CHAPTER X.
THE YOUNG LOVERS.
Camillia and Paul Lisimon were no longer children. The young heiress had attained her nineteenth year, while Don Juan's protege was, as our readers are aware, two years her senior.
Paul still lived at the Villa Moraquitos. He occupied a small but neatly furnished apartment, upon the upper floor. Here were arranged the books he loved; here he often sat absorbed in study till the early morning hours sounded from the clocks of New Orleans, and the pale stars faded in the purple river.
Deep in the quiet night, when all the household were sleeping; when the faintest footfall awoke a ghostly echo in the awful stillness of the house, the young student, forgetful of the swiftly-passing hours, toiled on, a steady traveler on the stony road which leads to greatness.
It was to Silas Craig, the attorney, that Don Juan Moraquitos had articled his protege, much to the dislike of the young man, who had a peculiar aversion to the usurer.
"Let me be with any other lawyer in New Orleans rather than that man," he said; "I can never tell you how deep a contempt I have for his character."
Don Juan laughed aloud.
"His character! my dear Paul," he replied, "what in mercy's name have you to do with the man's character? Silas Craig is a hypocrite! a profligate, who covers his worst vices with the all-sheltering cloak of religion. Granted! He is not the less one of the cleverest lawyers in New Orleans, and the fittest person to be intrusted with the cultivation of your splendid intellect."
These conversations were perpetually recurring between Don Juan and his protege, prior to the signing of the articles which were to bind Paul Lisimon to the detested attorney; and the young man, finding that all his remonstrances were in vain, and fearing that if he objected too strongly to being articled to Silas Craig, the business would terminate in his being compelled to lead a life of hopeless idleness, made no further difficulty about the matter; and some weeks after the signing of the articles, he took his seat in the office of Mr. Craig.
It was not long before Paul Lisimon discovered that there was a decided disinclination on the part of the attorney to initiate him even in the merest rudiments of his profession. He might have sat in the office reading the paper and lolling in a rocking-chair all day if he had pleased, but whenever he sought for employment he was put off with some excuse or other, more or less plausible.
An idle young man would have been delighted with this easy life—not so Paul Lisimon. Kind and liberal as Don Juan Moraquitos had been to him, the proud spirit of the young man revolted against a life of dependence. He yearned not only to achieve a future career, but to repay the obligations of the past—to erase the stain of dependence from his youth; to pay for the education which had been given him by favor. Thus, where another would have rejoiced in the idleness of Silas Craig's office; where another would have abandoned himself to the dissipated pleasures that abound in such a city as New Orleans; where another would have snatched the tempting chalice which youthful passion offered to his lips, Paul Lisimon, in very defiance of his employer, slowly but surely advanced in the knowledge of the profession whose ranks he was predestined to join.
Strange to say, Don Juan, instead of praising and encouraging the industry of his protege, laughed and ridiculed him from his determined labors.
"You are the most extraordinary young man I ever met with, Paul," said the Spaniard. "Where others of your age will be haunting the gaming houses, which, in spite of our laws for their suppression, secretly exist in New Orleans—where others would be nightly visitants of the theatre and the cafe, you are forever brooding over those stupid books."
"Other men are perhaps born to fortune," answered Paul, with quiet dignity; "remember, dear sir, I have to achieve it."
"Nay, Paul; how do you know what intentions a certain elderly Spanish gentleman may have with regard to a document called a will?"
"Heaven forbid, sir," replied Paul, "that I should ever seek to fathom those intentions; and if you allude to yourself, permit me to take this opportunity of declaring that I would not accept one dollar, even were your misguided generosity to seek to bequeath it to me."
"Santa Maria, Mr. Lisimon, and why not, pray?" asked Don Juan, laughing at the young man's impetuosity.
"Because I would not rob her who has the sole claim upon your fortune."
"My little Camillia; she will be rich enough in all conscience. Ah, Paul," added the Spaniard, looking somewhat searchingly at Lisimon, "it is a serious matter for a father to have such a daughter as Camillia Moraquitos to dispose of; a beauty and an heiress! Where in all New Orleans shall I find the man rich enough or noble to be her husband?"
Paul Lisimon winced as if he had received a thrust from a dagger.
"You will consult your daughter's heart, sir, I trust," he murmured hesitatingly, "even before the claims of wealth?"
The old Spaniard's brow darkened, and his sombre black eyes fixed themselves upon Paul's face with a sinister and penetrating gaze that boded little good to the young man. No more was said upon the subject between the two men. Paul did not relax his industry by one iota after this conversation. The enervating pleasures of the rich could not win him from the stern routine of toil and study.
Perhaps the reader has already guessed the fatal truth.
Paul Lisimon, the unknown dependent upon a rich man's bounty, the penniless lad who knew not even the names of his parents, or of the country which had given him birth—Paul loved the peerless daughter of the wealthy Don Juan Moraquitos; and was it to be wondered that he loved her?
From her childhood he had seen her daily, and had seen her every day more beautiful—more accomplished.
She possessed, it is true, much of the pride of her father's haughty race; but that pride was tempered by the sweetness of Olympia Crivelli; and it was a high and generous sentiment that led the young girl to hate a meanness or falsehood with even a deeper loathing than she would have felt for a crime.
But to Paul Lisimon, Camillia was never proud. To him she was all gentleness; all confiding affection. The very knowledge of his dependence, which, had been dinned into her ears by Don Juan, rendered her only the more anxious to evince a sister-like devotion which should take the sting from his position.
Instinctively she knew, that spite of all outward seeming that position was galling to the proud boy. Instinctively she felt that nature in creating Paul Lisimon had never intended him to fill a subordinate position. He was one of those who are born for greatness, and who, constrained by the cruel trammels of circumstances, and unable to attain their proper level, perish in the flower of youth, withered by the blighting hand of despair.
So died the poet Chatterton, a victim to the suicide's rash madness. So dies many a neglected genius, whose name is never heard by posterity.
Paul loved the heiress; loved her from the first hour in which she had soothed his boyish anguish at the loss of his patron Don Tomaso; loved her in the tranquil years of their youthful studies; loved her with the deep devotion of manhood, when his matured passion burst forth in its full force, and the flickering light became an unquenchable and steady flame.
He did not love in vain.
No, as years passed on, and the bud changed to the lovely blossom, Camillia's feelings changed toward her father's protege. No longer could she greet him with a sister's calm smile of welcome. The ardent gaze of his dark eyes brought the crimson blush to her cheek and brow; her slender hand trembled when it rested in his—trembled responsive to the thrill which shook the young man's strong frame; her voice faltered as she addressed him, and her Southern eyes veiled themselves beneath their sheltering lashes, and dared not uplift themselves to his.
She loved him!
Happy and cloudless sunshine of youth. They loved, and earth became transformed into a paradise—the sky a roof of sapphire glory; the sunny river a flood of melted diamonds. The magic wand of the young blind god, Cupid, changed all things round them into splendor.
They dreamed not of the future. They thought not of the stern policy of a father, implacable in the pride of wealth. No, the distant storm-cloud was hidden from their radiant eyes.
"My Camillia," exclaimed the young man; "think you I can fail to achieve greatness when your love is to be the crown of the struggle? Think you I can falter on the road that leads to success, when your eyes will be the loadstars to guide my way?"
The reader will see, therefore, that love and ambition went hand in hand in the soul of Paul Lisimon, and that higher motives than the mere lust of gain, or even the hope of glory, beckoned him on to victory.
It is not to be expected that Camillia Moraquitos was without suitors among the higher classes of New Orleans.
Had she been blind, lame, hump-backed, red-haired, a vixen, or a fury, there would yet, doubtless, have been hundreds ready to kneel before the charm of her father's wealth, and to declare the heiress an angel. But when it is remembered that her future fortune was only exceeded by her glorious beauty, it will be thought little marvel that she had a host of admirers ever ready to flock round her at her father's soirees, to attend her in her drives, to haunt her box at the opera or the theatre, and to talk of her beauty in all the coffee-houses of New Orleans. Our readers must remember that there is much in this chief city of Louisiana, which resembles rather a French than an English town. The inhabitants are many of them of French extraction. The coffee-houses—or cafes as they are called—resemble those of Paris; the gambling-houses and theatres are Parisian in arrangements, and the young men of the upper classes have much of the polish of our Gallic neighbors, mingled with not a little of their frivolity.
Among the many suitors for the hand of Camillia Moraquitos was no less a person than Augustus Horton.
But the young planter did not love the Spanish beauty; there was something terribly repellent in the haughty spirit of Camillia to those whom she did not love, and Augustus Horton's pride was wounded by the thought that his attentions could possibly be disagreeable to any woman whom he condescended to honor by a preference. It was not love, therefore, which made him so constant in his attendance on the young beauty. No; mercenary motives, mingled with the resolute obstinacy of wounded pride. He would not confess, even to himself, that there was any fear of his failing to attain the prize. He despised the young fops who whispered soft speeches and high-flown compliments into the unheeding ear of the disdainful girl, and, thinking these his only rivals, dreamt not of defeat.
In all the planter's visits to the Villa Moraquitos he had never yet encountered Paul Lisimon.
The young Mexican scrupulously held himself aloof from the rich and frivolous guests who assembled in Don Juan's splendid mansion.
In vain did the Spaniard bid his protege to join in the festivities at the villa. In vain did Camillia reproach her lover with coldness and neglect, Paul was inexorable.
"No, Camillia," he said, when the young girl remonstrated with him, "I should hear your father's guests ask each other in the superb disdain of their creole insolence, 'Who is this Mr. Lisimon?' I wait the time, Camillia, when my own exertions shall have made this simple and now unknown name of Lisimon familiar to every citizen in New Orleans."
While the soft echoes of piano and guitar floated through the luxurious saloons; while the rich contralto voice of Camillia, mingling with the chords of her guitar, enchanted her obsequious listeners, Paul toiled in his lonely chamber, only looking up now and then from his books and papers, to listen for a few brief moments to the sounds of laughter and revelry below.
"Laugh on!" he exclaimed, as a sarcastic smile curved his finely-molded lips; "laugh on, frivolous and ignorant ones—whisper unmeaning compliments, and murmur inanities to my peerless Camillia! I do not fear you; for it is not thus she will be won."
Augustus Horton was a rich man; he belonged to one of the best families in New Orleans, and the old Spaniard knew of no one better suited as a husband for his beloved daughter.
Don Juan therefore encouraged the young planter's addresses, though at the same time thoroughly resolved to throw him off should any richer or more aristocratic suitor present himself.
Camillia knew nothing of her father's intentions. All her admirers were alike indifferent to her, for her heart was irrevocably given, and her faith irrevocably pledged, to Paul Lisimon.
While these changes had been slowly working among the heads of the household, the hand of Time had not been idle in the humble chambers of the Villa Moraquitos.
White hairs were mingled in the black locks of the mulatto woman Pepita; the negress Zarah was bent with age, and Tristan, the negro lad, had become a man—a man with powerful passions and a subtle and cunning nature, hidden beneath the mask of pretended ignorance and simplicity.
He could sing grotesque songs, and dance half-savage dances, as in the early days of his young mistress's youth when he was Camillia's only playfellow. He knew a hundred tricks of jugglery, sleight of hand by which he could amuse an idle hour, and even now he was often admitted to display his accomplishments before the Spanish girl, her devoted attendant Pepita, and her old governess, Mademoiselle Pauline Corsi, who still remained with her, no longer as instructress, but in the character of companion and friend.
We have as yet refrained from speaking of the Frenchwoman; but as she may by-and-by play by no means an insignificant part in the great life drama we are relating, it is time that the reader should know more of her.
Pauline Corsi was but seventeen years old when she first came to Villa Moraquitos as the preceptress of Camillia, then a child of six. She was therefore thirty years of age at the time of which we write.
But although arrived at this comparatively mature period of life, she still retained much of her girlish beauty of extreme youth.
Unlike most of her countrywomen, she was very fair, with large, limpid blue eyes, and a wealth of showery flaxen curls. Small and slender, with delicate little feet and hands, there was much in her appearance to indicate patrician extraction. Yet she never alluded to her country or her friends.
She told Don Juan that she was an orphan, homeless, penniless, and friendless, glad to leave the shores of her sunny France for the chances of finding better fortune in the New World.
"And I have found better fortune," she would say, lifting her expressive eyes to the dark face of her haughty employer; "for where could I have hoped to meet a nobler patron, or to find dearer friends or a happier home than I have here. Ah, bless you, noble Spaniard, for your goodness to the helpless stranger."
It was in the summer that Pauline Corsi first came to Villa Moraquitos, and it was in the winter of the same year that Don Tomaso Crivelli expired in the arms of his brother-in-law.
We must request the reader to bear this in mind, for on the truth of certain dates hangs much of the tale of mystery and crime which we are about to reveal.
The gossips of New Orleans were ready to insinuate that the Spaniard's heart would surely be in a little danger from the presence of so young and lovely a woman as the French governess, but they soon grew tired of whispering this, for it was speedily perceived by all who knew Don Juan Moraquitos that his heart was buried in the mausoleum of his fair young wife, Olympia, and that all the love of which his proud nature was capable of was lavished on his only child.
Some girls in the position of Pauline Corsi might have nourished ambitious hopes, and might have angled for the heart and hand of the wealthy Spaniard; but it was impossible to suspect the light-hearted and frivolous young Frenchwoman of the mean vices of the schemer. She was a thing of sunshine and gladness—gay and heedless as the birds she tended in her chamber, careless of the morrow as the flower that perfumed her balcony. So thought all who knew Pauline Corsi.
Did any of them know her rightly?
The hideous skeleton, Time, whose bony hand lifts, inch by inch and day by day, the dark and pall-like curtain that hangs before the vast stage of the future, can alone answer this question.
Camillia Moraquitos was much attached to her old governess. All her varied accomplishments she owed to Mademoiselle Corsi; and, far too generous and high-minded to consider the handsome salary paid to the Frenchwoman a sufficient recompense for her services, she looked upon Pauline's devotion to her as an obligation which could only be paid by gratitude and affection.
The young heiress had often endeavored to bestow some handsome present upon her instructress (a valuable article of jewelry—a ring, a chain, a bracelet), but always to be firmly, though kindly repulsed.
"No, Camillia," Mademoiselle Corsi would reply, "I will take no gift from you but affection—that is a priceless treasure. Bestow that upon me, and you would amply reward me for a lifetime of devotion; the brief years I have given to your instruction have been more than repaid by my pupil's love."
Haughty and reserved as Camillia was to mere acquaintances, she was almost foolishly confiding to those whom she loved.
She had never kept a secret from Pauline Corsi until within this last year, and even then she would have told all to her trusted companion, had she not been forbidden to do so by one whom she loved even better than the Frenchwoman.
This secret was the engagement between herself and Paul Lisimon.
"You will not breathe one word to a mortal of the vows which bind us till death, will you, my Camillia?" said the young man, as, intoxicated with happiness, he pressed his betrothed to his wildly throbbing heart.
"To no one, dearest," answered Camillia, "until your position will warrant you in asking my father's consent to our union. That is to say," she added hesitatingly, "to no one but Pauline. I shall be so anxious to talk of you, and I know I can trust her."
"Not one word to her, Camillia, as you love me," exclaimed Paul, with energy.
"What? you mistrust my faithful Pauline?"
"I mistrust no one," answered Lisimon; "yet, paradoxical as it may seem, I trust scarcely any one. To give your secrets into the keeping of another, is to give your life—nay, the better part of life; for those secrets appertain to the inmost sentiment of your heart. No, Camillia, tell nothing until that day comes, when, proud and triumphant, I can claim you before your father and the world."
"But you believe Pauline to be all that is good?" urged Camillia, her affectionate nature wounded by the warning of Paul.
"Yes, since you tell me so, dearest; but, young as I am in the winding ways of the world, I am older than you, and the experience of Silas Craig's office has taught me many iniquitous secrets."
Augustus Horton had, as our readers are aware, many business transactions with the attorney and usurer, Craig. Despising the man most completely, it yet suited the young planter's purpose to employ him, for Silas was a master in the evil arts of chicanery; a useful lawyer for all business, but above all useful in such affairs as were of too dark and secret a nature to bear exposure to the light of day.
He was the attorney employed by Augustus Horton, by Don Juan Moraquitos, and by most of the wealthiest men in the city of New Orleans; men who affected ignorance of his character, because his style of doing business suited their purpose.
It was at Silas Craig's office that Augustus Horton first saw Paul Lisimon.
The two men encountered each other in an office opening out of the private room occupied by the attorney.
Paul was seated at his desk copying a deed; he looked up only for a moment as the planter entered the apartment, and immediately returned to his work. He knew that the visitor was his rival, Augustus Horton, but, secure in the love of Camillia, he was utterly indifferent to his presence. Not so the planter. He looked long and earnestly at the handsome and Spanish face of the young Mexican.
Simply as Paul was dressed, in the loose linen coat and trousers suitable to the climate, with an open shirt collar of the finest cambric, under which was knotted a black silk handkerchief, there was something so distinguished in his appearance that Augustus Horton could not help wondering who this elegant stranger was who had found his way into Silas Craig's office. So great was his curiosity, that when his business with the lawyer was ended he lingered to ask a few questions about the strange clerk.
"In goodness name, Craig," he said, as he lit a cigar from a box of allumerts upon the attorney's desk, "who is that young aristocrat whom you have secured as a pigeon for plucking, under pretense of teaching him the law?"
"A young aristocrat!"
"Yes, a young man I saw in the next office. A Spaniard, I should imagine, from his appearance. Very dark, with black eyes and curling black hair."
Silas Craig laughed aloud.
"An aristocrat!" he exclaimed, "why, surely you must mean Paul Lisimon?"
"Who is Paul Lisimon?"
"Why, I thought you were a constant visitor at Villa Moraquitos!"
"I am so," replied Augustus.
"And you have never met Paul Lisimon?"
"Never, man! Don't question me, but answer me. Who is this Paul Lisimon?"
"My articled pupil, a young Mexican, a protege of Don Juan's who is studying for the law."
"Who is he, and where did he come from?" asked Augustus, eagerly.
"That no one knows," answered Craig; "the brother-in-law of Don Juan Moraquitos, Don Tomaso Crivelli, brought him to New Orleans thirteen years ago, when the little heiress was about six years old."
"Indeed!" muttered Augustus, biting his lip fiercely; "and the children were brought up together, I suppose?"
"They were."
"That explains all," said the planter, striding toward the door.
"All what?" asked Craig.
"No matter," replied Augustus Horton; and, without another word to the lawyer, he left the apartment and passed once more through the office where Paul Lisimon was seated.
This time it was with a glance of intense malignity that he regarded the young man, who, scarcely conscious of his presence, sat with his head bent over his work.
"So," exclaimed the planter, when he found himself alone; "I thought that you were an iceberg, Camillia Moraquitos, and that the burning breath of passion had never melted your frozen nature. I never dreamt that I had a rival; but the mystery is solved. This Mexican, this nameless dependent on your father's bounty, is doubtless he for whom you scorn the proudest suitors New Orleans can offer. I should have known that a woman is never utterly indifferent to a man's attentions save when she loves another. No matter, Camillia, you will find it no trifle to brave the hatred of Augustus Horton. My rival is younger and handsomer than I; it would be hopeless to attempt to win her love while he is by to sue and be preferred; but before the year is out, I will have thrust him from my pathway as I would an insolent slave on my plantation."