He required more—she must leave his son altogether—for good.
She said, “Never, never!” And with pardonable selfishness she cried, “that dying, as she was, having but a few years of life left she had built upon these few years for peace and love near the man who had reclaimed her. To leave him, it would kill her.”
“No, no my child, not kill you. Let us be calm and do not let us exaggerate. You take for a mortal disease that which is but the fatigue of a weary life; you will not die before that age when we are all prepared to die, I hope. I may seem severe, but consider that you have known my son but for three months, and I will believe that you love him; but shall your love supplant ours? Shall your love destroy a whole future, for in staying near my son, you do destroyhisfuture. And again, are you sure this love will last? Are you sure of yourself? And if now, a little later, you should dethrone him. And, pardon me—your past justifies the supposition. Again, canhebe sure of himself? Can you both, at your ages, be sure of yourselves—of your hearts. Consider this—he who loves you so now, but a little time gone by poured out his wealth of love on us at home. Hearts will change—does not a man love his wife more than he loves his parents? Then his children more than his wife? If nature gives prodigally, she extorts rigorously. I say, you may be deceiving yourselves, both of you. This is a probability. Now will you see realities—certainties, for you are listening to me, are you not?”
She answered him but with a look; a long, terrible, miserable look.
“You are willing to sacrifice all to my son, and what equal sacrifice can he offer to you? He shall bask in your best years, and later on, when he is sated—and satiety will come—what shall happen? If he be worldly, he will spread your past before you and leave you, saying, he does but as others have done. And if he be an honest man, he will marry you, or at least not desert you. And this marriage, or this life, not based on virtue, nor supported by religion, this life, pardonable, perhaps, in a young man, how shall it be named, when age is creeping on? For this man, for my son, what ambition dare he breathe, what path is open to him? What consolation shall this son then be to me—to me, who have watched and tended him for twenty years? Your love for each other—it is a passion, the most earthly and wholly human, it is born of the caprice of one, and the imagination of the other. Your love is a result, not a cause. What shall remain of it when you are both grown old and weary? Who assures you that the first wrinkle on your forehead shall not sweep the veil from his eyes? Who assures you his love shall not pass away with your youth.”
“Oh, the truth, the truth?”
“Then yours would be double age, doubly desolate, and doubly useless. What retrospect would you have, what happiness to look back upon? Ah, Marguerite, there are cruel necessities in this life, against which we must fight, if we would not be dashed to death against them. You and my son have different roads in life; chance has thrown you together for a little while, but reason must separate you. In the life you have entered, you saw not the end, and to your three months’ happiness no more can be added. Keep the remembrance of this time, and let it strengthen you always. I speak harshly, but consider that I plead where I might command. It is a man of the world who speaks to you, a father who implores you. So, Marguerite, courage, and show you love my son truly, by leaving him to the care of those who have a family claim upon his obedience.”
“So—she who falls shall never rise.” (She was speaking lowly to herself.) “Heaven may pardon me, the world never. And truly, what right have I to a place in thishonest family? I love! What reason! And what proofs can I give of this love? Who would believe them? What, poor girl—thou to speak of heart, and future—these are new words to thee. Look back on thy past, what man would call thee wife? What child would call thee mother?”
Then turning to her visitor, she said: “Nearly all you have said I have half asked myself—oh, how often, but never, never wholly. You are right, you speak kindly, and you are very merciful. Ah well, I will obey you, and one day you will say to the pure honest girl, your daughter—once there lived a poor erring woman who had but one hope in the world, and at the invocation ofthyname, this erring woman renounced that hope, laid her hands heavily upon her breast, and so died; for I shall die, I shall die. You say, ‘poor creature,’ you pity me, sir, and methinks you even weep. Ah well, I tell you I will obey you; command me.”
“Tell him that you love him no more.”
“He would not believe me.”
“Leave this place.”
“He would follow me. You hesitate? Sir, lay your hand upon my head as you would upon your daughter’s head. And now I promise you that in eight days he shall be with you, unhappy perhaps, but wholly cured, and I promise you that he shall know nothing of this visit; oh, fear nothing, he shallHATEme.”
Yet a little and the father was leaving the room. “And,” she murmured, “when all is ended, and I am dead, I pray you tell him how I loved, and proved my love. Good bye; we shall, perhaps, never see each other more. I pray you may be happy.”
Left to herself, she sat down, miserably, and wrote a letter which was to destroy his love for her. But it was still unfinished when he arrived. She hid the paper, and trembled.
After a time she walked quickly from the room, saying she should soon return.
And she was gone to return no more.
He waited as the night came on. Then, growing unaccountably frightened, called for lights. No one answered. Running from the room to the grounds, he shrieked out her name. No answer. He ran over the house; it was deserted. She and her servants had left the place, and it was silent, and lifeless.
And still, hoping against hope, he wandered about the house in search of his lost love.
Backinto the dreadful life she had left. Away from the placid lake and whispering trees. Again feasting, and heartlessness, and golden misery. Armand soon learnt that she had abandoned him for another. He cursed her very name; but she was wrong in thinking he would hate her; wrong in thinking he would hasten to the home where he was born. He came to Paris, and waited angrily for revenge.
Marguerite’s new protector was a man immensely fond of pleasure, and in spite of her protestations, would drag her from theatre to ball room, and from house to house.
She suffered horribly. Her old complaint burst out anew, her cough came back again, and she was once more a poor ailing creature, whose great beauty grew each day less and less.
One night, a month after her flight, the poor woman, quite against her will, was present at a ball given by one of the reigning belles of wicked Paris.
Entering the room, she shrank back, for there sat Armand. He had not visited many of these gay places since she had left him, and his entrance here had created some surprise amongst the guests. Many looked to see how the old lovers would meet. As she entered he looked up from a card table. She smiled timidly; he bowed to her coldly. She told her companion that she would rather not remain; but he also, marking her old lover, said he would not be laughed at, and insisted upon her keeping in the room. She obeyed, and sat timidly down.
Armand played high, and some one remarking it, he said he was trying the force of the old proverb, “Unlucky in love, lucky at cards.” “Oh, I mean to make a fortune to-night, then spend it in the country. And not alone; with some one who has lived in the country as well as I have—perhaps when I am rich.”
Marguerite’s companion hearing the player’s menace, went up to the table, and commenced playing. He lost, and every time he lost, the other gained.
Soon afterwards, supper was called, and all the company made for the table where it was laid, all except Marguerite, who remained seated, depressed both in body and mind.
She had scarcely been alone a minute, before Armand came running to her. He loved her as fervently as ever. As she perceived his ardor, she felt almost tempted to tell him the whole truth of her flight, but the promise to his father stayed her. At last, he prayed her to fly with him again, saying he would forget the past. But no, she refused. Again and again he implored, yet she was obdurate.
Then he grew enraged—mad; he rushed to the supper room, screamed to them to see him do an act of justice; and, as they came streaming out and round about, he took from his pocket all his winnings, and cried, “You see that woman! well, do you know what she has done for me? She sold her horses and her carriages, and her diamonds, that she might live with me—so much did she love me. Was not that noble? And I—what did I do? I, a mean wretch, accepted the sacrifice, and gave no payment. But ’tis not too late, and I would repair my shame. See you all, I pay this Marguerite, and I owe her naught.”
As he spoke, he flung a heap of bank notes and gold at the feet of this miserable woman, who fell heavily back upon a sofa, mercifully deprived of sense. Down they rained upon her, the notes and gold; down they fell crushing her as surely as though they had been jagged rocks.
Conquered, weak, and dying, she lay upon her bed in the joyous carnival time. While all Paris was gay and merry, she was drawing her last breath.
Misery, degradation, desertion, and consumption, had done their worst; they had destroyed her, but not wholly killed her beauty. Far, far from the brilliant creature who had ruled over so many but a short time before, she was yet beautiful as she lay upon her bed, awake, and heavily breathing through the dark hours of the night.
Now and then she would fall into a feverish sleep, but only to start back into wakefulness, as a bevy of masques returned home from their revels, singing as they went. What a contrast! the poor dying creature lying there, and below in the streets the heedless revellers, shouting their noisy songs, and dancing madly through the otherwise deserted streets.
She knew that she had not many days to live, and yet she had one glorious hope, possessing which she looked back upon her blank despair with horror.
It was three months since the catastrophe at the ball. Her protector and Armand had met and fought, and the former been slightly wounded. This was the joy: he knew the whole truth or would know it. His father had promised that when she died he should know all. But alas! after the duel he had left Paris, and no one knew where he had hidden himself. To think that he might know that her very love had bidden her leave him, and that he himself was now the only cause of his ignorance. Yet there was plenty of time, plenty of time; and before she died she should surely see him.
Many of her companions and friends had forgotten her by this time. But when her waiting woman came in that morning, she had half-a-dozen new year’s presents for the patient;—so she was not forgotten altogether.
The faithful doctor soon came, he who had so patiently tended her, without fee or reward.
Asking her how she was, she replied that she was better and worse, worse in body, better in mind. The night before, she said, she felt so surely that she was dying that she sent for a priest. She welcomed him heartily, she added smiling. How beautiful was religion, the minister came to talk with her for an hour, and then leaving, he carried away with him despair, terror, remorse. Then she said she fell asleep quite peacefully. The doctor promised her health on the very first day in spring.
Smiling again, she said it was his duty to say so; an untruth surely was not a sin in a doctor, for he must speak one for every patient he saw.
For indeed she was much worse that day.
Moreover, want was tormenting her last hours. Her creditors were again exacting, and almost every hour brought one of them to the door. Indeed, the new year’s presents, jewels for the most part, were ordered to be sold almost as soon as seen.
Left alone, she took from the bosom of her dress a letter. It was one written by M. Duval, saying that his son would soon be with her to entreat his pardon, and the writer’s own. It bade her be careful of her health, and said that her courage promised a happy future. For six weeks had she read this letter daily—for six weeks of days she had watched for his return, and still she watched—sickening with despair one moment only to glow with hope the next. If she could only have a letter from him, if she could only live till the spring—why then? She got slowly up from the soft chair to which she had been led, and eagerly searched her wan face in a looking-glass. “How changed I am! yet the doctor has promised to cure me. Oh! I must have patience. And yet, did he not tell my waiting woman, Nannie, did I not hear him say I was much worse? Yet, onlymuch worse; there is, then, still some hope, still a few short months to live, and if in that time he comes to me, I shall be saved—I shall be saved. This is now new year’s day, then surely I may hope. And—and, besides, if I were really in danger, they all of them, the doctor, Nannie, my old friends, could not come laughing to my bedside as they do, nor would the doctor leave me.” Here she slowly wandered to the window and looked from it. “Ah! what joy isthere not in a family, how beautiful now is that child playing with his toys—ah, I could die loving that little one.”
Suddenly her maid ran quickly into the room, her face full of joy. “Madame! madame!”
“Well! well!”
“You are strong to-day—you feel quite strong.”
“Yes, but why?”
“Pray be calm.”
“Yes, yes, but why?”
“I would prepare you—a sudden joy is so heavy to bear.”
“A joy? A joy forme? You have seen him—he—he is coming!”
With weak, rapid steps she staggered to the door, and called to him. Then he stood before her, pale and trembling. She fell upon his neck, and clung to him as though he were life. “No, no, it is not thee; not so much clemency can be shown to such as I am.”
“’Tis I, Marguerite, and so repentant, and ashamed, so guilty, that I dared not to pass the threshold. I was afraid to enter; so I waited till Nannie came to the door, and then I spoke to her. My father has told me all. I fled, no one knew where, after that night; travelled night and day, without sleep, without hope, ever pursued by vague presentiments. If I had not found thee, I must have died, for should I not have been the cause of thy death? Tell me that you pardon me, that you forgive, too, my poor father.”
“Ipardon?I, the guilty one? And I did what I thought the best for thy happiness, even at the expense of my own. But now, thy father will not separate us again. Ah! look at me, I am not the creature that you left, yet—yet, I am still young, and I shall grow beautiful now that I am happy. We will forget the past and commence a new life from this good day.”
“Never to leave thee again—never. We will quit the house. Quit Paris for ever. We will be happy, for our future is our own.”
“Speak on, speak on, my soul burns at thy words, and each moment I gather new strength. I said this morning thou couldst save me, and I was right.”
Then she said they must go together, and kneel in the nearest church, and pray, and be grateful; and as she spoke she staggered to her feet again, and called to her maid to bring her a shawl and bonnet.
As the girl came forward, the youth had a good word for her.
“Oh,” continued the suffering woman, “Nannie and I talked of thee every day, and she always said thou wouldst come back, and she was right. So thou hast seen beautiful countries since that time. Ah! well, now we will see them together.”
“Marguerite, thou hast turned quite pale, and thou art so cold!”
“Oh, nothing, ’tis nothing,” she said, hurriedly, and nervously drawing a thick shawl about her. “The coming in of so much joy; why joy sometimes is as hard to bear as grief itself.”
And then she dropped exhausted upon the nearest chair.
“Dear Marguerite! speak, speak to me.”
“Be not afraid, you know I was always subject to these sudden fits of weakness, but they are gone almost directly. Watch me, thou seest I can smile already. And again I feel strong. ’Twas only the hope of life thrilling through me.”
Taking her thin hand he said, “how thou tremblest.”
“No, no. Iwillgo out. Nannie, give me a bonnet.”
He drew away from her for a moment in horror.
She again strove to stand, but could not. Then falling upon a seat, she tore off the shawl and cried “I am dying, I am dying.”
As he flung himself down by her side, the serving girl ran from the room, and sped away, crying out that she would go for the doctor.
“Yes, yes, bring him to me, tell him Armand is here—that I want to live—that IWILLlive. Why, if thy return doth not save me, nothing can!”
“Oh, thou wilt live, dearest.”
“Sit down beside me, close to me, my husband, and hear me.” She spoke very quietly, very faintly. “But a moment since I raged against death. I am sorry for myfault. It is right that I should die, and I love death now that it has spared me to see thee once again. Ah, if my death had not been sure, thy father would never have bade thee come to me.”
“Marguerite, speak not of death. I shall go mad. Say no more that you will die, say rather that you desire to live.”
“Ah, what is my will? If I were a good girl, if I were honest, perhaps I should weep to leave the world, and leaveyoubehind, for then the future would be full of hope; my past life would then let me hope. Dying, thou wilt hold me in gentle remembrance; living, there would ever be a gloom upon our love. Believe me, all is for the best; what is done, is well done.”
In an agony of grief he clung about her.
“What then it isIwho must givetheecourage! Gently obey me. Open that little drawer, you will find there my portrait, when they told me I was pretty. Keep it, for it will help thee to remember me. But if some day, there cometh a kindly honest girl who will love and marry thee, as it should be, as I hope it may be, and if she should find this portrait, tell her it is the likeness of a friend who, if she may reach the obscurest corner of heaven, will pray for her happiness. If though she is jealous of the past (as we women are sometimes), if she demands from you this poor picture, place it in her hand, without fear or remorse—it will be but justice. And now I pardon thee the act, for a loving woman suffers so much when her love is not returned. Thou hast heard me. Dying—dying—yet happy. Tell them to talk about me sometimes—and they will—will they not? and—and—give me your hand. Oh, it is not hard to die when one dies happily. But what is this?”
She stood up for a moment, smiling gloriously; then she continued, “Why I suffer no more. All pain has left me. Has a new life been breathed into me? I feel as I have never felt. Am I to live—am I to live?”
Then she gently sat down again, leant back in her chair, and, sighing softly, became silent.
“She is sleeping,” said Armand to himself, his hand still pressed in hers. “Marguerite, Marguerite.”
Still her hand was clasped in his.
“Marguerite—Marguerite!” Still she slept.
He uttered a loud cry, and started to his feet. But his hand still remained clasped in hers.
“Marguerite,” he again cried, and with a terrible energy, he tore his hand from her grasp. Her own fell placidly to her side.
He flung himself down at her feet.
“Dead—dead—dead.”
Don Pasqualewas an old bachelor, and as wealthy as he was old. He was saving, credulous, and obstinate. But for all that Don Pasquale was the best-hearted of dons.
Now he had a nephew, whose name was Ernesto. This youth had been continually either falling from the heights of his uncle’s approbation, or to the depths of his displeasure, only to be raised again the next day. But at last Ernesto forfeited the don’s approbation altogether, for he fell in love with Norina, of whom the don had no good opinion, though, in truth, he had never seen her. In the first place, according to the don, she was flighty; in the second place, she was impatient; in the third place, she was fiery; and the old bachelor had a horror of fiery women.
So when his nephew showed a disposition to speak in praise of his lady love, the don grew so obstinate and ill-tempered, that his friend, Doctor Malatesta, no longer recognized him as the old bachelor companion: Doctor Malatesta had known the bachelor don for more years than he would like to name, and known the nephew as long as the don himself, so he was like one of the family. It may also be stated that the doctor was a practical joker.
There is but a fourth party to this little tale—though she cannot be called one of the family—we mean Norina, a young widow, a delightful widow, perhaps impatient, as the don had declared, nay, perhaps even fiery, but for all that she was affectionate and sincere, and amazingly fond of Ernesto.
Well, it may be said at once, that the nephew persisted in adoring Norina; the old don then marked out a line of conduct, the effect of which was, that he sat in his breakfast parlor one fine morning, impatiently waiting forhis friend Malatesta, and snappishly looking at the clock. Being old and a leetle deaf, he took the first sound he heard to be the doctor’s step—’twas only the wind; then he thought of the “pill” he had prepared for his obstinate nephew, moreover his insulting nephew, for that relation had gone so far as to indecently call him a donkey—callhim, Don Pasquale—a donkey.
In the midst of his silent anger, the doctor arrived, a pleasant middle-aged gentleman, with a jolly, pleasant face.
“Well, well,” said the don.
“Well, indeed,” said the doctor.
“What, you have found—”
“Yes, indeed.”
The don embraced his friend in the Italian manner, and thereupon did not see the laugh that spread over the doctor’s merry countenance.
“Now for her portrait,” said the don; “I am all attention.”
“She is as beautiful as an angel who has missed her way, and wandered to earth; she is as fresh as a newly-blown lily, and her eyes are like darts that pierce the very heart—and whether you shall most admire the blackness of her hair, or the beauty of her smile, who shall say?”
“Blessed is the man who is blessed with such a wife.”
“And her modesty, and her grace, and her charity!”
“Yes, yes, doctor; and her family!”
“Such a family!”
“And her name—”
“Her name is Malatesta.”
“What! is she related to you?”
“A little; she’s my sister.”
“Oh, dear brother! when shall I see her?”
“To-morrow.”
“’Tis an age! this very instant!”
“Ah!” said the doctor, “I can deny naught to a friend.”
Again the don embraced the doctor.
This second embrace was not so long as the first. The don ejected his friend from his arms, and said rapidly, “Go, go, go.”
Left to himself, it may be remarked the old don danced with glee. If you have not seen a gingerly old gentleman in such a situation, you have lost a sight. He was in the midst of this practice, when his nephew, Ernesto came running into the room.
“Good morning, nephew! You may sit down.”
“Surely, surely, uncle!”
“Don’t be afraid.”
“Surely, surely, uncle!”
“I am not going to scold you. Tell me, did I not, precisely two months ago, offer you the hand of a lady, as rich as beautiful, and as noble as both?”
“Surely, surely, uncle!”
“And did I not promise to give you all I had?”
“At your death—surely, surely.”
“And did I not say if you refused, I would marry her myself?”
“That is, marry somebody else—surely, surely.”
“Well, you did refuse; now, I offer you this young lady again—will you marry her?”
“Surely, surely—NO.”
“No!”
“No.”
“You homeless fellow, you!”
“You turn me out, uncle?”
“Yes, I do, to make room for your aunt.”
“You marry?”
“Surely, surely, nephew; I myself, the Don Pasquale, in very flesh and bone.”
“You take my breath away!”
“Yes, I myself, the Don Pasquale, sane and sound, I marry.”
“’Tis a comedy!”
“Is it? Till to-morrow; wait till to-morrow.”
“Sir, I will.”
“Yes, but not here, in Don Pasquale’s house.”
The youth here grew very disconsolate, for indeed he was thinking if his uncle cut him off with that proverbial shilling, he would have to resign the promised hand of somebody whom he had no objection to marry whatever.
Meanwhile the don was watching him attentively, and half hoping that the youth would consent.
Said Ernesto, after the dismal pause, “Uncle, just two words.”
“Three—young man.”
“Don’t be rash—consult Doctor Malatesta.”
“Sir—I have consulted him.”
“And what is his advice?”
“He is aswilling for the match as I. Oh, you may look astonished—as willing for the match as I. In fact, nephew—between ourselves—SHE IS HIS SISTER!”
“The doctor’s?”
“Well, hesaidso.”
Poor Ernesto. The doctor had always been his best friend, and when the crashing announcement came, he thought Doctor Malatesta would be his man-at-arms, and now it seemed he had gone over to the enemy. And he looked even more dismal than before, for now, not only had his old love drifted away from him, but his old friend too.
The don saw these dismal marks of misery with dolorous satisfaction—the satisfaction arose out of his pride—and the dolor was buried in his heart. But for all that he showed his nephew to the door, though it should be said to his honor, that he did not dance when he was alone again.
Norina, the young widow who had caused all that commotion at the don’s domicile, wasnotso rich as she was beautiful. If she had been, she would have been besieged with lovers; but she was rich enough to have a home of her own, and she was sitting in it reading on that very morning when the don directed his young nephew’s shoes to the street door.
The doctor had told her he should want her for a certain plot, though he had carefully only raised her curiosity without confiding particulars, and she had taken up the book to divert herself till the doctor, by appointment, should be there.
The book was a romantic old love tale, and she had got as far as, “Her looks were so heavenly, so delightful, that the Knight Richard, enraptured, fell at her feet, and vowed eternal fidelity,” when she flung it down, exclaiming to herself, that she did not want the heavenly lady’s instructions in the art of love-making. She well knew the power of glance in time and place, the effect of a smile, a tear, silence, a word; in fact, this vivacious little widow believed herself a coquette, though in reality, there was not a more earnest little woman in the whole world, when it was a question ofherlove for Ernesto. Shedidlove him. She would plague him by flirting with third parties; but she could always turn his anger into smiles. Well, she was thinking of Ernesto, when a letter came to her in the handwriting of that youth. Ah! how all the bright looks went out of the face a moment after, and the letter was opened. She read it through, and was reading it again, when the doctor, without waiting for any ceremony, ran in and up to the little lady—for she was little.
“Good news,” he cried, “strategem—”
“Not a word of it, doctor,” and she thrust the letter into his hands.
He read: “‘My dear Norina, I write to you with a broken heart.’ (The poor young man) ‘Don Pasquale, advised by that scoundrel’ (that’s me, beyond a doubt, poor young man), ‘by that false, double-faced Doctor Malatesta’ (as I thought) ‘will marry a sister of his, and he turnsmeout of doors. And so love tells me I must run away from you. Therefore, good bye, good bye. May you be happy, ’tis the dearest wish of Ernesto.’ How glad you must be to receive this letter.”
“Glad, doctor!” she exclaimed, in tears.
“Why, next time you see him, he’ll be more loving than ever.”
“When will that be—perhaps, perhaps, he’sgone!”
“And perhaps not. He shall know our plans at once.”
“Ourplans, what are they?”
“You know to punish his nephew, the don would marry!”
“Isthatour plan, doctor?”
“Well, well, seeing him determined, I seconded him!”
“Oh!”
“To serve you, and Ernesto—I have spoken to the don of my sister. You shall pass for her. You appear before him, he falls in love with you!”
“Well!”
“Then he marries you!”
“Oh!”
“Don’t scream. He marries you, and yet he does not. My nephew Charles shall personate a notary. Then, married, I leave the rest to you, ’tis your business to drive him mad, as of course you know. Then, then we will do with him as we please.
“Ah, ah, ah, ah!” (no more tears now, unless from laughter,) “ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, oh! Oh, how I’ll teaze him—how I’ll worry him—how he shall repent—ah, ah, ah.”
“Oh but not at first!”
“Oh,dearno! shall I be merry, or downcast, or reserved?”
“No, not at all.”
“Shall I weep, or cry?”
“No, you must appear a simple country lass.”
“And Iwill. See how do I manage? oh, thank you, thank you—no, that is—but I’d rather not—you’re very, very humble servant, sir. Ah, ah, ah!”
“Brava, that will do.”
“And I must hold my head down, like a goose!”
“And your lips pursed up.”
“Like an old maid. Oh! sir, I am ashamed. I’drathernot—your humble servant, sir! Ah, ah, ah!”
“Come, let us go.”
“Yes, oh, I shall die of laughing before we get there. Sir, your most obedient—ah, ah, ah, ah, ah!”
Don Pasqualegot himself up in such style for the reception of his bride that his own servants did not know him. In fact he hardly knew himself, and felt rather taller. But he was not comfortable, and indeed as hegave his servants orders to admit none but the doctor and the person who might be with him, he blushed rather red, which last word is superfluous, for no don in the world could blush blue! Well, the servants departed; he danced again, and then growing tired he was fatigued with waiting.
Soon they arrived. The doctor pushing his “sister” forward with angry jerks. As for her, with her veil down over her meek face, she was uttering cries of fright and mild opposition.
“Courage, courage, sister.”
“Oh, dear me—that is—I can’t—please, brother, do not leave me.”
Here the don danced up to the young lady, adjusting his necktie gracefully round his neck.
“Something like a giggle was heard, but the next moment a voice from under the veil said,
“Oh, dear, dear, dear, I can’t—that is, I’d rather go away. Please, brother, don’t—don’tleave me.”
“Do not be afraid.”
“Oh, I’d rather stand behind.” And behind she went.
The doctor went up to the don apologetically, saying that the poor girl was but just fresh from the convent. In fact, he said, she was naturally of a wild disposition, and it was for the don to tame her.
“Oh, brother, brother, come here.”
“Just one moment, sister—”
“Suppose some one should come in, I should faint.” Here the young and bashful widow covered her mouth with her hand, and laughed.
Said the don to himself, keeping away from the lady, whose face had not yet turned towards him, “If her face is equal to her voice, Don Pasquale, you lucky man you, you have waited for something.”
“Brother, brother, I don’t like to be left alone.”
“My dear, you are not alone, I am here, and here is Don Pasquale.”
“Oh! oh! a man!—oh my goodness! a man,—oh take me away—a man! oh I never!” Here there was another laugh.
Here the don congratulated himself more than ever.
And here, also, the Doctor said to himself, “Poor old fellow.”
Then he added, “Don’t be afraid, sister, this is the noble Don Pasquale.”
“Oh indeed!”
Don Pasquale made as low a bow as a stout old gentleman could. The timid young lady made him a sweeping curtesy.
“Thank you, sir—your most obedient. Oh, oh.” Here the don was taking her hand.
“Oh loving hand,” muttered the old don.
And while he pranced off after three chairs, there was another laugh, suppressed, from under the veil.
Each chair the doctor set down with a puff and a bang, and at last he sat himself down in the center one.
“What do you think of her?” (in a low voice to the don.)
“What indeed! But that veil?” (in a lower voice to the doctor.)
“Oh! she would not dare to speak to a man, unveiled. Talk to her a little; see if your dispositions agree. Then we will question the veil.”
“Hum—hum—(courage, don, courage)—Am delighted—have the honor—your brother—Dr. Malatesta—pray did you speak?”
Here she got up and made him another curtesy. “Oh—sir your most obedient—sir.”
“I was going to say, no doubt you like company of an evening.”
“Ohdearno. We never do at the convent. We always go to bed.”
“Ah, but yousometimes went to the theatre?”
“Oh!—dear,—what—is—that? I’m sure—I neverwishedto go there.”
“Delightful,” thought the old don, and added, “And pray, now, how did you pass your time?”
“Oh, sir, in sewing, and knitting, and embroidering, and sometimes I played with the pretty little cats.”
“Ah, ah.” (doctor.)
“Dear me, doctor, pray be still; ’tis rude to laugh, even at one’s sister. But doctor, that veil!”
“Dear sister, remove thy veil.”
“Oh! no, I couldn’t—before a man.”
“But I bid you.”
“Oh yes—oh yes, brother—I obey.”
The don rose in honor of this act, but no sooner did he see the dove-like face, than he fell upon his seat again with a crash.
“Pray, Don Pasquale, what’s the matter?”
“Can’t tell, doctor. But it seemed to go right through me—speak for me, doctor. Tell her how I love her.”
“Courage, old friend. She does not seem indisposed towards thee. Now tell me, sister—this gentleman—do you like him?”
After casting a glance at the don who was admiring his own legs, she said. “—I—I—I think I do.”
“She consents, don; she is yours!”
“Oh bliss; oh joy; oh delight, oh!”
Here came another of those mysterious laughs.
Said then the don in a loud voice (when he had recovered it,) “A notary.”
“Ah, don, a notary is not like a glass of wine, ever at hand; but anticipating this joyful moment, I have brought a notary with us.”
“Quick, quick, quick,” said the don.
“Yes, yes, yes,” replied the doctor, and running; but he returned immediately, with the false notary, Nephew Charles.
Solemnly this functionary walked to a table, sat down a mass of black folds, and severely took up a pen.
Then said the doctor pompously, and dictating to the grave notary, “On the one part, et cetera, et cetera, Sophronia Malatesta, residing et cetera, et cetera, and the rest of it. And on the other part, Don Pasquale, et cetera, et cetera, residing at et cetera, et cetera, and also all the rest of it.”
The notary, writing hurriedly, soon completed the work.
“Very good!” said the proud don, “and then continue—which above-named gentleman (I mean myself,) from this hour, makes over one half his goods and property, by a deed of gift made before his death, to his most beloved wife.”
This was also written in a hurry.
“Bless you! bless you!” said the doctor.
“Bl-l-less you, sir, your obedient,” chimed in the lady.
The notary gravely held out the pen for signatures. Thereupon the don seized it, and speedily signed his name.
“Oh, dear sir, I’d rather not; no, don’t brother.”
For the doctor was again pushing her forward. The modest woman didn’t like to sign, and again her face was buried in her handkerchief.
“Where are the witnesses?” said the grave notary.
And at this moment, the voice of a gentleman named Ernesto was heard at high words with the obdurate footman. The face of the lady thereupon grew very grave, and indeed she dropped her pen.
“Back, back!” shouted Ernesto, without the room.
And the lady was forced to confess to herself, that she now really began to tremble.
And so also did the doctor tremble, for Ernesto had not been informed of these plans, and he might in consequences spoil all.
At this moment there was a rush at the door, the next moment it was flung open, and in the doorway stood the young nephew.
“Sir,” said this latter, “I came to take my leave of you, and I am debarred your presence as though I were a robber.”
“We were busy, young man,verybusy when you came to the door; however, now you are here, stop; sign—witness. Let the bride advance.”
Tableau.
The “young man” was about explaining, when he felt his coat pulled. Then the doctor said quite solemnly, “This is Sophronia—my sister.”
“So—who?”
“So that you be quiet—never mind who,” said the doctor, lowly. “For your own sake, be still—be dumb: excuse him, don—the poor youth, I will explain all to him.” And as the old don bowed in his own absurd fashion, the doctor led the youth on one side, and thus admonished him: “Now, if you wish to be your own enemyand Norina’s, go on; but if you are not your own enemy and Norina’s, don’t.”
“Just so—but—”
“Yes—exactly—don’t, as I said before; come and sign the contract.”
Which, with great doubt still, the jealous lover did.
Said the stern notary, rising from his chair, “You are man and wife.”
The writerwouldrespectfully have it understood thatheis in no way responsible for this astounding free and easy marriage; far be it from him so to dispose of brides. But he opines that ’tis a way they have in Spain.
Upon that notarial announcement, the don was faint with joy, and the next moment he was nearly faint with surprise.
For hardly was the contract completed, hardly had the astounding notarial intimation been given, than the bride throws aside her veil, and with it her meek look. Let it not, however, he said she assumed a bold look—say rather, an easy, cool, pleasant countenance.
The don advanced towards the lady to give her a marital embrace, but she gently pushed him back. “Softly pray; calm your ardor; you should first entreat permission.”
“And I do!”—
“And I donotpermit.”
The don fell plump upon his chair, and looked unmeaningly after the notary, who was quietly withdrawing.
“Ah, ah, oh,” said the youth Ernesto, as he saw the blank expression on his uncle’s face.
“Sir Nephew, how dare you laugh. Quit this house. Begone!”
“Begone, don, fie!” said the new wife contemptuously. “What rudeness! Pray remain, sir.” Then turning rapidly to the don, she said, “I must teach you better manners.”
“Doctor Malatesta!” said the astounded don.
“Don Pasquale!” said the doctor in the same tone.
“This is quite another woman, doctor.”
“I am turned to stone, don.”
“What does she mean?”
“By your leave, I’ll ask her.” And the doctor luckily turned away, for his red face was quivering.
As for the lady Norina, she marched with dignity up to and against the don, and thus terribly spoke. “You are too old, too stout, too slow, to take charge of a young wife through the streets; this young cavalier shall be myBEAU!”
“Oh, dearNO.”
“And pray who will prevent it?”
“Iwill.”
“You said—”
“Iwill.”
“Indeed.” (Here she tenderly approached him, and stroked his friendly old grey head.) “Dear husband; now forget those horrid words ‘I will,’ or at least leave them with me, with me alone, for the wifeshouldbe obeyed.”
“But—but!”
“But us no buts, dear man. Be still, I say. What, are you one of those men who will not be led by kindness? what, would you dare!”
Here there was a dull rap distinctly heard, it was a knock on the don’s expostulating knuckles.
“Am I awake?” asked the don of himself. “What has happened? blows I think! Pray what shall come next?”
In fact, the don looked as though petrified—dreaming—struck by lightning, as though he were anybody but himself.
“Courage, don, courage,” said the doctor.
“Courage, oh dear,” said Don Pasquale, the married man sinking lower and lower in his chair.
Suddenly the new lady of the house flew at the bell, and rang it till the room seemed made of bells. As a servant entered, she cast the implement at him.
“Let all the servants come directly, rascal.”
“Oh, heavens!” sighed Don Pasquale.
Two servants and the steward came running in a moment after at a tremendous pace.
“Three!Threebeggarly servants. Three. As for you, steward. Bow lower, sir, bow lower” (stamp of thefoot); “listen to these my orders. Turn those cubs away at once. Get new servants, good looking young men that will do us credit; two dozen will do.”
“Oh, heaven!” exclaimed Don Pasquale.
“Steward,” (another stamp of the foot) “how dare you turn away. Let there be two new carriages this very evening inMYstables; as forMYnew horses, I leave the choice to you. And as for these apartments, they are frightful, they shall be rebuilt. And as for this horrid furniture, it shall be burnt.”
“Oh, heaven! have you done ma’m?”
“No, man. Steward (greater stamp of the foot than ever,) how dare you not keep your eyes on me? Let everything, everywhere, always be in the first style, so that people may respect us. Begone, fool!”
“And pray now ma’m,” suggested the don, “who pays?”
“And pray now sir, who should know better than you?”
“Oh, heaven! Pray am I master, or am I not?”
“You are not—master, where I am! Zounds!” She flings over a chair.
“Sister, sister,” said the doctor, but the sister did not even look at him. She flew at the don as well as she could, seeing she was a wingless angel; and arrived within a quarter of an inch of his head, bade him, in the most impassioned language, depart.
“Tell me, some one,haveI married her?”
“Ah, you poor man you,” said the new wife; with a sneer.
Here the don went off into a roaring, yelping, yelling rage, tearing his own clothes, dilapidating his own walls with his own head, and damaging his personal appearance with nobody’s hands but his own.
“Oh, brother, brother,” shrieked the doctor, dashing after the don, who was taking a tour of destruction all round the drawing-room to the north, while his lady was doing precisely the same thing to the south.
“Oh, will anybody tell me,” asked the don—“am I mad?”
Well, Norina in her rage worked round to where Ernesto was standing—and then she was wearing her ownnatural bright face, and reaching that youth she uttered this little speech. “Ah! well—Ernesto”—To which the youth answered—“Ah! dear Norina.”
So it may be supposed that both were gratified.
The next moment she had recommenced her sail round the room: but by this time the doctor had run up to the don and deftly turned him away from this affectionate little duet of soft words.
“My goodness, don, what a pulse—eighty, ninety, one hundred and twenty, twenty-five—Don Pasquale you must straightway go toBED!”
Thedon’s pulse was moderate by a late hour the next day; and having obtained the permission of the doctor, who had sedately watched all night by the bed, to go down stairs, the poor gentleman crept down as though he had never danced in all his life.
And what a sight when he reached that drawing-room of his! To the right, dresses; to the left, dresses; in front, band-boxes; behind, the same; lace, bobbins, furs, scarfs, shoes, gloves and—bills! a large number, all in a nice little heap in the centre of the table. He sat down in the middle of all this invasion, and stared about him as though he was anybody else in a strange place, rather than Don Pasquale.
He was still sitting staring about when a hairdresser passed quickly through the room. The next moment a lady’s maid appeared at the door. “Good gracious,” said she, “ain’t my lady a scolding—do be quick with the diaments!”
“Please, miss,” said a second servant to the lady’s maid, “here’s the milliner.”
“Then let the milliner come quick.”
The milliner rushed past the don, so to speak, smothered in boxes.
At the door she was met by another waiting-woman, dashing off to the carriage with a cloak, a bouquet, and ascent-bottle. All these paraphernalia were handed to a footman, and then back the woman came, and crashed up against the fourth body menial—“me lady’s fan! me lady’s gloves! me lady’s veil!”
The second footman without the door fell upon, and bore away these things.
“Me lady’s carriage!”
“Storms and——” something else said Don Pasquale, and with an effort fell upon the pile of bills. “To dressmaker, 100 dollars—oh! dear me! To coach-maker, six hundred—worse and worse. Twice as much to the jeweller. To horses—horses! I wish they’d carry all to——,” again the don used a highly improper atom of speech.
Then the don in an awful whisper said, “Here she is!”
In she came, like several ladies of state, and dressed as surely never pupil at a convent had ever been dressed before. She did not see him as she passed on, not she; but he stopped her—rather hoped he would excuse her, and faintly desired to know whither she was going.
She loudly desired to be informed what that was to him—she was going out!
Again he faintly and in a slightly sarcastical tone observed that a husbandmighttake the liberty of objecting.
“A husbandmighttake the liberty, and it certainlywasa liberty; and indeed, a husbandmightevenobject, but that was no reason why the wife shouldobey. It was the duty of such a man to see, and hold his tongue; indeed, common sense would tell him to hold his tongue; for, she would ask him, was he listened to when hedidspeak?”
“Take care, take care.”
“It were wise, don, to take care of yourself.”
“Go to your room, ma’am.”
“You were best in yours. Go to bed, and to sleep. We will talk about this to-morrow.”
“You shall not pass.”
“Ah! you fill up the door. Indeed—don.”
“Yes.”
“Pray, now move.”
“I will not.”
“Ah!”
What is it makes fire flash in the old eyes of the new husband? Was it a humiliating box on the ear—the right ear? Yes—yes.
She came out from the door-way.
Meanwhile the young Norina asked herself if she were not going too far.
“Then I may go now?”
“Yes, go where you like. Go anywhere, so that you don’t come back.”
“I shall then see you to-morrow—hem!”
“You will find my doors closed.”
“Bah! be not a tyrant, poor grandfather. Sleep well, and when the morning comes, I will call you.”
And she sailed out grandly.
“Divorce, divorce!” he shrieked out as the lady left him—“divorce! if this is wedlock—what’s that?”
Thatwas a paper which Norina had dropped on going out.
He picked it up, after some effort. “Another horrid bill, I find one in every corner—eh! what! ah!”—(here he read.) “‘Between nine and ten I shall be at that part of the garden which looks to the north; for greater precaution try to let me in through the secret door. I shall warn you by singing. Adieu.’ I shall go mad, I, Don Pasquale—I shall go mad. Malatesta, send for Malatesta. Here, some one—anyone—ALL—go fetch Doctor Malatesta. All—I say—all.” And out he tumbled from the room.
Then came the servant’s parliament. “Up and down. Up and down. Did you ever? First a bell this way—then a bell that way. Who could bear it? Did you ever, now? Horrid. Not a moment’s peace. A good house—yes, a good house. But still, whyshemade a piece of work when her breakfast went up, and when her dinner went up, too. Then therewasa disturbance when she went out.Heflies into a passion,sheflies into a worse passion than ever, and then they fought! Lor! Oh yes! She hit him. You don’t say so!”
When footsteps were heard approaching, the house adjourned.
It was the doctor and Ernesto, still plotting. Ernestowas to appear at the secret door, and he was to take great care that the don should not recognize him. Here the heavy step of that luckless gentleman was heard coming towards the room, so that Ernesto fled like guilt.
The don came in paler, and colder, and more dejected than ever.
“Don Pasquale!”
“A living corpse, brother.”
“The matter—what is the matter?”
“I wish,” said the gentleman to himself, “I wish I had rather given a thousand Norinas to Ernesto.”
“A good thing to know,” thought the doctor, as the don thus spoke. Then aloud, “But pray explain yourself.”
“Half my income spent in ribbons; but that is nothing.”
“Dear me—go on.”
“To the theatre shewillgo—but also that is nothing.”
“Dear me—proceed.”
“My ears she boxes with a will—thatis nothing.”
“Indeed—indeed.”
“But just look here. I think that’s something, surely.”
Here he handed the horrid letter to the doctor, whose horror was unapproachable when he had read it minutely.
“Stone, don, I’m stone.”
“So am I. Revenge! revenge!”
“Surely don. Revenge! revenge!”
“And I have the means. Sit down.”
“The means.”
“To the garden on tip toe—you and I—we softly go—on and on behind each tree—fearing one of them should see—then upon them straight we fall—and loudly for assistance call. Then to prison off they go—and thus am I avenged you know. And now doctor if you can—please devise a better plan.”
“Very good; but,” said the doctor, “he had a better plan, which he would divulge only on one condition, namely, that the don should agree to all he should propose.”
The don was too fallen to oppose, so, with this arrangement, away they trundled towards the garden.
Inthe garden, where the last scene of the don’s married life was to take place, and in the moonlight, tripped Norina—a young widow again—to the secret garden gate. Click, click went the lock, and the next moment Ernesto was at her little feet, vowing in the warmest manner that he loved her.
Barely had he got through a dozen protestations when there was the flashing of a few rays from a dark lantern all up and down the garden walks, and there was the cranching of the don’s heavy legs in the gravel, followed by the lighter walk of the intriguing doctor.
The doctor quite cleverly showed the little lantern rays as he slid behind from tree to tree, and as he did not see Ernesto glide away to the house.
All of a sudden, and with a terrific lunge, he dashed before Norina, and started open the dark little lantern full in her face.
“Thieves! thieves!”
“Hush, ma’am, where is he?”
“Who, the thief—thieves! thieves!”
“No, ma’am, he—who was whispering in your ear.”
“Sir, how dare you. There was no one here.”
Whereon the don shot the dark lantern all round and about, like clock-work.
“Sir, I say again, howDAREyou, there was no one here.”
“Pray what were you doing at this dark spot, at this hour of midnight?”
“Enjoying the cool air and the moonlight.”
“Begone ma’am—out of my house, ma’am.”
“Sir, what tone is this?”
“I say, begone ma’am.”
“A pretty tale; this house is mine, and in it I’ll remain.”
“Ten thousand bombs, you won’t.”
“Ten thousand bombs I will.”
“Don Pasquale, Don Pasquale,” said the doctor, “pray leave it all to me. Sister, I would spare you.”
“Would you, sir, indeed.”
“To-morrow, a new bride will be brought to this house.”
“Howdareyou, sir, indeed.”
Don Pasquale paid great attention to the dialogue.
“And pray whose bride?”
“Ernesto’s, Norina. That contemptible, coquettish, arrant widow!”
Don Pasquale felt some satisfaction, and cried out, “Bravo, doctor.”
“That odious woman, here in spite of me. Norina and I under the same roof. Never, I’ll leave the house first.”
“DO.”
“But stop, stop, brother. Perhaps this is a trick. I must be sure of it.”
The doctor went up to the don and said, “Then Don Pasquale, you must let them marry, or she’llnevergo.”
“Never?Will she when theyaremarried?”
“Here—house! who is there? Why, as I’m a doctor, ’tis Ernesto.”
“Well, well.”
“I, Doctor Malatesta, speaking for Don Pasquale, grant you the hand of Norina, and an income of four thousand dollars a year.”
“Dear uncle, is this true?”
“Dear nephew, yes it is.”
“AndI(stamp of the foot) oppose it.”
“AndI(don, shaking his head) do not. Go and fetch her, some one; go and fetch her straight.”
Said the doctor. “No one need go far, for she, Norina’s here.”
“What—what—what—what—what!”
Here Norina made a full curtsey.
“Then where’s Sophronia!”
“I’d not be sure, dear don, she should be in her convent.”
“And the marriage, doctor.”
“A glimpse, dear don, of what your futuremighthave been.”
“Dear—dear—dear—dear—dear! Thank heaven. Still—”
“Come don, be generous.”
Need it be said where the two “young people” were at this particular moment—of course, at the don’s stout feet.
The don blessed them in the usual manner, and the young people rose, happy.