, but nothing shall prevail on me to give up those of the Friend.' Her mildness had an instantaneous effect upon Ambrosio's feelings. 'Generous Matilda!' He replied, taking her hand, 'How far do you rise superior to the foibles of your sex! Yes, I accept your offer. I have need of an adviser, and a Confident: In you I find every needful quality united. But to aid my pursuits .... Ah! Matilda, it lies not in your power!' 'It lies in no one's power but mine. Ambrosio, your secret is none to me; Your every step, your every action has been observed by my attentive eye. You love.' 'Matilda!' 'Why conceal it from me? Fear not the little jealousy which taints the generality of Women: My soul disdains so despicable a passion. You love, Ambrosio; Antonia Dalfa is the object of your flame. I know every circumstance respecting your passion: Every conversation has been repeated to me. I have been informed of your attempt to enjoy Antonia's person, your disappointment, and dismission from Elvira's House. You now despair of possessing your Mistress; But I come to revive your hopes, and point out the road to success.' 'To success? Oh! impossible!' 'To them who dare nothing is impossible. Rely upon me, and you may yet be happy. The time is come, Ambrosio, when regard for your comfort and tranquillity compels me to reveal a part of my History, with which you are still unacquainted. Listen, and do not interrupt me: Should my confession disgust you, remember that in making it my sole aim is to satisfy your wishes, and restore that peace to your heart which at present has abandoned it. I formerly mentioned that my Guardian was a Man of uncommon knowledge: He took pains to instil that knowledge into my infant mind. Among the various sciences which curiosity had induced him to explore, He neglected not that which by most is esteemed impious, and by many chimerical. I speak of those arts which relate to the world of Spirits. His deep researches into causes and effects, his unwearied application to the study of natural philosophy, his profound and unlimited knowledge of the properties and virtues of every gem which enriches the deep, of every herb which the earth produces, at length procured him the distinction which He had sought so long, so earnestly. His curiosity was fully slaked, his ambition amply gratified. He gave laws to the elements; He could reverse the order of nature; His eye read the mandates of futurity, and the infernal Spirits were submissive to his commands. Why shrink you from me? I understand that enquiring look. Your suspicions are right, though your terrors are unfounded. My Guardian concealed not from me his most precious acquisition. Yet had I never seen YOU, I should never have exerted my power. Like you I shuddered at the thoughts of Magic: Like you I had formed a terrible idea of the consequences of raising a daemon. To preserve that life which your love had taught me to prize, I had recourse to means which I trembled at employing. You remember that night which I past in St. Clare's Sepulchre? Then was it that, surrounded by mouldering bodies, I dared to perform those mystic rites which summoned to my aid a fallen Angel. Judge what must have been my joy at discovering that my terrors were imaginary: I saw the Daemon obedient to my orders, I saw him trembling at my frown, and found that, instead of selling my soul to a Master, my courage had purchased for myself a Slave.' 'Rash Matilda! What have you done? You have doomed yourself to endless perdition; You have bartered for momentary power eternal happiness! If on witchcraft depends the fruition of my desires, I renounce your aid most absolutely. The consequences are too horrible: I doat upon Antonia, but am not so blinded by lust as to sacrifice for her enjoyment my existence both in this world and the next.' 'Ridiculous prejudices! Oh! blush, Ambrosio, blush at being subjected to their dominion. Where is the risque of accepting my offers? What should induce my persuading you to this step, except the wish of restoring you to happiness and quiet. If there is danger, it must fall upon me: It is I who invoke the ministry of the Spirits; Mine therefore will be the crime, and yours the profit. But danger there is none: The Enemy of Mankind is my Slave, not my Sovereign. Is there no difference between giving and receiving laws, between serving and commanding? Awake from your idle dreams, Ambrosio! Throw from you these terrors so ill-suited to a soul like yours; Leave them for common Men, and dare to be happy! Accompany me this night to St. Clare's Sepulchre, witness my incantations, and Antonia is your own.' 'To obtain her by such means I neither can, or will. Cease then to persuade me, for I dare not employ Hell's agency. 'You DARE not? How have you deceived me! That mind which I esteemed so great and valiant, proves to be feeble, puerile, and grovelling, a slave to vulgar errors, and weaker than a Woman's.' 'What? Though conscious of the danger, wilfully shall I expose myself to the Seducer's arts? Shall I renounce for ever my title to salvation? Shall my eyes seek a sight which I know will blast them? No, no, Matilda; I will not ally myself with God's Enemy.' 'Are you then God's Friend at present? Have you not broken your engagements with him, renounced his service, and abandoned yourself to the impulse of your passions? Are you not planning the destruction of innocence, the ruin of a Creature whom He formed in the mould of Angels? If not of Daemons, whose aid would you invoke to forward this laudable design? Will the Seraphims protect it, conduct Antonia to your arms, and sanction with their ministry your illicit pleasures? Absurd! But I am not deceived, Ambrosio! It is not virtue which makes you reject my offer: You WOULD accept it, but you dare not. 'Tis not the crime which holds your hand, but the punishment; 'Tis not respect for God which restrains you, but the terror of his vengeance! Fain would you offend him in secret, but you tremble to profess yourself his Foe. Now shame on the coward soul, which wants the courage either to be a firm Friend or open Enemy!' 'To look upon guilt with horror, Matilda, is in itself a merit: In this respect I glory to confess myself a Coward. Though my passions have made me deviate from her laws, I still feel in my heart an innate love of virtue. But it ill becomes you to tax me with my perjury: You, who first seduced me to violate my vows; You, who first rouzed my sleeping vices, made me feel the weight of Religion's chains, and bad me be convinced that guilt had pleasures. Yet though my principles have yielded to the force of temperament, I still have sufficient grace to shudder at Sorcery, and avoid a crime so monstrous, so unpardonable!' 'Unpardonable, say you? Where then is your constant boast of the Almighty's infinite mercy? Has He of late set bounds to it? Receives He no longer a Sinner with joy? You injure him, Ambrosio; You will always have time to repent, and He have goodness to forgive. Afford him a glorious opportunity to exert that goodness: The greater your crime, the greater his merit in pardoning. Away then with these childish scruples: Be persuaded to your good, and follow me to the Sepulchre.' 'Oh! cease, Matilda! That scoffing tone, that bold and impious language, is horrible in every mouth, but most so in a Woman's. Let us drop a conversation which excites no other sentiments than horror and disgust. I will not follow you to the Sepulchre, or accept the services of your infernal Agents. Antonia shall be mine, but mine by human means.' 'Then yours She will never be! You are banished her presence; Her Mother has opened her eyes to your designs, and She is now upon her guard against them. Nay more, She loves another. A Youth of distinguished merit possesses her heart, and unless you interfere, a few days will make her his Bride. This intelligence was brought me by my invisible Servants, to whom I had recourse on first perceiving your indifference. They watched your every action, related to me all that past at Elvira's, and inspired me with the idea of favouring your designs. Their reports have been my only comfort. Though you shunned my presence, all your proceedings were known to me: Nay, I was constantly with you in some degree, thanks to this precious gift!' With these words She drew from beneath her habit a mirror of polished steel, the borders of which were marked with various strange and unknown characters. 'Amidst all my sorrows, amidst all my regrets for your coldness, I was sustained from despair by the virtues of this Talisman. On pronouncing certain words, the Person appears in it on whom the Observer's thoughts are bent: thus though _I_ was exiled from YOUR sight, you, Ambrosio, were ever present to mine.' The Friar's curiosity was excited strongly. 'What you relate is incredible! Matilda, are you not amusing yourself with my credulity?' 'Be your own eyes the Judge.' She put the Mirror into his hand. Curiosity induced him to take it, and Love, to wish that Antonia might appear. Matilda pronounced the magic words. Immediately, a thick smoke rose from the characters traced upon the borders, and spread itself over the surface. It dispersed again gradually; A confused mixture of colours and images presented themselves to the Friar's eyes, which at length arranging themselves in their proper places, He beheld in miniature Antonia's lovely form. The scene was a small closet belonging to her apartment. She was undressing to bathe herself. The long tresses of her hair were already bound up. The amorous Monk had full opportunity to observe the voluptuous contours and admirable symmetry of her person. She threw off her last garment, and advancing to the Bath prepared for her, She put her foot into the water. It struck cold, and She drew it back again. Though unconscious of being observed, an inbred sense of modesty induced her to veil her charms; and She stood hesitating upon the brink, in the attitude of the Venus de Medicis. At this moment a tame Linnet flew towards her, nestled its head between her breasts, and nibbled them in wanton play. The smiling Antonia strove in vain to shake off the Bird, and at length raised her hands to drive it from its delightful harbour. Ambrosio could bear no more: His desires were worked up to phrenzy. 'I yield!' He cried, dashing the mirror upon the ground: 'Matilda, I follow you! Do with me what you will!' She waited not to hear his consent repeated. It was already midnight. She flew to her Cell, and soon returned with her little basket and the Key of the Cemetery, which had remained in her possession since her first visit to the Vaults. She gave the Monk no time for reflection. 'Come!' She said, and took his hand; 'Follow me, and witness the effects of your resolve!' This said, She drew him hastily along. They passed into the Burying-ground unobserved, opened the door of the Sepulchre, and found themselves at the head of the subterraneous Staircase. As yet the beams of the full Moon had guided their steps, but that resource now failed them. Matilda had neglected to provide herself with a Lamp. Still holding Ambrosio's hand She descended the marble steps; But the profound obscurity with which they were overspread obliged them to walk slow and cautiously. 'You tremble!' said Matilda to her Companion; 'Fear not; The destined spot is near.' They reached the foot of the Staircase, and continued to proceed, feeling their way along the Walls. On turning a corner suddenly, they descried faint gleams of light which seemed burning at a distance. Thither they bent their steps: The rays proceeded from a small sepulchral Lamp which flamed unceasingly before the Statue of St. Clare. It tinged with dim and cheerless beams the massy Columns which supported the Roof, but was too feeble to dissipate the thick gloom in which the Vaults above were buried. Matilda took the Lamp. 'Wait for me!' said She to the Friar; 'In a few moments I am here again.' With these words She hastened into one of the passages which branched in various directions from this spot, and formed a sort of Labyrinth. Ambrosio was now left alone: Darkness the most profound surrounded him, and encouraged the doubts which began to revive in his bosom. He had been hurried away by the delirium of the moment: The shame of betraying his terrors, while in Matilda's presence, had induced him to repress them; But now that he was abandoned to himself, they resumed their former ascendancy. He trembled at the scene which He was soon to witness. He knew not how far the delusions of Magic might operate upon his mind, and possibly might force him to some deed whose commission would make the breach between himself and Heaven irreparable. In this fearful dilemma, He would have implored God's assistance, but was conscious that He had forfeited all claim to such protection. Gladly would He have returned to the Abbey; But as He had past through innumerable Caverns and winding passages, the attempt of regaining the Stairs was hopeless. His fate was determined: No possibility of escape presented itself: He therefore combated his apprehensions, and called every argument to his succour, which might enable him to support the trying scene with fortitude. He reflected that Antonia would be the reward of his daring: He inflamed his imagination by enumerating her charms. He persuaded himself that (as Matilda had observed), He always should have time sufficient for repentance, and that as He employed HER assistance, not that of the Daemons, the crime of Sorcery could not be laid to his charge. He had read much respecting witchcraft: He understood that unless a formal Act was signed renouncing his claim to salvation, Satan would have no power over him. He was fully determined not to execute any such act, whatever threats might be used, or advantages held out to him. Such were his meditations while waiting for Matilda. They were interrupted by a low murmur which seemed at no great distance from him. He was startled. He listened. Some minutes past in silence, after which the murmur was repeated. It appeared to be the groaning of one in pain. In any other situation, this circumstance would only have excited his attention and curiosity: In the present, his predominant sensation was that of terror. His imagination totally engrossed by the ideas of sorcery and Spirits, He fancied that some unquiet Ghost was wandering near him; or else that Matilda had fallen a Victim to her presumption, and was perishing under the cruel fangs of the Daemons. The noise seemed not to approach, but continued to be heard at intervals. Sometimes it became more audible, doubtless as the sufferings of the person who uttered the groans became more acute and insupportable. Ambrosio now and then thought that He could distinguish accents; and once in particular He was almost convinced that He heard a faint voice exclaim, 'God! Oh! God! No hope! No succour!' Yet deeper groans followed these words. They died away gradually, and universal silence again prevailed. 'What can this mean?' thought the bewildered Monk. At that moment an idea which flashed into his mind, almost petrified him with horror. He started, and shuddered at himself. 'Should it be possible!' He groaned involuntarily; 'Should it but be possible, Oh! what a Monster am I!' He wished to resolve his doubts, and to repair his fault, if it were not too late already: But these generous and compassionate sentiments were soon put to flight by the return of Matilda. He forgot the groaning Sufferer, and remembered nothing but the danger and embarrassment of his own situation. The light of the returning Lamp gilded the walls, and in a few moments after Matilda stood beside him. She had quitted her religious habit: She was now cloathed in a long sable Robe, on which was traced in gold embroidery a variety of unknown characters: It was fastened by a girdle of precious stones, in which was fixed a poignard. Her neck and arms were uncovered. In her hand She bore a golden wand. Her hair was loose and flowed wildly upon her shoulders; Her eyes sparkled with terrific expression; and her whole Demeanour was calculated to inspire the beholder with awe and admiration. 'Follow me!' She said to the Monk in a low and solemn voice; 'All is ready!' His limbs trembled, while He obeyed her. She led him through various narrow passages; and on every side as they past along, the beams of the Lamp displayed none but the most revolting objects; Skulls, Bones, Graves, and Images whose eyes seemed to glare on them with horror and surprize. At length they reached a spacious Cavern, whose lofty roof the eye sought in vain to discover. A profound obscurity hovered through the void. Damp vapours struck cold to the Friar's heart; and He listened sadly to the blast while it howled along the lonely Vaults. Here Matilda stopped. She turned to Ambrosio. His cheeks and lips were pale with apprehension. By a glance of mingled scorn and anger She reproved his pusillanimity, but She spoke not. She placed the Lamp upon the ground, near the Basket. She motioned that Ambrosio should be silent, and began the mysterious rites. She drew a circle round him, another round herself, and then taking a small Phial from the Basket, poured a few drops upon the ground before her. She bent over the place, muttered some indistinct sentences, and immediately a pale sulphurous flame arose from the ground. It increased by degrees, and at length spread its waves over the whole surface, the circles alone excepted in which stood Matilda and the Monk. It then ascended the huge Columns of unhewn stone, glided along the roof, and formed the Cavern into an immense chamber totally covered with blue trembling fire. It emitted no heat: On the contrary, the extreme chillness of the place seemed to augment with every moment. Matilda continued her incantations: At intervals She took various articles from the Basket, the nature and name of most of which were unknown to the Friar: But among the few which He distinguished, He particularly observed three human fingers, and an Agnus Dei which She broke in pieces. She threw them all into the flames which burned before her, and they were instantly consumed. The Monk beheld her with anxious curiosity. Suddenly She uttered a loud and piercing shriek. She appeared to be seized with an access of delirium; She tore her hair, beat her bosom, used the most frantic gestures, and drawing the poignard from her girdle plunged it into her left arm. The blood gushed out plentifully, and as She stood on the brink of the circle, She took care that it should fall on the outside. The flames retired from the spot on which the blood was pouring. A volume of dark clouds rose slowly from the ensanguined earth, and ascended gradually, till it reached the vault of the Cavern. At the same time a clap of thunder was heard: The echo pealed fearfully along the subterraneous passages, and the ground shook beneath the feet of the Enchantress. It was now that Ambrosio repented of his rashness. The solemn singularity of the charm had prepared him for something strange and horrible. He waited with fear for the Spirit's appearance, whose coming was announced by thunder and earthquakes. He looked wildly round him, expecting that some dreadful Apparition would meet his eyes, the sight of which would drive him mad. A cold shivering seized his body, and He sank upon one knee, unable to support himself. 'He comes!' exclaimed Matilda in a joyful accent. Ambrosio started, and expected the Daemon with terror. What was his surprize, when the Thunder ceasing to roll, a full strain of melodious Music sounded in the air. At the same time the cloud dispersed, and He beheld a Figure more beautiful than Fancy's pencil ever drew. It was a Youth seemingly scarce eighteen, the perfection of whose form and face was unrivalled. He was perfectly naked: A bright Star sparkled upon his forehead; Two crimson wings extended themselves from his shoulders; and his silken locks were confined by a band of many-coloured fires, which played round his head, formed themselves into a variety of figures, and shone with a brilliance far surpassing that of precious Stones. Circlets of Diamonds were fastened round his arms and ankles, and in his right hand He bore a silver branch, imitating Myrtle. His form shone with dazzling glory: He was surrounded by clouds of rose-coloured light, and at the moment that He appeared, a refreshing air breathed perfumes through the Cavern. Enchanted at a vision so contrary to his expectations, Ambrosio gazed upon the Spirit with delight and wonder: Yet however beautiful the Figure, He could not but remark a wildness in the Daemon's eyes, and a mysterious melancholy impressed upon his features, betraying the Fallen Angel, and inspiring the Spectators with secret awe. The Music ceased. Matilda addressed herself to the Spirit: She spoke in a language unintelligible to the Monk, and was answered in the same. She seemed to insist upon something which the Daemon was unwilling to grant. He frequently darted upon Ambrosio angry glances, and at such times the Friar's heart sank within him. Matilda appeared to grow incensed. She spoke in a loud and commanding tone, and her gestures declared that She was threatening him with her vengeance. Her menaces had the desired effect: The Spirit sank upon his knee, and with a submissive air presented to her the branch of Myrtle. No sooner had She received it, than the Music was again heard; A thick cloud spread itself over the Apparition; The blue flames disappeared, and total obscurity reigned through the Cave. The Abbot moved not from his place: His faculties were all bound up in pleasure, anxiety, and surprize. At length the darkness dispersing, He perceived Matilda standing near him in her religious habit, with the Myrtle in her hand. No traces of the incantation, and the Vaults were only illuminated by the faint rays of the sepulchral Lamp. 'I have succeeded,' said Matilda, 'though with more difficulty than I expected. Lucifer, whom I summoned to my assistance, was at first unwilling to obey my commands: To enforce his compliance I was constrained to have recourse to my strongest charms. They have produced the desired effect, but I have engaged never more to invoke his agency in your favour. Beware then, how you employ an opportunity which never will return. My magic arts will now be of no use to you: In future you can only hope for supernatural aid by invoking the Daemons yourself, and accepting the conditions of their service. This you will never do: You want strength of mind to force them to obedience, and unless you pay their established price, they will not be your voluntary Servants. In this one instance they consent to obey you: I offer you the means of enjoying your Mistress, and be careful not to lose the opportunity. Receive this constellated Myrtle: While you bear this in your hand, every door will fly open to you. It will procure you access tomorrow night to Antonia's chamber: Then breathe upon it thrice, pronounce her name, and place it upon her pillow. A death-like slumber will immediately seize upon her, and deprive her of the power of resisting your attempts. Sleep will hold her till break of Morning. In this state you may satisfy your desires without danger of being discovered; since when daylight shall dispel the effects of the enchantment, Antonia will perceive her dishonour, but be ignorant of the Ravisher. Be happy then, my Ambrosio, and let this service convince you that my friendship is disinterested and pure. The night must be near expiring: Let us return to the Abbey, lest our absence should create surprize.' The Abbot received the talisman with silent gratitude. His ideas were too much bewildered by the adventures of the night to permit his expressing his thanks audibly, or indeed as yet to feel the whole value of her present. Matilda took up her Lamp and Basket, and guided her Companion from the mysterious Cavern. She restored the Lamp to its former place, and continued her route in darkness, till She reached the foot of the Staircase. The first beams of the rising Sun darting down it facilitated the ascent. Matilda and the Abbot hastened out of the Sepulchre, closed the door after them, and soon regained the Abbey's western Cloister. No one met them, and they retired unobserved to their respective Cells. The confusion of Ambrosio's mind now began to appease. He rejoiced in the fortunate issue of his adventure, and reflecting upon the virtues of the Myrtle, looked upon Antonia as already in his power. Imagination retraced to him those secret charms betrayed to him by the Enchanted Mirror, and He waited with impatience for the approach of midnight. VOLUME III CHAPTER I The crickets sing, and Man's o'er-laboured sense Repairs itself by rest: Our Tarquin thus Did softly press the rushes, ere He wakened The chastity He wounded--Cytherea, How bravely thou becom'st thy bed! Fresh Lily! And whiter than the sheets! Cymbeline. All the researches of the Marquis de las Cisternas proved vain: Agnes was lost to him for ever. Despair produced so violent an effect upon his constitution, that the consequence was a long and severe illness. This prevented him from visiting Elvira as He had intended; and She being ignorant of the cause of his neglect, it gave her no trifling uneasiness. His Sister's death had prevented Lorenzo from communicating to his Uncle his designs respecting Antonia: The injunctions of her Mother forbad his presenting himself to her without the Duke's consent; and as She heard no more of him or his proposals, Elvira conjectured that He had either met with a better match, or had been commanded to give up all thoughts of her Daughter. Every day made her more uneasy respecting Antonia's fate: While She retained the Abbot's protection, She bore with fortitude the disappointment of her hopes with regard to Lorenzo and the Marquis. That resource now failed her. She was convinced that Ambrosio had meditated her Daughter's ruin: And when She reflected that her death would leave Antonia friendless and unprotected in a world so base, so perfidious and depraved, her heart swelled with the bitterness of apprehension. At such times She would sit for hours gazing upon the lovely Girl; and seeming to listen to her innocent prattle, while in reality her thoughts dwelt upon the sorrows into which a moment would suffice to plunge her. Then She would clasp her in her arms suddenly, lean her head upon her Daughter's bosom, and bedew it with her tears. An event was in preparation which, had She known it, would have relieved her from her inquietude. Lorenzo now waited only for a favourable opportunity to inform the Duke of his intended marriage: However, a circumstance which occurred at this period, obliged him to delay his explanation for a few days longer. Don Raymond's malady seemed to gain ground. Lorenzo was constantly at his bedside, and treated him with a tenderness truly fraternal. Both the cause and effects of the disorder were highly afflicting to the Brother of Agnes: yet Theodore's grief was scarcely less sincere. That amiable Boy quitted not his Master for a moment, and put every means in practice to console and alleviate his sufferings. The Marquis had conceived so rooted an affection for his deceased Mistress, that it was evident to all that He never could survive her loss: Nothing could have prevented him from sinking under his grief but the persuasion of her being still alive, and in need of his assistance. Though convinced of its falsehood, his Attendants encouraged him in a belief which formed his only comfort. He was assured daily that fresh perquisitions were making respecting the fate of Agnes: Stories were invented recounting the various attempts made to get admittance into the Convent; and circumstances were related which, though they did not promise her absolute recovery, at least were sufficient to keep his hopes alive. The Marquis constantly fell into the most terrible excess of passion when informed of the failure of these supposed attempts. Still He would not credit that the succeeding ones would have the same fate, but flattered himself that the next would prove more fortunate. Theodore was the only one who exerted himself to realize his Master's Chimoeras. He was eternally busied in planning schemes for entering the Convent, or at least of obtaining from the Nuns some intelligence of Agnes. To execute these schemes was the only inducement which could prevail on him to quit Don Raymond. He became a very Proteus, changing his shape every day; but all his metamorphoses were to very little purpose: He regularly returned to the Palace de las Cisternas without any intelligence to confirm his Master's hopes. One day He took it into his head to disguise himself as a Beggar. He put a patch over his left eye, took his Guitar in hand, and posted himself at the Gate of the Convent. 'If Agnes is really confined in the Convent,' thought He, 'and hears my voice, She will recollect it, and possibly may find means to let me know that She is here.' With this idea He mingled with a crowd of Beggars who assembled daily at the Gate of St. Clare to receive Soup, which the Nuns were accustomed to distribute at twelve o'clock. All were provided with jugs or bowls to carry it away; But as Theodore had no utensil of this kind, He begged leave to eat his portion at the Convent door. This was granted without difficulty: His sweet voice, and in spite of his patched eye, his engaging countenance, won the heart of the good old Porteress, who, aided by a Lay-Sister, was busied in serving to each his Mess. Theodore was bad to stay till the Others should depart, and promised that his request should then be granted. The Youth desired no better, since it was not to eat Soup that He presented himself at the Convent. He thanked the Porteress for her permission, retired from the Door, and seating himself upon a large stone, amused himself in tuning his Guitar while the Beggars were served. As soon as the Crowd was gone, Theodore was beckoned to the Gate, and desired to come in. He obeyed with infinite readiness, but affected great respect at passing the hallowed Threshold, and to be much daunted by the presence of the Reverend Ladies. His feigned timidity flattered the vanity of the Nuns, who endeavoured to reassure him. The Porteress took him into her awn little Parlour: In the meanwhile, the Lay-Sister went to the Kitchen, and soon returned with a double portion of Soup, of better quality than what was given to the Beggars. His Hostess added some fruits and confections from her own private store, and Both encouraged the Youth to dine heartily. To all these attentions He replied with much seeming gratitude, and abundance of blessings upon his benefactresses. While He ate, the Nuns admired the delicacy of his features, the beauty of his hair, and the sweetness and grace which accompanied all his actions. They lamented to each other in whispers, that so charming a Youth should be exposed to the seductions of the World, and agreed, that He would be a worthy Pillar of the Catholic Church. They concluded their conference by resolving that Heaven would be rendered a real service if they entreated the Prioress to intercede with Ambrosio for the Beggar's admission into the order of Capuchins. This being determined, the Porteress, who was a person of great influence in the Convent, posted away in all haste to the Domina's Cell. Here She made so flaming a narrative of Theodore's merits that the old Lady grew curious to see him. Accordingly, the Porteress was commissioned to convey him to the Parlour grate. In the interim, the supposed Beggar was sifting the Lay-Sister with respect to the fate of Agnes: Her evidence only corroborated the Domina's assertions. She said that Agnes had been taken ill on returning from confession, had never quitted her bed from that moment, and that She had herself been present at the Funeral. She even attested having seen her dead body, and assisted with her own hands in adjusting it upon the Bier. This account discouraged Theodore: Yet as He had pushed the adventure so far, He resolved to witness its conclusion. The Porteress now returned, and ordered him to follow her. He obeyed, and was conducted into the Parlour, where the Lady Prioress was already posted at the Grate. The Nuns surrounded her, who all flocked with eagerness to a scene which promised some diversion. Theodore saluted them with profound respect, and his presence had the power to smooth for a moment even the stern brow of the Superior. She asked several questions respecting his Parents, his religion, and what had reduced him to a state of Beggary. To these demands his answers were perfectly satisfactory and perfectly false. He was then asked his opinion of a monastic life: He replied in terms of high estimation and respect for it. Upon this, the Prioress told him that his obtaining an entrance into a religious order was not impossible; that her recommendation would not permit his poverty to be an obstacle, and that if She found him deserving it, He might depend in future upon her protection. Theodore assured her that to merit her favour would be his highest ambition; and having ordered him to return next day, when She would talk with him further, the Domina quitted the Parlour. The Nuns, whom respect for the Superior had till then kept silent, now crowded all together to the Grate, and assailed the Youth with a multitude of questions. He had already examined each with attention: Alas! Agnes was not amongst them. The Nuns heaped question upon question so thickly that it was scarcely possible for him to reply. One asked where He was born, since his accent declared him to be a Foreigner: Another wanted to know, why He wore a patch upon his left eye: Sister Helena enquired whether He had not a Sister like him, because She should like such a Companion; and Sister Rachael was fully persuaded that the Brother would be the pleasanter Companion of the Two. Theodore amused himself with retailing to the credulous Nuns for truths all the strange stories which his imagination could invent. He related to them his supposed adventures, and penetrated every Auditor with astonishment, while He talked of Giants, Savages, Ship-wrecks, and Islands inhabited 'By Anthropophagi, and Men whose heads Do grow beneath their shoulders,' With many other circumstances to the full as remarkable. He said, that He was born in Terra Incognita, was educated at an Hottentot University, and had past two years among the Americans of Silesia. 'For what regards the loss of my eye' said He, 'it was a just punishment upon me for disrespect to the Virgin, when I made my second pilgrimage to Loretto. I stood near the Altar in the miraculous Chapel: The Monks were proceeding to array the Statue in her best apparel. The Pilgrims were ordered to close their eyes during this ceremony: But though by nature extremely religious, curiosity was too powerful. At the moment ..... I shall penetrate you with horror, reverend Ladies, when I reveal my crime! .... At the moment that the Monks were changing her shift, I ventured to open my left eye, and gave a little peep towards the Statue. That look was my last! The Glory which surrounded the Virgin was too great to be supported. I hastily shut my sacrilegious eye, and never have been able to unclose it since!' At the relation of this miracle the Nuns all crossed themselves, and promised to intercede with the blessed Virgin for the recovery of his sight. They expressed their wonder at the extent of his travels, and at the strange adventures which He had met with at so early an age. They now remarked his Guitar, and enquired whether he was an adept in Music. He replied with modesty that it was not for him to decide upon his talents, but requested permission to appeal to them as Judges. This was granted without difficulty. 'But at least,' said the old Porteress, 'take care not to sing any thing profane.' 'You may depend upon my discretion,' replied Theodore: 'You shall hear how dangerous it is for young Women to abandon themselves to their passions, illustrated by the adventure of a Damsel who fell suddenly in love with an unknown Knight.' 'But is the adventure true?' enquired the Porteress. 'Every word of it. It happened in Denmark, and the Heroine was thought so beautiful that She was known by no other name but that of "the lovely Maid".' 'In Denmark, say you?' mumbled an old Nun; 'Are not the People all Blacks in Denmark?' 'By no means, reverend Lady; They are of a delicate pea-green with flame-coloured hair and whiskers.' 'Mother of God! Pea-green?' exclaimed Sister Helena; 'Oh! 'tis impossible!' 'Impossible?' said the Porteress with a look of contempt and exultation: 'Not at all: When I was a young Woman, I remember seeing several of them myself.' Theodore now put his instrument in proper order. He had read the story of a King of England whose prison was discovered by a Minstrel; and He hoped that the same scheme would enable him to discover Agnes, should She be in the Convent. He chose a Ballad which She had taught him herself in the Castle of Lindenberg: She might possibly catch the sound, and He hoped to hear her replying to some of the Stanzas. His Guitar was now in tune, and He prepared to strike it. 'But before I begin,' said He 'it is necessary to inform you, Ladies, that this same Denmark is terribly infested by Sorcerers, Witches, and Evil Spirits. Every element possesses its appropriate Daemons. The Woods are haunted by a malignant power, called "the Erl- or Oak-King:" He it is who blights the Trees, spoils the Harvest, and commands the Imps and Goblins: He appears in the form of an old Man of majestic figure, with a golden Crown and long white beard: His principal amusement is to entice young Children from their Parents, and as soon as He gets them into his Cave, He tears them into a thousand pieces--The Rivers are governed by another Fiend, called "the Water-King:" His province is to agitate the deep, occasion ship-wrecks, and drag the drowning Sailors beneath the waves: He wears the appearance of a Warrior, and employs himself in luring young Virgins into his snare: What He does with them, when He catches them in the water, Reverend Ladies, I leave for you to imagine--"The Fire-King" seems to be a Man all formed of flames: He raises the Meteors and wandering lights which beguile Travellers into ponds and marshes, and He directs the lightning where it may do most mischief--The last of these elementary Daemons is called "the Cloud-King;" His figure is that of a beautiful Youth, and He is distinguished by two large sable Wings: Though his outside is so enchanting, He is not a bit better disposed than the Others: He is continually employed in raising Storms, tearing up Forests by the roots, and blowing Castles and Convents about the ears of their Inhabitants. The First has a Daughter, who is Queen of the Elves and Fairies; The Second has a Mother, who is a powerful Enchantress: Neither of these Ladies are worth more than the Gentlemen: I do not remember to have heard any family assigned to the two other Daemons, but at present I have no business with any of them except the Fiend of the Waters. He is the Hero of my Ballad; but I thought it necessary before I began, to give you some account of his proceedings--' Theodore then played a short symphony; After which, stretching his voice to its utmost extent to facilitate its reaching the ear of Agnes, He sang the following Stanzas. THE WATER-KING A DANISH BALLAD With gentle murmur flowed the Tide, While by the fragrant flowery side The lovely Maid with carols gay To Mary's Church pursued her way. The Water-Fiend's malignant eye Along the Banks beheld her hie; Straight to his Mother-witch He sped, And thus in suppliant accents said: 'Oh! Mother! Mother! now advise, How I may yonder Maid surprize: Oh! Mother! Mother! Now explain, How I may yonder Maid obtain.' The Witch She gave him armour white; She formed him like a gallant Knight; Of water clear next made her hand A Steed, whose housings were of sand. The Water-King then swift He went; To Mary's Church his steps He bent: He bound his Courser to the Door, And paced the Church-yard three times four. His Courser to the door bound He, And paced the Church-yard four time three: Then hastened up the Aisle, where all The People flocked, both great and small. The Priest said, as the Knight drew near, 'And wherefore comes the white Chief here?' The lovely Maid She smiled aside; 'Oh! would I were the white Chief's Bride!' He stept o'er Benches one and two; 'Oh! lovely Maid, I die for You!' He stept o'er Benches two and three; 'Oh! lovely Maiden, go with me!' Then sweet She smiled, the lovely Maid, And while She gave her hand, She said, 'Betide me joy, betide me woe, O'er Hill, o'er dale, with thee I go.' The Priest their hands together joins: They dance, while clear the moon-beam shines; And little thinks the Maiden bright, Her Partner is the Water-spright. Oh! had some spirit deigned to sing, 'Your Partner is the Water-King!' The Maid had fear and hate confest, And cursed the hand which then She prest. But nothing giving cause to think, How near She strayed to danger's brink, Still on She went, and hand in hand The Lovers reached the yellow sand. 'Ascend this Steed with me, my Dear; We needs must cross the streamlet here; Ride boldly in; It is not deep; The winds are hushed, the billows sleep.' Thus spoke the Water-King. The Maid Her Traitor-Bride-groom's wish obeyed: And soon She saw the Courser lave Delighted in his parent wave. 'Stop! Stop! my Love! The waters blue E'en now my shrinking foot bedew!' 'Oh! lay aside your fears, sweet Heart! We now have reached the deepest part.' 'Stop! Stop! my Love! For now I see The waters rise above my knee.' 'Oh! lay aside your fears, sweet Heart! We now have reached the deepest part.' 'Stop! Stop! for God's sake, stop! For Oh! The waters o'er my bosom flow!'-- Scarce was the word pronounced, when Knight And Courser vanished from her sight. She shrieks, but shrieks in vain; for high The wild winds rising dull the cry; The Fiend exults; The Billows dash, And o'er their hapless Victim wash. Three times while struggling with the stream, The lovely Maid was heard to scream; But when the Tempest's rage was o'er, The lovely Maid was seen no more. Warned by this Tale, ye Damsels fair, To whom you give your love beware! Believe not every handsome Knight, And dance not with the Water-Spright! The Youth ceased to sing. The Nuns were delighted with the sweetness of his voice and masterly manner of touching the Instrument: But however acceptable this applause would have been at any other time, at present it was insipid to Theodore. His artifice had not succeeded. He paused in vain between the Stanzas: No voice replied to his, and He abandoned the hope of equalling Blondel. The Convent Bell now warned the Nuns that it was time to assemble in the Refectory. They were obliged to quit the Grate; They thanked the Youth for the entertainment which his Music had afforded them, and charged him to return the next day. This He promised: The Nuns, to give him the greater inclination to keep his word, told him that He might always depend upon the Convent for his meals, and each of them made him some little present. One gave him a box of sweetmeats; Another, an Agnus Dei; Some brought reliques of Saints, waxen Images, and consecrated Crosses; and Others presented him with pieces of those works in which the Religious excel, such as embroidery, artificial flowers, lace, and needlework. All these He was advised to sell, in order to put himself into better case; and He was assured that it would be easy to dispose of them, since the Spaniards hold the performances of the Nuns in high estimation. Having received these gifts with seeming respect and gratitude, He remarked that, having no Basket, He knew not how to convey them away. Several of the Nuns were hastening in search of one, when they were stopped by the return of an elderly Woman, whom Theodore had not till then observed: Her mild countenance, and respectable air prejudiced him immediately in her favour. 'Hah!' said the Porteress; 'Here comes the Mother St. Ursula with a Basket.' The Nun approached the Grate, and presented the Basket to Theodore: It was of willow, lined with blue satin, and upon the four sides were painted scenes from the legend of St. Genevieve. 'Here is my gift,' said She, as She gave it into his hand; 'Good Youth, despise it not; Though its value seems insignificant, it has many hidden virtues.' She accompanied these words with an expressive look. It was not lost upon Theodore; In receiving the present, He drew as near the Grate as possible. 'Agnes!' She whispered in a voice scarcely intelligible. Theodore, however, caught the sound: He concluded that some mystery was concealed in the Basket, and his heart beat with impatience and joy. At this moment the Domina returned. Her air was gloomy and frowning, and She looked if possible more stern than ever. 'Mother St. Ursula, I would speak with you in private.' The Nun changed colour, and was evidently disconcerted. 'With me?' She replied in a faltering voice. The Domina motioned that She must follow her, and retired. The Mother St. Ursula obeyed her; Soon after, the Refectory Bell ringing a second time, the Nuns quitted the Grate, and Theodore was left at liberty to carry off his prize. Delighted that at length He had obtained some intelligence for the Marquis, He flew rather than ran, till He reached the Hotel de las Cisternas. In a few minutes He stood by his Master's Bed with the Basket in his hand. Lorenzo was in the chamber, endeavouring to reconcile his Friend to a misfortune which He felt himself but too severely. Theodore related his adventure, and the hopes which had been created by the Mother St. Ursula's gift. The Marquis started from his pillow: That fire which since the death of Agnes had been extinguished, now revived in his bosom, and his eyes sparkled with the eagerness of expectation. The emotions which Lorenzo's countenance betrayed, were scarcely weaker, and He waited with inexpressible impatience for the solution of this mystery. Raymond caught the basket from the hands of his Page: He emptied the contents upon the bed, and examined them with minute attention. He hoped that a letter would be found at the bottom; Nothing of the kind appeared. The search was resumed, and still with no better success. At length Don Raymond observed that one corner of the blue satin lining was unripped; He tore it open hastily, and drew forth a small scrap of paper neither folded or sealed. It was addressed to the Marquis de las Cisternas, and the contents were as follows. Having recognised your Page, I venture to send these few lines. Procure an order from the Cardinal-Duke for seizing my Person, and that of the Domina; But let it not be executed till Friday at midnight. It is the Festival of St. Clare: There will be a procession of Nuns by torch-light, and I shall be among them. Beware not to let your intention be known: Should a syllable be dropt to excite the Domina's suspicions, you will never hear of me more. Be cautious, if you prize the memory of Agnes, and wish to punish her Assassins. I have that to tell, will freeze your blood with horror. St. Ursula. No sooner had the Marquis read the note than He fell back upon his pillow deprived of sense or motion. The hope failed him which till now had supported his existence; and these lines convinced him but too positively that Agnes was indeed no more. Lorenzo felt this circumstance less forcibly, since it had always been his idea that his Sister had perished by unfair means. When He found by the Mother St. Ursula's letter how true were his suspicions, the confirmation excited no other sentiment in his bosom than a wish to punish the Murderers as they deserved. It was no easy task to recall the Marquis to himself. As soon as He recovered his speech, He broke out into execrations against the Assassins of his Beloved, and vowed to take upon them a signal vengeance. He continued to rave and torment himself with impotent passion till his constitution, enfeebled by grief and illness, could support itself no longer, and He relapsed into insensibility. His melancholy situation sincerely affected Lorenzo, who would willingly have remained in the apartment of his Friend; But other cares now demanded his presence. It was necessary to procure the order for seizing the Prioress of St. Clare. For this purpose, having committed Raymond to the care of the best Physicians in Madrid, He quitted the Hotel de las Cisternas, and bent his course towards the Palace of the Cardinal-Duke. His disappointment was excessive, when He found that affairs of State had obliged the Cardinal to set out for a distant Province. It wanted but five to Friday: Yet by travelling day and night, He hoped to return in time for the Pilgrimage of St. Clare. In this He succeeded. He found the Cardinal-Duke; and represented to him the supposed culpability of the Prioress, as also the violent effects which it had produced upon Don Raymond. He could have used no argument so forcible as this last. Of all his Nephews, the Marquis was the only one to whom the Cardinal-Duke was sincerely attached: He perfectly doated upon him, and the Prioress could have committed no greater crime in his eyes than to have endangered the life of the Marquis. Consequently, He granted the order of arrest without difficulty: He also gave Lorenzo a letter to a principal Officer of the Inquisition, desiring him to see his mandate executed. Furnished with these papers, Medina hastened back to Madrid, which He reached on the Friday a few hours before dark. He found the Marquis somewhat easier, but so weak and exhausted that without great exertion He could neither speak or more. Having past an hour by his Bedside, Lorenzo left him to communicate his design to his Uncle, as also to give Don Ramirez de Mello the Cardinal's letter. The First was petrified with horror when He learnt the fate of his unhappy Niece: He encouraged Lorenzo to punish her Assassins, and engaged to accompany him at night to St. Clare's Convent. Don Ramirez promised his firmest support, and selected a band of trusty Archers to prevent opposition on the part of the Populace. But while Lorenzo was anxious to unmask one religious Hypocrite, He was unconscious of the sorrows prepared for him by Another. Aided by Matilda's infernal Agents, Ambrosio had resolved upon the innocent Antonia's ruin. The moment destined to be so fatal to her arrived. She had taken leave of her Mother for the night. As She kissed her, She felt an unusual despondency infuse itself into her bosom. She left her, and returned to her instantly, threw herself into her maternal arms, and bathed her cheek with tears: She felt uneasy at quitting her, and a secret presentiment assured her that never must they meet again. Elvira observed, and tried to laugh her out of this childish prejudice: She chid her mildly for encouraging such ungrounded sadness, and warned her how dangerous it was to encourage such ideas. To all her remonstrances She received no other answer than, 'Mother! Dear Mother! Oh! would to God, it were Morning!' Elvira, whose inquietude respecting her Daughter was a great obstacle to her perfect reestablishment, was still labouring under the effects of her late severe illness. She was this Evening more than usually indisposed, and retired to bed before her accustomed hour. Antonia withdrew from her Mother's chamber with regret, and till the Door closed, kept her eyes fixed upon her with melancholy expression. She retired to her own apartment; Her heart was filled with bitterness: It seemed to her that all her prospects were blasted, and the world contained nothing for which it was worth existing. She sank into a Chair, reclined her head upon her arm, and gazed upon the floor with a vacant stare, while the most gloomy images floated before her fancy. She was still in this state of insensibility when She was disturbed by hearing a strain of soft Music breathed beneath her window. She rose, drew near the Casement, and opened it to hear it more distinctly. Having thrown her veil over her face, She ventured to look out. By the light of the Moon She perceived several Men below with Guitars and Lutes in their hands; and at a little distance from them stood Another wrapped in his cloak, whose stature and appearance bore a strong resemblance to Lorenzo's. She was not deceived in this conjecture. It was indeed Lorenzo himself, who bound by his word not to present himself to Antonia without his Uncle's consent, endeavoured by occasional Serenades, to convince his Mistress that his attachment still existed. His stratagem had not the desired effect. Antonia was far from supposing that this nightly music was intended as a compliment to her: She was too modest to think herself worthy such attentions; and concluding them to be addressed to some neighbouring Lady, She grieved to find that they were offered by Lorenzo. The air which was played, was plaintive and melodious. It accorded with the state of Antonia's mind, and She listened with pleasure. After a symphony of some length, it was succeeded by the sound of voices, and Antonia distinguished the following words. SERENADE Chorus Oh! Breathe in gentle strain, my Lyre! 'Tis here that Beauty loves to rest: Describe the pangs of fond desire, Which rend a faithful Lover's breast. Song In every heart to find a Slave, In every Soul to fix his reign, In bonds to lead the wise and brave, And make the Captives kiss his chain, Such is the power of Love, and Oh! I grieve so well Love's power to know. In sighs to pass the live-long day, To taste a short and broken sleep, For one dear Object far away, All others scorned, to watch and weep, Such are the pains of Love, and Oh! I grieve so well Love's pains to know! To read consent in virgin eyes, To press the lip ne'er prest till then To hear the sigh of transport rise, And kiss, and kiss, and kiss again, Such are thy pleasures, Love, But Oh! When shall my heart thy pleasures know? Chorus Now hush, my Lyre! My voice be still! Sleep, gentle Maid! May fond desire With amorous thoughts thy visions fill, Though still my voice, and hushed my Lyre. The Music ceased: The Performers dispersed, and silence prevailed through the Street. Antonia quitted the window with regret: She as usual recommended herself to the protection of St. Rosolia, said her accustomed prayers, and retired to bed. Sleep was not long absent, and his presence relieved her from her terrors and inquietude. It was almost two o'clock before the lustful Monk ventured to bend his steps towards Antonia's dwelling. It has been already mentioned that the Abbey was at no great distance from the Strada di San Iago. He reached the House unobserved. Here He stopped, and hesitated for a moment. He reflected on the enormity of the crime, the consequences of a discovery, and the probability, after what had passed, of Elvira's suspecting him to be her Daughter's Ravisher: On the other hand it was suggested that She could do no more than suspect; that no proofs of his guilt could be produced; that it would seem impossible for the rape to have been committed without Antonia's knowing when, where, or by whom; and finally, He believed that his fame was too firmly established to be shaken by the unsupported accusations of two unknown Women. This latter argument was perfectly false: He knew not how uncertain is the air of popular applause, and that a moment suffices to make him today the detestation of the world, who yesterday was its Idol. The result of the Monk's deliberations was that He should proceed in his enterprize. He ascended the steps leading to the House. No sooner did He touch the door with the silver Myrtle, than it flew open, and presented him with a free passage. He entered, and the door closed after him of its own accord. Guided by the moonbeams, He proceeded up the Staircase with slow and cautious steps. He looked round him every moment with apprehension and anxiety. He saw a Spy in every shadow, and heard a voice in every murmur of the night breeze. Consciousness of the guilty business on which He was employed appalled his heart, and rendered it more timid than a Woman's. Yet still He proceeded. He reached the door of Antonia's chamber. He stopped, and listened. All was hushed within. The total silence persuaded him that his intended Victim was retired to rest, and He ventured to lift up the Latch. The door was fastened, and resisted his efforts: But no sooner was it touched by the Talisman, than the Bolt flew back. The Ravisher stept on, and found himself in the chamber, where slept the innocent Girl, unconscious how dangerous a Visitor was drawing near her Couch. The door closed after him, and the Bolt shot again into its fastening. Ambrosio advanced with precaution. He took care that not a board should creak under his foot, and held in his breath as He approached the Bed. His first attention was to perform the magic ceremony, as Matilda had charged him: He breathed thrice upon the silver Myrtle, pronounced over it Antonia's name, and laid it upon her pillow. The effects which it had already produced permitted not his doubting its success in prolonging the slumbers of his devoted Mistress. No sooner was the enchantment performed than He considered her to be absolutely in his power, and his eyes flamed with lust and impatience. He now ventured to cast a glance upon the sleeping Beauty. A single Lamp, burning before the Statue of St. Rosolia, shed a faint light through the room, and permitted him to examine all the charms of the lovely Object before him. The heat of the weather had obliged her to throw off part of the Bed-cloathes: Those which still covered her, Ambrosio's insolent hand hastened to remove. She lay with her cheek reclining upon one ivory arm; The Other rested on the side of the Bed with graceful indolence. A few tresses of her hair had escaped from beneath the Muslin which confined the rest, and fell carelessly over her bosom, as it heaved with slow and regular suspiration. The warm air had spread her cheek with higher colour than usual. A smile inexpressibly sweet played round her ripe and coral lips, from which every now and then escaped a gentle sigh or an half-pronounced sentence. An air of enchanting innocence and candour pervaded her whole form; and there was a sort of modesty in her very nakedness which added fresh stings to the desires of the lustful Monk. He remained for some moments devouring those charms with his eyes which soon were to be subjected to his ill-regulated passions. Her mouth half-opened seemed to solicit a kiss: He bent over her; he joined his lips to hers, and drew in the fragrance of her breath with rapture. This momentary pleasure increased his longing for still greater. His desires were raised to that frantic height by which Brutes are agitated. He resolved not to delay for one instant longer the accomplishment of his wishes, and hastily proceeded to tear off those garments which impeded the gratification of his lust. 'Gracious God!' exclaimed a voice behind him; 'Am I not deceived? Is not this an illusion?' Terror, confusion, and disappointment accompanied these words, as they struck Ambrosio's hearing. He started, and turned towards it. Elvira stood at the door of the chamber, and regarded the Monk with looks of surprize and detestation. A frightful dream had represented to her Antonia on the verge of a precipice. She saw her trembling on the brink: Every moment seemed to threaten her fall, and She heard her exclaim with shrieks, 'Save me, Mother! Save me!--Yet a moment, and it will be too late!' Elvira woke in terror. The vision had made too strong an impression upon her mind, to permit her resting till assured of her Daughter's safety. She hastily started from her Bed, threw on a loose night-gown, and passing through the Closet in which slept the Waiting-woman, She reached Antonia's chamber just in time to rescue her from the grasp of the Ravisher. His shame and her amazement seemed to have petrified into Statues both Elvira and the Monk: They remained gazing upon each other in silence. The Lady was the first to recover herself. 'It is no dream!' She cried; 'It is really Ambrosio, who stands before me! It is the Man whom Madrid esteems a Saint, that I find at this late hour near the Couch of my unhappy Child! Monster of Hypocrisy! I already suspected your designs, but forbore your accusation in pity to human frailty. Silence would now be criminal: The whole City shall be informed of your incontinence. I will unmask you, Villain, and convince the Church what a Viper She cherishes in her bosom.' Pale and confused the baffled Culprit stood trembling before her. He would fain have extenuated his offence, but could find no apology for his conduct: He could produce nothing but broken sentences, and excuses which contradicted each other. Elvira was too justly incensed to grant the pardon which He requested. She protested that She would raise the neighbourhood, and make him an example to all future Hypocrites. Then hastening to the Bed, She called to Antonia to wake; and finding that her voice had no effect, She took her arm, and raised her forcibly from the pillow. The charm operated too powerfully. Antonia remained insensible, and on being released by her Mother, sank back upon the pillow. 'This slumber cannot be natural!' cried the amazed Elvira, whose indignation increased with every moment. 'Some mystery is concealed in it; But tremble, Hypocrite; all your villainy shall soon be unravelled! Help! Help!' She exclaimed aloud; 'Within there! Flora! Flora!' 'Hear me for one moment, Lady!' cried the Monk, restored to himself by the urgency of the danger; 'By all that is sacred and holy, I swear that your Daughter's honour is still unviolated. Forgive my transgression! Spare me the shame of a discovery, and permit me to regain the Abbey undisturbed. Grant me this request in mercy! I promise not only that Antonia shall be secure from me in future, but that the rest of my life shall prove .....' Elvira interrupted him abruptly. 'Antonia secure from you? _I_ will secure her! You shall betray no longer the confidence of Parents! Your iniquity shall be unveiled to the public eye: All Madrid shall shudder at your perfidy, your hypocrisy and incontinence. What Ho! there! Flora! Flora, I say!' While She spoke thus, the remembrance of Agnes struck upon his mind. Thus had She sued to him for mercy, and thus had He refused her prayer! It was now his turn to suffer, and He could not but acknowledge that his punishment was just. In the meanwhile Elvira continued to call Flora to her assistance; but her voice was so choaked with passion that the Servant, who was buried in profound slumber, was insensible to all her cries: Elvira dared not go towards the Closet in which Flora slept, lest the Monk should take that opportunity to escape. Such indeed was his intention: He trusted that could He reach the Abbey unobserved by any other than Elvira, her single testimony would not suffice to ruin a reputation so well established as his was in Madrid. With this idea He gathered up such garments as He had already thrown off, and hastened towards the Door. Elvira was aware of his design; She followed him, and ere He could draw back the bolt, seized him by the arm, and detained him. 'Attempt not to fly!' said She; 'You quit not this room without Witnesses of your guilt.' Ambrosio struggled in vain to disengage himself. Elvira quitted not her hold, but redoubled her cries for succour. The Friar's danger grew more urgent. He expected every moment to hear people assembling at her voice; And worked up to madness by the approach of ruin, He adopted a resolution equally desperate and savage. Turning round suddenly, with one hand He grasped Elvira's throat so as to prevent her continuing her clamour, and with the other, dashing her violently upon the ground, He dragged her towards the Bed. Confused by this unexpected attack, She scarcely had power to strive at forcing herself from his grasp: While the Monk, snatching the pillow from beneath her Daughter's head, covering with it Elvira's face, and pressing his knee upon her stomach with all his strength, endeavoured to put an end to her existence. He succeeded but too well. Her natural strength increased by the excess of anguish, long did the Sufferer struggle to disengage herself, but in vain. The Monk continued to kneel upon her breast, witnessed without mercy the convulsive trembling of her limbs beneath him, and sustained with inhuman firmness the spectacle of her agonies, when soul and body were on the point of separating. Those agonies at length were over. She ceased to struggle for life. The Monk took off the pillow, and gazed upon her. Her face was covered with a frightful blackness: Her limbs moved no more; The blood was chilled in her veins; Her heart had forgotten to beat, and her hands were stiff and frozen. Ambrosio beheld before him that once noble and majestic form, now become a Corse, cold, senseless and disgusting. This horrible act was no sooner perpetrated, than the Friar beheld the enormity of his crime. A cold dew flowed over his limbs; his eyes closed; He staggered to a chair, and sank into it almost as lifeless as the Unfortunate who lay extended at his feet. From this state He was rouzed by the necessity of flight, and the danger of being found in Antonia's apartment. He had no desire to profit by the execution of his crime. Antonia now appeared to him an object of disgust. A deadly cold had usurped the place of that warmth which glowed in his bosom: No ideas offered themselves to his mind but those of death and guilt, of present shame and future punishment. Agitated by remorse and fear He prepared for flight: Yet his terrors did not so compleatly master his recollection, as to prevent his taking the precautions necessary for his safety. He replaced the pillow upon the bed, gathered up his garments, and with the fatal Talisman in his hand, bent his unsteady steps towards the door. Bewildered by fear, He fancied that his flight was opposed by Legions of Phantoms; Whereever He turned, the disfigured Corse seemed to lie in his passage, and it was long before He succeeded in reaching the door. The enchanted Myrtle produced its former effect. The door opened, and He hastened down the staircase. He entered the Abbey unobserved, and having shut himself into his Cell, He abandoned his soul to the tortures of unavailing remorse, and terrors of impending detection. CHAPTER II Tell us, ye Dead, will none of you in pity To those you left behind disclose the secret? O! That some courteous Ghost would blab it out, What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be. I've heard that Souls departed have sometimes Fore-warned Men of their deaths: 'Twas kindly done To knock, and give the alarum. Blair. Ambrosio shuddered at himself, when He reflected on his rapid advances in iniquity. The enormous crime which He had just committed filled him with real horror. The murdered Elvira was continually before his eyes, and his guilt was already punished by the agonies of his conscience. Time, however, considerably weakened these impressions: One day passed away, another followed it, and still not the least suspicion was thrown upon him. Impunity reconciled him to his guilt: He began to resume his spirits; and as his fears of detection died away, He paid less attention to the reproaches of remorse. Matilda exerted herself to quiet his alarms. At the first intelligence of Elvira's death, She seemed greatly affected, and joined the Monk in deploring the unhappy catastrophe of his adventure: But when She found his agitation to be somewhat calmed, and himself better disposed to listen to her arguments, She proceeded to mention his offence in milder terms, and convince him that He was not so highly culpable as He appeared to consider himself. She represented that He had only availed himself of the rights which Nature allows to every one, those of self-preservation: That either Elvira or himself must have perished, and that her inflexibility and resolution to ruin him had deservedly marked her out for the Victim. She next stated, that as He had before rendered himself suspected to Elvira, it was a fortunate event for him that her lips were closed by death; since without this last adventure, her suspicions if made public might have produced very disagreeable consequences. He had therefore freed himself from an Enemy, to whom the errors of his conduct were sufficiently known to make her dangerous, and who was the greatest obstacle to his designs upon Antonia. Those designs She encouraged him not to abandon. She assured him that, no longer protected by her Mother's watchful eye, the Daughter would fall an easy conquest; and by praising and enumerating Antonia's charms, She strove to rekindle the desires of the Monk. In this endeavour She succeeded but too well. As if the crimes into which his passion had seduced him had only increased its violence, He longed more eagerly than ever to enjoy Antonia. The same success in concealing his present guilt, He trusted would attend his future. He was deaf to the murmurs of conscience, and resolved to satisfy his desires at any price. He waited only for an opportunity of repeating his former enterprize; But to procure that opportunity by the same means was now impracticable. In the first transports of despair He had dashed the enchanted Myrtle into a thousand pieces: Matilda told him plainly that He must expect no further assistance from the infernal Powers unless He was willing to subscribe to their established conditions. This Ambrosio was determined not to do: He persuaded himself that however great might be his iniquity, so long as he preserved his claim to salvation, He need not despair of pardon. He therefore resolutely refused to enter into any bond or compact with the Fiends; and Matilda finding him obstinate upon this point, forbore to press him further. She exerted her invention to discover some means of putting Antonia into the Abbot's power: Nor was it long before that means presented itself. While her ruin was thus meditating, the unhappy Girl herself suffered severely from the loss of her Mother. Every morning on waking, it was her first care to hasten to Elvira's chamber. On that which followed Ambrosio's fatal visit, She woke later than was her usual custom: Of this She was convinced by the Abbey Chimes. She started from her bed, threw on a few loose garments hastily, and was speeding to enquire how her Mother had passed the night, when her foot struck against something which lay in her passage. She looked down. What was her horror at recognizing Elvira's livid Corse! She uttered a loud shriek, and threw herself upon the floor. She clasped the inanimate form to her bosom, felt that it was dead-cold, and with a movement of disgust, of which She was not the Mistress, let it fall again from her arms. The cry had alarmed Flora, who hastened to her assistance. The sight which She beheld penetrated her with horror; but her alarm was more audible than Antonia's. She made the House ring with her lamentations, while her Mistress, almost suffocated with grief, could only mark her distress by sobs and groans. Flora's shrieks soon reached the ears of the Hostess, whose terror and surprize were excessive on learning the cause of this disturbance. A Physician was immediately sent for: But on the first moment of beholding the Corse, He declared that Elvira's recovery was beyond the power of art. He proceeded therefore to give his assistance to Antonia, who by this time was truly in need of it. She was conveyed to bed, while the Landlady busied herself in giving orders for Elvira's Burial. Dame Jacintha was a plain good kind of Woman, charitable, generous, and devout: But her intellects were weak, and She was a Miserable Slave to fear and superstition. She shuddered at the idea of passing the night in the same House with a dead Body: She was persuaded that Elvira's Ghost would appear to her, and no less certain that such a visit would kill her with fright. From this persuasion, She resolved to pass the night at a Neighbour's, and insisted that the Funeral should take place the next day. St. Clare's Cemetery being the nearest, it was determined that Elvira should be buried there. Dame Jacintha engaged to defray every expence attending the burial. She knew not in what circumstances Antonia was left, but from the sparing manner in which the Family had lived, She concluded them to be indifferent. Consequently, She entertained very little hope of ever being recompensed; But this consideration prevented her not from taking care that the Interment was performed with decency, and from showing the unfortunate Antonia all possible respect. Nobody dies of mere grief; Of this Antonia was an instance. Aided by her youth and healthy constitution, She shook off the malady which her Mother's death had occasioned; But it was not so easy to remove the disease of her mind. Her eyes were constantly filled with tears: Every trifle affected her, and She evidently nourished in her bosom a profound and rooted melancholy. The slightest mention of Elvira, the most trivial circumstance recalling that beloved Parent to her memory, was sufficient to throw her into serious agitation. How much would her grief have been increased, had She known the agonies which terminated her Mother's existence! But of this no one entertained the least suspicion. Elvira was subject to strong convulsions: It was supposed that, aware of their approach, She had dragged herself to her Daughter's chamber in hopes of assistance; that a sudden access of her fits had seized her, too violent to be resisted by her already enfeebled state of health; and that She had expired ere She had time to reach the medicine which generally relieved her, and which stood upon a shelf in Antonia's room. This idea was firmly credited by the few people, who interested themselves about Elvira: Her Death was esteemed a natural event, and soon forgotten by all save by her, who had but too much reason to deplore her loss. In truth Antonia's situation was sufficiently embarrassing and unpleasant. She was alone in the midst of a dissipated and expensive City; She was ill provided with money, and worse with Friends. Her aunt Leonella was still at Cordova, and She knew not her direction. Of the Marquis de las Cisternas She heard no news: As to Lorenzo, She had long given up the idea of possessing any interest in his bosom. She knew not to whom She could address herself in her present dilemma. She wished to consult Ambrosio; But She remembered her Mother's injunctions to shun him as much as possible, and the last conversation which Elvira had held with her upon the subject had given her sufficient lights respecting his designs to put her upon her guard against him in future. Still all her Mother's warnings could not make her change her good opinion of the Friar. She continued to feel that his friendship and society were requisite to her happiness: She looked upon his failings with a partial eye, and could not persuade herself that He really had intended her ruin. However, Elvira had positively commanded her to drop his acquaintance, and She had too much respect for her orders to disobey them. At length She resolved to address herself for advice and protection to the Marquis de las Cisternas, as being her nearest Relation. She wrote to him, briefly stating her desolate situation; She besought him to compassionate his Brother's Child, to continue to her Elvira's pension, and to authorise her retiring to his old Castle in Murcia, which till now had been her retreat. Having sealed her letter, She gave it to the trusty Flora, who immediately set out to execute her commission. But Antonia was born under an unlucky Star. Had She made her application to the Marquis but one day sooner, received as his Niece and placed at the head of his Family, She would have escaped all the misfortunes with which She was now threatened. Raymond had always intended to execute this plan: But first, his hopes of making the proposal to Elvira through the lips of Agnes, and afterwards, his disappointment at losing his intended Bride, as well as the severe illness which for some time had confined him to his Bed, made him defer from day to day the giving an Asylum in his House to his Brother's Widow. He had commissioned Lorenzo to supply her liberally with money: But Elvira, unwilling to receive obligations from that Nobleman, had assured him that She needed no immediate pecuniary assistance. Consequently, the Marquis did not imagine that a trifling delay on his part could create any embarrassment; and the distress and agitation of his mind might well excuse his negligence. Had He been informed that Elvira's death had left her Daughter Friendless and unprotected, He would doubtless have taken such measures, as would have ensured her from every danger: But Antonia was not destined to be so fortunate. The day on which She sent her letter to the Palace de las Cisternas was that following Lorenzo's departure from Madrid. The Marquis was in the first paroxysms of despair at the conviction that Agnes was indeed no more: He was delirious, and his life being in danger, no one was suffered to approach him. Flora was informed that He was incapable of attending to Letters, and that probably a few hours would decide his fate. With this unsatisfactory answer She was obliged to return to her Mistress, who now found herself plunged into greater difficulties than ever. Flora and Dame Jacintha exerted themselves to console her. The Latter begged her to make herself easy, for that as long as She chose to stay with her, She would treat her like her own Child. Antonia, finding that the good Woman had taken a real affection for her, was somewhat comforted by thinking that She had at least one Friend in the World. A Letter was now brought to her, directed to Elvira. She recognized Leonella's writing, and opening it with joy, found a detailed account of her Aunt's adventures at Cordova. She informed her Sister that She had recovered her Legacy, had lost her heart, and had received in exchange that of the most amiable of Apothecaries, past, present, and to come. She added that She should be at Madrid on the Tuesday night, and meant to have the pleasure of presenting her Caro Sposo in form. Though her nuptials were far from pleasing Antonia, Leonella's speedy return gave her Niece much delight. She rejoiced in thinking that She should once more be under a Relation's care. She could not but judge it to be highly improper, for a young Woman to be living among absolute Strangers, with no one to regulate her conduct, or protect her from the insults to which, in her defenceless situation, She was exposed. She therefore looked forward with impatience to the Tuesday night. It arrived. Antonia listened anxiously to the Carriages, as they rolled along the Street. None of them stopped, and it grew late without Leonella's appearing. Still, Antonia resolved to sit up till her Aunt's arrival, and in spite of all her remonstrances, Dame Jacintha and Flora insisted upon doing the same. The hours passed on slow and tediously. Lorenzo's departure from Madrid had put a stop to the nightly Serenades: She hoped in vain to hear the usual sound of Guitars beneath her window. She took up her own, and struck a few chords: But Music that evening had lost its charms for her, and She soon replaced the Instrument in its case. She seated herself at her embroidery frame, but nothing went right: The silks were missing, the thread snapped every moment, and the needles were so expert at falling that they seemed to be animated. At length a flake of wax fell from the Taper which stood near her upon a favourite wreath of Violets: This compleatly discomposed her; She threw down her needle, and quitted the frame. It was decreed that for that night nothing should have the power of amusing her. She was the prey of Ennui, and employed herself in making fruitless wishes for the arrival of her Aunt. As She walked with a listless air up and down the chamber, the Door caught her eye conducting to that which had been her Mother's. She remembered that Elvira's little Library was arranged there, and thought that She might possibly find in it some Book to amuse her till Leonella should arrive. Accordingly She took her Taper from the table, passed through the little Closet, and entered the adjoining apartment. As She looked around her, the sight of this room brought to her recollection a thousand painful ideas. It was the first time of her entering it since her Mother's death. The total silence prevailing through the chamber, the Bed despoiled of its furniture, the cheerless hearth where stood an extinguished Lamp, and a few dying Plants in the window which, since Elvira's loss, had been neglected, inspired Antonia with a melancholy awe. The gloom of night gave strength to this sensation. She placed her light upon the Table, and sank into a large chair, in which She had seen her Mother seated a thousand and a thousand times. She was never to see her seated there again! Tears unbidden streamed down her cheek, and She abandoned herself to the sadness which grew deeper with every moment. Ashamed of her weakness, She at length rose from her seat: She proceeded to seek for what had brought her to this melancholy scene. The small collection of Books was arranged upon several shelves in order. Antonia examined them without finding any thing likely to interest her, till She put her hand upon a volume of old Spanish Ballads. She read a few Stanzas of one of them: They excited her curiosity. She took down the Book, and seated herself to peruse it with more ease. She trimmed the Taper, which now drew towards its end, and then read the following Ballad. ALONZO THE BRAVE, AND FAIR IMOGINE A Warrior so bold, and a Virgin so bright Conversed, as They sat on the green: They gazed on each other with tender delight; Alonzo the Brave was the name of the Knight, The Maid's was the Fair Imogine. 'And Oh!' said the Youth, 'since to-morrow I go To fight in a far distant land, Your tears for my absence soon leaving to flow, Some Other will court you, and you will bestow On a wealthier Suitor your hand.' 'Oh! hush these suspicions,' Fair Imogine said, 'Offensive to Love and to me! For if ye be living, or if ye be dead, I swear by the Virgin, that none in your stead Shall Husband of Imogine be. 'If e'er I by lust or by wealth led aside Forget my Alonzo the Brave, God grant, that to punish my falsehood and pride Your Ghost at the Marriage may sit by my side, May tax me with perjury, claim me as Bride, And bear me away to the Grave!' To Palestine hastened the Hero so bold; His Love, She lamented him sore: But scarce had a twelve-month elapsed, when behold, A Baron all covered with jewels and gold Arrived at Fair Imogine's door. His treasure, his presents, his spacious domain Soon made her untrue to her vows: He dazzled her eyes; He bewildered her brain; He caught her affections so light and so vain, And carried her home as his Spouse. And now had the Marriage been blest by the Priest; The revelry now was begun: The Tables, they groaned with the weight of the Feast; Nor yet had the laughter and merriment ceased, When the Bell of the Castle told,--'One!' Then first with amazement Fair Imogine found That a Stranger was placed by her side: His air was terrific; He uttered no sound; He spoke not, He moved not, He looked not around, But earnestly gazed on the Bride. His vizor was closed, and gigantic his height; His armour was sable to view: All pleasure and laughter were hushed at his sight; The Dogs as They eyed him drew back in affright, The Lights in the chamber burned blue! His presence all bosoms appeared to dismay; The Guests sat in silence and fear. At length spoke the Bride, while She trembled; 'I pray, Sir Knight, that your Helmet aside you would lay, And deign to partake of our chear.' The Lady is silent: The Stranger complies. His vizor lie slowly unclosed: Oh! God! what a sight met Fair Imogine's eyes! What words can express her dismay and surprize, When a Skeleton's head was exposed. All present then uttered a terrified shout; All turned with disgust from the scene. The worms, They crept in, and the worms, They crept out, And sported his eyes and his temples about, While the Spectre addressed Imogine. 'Behold me, Thou false one! Behold me!' He cried; 'Remember Alonzo the Brave! God grants, that to punish thy falsehood and pride My Ghost at thy marriage should sit by thy side, Should tax thee with perjury, claim thee as Bride And bear thee away to the Grave!' Thus saying, his arms round the Lady He wound, While loudly She shrieked in dismay; Then sank with his prey through the wide-yawning ground: Nor ever again was Fair Imogine found, Or the Spectre who bore her away. Not long lived the Baron; and none since that time To inhabit the Castle presume: For Chronicles tell, that by order sublime There Imogine suffers the pain of her crime, And mourns her deplorable doom. At midnight four times in each year does her Spright When Mortals in slumber are bound, Arrayed in her bridal apparel of white, Appear in the Hall with the Skeleton-Knight, And shriek, as He whirls her around. While They drink out of skulls newly torn from the grave, Dancing round them the Spectres are seen: Their liquor is blood, and this horrible Stave They howl.--'To the health of Alonzo the Brave, And his Consort, the False Imogine!' The perusal of this story was ill-calculated to dispel Antonia's melancholy. She had naturally a strong inclination to the marvellous; and her Nurse, who believed firmly in Apparitions, had related to her when an Infant so many horrible adventures of this kind, that all Elvira's attempts had failed to eradicate their impressions from her Daughter's mind. Antonia still nourished a superstitious prejudice in her bosom: She was often susceptible of terrors which, when She discovered their natural and insignificant cause, made her blush at her own weakness. With such a turn of mind, the adventure which She had just been reading sufficed to give her apprehensions the alarm. The hour and the scene combined to authorize them. It was the dead of night: She was alone, and in the chamber once occupied by her deceased Mother. The weather was comfortless and stormy: The wind howled around the House, the doors rattled in their frames, and the heavy rain pattered against the windows. No other sound was heard. The Taper, now burnt down to the socket, sometimes flaring upwards shot a gleam of light through the room, then sinking again seemed upon the point of expiring. Antonia's heart throbbed with agitation: Her eyes wandered fearfully over the objects around her, as the trembling flame illuminated them at intervals. She attempted to rise from her seat; But her limbs trembled so violently that She was unable to proceed. She then called Flora, who was in a room at no great distance: But agitation choaked her voice, and her cries died away in hollow murmurs. She passed some minutes in this situation, after which her terrors began to diminish. She strove to recover herself, and acquire strength enough to quit the room: Suddenly She fancied, that She heard a low sigh drawn near her. This idea brought back her former weakness. She had already raised herself from her seat, and was on the point of taking the Lamp from the Table. The imaginary noise stopped her: She drew back her hand, and supported herself upon the back of a Chair. She listened anxiously, but nothing more was heard. 'Gracious God!' She said to herself; 'What could be that sound? Was I deceived, or did I really hear it?' Her reflections were interrupted by a noise at the door scarcely audible: It seemed as if somebody was whispering. Antonia's alarm increased: Yet the Bolt She knew to be fastened, and this idea in some degree reassured her. Presently the Latch was lifted up softly, and the Door moved with caution backwards and forwards. Excess of terror now supplied Antonia with that strength, of which She had till then been deprived. She started from her place and made towards the Closet door, whence She might soon have reached the chamber where She expected to find Flora and Dame Jacintha. Scarcely had She reached the middle of the room when the Latch was lifted up a second time. An involuntary movement obliged her to turn her head. Slowly and gradually the Door turned upon its hinges, and standing upon the Threshold She beheld a tall thin Figure, wrapped in a white shroud which covered it from head to foot. This vision arrested her feet: She remained as if petrified in the middle of the apartment. The Stranger with measured and solemn steps drew near the Table. The dying Taper darted a blue and melancholy flame as the Figure advanced towards it. Over the Table was fixed a small Clock; The hand of it was upon the stroke of three. The Figure stopped opposite to the Clock: It raised its right arm, and pointed to the hour, at the same time looking earnestly upon Antonia, who waited for the conclusion of this scene, motionless and silent. The figure remained in this posture for some moments. The clock struck. When the sound had ceased, the Stranger advanced yet a few steps nearer Antonia. 'Yet three days,' said a voice faint, hollow, and sepulchral; 'Yet three days, and we meet again!' Antonia shuddered at the words. 'We meet again?' She pronounced at length with difficulty: 'Where shall we meet? Whom shall I meet?' The figure pointed to the ground with one hand, and with the other raised the Linen which covered its face. 'Almighty God! My Mother!' Antonia shrieked, and fell lifeless upon the floor. Dame Jacintha who was at work in a neighbouring chamber, was alarmed by the cry: Flora was just gone down stairs to fetch fresh oil for the Lamp, by which they had been sitting. Jacintha therefore hastened alone to Antonia's assistance, and great was her amazement to find her extended upon the floor. She raised her in her arms, conveyed her to her apartment, and placed her upon the Bed still senseless. She then proceeded to bathe her temples, chafe her hands, and use all possible means of bringing her to herself. With some difficulty She succeeded. Antonia opened her eyes, and looked round her wildly. 'Where is She?' She cried in a trembling voice; 'Is She gone? Am I safe? Speak to me! Comfort me! Oh! speak to me for God's sake!' 'Safe from whom, my Child?' replied the astonished Jacintha; 'What alarms you? Of whom are you afraid?' 'In three days! She told me that we should meet in three days! I heard her say it! I saw her, Jacintha, I saw her but this moment!' She threw herself upon Jacintha's bosom. 'You saw her? Saw whom?' 'My Mother's Ghost!' 'Christ Jesus!' cried Jacintha, and starting from the Bed, let fall Antonia upon the pillow, and fled in consternation out of the room. As She hastened down stairs, She met Flora ascending them. 'Go to your Mistress, Flora,' said She; 'Here are rare doings! Oh! I am the most unfortunate Woman alive! My House is filled with Ghosts and dead Bodies, and the Lord knows what besides; Yet I am sure, nobody likes such company less than I do. But go your way to Donna Antonia, Flora, and let me go mine.' Thus saying, She continued her course to the Street door, which She opened, and without allowing herself time to throw on her veil, She made the best of her way to the Capuchin Abbey. In the meanwhile, Flora hastened to her Lady's chamber, equally surprized and alarmed at Jacintha's consternation. She found Antonia lying upon the bed insensible. She used the same means for her recovery that Jacintha had already employed; But finding that her Mistress only recovered from one fit to fall into another, She sent in all haste for a Physician. While expecting his arrival, She undrest Antonia, and conveyed her to Bed. Heedless of the storm, terrified almost out of her senses, Jacintha ran through the Streets, and stopped not till She reached the Gate of the Abbey. She rang loudly at the bell, and as soon as the Porter appeared, She desired permission to speak to the Superior. Ambrosio was then conferring with Matilda upon the means of procuring access to Antonia. The cause of Elvira's death remaining unknown, He was convinced that crimes were not so swiftly followed by punishment, as his Instructors the Monks had taught him, and as till then He had himself believed. This persuasion made him resolve upon Antonia's ruin, for the enjoyment of whose person dangers and difficulties only seemed to have increased his passion. The Monk had already made one attempt to gain admission to her presence; But Flora had refused him in such a manner as to convince him that all future endeavours must be vain. Elvira had confided her suspicions to that trusty Servant: She had desired her never to leave Ambrosio alone with her Daughter, and if possible to prevent their meeting altogether. Flora promised to obey her, and had executed her orders to the very letter. Ambrosio's visit had been rejected that morning, though Antonia was ignorant of it. He saw that to obtain a sight of his Mistress by open means was out of the question; and both Himself and Matilda had consumed the night, in endeavouring to invent some plan, whose event might be more successful. Such was their employment, when a Lay-Brother entered the Abbot's Cell, and informed him that a Woman calling herself Jacintha Zuniga requested audience for a few minutes. Ambrosio was by no means disposed to grant the petition of his Visitor. He refused it positively, and bad the Lay-Brother tell the Stranger to return the next day. Matilda interrupted him. 'See this Woman,' said She in a low voice; 'I have my reasons.' The Abbot obeyed her, and signified that He would go to the Parlour immediately. With this answer the Lay-Brother withdrew. As soon as they were alone Ambrosio enquired why Matilda wished him to see this Jacintha. 'She is Antonia's Hostess,' replied Matilda; 'She may possibly be of use to you: but let us examine her, and learn what brings her hither.' They proceeded together to the Parlour, where Jacintha was already waiting for the Abbot. She had conceived a great opinion of his piety and virtue; and supposing him to have much influence over the Devil, thought that it must be an easy matter for him to lay Elvira's Ghost in the Red Sea. Filled with this persuasion She had hastened to the Abbey. As soon as She saw the Monk enter the Parlour, She dropped upon her knees, and began her story as follows. 'Oh! Reverend Father! Such an accident! Such an adventure! I know not what course to take, and unless you can help me, I shall certainly go distracted. Well, to be sure, never was Woman so unfortunate, as myself! All in my power to keep clear of such abomination have I done, and yet that all is too little. What signifies my telling my beads four times a day, and observing every fast prescribed by the Calendar? What signifies my having made three Pilgrimages to St. James of Compostella, and purchased as many pardons from the Pope as would buy off Cain's punishment? Nothing prospers with me! All goes wrong, and God only knows, whether any thing will ever go right again! Why now, be your Holiness the Judge. My Lodger dies in convulsions; Out of pure kindness I bury her at my own expence; (Not that She is any Relation of mine, or that I shall be benefited a single pistole by her death: I got nothing by it, and therefore you know, reverend Father, that her living or dying was just the same to me. But that is nothing to the purpose; To return to what I was saying,) I took care of her funeral, had every thing performed decently and properly, and put myself to expence enough, God knows! And how do you think the Lady repays me for my kindness? Why truly by refusing to sleep quietly in her comfortable deal Coffin, as a peaceable well-disposed Spirit ought to do, and coming to plague me, who never wish to set eyes on her again. Forsooth, it well becomes her to go racketing about my House at midnight, popping into her Daughter's room through the Keyhole, and frightening the poor Child out of her wits! Though She be a Ghost, She might be more civil than to bolt into a Person's House, who likes her company so little. But as for me, reverend Father, the plain state of the case is this: If She walks into my House, I must walk out of it, for I cannot abide such Visitors, not I! Thus you see, your Sanctity, that without your assistance I am ruined and undone for ever. I shall be obliged to quit my House; Nobody will take it, when 'tis known that She haunts it, and then I shall find myself in a fine situation! Miserable Woman that I am! What shall I do! What will become of me!' Here She wept bitterly, wrung her hands, and begged to know the Abbot's opinion of her case. 'In truth, good Woman,' replied He, 'It will be difficult for me to relieve you without knowing what is the matter with you. You have forgotten to tell me what has happened, and what it is you want.' 'Let me die' cried Jacintha, 'but your Sanctity is in the right! This then is the fact stated briefly. A lodger of mine is lately dead, a very good sort of Woman that I must needs say for her as far as my knowledge of her went, though that was not a great way: She kept me too much at a distance; for indeed She was given to be upon the high ropes, and whenever I ventured to speak to her, She had a look with her which always made me feel a little queerish, God forgive me for saying so. However, though She was more stately than needful, and affected to look down upon me (Though if I am well informed, I come of as good Parents as She could do for her ears, for her Father was a Shoe-maker at Cordova, and Mine was an Hatter at Madrid, aye, and a very creditable Hatter too, let me tell you,) Yet for all her pride, She was a quiet well-behaved Body, and I never wish to have a better Lodger. This makes me wonder the more at her not sleeping quietly in her Grave: But there is no trusting to people in this world! For my part, I never saw her do amiss, except on the Friday before her death. To be sure, I was then much scandalized by seeing her eat the wing of a Chicken! "How, Madona Flora!" quoth I; (Flora, may it please your Reverence, is the name of the waiting Maid)--"How, Madona Flora!" quoth I; "Does your Mistress eat flesh upon Fridays? Well! Well! See the event, and then remember that Dame Jacintha warned you of it!" These were my very words, but Alas! I might as well have held my tongue! Nobody minded me; and Flora, who is somewhat pert and snappish, (More is the pity, say I) told me that there was no more harm in eating a Chicken than the egg from which it came. Nay, She even declared that if her Lady added a slice of bacon, She would not be an inch nearer Damnation, God protect us! A poor ignorant sinful soul! I protest to your Holiness, I trembled to hear her utter such blasphemies, and expected every moment to see the ground open and swallow her up, Chicken and all! For you must know, worshipful Father, that while She talked thus, She held the plate in her hand, on which lay the identical roast Fowl. And a fine Bird it was, that I must say for it! Done to a turn, for I superintended the cooking of it myself: It was a little Gallician of my own raising, may it please your Holiness, and the flesh was as white as an egg-shell, as indeed Donna Elvira told me herself. "Dame Jacintha," said She, very good-humouredly, though to say the truth, She was always very polite to me .....' Here Ambrosio's patience failed him. Eager to know Jacintha's business in which Antonia seemed to be concerned, He was almost distracted while listening to the rambling of this prosing old Woman. He interrupted her, and protested that if She did not immediately tell her story and have done with it, He should quit the Parlour, and leave her to get out of her difficulties by herself. This threat had the desired effect. Jacintha related her business in as few words as She could manage; But her account was still so prolix that Ambrosio had need of his patience to bear him to the conclusion. 'And so, your Reverence,' said She, after relating Elvira's death and burial, with all their circumstances; 'And so, your Reverence, upon hearing the shriek, I put away my work, and away posted I to Donna Antonia's chamber. Finding nobody there, I past on to the next; But I must own, I was a little timorous at going in, for this was the very room where Donna Elvira used to sleep. However, in I went, and sure enough, there lay the young Lady at full length upon the floor, as cold as a stone, and as white as a sheet. I was surprized at this, as your Holiness may well suppose; But Oh me! how I shook when I saw a great tall figure at my elbow whose head touched the ceiling! The face was Donna Elvira's, I must confess; But out of its mouth came clouds of fire, its arms were loaded with heavy chains which it rattled piteously, and every hair on its head was a Serpent as big as my arm! At this I was frightened enough, and began to say my Ave-Maria: But the Ghost interrupting me uttered three loud groans, and roared out in a terrible voice, "Oh! That Chicken's wing! My poor soul suffers for it!" As soon as She had said this, the Ground opened, the Spectre sank down, I heard a clap of thunder, and the room was filled with a smell of brimstone. When I recovered from my fright, and had brought Donna Antonia to herself, who told me that She had cried out upon seeing her Mother's Ghost, (And well might She cry, poor Soul! Had I been in her place, I should have cried ten times louder) it directly came into my head, that if any one had power to quiet this Spectre, it must be your Reverence. So hither I came in all diligence, to beg that you will sprinkle my House with holy water, and lay the Apparition in the Red Sea.' Ambrosio stared at this strange story, which He could not credit. 'Did Donna Antonia also see the Ghost?' said He. 'As plain as I see you, Reverend Father!' Ambrosio paused for a moment. Here was an opportunity offered him of gaining access to Antonia, but He hesitated to employ it. The reputation which He enjoyed in Madrid was still dear to him; and since He had lost the reality of virtue, it appeared as if its semblance was become more valuable. He was conscious that publicly to break through the rule never to quit the Abbey precincts, would derogate much from his supposed austerity. In visiting Elvira, He had always taken care to keep his features concealed from the Domestics. Except by the Lady, her Daughter, and the faithful Flora, He was known in the Family by no other name than that of Father Jerome. Should He comply with Jacintha's request, and accompany her to her House, He knew that the violation of his rule could not be kept a secret. However, his eagerness to see Antonia obtained the victory: He even hoped, that the singularity of this adventure would justify him in the eyes of Madrid: But whatever might be the consequences, He resolved to profit by the opportunity which chance had presented to him. An expressive look from Matilda confirmed him in this resolution. 'Good Woman,' said He to Jacintha, 'what you tell me is so extraordinary that I can scarcely credit your assertions. However, I will comply with your request. Tomorrow after Matins you may expect me at your House: I will then examine into what I can do for you, and if it is in my power, will free you from this unwelcome Visitor. Now then go home, and peace be with you!' 'Home?' exclaimed Jacintha; 'I go home? Not I by my troth! except under your protection, I set no foot of mine within the threshold. God help me, the Ghost may meet me upon the Stairs, and whisk me away with her to the devil! Oh! That I had accepted young Melchior Basco's offer! Then I should have had somebody to protect me; But now I am a lone Woman, and meet with nothing but crosses and misfortunes! Thank Heaven, it is not yet too late to repent! There is Simon Gonzalez will have me any day of the week, and if I live till daybreak, I will marry him out of hand: An Husband I will have, that is determined, for now this Ghost is once in my House, I shall be frightened out of my wits to sleep alone. But for God's sake, reverend Father, come with me now. I shall have no rest till the House is purified, or the poor young Lady either. The dear Girl! She is in a piteous taking: I left her in strong convulsions, and I doubt, She will not easily recover her fright.' The Friar started, and interrupted her hastily. 'In convulsions, say you? Antonia in convulsions? Lead on, good Woman! I follow you this moment!' Jacintha insisted upon his stopping to furnish himself with the vessel of holy water: With this request He complied. Thinking herself safe under his protection should a Legion of Ghosts attack her, the old Woman returned the Monk a profusion of thanks, and they departed together for the Strada di San Iago. So strong an impression had the Spectre made upon Antonia, that for the first two or three hours the Physician declared her life to be in danger. The fits at length becoming less frequent induced him to alter his opinion. He said that to keep her quiet was all that was necessary; and He ordered a medicine to be prepared which would tranquillize her nerves, and procure her that repose which at present She much wanted. The sight of Ambrosio, who now appeared with Jacintha at her Bedside, contributed essentially to compose her ruffled spirits. Elvira had not sufficiently explained herself upon the nature of his designs, to make a Girl so ignorant of the world as her Daughter aware how dangerous was his acquaintance. At this moment, when penetrated with horror at the scene which had just past, and dreading to contemplate the Ghost's prediction, her mind had need of all the succours of friendship and religion, Antonia regarded the Abbot with an eye doubly partial. That strong prepossession in his favour still existed which She had felt for him at first sight: She fancied, yet knew not wherefore, that his presence was a safeguard to her from every danger, insult, or misfortune. She thanked him gratefully for his visit, and related to him the adventure, which had alarmed her so seriously. The Abbot strove to reassure her, and convince her that the whole had been a deception of her overheated fancy. The solitude in which She had passed the Evening, the gloom of night, the Book which She had been reading, and the Room in which She sat, were all calculated to place before her such a vision. He treated the idea of Ghosts with ridicule, and produced strong arguments to prove the fallacy of such a system. His conversation tranquillized and comforted her, but did not convince her. She could not believe that the Spectre had been a mere creature of her imagination; Every circumstance was impressed upon her mind too forcibly, to permit her flattering herself with such an idea. She persisted in asserting that She had really seen her Mother's Ghost, had heard the period of her dissolution announced and declared that She never should quit her bed alive. Ambrosio advised her against encouraging these sentiments, and then quitted her chamber, having promised to repeat his visit on the morrow. Antonia received this assurance with every mark of joy: But the Monk easily perceived that He was not equally acceptable to her Attendant. Flora obeyed Elvira's injunctions with the most scrupulous observance. She examined every circumstance with an anxious eye likely in the least to prejudice her young Mistress, to whom She had been attached for many years. She was a Native of Cuba, had followed Elvira to Spain, and loved the young Antonia with a Mother's affection. Flora quitted not the room for a moment while the Abbot remained there: She watched his every word, his every look, his every action. He saw that her suspicious eye was always fixed upon him, and conscious that his designs would not bear inspection so minute, He felt frequently confused and disconcerted. He was aware that She doubted the purity of his intentions; that She would never leave him alone with Antonia, and his Mistress defended by the presence of this vigilant Observer, He despaired of finding the means to gratify his passion. As He quitted the House, Jacintha met him, and begged that some Masses might be sung for the repose of Elvira's soul, which She doubted not was suffering in Purgatory. He promised not to forget her request; But He perfectly gained the old Woman's heart by engaging to watch during the whole of the approaching night in the haunted chamber. Jacintha could find no terms sufficiently strong to express her gratitude, and the Monk departed loaded with her benedictions. It was broad day when He returned to the Abbey. His first care was to communicate what had past to his Confident. He felt too sincere a passion for Antonia to have heard unmoved the prediction of her speedy death, and He shuddered at the idea of losing an object so dear to him. Upon this head Matilda reassured him. She confirmed the arguments which Himself had already used: She declared Antonia to have been deceived by the wandering of her brain, by the Spleen which opprest her at the moment, and by the natural turn of her mind to superstition, and the marvellous. As to Jacintha's account, the absurdity refuted itself; The Abbot hesitated not to believe that She had fabricated the whole story, either confused by terror, or hoping to make him comply more readily with her request. Having overruled the Monk's apprehensions, Matilda continued thus. 'The prediction and the Ghost are equally false; But it must be your care, Ambrosio, to verify the first. Antonia within three days must indeed be dead to the world; But She must live for you. Her present illness, and this fancy which She has taken into her head, will colour a plan which I have long meditated, but which was impracticable without your procuring access to Antonia. She shall be yours, not for a single night, but for ever. All the vigilance of her Duenna shall not avail her: You shall riot unrestrained in the charms of your Mistress. This very day must the scheme be put in execution, for you have no time to lose. The Nephew of the Duke of Medina Celi prepares to demand Antonia for his Bride: In a few days She will be removed to the Palace of her Relation, the Marquis de las Cisternas, and there She will be secure from your attempts. Thus during your absence have I been informed by my Spies, who are ever employed in bringing me intelligence for your service. Now then listen to me. There is a juice extracted from certain herbs, known but to few, which brings on the Person who drinks it the exact image of Death. Let this be administered to Antonia: You may easily find means to pour a few drops into her medicine. The effect will be throwing her into strong convulsions for an hour: After which her blood will gradually cease to flow, and heart to beat; A mortal paleness will spread itself over her features, and She will appear a Corse to every eye. She has no Friends about her: You may charge yourself unsuspected with the superintendence of her funeral, and cause her to be buried in the Vaults of St. Clare. Their solitude and easy access render these Caverns favourable to your designs. Give Antonia the soporific draught this Evening: Eight and forty hours after She has drank it, Life will revive to her bosom. She will then be absolutely in your power: She will find all resistance unavailing, and necessity will compel her to receive you in her arms.' 'Antonia will be in my power!' exclaimed the Monk; 'Matilda, you transport me! At length then, happiness will be mine, and that happiness will be Matilda's gift, will be the gift of friendship! I shall clasp Antonia in my arms, far from every prying eye, from every tormenting Intruder! I shall sigh out my soul upon her bosom; Shall teach her young heart the first rudiments of pleasure, and revel uncontrouled in the endless variety of her charms! And shall this delight indeed by mine? Shall I give the reins to my desires, and gratify every wild tumultuous wish? Oh! Matilda, how can I express to you my gratitude?' 'By profiting by my counsels. Ambrosio, I live but to serve you: Your interest and happiness are equally mine. Be your person Antonia's, but to your friendship and your heart I still assert my claim. Contributing to yours forms now my only pleasure. Should my exertions procure the gratification of your wishes, I shall consider my trouble to be amply repaid. But let us lose no time. The liquor of which I spoke is only to be found in St. Clare's Laboratory. Hasten then to the Prioress; Request of her admission to the Laboratory, and it will not be denied. There is a Closet at the lower end of the great Room, filled with liquids of different colours and qualities. The Bottle in question stands by itself upon the third shelf on the left. It contains a greenish liquor: Fill a small phial with it when you are unobserved, and Antonia is your own.' The Monk hesitated not to adopt this infamous plan. His desires, but too violent before, had acquired fresh vigour from the sight of Antonia. As He sat by her bedside, accident had discovered to him some of those charms which till then had been concealed from him: He found them even more perfect, than his ardent imagination had pictured them. Sometimes her white and polished arm was displayed in arranging the pillow: Sometimes a sudden movement discovered part of her swelling bosom: But whereever the new-found charm presented itself, there rested the Friar's gloting eyes. Scarcely could He master himself sufficiently to conceal his desires from Antonia and her vigilant Duenna. Inflamed by the remembrance of these beauties, He entered into Matilda's scheme without hesitation. No sooner were Matins over than He bent his course towards the Convent of St. Clare: His arrival threw the whole Sisterhood into the utmost amazement. The Prioress was sensible of the honour done her Convent by his paying it his first visit, and strove to express her gratitude by every possible attention. He was paraded through the Garden, shown all the reliques of Saints and Martyrs, and treated with as much respect and distinction as had He been the Pope himself. On his part, Ambrosio received the Domina's civilities very graciously, and strove to remove her surprize at his having broken through his resolution. He stated, that among his penitents, illness prevented many from quitting their Houses. These were exactly the People who most needed his advice and the comforts of Religion: Many representations had been made to him upon this account, and though highly repugnant to his own wishes, He had found it absolutely necessary for the service of heaven to change his determination, and quit his beloved retirement. The Prioress applauded his zeal in his profession and his charity towards Mankind: She declared that Madrid was happy in possessing a Man so perfect and irreproachable. In such discourse, the Friar at length reached the Laboratory. He found the Closet: The Bottle stood in the place which Matilda had described, and the Monk seized an opportunity to fill his phial unobserved with the soporific liquor. Then having partaken of a Collation in the Refectory, He retired from the Convent pleased with the success of his visit, and leaving the Nuns delighted by the honour conferred upon them. He waited till Evening before He took the road to Antonia's dwelling. Jacintha welcomed him with transport, and besought him not to forget his promise to pass the night in the haunted Chamber: That promise He now repeated. He found Antonia tolerably well, but still harping upon the Ghost's prediction. Flora moved not from her Lady's Bed, and by symptoms yet stronger than on the former night testified her dislike to the Abbot's presence. Still Ambrosio affected not to observe them. The Physician arrived, while He was conversing with Antonia. It was dark already; Lights were called for, and Flora was compelled to descend for them herself. However, as She left a third Person in the room, and expected to be absent but a few minutes, She believed that She risqued nothing in quitting her post. No sooner had She left the room, than Ambrosio moved towards the Table, on which stood Antonia's medicine: It was placed in a recess of the window. The Physician seated in an armed-chair, and employed in questioning his Patient, paid no attention to the proceedings of the Monk. Ambrosio seized the opportunity: He drew out the fatal Phial, and let a few drops fall into the medicine. He then hastily left the Table, and returned to the seat which He had quitted. When Flora made her appearance with lights, every thing seemed to be exactly as She had left it. The Physician declared that Antonia might quit her chamber the next day with perfect safety. He recommended her following the same prescription which, on the night before, had procured her a refreshing sleep: Flora replied that the draught stood ready upon the Table: He advised the Patient to take it without delay, and then retired. Flora poured the medicine into a Cup and presented it to her Mistress. At that moment Ambrosio's courage failed him. Might not Matilda have deceived him? Might not Jealousy have persuaded her to destroy her Rival, and substitute poison in the room of an opiate? This idea appeared so reasonable that He was on the point of preventing her from swallowing the medicine. His resolution was adopted too late: The Cup was already emptied, and Antonia restored it into Flora's hands. No remedy was now to be found: Ambrosio could only expect the moment impatiently, destined to decide upon Antonia's life or death, upon his own happiness or despair. Dreading to create suspicion by his stay, or betray himself by his mind's agitation, He took leave of his Victim, and withdrew from the room. Antonia parted from him with less cordiality than on the former night. Flora had represented to her Mistress that to admit his visits was to disobey her Mother's orders: She described to her his emotion on entering the room, and the fire which sparkled in his eyes while He gazed upon her. This had escaped Antonia's observation, but not her Attendant's; Who explaining the Monk's designs and their probable consequences in terms much clearer than Elvira's, though not quite so delicate, had succeeded in alarming her young Lady, and persuading her to treat him more distantly than She had done hitherto. The idea of obeying her Mother's will at once determined Antonia. Though She grieved at losing his society, She conquered herself sufficiently to receive the Monk with some degree of reserve and coldness. She thanked him with respect and gratitude for his former visits, but did not invite his repeating them in future. It now was not the Friar's interest to solicit admission to her presence, and He took leave of her as if not designing to return. Fully persuaded that the acquaintance which She dreaded was now at an end, Flora was so much worked upon by his easy compliance that She began to doubt the justice of her suspicions. As She lighted him down Stairs, She thanked him for having endeavoured to root out from Antonia's mind her superstitious terrors of the Spectre's prediction: She added, that as He seemed interested in Donna Antonia's welfare, should any change take place in her situation, She would be careful to let him know it. The Monk in replying took pains to raise his voice, hoping that Jacintha would hear it. In this He succeeded; As He reached the foot of the Stairs with his Conductress, the Landlady failed not to make her appearance. 'Why surely you are not going away, reverend Father?' cried She; 'Did you not promise to pass the night in the haunted Chamber? Christ Jesus! I shall be left alone with the Ghost, and a fine pickle I shall be in by morning! Do all I could, say all I could, that obstinate old Brute, Simon Gonzalez, refused to marry me today; And before tomorrow comes, I suppose, I shall be torn to pieces, by the Ghosts, and Goblins, and Devils, and what not! For God's sake, your Holiness, do not leave me in such a woeful condition! On my bended knees I beseech you to keep your promise: Watch this night in the haunted chamber; Lay the Apparition in the Red Sea, and Jacintha remembers you in her prayers to the last day of her existence!' This request Ambrosio expected and desired; Yet He affected to raise objections, and to seem unwilling to keep his word. He told Jacintha that the Ghost existed nowhere but in her own brain, and that her insisting upon his staying all night in the House was ridiculous and useless. Jacintha was obstinate: She was not to be convinced, and pressed him so urgently not to leave her a prey to the Devil, that at length He granted her request. All this show of resistance imposed not upon Flora, who was naturally of a suspicious temper. She suspected the Monk to be acting a part very contrary to his own inclinations, and that He wished for no better than to remain where He was. She even went so far as to believe that Jacintha was in his interest; and the poor old Woman was immediately set down, as no better than a Procuress. While She applauded herself for having penetrated into this plot against her Lady's honour, She resolved in secret to render it fruitless. 'So then,' said She to the Abbot with a look half-satirical and half indignant; 'So then you mean to stay here tonight? Do so, in God's name! Nobody will prevent you. Sit up to watch for the Ghost's arrival: I shall sit up too, and the Lord grant that I may see nothing worse than a Ghost! I quit not Donna Antonia's Bedside during this blessed night: Let me see any one dare to enter the room, and be He mortal or immortal, be He Ghost, Devil, or Man, I warrant his repenting that ever He crossed the threshold!' This hint was sufficiently strong, and Ambrosio understood its meaning. But instead of showing that He perceived her suspicions; He replied mildly that He approved the Duenna's precautions, and advised her to persevere in her intention. This, She assured him faithfully that He might depend upon her doing. Jacintha then conducted him into the chamber where the Ghost had appeared, and Flora returned to her Lady's. Jacintha opened the door of the haunted room with a trembling hand: She ventured to peep in; But the wealth of India would not have tempted her to cross the threshold. She gave the Taper to the Monk, wished him well through the adventure, and hastened to be gone. Ambrosio entered. He bolted the door, placed the light upon the Table, and seated himself in the Chair which on the former night had sustained Antonia. In spite of Matilda's assurances that the Spectre was a mere creation of fancy, his mind was impressed with a certain mysterious horror. He in vain endeavoured to shake it off. The silence of the night, the story of the Apparition, the chamber wainscotted with dark oak pannells, the recollection which it brought with it of the murdered Elvira, and his incertitude respecting the nature of the drops given by him to Antonia, made him feel uneasy at his present situation. But He thought much less of the Spectre, than of the poison. Should He have destroyed the only object which rendered life dear to him; Should the Ghost's prediction prove true; Should Antonia in three days be no more, and He the wretched cause of her death ...... The supposition was too horrible to dwell upon. He drove away these dreadful images, and as often they presented themselves again before him. Matilda had assured him that the effects of the Opiate would be speedy. He listened with fear, yet with eagerness, expecting to hear some disturbance in the adjoining chamber. All was still silent. He concluded that the drops had not begun to operate. Great was the stake, for which He now played: A moment would suffice to decide upon his misery or happiness. Matilda had taught him the means of ascertaining that life was not extinct for ever: Upon this assay depended all his hopes. With every instant his impatience redoubled; His terrors grew more lively, his anxiety more awake. Unable to bear this state of incertitude, He endeavoured to divert it by substituting the thoughts of Others to his own. The Books, as was before mentioned, were ranged upon shelves near the Table: This stood exactly opposite to the Bed, which was placed in an Alcove near the Closet door. Ambrosio took down a Volume, and seated himself by the Table: But his attention wandered from the Pages before him. Antonia's image and that of the murdered Elvira persisted to force themselves before his imagination. Still He continued to read, though his eyes ran over the characters without his mind being conscious of their import. Such was his occupation, when He fancied that He heard a footstep. He turned his head, but nobody was to be seen. He resumed his Book; But in a few minutes after the same sound was repeated, and followed by a rustling noise close behind him. He now started from his seat, and looking round him, perceived the Closet door standing half-unclosed. On his first entering the room He had tried to open it, but found it bolted on the inside. 'How is this?' said He to himself; 'How comes this door unfastened?' He advanced towards it: He pushed it open, and looked into the closet: No one was there. While He stood irresolute, He thought that He distinguished a groaning in the adjacent chamber: It was Antonia's, and He supposed that the drops began to take effect: But upon listening more attentively, He found the noise to be caused by Jacintha, who had fallen asleep by the Lady's Bedside, and was snoring most lustily. Ambrosio drew back, and returned to the other room, musing upon the sudden opening of the Closet door, for which He strove in vain to account. He paced the chamber up and down in silence. At length He stopped, and the Bed attracted his attention. The curtain of the Recess was but half-drawn. He sighed involuntarily. 'That Bed,' said He in a low voice, 'That Bed was Elvira's! There has She past many a quiet night, for She was good and innocent. How sound must have been her sleep! And yet now She sleeps sounder! Does She indeed sleep? Oh! God grant that She may! What if She rose from her Grave at this sad and silent hour? What if She broke the bonds of the Tomb, and glided angrily before my blasted eyes? Oh! I never could support the sight! Again to see her form distorted by dying agonies, her blood-swollen veins, her livid countenance, her eyes bursting from their sockets with pain! To hear her speak of future punishment, menace me with Heaven's vengeance, tax me with the crimes I have committed, with those I am going to commit ..... Great God! What is that?' As He uttered these words, his eyes which were fixed upon the Bed, saw the curtain shaken gently backwards and forwards. The Apparition was recalled to his mind, and He almost fancied that He beheld Elvira's visionary form reclining upon the Bed. A few moments consideration sufficed to reassure him. 'It was only the wind,' said He, recovering himself. Again He paced the chamber; But an involuntary movement of awe and inquietude constantly led his eye towards the Alcove. He drew near it with irresolution. He paused before He ascended the few steps which led to it. He put out his hand thrice to remove the curtain, and as often drew it back. 'Absurd terrors!' He cried at length, ashamed of his own weakness---- Hastily he mounted the steps; When a Figure drest in white started from the Alcove, and gliding by him, made with precipitation towards the Closet. Madness and despair now supplied the Monk with that courage, of which He had till then been destitute. He flew down the steps, pursued the Apparition, and attempted to grasp it. 'Ghost, or Devil, I hold you!' He exclaimed, and seized the Spectre by the arm. 'Oh! Christ Jesus!' cried a shrill voice; 'Holy Father, how you gripe me! I protest that I meant no harm!' This address, as well as the arm which He held, convinced the Abbot that the supposed Ghost was substantial flesh and blood. He drew the Intruder towards the Table, and holding up the light, discovered the features of ...... Madona Flora! Incensed at having been betrayed by this trifling cause into fears so ridiculous, He asked her sternly, what business had brought her to that chamber. Flora, ashamed at being found out, and terrified at the severity of Ambrosio's looks, fell upon her knees, and promised to make a full confession. 'I protest, reverend Father,' said She, 'that I am quite grieved at having disturbed you: Nothing was further from my intention. I meant to get out of the room as quietly as I got in; and had you been ignorant that I watched you, you know, it would have been the same thing as if I had not watched you at all. To be sure, I did very wrong in being a Spy upon you, that I cannot deny; But Lord! your Reverence, how can a poor weak Woman resist curiosity? Mine was so strong to know what you were doing, that I could not but try to get a little peep, without any body knowing any thing about it. So with that I left old Dame Jacintha sitting by my Lady's Bed, and I ventured to steal into the Closet. Being unwilling to interrupt you, I contented myself at first with putting my eye to the Keyhole; But as I could see nothing by this means, I undrew the bolt, and while your back was turned to the Alcove, I whipt me in softly and silently. Here I lay snug behind the curtain, till your Reverence found me out, and seized me ere I had time to regain the Closet door. This is the whole truth, I assure you, Holy Father, and I beg your pardon a thousand times for my impertinence.' During this speech the Abbot had time to recollect himself: He was satisfied with reading the penitent Spy a lecture upon the dangers of curiosity, and the meanness of the action in which She had been just discovered. Flora declared herself fully persuaded that She had done wrong; She promised never to be guilty of the same fault again, and was retiring very humble and contrite to Antonia's chamber, when the Closet door was suddenly thrown open, and in rushed Jacintha pale and out of breath. 'Oh! Father! Father!' She cried in a voice almost choaked with terror; 'What shall I do! What shall I do! Here is a fine piece of work! Nothing but misfortunes! Nothing but dead people, and dying people! Oh! I shall go distracted! I shall go distracted!' 'Speak! Speak!' cried Flora and the Monk at the same time; 'What has happened? What is the matter?' 'Oh! I shall have another Corse in my House! Some Witch has certainly cast a spell upon it, upon me, and upon all about me! Poor Donna Antonia! There She lies in just such convulsions, as killed her Mother! The Ghost told her true! I am sure, the Ghost has told her true!' Flora ran, or rather flew to her Lady's chamber: Ambrosio followed her, his bosom trembling with hope and apprehension. They found Antonia as Jacintha had described, torn by racking convulsions from which they in vain endeavoured to relieve her. The Monk dispatched Jacintha to the Abbey in all haste, and commissioned her to bring Father Pablos back with her, without losing a moment. 'I will go for him,' replied Jacintha, 'and tell him to come hither; But as to bringing him myself, I shall do no such thing. I am sure that the House is bewitched, and burn me if ever I set foot in it again.' With this resolution She set out for the Monastery, and delivered to Father Pablos the Abbot's orders. She then betook herself to the House of old Simon Gonzalez, whom She resolved never to quit, till She had made him her Husband, and his dwelling her own. Father Pablos had no sooner beheld Antonia, than He pronounced her incurable. The convulsions continued for an hour: During that time her agonies were much milder than those which her groans created in the Abbot's heart. Her every pang seemed a dagger in his bosom, and He cursed himself a thousand times for having adopted so barbarous a project. The hour being expired, by degrees the Fits became less frequent, and Antonia less agitated. She felt that her dissolution was approaching, and that nothing could save her. 'Worthy Ambrosio,' She said in a feeble voice, while She pressed his hand to her lips; 'I am now at liberty to express, how grateful is my heart for your attention and kindness. I am upon the bed of death; Yet an hour, and I shall be no more. I may therefore acknowledge without restraint, that to relinquish your society was very painful to me: But such was the will of a Parent, and I dared not disobey. I die without repugnance: There are few, who will lament my leaving them; There are few, whom I lament to leave. Among those few, I lament for none more than for yourself; But we shall meet again, Ambrosio! We shall one day meet in heaven: There shall our friendship be renewed, and my Mother shall view it with pleasure!' She paused. The Abbot shuddered when She mentioned Elvira: Antonia imputed his emotion to pity and concern for her. 'You are grieved for me, Father,' She continued; 'Ah! sigh not for my loss. I have no crimes to repent, at least none of which I am conscious, and I restore my soul without fear to him from whom I received it. I have but few requests to make: Yet let me hope that what few I have shall be granted. Let a solemn Mass be said for my soul's repose, and another for that of my beloved Mother. Not that I doubt her resting in her Grave: I am now convinced that my reason wandered, and the falsehood of the Ghost's prediction is sufficient to prove my error. But every one has some failing: My Mother may have had hers, though I knew them not: I therefore wish a Mass to be celebrated for her repose, and the expence may be defrayed by the little wealth of which I am possessed. Whatever may then remain, I bequeath to my Aunt Leonella. When I am dead, let the Marquis de las Cisternas know that his Brother's unhappy family can no longer importune him. But disappointment makes me unjust: They tell me that He is ill, and perhaps had it been in his power, He wished to have protected me. Tell him then, Father, only that I am dead, and that if He had any faults to me, I forgave him from my heart. This done, I have nothing more to ask for, than your prayers: Promise to remember my requests, and I shall resign my life without a pang or sorrow.' Ambrosio engaged to comply with her desires, and proceeded to give her absolution. Every moment announced the approach of Antonia's fate: Her sight failed; Her heart beat sluggishly; Her fingers stiffened, and grew cold, and at two in the morning She expired without a groan. As soon as the breath had forsaken her body, Father Pablos retired, sincerely affected at the melancholy scene. On her part, Flora gave way to the most unbridled sorrow. Far different concerns employed Ambrosio: He sought for the pulse whose throbbing, so Matilda had assured him, would prove Antonia's death but temporal. He found it; He pressed it; It palpitated beneath his hand, and his heart was filled with ecstacy. However, He carefully concealed his satisfaction at the success of his plan. He assumed a melancholy air, and addressing himself to Flora, warned her against abandoning herself to fruitless sorrow. Her tears were too sincere to permit her listening to his counsels, and She continued to weep unceasingly. The Friar withdrew, first promising to give orders himself about the Funeral, which, out of consideration for Jacintha as He pretended, should take place with all expedition. Plunged in grief for the loss of her beloved Mistress, Flora scarcely attended to what He said. Ambrosio hastened to command the Burial. He obtained permission from the Prioress, that the Corse should be deposited in St. Clare's Sepulchre: and on the Friday Morning, every proper and needful ceremony being performed, Antonia's body was committed to the Tomb. On the same day Leonella arrived at Madrid, intending to present her young Husband to Elvira. Various circumstances had obliged her to defer her journey from Tuesday to Friday, and She had no opportunity of making this alteration in her plans known to her Sister. As her heart was truly affectionate, and as She had ever entertained a sincere regard for Elvira and her Daughter, her surprize at hearing of their sudden and melancholy fate was fully equalled by her sorrow and disappointment. Ambrosio sent to inform her of Antonia's bequest: At her solication, He promised, as soon as Elvira's trifling debts were discharged, to transmit to her the remainder. This being settled, no other business detained Leonella in Madrid, and She returned to Cordova with all diligence. CHAPTER III Oh! could I worship aught beneath the skies That earth hath seen or fancy could devise, Thine altar, sacred Liberty, should stand, Built by no mercenary vulgar hand, With fragrant turf, and flowers as wild and fair, As ever dressed a bank, or scented summer air. Cowper. His whole attention bent upon bringing to justice the Assassins of his Sister, Lorenzo little thought how severely his interest was suffering in another quarter. As was before mentioned, He returned not to Madrid till the evening of that day on which Antonia was buried. Signifying to the Grand Inquisitor the order of the Cardinal-Duke (a ceremony not to be neglected, when a Member of the Church was to be arrested publicly) communicating his design to his Uncle and Don Ramirez, and assembling a troop of Attendants sufficiently to prevent opposition, furnished him with full occupation during the few hours preceding midnight. Consequently, He had no opportunity to enquire about his Mistress, and was perfectly ignorant both of her death and her Mother's. The Marquis was by no means out of danger: His delirium was gone, but had left him so much exhausted that the Physicians declined pronouncing upon the consequences likely to ensue. As for Raymond himself, He wished for nothing more earnestly than to join Agnes in the grave. Existence was hateful to him: He saw nothing in the world deserving his attention; and He hoped to hear that Agnes was revenged, and himself given over in the same moment. Followed by Raymond's ardent prayers for success, Lorenzo was at the Gates of St. Clare a full hour before the time appointed by the Mother St. Ursula. He was accompanied by his Uncle, by Don Ramirez de Mello, and a party of chosen Archers. Though in considerable numbers their appearance created no surprize: A great Crowd was already assembled before the Convent doors, in order to witness the Procession. It was naturally supposed that Lorenzo and his Attendants were conducted thither by the same design. The Duke of Medina being recognised, the People drew back, and made way for his party to advance. Lorenzo placed himself opposite to the great Gate, through which the Pilgrims were to pass. Convinced that the Prioress could not escape him, He waited patiently for her appearance, which She was expected to make exactly at Midnight. The Nuns were employed in religious duties established in honour of St. Clare, and to which no Prophane was ever admitted. The Chapel windows were illuminated. As they stood on the outside, the Auditors heard the full swell of the organ, accompanied by a chorus of female voices, rise upon the stillness of the night. This died away, and was succeeded by a single strain of harmony: It was the voice of her who was destined to sustain in the procession the character of St. Clare. For this office the most beautiful Virgin of Madrid was always selected, and She upon whom the choice fell esteemed it as the highest of honours. While listening to the Music, whose melody distance only seemed to render sweeter, the Audience was wrapped up in profound attention. Universal silence prevailed through the Crowd, and every heart was filled with reverence for religion. Every heart but Lorenzo's. Conscious that among those who chaunted the praises of their God so sweetly, there were some who cloaked with devotion the foulest sins, their hymns inspired him with detestation at their Hypocrisy. He had long observed with disapprobation and contempt the superstition which governed Madrid's Inhabitants. His good sense had pointed out to him the artifices of the Monks, and the gross absurdity of their miracles, wonders, and supposititious reliques. He blushed to see his Countrymen the Dupes of deceptions so ridiculous, and only wished for an opportunity to free them from their monkish fetters. That opportunity, so long desired in vain, was at length presented to him. He resolved not to let it slip, but to set before the People in glaring colours how enormous were the abuses but too frequently practised in Monasteries, and how unjustly public esteem was bestowed indiscriminately upon all who wore a religious habit. He longed for the moment destined to unmask the Hypocrites, and convince his Countrymen that a sanctified exterior does not always hide a virtuous heart. The service lasted, till Midnight was announced by the Convent Bell. That sound being heard, the Music ceased: The voices died away softly, and soon after the lights disappeared from the Chapel windows. Lorenzo's heart beat high, when He found the execution of his plan to be at hand. From the natural superstition of the People He had prepared himself for some resistance. But He trusted that the Mother St. Ursula would bring good reasons to justify his proceeding. He had force with him to repel the first impulse of the Populace, till his arguments should be heard: His only fear was lest the Domina, suspecting his design, should have spirited away the Nun on whose deposition every thing depended. Unless the Mother St. Ursula should be present, He could only accuse the Prioress upon suspicion; and this reflection gave him some little apprehension for the success of his enterprize. The tranquillity which seemed to reign through the Convent in some degree re-assured him: Still He expected the moment eagerly, when the presence of his Ally should deprive him of the power of doubting. The Abbey of Capuchins was only separated from the Convent by the Garden and Cemetery. The Monks had been invited to assist at the Pilgrimage. They now arrived, marching two by two with lighted Torches in their hands, and chaunting Hymns in honour of St. Clare. Father Pablos was at their head, the Abbot having excused himself from attending. The people made way for the holy Train, and the Friars placed themselves in ranks on either side of the great Gates. A few minutes sufficed to arrange the order of the Procession. This being settled, the Convent doors were thrown open, and again the female Chorus sounded in full melody. First appeared a Band of Choristers: As soon as they had passed, the Monks fell in two by two, and followed with steps slow and measured. Next came the Novices; They bore no Tapers, as did the Professed, but moved on with eyes bent downwards, and seemed to be occupied by telling their Beads. To them succeeded a young and lovely Girl, who represented St. Lucia: She held a golden bason in which were two eyes: Her own were covered by a velvet bandage, and She was conducted by another Nun habited as an Angel. She was followed by St. Catherine, a palm-branch in one hand, a flaming Sword in the other: She was robed in white, and her brow was ornamented with a sparkling Diadem. After her appeared St. Genevieve, surrounded by a number of Imps, who putting themselves into grotesque attitudes, drawing her by the robe, and sporting round her with antic gestures, endeavoured to distract her attention from the Book, on which her eyes were constantly fixed. These merry Devils greatly entertained the Spectators, who testified their pleasure by repeated bursts of Laughter. The Prioress had been careful to select a Nun whose disposition was naturally solemn and saturnine. She had every reason to be satisfied with her choice: The drolleries of the Imps were entirely thrown away, and St. Genevieve moved on without discomposing a muscle. Each of these Saints was separated from the Other by a band of Choristers, exalting her praise in their Hymns, but declaring her to be very much inferior to St. Clare, the Convent's avowed Patroness. These having passed, a long train of Nuns appeared, bearing like the Choristers each a burning Taper. Next came the reliques of St. Clare, inclosed in vases equally precious for their materials and workmanship: But they attracted not Lorenzo's attention. The Nun who bore the heart occupied him entirely. According to Theodore's description, He doubted not her being the Mother St. Ursula. She seemed to look round with anxiety. As He stood foremost in the rank by which the procession past, her eye caught Lorenzo's. A flush of joy overspread her till then pallid cheek. She turned to her Companion eagerly. 'We are safe!' He heard her whisper; ''tis her Brother!' His heart being now at ease, Lorenzo gazed with tranquillity upon the remainder of the show. Now appeared its most brilliant ornament. It was a Machine fashioned like a throne, rich with jewels and dazzling with light. It rolled onwards upon concealed wheels, and was guided by several lovely Children, dressed as Seraphs. The summit was covered with silver clouds, upon which reclined the most beautiful form that eyes ever witnessed. It was a Damsel representing St. Clare: Her dress was of inestimable price, and round her head a wreath of Diamonds formed an artificial glory: But all these ornaments yielded to the lustre of her charms. As She advanced, a murmur of delight ran through the Crowd. Even Lorenzo confessed secretly, that He never beheld more perfect beauty, and had not his heart been Antonia's, it must have fallen a sacrifice to this enchanting Girl. As it was, He considered her only as a fine Statue: She obtained from him no tribute save cold admiration, and when She had passed him, He thought of her no more. 'Who is She?' asked a By-stander in Lorenzo's hearing. 'One whose beauty you must often have heard celebrated. Her name is Virginia de Villa-Franca: She is a Pensioner of St. Clare's Convent, a Relation of the Prioress, and has been selected with justice as the ornament of the Procession.' The Throne moved onwards. It was followed by the Prioress herself: She marched at the head of the remaining Nuns with a devout and sanctified air, and closed the procession. She moved on slowly: Her eyes were raised to heaven: Her countenance calm and tranquil seemed abstracted from all sublunary things, and no feature betrayed her secret pride at displaying the pomp and opulence of her Convent. She passed along, accompanied by the prayers and benedictions of the Populace: But how great was the general confusion and surprize, when Don Ramirez starting forward, challenged her as his Prisoner. For a moment amazement held the Domina silent and immoveable: But no sooner did She recover herself, than She exclaimed against sacrilege and impiety, and called the People to rescue a Daughter of the Church. They were eagerly preparing to obey her; when Don Ramirez, protected by the Archers from their rage, commanded them to forbear, and threatened them with the severest vengeance of the Inquisition. At that dreaded word every arm fell, every sword shrunk back into its scabbard. The Prioress herself turned pale, and trembled. The general silence convinced her that She had nothing to hope but from innocence, and She besought Don Ramirez in a faultering voice, to inform her of what crime She was accused. 'That you shall know in time,' replied He; 'But first I must secure the Mother St. Ursula.' 'The Mother St. Ursula?' repeated the Domina faintly. At this moment casting her eyes round, She saw near her Lorenzo and the Duke, who had followed Don Ramirez. 'Ah! great God!' She cried, clasping her hands together with a frantic air; 'I am betrayed!' 'Betrayed?' replied St. Ursula, who now arrived conducted by some of the Archers, and followed by the Nun her Companion in the procession: 'Not betrayed, but discovered. In me recognise your Accuser: You know not how well I am instructed in your guilt!--Segnor!' She continued, turning to Don Ramirez; 'I commit myself to your custody. I charge the Prioress of St. Clare with murder, and stake my life for the justice of my accusation.' A general cry of surprize was uttered by the whole Audience, and an explanation was demanded loudly. The trembling Nuns, terrified at the noise and universal confusion, had dispersed, and fled different ways. Some regained the Convent; Others sought refuge in the dwellings of their Relations; and Many, only sensible of their present danger, and anxious to escape from the tumult, ran through the Streets, and wandered, they knew not whither. The lovely Virginia was one of the first to fly: And in order that She might be better seen and heard, the People desired that St. Ursula should harangue them from the vacant Throne. The Nun complied; She ascended the glittering Machine, and then addressed the surrounding multitude as follows. 'However strange and unseemly may appear my conduct, when considered to be adopted by a Female and a Nun, necessity will justify it most fully. A secret, an horrible secret weighs heavy upon my soul: No rest can be mine till I have revealed it to the world, and satisfied that innocent blood which calls from the Grave for vengeance. Much have I dared to gain this opportunity of lightening my conscience. Had I failed in my attempt to reveal the crime, had the Domina but suspected that the mystery was none to me, my ruin was inevitable. Angels who watch unceasingly over those who deserve their favour, have enabled me to escape detection: I am now at liberty to relate a Tale, whose circumstances will freeze every honest soul with horror. Mine is the task to rend the veil from Hypocrisy, and show misguided Parents to what dangers the Woman is exposed, who falls under the sway of a monastic Tyrant. 'Among the Votaries of St. Clare, none was more lovely, none more gentle, than Agnes de Medina. I knew her well; She entrusted to me every secret of her heart; I was her Friend and Confident, and I loved her with sincere affection. Nor was I singular in my attachment. Her piety unfeigned, her willingness to oblige, and her angelic disposition, rendered her the Darling of all that was estimable in the Convent. The Prioress herself, proud, scrupulous and forbidding, could not refuse Agnes that tribute of approbation which She bestowed upon no one else. Every one has some fault: Alas! Agnes had her weakness! She violated the laws of our order, and incurred the inveterate hate of the unforgiving Domina. St. Clare's rules are severe: But grown antiquated and neglected, many of late years have either been forgotten, or changed by universal consent into milder punishments. The penance, adjudged to the crime of Agnes, was most cruel, most inhuman! The law had been long exploded: Alas! It still existed, and the revengeful Prioress now determined to revive it. This law decreed that the Offender should be plunged into a private dungeon, expressly constituted to hide from the world for ever the Victim of Cruelty and tyrannic superstition. In this dreadful abode She was to lead a perpetual solitude, deprived of all society, and believed to be dead by those whom affection might have prompted to attempt her rescue. Thus was She to languish out the remainder of her days, with no other food than bread and water, and no other comfort than the free indulgence of her tears.' The indignation created by this account was so violent, as for some moments to interrupt St. Ursula's narrative. When the disturbance ceased, and silence again prevailed through the Assembly, She continued her discourse, while at every word the Domina's countenance betrayed her increasing terrors. 'A Council of the twelve elder Nuns was called: I was of the number. The Prioress in exaggerated colours described the offence of Agnes, and scrupled not to propose the revival of this almost forgotten law. To the shame of our sex be it spoken, that either so absolute was the Domina's will in the Convent, or so much had disappointment, solitude, and self-denial hardened their hearts and sowered their tempers that this barbarous proposal was assented to by nine voices out of the twelve. I was not one of the nine. Frequent opportunities had convinced me of the virtues of Agnes, and I loved and pitied her most sincerely. The Mothers Bertha and Cornelia joined my party: We made the strongest opposition possible, and the Superior found herself compelled to change her intention. In spite of the majority in her favour, She feared to break with us openly. She knew that supported by the Medina family, our forces would be too strong for her to cope with: And She also knew that after being once imprisoned and supposed dead, should Agnes be discovered, her ruin would be inevitable. She therefore gave up her design, though which much reluctance. She demanded some days to reflect upon a mode of punishment which might be agreeable to the whole Community; and She promised, that as soon as her resolution was fixed, the same Council should be again summoned. Two days passed away: On the Evening of the Third it was announced that on the next day Agnes should be examined; and that according to her behaviour on that occasion, her punishment should be either strengthened or mitigated. 'On the night preceding this examination, I stole to the Cell of Agnes at an hour when I supposed the other Nuns to be buried in sleep. I comforted her to the best of my power: I bad her take courage, told her to rely upon the support of her friends, and taught her certain signs, by which I might instruct her to answer the Domina's questions by an assent or negative. Conscious that her Enemy would strive to confuse, embarrass, and daunt her, I feared her being ensnared into some confession prejudicial to her interests. Being anxious to keep my visit secret, I stayed with Agnes but a short time. I bad her not let her spirits be cast down; I mingled my tears with those which streamed down her cheek, embraced her fondly, and was on the point of retiring, when I heard the sound of steps approaching the Cell. I started back. A Curtain which veiled a large Crucifix offered me a retreat, and I hastened to place myself behind it. The door opened. The Prioress entered, followed by four other Nuns. They advanced towards the bed of Agnes. The Superior reproached her with her errors in the bitterest terms: She told her that She was a disgrace to the Convent, that She was resolved to deliver the world and herself from such a Monster, and commanded her to drink the contents of a Goblet now presented to her by one of the Nuns. Aware of the fatal properties of the liquor, and trembling to find herself upon the brink of Eternity, the unhappy Girl strove to excite the Domina's pity by the most affecting prayers. She sued for life in terms which might have melted the heart of a Fiend: She promised to submit patiently to any punishment, to shame, imprisonment, and torture, might She but be permitted to live! Oh! might She but live another month, or week, or day! Her merciless Enemy listened to her complaints unmoved: She told her that at first She meant to have spared her life, and that if She had altered her intention, She had to thank the opposition of her Friends. She continued to insist upon her swallowing the poison: She bad her recommend herself to the Almighty's mercy, not to hers, and assured her that in an hour She would be numbered with the Dead. Perceiving that it was vain to implore this unfeeling Woman, She attempted to spring from her bed, and call for assistance: She hoped, if She could not escape the fate announced to her, at least to have witnesses of the violence committed. The Prioress guessed her design. She seized her forcibly by the arm, and pushed her back upon her pillow. At the same time drawing a dagger, and placing it at the breast of the unfortunate Agnes, She protested that if She uttered a single cry, or hesitated a single moment to drink the poison, She would pierce her heart that instant. Already half-dead with fear, She could make no further resistance. The Nun approached with the fatal Goblet. The Domina obliged her to take it, and swallow the contents. She drank, and the horrid deed was accomplished. The Nuns then seated themselves round the Bed. They answered her groans with reproaches; They interrupted with sarcasms the prayers in which She recommended her parting soul to mercy: They threatened her with heaven's vengeance and eternal perdition: They bad her despair of pardon, and strowed with yet sharper thorns Death's painful pillow. Such were the sufferings of this young Unfortunate, till released by fate from the malice of her Tormentors. She expired in horror of the past, in fears for the future; and her agonies were such as must have amply gratified the hate and vengeance of her Enemies. As soon as her Victim ceased to breathe, the Domina retired, and was followed by her Accomplices. 'It was now that I ventured from my concealment. I dared not to assist my unhappy Friend, aware that without preserving her, I should only have brought on myself the same destruction. Shocked and terrified beyond expression at this horrid scene, scarcely had I sufficient strength to regain my Cell. As I reached the door of that of Agnes, I ventured to look towards the bed, on which lay her lifeless body, once so lovely and so sweet! I breathed a prayer for her departed Spirit, and vowed to revenge her death by the shame and punishment of her Assassins. With danger and difficulty have I kept my oath. I unwarily dropped some words at the funeral of Agnes, while thrown off my guard by excessive grief, which alarmed the guilty conscience of the Prioress. My every action was observed; My every step was traced. I was constantly surrounded by the Superior's spies. It was long before I could find the means of conveying to the unhappy Girl's Relations an intimation of my secret. It was given out that Agnes had expired suddenly: This account was credited not only by her Friends in Madrid, but even by those within the Convent. The poison had left no marks upon her body: No one suspected the true cause of her death, and it remained unknown to all, save the Assassins and Myself. 'I have no more to say: For what I have already said, I will answer with my life. I repeat that the Prioress is a Murderess; That She has driven from the world, perhaps from heaven, an Unfortunate whose offence was light and venial; that She has abused the power intrusted to her hands, and has been a Tyrant, a Barbarian, and an Hypocrite. I also accuse the four Nuns, Violante, Camilla, Alix, and Mariana, as being her Accomplices, and equally criminal.' Here St. Ursula ended her narrative. It created horror and surprize throughout: But when She related the inhuman murder of Agnes, the indignation of the Mob was so audibly testified, that it was scarcely possible to hear the conclusion. This confusion increased with every moment: At length a multitude of voices exclaimed that the Prioress should be given up to their fury. To this Don Ramirez refused to consent positively. Even Lorenzo bad the People remember that She had undergone no trial, and advised them to leave her punishment to the Inquisition. All representations were fruitless: The disturbance grew still more violent, and the Populace more exasperated. In vain did Ramirez attempt to convey his Prisoner out of the Throng. Wherever He turned, a band of Rioters barred his passage, and demanded her being delivered over to them more loudly than before. Ramirez ordered his Attendants to cut their way through the multitude: Oppressed by numbers, it was impossible for them to draw their swords. He threatened the Mob with the vengeance of the Inquisition: But in this moment of popular phrenzy even this dreadful name had lost its effect. Though regret for his Sister made him look upon the Prioress with abhorrence, Lorenzo could not help pitying a Woman in a situation so terrible: But in spite of all his exertions, and those of the Duke, of Don Ramirez, and the Archers, the People continued to press onwards. They forced a passage through the Guards who protected their destined Victim, dragged her from her shelter, and proceeded to take upon her a most summary and cruel vengeance. Wild with terror, and scarcely knowing what She said, the wretched Woman shrieked for a moment's mercy: She protested that She was innocent of the death of Agnes, and could clear herself from the suspicion beyond the power of doubt. The Rioters heeded nothing but the gratification of their barbarous vengeance. They refused to listen to her: They showed her every sort of insult, loaded her with mud and filth, and called her by the most opprobrious appellations. They tore her one from another, and each new Tormentor was more savage than the former. They stifled with howls and execrations her shrill cries for mercy; and dragged her through the Streets, spurning her, trampling her, and treating her with every species of cruelty which hate or vindictive fury could invent. At length a Flint, aimed by some well-directing hand, struck her full upon the temple. She sank upon the ground bathed in blood, and in a few minutes terminated her miserable existence. Yet though She no longer felt their insults, the Rioters still exercised their impotent rage upon her lifeless body. They beat it, trod upon it, and ill-used it, till it became no more than a mass of flesh, unsightly, shapeless, and disgusting. Unable to prevent this shocking event, Lorenzo and his Friends had beheld it with the utmost horror: But they were rouzed from their compelled inactivity, on hearing that the Mob was attacking the Convent of St. Clare. The incensed Populace, confounding the innocent with the guilty, had resolved to sacrifice all the Nuns of that order to their rage, and not to leave one stone of the building upon another. Alarmed at this intelligence, they hastened to the Convent, resolved to defend it if possible, or at least to rescue the Inhabitants from the fury of the Rioters. Most of the Nuns had fled, but a few still remained in their habitation. Their situation was truly dangerous. However, as they had taken the precaution of fastening the inner Gates, with this assistance Lorenzo hoped to repel the Mob, till Don Ramirez should return to him with a more sufficient force. Having been conducted by the former disturbance to the distance of some Streets from the Convent, He did not immediately reach it: When He arrived, the throng surrounding it was so excessive as to prevent his approaching the Gates. In the interim, the Populace besieged the Building with persevering rage: They battered the walls, threw lighted torches in at the windows, and swore that by break of day not a Nun of St. Clare's order should be left alive. Lorenzo had just succeeded in piercing his way through the Crowd, when one of the Gates was forced open. The Rioters poured into the interior part of the Building, where they exercised their vengeance upon every thing which found itself in their passage. They broke the furniture into pieces, tore down the pictures, destroyed the reliques, and in their hatred of her Servant forgot all respect to the Saint. Some employed themselves in searching out the Nuns, Others in pulling down parts of the Convent, and Others again in setting fire to the pictures and valuable furniture which it contained. These Latter produced the most decisive desolation: Indeed the consequences of their action were more sudden than themselves had expected or wished. The Flames rising from the burning piles caught part of the Building, which being old and dry, the conflagration spread with rapidity from room to room. The Walls were soon shaken by the devouring element: The Columns gave way: The Roofs came tumbling down upon the Rioters, and crushed many of them beneath their weight. Nothing was to be heard but shrieks and groans; The Convent was wrapped in flames, and the whole presented a scene of devastation and horror. Lorenzo was shocked at having been the cause, however innocent, of this frightful disturbance: He endeavoured to repair his fault by protecting the helpless Inhabitants of the Convent. He entered it with the Mob, and exerted himself to repress the prevailing Fury, till the sudden and alarming progress of the flames compelled him to provide for his own safety. The People now hurried out, as eagerly as they had before thronged in; But their numbers clogging up the doorway, and the fire gaining upon them rapidly, many of them perished ere they had time to effect their escape. Lorenzo's good fortune directed him to a small door in a farther Aisle of the Chapel. The bolt was already undrawn: He opened the door, and found himself at the foot of St. Clare's Sepulchre. Here He stopped to breathe. The Duke and some of his Attendants had followed him, and thus were in security for the present. They now consulted, what steps they should take to escape from this scene of disturbance: But their deliberations were considerably interrupted by the sight of volumes of fire rising from amidst the Convent's massy walls, by the noise of some heavy Arch tumbling down in ruins, or by the mingled shrieks of the Nuns and Rioters, either suffocating in the press, perishing in the flames, or crushed beneath the weight of the falling Mansion. Lorenzo enquired, whither the Wicket led? He was answered, to the Garden of the Capuchins, and it was resolved to explore an outlet upon that side. Accordingly the Duke raised the Latch, and passed into the adjoining Cemetery. The Attendants followed without ceremony. Lorenzo, being the last, was also on the point of quitting the Colonnade, when He saw the door of the Sepulchre opened softly. Someone looked out, but on perceiving Strangers uttered a loud shriek, started back again, and flew down the marble Stairs. 'What can this mean?' cried Lorenzo; 'Here is some mystery concealed. Follow me without delay!' Thus saying, He hastened into the Sepulchre, and pursued the person who continued to fly before him. The Duke knew not the cause of his exclamation, but supposing that He had good reasons for it, he followed him without hesitation. The Others did the same, and the whole Party soon arrived at the foot of the Stairs. The upper door having been left open, the neighbouring flames darted from above a sufficient light to enable Lorenzo's catching a glance of the Fugitive running through the long passages and distant Vaults: But when a sudden turn deprived him of this assistance, total darkness succeeded, and He could only trace the object of his enquiry by the faint echo of retiring feet. The Pursuers were now compelled to proceed with caution: As well as they could judge, the Fugitive also seemed to slacken pace, for they heard the steps follow each other at longer intervals. They at length were bewildered by the Labyrinth of passages, and dispersed in various directions. Carried away by his eagerness to clear up this mystery, and to penetrate into which He was impelled by a movement secret and unaccountable, Lorenzo heeded not this circumstance till He found himself in total solitude. The noise of footsteps had ceased. All was silent around, and no clue offered itself to guide him to the flying Person. He stopped to reflect on the means most likely to aid his pursuit. He was persuaded that no common cause would have induced the Fugitive to seek that dreary place at an hour so unusual: The cry which He had heard, seemed uttered in a voice of terror, and He was convinced that some mystery was attached to this event. After some minutes past in hesitation He continued to proceed, feeling his way along the walls of the passage. He had already past some time in this slow progress, when He descried a spark of light glimmering at a distance. Guided by this observation, and having drawn his sword, He bent his steps towards the place, whence the beam seemed to be emitted. It proceeded from the Lamp which flamed before St. Clare's Statue. Before it stood several Females, their white Garments streaming in the blast, as it howled along the vaulted dungeons. Curious to know what had brought them together in this melancholy spot, Lorenzo drew near with precaution. The Strangers seemed earnestly engaged in conversation. They heard not Lorenzo's steps, and He approached unobserved, till He could hear their voices distinctly. 'I protest,' continued She who was speaking when He arrived, and to whom the rest were listening with great attention; 'I protest, that I saw them with my own eyes. I flew down the steps; They pursued me, and I escaped falling into their hands with difficulty. Had it not been for the Lamp, I should never have found you.' 'And what could bring them hither?' said another in a trembling voice; 'Do you think that they were looking for us?' 'God grant that my fears may be false,' rejoined the First; 'But I doubt they are Murderers! If they discover us, we are lost! As for me, my fate is certain: My affinity to the Prioress will be a sufficient crime to condemn me; and though till now these Vaults have afforded me a retreat.......' Here looking up, her eye fell upon Lorenzo, who had continued to approach softly. 'The Murderers!' She cried-- She started away from the Statue's Pedestal on which She had been seated, and attempted to escape by flight. Her Companions at the same moment uttered a terrified scream, while Lorenzo arrested the Fugitive by the arm. Frightened and desperate She sank upon her knees before him. 'Spare me!' She exclaimed; 'For Christ's sake, spare me! I am innocent, indeed, I am!' While She spoke, her voice was almost choaked with fear. The beams of the Lamp darting full upon her face which was unveiled, Lorenzo recognized the beautiful Virginia de Villa-Franca. He hastened to raise her from the ground, and besought her to take courage. He promised to protect her from the Rioters, assured her that her retreat was still a secret, and that She might depend upon his readiness to defend her to the last drop of his blood. During this conversation, the Nuns had thrown themselves into various attitudes: One knelt, and addressed herself to heaven; Another hid her face in the lap of her Neighbour; Some listened motionless with fear to the discourse of the supposed Assassin; while Others embraced the Statue of St. Clare, and implored her protection with frantic cries. On perceiving their mistake, they crowded round Lorenzo and heaped benedictions on him by dozens. He found that, on hearing the threats of the Mob, and terrified by the cruelties which from the Convent Towers they had seen inflicted on the Superior, many of the Pensioners and Nuns had taken refuge in the Sepulchre. Among the former was to be reckoned the lovely Virginia. Nearly related to the Prioress, She had more reason than the rest to dread the Rioters, and now besought Lorenzo earnestly not to abandon her to their rage. Her Companions, most of whom were Women of noble family, made the same request, which He readily granted. He promised not to quit them, till He had seen each of them safe in the arms of her Relations: But He advised their deferring to quit the Sepulchre for some time longer, when the popular fury should be somewhat calmed, and the arrival of military force have dispersed the multitude. 'Would to God!' cried Virginia, 'That I were already safe in my Mother's embraces! How say you, Segnor; Will it be long, ere we may leave this place? Every moment that I pass here, I pass in torture!' 'I hope, not long,' said He; 'But till you can proceed with security, this Sepulchre will prove an impenetrable asylum. Here you run no risque of a discovery, and I would advise your remaining quiet for the next two or three hours.' 'Two or three hours?' exclaimed Sister Helena; 'If I stay another hour in these vaults, I shall expire with fear! Not the wealth of worlds should bribe me to undergo again what I have suffered since my coming hither. Blessed Virgin! To be in this melancholy place in the middle of night, surrounded by the mouldering bodies of my deceased Companions, and expecting every moment to be torn in pieces by their Ghosts who wander about me, and complain, and groan, and wail in accents that make my blood run cold, ..... Christ Jesus! It is enough to drive me to madness!' 'Excuse me,' replied Lorenzo, 'if I am surprized that while menaced by real woes you are capable of yielding to imaginary dangers. These terrors are puerile and groundless: Combat them, holy Sister; I have promised to guard you from the Rioters, but against the attacks of superstition you must depend for protection upon yourself. The idea of Ghosts is ridiculous in the extreme; And if you continue to be swayed by ideal terrors ...' 'Ideal?' exclaimed the Nuns with one voice; 'Why we heard it ourselves, Segnor! Every one of us heard it! It was frequently repeated, and it sounded every time more melancholy and deep. You will never persuade me that we could all have been deceived. Not we, indeed; No, no; Had the noise been merely created by fancy ....' 'Hark! Hark!' interrupted Virginia in a voice of terror; 'God preserve us! There it is again!' The Nuns clasped their hands together, and sank upon their knees. Lorenzo looked round him eagerly, and was on the point of yielding to the fears which already had possessed the Women. Universal silence prevailed. He examined the Vault, but nothing was to be seen. He now prepared to address the Nuns, and ridicule their childish apprehensions, when his attention was arrested by a deep and long-drawn groan. 'What was that?' He cried, and started. 'There, Segnor!' said Helena; 'Now you must be convinced! You have heard the noise yourself! Now judge, whether our terrors are imaginary. Since we have been here, that groaning has been repeated almost every five minutes. Doubtless, it proceeds from some Soul in pain, who wishes to be prayed out of purgatory: But none of us here dares ask it the question. As for me, were I to see an Apparition, the fright, I am very certain, would kill me out of hand.' As She said this, a second groan was heard yet more distinctly. The Nuns crossed themselves, and hastened to repeat their prayers against evil Spirits. Lorenzo listened attentively. He even thought that He could distinguish sounds, as of one speaking in complaint; But distance rendered them inarticulate. The noise seemed to come from the midst of the small Vault in which He and the Nuns then were, and which a multitude of passages branching out in various directions, formed into a sort of Star. Lorenzo's curiosity which was ever awake, made him anxious to solve this mystery. He desired that silence might be kept. The Nuns obeyed him. All was hushed, till the general stillness was again disturbed by the groaning, which was repeated several times successively. He perceived it to be most audible, when upon following the sound He was conducted close to the shrine of St. Clare: 'The noise comes from hence,' said He; 'Whose is this Statue?' Helena, to whom He addressed the question, paused for a moment. Suddenly She clapped her hands together. 'Aye!' cried She, 'it must be so. I have discovered the meaning of these groans.' The Nuns crowded round her, and besought her eagerly to explain herself. She gravely replied that for time immemorial the Statue had been famous for performing miracles: From this She inferred that the Saint was concerned at the conflagration of a Convent which She protected, and expressed her grief by audible lamentations. Not having equal faith in the miraculous Saint, Lorenzo did not think this solution of the mystery quite so satisfactory, as the Nuns, who subscribed to it without hesitation. In one point, 'tis true, that He agreed with Helena. He suspected that the groans proceeded from the Statue: The more He listened, the more was He confirmed in this idea. He drew nearer to the Image, designing to inspect it more closely: But perceiving his intention, the Nuns besought him for God's sake to desist, since if He touched the Statue, his death was inevitable. 'And in what consists the danger?' said He. 'Mother of God! In what?' replied Helena, ever eager to relate a miraculous adventure; 'If you had only heard the hundredth part of those marvellous Stories about this Statue which the Domina used to recount! She assured us often and often, that if we only dared to lay a finger upon it, we might expect the most fatal consequences. Among other things She told us that a Robber having entered these Vaults by night, He observed yonder Ruby, whose value is inestimable. Do you see it, Segnor? It sparkles upon the third finger of the hand, in which She holds a crown of Thorns. This Jewel naturally excited the Villain's cupidity. He resolved to make himself Master of it. For this purpose He ascended the Pedestal: He supported himself by grasping the Saint's right arm, and extended his own towards the Ring. What was his surprize, when He saw the Statue's hand raised in a posture of menace, and heard her lips pronounce his eternal perdition! Penetrated with awe and consternation, He desisted from his attempt, and prepared to quit the Sepulchre. In this He also failed. Flight was denied him. He found it impossible to disengage the hand, which rested upon the right arm of the Statue. In vain did He struggle: He remained fixed to the Image, till the insupportable and fiery anguish which darted itself through his veins, compelled his shrieking for assistance. The Sepulchre was now filled with Spectators. The Villain confessed his sacrilege, and was only released by the separation of his hand from his body. It has remained ever since fastened to the Image. The Robber turned Hermit, and led ever after an exemplary life: But yet the Saint's decree was performed, and Tradition says that He continues to haunt this Sepulchre, and implore St. Clare's pardon with groans and lamentations. Now I think of it, those which we have just heard, may very possibly have been uttered by the Ghost of this Sinner: But of this I will not be positive. All that I can say is, that since that time no one has ever dared to touch the Statue: Then do not be foolhardy, good Segnor! For the love of heaven, give up your design, nor expose yourself unnecessarily to certain destruction.' Not being convinced that his destruction would be so certain as Helena seemed to think it, Lorenzo persisted in his resolution. The Nuns besought him to desist in piteous terms, and even pointed out the Robber's hand, which in effect was still visible upon the arm of the Statue. This proof, as they imagined, must convince him. It was very far from doing so; and they were greatly scandalized when he declared his suspicion that the dried and shrivelled fingers had been placed there by order of the Prioress. In spite of their prayers and threats He approached the Statue. He sprang over the iron Rails which defended it, and the Saint underwent a thorough examination. The Image at first appeared to be of Stone, but proved on further inspection to be formed of no more solid materials than coloured Wood. He shook it, and attempted to move it; But it appeared to be of a piece with the Base which it stood upon. He examined it over and over: Still no clue guided him to the solution of this mystery, for which the Nuns were become equally solicitous, when they saw that He touched the Statue with impunity. He paused, and listened: The groans were repeated at intervals, and He was convinced of being in the spot nearest to them. He mused upon this singular event, and ran over the Statue with enquiring eyes. Suddenly they rested upon the shrivelled hand. It struck him, that so particular an injunction was not given without cause, not to touch the arm of the Image. He again ascended the Pedestal; He examined the object of his attention, and discovered a small knob of iron concealed between the Saint's shoulder and what was supposed to have been the hand of the Robber. This observation delighted him. He applied his fingers to the knob, and pressed it down forcibly. Immediately a rumbling noise was heard within the Statue, as if a chain tightly stretched was flying back. Startled at the sound the timid Nuns started away, prepared to hasten from the Vault at the first appearance of danger. All remaining quiet and still, they again gathered round Lorenzo, and beheld his proceedings with anxious curiosity. Finding that nothing followed this discovery, He descended. As He took his hand from the Saint, She trembled beneath his touch. This created new terrors in the Spectators, who believed the Statue to be animated. Lorenzo's ideas upon the subject were widely different. He easily comprehended that the noise which He had heard, was occasioned by his having loosened a chain which attached the Image to its Pedestal. He once more attempted to move it, and succeeded without much exertion. He placed it upon the ground, and then perceived the Pedestal to be hollow, and covered at the opening with an heavy iron grate. This excited such general curiosity that the Sisters forgot both their real and imaginary dangers. Lorenzo proceeded to raise the Grate, in which the Nuns assisted him to the utmost of their strength. The attempt was accomplished with little difficulty. A deep abyss now presented itself before them, whose thick obscurity the eye strove in vain to pierce. The rays of the Lamp were too feeble to be of much assistance. Nothing was discernible, save a flight of rough unshapen steps which sank into the yawning Gulph and were soon lost in darkness. The groans were heard no more; But All believed them to have ascended from this Cavern. As He bent over it, Lorenzo fancied that He distinguished something bright twinkling through the gloom. He gazed attentively upon the spot where it showed itself, and was convinced that He saw a small spark of light, now visible, now disappearing. He communicated this circumstance to the Nuns: They also perceived the spark; But when He declared his intention to descend into the Cave, they united to oppose his resolution. All their remonstrances could not prevail on him to alter it. None of them had courage enough to accompany him; neither could He think of depriving them of the Lamp. Alone therefore, and in darkness, He prepared to pursue his design, while the Nuns were contented to offer up prayers for his success and safety. The steps were so narrow and uneven, that to descend them was like walking down the side of a precipice. The obscurity by which He was surrounded rendered his footing insecure. He was obliged to proceed with great caution, lest He should miss the steps and fall into the Gulph below him. This He was several times on the point of doing. However, He arrived sooner upon solid ground than He had expected: He now found that the thick darkness and impenetrable mists which reigned through the Cavern had deceived him into the belief of its being much more profound than it proved upon inspection. He reached the foot of the Stairs unhurt: He now stopped, and looked round for the spark which had before caught his attention. He sought it in vain: All was dark and gloomy. He listened for the groans; But his ear caught no sound, except the distant murmur of the Nuns above, as in low voices they repeated their Ave-Marias. He stood irresolute to which side He should address his steps. At all events He determined to proceed: He did so, but slowly, fearing lest instead of approaching, He should be retiring from the object of his search. The groans seemed to announce one in pain, or at least in sorrow, and He hoped to have the power of relieving the Mourner's calamities. A plaintive tone, sounding at no great distance, at length reached his hearing; He bent his course joyfully towards it. It became more audible as He advanced; and He soon beheld again the spark of light, which a low projecting Wall had hitherto concealed from him. It proceeded from a small Lamp which was placed upon an heap of stones, and whose faint and melancholy rays served rather to point out, than dispell the horrors of a narrow gloomy dungeon formed in one side of the Cavern; It also showed several other recesses of similar construction, but whose depth was buried in obscurity. Coldly played the light upon the damp walls, whose dew-stained surface gave back a feeble reflection. A thick and pestilential fog clouded the height of the vaulted dungeon. As Lorenzo advanced, He felt a piercing chillness spread itself through his veins. The frequent groans still engaged him to move forwards. He turned towards them, and by the Lamp's glimmering beams beheld in a corner of this loathsome abode, a Creature stretched upon a bed of straw, so wretched, so emaciated, so pale, that He doubted to think her Woman. She was half-naked: Her long dishevelled hair fell in disorder over her face, and almost entirely concealed it. One wasted Arm hung listlessly upon a tattered rug which covered her convulsed and shivering limbs: The Other was wrapped round a small bundle, and held it closely to her bosom. A large Rosary lay near her: Opposite to her was a Crucifix, on which She bent her sunk eyes fixedly, and by her side stood a Basket and a small Earthen Pitcher. Lorenzo stopped: He was petrified with horror. He gazed upon the miserable Object with disgust and pity. He trembled at the spectacle; He grew sick at heart: His strength failed him, and his limbs were unable to support his weight. He was obliged to lean against the low Wall which was near him, unable to go forward, or to address the Sufferer. She cast her eyes towards the Staircase: The Wall concealed Lorenzo, and She observed him not. 'No one comes!' She at length murmured. As She spoke, her voice was hollow, and rattled in her throat: She sighed bitterly. 'No one comes!' She repeated; 'No! They have forgotten me! They will come no more!' She paused for a moment: Then continued mournfully. 'Two days! Two long, long days, and yet no food! And yet no hope, no comfort! Foolish Woman! How can I wish to lengthen a life so wretched! Yet such a death! O! God! To perish by such a death! To linger out such ages in torture! Till now, I knew not what it was to hunger! Hark! No. No one comes! They will come no more!' She was silent. She shivered, and drew the rug over her naked shoulders. 'I am very cold! I am still unused to the damps of this dungeon! 'Tis strange: But no matter. Colder shall I soon be, and yet not feel it--I shall be cold, cold as Thou art!' She looked at the bundle which lay upon her breast. She bent over it, and kissed it: Then drew back hastily, and shuddered with disgust. 'It was once so sweet! It would have been so lovely, so like him! I have lost it for ever! How a few days have changed it! I should not know it again myself! Yet it is dear to me! God! how dear! I will forget what it is: I will only remember what it was, and love it as well, as when it was so sweet! so lovely! so like him! I thought that I had wept away all my tears, but here is one still lingering.' She wiped her eyes with a tress of her hair. She put out her hand for the Pitcher, and reached it with difficulty. She cast into it a look of hopeless enquiry. She sighed, and replaced it upon the ground. 'Quite a void! Not a drop! Not one drop left to cool my scorched-up burning palate! Now would I give treasures for a draught of water! And they are God's Servants, who make me suffer thus! They think themselves holy, while they torture me like Fiends! They are cruel and unfeeling; And 'tis they who bid me repent; And 'tis they, who threaten me with eternal perdition! Saviour, Saviour! You think not so!' She again fixed her eyes upon the Crucifix, took her Rosary, and while She told her beads, the quick motion of her lips declared her to be praying with fervency. While He listened to her melancholy accents, Lorenzo's sensibility became yet more violently affected. The first sight of such misery had given a sensible shock to his feelings: But that being past, He now advanced towards the Captive. She heard his steps, and uttering a cry of joy, dropped the Rosary. 'Hark! Hark! Hark!' She cried: 'Some one comes!' She strove to raise herself, but her strength was unequal to the attempt: She fell back, and as She sank again upon the bed of straw, Lorenzo heard the rattling of heavy chains. He still approached, while the Prisoner thus continued. 'Is it you, Camilla? You are come then at last? Oh! it was time! I thought that you had forsaken me; that I was doomed to perish of hunger. Give me to drink, Camilla, for pity's sake! I am faint with long fasting, and grown so weak that I cannot raise myself from the ground. Good Camilla, give me to drink, lest I expire before you!' Fearing that surprize in her enfeebled state might be fatal, Lorenzo was at a loss how to address her. 'It is not Camilla,' said He at length, speaking in a slow and gentle voice. 'Who is it then?' replied the Sufferer: 'Alix, perhaps, or Violante. My eyes are grown so dim and feeble that I cannot distinguish your features. But whichever it is, if your breast is sensible of the least compassion, if you are not more cruel than Wolves and Tigers, take pity on my sufferings. You know that I am dying for want of sustenance. This is the third day, since these lips have received nourishment. Do you bring me food? Or come you only to announce my death, and learn how long I have yet to exist in agony?' 'You mistake my business,' replied Lorenzo; 'I am no Emissary of the cruel Prioress. I pity your sorrows, and come hither to relieve them.' 'To relieve them?' repeated the Captive; 'Said you, to relieve them?' At the same time starting from the ground, and supporting herself upon her hands, She gazed upon the Stranger earnestly. 'Great God! It is no illusion! A Man! Speak! Who are you? What brings you hither? Come you to save me, to restore me to liberty, to life and light? Oh! speak, speak quickly, lest I encourage an hope whose disappointment will destroy me.' 'Be calm!' replied Lorenzo in a voice soothing and compassionate; 'The Domina of whose cruelty you complain, has already paid the forfeit of her offences: You have nothing more to fear from her. A few minutes will restore you to liberty, and the embraces of your Friends from whom you have been secluded. You may rely upon my protection. Give me your hand, and be not fearful. Let me conduct you where you may receive those attentions which your feeble state requires.' 'Oh! Yes! Yes! Yes!' cried the Prisoner with an exulting shriek; 'There is a God then, and a just one! Joy! Joy! I shall once more breath the fresh air, and view the light of the glorious sunbeams! I will go with you! Stranger, I will go with you! Oh! Heaven will bless you for pitying an Unfortunate! But this too must go with me,' She added pointing to the small bundle which She still clasped to her bosom; 'I cannot part with this. I will bear it away: It shall convince the world how dreadful are the abodes so falsely termed religious. Good Stranger, lend me your hand to rise: I am faint with want, and sorrow, and sickness, and my forces have quite forsaken me! So, that is well!' As Lorenzo stooped to raise her, the beams of the Lamp struck full upon his face. 'Almighty God!' She exclaimed; 'Is it possible! That look! Those features! Oh! Yes, it is, it is .....' She extended her arms to throw them round him; But her enfeebled frame was unable to sustain the emotions which agitated her bosom. She fainted, and again sank upon the bed of straw. Lorenzo was surprized at her last exclamation. He thought that He had before heard such accents as her hollow voice had just formed, but where He could not remember. He saw that in her dangerous situation immediate physical aid was absolutely necessary, and He hastened to convey her from the dungeon. He was at first prevented from doing so by a strong chain fastened round the prisoner's body, and fixing her to the neighbouring Wall. However, his natural strength being aided by anxiety to relieve the Unfortunate, He soon forced out the Staple to which one end of the Chain was attached. Then taking the Captive in his arms, He bent his course towards the Staircase. The rays of the Lamp above, as well as the murmur of female voices, guided his steps. He gained the Stairs, and in a few minutes after arrived at the iron-grate. The Nuns during his absence had been terribly tormented by curiosity and apprehension: They were equally surprized and delighted on seeing him suddenly emerge from the Cave. Every heart was filled with compassion for the miserable Creature whom He bore in his arms. While the Nuns, and Virginia in particular, employed themselves in striving to recall her to her senses, Lorenzo related in few words the manner of his finding her. He then observed to them that by this time the tumult must have been quelled, and that He could now conduct them to their Friends without danger. All were eager to quit the Sepulchre: Still to prevent all possibility of ill-usage, they besought Lorenzo to venture out first alone, and examine whether the Coast was clear. With this request He complied. Helena offered to conduct him to the Staircase, and they were on the point of departing, when a strong light flashed from several passages upon the adjacent walls. At the same time Steps were heard of people approaching hastily, and whose number seemed to be considerable. The Nuns were greatly alarmed at this circumstance: They supposed their retreat to be discovered, and the Rioters to be advancing in pursuit of them. Hastily quitting the Prisoner who remained insensible, they crowded round Lorenzo, and claimed his promise to protect them. Virginia alone forgot her own danger by striving to relieve the sorrows of Another. She supported the Sufferer's head upon her knees, bathing her temples with rose-water, chafing her cold hands, and sprinkling her face with tears which were drawn from her by compassion. The Strangers approaching nearer, Lorenzo was enabled to dispel the fears of the Suppliants. His name, pronounced by a number of voices among which He distinguished the Duke's, pealed along the Vaults, and convinced him that He was the object of their search. He communicated this intelligence to the Nuns, who received it with rapture. A few moments after confirmed his idea. Don Ramirez, as well as the Duke, appeared, followed by Attendants with Torches. They had been seeking him through the Vaults, in order to let him know that the Mob was dispersed, and the riot entirely over. Lorenzo recounted briefly his adventure in the Cavern, and explained how much the Unknown was in want of medical assistance. He besought the Duke to take charge of her, as well as of the Nuns and Pensioners. 'As for me,' said He, 'Other cares demand my attention. While you with one half of the Archers convey these Ladies to their respective homes, I wish the other half to be left with me. I will examine the Cavern below, and pervade the most secret recesses of the Sepulchre. I cannot rest till convinced that yonder wretched Victim was the only one confined by Superstition in these vaults.' The Duke applauded his intention. Don Ramirez offered to assist him in his enquiry, and his proposal was accepted with gratitude. The Nuns having made their acknowledgments to Lorenzo, committed themselves to the care of his Uncle, and were conducted from the Sepulchre. Virginia requested that the Unknown might be given to her in charge, and promised to let Lorenzo know whenever She was sufficiently recovered to accept his visits. In truth, She made this promise more from consideration for herself than for either Lorenzo or the Captive. She had witnessed his politeness, gentleness, and intrepidity with sensible emotion. She wished earnestly to preserve his acquaintance; and in addition to the sentiments of pity which the Prisoner excited, She hoped that her attention to this Unfortunate would raise her a degree in the esteem of Lorenzo. She had no occasion to trouble herself upon this head. The kindness already displayed by her and the tender concern which She had shown for the Sufferer had gained her an exalted place in his good graces. While occupied in alleviating the Captive's sorrows, the nature of her employment adorned her with new charms, and rendered her beauty a thousand times more interesting. Lorenzo viewed her with admiration and delight: He considered her as a ministering Angel descended to the aid of afflicted innocence; nor could his heart have resisted her attractions, had it not been steeled by the remembrance of Antonia. The Duke now conveyed the Nuns in safety to the Dwellings of their respective Friends. The rescued Prisoner was still insensible and gave no signs of life, except by occasional groans. She was borne upon a sort of litter; Virginia, who was constantly by the side of it, was apprehensive that exhausted by long abstinence, and shaken by the sudden change from bonds and darkness to liberty and light, her frame would never get the better of the shock. Lorenzo and Don Ramirez still remained in the Sepulchre. After deliberating upon their proceedings, it was resolved that to prevent losing time, the Archers should be divided into two Bodies: That with one Don Ramirez should examine the cavern, while Lorenzo with the other might penetrate into the further Vaults. This being arranged, and his Followers being provided with Torches, Don Ramirez advanced to the Cavern. He had already descended some steps when He heard People approaching hastily from the interior part of the Sepulchre. This surprized him, and He quitted the Cave precipitately. 'Do you hear footsteps?' said Lorenzo; 'Let us bend our course towards them. 'Tis from this side that they seem to proceed.' At that moment a loud and piercing shriek induced him to quicken his steps. 'Help! Help, for God's sake! cried a voice, whose melodious tone penetrated Lorenzo's heart with terror. He flew towards the cry with the rapidity of lightning, and was followed by Don Ramirez with equal swiftness. CHAPTER IV Great Heaven! How frail thy creature Man is made! How by himself insensibly betrayed! In our own strength unhappily secure, Too little cautious of the adverse power, On pleasure's flowery brink we idly stray, Masters as yet of our returning way: Till the strong gusts of raging passion rise, Till the dire Tempest mingles earth and skies, And swift into the boundless Ocean borne, Our foolish confidence too late we mourn: Round our devoted heads the billows beat, And from our troubled view the lessening lands retreat. Prior. All this while, Ambrosio was unconscious of the dreadful scenes which were passing so near. The execution of his designs upon Antonia employed his every thought. Hitherto, He was satisfied with the success of his plans. Antonia had drank the opiate, was buried in the vaults of St. Clare, and absolutely in his disposal. Matilda, who was well acquainted with the nature and effects of the soporific medicine, had computed that it would not cease to operate till one in the Morning. For that hour He waited with impatience. The Festival of St. Clare presented him with a favourable opportunity of consummating his crime. He was certain that the Friars and Nuns would be engaged in the Procession, and that He had no cause to dread an interruption: From appearing himself at the head of his Monks, He had desired to be excused. He doubted not, that being beyond the reach of help, cut off from all the world, and totally in his power, Antonia would comply with his desires. The affection which She had ever exprest for him, warranted this persuasion: But He resolved that should She prove obstinate, no consideration whatever should prevent him from enjoying her. Secure from a discovery, He shuddered not at the idea of employing force: If He felt any repugnance, it arose not from a principle of shame or compassion, but from his feeling for Antonia the most sincere and ardent affection, and wishing to owe her favours to no one but herself. The Monks quitted the Abbey at midnight. Matilda was among the Choristers, and led the chaunt. Ambrosio was left by himself, and at liberty to pursue his own inclinations. Convinced that no one remained behind to watch his motions, or disturb his pleasures, He now hastened to the Western Aisles. His heart beating with hope not unmingled with anxiety, He crossed the Garden, unlocked the door which admitted him into the Cemetery, and in a few minutes He stood before the Vaults. Here He paused. He looked round him with suspicion, conscious that his business was unfit for any other eye. As He stood in hesitation, He heard the melancholy shriek of the screech-Owl: The wind rattled loudly against the windows of the adjacent Convent, and as the current swept by him, bore with it the faint notes of the chaunt of Choristers. He opened the door cautiously, as if fearing to be overheard: He entered; and closed it again after him. Guided by his Lamp, He threaded the long passages, in whose windings Matilda had instructed him, and reached the private Vault which contained his sleeping Mistress. Its entrance was by no means easy to discover: But this was no obstacle to Ambrosio, who at the time of Antonia's Funeral had observed it too carefully to be deceived. He found the door, which was unfastened, pushed it open, and descended into the dungeon. He approached the humble Tomb in which Antonia reposed. He had provided himself with an iron crow and a pick-axe; But this precaution was unnecessary. The Grate was slightly fastened on the outside: He raised it, and placing the Lamp upon its ridge, bent silently over the Tomb. By the side of three putrid half-corrupted Bodies lay the sleeping Beauty. A lively red, the forerunner of returning animation, had already spread itself over her cheek; and as wrapped in her shroud She reclined upon her funeral Bier, She seemed to smile at the Images of Death around her. While He gazed upon their rotting bones and disgusting figures, who perhaps were once as sweet and lovely, Ambrosio thought upon Elvira, by him reduced to the same state. As the memory of that horrid act glanced upon his mind, it was clouded with a gloomy horror. Yet it served but to strengthen his resolution to destroy Antonia's honour. 'For your sake, Fatal Beauty!' murmured the Monk, while gazing on his devoted prey; 'For your sake, have I committed this murder, and sold myself to eternal tortures. Now you are in my power: The produce of my guilt will at least be mine. Hope not that your prayers breathed in tones of unequalled melody, your bright eyes filled with tears, and your hands lifted in supplication, as when seeking in penitence the Virgin's pardon; Hope not that your moving innocence, your beauteous grief, or all your suppliant arts shall ransom you from my embraces. Before the break of day, mine you must, and mine you shall be!' He lifted her still motionless from the Tomb: He seated himself upon a bank of Stone, and supporting her in his arms, watched impatiently for the symptoms of returning animation. Scarcely could He command his passions sufficiently, to restrain himself from enjoying her while yet insensible. His natural lust was increased in ardour by the difficulties which had opposed his satisfying it: As also by his long abstinence from Woman, since from the moment of resigning her claim to his love, Matilda had exiled him from her arms for ever. 'I am no Prostitute, Ambrosio;' Had She told him, when in the fullness of his lust He demanded her favours with more than usual earnestness; 'I am now no more than your Friend, and will not be your Mistress. Cease then to solicit my complying with desires, which insult me. While your heart was mine, I gloried in your embraces: Those happy times are past: My person is become indifferent to you, and 'tis necessity, not love, which makes you seek my enjoyment. I cannot yield to a request so humiliating to my pride.' Suddenly deprived of pleasures, the use of which had made them an absolute want, the Monk felt this restraint severely. Naturally addicted to the gratification of the senses, in the full vigour of manhood, and heat of blood, He had suffered his temperament to acquire such ascendency that his lust was become madness. Of his fondness for Antonia, none but the grosser particles remained: He longed for the possession of her person; and even the gloom of the vault, the surrounding silence, and the resistance which He expected from her, seemed to give a fresh edge to his fierce and unbridled desires. Gradually He felt the bosom which rested against his, glow with returning warmth. Her heart throbbed again; Her blood flowed swifter, and her lips moved. At length She opened her eyes, but still opprest and bewildered by the effects of the strong opiate, She closed them again immediately. Ambrosio watched her narrowly, nor permitted a movement to escape him. Perceiving that She was fully restored to existence, He caught her in rapture to his bosom, and closely pressed his lips to hers. The suddenness of his action sufficed to dissipate the fumes which obscured Antonia's reason. She hastily raised herself, and cast a wild look round her. The strange Images which presented themselves on every side contributed to confuse her. She put her hand to her head, as if to settle her disordered imagination. At length She took it away, and threw her eyes through the dungeon a second time. They fixed upon the Abbot's face. 'Where am I?' She said abruptly. 'How came I here? Where is my Mother? Methought, I saw her! Oh! a dream, a dreadful dreadful dream told me ...... But where am I? Let me go! I cannot stay here!' She attempted to rise, but the Monk prevented her. 'Be calm, lovely Antonia!' He replied; 'No danger is near you: Confide in my protection. Why do you gaze on me so earnestly? Do you not know me? Not know your Friend? Ambrosio?' 'Ambrosio? My Friend? Oh! yes, yes; I remember ...... But why am I here? Who has brought me? Why are you with me? Oh! Flora bad me beware .....! Here are nothing but Graves, and Tombs, and Skeletons! This place frightens me! Good Ambrosio take me away from it, for it recalls my fearful dream! Methought I was dead, and laid in my grave! Good Ambrosio, take me from hence. Will you not? Oh! will you not? Do not look on me thus! Your flaming eyes terrify me! Spare me, Father! Oh! spare me for God's sake!' 'Why these terrors, Antonia?' rejoined the Abbot, folding her in his arms, and covering her bosom with kisses which She in vain struggled to avoid: 'What fear you from me, from one who adores you? What matters it where you are? This Sepulchre seems to me Love's bower; This gloom is the friendly night of mystery which He spreads over our delights! Such do I think it, and such must my Antonia. Yes, my sweet Girl! Yes! Your veins shall glow with fire which circles in mine, and my transports shall be doubled by your sharing them!' While He spoke thus, He repeated his embraces, and permitted himself the most indecent liberties. Even Antonia's ignorance was not proof against the freedom of his behaviour. She was sensible of her danger, forced herself from his arms, and her shroud being her only garment, She wrapped it closely round her. 'Unhand me, Father!' She cried, her honest indignation tempered by alarm at her unprotected position; 'Why have you brought me to this place? Its appearance freezes me with horror! Convey me from hence, if you have the least sense of pity and humanity! Let me return to the House which I have quitted I know not how; But stay here one moment longer, I neither will, or ought.' Though the Monk was somewhat startled by the resolute tone in which this speech was delivered, it produced upon him no other effect than surprize. He caught her hand, forced her upon his knee, and gazing upon her with gloting eyes, He thus replied to her. 'Compose yourself, Antonia. Resistance is unavailing, and I need disavow my passion for you no longer. You are imagined dead: Society is for ever lost to you. I possess you here alone; You are absolutely in my power, and I burn with desires which I must either gratify or die: But I would owe my happiness to yourself. My lovely Girl! My adorable Antonia! Let me instruct you in joys to which you are still a Stranger, and teach you to feel those pleasures in my arms which I must soon enjoy in yours. Nay, this struggling is childish,' He continued, seeing her repell his caresses, and endeavour to escape from his grasp; 'No aid is near: Neither heaven or earth shall save you from my embraces. Yet why reject pleasures so sweet, so rapturous? No one observes us: Our loves will be a secret to all the world: Love and opportunity invite your giving loose to your passions. Yield to them, my Antonia! Yield to them, my lovely Girl! Throw your arms thus fondly round me; Join your lips thus closely to mine! Amidst all her gifts, has Nature denied her most precious, the sensibility of Pleasure? Oh! impossible! Every feature, look, and motion declares you formed to bless, and to be blessed yourself! Turn not on me those supplicating eyes: Consult your own charms; They will tell you that I am proof against entreaty. Can I relinquish these limbs so white, so soft, so delicate; These swelling breasts, round, full, and elastic! These lips fraught with such inexhaustible sweetness? Can I relinquish these treasures, and leave them to another's enjoyment? No, Antonia; never, never! I swear it by this kiss, and this! and this!' With every moment the Friar's passion became more ardent, and Antonia's terror more intense. She struggled to disengage herself from his arms: Her exertions were unsuccessful; and finding that Ambrosio's conduct became still freer, She shrieked for assistance with all her strength. The aspect of the Vault, the pale glimmering of the Lamp, the surrounding obscurity, the sight of the Tomb, and the objects of mortality which met her eyes on either side, were ill-calculated to inspire her with those emotions by which the Friar was agitated. Even his caresses terrified her from their fury, and created no other sentiment than fear. On the contrary, her alarm, her evident disgust, and incessant opposition, seemed only to inflame the Monk's desires, and supply his brutality with additional strength. Antonia's shrieks were unheard: Yet She continued them, nor abandoned her endeavours to escape, till exhausted and out of breath She sank from his arms upon her knees, and once more had recourse to prayers and supplications. This attempt had no better success than the former. On the contrary, taking advantage of her situation, the Ravisher threw himself by her side: He clasped her to his bosom almost lifeless with terror, and faint with struggling. He stifled her cries with kisses, treated her with the rudeness of an unprincipled Barbarian, proceeded from freedom to freedom, and in the violence of his lustful delirium, wounded and bruised her tender limbs. Heedless of her tears, cries and entreaties, He gradually made himself Master of her person, and desisted not from his prey, till He had accomplished his crime and the dishonour of Antonia. Scarcely had He succeeded in his design than He shuddered at himself and the means by which it was effected. The very excess of his former eagerness to possess Antonia now contributed to inspire him with disgust; and a secret impulse made him feel how base and unmanly was the crime which He had just committed. He started hastily from her arms. She, who so lately had been the object of his adoration, now raised no other sentiment in his heart than aversion and rage. He turned away from her; or if his eyes rested upon her figure involuntarily, it was only to dart upon her looks of hate. The Unfortunate had fainted ere the completion of her disgrace: She only recovered life to be sensible of her misfortune. She remained stretched upon the earth in silent despair: The tears chased each other slowly down her cheeks, and her bosom heaved with frequent sobs. Oppressed with grief, She continued for some time in this state of torpidity. At length She rose with difficulty, and dragging her feeble steps towards the door, prepared to quit the dungeon. The sound of her footsteps rouzed the Monk from his sullen apathy. Starting from the Tomb against which He reclined, while his eyes wandered over the images of corruption contained in it, He pursued the Victim of his brutality, and soon overtook her. He seized her by the arm, and violently forced her back into the dungeon. 'Whither go you?' He cried in a stern voice; 'Return this instant!' Antonia trembled at the fury of his countenance. 'What, would you more?' She said with timidity: 'Is not my ruin compleated? Am I not undone, undone for ever? Is not your cruelty contented, or have I yet more to suffer? Let me depart. Let me return to my home, and weep unrestrained my shame and my affliction!' 'Return to your home?' repeated the Monk, with bitter and contemptuous mockery; Then suddenly his eyes flaming with passion, 'What? That you may denounce me to the world? That you may proclaim me an Hypocrite, a Ravisher, a Betrayer, a Monster of cruelty, lust, and ingratitude? No, no, no! I know well the whole weight of my offences; Well that your complaints would be too just, and my crimes too notorious! You shall not from hence to tell Madrid that I am a Villain; that my conscience is loaded with sins which make me despair of Heaven's pardon. Wretched Girl, you must stay here with me! Here amidst these lonely Tombs, these images of Death, these rotting loathsome corrupted bodies! Here shall you stay, and witness my sufferings; witness what it is to die in the horrors of despondency, and breathe the last groan in blasphemy and curses! And who am I to thank for this? What seduced me into crimes, whose bare remembrance makes me shudder? Fatal Witch! was it not thy beauty? Have you not plunged my soul into infamy? Have you not made me a perjured Hypocrite, a Ravisher, an Assassin! Nay, at this moment, does not that angel look bid me despair of God's forgiveness? Oh! when I stand before his judgment-throne, that look will suffice to damn me! You will tell my Judge that you were happy, till I saw you; that you were innocent, till I polluted you! You will come with those tearful eyes, those cheeks pale and ghastly, those hands lifted in supplication, as when you sought from me that mercy which I gave not! Then will my perdition be certain! Then will come your Mother's Ghost, and hurl me down into the dwellings of Fiends, and flames, and Furies, and everlasting torments! And 'tis you, who will accuse me! 'Tis you, who will cause my eternal anguish! You, wretched Girl! You! You!' As He thundered out these words, He violently grasped Antonia's arm, and spurned the earth with delirious fury. Supposing his brain to be turned, Antonia sank in terror upon her knees: She lifted up her hands, and her voice almost died away, ere She could give it utterance. 'Spare me! Spare me!' She murmured with difficulty. 'Silence!' cried the Friar madly, and dashed her upon the ground---- He quitted her, and paced the dungeon with a wild and disordered air. His eyes rolled fearfully: Antonia trembled whenever She met their gaze. He seemed to meditate on something horrible, and She gave up all hopes of escaping from the Sepulchre with life. Yet in harbouring this idea, She did him injustice. Amidst the horror and disgust to which his soul was a prey, pity for his Victim still held a place in it. The storm of passion once over, He would have given worlds had He possest them, to have restored to her that innocence of which his unbridled lust had deprived her. Of the desires which had urged him to the crime, no trace was left in his bosom: The wealth of India would not have tempted him to a second enjoyment of her person. His nature seemed to revolt at the very idea, and fain would He have wiped from his memory the scene which had just past. As his gloomy rage abated, in proportion did his compassion augment for Antonia. He stopped, and would have spoken to her words of comfort; But He knew not from whence to draw them, and remained gazing upon her with mournful wildness. Her situation seemed so hopeless, so woebegone, as to baffle mortal power to relieve her. What could He do for her? Her peace of mind was lost, her honour irreparably ruined. She was cut off for ever from society, nor dared He give her back to it. He was conscious that were She to appear in the world again, his guilt would be revealed, and his punishment inevitable. To one so laden with crimes, Death came armed with double terrors. Yet should He restore Antonia to light, and stand the chance of her betraying him, how miserable a prospect would present itself before her. She could never hope to be creditably established; She would be marked with infamy, and condemned to sorrow and solitude for the remainder of her existence. What was the alternative? A resolution far more terrible for Antonia, but which at least would insure the Abbot's safety. He determined to leave the world persuaded of her death, and to retain her a captive in this gloomy prison: There He proposed to visit her every night, to bring her food, to profess his penitence, and mingle his tears with hers. The Monk felt that this resolution was unjust and cruel; but it was his only means to prevent Antonia from publishing his guilt and her own infamy. Should He release her, He could not depend upon her silence: His offence was too flagrant to permit his hoping for her forgiveness. Besides, her reappearing would excite universal curiosity, and the violence of her affliction would prevent her from concealing its cause. He determined therefore, that Antonia should remain a Prisoner in the dungeon. He approached her with confusion painted on his countenance. He raised her from the ground. Her hand trembled, as He took it, and He dropped it again as if He had touched a Serpent. Nature seemed to recoil at the touch. He felt himself at once repulsed from and attracted towards her, yet could account for neither sentiment. There was something in her look which penetrated him with horror; and though his understanding was still ignorant of it, Conscience pointed out to him the whole extent of his crime. In hurried accents yet the gentlest He could find, while his eye was averted, and his voice scarcely audible, He strove to console her under a misfortune which now could not be avoided. He declared himself sincerely penitent, and that He would gladly shed a drop of his blood, for every tear which his barbarity had forced from her. Wretched and hopeless, Antonia listened to him in silent grief: But when He announced her confinement in the Sepulchre, that dreadful doom to which even death seemed preferable roused her from her insensibility at once. To linger out a life of misery in a narrow loathsome Cell, known to exist by no human Being save her Ravisher, surrounded by mouldering Corses, breathing the pestilential air of corruption, never more to behold the light, or drink the pure gale of heaven, the idea was more terrible than She could support. It conquered even her abhorrence of the Friar. Again She sank upon her knees: She besought his compassion in terms the most pathetic and urgent. She promised, would He but restore her to liberty, to conceal her injuries from the world; to assign any reason for her reappearance which He might judge proper; and in order to prevent the least suspicion from falling upon him, She offered to quit Madrid immediately. Her entreaties were so urgent as to make a considerable impression upon the Monk. He reflected that as her person no longer excited his desires, He had no interest in keeping her concealed as He had at first intended; that He was adding a fresh injury to those which She had already suffered; and that if She adhered to her promises, whether She was confined or at liberty, his life and reputation were equally secure. On the other hand, He trembled lest in her affliction Antonia should unintentionally break her engagement; or that her excessive simplicity and ignorance of deceit should permit some one more artful to surprize her secret. However well-founded were these apprehensions, compassion, and a sincere wish to repair his fault as much as possible solicited his complying with the prayers of his Suppliant. The difficulty of colouring Antonia's unexpected return to life, after her supposed death and public interment, was the only point which kept him irresolute. He was still pondering on the means of removing this obstacle, when He heard the sound of feet approaching with precipitation. The door of the Vault was thrown open, and Matilda rushed in, evidently much confused and terrified. On seeing a Stranger enter, Antonia uttered a cry of joy: But her hopes of receiving succour from him were soon dissipated. The supposed Novice, without expressing the least surprize at finding a Woman alone with the Monk, in so strange a place, and at so late an hour, addressed him thus without losing a moment. 'What is to be done, Ambrosio? We are lost, unless some speedy means is found of dispelling the Rioters. Ambrosio, the Convent of St. Clare is on fire; The Prioress has fallen a victim to the fury of the Mob. Already is the Abbey menaced with a similar fate. Alarmed at the threats of the People, the Monks seek for you everywhere. They imagine that your authority alone will suffice to calm this disturbance. No one knows what is become of you, and your absence creates universal astonishment and despair. I profited by the confusion, and fled hither to warn you of the danger.' 'This will soon be remedied,' answered the Abbot; 'I will hasten back to my Cell: a trivial reason will account for my having been missed.' 'Impossible!' rejoined Matilda: 'The Sepulchre is filled with Archers. Lorenzo de Medina, with several Officers of the Inquisition, searches through the Vaults, and pervades every passage. You will be intercepted in your flight; Your reasons for being at this late hour in the Sepulchre will be examined; Antonia will be found, and then you are undone for ever!' 'Lorenzo de Medina? Officers of the Inquisition? What brings them here? Seek they for me? Am I then suspected? Oh! speak, Matilda! Answer me, in pity!' 'As yet they do not think of you, but I fear that they will ere long. Your only chance of escaping their notice rests upon the difficulty of exploring this Vault. The door is artfully hidden: Haply it may not be observed, and we may remain concealed till the search is over.' 'But Antonia ..... Should the Inquisitors draw near, and her cries be heard ....' 'Thus I remove that danger!' interrupted Matilda. At the same time drawing a poignard, She rushed upon her devoted prey. 'Hold! Hold!' cried Ambrosio, seizing her hand, and wresting from it the already lifted weapon. 'What would you do, cruel Woman? The Unfortunate has already suffered but too much, thanks to your pernicious consels! Would to God that I had never followed them! Would to God that I had never seen your face!' Matilda darted upon him a look of scorn. 'Absurd!' She exclaimed with an air of passion and majesty which impressed the Monk with awe. 'After robbing her of all that made it dear, can you fear to deprive her of a life so miserable? But 'tis well! Let her live to convince you of your folly. I abandon you to your evil destiny! I disclaim your alliance! Who trembles to commit so insignificant a crime, deserves not my protection. Hark! Hark! Ambrosio; Hear you not the Archers? They come, and your destruction is inevitable!' At this moment the Abbot heard the sound of distant voices. He flew to close the door on whose concealment his safety depended, and which Matilda had neglected to fasten. Ere He could reach it, He saw Antonia glide suddenly by him, rush through the door, and fly towards the noise with the swiftness of an arrow. She had listened attentively to Matilda: She heard Lorenzo's name mentioned, and resolved to risque every thing to throw herself under his protection. The door was open. The sounds convinced her that the Archers could be at no great distance. She mustered up her little remaining strength, rushed by the Monk ere He perceived her design, and bent her course rapidly towards the voices. As soon as He recovered from his first surprize, the Abbot failed not to pursue her. In vain did Antonia redouble her speed, and stretch every nerve to the utmost. Her Enemy gained upon her every moment: She heard his steps close after her, and felt the heat of his breath glow upon her neck. He overtook her; He twisted his hand in the ringlets of her streaming hair, and attempted to drag her back with him to the dungeon. Antonia resisted with all her strength: She folded her arms round a Pillar which supported the roof, and shrieked loudly for assistance. In vain did the Monk strive to threaten her to silence. 'Help!' She continued to exclaim; 'Help! Help! for God's sake!' Quickened by her cries, the sound of footsteps was heard approaching. The Abbot expected every moment to see the Inquisitors arrive. Antonia still resisted, and He now enforced her silence by means the most horrible and inhuman. He still grasped Matilda's dagger: Without allowing himself a moment's reflection, He raised it, and plunged it twice in the bosom of Antonia! She shrieked, and sank upon the ground. The Monk endeavoured to bear her away with him, but She still embraced the Pillar firmly. At that instant the light of approaching Torches flashed upon the Walls. Dreading a discovery, Ambrosio was compelled to abandon his Victim, and hastily fled back to the Vault, where He had left Matilda. He fled not unobserved. Don Ramirez happening to arrive the first, perceived a Female bleeding upon the ground, and a Man flying from the spot, whose confusion betrayed him for the Murderer. He instantly pursued the Fugitive with some part of the Archers, while the Others remained with Lorenzo to protect the wounded Stranger. They raised her, and supported her in their arms. She had fainted from excess of pain, but soon gave signs of returning life. She opened her eyes, and on lifting up her head, the quantity of fair hair fell back which till then had obscured her features. 'God Almighty! It is Antonia!' Such was Lorenzo's exclamation, while He snatched her from the Attendant's arms, and clasped her in his own. Though aimed by an uncertain hand, the poignard had answered but too well the purpose of its Employer. The wounds were mortal, and Antonia was conscious that She never could recover. Yet the few moments which remained for her were moments of happiness. The concern exprest upon Lorenzo's countenance, the frantic fondness of his complaints, and his earnest enquiries respecting her wounds, convinced her beyond a doubt that his affections were her own. She would not be removed from the Vaults, fearing lest motion should only hasten her death; and She was unwilling to lose those moments which She past in receiving proofs of Lorenzo's love, and assuring him of her own. She told him that had She still been undefiled She might have lamented the loss of life; But that deprived of honour and branded with shame, Death was to her a blessing: She could not have been his Wife, and that hope being denied her, She resigned herself to the Grave without one sigh of regret. She bad him take courage, conjured him not to abandon himself to fruitless sorrow, and declared that She mourned to leave nothing in the whole world but him. While every sweet accent increased rather than lightened Lorenzo's grief, She continued to converse with him till the moment of dissolution. Her voice grew faint and scarcely audible; A thick cloud spread itself over her eyes; Her heart beat slow and irregular, and every instant seemed to announce that her fate was near at hand. She lay, her head reclining upon Lorenzo's bosom, and her lips still murmuring to him words of comfort. She was interrupted by the Convent Bell, as tolling at a distance, it struck the hour. Suddenly Antonia's eyes sparkled with celestial brightness: Her frame seemed to have received new strength and animation. She started from her Lover's arms. 'Three o'clock!' She cried; 'Mother, I come!' She clasped her hands, and sank lifeless upon the ground. Lorenzo in agony threw himself beside her: He tore his hair, beat his breast, and refused to be separated from the Corse. At length his force being exhausted, He suffered himself to be led from the Vault, and was conveyed to the Palace de Medina scarcely more alive than the unfortunate Antonia. In the meanwhile, though closely pursued, Ambrosio succeeded in regaining the Vault. The Door was already fastened when Don Ramirez arrived, and much time elapsed, ere the Fugitive's retreat was discovered. But nothing can resist perseverance. Though so artfully concealed, the Door could not escape the vigilance of the Archers. They forced it open, and entered the Vault to the infinite dismay of Ambrosio and his Companion. The Monk's confusion, his attempt to hide himself, his rapid flight, and the blood sprinkled upon his cloaths, left no room to doubt his being Antonia's Murderer. But when He was recognized for the immaculate Ambrosio, 'The Man of Holiness,' the Idol of Madrid, the faculties of the Spectators were chained up in surprize, and scarcely could they persuade themselves that what they saw was no vision. The Abbot strove not to vindicate himself, but preserved a sullen silence. He was secured and bound. The same precaution was taken with Matilda: Her Cowl being removed, the delicacy of her features and profusion of her golden hair betrayed her sex, and this incident created fresh amazement. The dagger was also found in the Tomb, where the Monk had thrown it; and the dungeon having undergone a thorough search, the two Culprits were conveyed to the prisons of the Inquisition. Don Ramirez took care that the populace should remain ignorant both of the crimes and profession of the Captives. He feared a repetition of the riots which had followed the apprehending the Prioress of St. Clare. He contented himself with stating to the Capuchins the guilt of their Superior. To avoid the shame of a public accusation, and dreading the popular fury from which they had already saved their Abbey with much difficulty, the Monks readily permitted the Inquisitors to search their Mansion without noise. No fresh discoveries were made. The effects found in the Abbot's and Matilda's Cells were seized, and carried to the Inquisition to be produced in evidence. Every thing else remained in its former position, and order and tranquillity once more prevailed through Madrid. St. Clare's Convent was completely ruined by the united ravages of the Mob and conflagration. Nothing remained of it but the principal Walls, whose thickness and solidity had preserved them from the flames. The Nuns who had belonged to it were obliged in consequence to disperse themselves into other Societies: But the prejudice against them ran high, and the Superiors were very unwilling to admit them. However, most of them being related to Families the most distinguished for their riches, birth and power, the several Convents were compelled to receive them, though they did it with a very ill grace. This prejudice was extremely false and unjustifiable: After a close investigation, it was proved that All in the Convent were persuaded of the death of Agnes, except the four Nuns whom St. Ursula had pointed out. These had fallen Victims to the popular fury; as had also several who were perfectly innocent and unconscious of the whole affair. Blinded by resentment, the Mob had sacrificed every Nun who fell into their hands: They who escaped were entirely indebted to the Duke de Medina's prudence and moderation. Of this they were conscious, and felt for that Nobleman a proper sense of gratitude. Virginia was not the most sparing of her thanks: She wished equally to make a proper return for his attentions, and to obtain the good graces of Lorenzo's Uncle. In this She easily succeeded. The Duke beheld her beauty with wonder and admiration; and while his eyes were enchanted with her Form, the sweetness of her manners and her tender concern for the suffering Nun prepossessed his heart in her favour. This Virginia had discernment enough to perceive, and She redoubled her attention to the Invalid. When He parted from her at the door of her Father's Palace, the Duke entreated permission to enquire occasionally after her health. His request was readily granted: Virginia assured him that the Marquis de Villa-Franca would be proud of an opportunity to thank him in person for the protection afforded to her. They now separated, He enchanted with her beauty and gentleness, and She much pleased with him and more with his Nephew. On entering the Palace, Virginia's first care was to summon the family Physician, and take care of her unknown charge. Her Mother hastened to share with her the charitable office. Alarmed by the riots, and trembling for his Daughter's safety, who was his only child, the Marquis had flown to St. Clare's Convent, and was still employed in seeking her. Messengers were now dispatched on all sides to inform him that He would find her safe at his Hotel, and desire him to hasten thither immediately. His absence gave Virginia liberty to bestow her whole attention upon her Patient; and though much disordered herself by the adventures of the night, no persuasion could induce her to quit the bedside of the Sufferer. Her constitution being much enfeebled by want and sorrow, it was some time before the Stranger was restored to her senses. She found great difficulty in swallowing the medicines prescribed to her: But this obstacle being removed, She easily conquered her disease which proceeded from nothing but weakness. The attention which was paid her, the wholesome food to which She had been long a Stranger, and her joy at being restored to liberty, to society, and, as She dared to hope, to Love, all this combined to her speedy re-establishment. From the first moment of knowing her, her melancholy situation, her sufferings almost unparalleled had engaged the affections of her amiable Hostess: Virginia felt for her the most lively interest; But how was She delighted, when her Guest being sufficiently recovered to relate her History, She recognized in the captive Nun the Sister of Lorenzo! This victim of monastic cruelty was indeed no other than the unfortunate Agnes. During her abode in the Convent, She had been well known to Virginia: But her emaciated form, her features altered by affliction, her death universally credited, and her overgrown and matted hair which hung over her face and bosom in disorder at first had prevented her being recollected. The Prioress had put every artifice in practice to induce Virginia to take the veil; for the Heiress of Villa-Franca would have been no despicable acquisition. Her seeming kindness and unremitted attention so far succeeded that her young Relation began to think seriously upon compliance. Better instructed in the disgust and ennui of a monastic life, Agnes had penetrated the designs of the Domina: She trembled for the innocent Girl, and endeavoured to make her sensible of her error. She painted in their true colours the numerous inconveniencies attached to a Convent, the continued restraint, the low jealousies, the petty intrigues, the servile court and gross flattery expected by the Superior. She then bad Virginia reflect on the brilliant prospect which presented itself before her: The Idol of her Parents, the admiration of Madrid, endowed by nature and education with every perfection of person and mind, She might look forward to an establishment the most fortunate. Her riches furnished her with the means of exercising in their fullest extent, charity and benevolence, those virtues so dear to her; and her stay in the world would enable her discovering Objects worthy her protection, which could not be done in the seclusion of a Convent. Her persuasions induced Virginia to lay aside all thoughts of the Veil: But another argument, not used by Agnes, had more weight with her than all the others put together. She had seen Lorenzo, when He visited his Sister at the Grate. His Person pleased her, and her conversations with Agnes generally used to terminate in some question about her Brother. She, who doted upon Lorenzo, wished for no better than an opportunity to trumpet out his praise. She spoke of him in terms of rapture; and to convince her Auditor how just were his sentiments, how cultivated his mind, and elegant his expressions, She showed her at different times the letters which She received from him. She soon perceived that from these communications the heart of her young Friend had imbibed impressions, which She was far from intending to give, but was truly happy to discover. She could not have wished her Brother a more desirable union: Heiress of Villa-Franca, virtuous, affectionate, beautiful, and accomplished, Virginia seemed calculated to make him happy. She sounded her Brother upon the subject, though without mentioning names or circumstances. He assured her in his answers that his heart and hand were totally disengaged, and She thought that upon these grounds She might proceed without danger. She in consequence endeavoured to strengthen the dawning passion of her Friend. Lorenzo was made the constant topic of her discourse; and the avidity with which her Auditor listened, the sighs which frequently escaped from her bosom, and the eagerness with which upon any digression She brought back the conversation to the subject whence it had wandered, sufficed to convince Agnes that her Brother's addresses would be far from disagreeable. She at length ventured to mention her wishes to the Duke: Though a Stranger to the Lady herself, He knew enough of her situation to think her worthy his Nephew's hand. It was agreed between him and his Niece, that She should insinuate the idea to Lorenzo, and She only waited his return to Madrid to propose her Friend to him as his Bride. The unfortunate events which took place in the interim, prevented her from executing her design. Virginia wept her loss sincerely, both as a Companion, and as the only Person to whom She could speak of Lorenzo. Her passion continued to prey upon her heart in secret, and She had almost determined to confess her sentiments to her Mother, when accident once more threw their object in her way. The sight of him so near her, his politeness, his compassion, his intrepidity, had combined to give new ardour to her affection. When She now found her Friend and Advocate restored to her, She looked upon her as a Gift from Heaven; She ventured to cherish the hope of being united to Lorenzo, and resolved to use with him his Sister's influence. Supposing that before her death Agnes might possibly have made the proposal, the Duke had placed all his Nephew's hints of marriage to Virginia's account: Consequently, He gave them the most favourable reception. On returning to his Hotel, the relation given him of Antonia's death, and Lorenzo's behaviour on the occasion, made evident his mistake. He lamented the circumstances; But the unhappy Girl being effectually out of the way, He trusted that his designs would yet be executed. 'Tis true that Lorenzo's situation just then ill-suited him for a Bridegroom. His hopes disappointed at the moment when He expected to realize them, and the dreadful and sudden death of his Mistress had affected him very severely. The Duke found him upon the Bed of sickness. His Attendants expressed serious apprehensions for his life; But the Uncle entertained not the same fears. He was of opinion, and not unwisely, that 'Men have died, and worms have eat them; but not for Love!' He therefore flattered himself that however deep might be the impression made upon his Nephew's heart, Time and Virginia would be able to efface it. He now hastened to the afflicted Youth, and endeavoured to console him: He sympathised in his distress, but encouraged him to resist the encroachments of despair. He allowed that He could not but feel shocked at an event so terrible, nor could He blame his sensibility; But He besought him not to torment himself with vain regrets, and rather to struggle with affliction, and preserve his life, if not for his own sake, at least for the sake of those who were fondly attached to him. While He laboured thus to make Lorenzo forget Antonia's loss, the Duke paid his court assiduously to Virginia, and seized every opportunity to advance his Nephew's interest in her heart. It may easily be expected that Agnes was not long without enquiring after Don Raymond. She was shocked to hear the wretched situation to which grief had reduced him; Yet She could not help exulting secretly, when She reflected, that his illness proved the sincerity of his love. The Duke undertook the office himself, of announcing to the Invalid the happiness which awaited him. Though He omitted no precaution to prepare him for such an event, at this sudden change from despair to happiness Raymond's transports were so violent, as nearly to have proved fatal to him. These once passed, the tranquillity of his mind, the assurance of felicity, and above all the presence of Agnes, (Who was no sooner reestablished by the care of Virginia and the Marchioness, than She hastened to attend her Lover) soon enabled him to overcome the effects of his late dreadful malady. The calm of his soul communicated itself to his body, and He recovered with such rapidity as to create universal surprize. No so Lorenzo. Antonia's death accompanied with such terrible circumstances weighed upon his mind heavily. He was worn down to a shadow. Nothing could give him pleasure. He was persuaded with difficulty to swallow nourishment sufficient for the support of life, and a consumption was apprehended. The society of Agnes formed his only comfort. Though accident had never permitted their being much together, He entertained for her a sincere friendship and attachment. Perceiving how necessary She was to him, She seldom quitted his chamber. She listened to his complaints with unwearied attention, and soothed him by the gentleness of her manners, and by sympathising with his distress. She still inhabited the Palace de Villa-Franca, the Possessors of which treated her with marked affection. The Duke had intimated to the Marquis his wishes respecting Virginia. The match was unexceptionable: Lorenzo was Heir to his Uncle's immense property, and was distinguished in Madrid for his agreeable person, extensive knowledge, and propriety of conduct: Add to this, that the Marchioness had discovered how strong was her Daughter's prepossession in his favour. In consequence the Duke's proposal was accepted without hesitation: Every precaution was taken to induce Lorenzo's seeing the Lady with those sentiments which She so well merited to excite. In her visits to her Brother Agnes was frequently accompanied by the Marchioness; and as soon as He was able to move into his Antichamber, Virginia under her mother's protection was sometimes permitted to express her wishes for his recovery. This She did with such delicacy, the manner in which She mentioned Antonia was so tender and soothing, and when She lamented her Rival's melancholy fate, her bright eyes shone so beautiful through her tears, that Lorenzo could not behold, or listen to her without emotion. His Relations, as well as the Lady, perceived that with every day her society seemed to give him fresh pleasure, and that He spoke of her in terms of stronger admiration. However, they prudently kept their observations to themselves. No word was dropped which might lead him to suspect their designs. They continued their former conduct and attention, and left Time to ripen into a warmer sentiment the friendship which He already felt for Virginia. In the mean while, her visits became more frequent; and latterly there was scarce a day, of which She did not pass some part by the side of Lorenzo's Couch. He gradually regained his strength, but the progress of his recovery was slow and doubtful. One evening He seemed to be in better spirits than usual: Agnes and her Lover, the Duke, Virginia, and her Parents were sitting round him. He now for the first time entreated his Sister to inform him how She had escaped the effects of the poison which St. Ursula had seen her swallow. Fearful of recalling those scenes to his mind in which Antonia had perished, She had hitherto concealed from him the history of her sufferings. As He now started the subject himself, and thinking that perhaps the narrative of her sorrows might draw him from the contemplation of those on which He dwelt too constantly, She immediately complied with his request. The rest of the company had already heard her story; But the interest which all present felt for its Heroine made them anxious to hear it repeated. The whole society seconding Lorenzo's entreaties, Agnes obeyed. She first recounted the discovery which had taken place in the Abbey Chapel, the Domina's resentment, and the midnight scene of which St. Ursula had been a concealed witness. Though the Nun had already described this latter event, Agnes now related it more circumstantially and at large: After which She proceeded in her narrative as follows. Conclusion of the History of Agnes de Medina My supposed death was attended with the greatest agonies. Those moments which I believed my last, were embittered by the Domina's assurances that I could not escape perdition; and as my eyes closed, I heard her rage exhale itself in curses on my offence. The horror of this situation, of a death-bed from which hope was banished, of a sleep from which I was only to wake to find myself the prey of flames and Furies, was more dreadful than I can describe. When animation revived in me, my soul was still impressed with these terrible ideas: I looked round with fear, expecting to behold the Ministers of divine vengeance. For the first hour, my senses were so bewildered, and my brain so dizzy, that I strove in vain to arrange the strange images which floated in wild confusion before me. If I endeavoured to raise myself from the ground, the wandering of my head deceived me. Every thing around me seemed to rock, and I sank once more upon the earth. My weak and dazzled eyes were unable to bear a nearer approach to a gleam of light which I saw trembling above me. I was compelled to close them again, and remain motionless in the same posture. A full hour elapsed, before I was sufficiently myself to examine the surrounding Objects. When I did examine them, what terror filled my bosom I found myself extended upon a sort of wicker Couch: It had six handles to it, which doubtless had served the Nuns to convey me to my grave. I was covered with a linen cloth: Several faded flowers were strown over me: On one side lay a small wooden Crucifix; On the other, a Rosary of large Beads. Four low narrow walls confined me. The top was also covered, and in it was practised a small grated Door: Through this was admitted the little air which circulated in this miserable place. A faint glimmering of light which streamed through the Bars, permitted me to distinguish the surrounding horrors. I was opprest by a noisome suffocating smell; and perceiving that the grated door was unfastened, I thought that I might possibly effect my escape. As I raised myself with this design, my hand rested upon something soft: I grasped it, and advanced it towards the light. Almighty God! What was my disgust, my consternation! In spite of its putridity, and the worms which preyed upon it, I perceived a corrupted human head, and recognised the features of a Nun who had died some months before! I threw it from me, and sank almost lifeless upon my Bier. When my strength returned, this circumstance, and the consciousness of being surrounded by the loathsome and mouldering Bodies of my Companions, increased my desire to escape from my fearful prison. I again moved towards the light. The grated door was within my reach: I lifted it without difficulty; Probably it had been left unclosed to facilitate my quitting the dungeon. Aiding myself by the irregularity of the Walls some of whose stones projected beyond the rest, I contrived to ascend them, and drag myself out of my prison. I now found Myself in a Vault tolerably spacious. Several Tombs, similar in appearance to that whence I had just escaped, were ranged along the sides in order, and seemed to be considerably sunk within the earth. A sepulchral Lamp was suspended from the roof by an iron chain, and shed a gloomy light through the dungeon. Emblems of Death were seen on every side: Skulls, shoulder-blades, thigh-bones, and other leavings of Mortality were scattered upon the dewy ground. Each Tomb was ornamented with a large Crucifix, and in one corner stood a wooden Statue of St. Clare. To these objects I at first paid no attention: A Door, the only outlet from the Vault, had attracted my eyes. I hastened towards it, having wrapped my winding-sheet closely round me. I pushed against the door, and to my inexpressible terror found that it was fastened on the outside. I guessed immediately that the Prioress, mistaking the nature of the liquor which She had compelled me to drink, instead of poison had administered a strong Opiate. From this I concluded that being to all appearance dead I had received the rites of burial; and that deprived of the power of making my existence known, it would be my fate to expire of hunger. This idea penetrated me with horror, not merely for my own sake, but that of the innocent Creature, who still lived within my bosom. I again endeavoured to open the door, but it resisted all my efforts. I stretched my voice to the extent of its compass, and shrieked for aid: I was remote from the hearing of every one: No friendly voice replied to mine. A profound and melancholy silence prevailed through the Vault, and I despaired of liberty. My long abstinence from food now began to torment me. The tortures which hunger inflicted on me, were the most painful and insupportable: Yet they seemed to increase with every hour which past over my head. Sometimes I threw myself upon the ground, and rolled upon it wild and desperate: Sometimes starting up, I returned to the door, again strove to force it open, and repeated my fruitless cries for succour. Often was I on the point of striking my temple against the sharp corner of some Monument, dashing out my brains, and thus terminating my woes at once; But still the remembrance of my Baby vanquished my resolution: I trembled at a deed which equally endangered my Child's existence and my own. Then would I vent my anguish in loud exclamations and passionate complaints; and then again my strength failing me, silent and hopeless I would sit me down upon the base of St. Clare's Statue, fold my arms, and abandon myself to sullen despair. Thus passed several wretched hours. Death advanced towards me with rapid strides, and I expected that every succeeding moment would be that of my dissolution. Suddenly a neighbouring Tomb caught my eye: A Basket stood upon it, which till then I had not observed. I started from my seat: I made towards it as swiftly as my exhausted frame would permit. How eagerly did I seize the Basket, on finding it to contain a loaf of coarse bread and a small bottle of water. I threw myself with avidity upon these humble aliments. They had to all appearance been placed in the Vault for several days; The bread was hard, and the water tainted; Yet never did I taste food to me so delicious. When the cravings of appetite were satisfied, I busied myself with conjectures upon this new circumstance: I debated whether the Basket had been placed there with a view to my necessity. Hope answered my doubts in the affirmative. Yet who could guess me to be in need of such assistance? If my existence was known, why was I detained in this gloomy Vault? If I was kept a Prisoner, what meant the ceremony of committing me to the Tomb? Or if I was doomed to perish with hunger, to whose pity was I indebted for provisions placed within my reach? A Friend would not have kept my dreadful punishment a secret; Neither did it seem probable that an Enemy would have taken pains to supply me with the means of existence. Upon the whole I was inclined to think that the Domina's designs upon my life had been discovered by some one of my Partizans in the Convent, who had found means to substitute an opiate for poison: That She had furnished me with food to support me, till She could effect my delivery: And that She was then employed in giving intelligence to my Relations of my danger, and pointing out a way to release me from captivity. Yet why then was the quality of my provisions so coarse? How could my Friend have entered the Vault without the Domina's knowledge? And if She had entered, why was the Door fastened so carefully? These reflections staggered me: Yet still this idea was the most favourable to my hopes, and I dwelt upon it in preference. My meditations were interrupted by the sound of distant footsteps. They approached, but slowly. Rays of light now darted through the crevices of the Door. Uncertain whether the Persons who advanced came to relieve me, or were conducted by some other motive to the Vault, I failed not to attract their notice by loud cries for help. Still the sounds drew near: The light grew stronger: At length with inexpressible pleasure I heard the Key turning in the Lock. Persuaded that my deliverance was at hand, I flew towards the Door with a shriek of joy. It opened: But all my hopes of escape died away, when the Prioress appeared followed by the same four Nuns, who had been witnesses of my supposed death. They bore torches in their hands, and gazed upon me in fearful silence. I started back in terror. The Domina descended into the Vault, as did also her Companions. She bent upon me a stern resentful eye, but expressed no surprize at finding me still living. She took the seat which I had just quitted: The door was again closed, and the Nuns ranged themselves behind their Superior, while the glare of their torches, dimmed by the vapours and dampness of the Vault, gilded with cold beams the surrounding Monuments. For some moments all preserved a dead and solemn silence. I stood at some distance from the Prioress. At length She beckoned me to advance. Trembling at the severity of her aspect my strength scarce sufficed me to obey her. I drew near, but my limbs were unable to support their burthen. I sank upon my knees; I clasped my hands, and lifted them up to her for mercy, but had no power to articulate a syllable. She gazed upon me with angry eyes. 'Do I see a Penitent, or a Criminal?' She said at length; 'Are those hands raised in contrition for your crimes, or in fear of meeting their punishment? Do those tears acknowledge the justice of your doom, or only solicit mitigation of your sufferings? I fear me, 'tis the latter!' She paused, but kept her eye still fixt upon mine. 'Take courage;' She continued: 'I wish not for your death, but your repentance. The draught which I administered, was no poison, but an opiate. My intention in deceiving you was to make you feel the agonies of a guilty conscience, had Death overtaken you suddenly while your crimes were still unrepented. You have suffered those agonies: I have brought you to be familiar with the sharpness of death, and I trust that your momentary anguish will prove to you an eternal benefit. It is not my design to destroy your immortal soul; or bid you seek the grave, burthened with the weight of sins unexpiated. No, Daughter, far from it: I will purify you with wholesome chastisement, and furnish you with full leisure for contrition and remorse. Hear then my sentence; The ill-judged zeal of your Friends delayed its execution, but cannot now prevent it. All Madrid believes you to be no more; Your Relations are thoroughly persuaded of your death, and the Nuns your Partizans have assisted at your funeral. Your existence can never be suspected; I have taken such precautions, as must render it an impenetrable mystery. Then abandon all thoughts of a World from which you are eternally separated, and employ the few hours which are allowed you, in preparing for the next.' This exordium led me to expect something terrible. I trembled, and would have spoken to deprecate her wrath: but a motion of the Domina commanded me to be silent. She proceeded. 'Though of late years unjustly neglected, and now opposed by many of our misguided Sisters, (whom Heaven convert!) it is my intention to revive the laws of our order in their full force. That against incontinence is severe, but no more than so monstrous an offence demands: Submit to it, Daughter, without resistance; You will find the benefit of patience and resignation in a better life than this. Listen then to the sentence of St. Clare. Beneath these Vaults there exist Prisons, intended to receive such criminals as yourself: Artfully is their entrance concealed, and She who enters them, must resign all hopes of liberty. Thither must you now be conveyed. Food shall be supplied you, but not sufficient for the indulgence of appetite: You shall have just enough to keep together body and soul, and its quality shall be the simplest and coarsest. Weep, Daughter, weep, and moisten your bread with your tears: God knows that you have ample cause for sorrow! Chained down in one of these secret dungeons, shut out from the world and light for ever, with no comfort but religion, no society but repentance, thus must you groan away the remainder of your days. Such are St. Clare's orders; Submit to them without repining. Follow me!' Thunderstruck at this barbarous decree, my little remaining strength abandoned me. I answered only by falling at her feet, and bathing them with tears. The Domina, unmoved by my affliction, rose from her seat with a stately air. She repeated her commands in an absolute tone: But my excessive faintness made me unable to obey her. Mariana and Alix raised me from the ground, and carried me forwards in their arms. The Prioress moved on, leaning upon Violante, and Camilla preceded her with a Torch. Thus passed our sad procession along the passages, in silence only broken by my sighs and groans. We stopped before the principal shrine of St. Clare. The Statue was removed from its Pedestal, though how I knew not. The Nuns afterwards raised an iron grate till then concealed by the Image, and let it fall on the other side with a loud crash. The awful sound, repeated by the vaults above, and Caverns below me, rouzed me from the despondent apathy in which I had been plunged. I looked before me: An abyss presented itself to my affrighted eyes, and a steep and narrow Staircase, whither my Conductors were leading me. I shrieked, and started back. I implored compassion, rent the air with my cries, and summoned both heaven and earth to my assistance. In vain! I was hurried down the Staircase, and forced into one of the Cells which lined the Cavern's sides. My blood ran cold, as I gazed upon this melancholy abode. The cold vapours hovering in the air, the walls green with damp, the bed of Straw so forlorn and comfortless, the Chain destined to bind me for ever to my prison, and the Reptiles of every description which as the torches advanced towards them, I descried hurrying to their retreats, struck my heart with terrors almost too exquisite for nature to bear. Driven by despair to madness, I burst suddenly from the Nuns who held me: I threw myself upon my knees before the Prioress, and besought her mercy in the most passionate and frantic terms. 'If not on me,' said I, 'look at least with pity on that innocent Being, whose life is attached to mine! Great is my crime, but let not my Child suffer for it! My Baby has committed no fault: Oh! spare me for the sake of my unborn Offspring, whom ere it tastes life your severity dooms to destruction!' The Prioress drew back haughtily: She forced her habit from my grasp, as if my touch had been contagious. 'What?' She exclaimed with an exasperated air; 'What? Dare you plead for the produce of your shame? Shall a Creature be permitted to live, conceived in guilt so monstrous? Abandoned Woman, speak for him no more! Better that the Wretch should perish than live: Begotten in perjury, incontinence, and pollution, It cannot fail to prove a Prodigy of vice. Hear me, thou Guilty! Expect no mercy from me either for yourself, or Brat. Rather pray that Death may seize you before you produce it; Or if it must see the light, that its eyes may immediately be closed again for ever! No aid shall be given you in your labour; Bring your Offspring into the world yourself, Feed it yourself, Nurse it yourself, Bury it yourself: God grant that the latter may happen soon, lest you receive comfort from the fruit of your iniquity!' This inhuman speech, the threats which it contained, the dreadful sufferings foretold to me by the Domina, and her prayers for my Infant's death, on whom though unborn I already doated, were more than my exhausted frame could support. Uttering a deep groan, I fell senseless at the feet of my unrelenting Enemy. I know not how long I remained in this situation; But I imagine that some time must have elapsed before my recovery, since it sufficed the Prioress and her Nuns to quit the Cavern. When my senses returned, I found myself in silence and solitude. I heard not even the retiring footsteps of my Persecutors. All was hushed, and all was dreadful! I had been thrown upon the bed of Straw: The heavy Chain which I had already eyed with terror, was wound around my waist, and fastened me to the Wall. A Lamp glimmering with dull, melancholy rays through my dungeon, permitted my distinguishing all its horrors: It was separated from the Cavern by a low and irregular Wall of Stone: A large Chasm was left open in it which formed the entrance, for door there was none. A leaden Crucifix was in front of my straw Couch. A tattered rug lay near me, as did also a Chaplet of Beads; and not far from me stood a pitcher of water, and a wicker Basket containing a small loaf, and a bottle of oil to supply my Lamp. With a despondent eye did I examine this scene of suffering: When I reflected that I was doomed to pass in it the remainder of my days, my heart was rent with bitter anguish. I had once been taught to look forward to a lot so different! At one time my prospects had appeared so bright, so flattering! Now all was lost to me. Friends, comfort, society, happiness, in one moment I was deprived of all! Dead to the world, Dead to pleasure, I lived to nothing but the sense of misery. How fair did that world seem to me, from which I was for ever excluded! How many loved objects did it contain, whom I never should behold again! As I threw a look of terror round my prison, as I shrunk from the cutting wind which howled through my subterraneous dwelling, the change seemed so striking, so abrupt, that I doubted its reality. That the Duke de Medina's Niece, that the destined Bride of the Marquis de las Cisternas, One bred up in affluence, related to the noblest families in Spain, and rich in a multitude of affectionate Friends, that She should in one moment become a Captive, separated from the world for ever, weighed down with chains, and reduced to support life with the coarsest aliments, appeared a change so sudden and incredible, that I believed myself the sport of some frightful vision. Its continuance convinced me of my mistake with but too much certainty. Every morning my hopes were disappointed. At length I abandoned all idea of escaping: I resigned myself to my fate, and only expected Liberty when She came the Companion of Death. My mental anguish, and the dreadful scenes in which I had been an Actress, advanced the period of my labour. In solitude and misery, abandoned by all, unassisted by Art, uncomforted by Friendship, with pangs which if witnessed would have touched the hardest heart, was I delivered of my wretched burthen. It came alive into the world; But I knew not how to treat it, or by what means to preserve its existence. I could only bathe it with tears, warm it in my bosom, and offer up prayers for its safety. I was soon deprived of this mournful employment: The want of proper attendance, my ignorance how to nurse it, the bitter cold of the dungeon, and the unwholesome air which inflated its lungs, terminated my sweet Babe's short and painful existence. It expired in a few hours after its birth, and I witnessed its death with agonies which beggar all description. But my grief was unavailing. My Infant was no more; nor could all my sighs impart to its little tender frame the breath of a moment. I rent my winding-sheet, and wrapped in it my lovely Child. I placed it on my bosom, its soft arm folded round my neck, and its pale cold cheek resting upon mine. Thus did its lifeless limbs repose, while I covered it with kisses, talked to it, wept, and moaned over it without remission, day or night. Camilla entered my prison regularly once every twenty-four hours, to bring me food. In spite of her flinty nature, She could not behold this spectacle unmoved. She feared that grief so excessive would at length turn my brain, and in truth I was not always in my proper senses. From a principle of compassion She urged me to permit the Corse to be buried: But to this I never would consent. I vowed not to part with it while I had life: Its presence was my only comfort, and no persuasion could induce me to give it up. It soon became a mass of putridity, and to every eye was a loathsome and disgusting Object; To every eye but a Mother's. In vain did human feelings bid me recoil from this emblem of mortality with repugnance: I withstood, and vanquished that repugnance. I persisted in holding my Infant to my bosom, in lamenting it, loving it, adoring it! Hour after hour have I passed upon my sorry Couch, contemplating what had once been my Child: I endeavoured to retrace its features through the livid corruption, with which they were overspread: During my confinement this sad occupation was my only delight; and at that time Worlds should not have bribed me to give it up. Even when released from my prison, I brought away my Child in my arms. The representations of my two kind Friends,"--(Here She took the hands of the Marchioness and Virginia, and pressed them alternately to her lips)--"at length persuaded me to resign my unhappy Infant to the Grave. Yet I parted from it with reluctance: However, reason at length prevailed; I suffered it to be taken from me, and it now reposes in consecrated ground. I before mentioned that regularly once a day Camilla brought me food. She sought not to embitter my sorrows with reproach: She bad me, 'tis true, resign all hopes of liberty and worldly happiness; But She encouraged me to bear with patience my temporary distress, and advised me to draw comfort from religion. My situation evidently affected her more than She ventured to express: But She believed that to extenuate my fault would make me less anxious to repent it. Often while her lips painted the enormity of my guilt in glaring colours, her eyes betrayed, how sensible She was to my sufferings. In fact I am certain that none of my Tormentors, (for the three other Nuns entered my prison occasionally) were so much actuated by the spirit of oppressive cruelty as by the idea that to afflict my body was the only way to preserve my soul. Nay, even this persuasion might not have had such weight with them, and they might have thought my punishment too severe, had not their good dispositions been represt by blind obedience to their Superior. Her resentment existed in full force. My project of elopement having been discovered by the Abbot of the Capuchins, She supposed herself lowered in his opinion by my disgrace, and in consequence her hate was inveterate. She told the Nuns to whose custody I was committed that my fault was of the most heinous nature, that no sufferings could equal the offence, and that nothing could save me from eternal perdition but punishing my guilt with the utmost severity. The Superior's word is an oracle to but too many of a Convent's Inhabitants. The Nuns believed whatever the Prioress chose to assert: Though contradicted by reason and charity, they hesitated not to admit the truth of her arguments. They followed her injunctions to the very letter, and were fully persuaded that to treat me with lenity, or to show the least pity for my woes, would be a direct means to destroy my chance for salvation. Camilla, being most employed about me, was particularly charged by the Prioress to treat me with harshness. In compliance with these orders, She frequently strove to convince me, how just was my punishment, and how enormous was my crime: She bad me think myself too happy in saving my soul by mortifying my body, and even threatened me sometimes with eternal perdition. Yet as I before observed, She always concluded by words of encouragement and comfort; and though uttered by Camilla's lips, I easily recognised the Domina's expressions. Once, and once only, the Prioress visited me in my dungeon. She then treated me with the most unrelenting cruelty: She loaded me with reproaches, taunted me with my frailty, and when I implored her mercy, told me to ask it of heaven, since I deserved none on earth. She even gazed upon my lifeless Infant without emotion; and when She left me, I heard her charge Camilla to increase the hardships of my Captivity. Unfeeling Woman! But let me check my resentment: She has expiated her errors by her sad and unexpected death. Peace be with her; and may her crimes be forgiven in heaven, as I forgive her my sufferings on earth! Thus did I drag on a miserable existence. Far from growing familiar with my prison, I beheld it every moment with new horror. The cold seemed more piercing and bitter, the air more thick and pestilential. My frame became weak, feverish, and emaciated. I was unable to rise from the bed of Straw, and exercise my limbs in the narrow limits, to which the length of my chain permitted me to move. Though exhausted, faint, and weary, I trembled to profit by the approach of Sleep: My slumbers were constantly interrupted by some obnoxious Insect crawling over me. Sometimes I felt the bloated Toad, hideous and pampered with the poisonous vapours of the dungeon, dragging his loathsome length along my bosom: Sometimes the quick cold Lizard rouzed me leaving his slimy track upon my face, and entangling itself in the tresses of my wild and matted hair: Often have I at waking found my fingers ringed with the long worms which bred in the corrupted flesh of my Infant. At such times I shrieked with terror and disgust, and while I shook off the reptile, trembled with all a Woman's weakness. Such was my situation, when Camilla was suddenly taken ill. A dangerous fever, supposed to be infectious, confined her to her bed. Every one except the Lay-Sister appointed to nurse her, avoided her with caution, and feared to catch the disease. She was perfectly delirious, and by no means capable of attending to me. The Domina and the Nuns admitted to the mystery, had latterly given me over entirely to Camilla's care: In consequence, they busied themselves no more about me; and occupied by preparing for the approaching Festival, it is more than probable that I never once entered into their thoughts. Of the reason of Camilla's negligence, I have been informed since my release by the Mother St. Ursula; At that time I was very far from suspecting its cause. On the contrary, I waited for my Gaoler's appearance at first with impatience, and afterwards with despair. One day passed away; Another followed it; The Third arrived. Still no Camilla! Still no food! I knew the lapse of time by the wasting of my Lamp, to supply which fortunately a week's supply of Oil had been left me. I supposed, either that the Nuns had forgotten me, or that the Domina had ordered them to let me perish. The latter idea seemed the most probable; Yet so natural is the love of life, that I trembled to find it true. Though embittered by every species of misery, my existence was still dear to me, and I dreaded to lose it. Every succeeding minute proved to me that I must abandon all hopes of relief. I was become an absolute skeleton: My eyes already failed me, and my limbs were beginning to stiffen. I could only express my anguish, and the pangs of that hunger which gnawed my heart-strings, by frequent groans, whose melancholy sound the vaulted roof of the dungeon re-echoed. I resigned myself to my fate: I already expected the moment of dissolution, when my Guardian Angel, when my beloved Brother arrived in time to save me. My sight grown dim and feeble at first refused to recognize him; and when I did distinguish his features, the sudden burst of rapture was too much for me to bear. I was overpowered by the swell of joy at once more beholding a Friend, and that a Friend so dear to me. Nature could not support my emotions, and took her refuge in insensibility. You already know, what are my obligations to the Family of Villa-Franca: But what you cannot know is the extent of my gratitude, boundless as the excellence of my Benefactors. Lorenzo! Raymond! Names so dear to me! Teach me to bear with fortitude this sudden transition from misery to bliss. So lately a Captive, opprest with chains, perishing with hunger, suffering every inconvenience of cold and want, hidden from the light, excluded from society, hopeless, neglected, and as I feared, forgotten; Now restored to life and liberty, enjoying all the comforts of affluence and ease, surrounded by those who are most loved by me, and on the point of becoming his Bride who has long been wedded to my heart, my happiness is so exquisite, so perfect, that scarcely can my brain sustain the weight. One only wish remains ungratified: It is to see my Brother in his former health, and to know that Antonia's memory is buried in her grave. Granted this prayer, I have nothing more to desire. I trust, that my past sufferings have purchased from heaven the pardon of my momentary weakness. That I have offended, offended greatly and grievously, I am fully conscious; But let not my Husband, because He once conquered my virtue, doubt the propriety of my future conduct. I have been frail and full of error: But I yielded not to the warmth of constitution; Raymond, affection for you betrayed me. I was too confident of my strength; But I depended no less on your honour than my own. I had vowed never to see you more: Had it not been for the consequences of that unguarded moment, my resolution had been kept. Fate willed it otherwise, and I cannot but rejoice at its decree. Still my conduct has been highly blameable, and while I attempt to justify myself, I blush at recollecting my imprudence. Let me then dismiss the ungrateful subject; First assuring you, Raymond, that you shall have no cause to repent our union, and that the more culpable have been the errors of your Mistress, the more exemplary shall be the conduct of your Wife. Here Agnes ceased, and the Marquis replied to her address in terms equally sincere and affectionate. Lorenzo expressed his satisfaction at the prospect of being so closely connected with a Man for whom He had ever entertained the highest esteem. The Pope's Bull had fully and effectually released Agnes from her religious engagements: The marriage was therefore celebrated as soon as the needful preparations had been made, for the Marquis wished to have the ceremony performed with all possible splendour and publicity. This being over, and the Bride having received the compliments of Madrid, She departed with Don Raymond for his Castle in Andalusia: Lorenzo accompanied them, as did also the Marchioness de Villa-Franca and her lovely Daughter. It is needless to say that Theodore was of the party, and would be impossible to describe his joy at his Master's marriage. Previous to his departure, the Marquis, to atone in some measure for his past neglect, made some enquiries relative to Elvira. Finding that She as well as her Daughter had received many services from Leonella and Jacintha, He showed his respect to the memory of his Sister-in-law by making the two Women handsome presents. Lorenzo followed his example--Leonella was highly flattered by the attentions of Noblemen so distinguished, and Jacintha blessed the hour on which her House was bewitched. On her side, Agnes failed not to reward her Convent Friends. The worthy Mother St. Ursula, to whom She owed her liberty, was named at her request Superintendent of 'The Ladies of Charity:' This was one of the best and most opulent Societies throughout Spain. Bertha and Cornelia not choosing to quit their Friend, were appointed to principal charges in the same establishment. As to the Nuns who had aided the Domina in persecuting Agnes, Camilla being confined by illness to her bed, had perished in the flames which consumed St. Clare's Convent. Mariana, Alix, and Violante, as well as two more, had fallen victims to the popular rage. The three Others who in Council had supported the Domina's sentence, were severely reprimanded, and banished to religious Houses in obscure and distant Provinces: Here they languished away a few years, ashamed of their former weakness, and shunned by their Companions with aversion and contempt. Nor was the fidelity of Flora permitted to go unrewarded. Her wishes being consulted, She declared herself impatient to revisit her native land. In consequence, a passage was procured for her to Cuba, where She arrived in safety, loaded with the presents of Raymond and Lorenzo. The debts of gratitude discharged, Agnes was at liberty to pursue her favourite plan. Lodged in the same House, Lorenzo and Virginia were eternally together. The more He saw of her, the more was He convinced of her merit. On her part, She laid herself out to please, and not to succeed was for her impossible. Lorenzo witnessed with admiration her beautiful person, elegant manners, innumerable talents, and sweet disposition: He was also much flattered by her prejudice in his favour, which She had not sufficient art to conceal. However, his sentiments partook not of that ardent character which had marked his affection for Antonia. The image of that lovely and unfortunate Girl still lived in his heart, and baffled all Virginia's efforts to displace it. Still when the Duke proposed to him the match, which He wished to earnestly to take place, his Nephew did not reject the offer. The urgent supplications of his Friends, and the Lady's merit conquered his repugnance to entering into new engagements. He proposed himself to the Marquis de Villa-Franca, and was accepted with joy and gratitude. Virginia became his Wife, nor did She ever give him cause to repent his choice. His esteem increased for her daily. Her unremitted endeavours to please him could not but succeed. His affection assumed stronger and warmer colours. Antonia's image was gradually effaced from his bosom; and Virginia became sole Mistress of that heart, which She well deserved to possess without a Partner. The remaining years of Raymond and Agnes, of Lorenzo and Virginia, were happy as can be those allotted to Mortals, born to be the prey of grief, and sport of disappointment. The exquisite sorrows with which they had been afflicted, made them think lightly of every succeeding woe. They had felt the sharpest darts in misfortune's quiver; Those which remained appeared blunt in comparison. Having weathered Fate's heaviest Storms, they looked calmly upon its terrors: or if ever they felt Affliction's casual gales, they seemed to them gentle as Zephyrs which breathe over summer-seas. CHAPTER V ----He was a fell despightful Fiend: Hell holds none worse in baleful bower below: By pride, and wit, and rage, and rancor keened; Of Man alike, if good or bad the Foe. Thomson. On the day following Antonia's death, all Madrid was a scene of consternation and amazement. An Archer who had witnessed the adventure in the Sepulchre had indiscreetly related the circumstances of the murder: He had also named the Perpetrator. The confusion was without example which this intelligence raised among the Devotees. Most of them disbelieved it, and went themselves to the Abbey to ascertain the fact. Anxious to avoid the shame to which their Superior's ill-conduct exposed the whole Brotherhood, the Monks assured the Visitors that Ambrosio was prevented from receiving them as usual by nothing but illness. This attempt was unsuccessful: The same excuse being repeated day after day, the Archer's story gradually obtained confidence. His Partizans abandoned him: No one entertained a doubt of his guilt; and they who before had been the warmest in his praise were now the most vociferous in his condemnation. While his innocence or guilt was debated in Madrid with the utmost acrimony, Ambrosio was a prey to the pangs of conscious villainy, and the terrors of punishment impending over him. When He looked back to the eminence on which He had lately stood, universally honoured and respected, at peace with the world and with himself, scarcely could He believe that He was indeed the culprit whose crimes and whose fate He trembled to envisage. But a few weeks had elapsed, since He was pure and virtuous, courted by the wisest and noblest in Madrid, and regarded by the People with a reverence that approached idolatry: He now saw himself stained with the most loathed and monstrous sins, the object of universal execration, a Prisoner of the Holy Office, and probably doomed to perish in tortures the most severe. He could not hope to deceive his Judges: The proofs of his guilt were too strong. His being in the Sepulchre at so late an hour, his confusion at the discovery, the dagger which in his first alarm He owned had been concealed by him, and the blood which had spirted upon his habit from Antonia's wound, sufficiently marked him out for the Assassin. He waited with agony for the day of examination: He had no resource to comfort him in his distress. Religion could not inspire him with fortitude: If He read the Books of morality which were put into his hands, He saw in them nothing but the enormity of his offences; If he attempted to pray, He recollected that He deserved not heaven's protection, and believed his crimes so monstrous as to baffle even God's infinite goodness. For every other Sinner He thought there might be hope, but for him there could be none. Shuddering at the past, anguished by the present, and dreading the future, thus passed He the few days preceding that which was marked for his Trial. That day arrived. At nine in the morning his prison door was unlocked, and his Gaoler entering, commanded him to follow him. He obeyed with trembling. He was conducted into a spacious Hall, hung with black cloth. At the Table sat three grave, stern-looking Men, also habited in black: One was the Grand Inquisitor, whom the importance of this cause had induced to examine into it himself. At a smaller table at a little distance sat the Secretary, provided with all necessary implements for writing. Ambrosio was beckoned to advance, and take his station at the lower end of the Table. As his eye glanced downwards, He perceived various iron instruments lying scattered upon the floor. Their forms were unknown to him, but apprehension immediately guessed them to be engines of torture. He turned pale, and with difficulty prevented himself from sinking upon the ground. Profound silence prevailed, except when the Inquisitors whispered a few words among themselves mysteriously. Near an hour past away, and with every second of it Ambrosio's fears grew more poignant. At length a small Door, opposite to that by which He had entered the Hall, grated heavily upon its hinges. An Officer appeared, and was immediately followed by the beautiful Matilda. Her hair hung about her face wildly; Her cheeks were pale, and her eyes sunk and hollow. She threw a melancholy look upon Ambrosio: He replied by one of aversion and reproach. She was placed opposite to him. A Bell then sounded thrice. It was the signal for opening the Court, and the Inquisitors entered upon their office. In these trials neither the accusation is mentioned, or the name of the Accuser. The Prisoners are only asked, whether they will confess: If they reply that having no crime they can make no confession, they are put to the torture without delay. This is repeated at intervals, either till the suspected avow themselves culpable, or the perseverance of the examinants is worn out and exhausted: But without a direct acknowledgment of their guilt, the Inquisition never pronounces the final doom of its Prisoners. In general much time is suffered to elapse without their being questioned: But Ambrosio's trial had been hastened, on account of a solemn Auto da Fe which would take place in a few days, and in which the Inquisitors meant this distinguished Culprit to perform a part, and give a striking testimony of their vigilance. The Abbot was not merely accused of rape and murder: The crime of Sorcery was laid to his charge, as well as to Matilda's. She had been seized as an Accomplice in Antonia's assassination. On searching her Cell, various suspicious books and instruments were found which justified the accusation brought against her. To criminate the Monk, the constellated Mirror was produced, which Matilda had accidentally left in his chamber. The strange figures engraved upon it caught the attention of Don Ramirez, while searching the Abbot's Cell: In consequence, He carried it away with him. It was shown to the Grand Inquisitor, who having considered it for some time, took off a small golden Cross which hung at his girdle, and laid it upon the Mirror. Instantly a loud noise was heard, resembling a clap of thunder, and the steel shivered into a thousand pieces. This circumstance confirmed the suspicion of the Monk's having dealt in Magic: It was even supposed that his former influence over the minds of the People was entirely to be ascribed to witchcraft. Determined to make him confess not only the crimes which He had committed, but those also of which He was innocent, the Inquisitors began their examination. Though dreading the tortures, as He dreaded death still more which would consign him to eternal torments, the Abbot asserted his purity in a voice bold and resolute. Matilda followed his example, but spoke with fear and trembling. Having in vain exhorted him to confess, the Inquisitors ordered the Monk to be put to the question. The Decree was immediately executed. Ambrosio suffered the most excruciating pangs that ever were invented by human cruelty: Yet so dreadful is Death when guilt accompanies it, that He had sufficient fortitude to persist in his disavowal. His agonies were redoubled in consequence: Nor was He released till fainting from excess of pain, insensibility rescued him from the hands of his Tormentors. Matilda was next ordered to the torture: But terrified by the sight of the Friar's sufferings, her courage totally deserted her. She sank upon her knees, acknowledged her corresponding with infernal Spirits, and that She had witnessed the Monk's assassination of Antonia: But as to the crime of Sorcery, She declared herself the sole criminal, and Ambrosio perfectly innocent. The latter assertion met with no credit. The Abbot had recovered his senses in time to hear the confession of his Accomplice: But He was too much enfeebled by what He had already undergone to be capable at that time of sustaining new torments. He was commanded back to his Cell, but first informed that as soon as He had gained strength sufficient, He must prepare himself for a second examination. The Inquisitors hoped that He would then be less hardened and obstinate. To Matilda it was announced that She must expiate her crime in fire on the approaching Auto da Fe. All her tears and entreaties could procure no mitigation of her doom, and She was dragged by force from the Hall of Trial. Returned to his dungeon, the sufferings of Ambrosio's body were far more supportable than those of his mind. His dislocated limbs, the nails torn from his hands and feet, and his fingers mashed and broken by the pressure of screws, were far surpassed in anguish by the agitation of his soul and vehemence of his terrors. He saw that, guilty or innocent, his Judges were bent upon condemning him: The remembrance of what his denial had already cost him terrified him at the idea of being again applied to the question, and almost engaged him to confess his crimes. Then again the consequences of his confession flashed before him, and rendered him once more irresolute. His death would be inevitable, and that a death the most dreadful: He had listened to Matilda's doom, and doubted not that a similar was reserved for him. He shuddered at the approaching Auto da Fe, at the idea of perishing in flames, and only escaping from indurable torments to pass into others more subtile and ever-lasting! With affright did He bend his mind's eye on the space beyond the grave; nor could hide from himself how justly he ought to dread Heaven's vengeance. In this Labyrinth of terrors, fain would He have taken his refuge in the gloom of Atheism: Fain would He have denied the soul's immortality; have persuaded himself that when his eyes once closed, they would never more open, and that the same moment would annihilate his soul and body. Even this resource was refused to him. To permit his being blind to the fallacy of this belief, his knowledge was too extensive, his understanding too solid and just. He could not help feeling the existence of a God. Those truths, once his comfort, now presented themselves before him in the clearest light; But they only served to drive him to distraction. They destroyed his ill-grounded hopes of escaping punishment; and dispelled by the irresistible brightness of Truth and convinction, Philosophy's deceitful vapours faded away like a dream. In anguish almost too great for mortal frame to bear, He expected the time when He was again to be examined. He busied himself in planning ineffectual schemes for escaping both present and future punishment. Of the first there was no possibility; Of the second Despair made him neglect the only means. While Reason forced him to acknowledge a God's existence, Conscience made him doubt the infinity of his goodness. He disbelieved that a Sinner like him could find mercy. He had not been deceived into error: Ignorance could furnish him with no excuse. He had seen vice in her true colours; Before He committed his crimes, He had computed every scruple of their weight; and yet he had committed them. 'Pardon?' He would cry in an access of phrenzy 'Oh! there can be none for me!' Persuaded of this, instead of humbling himself in penitence, of deploring his guilt, and employing his few remaining hours in deprecating Heaven's wrath, He abandoned himself to the transports of desperate rage; He sorrowed for the punishment of his crimes, not their commission; and exhaled his bosom's anguish in idle sighs, in vain lamentations, in blasphemy and despair. As the few beams of day which pierced through the bars of his prison window gradually disappeared, and their place was supplied by the pale and glimmering Lamp, He felt his terrors redouble, and his ideas become more gloomy, more solemn, more despondent. He dreaded the approach of sleep: No sooner did his eyes close, wearied with tears and watching, than the dreadful visions seemed to be realised on which his mind had dwelt during the day. He found himself in sulphurous realms and burning Caverns, surrounded by Fiends appointed his Tormentors, and who drove him through a variety of tortures, each of which was more dreadful than the former. Amidst these dismal scenes wandered the Ghosts of Elvira and her Daughter. They reproached him with their deaths, recounted his crimes to the Daemons, and urged them to inflict torments of cruelty yet more refined. Such were the pictures which floated before his eyes in sleep: They vanished not till his repose was disturbed by excess of agony. Then would He start from the ground on which He had stretched himself, his brows running down with cold sweat, his eyes wild and phrenzied; and He only exchanged the terrible certainty for surmizes scarcely more supportable. He paced his dungeon with disordered steps; He gazed with terror upon the surrounding darkness, and often did He cry, 'Oh! fearful is night to the Guilty!' The day of his second examination was at hand. He had been compelled to swallow cordials, whose virtues were calculated to restore his bodily strength, and enable him to support the question longer. On the night preceding this dreaded day, his fears for the morrow permitted him not to sleep. His terrors were so violent, as nearly to annihilate his mental powers. He sat like one stupefied near the Table on which his Lamp was burning dimly. Despair chained up his faculties in Idiotism, and He remained for some hours, unable to speak or move, or indeed to think. 'Look up, Ambrosio!' said a Voice in accents well-known to him-- The Monk started, and raised his melancholy eyes. Matilda stood before him. She had quitted her religious habit. She now wore a female dress, at once elegant and splendid: A profusion of diamonds blazed upon her robes, and her hair was confined by a coronet of Roses. In her right hand She held a small Book: A lively expression of pleasure beamed upon her countenance; But still it was mingled with a wild imperious majesty which inspired the Monk with awe, and represt in some measure his transports at seeing her. 'You here, Matilda?' He at length exclaimed; 'How have you gained entrance? Where are your Chains? What means this magnificence, and the joy which sparkles in your eyes? Have our Judges relented? Is there a chance of my escaping? Answer me for pity, and tell me, what I have to hope, or fear.' 'Ambrosio!' She replied with an air of commanding dignity; 'I have baffled the Inquisition's fury. I am free: A few moments will place kingdoms between these dungeons and me. Yet I purchase my liberty at a dear, at a dreadful price! Dare you pay the same, Ambrosio? Dare you spring without fear over the bounds which separate Men from Angels?--You are silent.--You look upon me with eyes of suspicion and alarm--I read your thoughts and confess their justice. Yes, Ambrosio; I have sacrificed all for life and liberty. I am no longer a candidate for heaven! I have renounced God's service, and am enlisted beneath the banners of his Foes. The deed is past recall: Yet were it in my power to go back, I would not. Oh! my Friend, to expire in such torments! To die amidst curses and execrations! To bear the insults of an exasperated Mob! To be exposed to all the mortifications of shame and infamy! Who can reflect without horror on such a doom? Let me then exult in my exchange. I have sold distant and uncertain happiness for present and secure: I have preserved a life which otherwise I had lost in torture; and I have obtained the power of procuring every bliss which can make that life delicious! The Infernal Spirits obey me as their Sovereign: By their aid shall my days be past in every refinement of luxury and voluptuousness. I will enjoy unrestrained the gratification of my senses: Every passion shall be indulged, even to satiety; Then will I bid my Servants invent new pleasures, to revive and stimulate my glutted appetites! I go impatient to exercise my newly-gained dominion. I pant to be at liberty. Nothing should hold me one moment longer in this abhorred abode, but the hope of persuading you to follow my example. Ambrosio, I still love you: Our mutual guilt and danger have rendered you dearer to me than ever, and I would fain save you from impending destruction. Summon then your resolution to your aid; and renounce for immediate and certain benefits the hopes of a salvation, difficult to obtain, and perhaps altogether erroneous. Shake off the prejudice of vulgar souls; Abandon a God who has abandoned you, and raise yourself to the level of superior Beings!' She paused for the Monk's reply: He shuddered, while He gave it. 'Matilda!' He said after a long silence in a low and unsteady voice; 'What price gave you for liberty?' She answered him firm and dauntless. 'Ambrosio, it was my Soul!' 'Wretched Woman, what have you done? Pass but a few years, and how dreadful will be your sufferings!' 'Weak Man, pass but this night, and how dreadful will be your own! Do you remember what you have already endured? Tomorrow you must bear torments doubly exquisite. Do you remember the horrors of a fiery punishment? In two days you must be led a Victim to the Stake! What then will become of you? Still dare you hope for pardon? Still are you beguiled with visions of salvation? Think upon your crimes! Think upon your lust, your perjury, inhumanity, and hypocrisy! Think upon the innocent blood which cries to the Throne of God for vengeance, and then hope for mercy! Then dream of heaven, and sigh for worlds of light, and realms of peace and pleasure! Absurd! Open your eyes, Ambrosio, and be prudent. Hell is your lot; You are doomed to eternal perdition; Nought lies beyond your grave but a gulph of devouring flames. And will you then speed towards that Hell? Will you clasp that perdition in your arms, ere 'tis needful? Will you plunge into those flames while you still have the power to shun them? 'Tis a Madman's action. No, no, Ambrosio: Let us for awhile fly from divine vengeance. Be advised by me; Purchase by one moment's courage the bliss of years; Enjoy the present, and forget that a future lags behind.' 'Matilda, your counsels are dangerous: I dare not, I will not follow them. I must not give up my claim to salvation. Monstrous are my crimes; But God is merciful, and I will not despair of pardon.' 'Is such your resolution? I have no more to say. I speed to joy and liberty, and abandon you to death and eternal torments.' 'Yet stay one moment, Matilda! You command the infernal Daemons: You can force open these prison doors; You can release me from these chains which weigh me down. Save me, I conjure you, and bear me from these fearful abodes!' 'You ask the only boon beyond my power to bestow. I am forbidden to assist a Churchman and a Partizan of God: Renounce those titles, and command me.' 'I will not sell my soul to perdition.' 'Persist in your obstinacy, till you find yourself at the Stake: Then will you repent your error, and sigh for escape when the moment is gone by. I quit you. Yet ere the hour of death arrives should wisdom enlighten you, listen to the means of repairing your present fault. I leave with you this Book. Read the four first lines of the seventh page backwards: The Spirit whom you have already once beheld will immediately appear to you. If you are wise, we shall meet again: If not, farewell for ever!' She let the Book fall upon the ground. A cloud of blue fire wrapped itself round her: She waved her hand to Ambrosio, and disappeared. The momentary glare which the flames poured through the dungeon, on dissipating suddenly, seemed to have increased its natural gloom. The solitary Lamp scarcely gave light sufficient to guide the Monk to a Chair. He threw himself into his seat, folded his arms, and leaning his head upon the table, sank into reflections perplexing and unconnected. He was still in this attitude when the opening of the prison door rouzed him from his stupor. He was summoned to appear before the Grand Inquisitor. He rose, and followed his Gaoler with painful steps. He was led into the same Hall, placed before the same Examiners, and was again interrogated whether He would confess. He replied as before, that having no crimes, He could acknowledge none: But when the Executioners prepared to put him to the question, when He saw the engines of torture, and remembered the pangs which they had already inflicted, his resolution failed him entirely. Forgetting the consequences, and only anxious to escape the terrors of the present moment, He made an ample confession. He disclosed every circumstance of his guilt, and owned not merely the crimes with which He was charged, but those of which He had never been suspected. Being interrogated as to Matilda's flight which had created much confusion, He confessed that She had sold herself to Satan, and that She was indebted to Sorcery for her escape. He still assured his Judges that for his own part He had never entered into any compact with the infernal Spirits; But the threat of being tortured made him declare himself to be a Sorcerer, and Heretic, and whatever other title the Inquisitors chose to fix upon him. In consequence of this avowal, his sentence was immediately pronounced. He was ordered to prepare himself to perish in the Auto da Fe, which was to be solemnized at twelve o'clock that night. This hour was chosen from the idea that the horror of the flames being heightened by the gloom of midnight, the execution would have a greater effect upon the mind of the People. Ambrosio rather dead than alive was left alone in his dungeon. The moment in which this terrible decree was pronounced had nearly proved that of his dissolution. He looked forward to the morrow with despair, and his terrors increased with the approach of midnight. Sometimes He was buried in gloomy silence: At others He raved with delirious passion, wrung his hands, and cursed the hour when He first beheld the light. In one of these moments his eye rested upon Matilda's mysterious gift. His transports of rage were instantly suspended. He looked earnestly at the Book; He took it up, but immediately threw it from him with horror. He walked rapidly up and down his dungeon: Then stopped, and again fixed his eyes on the spot where the Book had fallen. He reflected that here at least was a resource from the fate which He dreaded. He stooped, and took it up a second time. He remained for some time trembling and irresolute: He longed to try the charm, yet feared its consequences. The recollection of his sentence at length fixed his indecision. He opened the Volume; but his agitation was so great that He at first sought in vain for the page mentioned by Matilda. Ashamed of himself, He called all his courage to his aid. He turned to the seventh leaf. He began to read it aloud; But his eyes frequently wandered from the Book, while He anxiously cast them round in search of the Spirit, whom He wished, yet dreaded to behold. Still He persisted in his design; and with a voice unassured and frequent interruptions, He contrived to finish the four first lines of the page. They were in a language, whose import was totally unknown to him. Scarce had He pronounced the last word when the effects of the charm were evident. A loud burst of Thunder was heard; The prison shook to its very foundations; A blaze of lightning flashed through the Cell; and in the next moment, borne upon sulphurous whirl-winds, Lucifer stood before him a second time. But He came not as when at Matilda's summons He borrowed the Seraph's form to deceive Ambrosio. He appeared in all that ugliness which since his fall from heaven had been his portion: His blasted limbs still bore marks of the Almighty's thunder: A swarthy darkness spread itself over his gigantic form: His hands and feet were armed with long Talons: Fury glared in his eyes, which might have struck the bravest heart with terror: Over his huge shoulders waved two enormous sable wings; and his hair was supplied by living snakes, which twined themselves round his brows with frightful hissings. In one hand He held a roll of parchment, and in the other an iron pen. Still the lightning flashed around him, and the Thunder with repeated bursts, seemed to announce the dissolution of Nature. Terrified at an Apparition so different from what He had expected, Ambrosio remained gazing upon the Fiend, deprived of the power of utterance. The Thunder had ceased to roll: Universal silence reigned through the dungeon. 'For what am I summoned hither?' said the Daemon, in a voice which sulphurous fogs had damped to hoarseness-- At the sound Nature seemed to tremble: A violent earthquake rocked the ground, accompanied by a fresh burst of Thunder, louder and more appalling than the first. Ambrosio was long unable to answer the Daemon's demand. 'I am condemned to die;' He said with a faint voice, his blood running cold, while He gazed upon his dreadful Visitor. 'Save me! Bear me from hence!' 'Shall the reward of my services be paid me? Dare you embrace my cause? Will you be mine, body and soul? Are you prepared to renounce him who made you, and him who died for you? Answer but "Yes" and Lucifer is your Slave.' 'Will no less price content you? Can nothing satisfy you but my eternal ruin? Spirit, you ask too much. Yet convey me from this dungeon: Be my Servant for one hour, and I will be yours for a thousand years. Will not this offer suffice?' 'It will not. I must have your soul; must have it mine, and mine for ever.' 'Insatiate Daemon, I will not doom myself to endless torments. I will not give up my hopes of being one day pardoned.' 'You will not? On what Chimaera rest then your hopes? Short-sighted Mortal! Miserable Wretch! Are you not guilty? Are you not infamous in the eyes of Men and Angels. Can such enormous sins be forgiven? Hope you to escape my power? Your fate is already pronounced. The Eternal has abandoned you; Mine you are marked in the book of destiny, and mine you must and shall be!' 'Fiend, 'tis false! Infinite is the Almighty's mercy, and the Penitent shall meet his forgiveness. My crimes are monstrous, but I will not despair of pardon: Haply, when they have received due chastisement....' 'Chastisement? Was Purgatory meant for guilt like yours? Hope you that your offences shall be bought off by prayers of superstitious dotards and droning Monks? Ambrosio, be wise! Mine you must be: You are doomed to flames, but may shun them for the present. Sign this parchment: I will bear you from hence, and you may pass your remaining years in bliss and liberty. Enjoy your existence: Indulge in every pleasure to which appetite may lead you: But from the moment that it quits your body, remember that your soul belongs to me, and that I will not be defrauded of my right.' The Monk was silent; But his looks declared that the Tempter's words were not thrown away. He reflected on the conditions proposed with horror: On the other hand, He believed himself doomed to perdition and that, by refusing the Daemon's succour, He only hastened tortures which He never could escape. The Fiend saw that his resolution was shaken: He renewed his instances, and endeavoured to fix the Abbot's indecision. He described the agonies of death in the most terrific colours; and He worked so powerfully upon Ambrosio's despair and fears that He prevailed upon him to receive the Parchment. He then struck the iron Pen which He held into a vein of the Monk's left hand. It pierced deep, and was instantly filled with blood; Yet Ambrosio felt no pain from the wound. The Pen was put into his hand: It trembled. The Wretch placed the Parchment on the Table before him, and prepared to sign it. Suddenly He held his hand: He started away hastily, and threw the Pen upon the table. 'What am I doing?' He cried--Then turning to the Fiend with a desperate air, 'Leave me! Begone! I will not sign the Parchment.' 'Fool!' exclaimed the disappointed Daemon, darting looks so furious as penetrated the Friar's soul with horror; 'Thus am I trifled with? Go then! Rave in agony, expire in tortures, and then learn the extent of the Eternal's mercy! But beware how you make me again your mock! Call me no more till resolved to accept my offers! Summon me a second time to dismiss me thus idly, and these Talons shall rend you into a thousand pieces! Speak yet again; Will you sign the Parchment?' 'I will not! Leave me! Away!' Instantly the Thunder was heard to roll horribly: Once more the earth trembled with violence: The Dungeon resounded with loud shrieks, and the Daemon fled with blasphemy and curses. At first, the Monk rejoiced at having resisted the Seducer's arts, and obtained a triumph over Mankind's Enemy: But as the hour of punishment drew near, his former terrors revived in his heart. Their momentary repose seemed to have given them fresh vigour. The nearer that the time approached, the more did He dread appearing before the Throne of God. He shuddered to think how soon He must be plunged into eternity; How soon meet the eyes of his Creator, whom He had so grievously offended. The Bell announced midnight: It was the signal for being led to the Stake! As He listened to the first stroke, the blood ceased to circulate in the Abbot's veins: He heard death and torture murmured in each succeeding sound. He expected to see the Archers entering his prison; and as the Bell forbore to toll, he seized the magic volume in a fit of despair. He opened it, turned hastily to the seventh page, and as if fearing to allow himself a moment's thought ran over the fatal lines with rapidity. Accompanied by his former terrors, Lucifer again stood before the Trembler. 'You have summoned me,' said the Fiend; 'Are you determined to be wise? Will you accept my conditions? You know them already. Renounce your claim to salvation, make over to me your soul, and I bear you from this dungeon instantly. Yet is it time. Resolve, or it will be too late. Will you sign the Parchment?' 'I must!--Fate urges me! I accept your conditions.' 'Sign the Parchment!' replied the Daemon in an exulting tone. The Contract and the bloody Pen still lay upon the Table. Ambrosio drew near it. He prepared to sign his name. A moment's reflection made him hesitate. 'Hark!' cried the Tempter; 'They come! Be quick! Sign the Parchment, and I bear you from hence this moment.' In effect, the Archers were heard approaching, appointed to lead Ambrosio to the Stake. The sound encouraged the Monk in his resolution. 'What is the import of this writing?' said He. 'It makes your soul over to me for ever, and without reserve.' 'What am I to receive in exchange?' 'My protection, and release from this dungeon. Sign it, and this instant I bear you away.' Ambrosio took up the Pen; He set it to the Parchment. Again his courage failed him: He felt a pang of terror at his heart, and once more threw the Pen upon the Table. 'Weak and Puerile!' cried the exasperated Fiend: 'Away with this folly! Sign the writing this instant, or I sacrifice you to my rage!' At this moment the bolt of the outward Door was drawn back. The Prisoner heard the rattling of Chains; The heavy Bar fell; The Archers were on the point of entering. Worked up to phrenzy by the urgent danger, shrinking from the approach of death, terrified by the Daemon's threats, and seeing no other means to escape destruction, the wretched Monk complied. He signed the fatal contract, and gave it hastily into the evil Spirit's hands, whose eyes, as He received the gift, glared with malicious rapture. 'Take it!' said the God-abandoned; 'Now then save me! Snatch me from hence!' 'Hold! Do you freely and absolutely renounce your Creator and his Son?' 'I do! I do!' 'Do you make over your soul to me for ever?' 'For ever!' 'Without reserve or subterfuge? Without future appeal to the divine mercy?' The last Chain fell from the door of the prison: The key was heard turning in the Lock: Already the iron door grated heavily upon its rusty hinges. 'I am yours for ever and irrevocably!' cried the Monk wild with terror: 'I abandon all claim to salvation! I own no power but yours! Hark! Hark! They come! Oh! save me! Bear me away!' 'I have triumphed! You are mine past reprieve, and I fulfil my promise.' While He spoke, the Door unclosed. Instantly the Daemon grasped one of Ambrosio's arms, spread his broad pinions, and sprang with him into the air. The roof opened as they soared upwards, and closed again when they had quitted the Dungeon. In the meanwhile, the Gaoler was thrown into the utmost surprize by the disappearance of his Prisoner. Though neither He nor the Archers were in time to witness the Monk's escape, a sulphurous smell prevailing through the prison sufficiently informed them by whose aid He had been liberated. They hastened to make their report to the Grand Inquisitor. The story, how a Sorcerer had been carried away by the Devil, was soon noised about Madrid; and for some days the whole City was employed in discussing the subject. Gradually it ceased to be the topic of conversation: Other adventures arose whose novelty engaged universal attention; and Ambrosio was soon forgotten as totally, as if He never had existed. While this was passing, the Monk supported by his infernal guide, traversed the air with the rapidity of an arrow, and a few moments placed him upon a Precipice's brink, the steepest in Sierra Morena. Though rescued from the Inquisition, Ambrosio as yet was insensible of the blessings of liberty. The damning contract weighed heavy upon his mind; and the scenes in which He had been a principal actor had left behind them such impressions as rendered his heart the seat of anarchy and confusion. The Objects now before his eyes, and which the full Moon sailing through clouds permitted him to examine, were ill-calculated to inspire that calm, of which He stood so much in need. The disorder of his imagination was increased by the wildness of the surrounding scenery; By the gloomy Caverns and steep rocks, rising above each other, and dividing the passing clouds; solitary clusters of Trees scattered here and there, among whose thick-twined branches the wind of night sighed hoarsely and mournfully; the shrill cry of mountain Eagles, who had built their nests among these lonely Desarts; the stunning roar of torrents, as swelled by late rains they rushed violently down tremendous precipices; and the dark waters of a silent sluggish stream which faintly reflected the moonbeams, and bathed the Rock's base on which Ambrosio stood. The Abbot cast round him a look of terror. His infernal Conductor was still by his side, and eyed him with a look of mingled malice, exultation, and contempt. 'Whither have you brought me?' said the Monk at length in an hollow trembling voice: 'Why am I placed in this melancholy scene? Bear me from it quickly! Carry me to Matilda!' The Fiend replied not, but continued to gaze upon him in silence. Ambrosio could not sustain his glance; He turned away his eyes, while thus spoke the Daemon: 'I have him then in my power! This model of piety! This being without reproach! This Mortal who placed his puny virtues on a level with those of Angels. He is mine! Irrevocably, eternally mine! Companions of my sufferings! Denizens of hell! How grateful will be my present!' He paused; then addressed himself to the Monk---- 'Carry you to Matilda?' He continued, repeating Ambrosio's words: 'Wretch! you shall soon be with her! You well deserve a place near her, for hell boasts no miscreant more guilty than yourself. Hark, Ambrosio, while I unveil your crimes! You have shed the blood of two innocents; Antonia and Elvira perished by your hand. That Antonia whom you violated, was your Sister! That Elvira whom you murdered, gave you birth! Tremble, abandoned Hypocrite! Inhuman Parricide! Incestuous Ravisher! Tremble at the extent of your offences! And you it was who thought yourself proof against temptation, absolved from human frailties, and free from error and vice! Is pride then a virtue? Is inhumanity no fault? Know, vain Man! That I long have marked you for my prey: I watched the movements of your heart; I saw that you were virtuous from vanity, not principle, and I seized the fit moment of seduction. I observed your blind idolatry of the Madona's picture. I bad a subordinate but crafty spirit assume a similar form, and you eagerly yielded to the blandishments of Matilda. Your pride was gratified by her flattery; Your lust only needed an opportunity to break forth; You ran into the snare blindly, and scrupled not to commit a crime which you blamed in another with unfeeling severity. It was I who threw Matilda in your way; It was I who gave you entrance to Antonia's chamber; It was I who caused the dagger to be given you which pierced your Sister's bosom; and it was I who warned Elvira in dreams of your designs upon her Daughter, and thus, by preventing your profiting by her sleep, compelled you to add rape as well as incest to the catalogue of your crimes. Hear, hear, Ambrosio! Had you resisted me one minute longer, you had saved your body and soul. The guards whom you heard at your prison door came to signify your pardon. But I had already triumphed: My plots had already succeeded. Scarcely could I propose crimes so quick as you performed them. You are mine, and Heaven itself cannot rescue you from my power. Hope not that your penitence will make void our contract. Here is your bond signed with your blood; You have given up your claim to mercy, and nothing can restore to you the rights which you have foolishly resigned. Believe you that your secret thoughts escaped me? No, no, I read them all! You trusted that you should still have time for repentance. I saw your artifice, knew its falsity, and rejoiced in deceiving the deceiver! You are mine beyond reprieve: I burn to possess my right, and alive you quit not these mountains.' During the Daemon's speech, Ambrosio had been stupefied by terror and surprize. This last declaration rouzed him. 'Not quit these mountains alive?' He exclaimed: 'Perfidious, what mean you? Have you forgotten our contract?' The Fiend answered by a malicious laugh: 'Our contract? Have I not performed my part? What more did I promise than to save you from your prison? Have I not done so? Are you not safe from the Inquisition--safe from all but from me? Fool that you were to confide yourself to a Devil! Why did you not stipulate for life, and power, and pleasure? Then all would have been granted: Now, your reflections come too late. Miscreant, prepare for death; You have not many hours to live!' On hearing this sentence, dreadful were the feelings of the devoted Wretch! He sank upon his knees, and raised his hands towards heaven. The Fiend read his intention and prevented it-- 'What?' He cried, darting at him a look of fury: 'Dare you still implore the Eternal's mercy? Would you feign penitence, and again act an Hypocrite's part? Villain, resign your hopes of pardon. Thus I secure my prey!' As He said this, darting his talons into the Monk's shaven crown, He sprang with him from the rock. The Caves and mountains rang with Ambrosio's shrieks. The Daemon continued to soar aloft, till reaching a dreadful height, He released the sufferer. Headlong fell the Monk through the airy waste; The sharp point of a rock received him; and He rolled from precipice to precipice, till bruised and mangled He rested on the river's banks. Life still existed in his miserable frame: He attempted in vain to raise himself; His broken and dislocated limbs refused to perform their office, nor was He able to quit the spot where He had first fallen. The Sun now rose above the horizon; Its scorching beams darted full upon the head of the expiring Sinner. Myriads of insects were called forth by the warmth; They drank the blood which trickled from Ambrosio's wounds; He had no power to drive them from him, and they fastened upon his sores, darted their stings into his body, covered him with their multitudes, and inflicted on him tortures the most exquisite and insupportable. The Eagles of the rock tore his flesh piecemeal, and dug out his eyeballs with their crooked beaks. A burning thirst tormented him; He heard the river's murmur as it rolled beside him, but strove in vain to drag himself towards the sound. Blind, maimed, helpless, and despairing, venting his rage in blasphemy and curses, execrating his existence, yet dreading the arrival of death destined to yield him up to greater torments, six miserable days did the Villain languish. On the Seventh a violent storm arose: The winds in fury rent up rocks and forests: The sky was now black with clouds, now sheeted with fire: The rain fell in torrents; It swelled the stream; The waves overflowed their banks; They reached the spot where Ambrosio lay, and when they abated carried with them into the river the Corse of the despairing Monk.