1.Shehas laughed as softly as if she sighed;She has counted six and over,Of a purse well filled, and a heart well tried—Oh, each a worthy lover!They "give her time;" for her soul must slipWhere the world has set the grooving:She will lie to none with her fair red lip—But love seeks truer loving.2.She trembles her fan in a sweetness dumb,As her thoughts were beyond her recalling;With a glance forone, and a glance forsome,From her eyelids rising and falling!—Speaks common words with a blushful air;—Hears bold words, unreproving:But her silence says—what she never will swear—And love seeks better loving.3.Go, lady! lean to the night-guitar,And drop a smile to the bringer;Then smile as sweetly, when he is far,At the voice of an in-door singer!Bask tenderly beneath tender eyes;Glance lightly, on their removing;And join new vows to old perjuries—But dare not call it loving!4.Unless you can think, when the song is done,No other is soft in the rhythm;Unless you can feel, when left by One,That all men beside go with him;Unless you can know, when unpraised by his breath,That your beauty itself wants proving;Unless you can swear—"For life, for death!"—Oh, fear to call it loving!5.Unless you can muse, in a crowd all day,On the absent face that fixed you;Unless you can love, as the angels may,With the breadth of heaven betwixt you;Unless you can dream that his faith is fast,Through behoving and unbehoving;Unless you candiewhen the dream is past—Oh, never call it loving!
1.Shehas laughed as softly as if she sighed;She has counted six and over,Of a purse well filled, and a heart well tried—Oh, each a worthy lover!They "give her time;" for her soul must slipWhere the world has set the grooving:She will lie to none with her fair red lip—But love seeks truer loving.
2.She trembles her fan in a sweetness dumb,As her thoughts were beyond her recalling;With a glance forone, and a glance forsome,From her eyelids rising and falling!—Speaks common words with a blushful air;—Hears bold words, unreproving:But her silence says—what she never will swear—And love seeks better loving.
3.Go, lady! lean to the night-guitar,And drop a smile to the bringer;Then smile as sweetly, when he is far,At the voice of an in-door singer!Bask tenderly beneath tender eyes;Glance lightly, on their removing;And join new vows to old perjuries—But dare not call it loving!
4.Unless you can think, when the song is done,No other is soft in the rhythm;Unless you can feel, when left by One,That all men beside go with him;Unless you can know, when unpraised by his breath,That your beauty itself wants proving;Unless you can swear—"For life, for death!"—Oh, fear to call it loving!
5.Unless you can muse, in a crowd all day,On the absent face that fixed you;Unless you can love, as the angels may,With the breadth of heaven betwixt you;Unless you can dream that his faith is fast,Through behoving and unbehoving;Unless you candiewhen the dream is past—Oh, never call it loving!
1.Love me, sweet, with all thou art,Feeling, thinking, seeing,—Love me in the lightest part,Love me in full being.2.Love me with thine open youthIn its frank surrender;With the vowing of thy mouth,With its silence tender.3.Love me with thine azure eyes,Made for earnest granting!Taking colour from the skies,Can heaven's truth be wanting?4.Love me with their lids, that fallSnow-like at first meeting!Love me with thine heart, that allThe neighbours then see beating.5.Love me with thine hand stretched outFreely—open-minded!Love me with thy loitering foot,—Hearing one behind it.6.Love me with thy voice, that turnsSudden faint above me!Love me with thy blush that burnsWhen I murmur 'Love me!'7.Love me with thy thinking soul—Break it to love-sighing;Love me with thy thoughts that rollOn through living—dying.8.Love me in thy gorgeous airs,When the world has crowned thee!Love me, kneeling at thy prayers,With the angels round thee.9.Love me pure, as musers do,Up the woodlands shady!Love me gaily, fast, and true,As a winsome lady.10.Through all hopes that keep us brave,Further off or nigher,Love me for the house and grave,—And for something higher.11.Thus, if thou wilt prove me, dear,Woman's love no fable,Iwill lovethee—half-a-year—As a man is able.
1.Love me, sweet, with all thou art,Feeling, thinking, seeing,—Love me in the lightest part,Love me in full being.
2.Love me with thine open youthIn its frank surrender;With the vowing of thy mouth,With its silence tender.
3.Love me with thine azure eyes,Made for earnest granting!Taking colour from the skies,Can heaven's truth be wanting?
4.Love me with their lids, that fallSnow-like at first meeting!Love me with thine heart, that allThe neighbours then see beating.
5.Love me with thine hand stretched outFreely—open-minded!Love me with thy loitering foot,—Hearing one behind it.
6.Love me with thy voice, that turnsSudden faint above me!Love me with thy blush that burnsWhen I murmur 'Love me!'
7.Love me with thy thinking soul—Break it to love-sighing;Love me with thy thoughts that rollOn through living—dying.
8.Love me in thy gorgeous airs,When the world has crowned thee!Love me, kneeling at thy prayers,With the angels round thee.
9.Love me pure, as musers do,Up the woodlands shady!Love me gaily, fast, and true,As a winsome lady.
10.Through all hopes that keep us brave,Further off or nigher,Love me for the house and grave,—And for something higher.
11.Thus, if thou wilt prove me, dear,Woman's love no fable,Iwill lovethee—half-a-year—As a man is able.
1.He listened at the porch that dayTo hear the wheel go on, and on,And then it stopped—ran back away—While through the door he brought the sun.But now my spinning is all done.2.He sate beside me, with an oathThat love ne'er ended, once begun;I smiled—believing for us both,What was the truth for only one.And now my spinning is all done.3.My mother cursed me that I heardA young man's wooing as I spun.Thanks, cruel mother, for that word,For I have, since, a harder known!And now my spinning is all done.4.I thought—O God!—my first-born's cryBoth voices to my ear would drown!I listened in mine agony——It was thesilencemade me groan!And now my spinning is all done.5.Bury me 'twixt my mother's grave,Who cursed me on her death-bed lone,And my dead baby's—(God it save!)Who, not to bless me, would not moan.And now my spinning is all done.6.A stone upon my heart and head,But no name written on the stone!Sweet neighbours! whisper low instead,"This sinner was a loving one—And now her spinning is all done."7.And let the door ajar remain,In case that he should pass anon;And leave the wheel out very plain,Thathe, when passing in the sun,Mayseethe spinning is all done.
1.He listened at the porch that dayTo hear the wheel go on, and on,And then it stopped—ran back away—While through the door he brought the sun.But now my spinning is all done.
2.He sate beside me, with an oathThat love ne'er ended, once begun;I smiled—believing for us both,What was the truth for only one.And now my spinning is all done.
3.My mother cursed me that I heardA young man's wooing as I spun.Thanks, cruel mother, for that word,For I have, since, a harder known!And now my spinning is all done.
4.I thought—O God!—my first-born's cryBoth voices to my ear would drown!I listened in mine agony——It was thesilencemade me groan!And now my spinning is all done.
5.Bury me 'twixt my mother's grave,Who cursed me on her death-bed lone,And my dead baby's—(God it save!)Who, not to bless me, would not moan.And now my spinning is all done.
6.A stone upon my heart and head,But no name written on the stone!Sweet neighbours! whisper low instead,"This sinner was a loving one—And now her spinning is all done."
7.And let the door ajar remain,In case that he should pass anon;And leave the wheel out very plain,Thathe, when passing in the sun,Mayseethe spinning is all done.
1.O rose! who dares to name thee?No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet;But barren, and hard, and dry, as stubble-wheat,Kept seven years in a drawer—thy titles shame thee.2.The breeze that used to blow theeBetween the hedge-thorns, and take awayAn odour up the lane to last all day,—If breathing now,—unsweetened would forego thee.3.The sun that used to light thee,And mix his glory in thy gorgeous urn,Till beam appeared to bloom, and flower to burn,—If shining now,—with not a hue would dight thee.4.The dew that used to wet thee,And, white first, grow incarnadined, becauseIt lay upon thee where the crimson was,—If dropping now,—would darken where it met thee.5.The fly that lit upon thee,To stretch the tendrils of its tiny feet,Along the leaf's pure edges after heat,—If lighting now,—would coldly overrun thee.6.The bee that once did suck thee,And build thy perfumed ambers up his hive,And swoon in thee for joy, till scarce alive,—If passing now,—would blindly overlook thee.7.The heart doth recognise thee,Alone, alone! The heart doth smell thee sweet,Doth view thee fair, doth judge thee most complete—Though seeing now those changes that disguise thee.8.Yes and the heart doth owe theeMore love, dead rose! than to such roses boldAs Julia wears at dances, smiling cold!——Lie still upon this heart—which breaks below thee!
1.O rose! who dares to name thee?No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet;But barren, and hard, and dry, as stubble-wheat,Kept seven years in a drawer—thy titles shame thee.
2.The breeze that used to blow theeBetween the hedge-thorns, and take awayAn odour up the lane to last all day,—If breathing now,—unsweetened would forego thee.
3.The sun that used to light thee,And mix his glory in thy gorgeous urn,Till beam appeared to bloom, and flower to burn,—If shining now,—with not a hue would dight thee.
4.The dew that used to wet thee,And, white first, grow incarnadined, becauseIt lay upon thee where the crimson was,—If dropping now,—would darken where it met thee.
5.The fly that lit upon thee,To stretch the tendrils of its tiny feet,Along the leaf's pure edges after heat,—If lighting now,—would coldly overrun thee.
6.The bee that once did suck thee,And build thy perfumed ambers up his hive,And swoon in thee for joy, till scarce alive,—If passing now,—would blindly overlook thee.
7.The heart doth recognise thee,Alone, alone! The heart doth smell thee sweet,Doth view thee fair, doth judge thee most complete—Though seeing now those changes that disguise thee.
8.Yes and the heart doth owe theeMore love, dead rose! than to such roses boldAs Julia wears at dances, smiling cold!——Lie still upon this heart—which breaks below thee!
1.Three months ago, the stream did flow,The lilies bloomed along the edge;And we were lingering to and fro,—Where none will track thee in this snow,Along the stream, beside the hedge.Ah! sweet, be free to come and go;For if I do not hear thy foot,The frozen river is as mute,—The flowers have dried down to the root;And why, since these be changed since May,Shouldstthouchange less thanthey?2.And slow, slow as the winter snow,The tears have drifted to mine eyes;And my two cheeks, three months ago,Set blushing at thy praises so,Put paleness on for a disguise.Ah! sweet, be free to praise and go;For if my face is turned to pale,It was thine oath that first did fail,—It was thy love proved false and frail!And why, since these be changed, I trow,ShouldIchange less thanthou?
1.Three months ago, the stream did flow,The lilies bloomed along the edge;And we were lingering to and fro,—Where none will track thee in this snow,Along the stream, beside the hedge.Ah! sweet, be free to come and go;For if I do not hear thy foot,The frozen river is as mute,—The flowers have dried down to the root;And why, since these be changed since May,Shouldstthouchange less thanthey?
2.And slow, slow as the winter snow,The tears have drifted to mine eyes;And my two cheeks, three months ago,Set blushing at thy praises so,Put paleness on for a disguise.Ah! sweet, be free to praise and go;For if my face is turned to pale,It was thine oath that first did fail,—It was thy love proved false and frail!And why, since these be changed, I trow,ShouldIchange less thanthou?
I am no trumpet, but a reed!No flattering breath shall from me leadA silver sound, a hollow sound!I will not ring, for priest or king,One blast that, in re-echoing,Would leave a bondsman faster bound.I am no trumpet, but a reed,—A broken reed, the wind indeedLeft flat upon a dismal shore!Yet if a little maid, or child,Should sigh within it, earnest-mild,This reed will answer evermore.I am no trumpet, but a reed!Go, tell the fishers, as they spreadTheir nets along the river's edge,—I will not tear their nets at all,Nor pierce their hands—if they should fall:Then let them leave me in the sedge.
I am no trumpet, but a reed!No flattering breath shall from me leadA silver sound, a hollow sound!I will not ring, for priest or king,One blast that, in re-echoing,Would leave a bondsman faster bound.
I am no trumpet, but a reed,—A broken reed, the wind indeedLeft flat upon a dismal shore!Yet if a little maid, or child,Should sigh within it, earnest-mild,This reed will answer evermore.
I am no trumpet, but a reed!Go, tell the fishers, as they spreadTheir nets along the river's edge,—I will not tear their nets at all,Nor pierce their hands—if they should fall:Then let them leave me in the sedge.
1.Nine years old! First years of anySeem the best of all that come!—Yet whenIwas nine, I saidUnlike things!—I thought, instead,That the Greeks used just as manyIn besieging Ilium.2.Nine green years had scarcely brought meTo my childhood's haunted spring,—I had life, like flowers and bees,In betwixt the country trees,And the sun, the pleasure, taught meWhich he teacheth every thing.3.If the rain fell, there was sorrow;—Little head leant on the pane,—Little finger tracing down itThe long trailing drops upon it,—And the "Rain, rain, come to-morrow,"Said for charm against the rain.4.And the charm was right Canidian,Though you meet it with a jeer!If I said it long enough,Then the rain hummed dimly off;And the thrush, with his pure Lydian,Was the loudest sound to hear.5.And the sun and I togetherWent a-rushing out of doors!We, our tender spirits, drewOver hill and dale in view,Glimmering hither, glimmering thither,In the footsteps of the showers.6.Underneath the chestnuts dripping,Through the grasses wet and fair,Straight I sought my garden-ground,With the laurel on the mound;And the pear-tree oversweepingA side-shadow of green air.7.While hard by, there lay supinelyA huge giant, wrought of spade!Arms and legs were stretched at length,In a passive giant strength,—And the meadow turf, cut finely,Round them laid and interlaid.8.Call him Hector, son of Priam!Such his title and degree.With my rake I smoothed his brow,And his cheeks I weeded through:But a rhymer such as I amScarce can sing his dignity.9.Eyes of gentianella's azure,Staring, winking at the skies;Nose of gillyflowers and box;Scented grasses, put for locks—Which a little breeze, at pleasure,Set a-waving round his eyes.10.Brazen helm of daffodillies,With a glitter for the light;Purple violets, for the mouth,Breathing perfumes west and south;And a sword of flashing lilies,Holden ready for the fight.11.And a breastplate, made of daisies,Closely fitting, leaf by leaf;Periwinkles interlacedDrawn for belt about the waist;While the brown bees, humming praises,Shot their arrows round the chief.12.And who knows, (I sometimes wondered,)If the disembodied soulOf old Hector, once of Troy,Might not take a dreary joyHere to enter—if it thundered,Rolling up the thunder-roll?13.Rolling this way, from Troy-ruin,To this body rude and rife,He might enter and take rest'Neath the daisies of the breast—They, with tender roots, renewingHis heroic heart to life.14.Who could know? I sometimes startedAt a motion or a sound;Did his mouth speak—naming Troy,With an οτοτοτοτοι?Did the pulse of the Strong-heartedMake the daisies tremble round?15.It was hard to answer, often!But the birds sang in the tree—But the little birds sang bold,In the pear-tree green and old;And my terror seemed to soften,Through the courage of their glee.16.Oh, the birds, the trees, the ruddyAnd white blossoms, sleek with rain!Oh, my garden, rich with pansies!Oh, my childhood's bright romances!All revive, like Hector's body,And I see them stir again!17.And despite life's changes—chances,And despite the deathbell's toll,They press on me in full seeming!—Help, some angel! stay this dreaming!As the birds sang in the branches,Sing God's patience through my soul!18.That no dreamer, no neglecter,Of the present's work unsped,I may wake up and be doing,Life's heroic ends pursuing,Though my past is dead as Hector,And though Hector is twice dead.
1.Nine years old! First years of anySeem the best of all that come!—Yet whenIwas nine, I saidUnlike things!—I thought, instead,That the Greeks used just as manyIn besieging Ilium.
2.Nine green years had scarcely brought meTo my childhood's haunted spring,—I had life, like flowers and bees,In betwixt the country trees,And the sun, the pleasure, taught meWhich he teacheth every thing.
3.If the rain fell, there was sorrow;—Little head leant on the pane,—Little finger tracing down itThe long trailing drops upon it,—And the "Rain, rain, come to-morrow,"Said for charm against the rain.
4.And the charm was right Canidian,Though you meet it with a jeer!If I said it long enough,Then the rain hummed dimly off;And the thrush, with his pure Lydian,Was the loudest sound to hear.
5.And the sun and I togetherWent a-rushing out of doors!We, our tender spirits, drewOver hill and dale in view,Glimmering hither, glimmering thither,In the footsteps of the showers.
6.Underneath the chestnuts dripping,Through the grasses wet and fair,Straight I sought my garden-ground,With the laurel on the mound;And the pear-tree oversweepingA side-shadow of green air.
7.While hard by, there lay supinelyA huge giant, wrought of spade!Arms and legs were stretched at length,In a passive giant strength,—And the meadow turf, cut finely,Round them laid and interlaid.
8.Call him Hector, son of Priam!Such his title and degree.With my rake I smoothed his brow,And his cheeks I weeded through:But a rhymer such as I amScarce can sing his dignity.
9.Eyes of gentianella's azure,Staring, winking at the skies;Nose of gillyflowers and box;Scented grasses, put for locks—Which a little breeze, at pleasure,Set a-waving round his eyes.
10.Brazen helm of daffodillies,With a glitter for the light;Purple violets, for the mouth,Breathing perfumes west and south;And a sword of flashing lilies,Holden ready for the fight.
11.And a breastplate, made of daisies,Closely fitting, leaf by leaf;Periwinkles interlacedDrawn for belt about the waist;While the brown bees, humming praises,Shot their arrows round the chief.
12.And who knows, (I sometimes wondered,)If the disembodied soulOf old Hector, once of Troy,Might not take a dreary joyHere to enter—if it thundered,Rolling up the thunder-roll?
13.Rolling this way, from Troy-ruin,To this body rude and rife,He might enter and take rest'Neath the daisies of the breast—They, with tender roots, renewingHis heroic heart to life.
14.Who could know? I sometimes startedAt a motion or a sound;Did his mouth speak—naming Troy,With an οτοτοτοτοι?Did the pulse of the Strong-heartedMake the daisies tremble round?
15.It was hard to answer, often!But the birds sang in the tree—But the little birds sang bold,In the pear-tree green and old;And my terror seemed to soften,Through the courage of their glee.
16.Oh, the birds, the trees, the ruddyAnd white blossoms, sleek with rain!Oh, my garden, rich with pansies!Oh, my childhood's bright romances!All revive, like Hector's body,And I see them stir again!
17.And despite life's changes—chances,And despite the deathbell's toll,They press on me in full seeming!—Help, some angel! stay this dreaming!As the birds sang in the branches,Sing God's patience through my soul!
18.That no dreamer, no neglecter,Of the present's work unsped,I may wake up and be doing,Life's heroic ends pursuing,Though my past is dead as Hector,And though Hector is twice dead.
"I shouldthink we cannot be very far from our destination by this time."
"Why, were one to put faith in my appetite, we must have been at least a good four or five hoursen routealready; and if our Rosinantes are not able to get over amisèreof thirty or forty miles without making as many grimaces about it as they do now, they are not the animals I took them for."
"Come, come—abuse your own as much as you please, but this much I will say for my Nero, though he has occasionally deposited me on the roadside, he is not apt to sleep upon the way at least. Nay, so sure am I of him, that I would wager you ten Napoleons that we are not more than four or five miles from thechateauat this moment."
"Pas si bête, mon cher.I am not fool enough to put my precious Naps in jeopardy, just when I am so deucedly in want of them, too. But a truce to this nonsense. Do you know, Ernest, seriously speaking, I am beginning to think we are great fools for our pains, running our heads into a perilous adventure, with the almost certainty of a severe reprimand from the general, which, I think, even your filial protestations will scarcely save you from, if ever we return alive; and merely to see, what, I dare say, after all, will turn out to be only a pretty face."
"What!—already faint-hearted!—A miracle of beauty such as Darville described is well worth periling one's neck to gaze upon. Besides, is not that our vocation?—and as for reprimands, if you got one as often as I do, you would soon find out that those things are nothing when one is used to them."
"A miracle!—ah, bah! It was the romance of the scene, and the artful grace of the costume, which fascinated his eyes."
"No, no! be just. Recollect that it was not Darville alone, but Delavigne; and even thatconnoisseurin female beauty, Monbreton himself, difficult as he is, declared that she was perfect. She must be a wonder, indeed, when he could find no fault with her."
"Be it so. I warn you beforehand that I am fully prepared to be disappointed. However, as we are so far embarked in the affair, I suppose we must accomplish it."
"Most assuredly, unless you wish to be the laughing-stock of the whole regiment for the next month; for notwithstanding Darville's boasted powers of discretion, half the subalterns, no doubt, are in possession of the secret of ourescapadeby this time."
"Well, then, Ernest, as we are launched on this wise expedition, let me sermonise a small portion of prudence into that most giddy brain of yours. Remember that, after all, if those ruthless Spaniards were to discover the trick we are playing them, they would probably make us pay rather too dearly for the frolic. In short, Ernest, I am very much afraid that yourétourderiewill let the light rather too soon into the thick skulls of those magnificent hidalgos."
"Preach away—I listen in all humility."
"Ernest, Ernest, I give you up; you are incorrigible!" rejoined the other, turning away to hide the laugh which the irresistibly comic expression his friend threw into his countenance had excited.
And who were the speakers of this short dialogue? Two dashing, spirited-looking young men, who, at the close of it, reined in their steeds, in the dilemma of not knowing where to direct them. Theirs was, indeed, a wild-goose chase. TheirChateau en Espagneseemed invisible, as suchchateauxusually are; and where it might be found, who was there to tell?—Not one. The scene was a desert—not even a bird animated it; and just before them branched out three roads from the one they had hitherto confidently pursued.
After a moment's silence, the cavaliers both burst into a gay laugh.
"Here's a puzzle, Alphonse!" said the one. "Which of the three roads do you opine?"
"The left, by all means," replied the other; "I generally find it leads me right."
"But if it shouldn't now?"
"Why, then, it only leads us wrong."
"But I don't choose to go wrong."
"And what have you been doing ever since you set out?"
"True; but as we are far enough now from that point, we must e'en make the best of the bad."
"Well, why don't you?"
"Why, if one only knew which was the best."
At this moment the tinkling of a mule's bells, mingled with the song of the muleteer, came on the air.
"Hist! here comes counsel," exclaimed the young man whom the other named Ernest. "Holla, señor hidalgo! do you know the castle of the Conde di Miranda?"
"Yes."
"Where is it?"
"Where it was."
"Near?"
"That's as one finds it."
"And how shall we find it?"
"By reaching it."
"Come, come, hidalgo mio."
"I'm no hidalgo," said the man roughly.
"But you ought to be. I've seen many less deserving of it," resumed the traveller.
"I dare say," retorted the muleteer.
"If you'll conduct us within view of the castle you shall be rewarded."
"As I should well deserve."
"Ah, your deserts may be greater than our purse."
But the man moved on.
"Halte-là, friend! I like your company so well that I must have it a little longer." And the officer pulled out a pistol. "Will you, or will you not, guide us to the castle of the Conde?"
"I will," gruffly replied the man, with a look which showed that he was sorry to be forced to choose the second alternative.
"Can we trust this fellow?" said the younger officer to the elder.
"No—but we can ourselves; and keep a sharp look-out."
"Besides, I shall give him a hint. Hidalgo mio——" he began.
"SeñorFranzese," interrupted the muleteer.
"What puts that into your head, hidalgo?Franzese,—why, Don Felix y Cortos, y Sargas, y Nos, y Tierras, y, y,—don't you know an Englishman when you see him?"
"Yes," muttered the Spaniard—"Yes, and a Frenchman, too."
"No, you don't, for here's the proof. Why, what are we, but English officers, carrying despatches to your Conde from our General?"
The muleteer looked doubtingly.
"Why, do you suppose Frenchmen would trust themselves amongst such a set of"—
"Patriots." Exclaimed the other stranger, hastily.
"All I say;" observed the man drily, "is, that if you are friends of the Conde, he will treat you as you deserve. If enemies, the same. So, backward."
"Onward, you mean."
"Ay, for me; but not for you, señores, you have left the castle a mile to the left."
"I guessed right, you see," said Alphonse, "when I guessed left."
The muleteer passed on, and the horsemen followed.
"I say, hidalgo mio," called out Ernest, "what sort of a don is this same Conde?"
"As how?" inquired the muleteer.
"Is he rich?"
"Yes."
"Proud?"
"Yes."
"Old?"
"No."
"Has he a wife?"
"No."
"Has he children?"
"No."
"No!" exclaimed the cavalier with surprise. "No child!"
"You said children, señor."
"He has a child, then?"
"Yes."
"A son?"
"No."
"A daughter?"
"Yes."
"Why, yes and no seems all you have got to say."
"It seems to answer all you have got to ask, señor."
"Is the Doña very handsome?" interrupted Alphonse, impatiently.
"Yes and no, according to taste," replied the muleteer.
"He laughs at us," whispered Ernest in French. The conversation with the muleteer had been, thus far, carried on in Spanish—which Ernest spoke fairly enough. But the observation he thoughtlessly uttered in French seemed to excite the peasant's attention.
"Do you speak English?" asked Ernest.
"Yes," was the reply, in English. "Do you?"
"Me English? ab course. Speak well English," replied Ernest, in the true Gallic-idiom. Then relapsing into the more familiar tongue, he added, "But in Spain I speak Spanish."
By this time the trio had arrived within view of a large castellated building, whose ancient towers, glowing in the last rays of the setting sun, rose majestically from the midst of groves of dark cypress and myrtle which surrounded it.
The muleteer stopped. "There, señores," he said, "stands the castle of the Conde. Half-a-mile further on lies the town of R——, to which, señores," he added, with a sarcastic smile, "you can proceed, should you not find it convenient to remain at theCastello. And now, I presume, as I have guided you so far right, you will suffer me to resume my own direction."
"Yes, as there seems no possibility of making any more mistakes on our way, you are free," replied the gravest of the two. "But stop one moment yet,amigo," and he pointed to a cross-road which, a little further on, diverged from thecamino real, "where does that lead to?"
"Amigo!" muttered the man between his teeth, "sayenemigorather!"
"An answer to my question,villano," said the young Frenchman, haughtily—while his hand instinctively groped for the hilt of his sword.
"To R——," replied the man, as he turned silently and sullenly to retrace his steps.
"Holla, there!" Ernest called out; "you have forgotten your money;" and he held out a purse, but the man was gone. "Va donc, et que le diable t'emporte, brutal!" added Ernest de Lucenay; taking good care, however, this time, that the ebullition of his feelings was not loud enough to reach the ears of the retreating peasant. "Confound it! I would rather follow the track of a tiger through the pathless depth of an Indian jungle alone, than be led by such a savagecicerone."
"Never mind the fellow; we have more than enough to think of in our own affairs," exclaimed his friend, impatiently. "Let us stop here a moment and consult, before we proceed any further. One thing is evident, at all events, that we must contrive to disguise ourselves better if we wish to pass for any thing but Frenchmen. With my knowledge of the English language, and acquaintance with their manners and habits, trifling as it is, I am perfectly certain of imposing on the Spaniards, without any difficulty; but you will as certainly cause a blow up, unless you manage to alter your whole style and appearance. I daresay you have forgotten all my instructions already."
"Bah! Alphonse. Let me alone for puzzling the dons; I'll be as complete aGoddamin five minutes as any stick you ever saw, I warrant you."
"Nothing can appear more perfectly un-English than you do at present. Thatéveillélook of yours is the very devil;" and Alphonse shook his head, despondingly.
"Incredulous animal! just hold Nero for five minutes, and you shall have ocular demonstration of my powers of acting.Parbleu!you shall see that I can be solemn and awkward enough to frighten half thepetites maîtressesof Paris into the vapours." And, so saying, De Lucenay sprang from his saddle, and consigning the bridle into his friend's hands, ran towards a little brook, which trickled through the grass at a short distance from the roadside; but not before he had made his friend promise to abstain from casting any profane glances on his toilet till it was accomplished.
Wisely resolving to avoid temptation, Alphonse turned away, when, to his surprise, he perceived the muleteer halting on a rising ground at alittle distance. "By Jove! that insolent dog has been watching us. Scoundrel, will you move on?" he exclaimed in French, raising his voice angrily, when, suddenly recollecting himself, he terminated the unfinished phrase by "Sigue tu camin! Picaro! Bribon!" while he shook his pistol menacingly at the man's head—a threat which did not seem to intimidate him much, for, though he resumed his journey, his rich sonorous voice burst triumphantly forth into one of the patriotic songs; and long after he had disappeared from their eyes, the usualritournelle, "VivaFernando!MueraNapoleon!" rang upon the air.
This short interval had more than sufficed for De Lucenay's mysterious operations. And before his friend was tired of fuming and sacreing against Spain and Spaniards, Ernest tapped him on the shoulder, and for once both the young officer's anger and habitual gravity vanished in an uncontrollable fit of laughter. "By Jupiter! it is incredible," he gasped forth, as soon as returning breath would allow him to speak: while Ernest stood silently enjoying his surprise.
"Well, what think you? It will do, will it not? Are you still in fear of afiasco?"
"Nay! My only fear now is, that the pupil will eclipse the master, and that the more shining light of your talents will cast mine utterly into the shade. By heavens! the transformation is inimitable. Your own father would not know you."
"He would not be the only one in such an unhappy case, then."
Nothing certainly could have been more absurd than the complete metamorphosis which, in those few moments, De Lucenay had contrived to make in his appearance. With the aid of a little fresh water from the rivulet, he had managed to reduce the rich curly locks of his chesnut hair to an almost Quaker flatness; the shirt collar, which had been turned down, was now drawn up to his cheek-bones, and with his hat placed perpendicularly on the crown of his head, one arm crossed under the tails of his coat, and the other balancing his whip, its handle resting on his lips, the corners of which were drawn puritanically down, and his half-closed eyes staring vacantly on the points of his boots, he stood the living picture of an automaton.
"Well, would you not swear that I was a regularboule-dog Anglais?" exclaimed Earnest, stalking up and down for his friend's inspection, while he rounded his shoulders, and carried his chin in the air, in order to increase the resemblance.
"Excellent!—only not so muchlaisser aller; a little more stiff—more drawn up! That will do—oh, it's perfect!" And again Alphonse burst into a peal of laughter, in which De Lucenay, notwithstanding his newly-assumed gravity, could not refrain from joining.
"Let me see,—That coat fits a great deal too well, too close. We must rip out some of the wadding, just to let it make a few wrinkles; it ought to hang quite loosely, in order to be in character."
"Gently,mon cher!" interposed De Lucenay, as his friend drew out a pen-knife. "To satisfy you, I have injured the sit of my cravat, I have hidden the classic contour of my neck, I have destroyed the Antinöus-like effect of mycoiffure—those curls which were the despair of all my rivals in conquest—I have consented to look like a wretch impaled, and thus renounce all thebonnes fortunesthat awaited me during the next four-and-twenty hours; and now you venture to propose, with the coolest audacity, that I should crown all these sacrifices by utterly destroying the symmetry of my figure. No, no,mon cher! that is too much; cut yourself up as you please, but spare your friend."
"Vive Dieu!" laughed Alphonse. "It is lucky that you have absorbed such an unreasonable proportion of vanity that you have left none for me. To spare the acuteness of your feelings, I will be the victim. Here goes!" And, so saying, he ripped up the lining of his coat, and scattered a few handfuls of wadding to the winds. "Will that do?"
"Oh, capitally! I would rather you wore it than me; it has as many wrinkles as St Marceau's forehead."
"Forward, then,et vogue la galère!" exclaimed Alphonse, as DeLucenay vaulted into his saddle, and the cavaliers spurred on their horses to a rapid canter.
"Apropos!" exclaimed De Lucenay, as they approached the castle; "we ought to lay our plans, and make a proper arrangement beforehand, like honest, sociable brothers-in-arms; it would never do to stand in each other's light, and mar our mutual hopes of success by cutting each others' throats for the sake of thebella."
"Oh, as for me, you are welcome to all my interest in the Doña's heart beforehand; for I never felt less disposed to fall in love than I do at present."
"You are delightful in theory,caro mio; but as your practice might be somewhat different, suppose we make a little compact, upon fair terms, viz., that the choice is to depend on the señora herself; that whoever she distinguishes, the other is to relinquish his claims at once, and thenceforth devote all his energies to the assistance of his friend. We cannot both carry her off, you know; so it is just as well to settle all these little particulars in good time."
"Oh! as you please. I am quite willing to sign and seal any compact that will set your mind at rest; though, for my part, I declare off beforehand."
"Well, then, it is a done thing; give me your hand on it.Parole d'honneur!" said De Lucenay, stretching out his.
"Parole d'honneur," returned his friend, with a smile.
"But to return to the elopement"—
"Gad! How you fly on! There will be two words to that part of the story, I suspect. Doña Inez will probably not be quite so easily charmed as our dear littlegrisettes; and she must be consulted, I suppose; unless, indeed, you intend to carry the fort by storm; the current of your love nay not flow as smoothly as you expect."
"Oh, as for that, leave it to me. Spanish women have too good a taste, and we Frenchmen are too irresistible to leave me any fears on that score; besides, she must be devilishly difficult if neither of us suit her. You are dark, and I fair—you are pensive, and I gay—you poetic, and I witty. The deuce is in it, if she does not fall in love with either one or other!
"Add to which, the private reservation, no doubt, that if she has one atom of discernment, it is a certainvolage, giddy, young aide-de-camp that she will select."
"Why, if I had but fair play; but as my tongue will not be allowed to shine, I must leave the captivation part to myyeux doux. Who knows, though?"——
"Oh,vanitas vanitatum!" exclaimed Alphonse, with a laugh.
"I might say the same of a certain rebellious aristocrat, who lays claim to the euphonious patronymic of La Tour d'Auvergne, with a pedigree that dates from the Flood, and a string of musty ancestors who might put the patriarchs to the blush; but I am more generous;" and De Lucenay began carelessly to hum a few bars of La Carmagnole.
"Softly!" said his more prudent friend. "We are drawing near the chateau, and you might as well wear a cockadetricoloras let them hear that."
It was an antique, half-Gothic, half-Saracenic looking edifice, which they now approached. A range of light arcades, whose delicate columns, wreathed round with the most graceful foliage, seemed almost too slight to sustain the massive structure which rose above them, surrounded thepian terreno. Long tiers of pointed windows, mingled with exquisite fretwork, and one colossal balcony, with a rich crimson awning, completed the façade. Beneath theportico, numbers of servants and retainers were lounging about, enjoying thefresco. Some, stretched out at full length on the marble benches that lined the open arcades, were fast asleep; others, seatedà la Turqueupon the ground, were busily engaged in a noisy game of cards. But the largest group of all had collected round a handsome Moorish-looking Andalusian, who, leaning against the wall, was lazily rasping the chords of a guitar that was slung over his shoulder, while he sang one of those charming little Tiranas, to which heimprovisedthe usual nonsense words as he proceeded; anonthe deep mellow voices of his auditory would mingle with the "Ay de mi chaira mia! Luz de mi alma!" &c. of theritournelle, and then again the soft deep tones of the Andalusian rang alone upon the air.
As no one seemed to heed their approach, the two young men stood for a few moments in silence, listening delightedly to the music, which now melted into the softer strain of a Seguidilla, now brightened into the more brilliant measure of a Bolero. Suddenly, in the midst of it, the singer broke off, and springing on his feet as if inspired, he dashed his hands across the strings. Like an electric shock, the well-known chords of the Tragala aroused his hearers—every one crowded round the singer. The players threw down their cards, the loungers stood immovable, even the sleepers started into life; and all chorusing in enthusiastically, a burst of melody arose of which no one unacquainted with the rich and thrilling harmony peculiar to Spanish voices, can form an idea.
"Ernest," said La Tour d'Auvergne in a whisper, "we shall never conquer such a people: Napoleon himself cannot do it."
"Perhaps," replied his friend in the same tone. "They are desperately national; it will be tough work, at all events. But, come on; as the song is finished, we have some chance of making ourselves heard now." And De Lucenay spurred his horse up to the entrance. At their repeated calls for attendance, two or three servants hastened out of the vestibule and held their horses as they dismounted. They became infinitely more attentive, however, on hearing that the strangers were English officers, the bearers of dispatches to their master; and a dark Figaro-looking laquey, in whose lively roguish countenance the Frenchmen would have had no difficulty in recognising a Biscayan, even without the aid of his national and picturesque costume, offered to usher them into the presence of the Conde.
Their guide led the way through the long and lofty vestibule, which opened on a superb marble colonnade that encircled the patio or court, in the centre of which two antique and richly-sculptured fountains were casting up their glitteringjets-d'eauin the proscribed form offleurs-de-lis, to be received again in two wide porphyry basins. Traversing thepatio, they ascended a fine marble staircase, from the first flight of which branched off several suites of apartments. Taking the one to the right, the young men had full leisure to observe the splendour that surrounded them, as they slowly followed their conductor from one long line of magnificent rooms into another. Notwithstanding many modern alterations, the character of the whole building was too evidently Eastern to admit a doubt as to its Moorish origin. Every where the most precious marbles, agates, and lapis-lazuli, oriental jasper, porphyry of every variety, dazzled the eye. In the centre of many of the rooms there played a small fountain; in others there were four, one in each angle. Large divans of the richest crimson and violet brocades lined the walls, while ample curtains of the same served in lieu of doors. But what particularly struck the friends was the brilliant beauty of the arabesques that covered the ceilings, and the exquisite chiselling of the cornices, and the framework of the windows.
"The palace is beautiful, is it not?" said the Biscayan, as he perceived the admiring glances they cast around them. "It ought to be, for it was one of the summer dwellings ofil rey Moro; and thoseereticos malditoscared but little what treasures they lavished on their pleasures. It came into my master's possession as a descendant of the Cid, to whom it was given as a guerdon for his services."
"What a numerous progeny that famous hero must have had! He was a wonderful man!" exclaimed De Lucenay, with extreme gravity.
"Si, señor—un hombre maravilloso en verdad," replied the Spaniard, whom, notwithstanding his natural acuteness, the seriousness of De Lucenay's manner and countenance had prevented from discovering the irony of his words. "But now señores," he continued, as they reached a golden tissue-draped door, "we are arrived. The next room is thecomedor, where the family are at supper."
"Then, perhaps, we had betterwait a while. We would not wish to disturb them."
"Oh, by no means! The Conde would be furious if you were kept waiting an instant. The English are great favourites of his. Besides, they must have finished by this time." And raising the curtain, they entered an immense frescoed hall, which was divided in the centre by a sort of transparent partition of white marble, some fourteen or fifteen feet in height, so delicately pierced and chiseled, that it resembled lace-work much more than stone. A pointed doorway, supported by twisted columns, as elaborately carved and ornamented as the rest, opened into the upper part of the hall, which was elevated a step higher. In the centre of this, a table was superbly laid out with a service of massive gold; while the fumes of the viands was entirely overpowered by the heavy perfume of the colossalbouquetsof flowers which stood in sculptured silver and gold vases on the plateau. Around the table were seated about twenty persons, amongst whom the usual sprinkling ofsacerdoteswas not wanting. A stern, but noble-looking man sat at the upper end of the table, and seemed to do the honours to the rest of the company.
The Conde—for it was he—rose immediately on receiving the message which the young officers had sent in; while they waited its answer in the oriel window, being unwilling to break in so unceremoniously upon a party which seemed so much larger, and more formal, than any they had been prepared to meet. Their host received them most courteously as they presented their credentials—namely, a letter from the English general, Wilson, who commanded the forces stationed at the city of S——, about sixty miles distant from the chateau. As the Conde ran his glance over its contents,—in which the general informed him that within three or four days he would reach R——, when he intended to avail himself of the Conde's often proffered hospitality, till when he recommended his two aides-de-camp to his kindness,—the politeness of their welcome changed to the most friendly cordiality.
"Señores," he said, "I am most grateful to his excellency for the favour he has conferred on me, in choosing my house during his stay here. I feel proud and happy to shelter beneath my roof any of our valued and brave allies.—But you must have had a hard day's ride of it, I should think."
"Why, yes, it was a tolerable morning's work," replied De Lucenay, who felt none of Alphonse's embarrassment.
"Pablo, place seats for their excellencies," said the Conde to one of the domestics who stood around; while he motioned to thesoi-disantEnglishmen to enter the supper-room, in which the clatter of tongues and plates had sensibly diminished, ever since the commencement of the mysterious conference which had been taking place beyond its precincts. "You must be greatly in want of some refreshment, for the wretched posadas on the road cannot have offered you any thing eatable."
"They were not very tempting, certainly; however, we are pretty well used to them by this time," replied De Lucenay. "But, Señor Conde, really we are scarcely presentable in such a company," he added, as he looked down on his dust-covered boots and dress.
"What matter? You must not be so ceremonious with us; you cannot be expected to come off a journey as if you had just emerged from a lady's boudoir," answered the Conde with a smile. "Besides, these are only a few intimate friends who have assembled to celebrate my daughter's fête-day." And, so saying, he led them up to the table, and presented them to the circle as Lord Beauclerc and Sir Edward Trevor, aides-de-camp to General Wilson. "And now," he added, "I must introduce you to the lady of the castle; my daughter, Doña Inez;" and turning to a slight elegant-looking girl, who might have been about sixteen or seventeen, he said—"Mi queridita, these gentlemen have brought me the welcome news that our friend the English general will be here in three or four days at the latest; the corps will be quartered in the neighbourhood, but the general and his aides-de-camp will reside with us.Therefore, as they are likely to remain some time, we must all do our utmost to render their stay amongst us as agreeable to them as possible."
"I shall be most happy to contribute to it as far as it is in my slight power," replied Doña Inez in a low sweet voice, while she raised her large lustrous eyes to those of Alphonse, which for the last five minutes had been gazing as if transfixed upon her beautiful countenance.
Starting as if from a dream, he stammered out, "Señorita, I——I——," when fortunately De Lucenay came to his assistance, with one of those little well-turned flattering speeches for which French tact is so unrivalled; and as the company politely made room for them, they seated themselves beside her.
"Don Fernando," said the Conde to a haughty, grave-looking man, who sat next to De Lucenay, while he resumed his place at the head of the table, "you and Inez, I trust, will take care of our new friends.Pobrecitos, they must be half famished by their day's expedition, and this late hour."
But the recommendation was superfluous; every one vied with his neighbour in attending to the two strangers, who, on their part, were much more intent on contemplating the fair mistress of the mansion, than on doing honour to the profusion offriandisesthat were piled before them.
Doña Inez was indeed beautiful, beyond the usual measure of female loveliness: imagination could not enhance, nor description give an idea of the charm that fascinated all those who gazed upon her: features cast in the most classic mould—a complexion that looked as if no southern sun had ever smiled on it. But the eyes!—the large, dark, liquid orbs, whose glance would now seem almost dazzling in its excessive brightness, and now melted into all the softness of Oriental languor, as the long, gloomy Circassian lashes drooped over them! As Alphonse looked upon her, he could have almost fancied himself transported to Mohammed's paradise, and taken the Spanish maiden for a houri; but that there was a soul in those magnificent eyes—a nobleness in the white and lofty brow—a dignity in the calm and pensive calmness, which spoke of higher and better things.
But if her appearance enchanted him, her manners were not less winning; unembarrassed and unaffected, her graceful and natural ease in a few moments contrived to make them feel as much at home as another would have done in as many hours. Much to the young Frenchmen's regret, however, they were not long allowed to enjoy theirapartéin quiet; for a thin sallow-looking priest, whom Doña Inez had already designated to them as thePadre Confessor, interrupted them in a few minutes, and the conversation became general.
"It is a great satisfaction to us all to see you here, señores," he said. "First, as it procures us the pleasure of becoming personally acquainted with our good friends and allies the English; and, secondly, as a guarantee that we are not likely to have our sight polluted by any of those sacrilegious demons the French, while you are amongst us."
"Gracias a Dios!" energetically rejoined thecappellan—a fat, rosy, good-humoured looking old man, the very antipodes of his grimconfrère. "The saints preserve me from ever setting eyes on them again! You must know, señores, that some six weeks ago I had gone to collect some small sums due to the convent, and was returning quietly home with a lay brother, when I had the misfortune to fall in with a troop of those sons of Belial, whom I thought at least a hundred miles off. Would you believe it, señores! without any respect for my religious habit, the impious dogs laid violent hands on me; laughed in my face when I told them I was almoner to the holy community of Sancta Maria de los Dolores; and vowing that they were sure that my frock was well lined, actually forced me to strip to the skin, in order to despoil me of the treasure of the Church! Luckily, however the Holy Virgin had inspired me to hide it in the mule's saddle-girths, and so, the zechins escaped their greedy fangs. But I had enough of the fright; it laid me up for a week. Misericordia! what a set of cut-throat, hideous-looking ruffians! I thought Ishould never come alive out of their hands!"
"Jesus!" exclaimed a handsome bronzed-looking Castilian, whom De Lucenay had heard addressed as Doña Encarnacion de Almoceres; "are they really so wicked and so frightful?"
"Without doubt; true demons incarnate," replied the veracious priest.
"Come, come,reverendissimo padre; you are too hard upon the poor devils: I have seen a good-looking fellow amongst them, now and then."
"Bondad sua, señor, I'll be sworn there is not one fit to tie the latchet of your shoe in the whole army."
"Yet how strange, then," recommenced Doña Encarnacion, "the infatuation they excite! I am told that it is inconceivable the numbers of young girls, from sixteen and upwards, who have abandoned their homes and families to follow these brigands. Their want of mature years and understanding," she continued, with a significant glance at Doña Inez—her indignation having been gradually aroused as she perceived the admiration lavished on her by the strangers, and the indifference with which they viewed her riper charms,—"may be one reason; but if the French are so unattractive, such madness is inexplicable."
"Arts, unholy arts all!" cried the Confessor. "Their damnable practices are the cause of it. They rob the damsels of their senses, with their infernal potions and elixirs. The wretches are in league with the devil."
"Assuredly," replied Don Fernando, gravely, "you must be right. No woman in her senses would condescend to look at those insignificant triflers, while a singlecaballeroof the true old type is to be found on Spanish soil;" and he drew himself still more stiffly up.
"The Holy Virgin defend me from their snares!" fervently ejaculated a thin wrinkled old woman, who until then might easily have been mistaken for a mummy, casting her eye up to heaven, and crossing herself with the utmost devotion.
A suppressed laugh spread its contagious influence all round the table.
"Doña Estefania, have no fear; you possess an infallible preservative," exclaimed the cappellan.
"And what may that be?" responded the antiquated fair, somewhat sharply.
"Your piety and virtue, señora," rejoined the merrycappellano, with a roguish smile, which was not lost on the rest of the company, though it evidently escaped the obtuser perceptions of Doña Estefania; for drawing her mantilla gracefully around her, and composing her parched visage into a look of modesty, she answered in a softened tone, while she waved herabanicotimidly before her face, "Ah,Padre Anselmo!you are too partial; you flatter me!"
This was too much for the risible faculties of the audience; even the grim Don Fernando's imperturbable mustache relaxed into a smile; while to avert the burst of laughter which seemed on the point of exploding on all sides, Doña Inez interrupted——
"But, señora, I should hope there is much falsehood and exaggeration in the reports you allude to. I trust there are few, if any, Spanish maidens capable of so forgetting what is due to themselves and to their country."
"Nevertheless, the contrary is the case," replied Doña Encarnacion, with asperity.
"Oh! no no—it cannot be! I will not believe it; it is calumnious—it is impossible! What being, with one drop of Spanish blood within their veins, would be so debased as to follow the invaders of their country, the destroyers, the despoilers of their own land?" Doña Inez, led away by her own enthusiasm, coloured deeply, while Doña Encarnacion seemed on the point of making an angry retort, when the count gave the signal to rise. The rest followed his example, and the Conde led the young Frenchmen to a window, where he conversed a little with them, asked many questions about the forces, about the general who was to be their inmate, &c.—to all which De Lucenay's ready wit and inimitablesang froidfurnished him with suitable and unhesitating replies. The Conde then concluded with the information, that as there was to be rather a larger tertulia than usual that evening, perhaps they would wish to make some alterationin their dress before the company arrived.
The officers gladly availed themselves of the permission, and followed the maggior-domo up a massive flight of stairs, into a handsome suite of three or four rooms, assigned entirely to their use. After having promenaded them through the whole extent of their new domicile, the maggior-domo retired, leaving them to the attendance of their former guide, Pedro, who was deputed to serve them in the capacity ofvalet-de-chambre.
The young men were astonished at the magnificence of all that met their eyes: walls covered with the finest tapestry; ewers and goblets of chased and solid silver; even to the quilts and canopies of the bed, stiff with gold embroidery. But they were too much absorbed by the charms of the Conde's daughter, and too anxious to return to the centre of attraction, to waste much time in admiring the splendour of their quarters.
"How beautiful Doña Inez is!" said De Lucenay, as, in spite of all prudential considerations, he tried to force his glossy locks to resume a less sober fashion. "She must have many admirers, I should think?"
"By the dozen," answered the Spaniard. "She is the pearl of Andalusia; there is not a noblecaballeroin the whole province that would not sell his soul to obtain a smile from her."
"And who are the favoured ones at present?"
"Oh, she favours none; she is too proud to cast a look on any of them: yet there are four hidalgos on the ranks at present, not one of whom the haughtiest lady in Spain need disdain. Don Alvar de Mendoce, especially, is a cavalier whose birth and wealth would entitle him to any thing short of royalty; not to speak of the handsomest face, the finest figure, and the sweetest voice for a serenade, of any within his most Catholic Majesty's dominions."
"And is it possible that the Doña can be obdurate to such irresistible attractions?"
Pedro shrugged his shoulders. "Why, she has not absolutely refused him, for the Conde favours his suit; but she vows she will not grant him a thought till he has won his spurs, and proved his patriotism, by sending at least a dozen of those French dogs to their father Satanasso."
"A capital way to rid one's-self of a bore!" exclaimed De Lucenay, while he cast a last glance at the glass. "So you are ready, milor," he added, turning to his friend, who, notwithstanding his indifference, had spent quite as much time in adonising himself. And, Pedro preceding them, the young men gaily descended the stairs.
On entering thesalon, they found several groups already assembled. Doña Inez was standing speaking to two or three ladies; while several cavaliers hovered round them, apparently delighted at every word that fell from her lips. She disengaged herself from her circle, however, on perceiving them, and gradually approached the window to which they had retreated.
"What a lovely evening!" she exclaimed, stepping out upon the balcony, on which the moon shone full, casting a flood of soft mellow light on the sculptured façade of the old castle, tipping its forest of tapering pinnacles and the towering summits of the dark cypresses with silver. "You do not see such starlit skies in England, I believe?"
"I have enjoyed many a delightful night in my own country, señora, and in others, but such a night as this, never—not even in Spain!" answered Alphonse, fixing his expressive eyes on her with a meaning not to be mistaken.
"What a pity it is that we cannot import a few of these soft moonlights to our own chilly clime, for the benefit of all lovers, past, present, and future!" said De Lucenay gaily. "It is so much pleasanter to make love in a serenade, with the shadow of some kind projecting buttress to hide one's blushes, a pathetic sonnet to express one's feelings infinitely more eloquently than one can in prose, moonlight and a guitar to cast a shade of romance over the whole, and a moat or river in view to terrify the lady into reason, if necessary—instead of making a formal declaration in the broad daylight, looking rather morebêtethan one has ever looked before, with the uncharitable sun giving a deeper glow to one'salready crimson countenance. Or, worse still, if one is compelled to torture one's-self for an hour or two over unluckybillet-doux, destined to divert the lady and all her confidants for the next six months. Oh!evviva, the Spanish mode—nothing like it, to my taste, in the world!"
"Misericordia!" exclaimed Doña Inez with a laugh, "you are quite eloquent on the subject, señor. But I should hope, for their sakes, that your delineation of lovers in England is not a very faithful one."
"To the life, on my honour."
"Probably they do not devote quite as much time to it as ourcaballeros, who are quite adepts in the science."
"Don Alvar de Mendoce, for example," muttered Alphonse, between his teeth.
"What! where?" cried the young girl, in an agitated tone; "who mentioned Don Alvar? Did you? But no—impossible!" she added hurriedly.
"I?" exclaimed Alphonse, with an air of surprise—"I did not speak. But,pardon, señora! is not the cavalier you have just named, your brother?"
"No, señor—I have no brother: thatcaballero, he is only a——a friend of my father's," she answered confusedly.
"Oh! excuse me," said Alphonse, with the most innocent air imaginable; "I thought you had."
There was a moment's pause, and Doña Inez returned into the saloon, which was now beginning rapidly to fill.
"I am afraid I must leave you, señores; the dancing is about to commence," she said, "and I must go and speak to some young friends of mine who have just come in. But first let me induce you to select some partners."
"I did not know it was customary to dance at tertulias," observed Ernest.
"Not in general, but to-night it is augmented into a little ball, in honour of its being mydia de cumpleaños. But come, look round the room, and choose for yourselves. Whom shall I take you up to?"
"May I not have the pleasure of dancing with Doña Inez herself?" said De Lucenay.
"Ah no! I would not inflict sotristea partner on you: I must find you a more lively companion." And as if to prevent the compliment that was hovering on Ernest's lips, she hurried on, while she pointed out a group that was seated near the door. "There! what do you think of Doña Juana de Zayas? the liveliest, prettiest, and most remorseless coquette of all Andalusia; for whose bright eyes more hearts and heads have been broken than I could enumerate, or you would have patience to listen to."
"What! that sparkling-looking brunette, who flutters herabanicowith such inimitable grace?"
"The same."
"Oh! present me by all means."
"And you, señor," said Doña Inez, returning with more interest to Alphonse, who had stood silently leaning against a column, while she walked his friend across the room, and seated him beside Doña Juana, "will you be satisfied with Doña Mercedes, who is almost as much admired as her sister; or shall we look further?"
"But you, so formed to shine—to eclipse all others—do you never dance, señorita?"
"Seldom or ever," she replied sadly. "I have no spirit for enjoyment now!"
"But wherefore? Can there be a cloud to dim the happiness of one so bright—so beautiful?" he answered, lowering his voice almost to a whisper.
"Alas!" she said, touched by the tone of interest with which he had spoken,—"is there not cause enough for sadness in the misfortunes of my beloved country; each day, each hour producing some fresh calamity? Who can be gay when we see our native land ravaged, our friends driven from their homes; when we know not how soon we may be banished from our own?"
"Deeply—sincerely do I sympathise with, and honour your feelings; but yet, for once, banish care, and let us enjoy the present hour like the rest."
"Indeed, I should prove a baddanseuse; it is so long since I have danced, that I am afraid I have almost forgotten how."
"But as I fear nothing except ill success, let me entreat."
"No, no—I will provide you with a better partner."
"Nay, if Doña Inez will not favour me, I renounce dancing, not only for to-night, but for ever."
"Oh! well then, to save you from such a melancholy sacrifice, I suppose I must consent," replied Doña Inez with a laugh: and as the music now gave the signal to commence, she accepted his proffered arm; and in a few moments she was whirling round the circle as swiftly as the gayest of the throng. The first turn of the waltz sufficed to convince Alphonse that his fears on one score, at least, were groundless; for he had never met with a lighter or more admirablevalseuse—a pleasure that none but a good waltzer can appreciate, and which, notwithstanding all her other attractions, was not lost upon the young Frenchman; and before the termination of the waltz, he had decided that Doña Inez was assuredly the most fascinating, as she was undoubtedly the most beautiful, being he had ever beheld.
"Santa Virgen!" exclaimed De Lucenay's lively partner, after a moment's silence, which both had very profitably employed; he, in admiring her pretty countenance, and she in watching the somewhat earnest conversation that was kept up between the French officer and Doña Inez, as they reposed themselves on a divan after the fatigues of the waltz. "It seems to me that our proud Inesilla and your friend are very well satisfied with each other. I wonder if Don Alvar would be as well pleased, if he saw them.Grandios!there he is, I declare!"
Instinctively De Lucenay's eyes followed the direction of hers, and lighted on a tall striking-looking cavalier, whose handsome features were contracted into a dark frown, while he stood silently observing the couple, the pre-occupation of whom had evidently hitherto prevented their perceiving him. "Do,per caridad!go and tell your friend to be a little more on his guard, or we shall certainly have a duel: Don Alvar is the first swordsman in Spain, jealous as a tiger, and he makes it a rule to cripple, or kill, every rival who attempts to approach Doña Inez. Your friend is such a good waltzer, that I should really be sorry to see him disabled, at least till I am tired of dancing with him."
"Your frankness is adorable."
"Why, to be sure,—of what use are you men except as partners? unless, indeed, you are making love to us; and then, I admit, you are of a little more value for the time being."
"The portrait is flattering."
"Assuredly; you are only too fortunate in being permitted to worship us."
"In the present instance, believe me, I fully appreciate the happiness."
"Bravo, bravissimo!I see you were made for me; I hate people who take as much time to fall in love as if they were blind."
"I always reflect with my eyes."
"Ah! that is the true way; but come," rattled on the merry Juanita, "go and give your friend a hint, and I will employ the interim in smoothing the ruffled plumes of an admirer of mine, who has been scowling at me this last half hour, and whose flame is rather too fresh to put an extinguisher on just yet."
"A rival!" exclaimed Ernest in a tragic tone; "he or I must cease to exist."
"Oh! don't be so valiant," cried Doña Juana, leaning back in a violent fit of laughter. "You would have to extinguish twenty of them at that rate."
"Twenty is a large number," said Ernest reflectingly.