"I know not," said the writer, in a happier style than perhaps might have been expected, "how to prevail upon your goodness to pardon all I am going to say, knowing that nothing short of the circumstances in which I am placed, could excuse my approaching you even in thought. I have long known you, though you have known me only for a few short hours. I have watched you often from childhood up to womanhood, and there has been growing upon me from very early years a strong attachment, a deep affection, a powerful—overpowering—ardent love, which nothing can ever extinguish. Need I tell you that the last few days would have increased that love had increase been possible.
"All this, however, I know is no justification of my venturing to raise my thoughts to you—still less of my venturing to express these feelings boldly; but it has been an excuse to myself, and in some degree to others, for abstaining hitherto from that which my best interests,a mother's fame, and my own rights, required. The time has now come when I can no longer remain silent; when I must throw upon you the responsibility of an important choice; when I am forced to tell you how deeply, how devotedly, I love you, in order that you may say whether you will take the only means of saving me from the most painful task I ever undertook, by conferring on me the greatest blessing that woman ever gave to man; or, on the other hand, will drive me to a task repugnant to all my feelings, but just, necessary, inevitable, in case of your refusal. Let me explain, however, that I am your cousin—the son of your father's elder brother by a private marriage with a peasant girl of this county. The whole case is perfectly clear, and I have proof positive of the marriage in my hands. From fear of a lawsuit, and from the pressure of great poverty, my mother was induced to sacrifice her rights after her husband's early death, still to conceal her marriage, to bear even sneers and shame, and to live upon a pittance allowed to her by her husband's father, and secured to her by him after his own death, when she was entitled to honor, and birth, and distinction by the law of the land.
"One of her objects, doubtless, was to secure to herself and her son a moderate competence, as the late Sir John Hastings, my grandfather and yours, had the power of leaving all his estates to any one he pleased, the entail having ended with himself. For this she sacrificed her rights, her name, her fame, and you will find, if you look into your grandfather's will, that he took especial care that no infraction of the contract between him and her father should give cause for the assertion of her rights. Two or three mysterious clauses in that will will show you at once, if you read them, that the whole tale I tell you is correct, and that Sir John Hastings, on the one hand, paid largely, and on the other threatened sternly, in order to conceal the marriage of his eldest son, and transmit the title to the second. But my mother could not bar me of my rights: she could endure unmerited shame for pecuniary advantages, if she pleased; but she could not entail shame upon me; and were it in the power of any one to deprive me of that which Sir John Hastings left me, or to shut me out from the succession to his whole estates, to which—from the fear of disclosing his great secret—he did not put any bar in his will that would have been at once an acknowledgment of my legitimacy, I would still sacrifice all, and stand alone, friendless and portionless in the world, rather than leave my mother's fame and my own birth unvindicated. This is one of the strongest desires, the most overpowering impulses of my heart; and neither you nor any one could expect me to resist it. But there is yet a stronger still—not an impulse, but a passion, and to that every thing must yield. It is love; and whatever may be the difference which you see between yourself and me, however inferior I may feel myself to you in all those qualities which I myself the most admire, still, I feel myself justified in placing the case clearly before you—in telling you how truly, how sincerely, how ardently I love you, and in asking you whether you will deign to favor my suit even now as I stand, to save me the pain and grief of contending with the father of her I love, the anguish of stripping him of the property he so well uses, and of the rank which he adorns; or will leave me to establish my rights, to take my just name and station, and then, when no longer appearing humble and unknown, to plead my cause with no less humility than I do at present.
"That I shall do so then, as now, rest assured—that I would do so if the rank and station to which I have a right were a principality, do not doubt; but I would fain, if it were possible, avoid inflicting any pain upon your father. I know not how he may bear the loss of station and of fortune—I know not what effect the struggles of a court of law, and inevitable defeat may produce. Only acquainted with him by general repute, I cannot tell what may be the effect of mortification and the loss of all he has hitherto enjoyed. He has the reputation of a good, a just, and a wise man, somewhat vehement in feeling, somewhat proud of his position. You must judge him, rather than I; but, I beseech you, consider him in this matter.
"At any time, and at all times, my love will be the same—nothing can change me—nothing can alter or affect the deep love I bear you. When casting from me the cloud which had hung upon my birth, when assuming the rank and taking possession of the property that is my own, I shall still love you as devotedly as ever—still as earnestly seek your hand. But oh! how I long to avoid all the pangs, the mischances, the anxieties to every one, the ill feeling, the contention, the animosity, which must ever follow such a struggle as that between your father and myself—oh, how I long to owe every thing to you, even the station, even the property, even the fair name that is my own by right! Nay, more, far more, to owe you guidance and direction—to owe you support and instruction—to owe you all that may improve, and purify, and elevate me.
"Oh, Emily, dear cousin, let me be your debtor in all things. You who first gave me the thought of rising above fate, and making myself worthy of the high fortunes which I have long known awaited me, perfect your work, redeem me for ever from all that is unworthy, save me from bitter regrets, and your father from disappointment, sorrow, and poverty, and render me all that I long to be.
"Yours, and forever,"John Hastings."
"Yours, and forever,
"John Hastings."
Very well done, Mrs. Hazleton!—but somewhat too well done. There was a difference, a difference so striking, so unaccountable, between the style of this letter, both in thought and composition, and the ordinary style and mannersof John Ayliffe, that it could not fail to strike the eyes of Emily. For a moment she felt a little confused—not undecided. There was no hesitation, no doubt, as to her own conduct. For an instant it crossed her mind that this young man had deeper, finer feelings in his nature than appeared upon the surface—that his manner might be more in fault than his nature. But there were things in the letter itself which she did not like—that, without any labored analysis or deep-searching criticism, brought to her mind the conviction that the words, the arguments, the inducements employed were those of art rather than of feeling—that the mingling of threats towards her father, however veiled, with professions of love towards herself, was in itself ungenerous—that the objects and the means were not so high-toned as the professions—that there was something sordid, base, ignoble in the whole proceeding. It required no careful thought to arrive at such a conclusion—no second reading—and her mind was made up at once.
The deep reverie into which she had fallen in the morning had done her good—it had disentangled thought, and left the heart and judgment clear. The fair, natural scene she had passed through since, the intercourse with God's works, had done her still more good—refreshed, and strengthened, and elevated the spirit; and after a very brief pause she drew the table towards her, sat down, and wrote. As she did write, she thought of her father, and she believed from her heart that the words she used were those which he would wish her to employ. They were to the following effect:
"Sir: Your letter, as you may suppose, has occasioned me great pain, and the more so, as I am compelled to say, not only that I cannot return your affection now, but can hold out no hope to you of ever returning it. I am obliged to speak decidedly, as I should consider myself most base if I could for one moment trifle with feelings such as those which you express.
"In regard to your claims upon my father's estates, and to the rank which he believes himself to hold by just right, I can form no judgment; and could have wished that they had never been mentioned to me before they had been made known to him.
"I never in my life knew my father do an unjust or ungenerous thing, and I am quite sure that if convinced another had a just title to all that he possesses on earth, he would strip himself of it as readily as he would of a soiled garment. My father would disdain to hold for an hour the rightful property of another. You have therefore only to lay your reasons before him, and you may be sure that they will have just consideration and yourself full justice. I trust that you will do so soon, as to give the first intelligence of such claims would be too painful a task for
"Your faithful servant,"Emily Hastings."
"Your faithful servant,
"Emily Hastings."
She read her letter over twice, and was satisfied with it. Sealing it carefully, she gave it to her own maid for despatch, and then paused for a moment, giving way to some temporary curiosity as to who could have aided in the composition of the letter she had received, for John Ayliffe's alone she could not and would not believe it to be. She cast such thoughts from her very speedily, however, and, strange to say, her heart seemed lightened now that the moment of trial had come and gone, now that a turning-point in her fate seemed to have passed.
Mrs. Hazleton was surprised to see her re-enter the drawing-room with a look of relief. She saw that the matter was decided, but she was too wise to conclude that it was decided according to her wishes.
Marlow reasoned with his own heart. For the first time in his life it had proved rebellious. It would have its own way. It would give no account of its conduct,—why it had beat so, why it had thrilled so, why it had experienced so many changes of feeling when he saw John Ayliffe sitting beside Emily Hastings, and when Emily Hastings had risen with so joyous a smile to greet him—it would not explain at all. And now he argued the point with it systematically, with a determination to get to the bottom of the matter one way or another. He asked it, as if it had been a separate individual, if it was in love with Emily Hastings. The question was too direct, and the heart said it "rather thought not."
Was it quite sure? he asked again. The heart was silent, and seemed to be considering. Was it jealous? he inquired. "Oh dear no, not in the least."
Then why did it go on in such a strange, capricious, unaccountable way, when a good-looking, vulgar young man was seen sitting beside Emily?
The heart said it "could not tell; that it was its nature to do so."
Marlow was not to be put off. He was determined to know more, and he argued, "If it be your nature to do so, you of course do the same when you see other young men sitting by other young women." The heart was puzzled, and did not reply; and then Marlow begged a definite answer to this question. "If you were to hear to-morrow that Emily Hastings is going to be married to this youth, or to any other man, young or old, what would you do then?"
"Break!" said the heart, and Marlow asked no more questions. Knowing how dangerous it is to enter into such interrogations on horseback, when the pulse is accelerated and the nervous system all in a flutter, he had waited till he got into his own dwelling, and seated himself in his chair, that he might deal with the rebellious spirit in his breast stately, and calmly likewise; but as he came to the endof the conversation, he rose up, resolving to order a fresh horse, and ride instantly away, to confer with Sir Philip Hastings. In so doing he looked round the room. It was not very well or very fully furnished. The last proprietor before Mrs. Hazleton had not been very fond of books, and had never thought of a library. When Marlow brought his own books down he had ordered some cases to be made by a country carpenter, which fitted but did not much ornament the room. They gave it a raw, desolate aspect, and made him, by a natural projection of thought, think ill of the accommodation of the whole house, as soon as he began to entertain the idea of Emily Hastings ever becoming its mistress. Then he went on to ask himself, "What have I to offer for the treasure of her hand? What have I to offer but the hand of a very simple, undistinguished country gentleman—quite, quite unworthy of her? What have I to offer Sir Philip Hastings as an alliance worthy of even his consideration?—A good, unstained name; but no rank, and a fortune not above mediocrity. Marry! a fitting match for the heiress of the Hastings and Marshall families."
He gazed around him, and his heart fell.
A little boy, with a pair of wings on his shoulders, and the end of a bow peeping up near his neck, stood close behind Marlow, and whispered in his ear, "Never mind all that—only try."
And Marlow resolved he would try; but yet he hesitated how to do so. Should he go himself to Sir Philip? But he feared a rebuff. Should he write? No, that was cowardly. Should he tell his love to Emily first, and strive to win her affections, ere he breathed to her father? No, that would be dishonest, if he had a doubt of her father's consent. At length he made up his mind to go in person to Sir Philip, but the discussion and the consideration had been so long that it was too late to ride over that night, and the journey was put off till the following day. That day, as early as possible, he set out. He called it as early as possible, and it was early for a visit; but the moment one fears a rebuff from any lady one grows marvellously punctilious. When his horse was brought round he began to fancy that he should be too soon for Sir Philip, and he had the horse walked up and down for half an hour.
What would he have given for that half hour, when, on reaching Sir Philip's door, he found that Emily's father had gone out, and was not expected back till late in the day. Angry with himself, and a good deal disappointed, he returned to his home, which, somehow, looked far less cheerful than usual. He could take no pleasure in his books, or in his pictures, and even thought was unpleasant to him, for under the influence of expectation it became but a calculation of chances, for which he had but scanty data. One thing, indeed, he learned from the passing of that evening, which was, that home and home happiness was lost to him henceforth without Emily Hastings.
The following day saw him early in the saddle, and riding away as if some beast of the chase were before him. Indeed, man's love, when it is worth any thing, has always smack of the hunter in it. He cared not for highlands or bypaths—hedges and ditches offered small impediments. Straight across the country he went, till he approached the end of his journey; but then he suddenly pulled in his rein, and began to ask himself if he was a madman. He was passing over the Marshall property at the time, the inheritance of Emily's mother, and the thought of all that she was heir to cooled his ardor with doubt and apprehension. He would have given one half of all that he possessed that she had been a peasant-girl, that he might have lived with her upon the other.
Then he began to think of all that he should say to Sir Philip Hastings, and how he should say it; and he felt very uneasy in his mind. Then he was angry with himself for his own sensations, and tried philosophy and scolded his own heart. But philosophy and scolding had no effect; and then cantering easily through the park, he stopped at the gate of the house and dismounted.
Sir Philip was in this time; and Marlow was ushered into the little room where he sat in the morning, with the library hard by, that he might have his books at hand. But Sir Philip was not reading now; on the contrary, he was in a fit of thought; and, if one might judge by the contraction of his brow, and the drawing down of the corners of his lips, it was not a very pleasant one.
Marlow fancied that he had come at an inauspicious moment, and the first words of Sir Philip, though kind and friendly, were not at all harmonious with the feeling of love in his young visitor's heart.
"Welcome, my young friend," he said, looking up. "I have been thinking this morning over the laws and habits of different nations, ancient and modern; and would fain satisfy myself if I am right in the conclusion that we, in this land, leave too little free action to individual judgment. No man, we say, must take law in his own hands; yet how often do we break this rule—how often are we compelled to break it. If you, with a gun in your hand, saw a man at fifty or sixty paces about to murder a child or a woman, without any means of stopping the blow except by using your weapon, what would you do?"
"Shoot him on the spot," replied Marlow at once, and then added, "if I were quite certain of his intention."
"Of course—of course," replied Sir Philip. "And yet, my good friend, if you did so without witnesses—supposing the child too young to testify, or the woman sleeping at whom the blow was aimed—you would be hung for your just, wise, charitable act."
"Perhaps so," said Marlow, abruptly; "but I would do it, nevertheless."
"Right, right," replied Sir Philip, rising and shaking his hand; "right, and like yourself! There are cases when, with a clear consciousness of the rectitude of our purpose, and a strong confidence in the justice of our judgment, we must step over all human laws, be the result to ourselves what it may. Do you remember a man—one Cutter—to whom you taught a severe lesson on the very first day I had the pleasure of knowing you? I should have been undoubtedly justified, morally, and perhaps even legally also, in sending my sword through his body, when he attacked me that day. Had I done so I should have saved a valuable human life, spared the world the spectacle of a great crime, and preserved an excellent husband and father to his wife and children. That very man has murdered the game-keeper of the Earl of Selby; and being called to the spot yesterday, I had to commit him for that crime, upon evidence which left not a doubt of his guilt. I spared him when he assaulted me from a weak and unworthy feeling of compassion, although I knew the man's character, and dimly foresaw his career. I have regretted it since; but never so much as yesterday. This, of course, is no parallel case to that which I just now proposed; but the one led my mind to the other."
"Did the wretched man admit his guilt?" asked Marlow.
"He did not, and could not deny it," answered Sir Philip; "during the examination he maintained a hard, sullen silence; and only said, when I ordered his committal, that I ought not to be so hard upon him for that offence, as it was the best service he could have done me; for that he had silenced a man whose word could strip me of all I possessed."
"What could he mean?" asked Marlow, eagerly.
"Nay, I know not," replied Sir Philip, in an indifferent tone; "crushed vipers often turn to bite. The man he killed was the son of the former sexton here—an honest, good creature too, for whom I obtained his place; his murderer a reckless villain, on whose word there is no dependence. Let us give no thought to it. He has held some such language before; but it never produced a fear that my property would be lost, or even diminished. We do not hold our fee simples on the tenure of a rogue's good pleasure—why do you smile?"
"For what will seem at first sight a strange, unnatural reason for a friend to give, Sir Philip," replied Marlow, determined not to lose the opportunity; "for your own sake and for your country's, I am bound to hope that your property may never be lost or diminished; but every selfish feeling would induce me to wish it were less than it is."
Sir Philip Hastings was no reader of riddles, and he looked puzzled; but Marlow walked frankly round and took him by the hand, saying, "I have not judged it right, Sir Philip, to remain one day after I discovered what are my feelings towards your daughter, without informing you fully of their nature, that you may at once decide upon your future demeanor towards one to whom you have hitherto shown much kindness, and who would on no account abuse it. I was not at all aware of how this passion had grown upon me, till the day before yesterday, when I saw your daughter at Mrs. Hazleton's, and some accidental circumstance revealed to me the state of my own heart."
Sir Philip looked as if surprised; but after a moment's thought, he inquired, "And what says Emily, my young friend?"
"She says nothing, Sir Philip," replied Marlow; "for neither by word nor look, as far as I know, have I betrayed my own feelings towards her. I would not, between us, do so, till I had given you an opportunity of deciding, unfettered by any consideration for her, whether you would permit me to pursue my suit or not."
Sir Philip was in a reasoning mood that day, and he tortured Marlow by asking, "And would you always think it necessary, Marlow, to obtain a parent's consent, before you endeavored to gain the affection of a girl you loved?"
"Not always," replied the young man; "but I should think it always necessary to violate no confidence, Sir Philip. You have been kind to me—trusted me—had no doubt of me; and to say one word to Emily which might thwart your plans or meet your disapproval, would be to show myself unworthy of your esteem or her affection."
Sir Philip mused, and then said, as if speaking to himself, "I had some idea this might turn out so, but not so soon. I fancy, however," he continued, addressing Marlow, "that you must have betrayed your feelings more than you thought, my young friend; for yesterday I found Emily in a strange, thoughtful, abstracted mood, showing that some strong feelings were busy at her heart."
"Some other cause," said Marlow quickly; "I cannot even flatter myself that she was thinking of me. When I saw her the day before, there was a young man sitting with her and Mrs. Hazleton—John Ayliffe, I think, is his name—and I will own I thought his presence seemed to annoy her."
"John Ayliffe at Mrs. Hazleton's!" exclaimed Sir Philip, his brow growing very dark; "John Ayliffe in my daughter's society! Well might the poor child look thoughtful—and yet why should she? She knows nothing of his history. What is he like, Marlow—how does he bear himself?"
"He is certainly handsome, with fine features and a good figure," replied Marlow; "indeed, it struck me that there was some resemblance between him and yourself; but there is a want I cannot well define in his appearance, Sir Philip—in his air—in his carriage, whether still or in motion, which fixes uponhim what I am accustomed to call a class-mark, and that not of the best. Depend upon it, however, that it was annoyance at being brought into society which she disliked that affected your daughter as you have mentioned. My love for her she is, and must be, ignorant of; for I stayed there but a few minutes; and before that day, I saw it not myself. And now, Sir Philip, what say you to my suit? May I—as some of your words lead me to hope—may I pursue that suit and strive to win your dear daughter's love?"
"Of course," replied Sir Philip, "of course. A vague fancy has long been floating in my brain, that it might be so some day. She is too young to marry yet; and it will be sad to part with her when the time does come; but you have my consent to seek her affection if she can give it you. She must herself decide."
"Have you considered fully," asked Marlow, "that I have neither fortune nor rank to offer her, that I am by no means——"
Sir Philip waved his hand almost impatiently. "What skills it talking of rank or wealth?" he said. "You are a gentleman by birth, education, manners. You have easy competence. My Emily will desire no more for herself, and I can desire no more for her. You will endeavor, I know, to make her happy, and will succeed, because you love her. As for myself, were I to choose out of all the men I know, you would be the man. Fortune is a good adjunct; but it is no essential. I do not promise her to you. That she must do; but if she says she will give you her hand, it shall be yours."
Marlow thanked him, with joy such as may be conceived; but Sir Philip's thoughts reverted at once to his daughter's situation at Mrs. Hazleton's. "She must stay there no longer, Marlow," he said; "I will send for her home without delay. Then you will have plenty of opportunity for the telling of your own tale to her ear, and seeing how you may speed with her; but, at all events, she must stay no longer in a house where she can meet with John Ayliffe. Mrs. Hazleton makes me marvel—a woman so proud—so refined!"
"It is but justice to say," replied Marlow, thoughtfully, "that I have some vague recollection of Mrs. Hazleton having intimated that they met that young gentleman by chance upon some expedition of pleasure. But had I not better communicate my hopes and wishes to Lady Hastings, my dear sir?"
"That is not needful," replied Emily's father, somewhat sternly; "I promise her to you, if she herself consents. My good wife will not oppose my wishes or my daughter's happiness; nor do I suffer opposition upon occasions of importance. I will tell Lady Hastings my determination myself."
Marlow was too wise to say another word, but agreed to come on the following day to dine and sleep at the hall, and took his leave for the time. It was not, indeed, without some satisfaction that he heard Sir Philip order a horse to be saddled and a man to prepare to carry a letter to Mrs. Hazleton; for doubts were rapidly possessing themselves of his mind—not in regard to Emily—but in reference to Mrs. Hazleton herself.
The letter was dispatched immediately after his departure, recalling Emily to her father's house, and announcing that the carriage would be sent for her early on the following morning. That done, Sir Philip repaired to his wife's drawing-room, and informed her that he had given his consent to his young friend Marlow's suit to their daughter. His tone was one that admitted no reply, and Lady Hastings made none; but she entered her protest quite as well, by falling into a violent fit of hysterics.
FOOTNOTES:[L]Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, by G. P. R. James, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New-York.
[L]Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, by G. P. R. James, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New-York.
[L]Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, by G. P. R. James, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New-York.
We recently printed in theInternationalan interesting account of the "marvellous boy" Chatterton, who "perished in his pride," and the memoirs of Southey recall to us the almost as unfortunate Herbert Knowles, who died in 1817. Knowles was a poor boy of the humblest origin, without father or mother, yet with abilities sufficient to excite the attention of strangers, who subscribed 20l.a year towards his education, upon condition that his friends should furnish 30l. more. The boy was sent to Richmond School, Yorkshire, preparatory to his proceeding as a sizer to St. John's, but when he quitted school the friends were unable to advance another sixpence on his account. To help himself, Herbert Knowles wrote a poem, sent it to Southey with a history of his case, and asked permission to dedicate it to the Laureate. Southey, finding the poem "brimful of power and of promise," made inquiries of the schoolmaster, and received the highest character of the youth. He then answered the application of Knowles, entreated him to avoid present publication, and promised to do something better than receive his dedication. He subscribed at once 10l.per annum towards the failing 30l., and procured similar subscriptions from Mr. Rogers and the late Lord Spencer. Herbert Knowles, receiving the news of his good fortune, wrote to his protector a letter remarkable for much more than the gratitude which pervaded every line. He remembered that Kirke White had gone to the university countenanced and supported by patrons, and that to pay back the debt he owed them he wrought day and night until his delicate frame gave way, and his life became the penalty of his devotion. Herbert Knowles felt that he could not make the same desperate efforts, and deemed it his first duty to say so. "I will not deceive," he writes in his touching anxiety.
"Far be it from me to foster expectations which I feel I cannot gratify. Two years ago I came to Richmond totally ignorant of classical and mathematical literature. Out of that time, during three months and two long vacations I have made but a retrograde course. If I enter into competition for university honorsI shall kill myself. Could I twine, to gratify my friends, a laurel with the cypress I would not repine; but to sacrifice the little inward peace which the wreck of passion has left behind, and relinquish every hope of future excellence and future usefulness in one wild and unavailing pursuit, were indeed a madman's act, and worthy of a madman's fate."
The poor fellow promised to do what he could, assured his friends that he would not be idle, and that if he could not reflect upon them any extraordinary credit, he would certainly do them no disgrace. Herbert Knowles had taken an accurate measure of his strength and capabilities, and soon gave proof that he spoke at the bidding of no uncertain monitor within him. Two months after his letter to Southey he was laid in his grave. The fire consumed the lamp even faster than the trembling lad suspected.
A poem by him,The Three Tabernacles, though perhaps familiar to most of our readers, is so beautiful that we reprint it here:
Methinks it is good to be here,If thou wilt let us build,—but for whom?Nor Elias nor Moses appear;But the shadows of eve that encompass the gloom,The abode of the dead, and the place of the tomb.Shall we build to Ambition? Ah! no:Affrighted, he shrinketh away;For see, they would pin him belowTo a small narrow cave; and, begirt with cold clay,To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey.To Beauty? Ah! no: she forgetsThe charms that she wielded before;Nor knows the foul worm that he fretsThe skin which but yesterday fools could adore,For the smoothness it held, or the tint which it wore.Shall we build to the purple of Pride,The trappings which dizen the proud?Alas! they are all laid aside;And here's neither dress nor adornment allowed,But the long winding-sheet, and the fringe of the shroud.To Riches? Alas! 'tis in vain:Who hid, in their turns have been hid;The treasures are squandered again;And here, in the grave, are all metals forbid,But the tinsel that shone on the dark coffin-lid.To the pleasures which Mirth can afford,The revel, the laugh and the jeer?Ah! here is a plentiful board,But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer,And none but the worm is a reveller here.Shall we build to Affection and Love?Ah! no: they have withered and died,Or fled with the spirit above.Friends, brothers, and sisters, are laid side by side,Yet none have saluted, and none have replied.Unto Sorrow? The dead cannot grieve;Nor a sob, nor a sigh meets mine ear,Which compassion itself could relieve:Ah! sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, or fear;Peace, peace, is the watchword, the only one here.Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow?Ah! no: for his empire is known,And here there are trophies enow;Beneath the cold dead, and around the dark stone,Are the signs of a sceptre that none may disown.The first tabernacle to Hope we will build,And look for the sleepers around us to rise;The second to Faith, which insures it fulfilled;And the third to the Lamb of the Great Sacrifice,Who bequeathed us them both when he rose to the skies.
Methinks it is good to be here,If thou wilt let us build,—but for whom?Nor Elias nor Moses appear;But the shadows of eve that encompass the gloom,The abode of the dead, and the place of the tomb.
Shall we build to Ambition? Ah! no:Affrighted, he shrinketh away;For see, they would pin him belowTo a small narrow cave; and, begirt with cold clay,To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey.
To Beauty? Ah! no: she forgetsThe charms that she wielded before;Nor knows the foul worm that he fretsThe skin which but yesterday fools could adore,For the smoothness it held, or the tint which it wore.
Shall we build to the purple of Pride,The trappings which dizen the proud?Alas! they are all laid aside;And here's neither dress nor adornment allowed,But the long winding-sheet, and the fringe of the shroud.
To Riches? Alas! 'tis in vain:Who hid, in their turns have been hid;The treasures are squandered again;And here, in the grave, are all metals forbid,But the tinsel that shone on the dark coffin-lid.
To the pleasures which Mirth can afford,The revel, the laugh and the jeer?Ah! here is a plentiful board,But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer,And none but the worm is a reveller here.
Shall we build to Affection and Love?Ah! no: they have withered and died,Or fled with the spirit above.Friends, brothers, and sisters, are laid side by side,Yet none have saluted, and none have replied.
Unto Sorrow? The dead cannot grieve;Nor a sob, nor a sigh meets mine ear,Which compassion itself could relieve:Ah! sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, or fear;Peace, peace, is the watchword, the only one here.
Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow?Ah! no: for his empire is known,And here there are trophies enow;Beneath the cold dead, and around the dark stone,Are the signs of a sceptre that none may disown.
The first tabernacle to Hope we will build,And look for the sleepers around us to rise;The second to Faith, which insures it fulfilled;And the third to the Lamb of the Great Sacrifice,Who bequeathed us them both when he rose to the skies.
There are in his works several other pieces not less remarkable for the best qualities of poetry; and they all appear to be the echoes of genuine feeling.
On the very day on which the marriage had been celebrated at the town of Sorrento, a man descended from a carriage that, from the dust on its wheels, seemed to have travelled far, at the town of Ceprano, situated on the frontier of the Roman States and the kingdom of Naples. People call Ceprano a city; it is, however, in fact, only a large town of the Abruzzi, very ugly and very dirty, to which leads one of the worst and most romantic roads in Italy. Ceprano would scarcely merit the traveller's notice, but for many curiosities which it contains, worthy of particular attention. These curiosities are neither the charms of nature, for the scenery is without interest, nor palaces, nor monuments. They are neither archeologic nor artistic, but the greatest of earthly rarities—curiosities of humanity. The women of Ceprano are, perhaps, the most beautiful in Italy. Their stature, their regular and noble features, their magnificent black hair, twined around their charming faces, a graceful carriage, truly antique, their picturesque costume, partaking of the characters of both modern Greece and Italy, form the most admirable and pleasant combination. The women of Ceprano display, also, a peculiar coquetry, by their graceful and bold air; they carry on their heads etruscan amphoræ, in which, like Rachel, they bring water from the spring. At the fountain, therefore, strangers assemble to admire these nymphs. The traveller of whom we speak had gone thither, according to the well established custom, while his horses were being changed. He had, however, been preceded by another man, whose strange appearance soon attracted attention. The latter was about sixty years of age, of middle height, and well made. He had been handsome, if one could judge from the purity of the lines of his features, which time had not entirely effaced. Hiscoiffurealone would have made him appear whimsical and ridiculous, had not his head been noble and distinguished. He wore powder; and locks such as once were known asa l'aille de pigeon, were on each side of his face. A cloak of light silk was buttoned over his breast, so as to conceal a blue coat on which a cross of Saint Louis rested, being suspended to a broad blue ribbon. Sitting between two of the prettiest girls of Ceprano, he talked to them in an Italian, very little of which they understood; for hispatoiscalled forth from the volatile creatures bursts of laughter.
"Bah!" said he in French; "this is the consequence of not studying foreign tongues. I cannot turn theindigenesto profit. Pity, too, when they are beautiful as these are."
"Signor, may I be your interpreter?" said the last comer, who had heard only the latter portion of the old man's words.
"Thanks, Signor," said he; "heaven has sent you to the aid of a barbarian who was pitilessly murdering the mother tongue of Tasso. Formerly," continued he, "pantomime answered to talk with women as well as language; now, however, I must explain myself in another manner. I cannot, therefore, ask you to be the interpreter of my request of these girls!"
"What, Signor, did you ask them?" said he.
"Nothing, but permission to write two signs on my tablets. A habit I imported from London, a peculiar kind of statistics to introduce some variety into the tedious stories travellers spin. I indicate the region through which I pass by a single phrase or word which recalls to me what they have most agreeable to the heart, mind, or senses. See," said he, taking a rich pocket-book on which was a prince's coronet in gold, "all Italy will occupy but two pages. Florence?Flowers and museums.Bologna?Hams.Milan?La scala.Leghorn?Nothing.Rome?Every thing. Et cætera.I wished to write Ceprano?kisses: to prove that here I touched the lips of the two prettiest women of Italy."
"If that is all," said the person to whom the old man spoke, "and for the purpose of advocating so useful a cause," said she, with a laugh, "I will procure you the pleasure you desire."
"Indeed, Signor, I do not know how I can recompense you for such a service."
"Signor, I deserve no recompense from you, as I merely advance the art of travelling, which through your exertions is about to become so attractive——"
"Signorine," said he to the beautiful girls of Ceprano, in the pure Roman dialect; "an old man's kiss always brings prosperity to the youthful; and this, Signor," he pointed to the old man with powdered hair, "wishes you to be happy."
The two young girls, with the most natural grace possible, offered their brows to the old man, who kissed them paternally as possible.
"I thank you, sir," said he to his interpreter. "I am indebted solely for this chapter to your politeness, and can express my pleasure only by dedicating it to you. To do so, however, it is necessary that I should know your name——"
"Write then, Ceprano, dedicated to Count Monte-Leone. But, Signor, shall not I know the name of the author of a work so interesting as that to which I have contributed?"
"The name of the writer who is indebted to you for the best chapter of his book, is the Prince de Maulear."
The Count made a brusque movement of surprise, and saluting the Prince coldly, left him. A quarter of an hour after, two carriages in different directions left Ceprano. Monte-Leone's took the road to Rome, the Prince de Maulear's that to Naples. The former, however, did not go to Rome; for, when he had come to the foot of a wooded mountain, he left the carriage, and accompanied by a man in a long cloak, who had hitherto sat in the carriage, Monte-Leone went into a thick underwood, and proceeding up a rocky path almost to the top of the mountain, went to the little town of Frenona, which is on the very brow. The night was near at hand, and the trees with their leaves, too early for the season, increased the darkness of the mountain path. Suddenly, at a distance of two hundred feet from them, a bright and sparkling light was seen approaching Monte-Leone and his companion. The Count uttered a sharp whistle, and the light went to the middle of the wood, and hurried like a will-o'-the-wisp towards the travellers. The light was a torch, borne by a man, dressed as a peasant and wrapped in a large cloak, which suffered nothing but his two sparkling eyes to be seen, which were scarcely less brilliant than the torch.
"Buon Giorno, Signor Pignana," said the Count to the new comer; "you see I have kept the appointment at San Paolo."
"The brothers await your excellency," said Pignana, bowing to the ground; "be pleased to follow me."
"I have come hither to do so," said the Count.
The three men continued to ascend the mountain, and after a while turned to the right and stopped in front of an old building partially in ruins. Following a path around the ruin, they came to the place where the wall was highest, and stopped in front of a door. Pignana pulled a rope. A bell sounded, and the door was opened by a man in the costume Pignana wore. The three then crossed a long paved court, and through a vestibule entered a corridor leading into a vast hall, which had been the refectory of the monastery of San Paolo. A few torches lit up the room; around a table in the centre of which were thirty men all dressed like those we have described. They arose when Monte-Leone entered, and bowed with respect. The Count took his seat and spoke thus:
"You desired, Signori, to see me once more among you, and to accede to your wish I have braved every danger; for you know that Rome and Naples make common cause against us. For a long time I have wished to see you, and been anxious to ascertain your views, by putting, as your supreme chief, two questions to you."
"Speak, Monsignore," said theCarbonari.
"Have theVenteof all Italy," said the Count, "those of Rome, Venice, Milan, Parma, Verona, Turin, and the other principal cities of Italy, the chiefs of which I see here, ever doubted me?"
"No, Monsignore; but they have feared lest being a victim to the unhappy fate which has befallen you, it might be your intention to leave us."
"And betray you, Signori," said the Count, with bitterness; "sell you like a spy and informer?"
"Never!" said all the company; "Monte-Leone can be no spy."
"Thank you, Signori, for the good opinion you have of me," said the Count in an ironical tone; "why then did you demand that foolish manifestation in the theatre of San Carlo? Do you not see that I have given you sufficient pledges by risking my life at theVentaof Pompeia, where I, who had every gratification that fortune could bestow on me, risked every thing by declaring myself your chief? Let me tell you, Signori, two powerful motives led me—my convictions and my father's blood, which yet calls to me for vengeance. The following is my second question:—Do theVenteof Italy promise to obey my orders without giving any to me?"
"Monsignore, you in this demand perfect submission!"
"Perfect, Signori; I will make my demand more explicit. I demand obedience, to act by my orders, and never without them; to think as I do, and to be the body of an association of which I am the soul."
TheCarbonariwere silent.
"Decide!" said the Count, taking out his watch. "I had but two hours to devote to you, to settle all, and only a few minutes remain."
TheCarbonariconsulted together. Their conversation was animated as possible. The Count looked again at his watch, and all turned towards him.
"Your excellency," said the one who seemed to be the most important, "may rely on our faith, conscience, and trust in you. We would, though, think we exceeded our powers, and implicate the brothers who have confided in us too deeply, if we were to consent to be passive, as you wish us and the ItalianVenteto become.
"Then there is nothing more to be said, Signori," and Monte-Leone arose. "Perhaps I have confided too implicitly in my audacity, resolution, and the power over myself, which never has deserted me. I deceived myself, perhaps, when too proudly I fancied I could inspire you with confidence equal to my own. I thought by risking life, fortune, and all, I won the right to hold the dice myself. But you do not think thus, and I submit. Faithful to my oaths, and to our principles, I am always ready to keep and to defend them. Acting, henceforth, alone, I shall do as I please, and be accountable to myself alone. Now, Signori, adieu! I shall leave Italy, and perhaps Europe, in search of a country, the institutions of which recognize the true principles of national happiness. Wherever, though, I may be, I will bemute as to your secrets, and devoted to your principles. You had just now a chief in Count Monte-Leone. He is so no more, but is still your brother."
Bowing to them with that noble dignity which he never laid aside, he bade the man who had accompanied him to take a torch and lead the way. Monte-Leone descended the mountain at Frepinond, and regained the carriage that waited for him, in which he proceeded to the Eternal City. Wounded at what, when he remembered how much he had done, seemed ingratitude, he said to himself, "Henceforth Monte-Leone commands—he cannot obey."
About evening, on the night after theVentaat San Paola, the Count got out of his carriage, and, as his sadness increased as he left Naples, sought to revive himself by walking. He walked through Ferentino, a little town of the Roman States, and as he passed by the church he heard the sound of the organ. Monte-Leone had a heart piously inclined, and the sentiment of religion was always aroused by the sight of the church. He went into the church, which was brilliantly lighted. A few of the faithful here and there prayed; the half tints of the light on the walls giving them the appearance of statues on tombs. Before the principal altar two persons knelt. A priest was about to unite their fate. Monte-Leone approached the altar, but the seclusion of the position of the couple as they bent to the ground before the priest, who was blessing them, made it impossible for him to distinguish their features. A strange curiosity took possession of him, for this was evidently no ordinary village marriage. The rich dress of the young woman, the noble air of the young man to whom she was about to be married, all announced one of those secret unions not contracted beneath the vaulted arches of a cathedral, but in the oratory of some palace, or the chapel of some secluded hamlet. The ceremony was over, and the newly married couple left the altar and walked down the nave to the door of the church of Ferentino, where a magnificent carriage was waiting. Just as they were about leaving the church, the bride lifted up her veil and saw a man standing near the vase of holy water. The light of the lamp fell directly on his face. The young woman, astonished, trembling and confused, felt her strength give way, and could scarcely suppress an exclamation of agony. She saw Count Monte-Leone. He also had recognized in the bridegroom the Duke of Palma, minister of police of Naples. In the new duchess he had also recognized the primadonna of San Carlo da Felina. Thus the two angels, which in his ecstatic vision at his father's tomb the Count had seen, and who appeared to contend for him—Aminta and La Felina—the two women, one of whom he adored, while he was himself adored by the other, were no longer free. Aminta had married from duty, La Felina from reason.
Eight days after the meeting of the Prince de Maulear and Count Monte-Leone at Ceprano, a post-chaise, accompanied by a kind oftravelling forge, entered Naples by the Roman road, and after having crossed the city at a rapid rate, the postillions cracking their whips the while, stopped at the French embassy. The powdered head of the old man appeared at the window of the chaise, and the Swiss of the embassy replied, in execrable French, to a question put to him thus:
"Monsieur, the Marquis de Maulear does not stop in the embassy. His apartments were too small for two."
The Swiss, enchanted by this reply, which he thought eminently witty, bowed to the traveller, and was about to return to his chair, when the old man again called him:
"But, my fine fellow," said he to the Helvetian, "you have not yet told me where the Marquis does live."
"The Marquis de Maulear," said the Swiss, "is in the palace of Cellamare, where he rented a pavilion near the gardens of the Villa-Reale."
"To the palace Cellamare," said the traveller to the postillion; and the latter drove off at a gallop.
After about five minutes the same powdered head appeared at the door, and the traveller said, "Hollo! postillion, stop; do you hear, rascal; pull up."
"What does your excellency, sir?" asked the postillion.
"Take my excellency to the best Hotel in Naples."
"The best isla Vittoria, between the bay and Villa Reale."
The postillion lied, forle Crocellewas better; but atla Vittoriathey received two piastres a piece for travellers, and atle Crocellegot nothing. TheVittoria, then, was the best hotel in Naples for postillions, but not for travellers. The apartments of the Marquis de Maulear, the witty Swiss had told him, were too small for two; and this information had induced him thus suddenly to change his plan. The traveller thought the Marquis might have yielded to some tender influence, and contracted aquasi morganatiquemarriage as a prelude to more serious ties. "If that be so," said the stranger, "it would be wrong to go to the Marquis's house. I do not wish to surprise him by a simple visit which would not have the effect of a solemn interview."
The chaise stopped atla Vittoria. Two servants and an intendant came to the carriage, and the postillion received eight piastres for his human freight. The Marquis de Maulear had really taken his young wife to the palace of Cellamare, a portion of which was rented to wealthy strangers a few days after his marriage. The Marquis had acted decidedly in writing to his father that he had married without consulting him. Henceforth it was of no importance whether the world knew it or not; besides, the Signora Rovero and Aminta, having thought that the Prince had authorized his son to marry whomsoever he pleased, secrecy would not have seemed proper or justifiable. The Marquis, who grew every day more in love, and whose ardor continually increased as he discovered new qualities to adore in the young heart confided to him, sought to expel the terrors which he apprehended would result from his father's surprise, but was unable to satisfy himself that the latter would not be completely enraged. The Marquis possessed an honorable fortune from his deceased mother. He therefore was not at all disturbed, in a pecuniary point of view, in relation to Aminta's fate. The distress, the humiliation to which his young wife would be exposed, should she be repelled by his father and family, made him tremble whenever that idea presented itself to his mind. Aminta had perceived these clouds occasionally on the brow of her husband, but had attributed it to his apprehensions that she did not love him as much as he adored her. She had striven to restore his confidence; and with that gentle voice, never heard by any one without emotion, said, "Henri, I was frank with you, when before marriage my heart asked time to return all the passion you felt. I know I love you now, and was wrong to be so timid; for," added she, "I deprived myself of happiness by delay." Maulear clasped her in his arms and forgot his troubles, as all do who love and are loved.
One morning, about ten o'clock, he had left her to go to the French embassy, whither he was called by important business. The young Marquise had gone into the garden of Cellamare, and sat beneath an arbor of jasmin, reading her favorite poet Tasso. Love of Maulear now interpreted these passionate mysteries, which hitherto she had not understood. Her soul, illumined by the flame enkindled in it, did not admire, as it formerly did, the form and gentle harmony of the poem alone. The meaning of the verses touched her heart, and she seemed for the first time to open this book, which is so filled with burning inspirations. The tenderness of Maulear had begun to dissipate the sad presentiments which had so long agitated her: she felt arising in her a gentle return of that deep affection she had inspired; and though she had been alone but two hours, it seemed to her that the Marquis had been absent a much longer time. Looking in the direction she expected Henri to come, she examined the burning horizon beyond the avenue of plane-trees beneath which she sat, until she saw a human form coming down it. The person who advanced walked slowly, and looked around him carefully, as if he was in search of something. For a while he examined curiously the hedge on the principal alley; nor, until he stood within a few paces of Aminta, did he see that this white figure was a woman; its graceful immobility having made him fancy it a statue. The stranger bowed to her politely as possible, and spoke to her with an air half way between respect and familiarity, impertinence and consideration. Aminta arose and recognized him,and as she did so, exhibiting a constraint and embarrassment she could not account for. The person who had spoken to Aminta was dressed so strangely, that the young woman was struck by it. Having been accustomed to all the fashions of the epoch, to the elegance of the young men who visited her mother's house, to the good taste of the Marquis de Maulear, she had never seen such a costume as that of the stranger. A coat of Prussian blue, with a straight collar and large wide skirts, enveloped a thin, delicate frame. A waistcoat of white silk, cut square in front, with two immense pockets, from one of which hung a watch, with an immense chain and multitude of seals, beating against breeches of buff cassimer, the legs of which were inserted in vast boots. A rich frill of English point lace, with ruffles to match, gave an air of magnificence to this toilet; the whole being surmounted with a powdered head-dress with open wings, like those of a sea-gull in a desperate storm. The result of all this toilette was such, that no one felt inclined to laugh, or even if the inclination arose, the noble air of which we have spoken soon repressed it. Aminta felt as Count Monte-Leone had at Ceprano, when the latter made the acquaintance of the Prince de Maulear, whom our readers have beyond doubt recognized.
"Excuse me, beautiful lady, for thus disturbing your reveries," said the Prince, bowing again to Aminta, "but I am come to visit the Marquis de Maulear, who must return ere long, as one of his servants told me. I however learned, that in addition to the pleasure of roaming through this paradise, I would findMadame. I could not resist the pleasure of presenting you my homage."
In the manner the Prince pronounced the wordMadame, there was a shadow of fine irony, which Aminta could not but observe. She blushed slightly, for she thought the stranger alluded to her recent marriage; and though shocked at his familiarity, Aminta was satisfied with replying politely, that she would be happy if the visitor would remain until the Marquis de Maulear should return with her.
The Prince sat on a rustic chair, which Aminta offered him, and said, as he looked at her with admiration, "The Marquis may stay away as long as he pleases; and while with you I will not complain."
"But, Signor," said Aminta, "something of importance has brought you hither."
"No," said the visitor, "I come merely to see the Marquis; and to do so have travelled the four hundred leagues between Paris and Naples. Nothing more!"
"Ah, Signor," said Aminta, delighted, "then you love him?"
"Devotedly," continued the Prince, "though I suspect him rather of ingratitude. Do not be afraid," added he; "I believe him to be an ingrate in friendship, but not in love.Madame(and he looked anxiously at her) has every charm to prevent his being so."
Any person less delicately organized than Aminta, and less impressionable, would have had no suspicion of the elegantabandonwhich was the foundation of this compliment. By means of her instinct, however, she had guessed that there was a kind of contempt ofbon tonin what was said to her, altogether unbecoming in a conversation with a person of her rank and station. She replied, then, that she thought she had sufficient claims on the Marquis's love for him never to forget them ... that if such a misfortune should befall her, she would find in her heart and conscience no reason for reproaching herself, and would be able to support indifference, and be bold enough to pardon it.
"Very well, very well," said the Prince gayly. "Pretty women are always generous; they, however, are least worthy of commendation on that account, when they resemble you."
"Signor," said Aminta to the Prince, "I know not to whom I have the honor to speak. You have, however, told me you come from France, and I will thank you to tell me if men are volatile there, as I have heard."
"Signora, I do not think I slander my countrymen, when I say their hearts are not easily fixed for a long time. Were they more faithful, they would not, perhaps, be so amiable. In my time, for instance, marriage was an affair of business. One married to be married, to have an heir, to regulate one's household. That was all. If a man loved his wife three or six months it was superb. A year of constancy became ridiculous and vulgar. Then the lady would fall in love, and the husband conceived a friendship for the courtier, mousquetaire, or abbe, whom the lady patronized. The husband did not fall in love; he only looked for amusements. Sometimes chance afforded him what he needed, or he went to the opera, where the nymphs of music and dancing took charge of his superfluous funds. People talked of him for two days, and then he was forgotten. Thus gently and pleasantly the husband and wife floated down the stream of time; each keeping close to a bank, and shaking hands whenever the currents brought them together. In the business of life they were always as considerate as possible of each other, and shed some honest tears when death separated them. Sometimes in old age, when both were wearied by passion, and satiated with love, they recounted to each other their wild adventures, as sailors tell their stories of shipwrecks and the perils of their voyages. But," continued the Prince, "as there are exceptions to all rules, the exceptions were the kindly-disposed and well-regulated households, which were spoken of and laughed at. Happiness, however, avenged them. Thus, beautiful lady, people lived in other times. They do not live thus now—"
"All this I own," said Aminta, "interests me deeply."
"The devil!" said the Prince, aside, and under the impression that he was in the presenceof the irregular passion of his son, "Does not morganaticism suffice?" Under this hypothesis, which made him smile with pity, he resolved to cut the foolish hope short at the roots.
"In our days all is changed—women are saints and husbands are angels—and the two are riveted together for all time. The wife is constant, the husband faithful; or, if the contrary be the case, the matter is hushed up and concealed. If public morality is satisfied, the lovers are not the losers. It is also said that unhappy marriages now are the exceptions. The chief difference is, though, that now men do before marriage what they used to do afterwards. If one finds a pleasant woman," said he, approaching Aminta, "like you, beautiful, intelligent, and I venture to say also full of talent, as you are—we swear we love her, and are really sincere. Reason, however, in the guise of matrimony, hurries to sound the knell of love. At the first peal, it escapes, and whither? The beauty we adore first weeps, and then finds consolation, or rather suffers herself to be consoled. Then, opening her wings like the butterfly, she hurries to find the pleasure she calls and expects."
The tone, rather than the language, of this conversation terrified and amazed Aminta.
The Prince observed this. "Did she love him really?" he said; and touched with this idea, he added—
"All that I say, madame, is a general remark, the application of which I make to no one, least of all to yourself."
"Signor," said Aminta, rising, "I do not understand you."
"Certainly," said the Prince, "you do not understand that one who loves you should cease to do so. That is what I had the honor to tell you just now. The Marquis, though, is very young and inexperienced. He believes in love, as men of twenty-five usually do. This explains to me the apparent rigidness of his words, and unveils the mystery of his pretended wisdom. I do not, however, wish to make a person so charming as you are desperate; and perhaps I do you a great favor in warning you against future dangers and mischances."
"Signor," said Aminta, trembling with emotion, "I cannot guess why you speak to me thus; but I perceive that you do not know me."
The Prince said, with a smile, "I speak to a charming woman, to one of earth's angels, whom some lucky mortals meet with, and who by their tenderness reveal all the pleasures and joys promised to the faithful by the houris of divine Providence."
"Signor," said Aminta, looking at the Prince with an expression in which both indignation and contempt were visible, "unused as I am to such language, though I scarcely understand it, my reason and good sense tell me you would speak thus only to the mistress of the Marquis de Maulear."
"True," said the Prince, "and I speak now to the most charming mistress imaginable."
"Me! do you speak thus to me, Signor?" said the young woman, with a painful accent. "And you thought——?"
"Who then are you, madame!" asked the old man, with surprise and terror at Aminta's tone.
"Who is she, monsieur?" said the Marquis, coming from a neighboring alley, where, pale and terrified, he had for some time been listening to this conversation, "she is my wife, theMarquise de Maulear!"
Had a thunderbolt fallen at the feet of the Prince he could not have been more surprised. The blood left his face, and he supported himself against the back of his chair.
"Henri," said Aminta, "tell this man again that he has dared to insult your wife! Tell him I am yours in God's eyes, and that he has doubly outraged me in the fact that his words fell from the lips of age. Say to him, that a gentleman, if such he is, should not utter such things until assured they were neither an insult nor an outrage to her who heard them."
"Aminta," said the Marquis, "the person of whom you speak thus is——"
"Be silent, monsieur,"[N]interrupted the Prince, looking sternly at his son, "madame has not offended me, though I have her. Madame," said he, "accept my apology for a fault caused by the Marquis alone. The name you bear is entitled to the respect of all, especially to mine. I will be the last to forget it. Be pleased to leave the Marquis de Maulear and myself together for a few moments. What I have to say none must listen to. Do not be afraid," added he, when he saw the hesitation with which Aminta left; "I am no foe of the Marquis, and besides, the only weapon of old men is the tongue. Our conversation will not be long, and I will then leave the Marquis to you for ever."
Henri made a motion, the purport of which was to beseech Aminta to go. Taking a lateral alley, she disappeared.
"Monsieur," said the Prince, "you should know that my name should not be pronounced in the presence of that young woman, especially after the error which your silence has led me into in relation to her." The Prince continued, "So you are married?"
"Yes, monsieur," said Maulear, trembling like a criminal in the presence of the judge.
"Contrary to my orders, and without my consent," continued the Prince.
"Father, if any excuse be possible, you will find it in the person I have selected."
"I do not ask for justification, monsieur, but for excuse. How long did you reflect on this union before you contracted it?"
"A month," said the Marquis.
"A month is a short time to reflect on alife of remorse and regret. You know I never will forgive you."
"Never, monsieur?" asked Maulear, bowing respectfully before his father. "God himself pardons."
"I am not God, monsieur, and have neither his goodness nor his mercy. Hearken to me, and let none of my words be lost, as they are the last I shall ever speak to you. I have not concealed my principles, which were probably not firm enough in relation to morals and virtue. In these principles the people of the century in which I was born lived. I was, perhaps, badly educated, but so were all nobles then; and if they preserved their loyalty and honor, were faithful to their kings, and died for them,—if they did honor to their family, and fought well, they were forgiven for other faults. Philosophy and the progress of the age have rectified all this: whether they have improved the state of things the future must decide. I am too old to retrace my steps, and have the faults, and perhaps the virtues, of my century. There is one thing true, certain ideas I never will abandon, among which are my opinions about marriage. All this you think behind the spirit of the age, and perhaps ridiculous; but I intend to express myself fully, that you may not expect me ever to alter my opinion about your conduct. For four centuries, monsieur, there has not been a singlemesalliancein my family. The Dukes of Salluce, the Princes of Maulear, from whom we are sprung, were never married but with the noblest families of the world—those of France—that is the only safety for me, that was the only marriage for you. I was willing to receive as a daughter-in-law only a French woman, of noble blood—noble as our own. This you say is a prejudice—so it may be, monsieur, but it is a prejudice I will not lay aside. I was never a rigorous father to you, and I contemplated using only one of my paternal rights, that of bringing about a marriage for you to suit myself. You acted for yourself, monsieur, and must continue to do so. Adieu! Henceforth the Marquis de Maulear has no father, and the Prince no son."
The old man arose with cold and haughty dignity, preparing to leave.
"Father, do not leave me thus—for the sake of my mother, whom you loved, pause."
The Prince walked away.
"For the sake of your father, whom you adored!"
The Prince did not pause.
"Well," said the Marquis, in despair, and just then he saw Aminta at the end of the alley, "I prefer to abandon the nobility of the Maulears, which produces such obduracy, for the virtues and talent of a Rovero."
The old man had scarcely heard the last word, than he turned around and said to his son:
"Rovero! did you say Rovero? the minister of Murat?"
"There is his daughter," said Henri, pointing to Aminta.
The countenance of the Prince lost its icy coldness, and assumed an expression of deep tenderness. Drawing near to Aminta, with tears in his eyes, he said, "The daughter of Rovero?" and with increasing agitation, "Are you the daughter of Rovero?"
Looking at her for a few moments in silence, his countenance assumed an indefinable expression, and seemed to read in the countenance of the young girl an infinitude of memories and dreams. Finally, completely carried away by a feeling he could not control, he folded Aminta in his arms and clasped her to his bosom.
Paris, that great theatre on which, for fifty years, so much sublime and common-place republicanism, so many monarchic, imperial, constitutional, and other dramas had been represented—Paris, about the end of 1818, two years after the occurrence of the events described in the last chapter, presented a strange aspect, over which we will cast a retrospective glance for the purpose of making our story intelligible.
Louis XVIII. reigned perhaps a little more absolutely than the charter permitted. By the aggregation of power, kings and kingdoms almost always fall; and this king, who wished to govern with the restrictions on power which he had himself yielded to France, found himself in endless controversy, from the errors of his friends, his family, and his minister. Monsieur[O]was in the opposition, and with him were all the malcontents of the realm.Monsieurhad his creatures, and his ministers in casû, all ready to consecrate their services to the good of the country. These were the only men, said the Prince, who could rescue the restoration from the factions in arms against it. At the head of this ministry was the Count Jules de Polignac, the favorite of the ex-comte d'Artois. Next to Polignac came M. de Vitrolles, famous for his intellect and his devotion to the royal family, M. de Grosbois, and others, who had made progress in the graces and confidence of the Prince. The King at that time exhibited a decided favoritism to a certain statesman of merit and worth, the rapid fortune of whom, however, had made many persons jealous and had excited much hatred. The star of M. de Blacus, which till then had been so brilliant, began to grow pale. From these palace intrigues, from these divisions of families, arose in public affairs a species of perpetual controversy which impeded the progress of the ship of state. In the mean time, parties taking advantage of this discontent, excited every bad passion, and silently undermined the soil preparing the explosion which ultimately destroyed this feeble and disunited monarchy. The great parties were divided and subdivided into many factions opposed to eachother, but, as will be seen hereafter, all striving to overturn the existing order of things—though in the end each purposed the triumph of his own cause when a general chase should have ensued. The French nation, though strong, great and powerful when its parts are united, was then composed of royalists frankly devoted to the government of the restoration of ultra royalists, more so even than the King himself—and who wished the country to retrace its steps to principles, which good sense, time, healthy reason, and especially the revolutionary tempest, had most painfully refuted. Next came the Bonapartists, who seeing themselves disinherited by a peaceful government, and deprived of the prospects of glory they had deemed their own, regretted sincerely the man of victory and his triumphs. Next came the liberals, a portion of whom were sincerely devoted to political progress, for which the country was not yet prepared—and, finally, the Jacobins, old relics of 1793, who sought to precipitate France into that abyss of horror, the very trace of which the wonderful genius of Napoleon had effaced. All these opinions, advocated by intelligent and capable men, of gifted minds, but also of turbulent and dangerous spirits, to whom agitation is the natural element—all these were secretly busy, watching their opportunity to burst upon the public attention. Paris, the head of the great French body, was all the time happy as possible, and seemed calm and flourishing. It was like those men with a smiling face, a calm and cold icy exterior, but who nurse violent passions and bitter animosities. The police at that time was under the control of a minister who was young and active, but who was often led astray; just as greyhounds, who, when almost overrunning their quarry, catch a glimpse of other prey. The multiplied and contradictory devices of the factions, therefore, led the police and its agents into difficulties of which the criminals always contrived to take advantage. For two years, plot followed plot, almost uninterruptedly; Bonapartist, liberal, ultra-royalist plots followed each other; that of Didier was the first. His object was to confide the Kingly office to a Lieutenant-General, to the Duke of Orleans. Didier sought for his confederates among the men, whom a kind of fanaticism yet attached to the exile of Saint-Helena; among the old soldiers of the valley of the Loire, and that crowd of imperial agents whom the restoration had stripped of honor and employment. He promised good titles, orders, to all, and seduced many. The plot failed from its own impotence, for the police had little to do with it. Another affair, the consequences of which to those concerned in it were great, gave increased activity to the police, and diverted it from the only circumstances which could unfold to it the true enemies of the government of Louis XVIII. This affair was known as theSociety of Patriotsof 1816, and had as its chiefsPleigner,Carbonneau, andTolleron. They intended to ask the Emperor of Russia to grant them a constitutional King, chosen elsewhere than from the elder branch of the Bourbons. A man named Schellstein, who had been a kind of enlisting agent to the conspirators, informed M. Angles, chief of police, of their plan, and intentions, and by a sentence given July 7, 1816,Pleigner,Carbonneau, andTolleron, were sentenced to have their hands cut off and to be beheaded. Three days after the sentence was executed. Finally, in 1818, a third conspiracy was pointed out to the notice of the police. This conspiracy had a more exalted character than the preceding ones, for it included the ultra-royalists, that is to say the nobles, generals, peers, and high functionaries of France.