Volume One--Chapter Four.The next day the Spanish slave was summoned to continue his narrative.“Your sublime highness of course recollects where I left off yesterday evening,” commenced the slave.“Perfectly well,” replied the pacha, “you left off at the beginning of your story; but I hope you will finish it this evening, as I have already forgotten a great deal of what you said.”“Your highness may recollect that I was seated—”“Yes, in our presence,” interrupted the pacha; “such was our condescension to a Giaour. Now go on with your story.”“With due submission to your highness, I was seated on a sofa, between my mother Donna Celia and my mistress Donna Clara.”“Very true; I recollect now that you were.”“A hand clasped in the hand of each.”“Exactly,” replied the pacha, impatiently.“And was about to tell a story of my own invention, to deceive the old lady my mother.”“Anna senna! curses on your mother!” cried the pacha, in an angry tone. “Sit down and continue your story. Is a pacha nothing? Is the lion to be chafed by a jackal? Wallah el Nebi! By God and the Prophet! do you laugh at our beard? The story!”“The story requested by your highness,” replied the slave, with great coolness, “was commenced in the following words.”Story of the Monk.What occurred during my infancy, my dearest mother, I do not recollect; but I can retrace to the age of seven years, when I found myself in company with a number of others, from the squalling infant of a few days old, up to about my own age. I also recollect that our fare was indifferent, and our punishment severe.“Poor child!” exclaimed Donna Celia, pressing my hand which was still locked in hers. I continued there until the age of ten, when an old lady who came to the asylum, took a fancy to me; for I often heard it remarked, that I was a very handsome boy, although I have rather grown out of my good looks lately, Clara.A pressure of my other hand, and a negative smile, was the answer; and I proceeded—The old lady Donna Isabella, who was of the noble family of Guzman, wanted a page, and intended to bring me up in that capacity. She carried me to her house where I was clad in a fancy dress. I used to sit by her side on the carpet, and run upon any message which might be required; in fact, I was a sort of human bell, calling up every body and fetching every thing that was wanted; but I was well fed, and very proud of a little dagger which I wore in my girdle. The only part of my education to which I objected, was learning to read and write from a priest, who was domiciled in the family, and who had himself as great an aversion to teaching as I had to learning. Had the affair rested entirely between us, we might have arranged matters so as to please both parties; but as the old lady used to prove my acquirements by making me read to her, as she knotted, we neither of us could help fulfilling our engagements. By dint of bullying and beating, at last I was sufficiently enlightened to be able to read a romance to my mistress, or answer an invitation-note in the negative or affirmative. My mistress had two nieces who lived with her, both nearly grown up when I entered the family. They taught me dancing for their own amusement, as well as many other things; and by their care I improved very much, even in reading and writing. Although a child, I had a pleasure in being taught by two pretty girls. But it is necessary that I should be more particular in my description of these two young ladies. The eldest, whose name was Donna Emilia, was of a prudent, sedate disposition, always cheerful, but never boisterous; she constantly smiled, but seldom, if ever, indulged in a laugh. The youngest, Donna Teresa, was very different—joyous and light-hearted, frank and confiding in her temper, generous in disposition: her faults arose from an excess of every feeling—a continual running into extremes. Never were two sisters more fond of each other—it appeared as if the difference between their dispositions but added to their attachment. The serious character of the elder was roused to playfulness by the vivacity of the younger, and the extravagance of the younger was kept in due bounds by the prudence of the elder. As a child I liked Donna Emilia, but I was devotedly fond of Donna Teresa.I had been three years in this situation, when legal business required the presence of Donna Isabella at Madrid. The young ladies, who were both very handsome, and remarkably like each other in person, were much admired by the cavaliers. Two had gained the victory over the rival candidates—Don Perez was the favoured suitor of Donna Emilia, while Don Florez was proud to wear the chains of the lively Teresa. Donna Isabella had, however, no intention that her nieces should quit her for the present; and aware, by the serenading which took place every night, that there were pretenders to her nieces’ smiles, she hastened back to Seville sooner than she had intended.Although I had not been trusted by either, I had an idea of what was going on; but with more prudence than most boys of my age, I made no remarks either to my mistress or to the young ladies. We had returned to Seville about a month, when Donna Emilia called me aside, and said, “Pedro, can you keep a secret?”I told her—“Yes, if I was paid for it.”“And what do you want to induce you to keep it, you little miser?”I replied—“From her, only a kiss.”She called me a little rogue, gave me the kiss, and then told me, that a cavalier would be under the window a little after vesper bell, and that I must give him a billet, which she put into my hand. Of course, having received my payment beforehand, I consented. At the time mentioned I looked out of the gate, and perceiving a cavalier under the window, I accosted him, “What ho, senhor, what is it you expect from a fair lady?”“A billet, my little page,” replied he.“Then here you have it,” replied I, pulling it out of my vest. He put a doubloon in my hand, and immediately disappeared.I liked the gold very much, but I preferred the other payment more. I put the money into my pocket, and returned into the house. I had hardly come into the hall, when Donna Teresa, the other young lady, accosted me. “Pedro, I have been looking for you—can you keep a secret?”“Yes, if I am paid for it,” replied I, as before.“And what must it be that will keep that little tongue of yours from chattering?”“From you,” replied I, “it must be a kiss.”“Oh! you little manikin—I’ll give you twenty;” and she did so, until she almost took away my breath. “And now,” said she, “there is a senhor waiting below for a note, which you must take him.” I took the note, and when I came to the gate, found a cavalier there, as she had mentioned. “Oh, senhor,” said I, “what are you waiting for, is it a billet-doux from a sweet lady?”“It is, my pretty boy,” answered he.“Perhaps this will interest you,” replied I, handing him the note. He snatched it from me, and would have departed. “Senhor,” said I, “I cannot allow my mistress to be affronted. Her favours are beyond all price, but still they are always coupled with gold. Since you are so poor, and gold must pass, here is a piece for you,” and I offered him the doubloon which I had received from the other cavalier.“You are a witty boy,” replied he, “and have corrected my negligence, for it was nothing more, I assure you. Add this to the other;”—and he put a quarter-doubloon in my hand, and disappeared. I returned to the house; and, as I had been some time away from my mistress, I went into the saloon—where she was sitting alone.“Pedro, come hither, child; you know how good I have been to you, and how carefully I have brought you up. Now tell me, can you keep a secret?”“Yes, madam,” replied I, “I can keep yours, for it is my duty.”“That’s a good child. Well then, I have an idea that my two nieces are followed by some of the gay cavaliers, who saw them at Madrid, and I wish you to find out if it is true.—Do you understand?”“Oh, yes, madam,” replied I; “I do perfectly.”“Well then, do you watch,—and Pedro, here are two reals for you, to buy sugar-plums.”Thus did I enter in one day into the real occupation of a page. I added the two reals to the gold, and, as you may suppose, meant to serve as I was paid. But, as I found out afterwards, I had made a terrible mistake with the two billets-doux. That of Donna Emilia I had given to Don Florez, who was Donna Teresa’s admirer; that of Donna Teresa I had given to Don Perez, who was the lover of Donna Emilia; but I had better explain to you, before I go on, what did not come to my knowledge until thedénouementtook place. Don Perez, the lover of Emilia, was a young man who was entitled to large property, at the death of an uncle, to whom he was heir by entail. Don Florez, on the contrary, was in possession of a splendid fortune, and able to choose for himself.From fear of discovery, the notes were both in a disguised hand, and not signed by the respective christian names of the ladies. Donna Emilia’s ran thus:— “I found your note in the spot agreed, but my aunt has taken away the key of the shrubbery, and is I believe suspicious.—Why are you so urgent?—I trust your affection, like mine, will but increase from delay. It will be impossible to meet you to-night; but I have entered the page in my service, and will write soon.” That of Donna Teresa, which I put in the hands of Don Perez, ran as follows:— “I can no longer refuse your solicitations for an interview. My aunt has locked up the shrubbery, but if you have courage enough to scale the garden wall, I will meet you in the saloon which opens upon the garden; but not a word must be said, as the servants are continually passing the door—neither can we have a light—I must trust to your honour.”Don Perez was delighted at Donna Emilia’s having at last yielded to his intreaties for a meeting; and Don Florez, as much annoyed at the reserved conduct of his mistress, went home accusing her of coquetry. At the appointed hour, Don Perez met his supposed mistress in the saloon. The two sisters wereconfidantes; and, as I was in their secret, they made no scruple of talking before me. The next day, when their aunt left the room, they began arguing upon the personal merits of the respective cavaliers. After a good-humoured controversy, they appealed to me.“Come, Pedro,” said Teresa, “you shall decide. Which do you think the handsomest cavalier?”“Why,” answered I, “I think that your senhor is, for a fair man, the handsomest I ever saw—but still the beautiful dark eyes of the Donna Emilia’s cavalier are equally prepossessing.”“Why, Pedro, you have mistaken the two,” said Emilia, “it is Don Perez, the fair one, who is my admirer, and the dark senhor is Don Florez, who is in love with my sister.” I perceived that I had made a mistake when I delivered the notes, and Teresa coloured up. But I had sense enough to answer:— “Very true, madam, you are right; I now recollect that I am confounding the two.”Shortly afterwards the aunt came into the room, and Teresa quitted it, beckoning me to follow her. As soon as I had joined her, she said, “Now, Pedro, tell the truth: did you not make the mistake that you stated, and deliver my note to the fair cavalier, Don Perez?”I answered, “that I had, as I had already delivered Emilia’s note to the dark gentleman.” Donna Teresa put her hands over her face, and wept bitterly,—“Pedro, you must now keep this secret, for it is of the greatest importance.—My God, what will become of me?” cried she; and for some time she was in the greatest distress: at last she wiped her eyes, and after much reflection, she took up paper and wrote a note. “Pedro, take this note to the direction; recollect it is for the dark cavalier that it is intended.” Teresa had read the note of Emilia to Don Perez, which had been received by Don Florez—in consequence her present note ran thus:— “You may think me harsh for having refused to see you last night, but I was afraid. Do not accuse me with trifling with your feelings, I will meet you in the saloon that leads to the garden, which was last night occupied; come at ten this evening.”I went out with the note and gave it into the hands of Don Florez. “My dear boy, tell Donna Teresa I will not fail; I know now why she could not receive me last night; I only hope I may be as fortunate as Don Perez.” He put a doubloon in my hand, and I went away. I had not quitted the street when I met Don Perez.“Ah! my little page, this is indeed lucky; just step to my rooms while I write a note to Donna Emilia.” I did so, and he gave me a quarter-doubloon as before. “I thank you, senhor,” replied I; “what with the doubloons of Don Florez and your quarter-doubloons, I shall soon be a rich man.”“How say you,” replied he, “Don Florez give you doubloons—then he spoils the market; but I must not allow him to pay you better than I do, or I shall not be served so faithfully.—Here’s a doubloon and a half, which, with what you have already received, will make the accounts square.” I made my bow, and with many thanks withdrew.Young as I was, I had an idea that something had occurred at the mistaken meeting of last night, which seriously affected Donna Teresa. As I was much more partial to her than to her sister, I resolved not to deliver the note of Don Perez to Emilia, until I had consulted Donna Teresa. On my return, I beckoned her into her chamber, and told her the answer of Don Florez, with his observation, “that he hoped he should be as fortunate as Don Perez was last night.” She coloured with shame and vexation; and I then told her how I had met Don Perez, and what had passed. I then gave her the note, and asked whether I should deliver it or not. She hastily tore it open—it ran as follows:—“How can I sufficiently express my gratitude to my adored Emilia, for her kindness to me last night? Tell me, dearest angel, when am I to have the pleasure of meeting you again in the saloon? Till you once more grant me the favour, life will be a blank.”“Pedro,” said she, “you have indeed done me a service—you have been my preserver. How can I ever repay you?”“Give me a double allowance of kisses, this time,” replied I.“I will give you a thousand,” answered she; and she kissed and blessed me while tears ran down her cheeks: she then took some paper, and imitating the hand-writing, wrote as follows:— “I must submit to your wishes, Donna Emilia; and while your sister blesses Don Florez, must yield to the severity of your disposition. Still I hope that you will relent—I am very miserable; write to me, if you have any love still remaining for your adorer.—Perez.”“Take this to Emilia, my sweet child.—What can I do to reward you?”“Why you must take care of my money,” said I, “for if my mistress finds it out, I shall never be able to tell how I came by it.” She smiled mournfully as she received my doubloons, and locked them up in a trinket-box. “I will add to your wealth, Pedro,” said she.“No,” replied I, “only kisses from you.” I told her why her aunt gave me the two reals, and we separated. I delivered the note to Donna Emilia, who in the afternoon put an answer into my hand; but I would not act without Donna Teresa knowing what took place; and it occurred to me, that it would be very possible to repair the mischief which my mistake had occasioned. I therefore took the answers of Donna Emilia to her lover to Donna Teresa, and told her what I thought. “My dear Pedro, you are indeed a treasure to me,” replied Teresa.She opened Emilia’s note, which ran as follows:— “You accuse me of unkindness, which I do not deserve. Heaven knows my heart is but too yielding. I will arrange a meeting as soon as I possibly can; but as I before said, my aunt is suspicious, and I cannot make up my mind, like Teresa, to run the risk of discovery.”Teresa tore up this note; and wrote as follows:— “If a woman has the misfortune to yield too much to the solicitations of her lover, he becomes arrogant, and claims as a right, what only can be received as a favour. I consider that what passes in darkness should remain as secret in the breast, and as silent in the tongue. I now tell you candidly, that I shall consider it as an insult, if ever you refer to the meeting of last night; and to punish you for your arrogant request of another, shall treat you with the same reserve as before. Recollect that the least intimation of it, however private we may be, will be the signal of your dismissal. At the same time, expecting implicit obedience to this command, I shall punish you no further, if you offend not again. When I feel inclined to see you, I will let you know. Till then, Yours, etcetera.”I took this note to Don Perez, whom I found at his lodgings drinking in company with Don Florez, for they had no secrets from each other. Perez opened the note, and appeared a little astonished. “Read this, Florez,” said he, “and tell me if woman is not a riddle.”“Well, now I like her spirit,” replied Florez, “some women would have been dying with apprehension at your leaving them: she, on the contrary, considers that you are under greater obligations than before; and assumes her dominion over you. I recommend you to comply with her injunctions, if you wish to retain her love.”“I don’t know but what you are right, Florez; and as we are lords and masters after marriage, it is but fair, that they should hold their uninterrupted sway before. I feel more attached to her than ever; and if she chooses to play the tyrant, why she shall. It shows her good sense; for keeping us off, is the only way to induce us to go on.”I returned home, delivering a note from Don Perez to Emilia, stating his intention to abide by her wishes, and stated to Donna Teresa all that had passed between the cavaliers.“Thanks to your prudence and sagacity, my dear little Pedro, all as yet is well; but it may yet be discovered; for I will now confide to you, that the tenderness last night, intended for Don Florez, was by your mistake, and the darkness and silence prescribed at the meeting, lavished upon my sister’s admirer. But all will I trust be well, and I shall not suffer for an unintentional misfortune.”That evening Don Florez was received by Teresa in the saloon; and the next morning, I was sitting as usual by my mistress, when she asked, “Well, Pedro, have you discovered any thing?”“Yes, madam,” replied I.“And what is it, child?”“Why, madam, a gentleman asked me to give a letter, but I would not.”“Who was it for, child?”“I don’t know, madam, for I refused to take it in my hand.”“Well, Pedro, you were right; the next time he offers you a letter take it, and bring it to me.”“I will, madam,” said I. “Here are two reals for you, child—have you spent the last I gave you?”I left the room—when Donna Emilia met me outside, and put a note into my hand for Don Perez. I first took it to my friend Teresa, who opened it:— “At last my affection has borne down my resolution, and I consent to see you. There is no other way but in the saloon. Be careful not to offend me, or it will be for the last time.”“This may go, Pedro,” said Teresa, “and you may call at Don Florez’s lodgings as you pass by.”I delivered the note to Don Perez, and before he had finished it, Don Florez entered the room.—“Congratulate me, my dear friend,” said he. “I was received as kindly as I could wish.”“And my fair one has not taken long to relent,” answered Perez, “for I have an appointment with her this evening. Pedro, tell your mistress, that I do not write, but that I bless her for her kindness, and shall not fail to meet her.—Do you understand? Well, what are you waiting for? Oh! you little rogue, I understand,” and he threw me a doubloon.—“Florez, you give that boy too much money, and I am obliged to do the same.” Florez laughed, and I again took my departure.Thus did I continue in my vocation for some time, when the old lady fell sick and died. She divided her fortune between her two nieces, and as they were now independent, they married their respective lovers; but the old lady forgot to mention me in her will, and I should have been turned adrift on the world had it not been for Donna Teresa, who immediately appointed me as her own attendant. I was as happy as before, although no more doubloons fell into my hands, after the marriages took place. It appears that Don Perez was so much afraid of offending Donna Emilia, that he never ventured to speak of the meeting, which he supposed he had with her in the saloon, until after marriage then, feeling himself quite at liberty, he had laughed at her on the subject. Donna Emilia was all astonishment, declared most positively that it had not taken place; and although he at first ridiculed the idea of her denial, yet recollecting that he still had her notes in his possession, he brought them out, and showed her the one in which she had prohibited him from speaking on the subject. Donna Emilia protested that it was not her writing, and was confounded at the apparent mystery. She stated that Teresa had agreed to meet Don Florez in the saloon that night.“On the contrary,” replied Don Perez, “he received a letter from Donna Teresa, refusing him a meeting, at the same time that I received this from you, giving me the assignation.”Donna Emilia burst into tears. “I see how it is,” replied she, “the page by mistake has given the note which I wrote you to Don Florez, and Teresa’s note fell into your hands. You have taken an unworthy advantage of the circumstance, and have met my sister. Never make me believe, Don Perez, that you were not aware of the mistake, when she received you in the saloon—or that she could not distinguish you from Don Florez. Cruel sister, thus to rob me of my happiness! Treacherous Don Perez, thus to betray your friend and me!”Don Perez tried all he could to pacify his wife, but in vain. Her jealousy, her pride, and her conscientious scruples were roused, and she would not listen to any reasoning or protestations. Although he was almost certain, that the fact was as his wife had stated, he determined to make sure by referring to me. He came to Don Florez’s house, and after staying a little while with him and his wife, during which he appeared so uneasy that they asked him whether he was unwell, he went away making a sign for me to follow him. He then entered into all the particulars, and asked me about the delivery of the notes. I took it for granted, that an explanation had taken place between him and his wife—my only object was to save Donna Teresa.“Senhor, whether what Donna Emilia says is true, I know not,” replied I; “but, that it was not Donna Teresa who met you, I can certify, for I was in her room with her that night till she went to bed, playing at piquet for sugar-plums.”“Then who could it be,” observed he.“I know not, senhor, for I did not go down stairs, where my mistress was, because she had sent me to bed, and I knew that I should have been scolded for being up. Therefore I cannot say whether Donna Emilia was with you or not.”Don Perez meditated some time, and then came to the conclusion that his wife was ashamed of having been too indulgent to him in an unguarded moment, and would not acknowledge it. Still he was far from being satisfied. He returned home, to explain what he had gathered to his wife but found that she had left the house some time before, without stating whither she was going. As soon as Don Perez left the house, I hastened to my mistress, to acquaint her with what had passed, and what I had told him.“I thank you for your kind intention, Pedro, but I am afraid that all will be discovered. It is a judgment on me for my folly and indiscretion.”In the mean time, Donna Emilia, who had taken refuge in a neighbouring convent, sent for Don Florez. He found her in the convent-parlour in tears. Convinced by jealousy that her sister had an attachment to Don Perez, and that there had been a mutual understanding, she stated to Don Florez the whole of the circumstances, and pointing out to him how treacherously they both had been treated, acquainted him with her intention of retiring from the world.Don Florez, stirred to madness by the information, exclaimed—“It was for this, then, that she put me off on that night, and was kind to me the next. Cursed dupe that I have been; but, thank Heaven, it is not too late to be revenged. Don Perez, you shall pay dearly for this.” So saying, he quitted Donna Emilia, uncertain whether he should first wreak his vengeance upon Don Perez or his wife. But this point was soon decided, for at the convent gate he encountered Don Perez, who had been informed whither his wife had retreated.“You are the person I have been anxiously wishing to see, Don Perez—treacherous villain, void of all honour.”“Not so, Don Florez. I am an unfortunate man, who is half mad by a cruel mistake which has occurred. Recall your words, for they are unjust.”“I do not intend to recall them, but assert the truth with the point of my rapier. If you are not as great a coward, as you are a villain, you will follow me.”“Such language will admit of no reply. I am at your service,” cried Don Perez.The two brothers-in-law walked in silence, until they reached a field hard by, where they threw off their cloaks, and fought with the fury of demons. Victory was decided in favour of Don Perez; his sword passed through the heart of his adversary, who never spoke again. Don Perez viewed the body with a stern countenance, wiped his sword, took up his cloak, and walked straight to the house of Don Florez. “Donna Teresa,” said he, (I only was present,) “I call upon you, as you value salvation in the day of judgment, to tell me the truth. Was it you, that, by an unfortunate mistake, I met one night in the saloon; and were those caresses, intended for Don Florez, bestowed upon me?”There was a wildness, a ferocity in his air that frightened her; she stammered out at last:— “for my sins, it is true; but you know, too well, that I never was false in heart, although when I found out my mistake, I attempted to conceal my indiscretion.”“Had you, madam, been as virtuous as your sister, all this mischief would not have happened—and your husband would not now be lying a corpse, by the hand of his brother.”Donna Teresa fainted at the intelligence, and Don Perez immediately quitted the house. I hastened to her assistance, and succeeded in restoring her to life.“It is but too true,” said she, mournfully; “crime will always meet with punishment, in this world, or in the next. By permitting my love to overcome the dictates of virtue, by being too fond of my husband, I have murdered him. Oh God! I have murdered him and rendered the lives of two others as much a burden to them as my own will ever be. My poor, dear sister, where is she?”I tried all my powers of consolation, but in vain: all she requested was that I would find out where her sister was, and let her know. I set off upon my melancholy task, and met the people hearing in the body of Don Florez. I shuddered as it passed by, when I recollected how principal a part I had acted in the tragedy. I soon gained the information, and brought it to Donna Teresa. She dressed herself in deep mourning, and, desiring me to follow her, knocked at the convent gate, and, requesting to see the superior, was admitted. The superior came out of the parlour to receive her, not wishing that any one should enter, while Donna Emilia was in such a state of misery and despair.“It is my sister that I come to see, madam, and I must not be refused: lead me to her, and be witness of the scene, if you please.”The superior, who was not aware that Emilia would have refused to see Donna Teresa, led the way, and we were ushered into the presence of Emilia, who, looking up as Donna Teresa entered, turned away from her as if in abhorrence.“Emilia,” said my mistress, “we are born of the same mother, we have lived as children, and we have grown up together; never did we have a secret from each other, till this unfortunate mistake occurred. On my knees, I request you to listen to me, and to believe what I say.”“Plead your cause with your husband, Teresa; it is more necessary to pacify him than me.”“I have no husband, Emilia; he is now pleading his own cause with God—for he has fallen by the sword of yours.”Donna Emilia started.“Yes, Emilia, dear, dear sister, it is but too true, and still more true, that you have caused his death. Do not kill me too, Emilia, by refusing to believe what I declare, as I hope for eternal salvation—that I never was aware of the mistake, until the boy discovered it to me, on the ensuing day. If you knew the shame, the vexation, the fear of discovery which racked my frame, when I was but too sure of it, you would forgive my having tried to hide a fault, the knowledge of which would make others miserable, as well as me. Say you believe me—say you forgive me, Emilia. Oh! Emilia, cannot you forgive a sister?”Emilia answered not, and Teresa, clinging to her knees, and embracing them, sobbed hysterically. At this moment Don Perez, who had obtained admittance to see his wife, came into the room, and walking up to the part in which the two unfortunate ladies remained in the attitudes described, said,—“You, Teresa, who have been the original cause of this unhappy business, I mean not to reproach again. Your punishment has been greater than your offence. It is to you, madam, I must address myself; who, by not believing in the words of truth, have caused me to slay my dearest friend and brother, and, after having unwittingly wounded him in the tenderest point, add to the injury by taking away his life. Are you yet satisfied, madam? Are you satisfied with having embittered my days by your injustice and unworthy suspicions—by having reduced your unfortunate, yet not guilty sister, to the state of an unhappy, lonely woman, now suing in vain for pardon at your feet; by having been the occasion of the death of your brother by marriage—her husband and my friend? Say, madam, are you yet satisfied, or will you have more victims to your unbelief?”Emilia answered not, but continued with her face averted.“Be it so, then, madam;” replied Don Perez; and, before any one was aware of his intention, he drew his sword, and fell upon it. “Now, Emilia, let the sacrifice of my life be a proof to you of my sincerity. As I hope for pardon, I have told the truth;” and Don Perez fell on his back, and was dead.Emilia started round when he fell, and threw herself down by his side in horror and amazement. The film that passion had thrown over her eyes was removed, as she witnessed the last melancholy result of her unbelief. When Don Pedro ceased speaking, she threw herself on his body, in an agony of grief.—“I do, I do believe—Perez. I do, I do! Oh! indeed I do believe—speak to me, Perez—O God, he is dying!—Sister, Teresa, come, come, he’ll speak to you—he’s not angry with you—Sister, sister, speak—O God! O God!” screamed the unhappy woman, “he’s dead—and I have murdered him!”—and she dashed her head upon the floor. Teresa hastened to her sister, and held her in her arms, while the tears poured fast. It was some time before reason resumed her seat; at last, exhausted by the violence of her feelings, she was relieved with a flood of tears.“Who is it?—you, Teresa—kind sister, whom I have used so ill—I do believe you—I do believe, Teresa; God forgive me! kiss me, sister, and say that you forgive me—for am I not punished?”“It is all my fault,” answered Teresa, bursting into tears: “Oh! how wicked, how foolish have I been!”“No, no, sister, your fault is small, compared to mine; you allowed your passion to overcome you, but it arose from an excess of love, the best feeling in our nature—the only remnant of heaven left us since our fall. I too have allowed my passion to overcome me; but whence has it arisen?—from hatred and jealousy, feelings which were implanted by demons, and which create a hell wherever they command. But it is done, and repentance comes too late.”The unfortunate sisters embraced each other and mingled their tears together; and I hardly need say, that the lady abbess and I could not restrain our meed of pity at the affecting scene. As the evening closed, they separated, each to attend to the same mournful duty, of watching by the bodies of their husbands, and bedewing them with their tears. A few days after the interments took place, Emilia sent for her sister, and after an affectionate interview, took the veil in the convent to which she had retired—endowing the church with her property. Donna Teresa did not take the veil; but employed herself in the more active duties of charity and benevolence; but she gradually wasted away—her heart was broken. I stayed with her for three years, when she died, leaving a considerable sum to me, and the remainder of her wealth to beneficent institutions. This is about five years ago; since when I have been living on the property, which is nearly all expended by my extravagance. The stigma on my birth is, however, the only subject which has weighed upon my spirits—this is providentially removed, and I trust that I shall not disgrace the mother who has so kindly acknowledged me, or the dear girl who has honoured this faulty person with her attachment.My mother and Clara thanked me when I had concluded my narrative, and we remained unto a late hour entering upon family affairs, and planning for the future. My mother informed me that upon the estates she had only a life interest, as they were entailed, and would revert to a cousin; but that she had laid by a considerable sum of money, intending it as a dowry for my Clara, and that she hoped to increase it before she died. As I was anxious to quit Seville, where I feared daily discovery, I proposed that we should retire to the estate near Carthagena, by which not only a considerable expense would be saved, but I should feel more happy in the company of Clara and herself. My mother and my intended gladly consented to the proposal, not only for the above reasons, but because she was aware that the questions which might be asked about me would tend to the injury of her character. In less than a fortnight the establishment at Seville was broken up, and we retired to the country, where I was made happy by the possession of my Clara. I now considered myself as secure from any discovery, and although I had led a life of duplicity, meant by future good conduct to atone for the past. Whether Donna Celia was my mother or not, I felt towards her as if she was, and after some time from habit considered it an established fact. My Clara was as kind and endearing as I could desire; and for five years I was as happy as I could wish. But it was not to last: I was to be punished for my deceit. My marriage with Clara, and the mystery attached to my birth, which was kept secret, had irritated the heir of the estate, who had been in hopes, by marrying Clara himself, to secure the personal as well as the real property. We occasionally met, but we met with rancour in our hearts, for I resented his behaviour towards me. Fearful of discovery, I had never paid any attention to music since my marriage; I had always pretended that I could not sing. Even my wife was not aware of my talent; and although latterly I had no fear of the kind, yet as I had always stated my inability, I did not choose to bring forth a talent, the reason for concealing which I could not explain even to my wife and mother, without acknowledging the deception of which I had been guilty.It happened that one evening at a large party I met my cousin, the heir of the entailed estates. We were very joyous and merry, and had drunk a good deal more than usual. The wine was powerful, and had taken effect upon most of us. Singing was introduced, and the night passed merrily away, more visitors occasionally dropping in. My cousin was much elated with wine, and made several ill-natured remarks, which were meant for me. I took no notice for some time, but, as he continued, I answered with such spirit, as to arouse his indignation. My own blood boiled; but the interference of mutual friends pacified us for the time, and we renewed our applications to the bottle. My cousin was called upon for a song; he had a fine voice and considerable execution, and was much applauded.“Now then,” said he, in an ironical tone, “perhaps Don Pedro will oblige the company; although perhaps the real way to oblige them will be by not attempting that of which he is not capable.”Stung with this sarcasm, and flushed with wine, I forgot my prudence. Snatching the guitar from him, after a prelude which created the greatest astonishment of all present, I commenced one of my most successful airs: I sang it in my best style, and it electrified the whole party. Shouts proclaimed my victory, and the defeat of my relative. Some embraced me in their enthusiasm, and all loudly encored; but as soon as there was a moment’s silence, I heard a voice behind me observe—“Either that is the monk Anselmo’s voice, or the devil’s.”I started at the words, and turned round to the speaker, but he had mingled with the crowd, and I could not discover who it was. I perceived that my relative had followed him on; and I now cursed my own imprudence. As soon as I could, I made my escape from the company, and returned home. As I afterwards found out, my relative had immediately communicated with the person who had made the observation. He was one of the priests who knew me at Seville. From him, my cousin gained the information that brother Anselmo had left the convent about five years ago, and not having returned, it was thought that an accident had happened to him. But a discovery had since been made, which led them to suppose, that brother Anselmo had, for some time, been carrying on a system of deception. You may remember I stated, that when I resumed my worldly apparel to introduce myself as the son of Donna Celia, I changed the dress at my lodgings. I locked up my friar’s dress and the false tonsure in the chest, intending to have returned, and destroyed it; but I quite forgot it, and left Seville with the key of my lodgings in my pocket. The landlord waited until his rent was due, when not hearing any thing of me, he broke open the door and found the chest. This he opened, and discovered the false tonsure and friar’s gown. Knowing the monastic order to which it belonged, and suspecting some mischief; he took it to our convent, and all the habits of the monks being numbered in the inside, it was immediately recognised as mine: the false tonsure also betrayed that I must have been breaking through the rules of my order, and the most rigorous search after me was made for some time without success. Possessed of this information, my vindictive relative repaired to Seville to ascertain the exact date of my quitting the convent, and found that it was about a fortnight previous to Donna Celia having quitted Seville. He then repaired to the landlord for further information. The landlord stated that the lodgings had been taken by a monk, for his brother, who had occupied them. He described the brother’s person, which exactly corresponded with mine; and my relation was convinced that the monk Anselmo and Don Pedro were one and the same person. He immediately gave notice to the Inquisition. In the mean time, I was in the greatest consternation. I felt that I should be discovered, and reflected upon my conduct. I had lately abjured all deceit, and had each day gained a step in the path of virtue. I acknowledged with bitterness, that I deserved all that threatened me, and that, sooner or later, vice will meet with its reward. Had I at first made known my situation to Donna Celia, she would have had interest enough (believing me to be her son), to have obtained a dispensation of my vows. I then might have boldly faced the world—but one act of duplicity required another to support it, and thus had I entangled myself in a snare, by which I was to be entrapped at last. But it was not for myself that I cared; it was for my wife whom I doted on—for my mother (or supposed mother), to whom it would be the bitterness of death. The thoughts of rendering others miserable as well as myself drove me to distraction—and how to act I knew not.After much reflection, I resolved as a last resource, to throw myself upon the generosity of my adversary; for although inimical to me, he bore a high character as a Spanish cavalier. I desired to be informed the moment that he returned from Seville; and when the intelligence came, I immediately repaired to his house, and requested an audience. I was admitted; when Don Alvarez, for that was his name, addressed me.“You wish to speak with me, Don Pedro—there are others at your house by this time who wish to speak with you.”I guessed that he meant the officers of the Inquisition; but pretending not to understand the remark, I answered him:— “Don Alvarez, the enmity that you have invariably shown towards me has, I am sure, proceeded from the affront, which you consider that your noble family has received, by your cousin having formed an alliance with one of unknown parentage. I have long borne with your pointed insults, out of respect for her who gave me birth; I am now about to throw myself upon your generosity, and probably when I inform you, that I am the unhappy issue of the early amour of Donna Celia (which of course you have heard of), I may then claim your compassion, if not your friendship, from having at least some of the same noble blood in my veins.”“I was not indeed aware of it,” replied Don Alvarez, with agitation; “I would to Heaven you had confided in me before.”“Perhaps it would have been better,” replied I, “but permit me to prove my assertions.” I then stated my having been the friar Anselmo, the discovery of my birth by accident, and the steps which I had taken. “I am aware,” continued I, “that I have been much to blame, but my love for Donna Clara made me regardless of consequences. Your unfortunate enmity induced me, in an unguarded moment, to expose myself; and it will probably end in my destruction.”“I acknowledge the truth of your remark, and that no power can save you, I lament it, Don Pedro; but what is done cannot be undone. Even now the officers of the Inquisition are at your house.” As he uttered these words, a loud knocking at the door announced that they had followed me. “This must not be Don Pedro,” said Don Alvarez, “step this way.” He opened a panel, and desired me to go in—and he hardly had time to shut it before the officers came into the room.“You have him here, Don Alvarez, have you not?” inquired the chief.“No, unfortunately,” replied he, “I tried to detain him, but suspecting some discovery he forced his way out, sword in hand, and has gone I do not know in what direction; but he cannot be far—saddle all the horses in my stable and pursue the sacrilegious wretch. I would sacrifice half my worldly wealth, that he should not escape my vengeance.”As Don Alvarez was the informant, and uttered these words with the apparent violence of rage, the inquisitors had no suspicion, but hastened to comply with his request. As soon as they had departed, he opened the panel and let me out.“So far, Don Pedro, have I proved the sincerity of my assertion; but now, what remains to be done?”“But one thing, Don Alvarez, to conceal the truth from my poor wife and mother. I could bear it all with firmness, but for them,” (and I fell on a sofa, and burst into tears.) Don Alvarez was much affected.“Oh, Don Pedro! it is too late now, or I should say, ‘What a warning this ought to be to us—that honesty is the best policy!’ had you communicated to me the mystery of your birth, this never would have occurred. Instead of having been your persecutor, I should have been your friend—What can I do?”“Kill me, Don Alvarez,” replied I, baring my breast, “and I will bless you for the deed. My death may afflict them, but they will recover from their grief in time; but to know that I am murdered by the Inquisition, as a sacrilegious impostor, will bring them to their grave with shame and mortification.”“Your observation is correct; but kill you I must not. I will, however, so far comply with your wishes, that I will bear the news of your death, and their hatred of the deed, rather than the family should be disgraced.” He then went to his scrutoire, and taking out a bag of one thousand pistoles—“This is all the money that I have at present—it will serve you for some time. Put on one of my servant’s dresses, and I will accompany you to a seaport, and secure your safety before I leave you. I will then state, that I met you in a fair duel, and will bribe the officers of the Inquisition to hold their tongues about the circumstances which have been communicated.”The advice was good, and I agreed to it; following him as a servant, I arrived safely at Carthagena, whence I took a passage for New Spain. We sailed; and before we were clear of the Straits of Gibraltar, we were attacked by one of the cruisers of the state. We fought desperately, but were overpowered by numbers; and they took possession, after we had lost more than half of our crew. They brought us into this port; where, with the rest, I was sold as a slave.“Such is my history,” ended the Spaniard, “which I trust has afforded some amusement to your sublime highness.”The immediate answer of the pacha was a loud yawn.“Shukur Allah! Praise be to God you have done talking. I do not understand much about it,” continued the pacha, turning round to Mustapha; “but how can we expect a good story from an unbelieving dog of a Christian?”“Wallah thaib! Well said, by God!” replied Mustapha; “who was Lokman, that they talk of his wisdom? Are not these words of more value than strung pearls?”“What was the name of the country?” demanded the pacha.“Spain, your sublime highness; the infidel tribes which you allow to remain there, are employed in cultivating the olive for true believers.”“Very true,” rejoined the pacha; “I remember now. Let the kafir taste of our bounty. Give him two pieces of gold; and allow him to depart.”“May the shadow of your sublime highness never be less,” said the Spaniard. “I have here a manuscript which I received from an ancient monk of our order when at the point of death. At the time of my capture it was thrown on one side, and I preserved it as curious. It refers to the first discovery of an island. As your highness is pleased to be amused with stories, it may be worth while to have it translated.” The Dominican then handed from his breast a discoloured piece of parchment.“Very good,” replied the pacha, rising. “Mustapha let it be put into Arabic by the Greek slave, who shall read it to us some evening when we have no story-tellers.”“Be chesm! Upon my eyes be it,” replied Mustapha, bowing low, as the pacha retired to his harem.
The next day the Spanish slave was summoned to continue his narrative.
“Your sublime highness of course recollects where I left off yesterday evening,” commenced the slave.
“Perfectly well,” replied the pacha, “you left off at the beginning of your story; but I hope you will finish it this evening, as I have already forgotten a great deal of what you said.”
“Your highness may recollect that I was seated—”
“Yes, in our presence,” interrupted the pacha; “such was our condescension to a Giaour. Now go on with your story.”
“With due submission to your highness, I was seated on a sofa, between my mother Donna Celia and my mistress Donna Clara.”
“Very true; I recollect now that you were.”
“A hand clasped in the hand of each.”
“Exactly,” replied the pacha, impatiently.
“And was about to tell a story of my own invention, to deceive the old lady my mother.”
“Anna senna! curses on your mother!” cried the pacha, in an angry tone. “Sit down and continue your story. Is a pacha nothing? Is the lion to be chafed by a jackal? Wallah el Nebi! By God and the Prophet! do you laugh at our beard? The story!”
“The story requested by your highness,” replied the slave, with great coolness, “was commenced in the following words.”
What occurred during my infancy, my dearest mother, I do not recollect; but I can retrace to the age of seven years, when I found myself in company with a number of others, from the squalling infant of a few days old, up to about my own age. I also recollect that our fare was indifferent, and our punishment severe.
“Poor child!” exclaimed Donna Celia, pressing my hand which was still locked in hers. I continued there until the age of ten, when an old lady who came to the asylum, took a fancy to me; for I often heard it remarked, that I was a very handsome boy, although I have rather grown out of my good looks lately, Clara.
A pressure of my other hand, and a negative smile, was the answer; and I proceeded—The old lady Donna Isabella, who was of the noble family of Guzman, wanted a page, and intended to bring me up in that capacity. She carried me to her house where I was clad in a fancy dress. I used to sit by her side on the carpet, and run upon any message which might be required; in fact, I was a sort of human bell, calling up every body and fetching every thing that was wanted; but I was well fed, and very proud of a little dagger which I wore in my girdle. The only part of my education to which I objected, was learning to read and write from a priest, who was domiciled in the family, and who had himself as great an aversion to teaching as I had to learning. Had the affair rested entirely between us, we might have arranged matters so as to please both parties; but as the old lady used to prove my acquirements by making me read to her, as she knotted, we neither of us could help fulfilling our engagements. By dint of bullying and beating, at last I was sufficiently enlightened to be able to read a romance to my mistress, or answer an invitation-note in the negative or affirmative. My mistress had two nieces who lived with her, both nearly grown up when I entered the family. They taught me dancing for their own amusement, as well as many other things; and by their care I improved very much, even in reading and writing. Although a child, I had a pleasure in being taught by two pretty girls. But it is necessary that I should be more particular in my description of these two young ladies. The eldest, whose name was Donna Emilia, was of a prudent, sedate disposition, always cheerful, but never boisterous; she constantly smiled, but seldom, if ever, indulged in a laugh. The youngest, Donna Teresa, was very different—joyous and light-hearted, frank and confiding in her temper, generous in disposition: her faults arose from an excess of every feeling—a continual running into extremes. Never were two sisters more fond of each other—it appeared as if the difference between their dispositions but added to their attachment. The serious character of the elder was roused to playfulness by the vivacity of the younger, and the extravagance of the younger was kept in due bounds by the prudence of the elder. As a child I liked Donna Emilia, but I was devotedly fond of Donna Teresa.
I had been three years in this situation, when legal business required the presence of Donna Isabella at Madrid. The young ladies, who were both very handsome, and remarkably like each other in person, were much admired by the cavaliers. Two had gained the victory over the rival candidates—Don Perez was the favoured suitor of Donna Emilia, while Don Florez was proud to wear the chains of the lively Teresa. Donna Isabella had, however, no intention that her nieces should quit her for the present; and aware, by the serenading which took place every night, that there were pretenders to her nieces’ smiles, she hastened back to Seville sooner than she had intended.
Although I had not been trusted by either, I had an idea of what was going on; but with more prudence than most boys of my age, I made no remarks either to my mistress or to the young ladies. We had returned to Seville about a month, when Donna Emilia called me aside, and said, “Pedro, can you keep a secret?”
I told her—“Yes, if I was paid for it.”
“And what do you want to induce you to keep it, you little miser?”
I replied—“From her, only a kiss.”
She called me a little rogue, gave me the kiss, and then told me, that a cavalier would be under the window a little after vesper bell, and that I must give him a billet, which she put into my hand. Of course, having received my payment beforehand, I consented. At the time mentioned I looked out of the gate, and perceiving a cavalier under the window, I accosted him, “What ho, senhor, what is it you expect from a fair lady?”
“A billet, my little page,” replied he.
“Then here you have it,” replied I, pulling it out of my vest. He put a doubloon in my hand, and immediately disappeared.
I liked the gold very much, but I preferred the other payment more. I put the money into my pocket, and returned into the house. I had hardly come into the hall, when Donna Teresa, the other young lady, accosted me. “Pedro, I have been looking for you—can you keep a secret?”
“Yes, if I am paid for it,” replied I, as before.
“And what must it be that will keep that little tongue of yours from chattering?”
“From you,” replied I, “it must be a kiss.”
“Oh! you little manikin—I’ll give you twenty;” and she did so, until she almost took away my breath. “And now,” said she, “there is a senhor waiting below for a note, which you must take him.” I took the note, and when I came to the gate, found a cavalier there, as she had mentioned. “Oh, senhor,” said I, “what are you waiting for, is it a billet-doux from a sweet lady?”
“It is, my pretty boy,” answered he.
“Perhaps this will interest you,” replied I, handing him the note. He snatched it from me, and would have departed. “Senhor,” said I, “I cannot allow my mistress to be affronted. Her favours are beyond all price, but still they are always coupled with gold. Since you are so poor, and gold must pass, here is a piece for you,” and I offered him the doubloon which I had received from the other cavalier.
“You are a witty boy,” replied he, “and have corrected my negligence, for it was nothing more, I assure you. Add this to the other;”—and he put a quarter-doubloon in my hand, and disappeared. I returned to the house; and, as I had been some time away from my mistress, I went into the saloon—where she was sitting alone.
“Pedro, come hither, child; you know how good I have been to you, and how carefully I have brought you up. Now tell me, can you keep a secret?”
“Yes, madam,” replied I, “I can keep yours, for it is my duty.”
“That’s a good child. Well then, I have an idea that my two nieces are followed by some of the gay cavaliers, who saw them at Madrid, and I wish you to find out if it is true.—Do you understand?”
“Oh, yes, madam,” replied I; “I do perfectly.”
“Well then, do you watch,—and Pedro, here are two reals for you, to buy sugar-plums.”
Thus did I enter in one day into the real occupation of a page. I added the two reals to the gold, and, as you may suppose, meant to serve as I was paid. But, as I found out afterwards, I had made a terrible mistake with the two billets-doux. That of Donna Emilia I had given to Don Florez, who was Donna Teresa’s admirer; that of Donna Teresa I had given to Don Perez, who was the lover of Donna Emilia; but I had better explain to you, before I go on, what did not come to my knowledge until thedénouementtook place. Don Perez, the lover of Emilia, was a young man who was entitled to large property, at the death of an uncle, to whom he was heir by entail. Don Florez, on the contrary, was in possession of a splendid fortune, and able to choose for himself.
From fear of discovery, the notes were both in a disguised hand, and not signed by the respective christian names of the ladies. Donna Emilia’s ran thus:— “I found your note in the spot agreed, but my aunt has taken away the key of the shrubbery, and is I believe suspicious.—Why are you so urgent?—I trust your affection, like mine, will but increase from delay. It will be impossible to meet you to-night; but I have entered the page in my service, and will write soon.” That of Donna Teresa, which I put in the hands of Don Perez, ran as follows:— “I can no longer refuse your solicitations for an interview. My aunt has locked up the shrubbery, but if you have courage enough to scale the garden wall, I will meet you in the saloon which opens upon the garden; but not a word must be said, as the servants are continually passing the door—neither can we have a light—I must trust to your honour.”
Don Perez was delighted at Donna Emilia’s having at last yielded to his intreaties for a meeting; and Don Florez, as much annoyed at the reserved conduct of his mistress, went home accusing her of coquetry. At the appointed hour, Don Perez met his supposed mistress in the saloon. The two sisters wereconfidantes; and, as I was in their secret, they made no scruple of talking before me. The next day, when their aunt left the room, they began arguing upon the personal merits of the respective cavaliers. After a good-humoured controversy, they appealed to me.
“Come, Pedro,” said Teresa, “you shall decide. Which do you think the handsomest cavalier?”
“Why,” answered I, “I think that your senhor is, for a fair man, the handsomest I ever saw—but still the beautiful dark eyes of the Donna Emilia’s cavalier are equally prepossessing.”
“Why, Pedro, you have mistaken the two,” said Emilia, “it is Don Perez, the fair one, who is my admirer, and the dark senhor is Don Florez, who is in love with my sister.” I perceived that I had made a mistake when I delivered the notes, and Teresa coloured up. But I had sense enough to answer:— “Very true, madam, you are right; I now recollect that I am confounding the two.”
Shortly afterwards the aunt came into the room, and Teresa quitted it, beckoning me to follow her. As soon as I had joined her, she said, “Now, Pedro, tell the truth: did you not make the mistake that you stated, and deliver my note to the fair cavalier, Don Perez?”
I answered, “that I had, as I had already delivered Emilia’s note to the dark gentleman.” Donna Teresa put her hands over her face, and wept bitterly,—“Pedro, you must now keep this secret, for it is of the greatest importance.—My God, what will become of me?” cried she; and for some time she was in the greatest distress: at last she wiped her eyes, and after much reflection, she took up paper and wrote a note. “Pedro, take this note to the direction; recollect it is for the dark cavalier that it is intended.” Teresa had read the note of Emilia to Don Perez, which had been received by Don Florez—in consequence her present note ran thus:— “You may think me harsh for having refused to see you last night, but I was afraid. Do not accuse me with trifling with your feelings, I will meet you in the saloon that leads to the garden, which was last night occupied; come at ten this evening.”
I went out with the note and gave it into the hands of Don Florez. “My dear boy, tell Donna Teresa I will not fail; I know now why she could not receive me last night; I only hope I may be as fortunate as Don Perez.” He put a doubloon in my hand, and I went away. I had not quitted the street when I met Don Perez.
“Ah! my little page, this is indeed lucky; just step to my rooms while I write a note to Donna Emilia.” I did so, and he gave me a quarter-doubloon as before. “I thank you, senhor,” replied I; “what with the doubloons of Don Florez and your quarter-doubloons, I shall soon be a rich man.”
“How say you,” replied he, “Don Florez give you doubloons—then he spoils the market; but I must not allow him to pay you better than I do, or I shall not be served so faithfully.—Here’s a doubloon and a half, which, with what you have already received, will make the accounts square.” I made my bow, and with many thanks withdrew.
Young as I was, I had an idea that something had occurred at the mistaken meeting of last night, which seriously affected Donna Teresa. As I was much more partial to her than to her sister, I resolved not to deliver the note of Don Perez to Emilia, until I had consulted Donna Teresa. On my return, I beckoned her into her chamber, and told her the answer of Don Florez, with his observation, “that he hoped he should be as fortunate as Don Perez was last night.” She coloured with shame and vexation; and I then told her how I had met Don Perez, and what had passed. I then gave her the note, and asked whether I should deliver it or not. She hastily tore it open—it ran as follows:—“How can I sufficiently express my gratitude to my adored Emilia, for her kindness to me last night? Tell me, dearest angel, when am I to have the pleasure of meeting you again in the saloon? Till you once more grant me the favour, life will be a blank.”
“Pedro,” said she, “you have indeed done me a service—you have been my preserver. How can I ever repay you?”
“Give me a double allowance of kisses, this time,” replied I.
“I will give you a thousand,” answered she; and she kissed and blessed me while tears ran down her cheeks: she then took some paper, and imitating the hand-writing, wrote as follows:— “I must submit to your wishes, Donna Emilia; and while your sister blesses Don Florez, must yield to the severity of your disposition. Still I hope that you will relent—I am very miserable; write to me, if you have any love still remaining for your adorer.—Perez.”
“Take this to Emilia, my sweet child.—What can I do to reward you?”
“Why you must take care of my money,” said I, “for if my mistress finds it out, I shall never be able to tell how I came by it.” She smiled mournfully as she received my doubloons, and locked them up in a trinket-box. “I will add to your wealth, Pedro,” said she.
“No,” replied I, “only kisses from you.” I told her why her aunt gave me the two reals, and we separated. I delivered the note to Donna Emilia, who in the afternoon put an answer into my hand; but I would not act without Donna Teresa knowing what took place; and it occurred to me, that it would be very possible to repair the mischief which my mistake had occasioned. I therefore took the answers of Donna Emilia to her lover to Donna Teresa, and told her what I thought. “My dear Pedro, you are indeed a treasure to me,” replied Teresa.
She opened Emilia’s note, which ran as follows:— “You accuse me of unkindness, which I do not deserve. Heaven knows my heart is but too yielding. I will arrange a meeting as soon as I possibly can; but as I before said, my aunt is suspicious, and I cannot make up my mind, like Teresa, to run the risk of discovery.”
Teresa tore up this note; and wrote as follows:— “If a woman has the misfortune to yield too much to the solicitations of her lover, he becomes arrogant, and claims as a right, what only can be received as a favour. I consider that what passes in darkness should remain as secret in the breast, and as silent in the tongue. I now tell you candidly, that I shall consider it as an insult, if ever you refer to the meeting of last night; and to punish you for your arrogant request of another, shall treat you with the same reserve as before. Recollect that the least intimation of it, however private we may be, will be the signal of your dismissal. At the same time, expecting implicit obedience to this command, I shall punish you no further, if you offend not again. When I feel inclined to see you, I will let you know. Till then, Yours, etcetera.”
I took this note to Don Perez, whom I found at his lodgings drinking in company with Don Florez, for they had no secrets from each other. Perez opened the note, and appeared a little astonished. “Read this, Florez,” said he, “and tell me if woman is not a riddle.”
“Well, now I like her spirit,” replied Florez, “some women would have been dying with apprehension at your leaving them: she, on the contrary, considers that you are under greater obligations than before; and assumes her dominion over you. I recommend you to comply with her injunctions, if you wish to retain her love.”
“I don’t know but what you are right, Florez; and as we are lords and masters after marriage, it is but fair, that they should hold their uninterrupted sway before. I feel more attached to her than ever; and if she chooses to play the tyrant, why she shall. It shows her good sense; for keeping us off, is the only way to induce us to go on.”
I returned home, delivering a note from Don Perez to Emilia, stating his intention to abide by her wishes, and stated to Donna Teresa all that had passed between the cavaliers.
“Thanks to your prudence and sagacity, my dear little Pedro, all as yet is well; but it may yet be discovered; for I will now confide to you, that the tenderness last night, intended for Don Florez, was by your mistake, and the darkness and silence prescribed at the meeting, lavished upon my sister’s admirer. But all will I trust be well, and I shall not suffer for an unintentional misfortune.”
That evening Don Florez was received by Teresa in the saloon; and the next morning, I was sitting as usual by my mistress, when she asked, “Well, Pedro, have you discovered any thing?”
“Yes, madam,” replied I.
“And what is it, child?”
“Why, madam, a gentleman asked me to give a letter, but I would not.”
“Who was it for, child?”
“I don’t know, madam, for I refused to take it in my hand.”
“Well, Pedro, you were right; the next time he offers you a letter take it, and bring it to me.”
“I will, madam,” said I. “Here are two reals for you, child—have you spent the last I gave you?”
I left the room—when Donna Emilia met me outside, and put a note into my hand for Don Perez. I first took it to my friend Teresa, who opened it:— “At last my affection has borne down my resolution, and I consent to see you. There is no other way but in the saloon. Be careful not to offend me, or it will be for the last time.”
“This may go, Pedro,” said Teresa, “and you may call at Don Florez’s lodgings as you pass by.”
I delivered the note to Don Perez, and before he had finished it, Don Florez entered the room.—“Congratulate me, my dear friend,” said he. “I was received as kindly as I could wish.”
“And my fair one has not taken long to relent,” answered Perez, “for I have an appointment with her this evening. Pedro, tell your mistress, that I do not write, but that I bless her for her kindness, and shall not fail to meet her.—Do you understand? Well, what are you waiting for? Oh! you little rogue, I understand,” and he threw me a doubloon.—“Florez, you give that boy too much money, and I am obliged to do the same.” Florez laughed, and I again took my departure.
Thus did I continue in my vocation for some time, when the old lady fell sick and died. She divided her fortune between her two nieces, and as they were now independent, they married their respective lovers; but the old lady forgot to mention me in her will, and I should have been turned adrift on the world had it not been for Donna Teresa, who immediately appointed me as her own attendant. I was as happy as before, although no more doubloons fell into my hands, after the marriages took place. It appears that Don Perez was so much afraid of offending Donna Emilia, that he never ventured to speak of the meeting, which he supposed he had with her in the saloon, until after marriage then, feeling himself quite at liberty, he had laughed at her on the subject. Donna Emilia was all astonishment, declared most positively that it had not taken place; and although he at first ridiculed the idea of her denial, yet recollecting that he still had her notes in his possession, he brought them out, and showed her the one in which she had prohibited him from speaking on the subject. Donna Emilia protested that it was not her writing, and was confounded at the apparent mystery. She stated that Teresa had agreed to meet Don Florez in the saloon that night.
“On the contrary,” replied Don Perez, “he received a letter from Donna Teresa, refusing him a meeting, at the same time that I received this from you, giving me the assignation.”
Donna Emilia burst into tears. “I see how it is,” replied she, “the page by mistake has given the note which I wrote you to Don Florez, and Teresa’s note fell into your hands. You have taken an unworthy advantage of the circumstance, and have met my sister. Never make me believe, Don Perez, that you were not aware of the mistake, when she received you in the saloon—or that she could not distinguish you from Don Florez. Cruel sister, thus to rob me of my happiness! Treacherous Don Perez, thus to betray your friend and me!”
Don Perez tried all he could to pacify his wife, but in vain. Her jealousy, her pride, and her conscientious scruples were roused, and she would not listen to any reasoning or protestations. Although he was almost certain, that the fact was as his wife had stated, he determined to make sure by referring to me. He came to Don Florez’s house, and after staying a little while with him and his wife, during which he appeared so uneasy that they asked him whether he was unwell, he went away making a sign for me to follow him. He then entered into all the particulars, and asked me about the delivery of the notes. I took it for granted, that an explanation had taken place between him and his wife—my only object was to save Donna Teresa.
“Senhor, whether what Donna Emilia says is true, I know not,” replied I; “but, that it was not Donna Teresa who met you, I can certify, for I was in her room with her that night till she went to bed, playing at piquet for sugar-plums.”
“Then who could it be,” observed he.
“I know not, senhor, for I did not go down stairs, where my mistress was, because she had sent me to bed, and I knew that I should have been scolded for being up. Therefore I cannot say whether Donna Emilia was with you or not.”
Don Perez meditated some time, and then came to the conclusion that his wife was ashamed of having been too indulgent to him in an unguarded moment, and would not acknowledge it. Still he was far from being satisfied. He returned home, to explain what he had gathered to his wife but found that she had left the house some time before, without stating whither she was going. As soon as Don Perez left the house, I hastened to my mistress, to acquaint her with what had passed, and what I had told him.
“I thank you for your kind intention, Pedro, but I am afraid that all will be discovered. It is a judgment on me for my folly and indiscretion.”
In the mean time, Donna Emilia, who had taken refuge in a neighbouring convent, sent for Don Florez. He found her in the convent-parlour in tears. Convinced by jealousy that her sister had an attachment to Don Perez, and that there had been a mutual understanding, she stated to Don Florez the whole of the circumstances, and pointing out to him how treacherously they both had been treated, acquainted him with her intention of retiring from the world.
Don Florez, stirred to madness by the information, exclaimed—“It was for this, then, that she put me off on that night, and was kind to me the next. Cursed dupe that I have been; but, thank Heaven, it is not too late to be revenged. Don Perez, you shall pay dearly for this.” So saying, he quitted Donna Emilia, uncertain whether he should first wreak his vengeance upon Don Perez or his wife. But this point was soon decided, for at the convent gate he encountered Don Perez, who had been informed whither his wife had retreated.
“You are the person I have been anxiously wishing to see, Don Perez—treacherous villain, void of all honour.”
“Not so, Don Florez. I am an unfortunate man, who is half mad by a cruel mistake which has occurred. Recall your words, for they are unjust.”
“I do not intend to recall them, but assert the truth with the point of my rapier. If you are not as great a coward, as you are a villain, you will follow me.”
“Such language will admit of no reply. I am at your service,” cried Don Perez.
The two brothers-in-law walked in silence, until they reached a field hard by, where they threw off their cloaks, and fought with the fury of demons. Victory was decided in favour of Don Perez; his sword passed through the heart of his adversary, who never spoke again. Don Perez viewed the body with a stern countenance, wiped his sword, took up his cloak, and walked straight to the house of Don Florez. “Donna Teresa,” said he, (I only was present,) “I call upon you, as you value salvation in the day of judgment, to tell me the truth. Was it you, that, by an unfortunate mistake, I met one night in the saloon; and were those caresses, intended for Don Florez, bestowed upon me?”
There was a wildness, a ferocity in his air that frightened her; she stammered out at last:— “for my sins, it is true; but you know, too well, that I never was false in heart, although when I found out my mistake, I attempted to conceal my indiscretion.”
“Had you, madam, been as virtuous as your sister, all this mischief would not have happened—and your husband would not now be lying a corpse, by the hand of his brother.”
Donna Teresa fainted at the intelligence, and Don Perez immediately quitted the house. I hastened to her assistance, and succeeded in restoring her to life.
“It is but too true,” said she, mournfully; “crime will always meet with punishment, in this world, or in the next. By permitting my love to overcome the dictates of virtue, by being too fond of my husband, I have murdered him. Oh God! I have murdered him and rendered the lives of two others as much a burden to them as my own will ever be. My poor, dear sister, where is she?”
I tried all my powers of consolation, but in vain: all she requested was that I would find out where her sister was, and let her know. I set off upon my melancholy task, and met the people hearing in the body of Don Florez. I shuddered as it passed by, when I recollected how principal a part I had acted in the tragedy. I soon gained the information, and brought it to Donna Teresa. She dressed herself in deep mourning, and, desiring me to follow her, knocked at the convent gate, and, requesting to see the superior, was admitted. The superior came out of the parlour to receive her, not wishing that any one should enter, while Donna Emilia was in such a state of misery and despair.
“It is my sister that I come to see, madam, and I must not be refused: lead me to her, and be witness of the scene, if you please.”
The superior, who was not aware that Emilia would have refused to see Donna Teresa, led the way, and we were ushered into the presence of Emilia, who, looking up as Donna Teresa entered, turned away from her as if in abhorrence.
“Emilia,” said my mistress, “we are born of the same mother, we have lived as children, and we have grown up together; never did we have a secret from each other, till this unfortunate mistake occurred. On my knees, I request you to listen to me, and to believe what I say.”
“Plead your cause with your husband, Teresa; it is more necessary to pacify him than me.”
“I have no husband, Emilia; he is now pleading his own cause with God—for he has fallen by the sword of yours.”
Donna Emilia started.
“Yes, Emilia, dear, dear sister, it is but too true, and still more true, that you have caused his death. Do not kill me too, Emilia, by refusing to believe what I declare, as I hope for eternal salvation—that I never was aware of the mistake, until the boy discovered it to me, on the ensuing day. If you knew the shame, the vexation, the fear of discovery which racked my frame, when I was but too sure of it, you would forgive my having tried to hide a fault, the knowledge of which would make others miserable, as well as me. Say you believe me—say you forgive me, Emilia. Oh! Emilia, cannot you forgive a sister?”
Emilia answered not, and Teresa, clinging to her knees, and embracing them, sobbed hysterically. At this moment Don Perez, who had obtained admittance to see his wife, came into the room, and walking up to the part in which the two unfortunate ladies remained in the attitudes described, said,—“You, Teresa, who have been the original cause of this unhappy business, I mean not to reproach again. Your punishment has been greater than your offence. It is to you, madam, I must address myself; who, by not believing in the words of truth, have caused me to slay my dearest friend and brother, and, after having unwittingly wounded him in the tenderest point, add to the injury by taking away his life. Are you yet satisfied, madam? Are you satisfied with having embittered my days by your injustice and unworthy suspicions—by having reduced your unfortunate, yet not guilty sister, to the state of an unhappy, lonely woman, now suing in vain for pardon at your feet; by having been the occasion of the death of your brother by marriage—her husband and my friend? Say, madam, are you yet satisfied, or will you have more victims to your unbelief?”
Emilia answered not, but continued with her face averted.
“Be it so, then, madam;” replied Don Perez; and, before any one was aware of his intention, he drew his sword, and fell upon it. “Now, Emilia, let the sacrifice of my life be a proof to you of my sincerity. As I hope for pardon, I have told the truth;” and Don Perez fell on his back, and was dead.
Emilia started round when he fell, and threw herself down by his side in horror and amazement. The film that passion had thrown over her eyes was removed, as she witnessed the last melancholy result of her unbelief. When Don Pedro ceased speaking, she threw herself on his body, in an agony of grief.—“I do, I do believe—Perez. I do, I do! Oh! indeed I do believe—speak to me, Perez—O God, he is dying!—Sister, Teresa, come, come, he’ll speak to you—he’s not angry with you—Sister, sister, speak—O God! O God!” screamed the unhappy woman, “he’s dead—and I have murdered him!”—and she dashed her head upon the floor. Teresa hastened to her sister, and held her in her arms, while the tears poured fast. It was some time before reason resumed her seat; at last, exhausted by the violence of her feelings, she was relieved with a flood of tears.
“Who is it?—you, Teresa—kind sister, whom I have used so ill—I do believe you—I do believe, Teresa; God forgive me! kiss me, sister, and say that you forgive me—for am I not punished?”
“It is all my fault,” answered Teresa, bursting into tears: “Oh! how wicked, how foolish have I been!”
“No, no, sister, your fault is small, compared to mine; you allowed your passion to overcome you, but it arose from an excess of love, the best feeling in our nature—the only remnant of heaven left us since our fall. I too have allowed my passion to overcome me; but whence has it arisen?—from hatred and jealousy, feelings which were implanted by demons, and which create a hell wherever they command. But it is done, and repentance comes too late.”
The unfortunate sisters embraced each other and mingled their tears together; and I hardly need say, that the lady abbess and I could not restrain our meed of pity at the affecting scene. As the evening closed, they separated, each to attend to the same mournful duty, of watching by the bodies of their husbands, and bedewing them with their tears. A few days after the interments took place, Emilia sent for her sister, and after an affectionate interview, took the veil in the convent to which she had retired—endowing the church with her property. Donna Teresa did not take the veil; but employed herself in the more active duties of charity and benevolence; but she gradually wasted away—her heart was broken. I stayed with her for three years, when she died, leaving a considerable sum to me, and the remainder of her wealth to beneficent institutions. This is about five years ago; since when I have been living on the property, which is nearly all expended by my extravagance. The stigma on my birth is, however, the only subject which has weighed upon my spirits—this is providentially removed, and I trust that I shall not disgrace the mother who has so kindly acknowledged me, or the dear girl who has honoured this faulty person with her attachment.
My mother and Clara thanked me when I had concluded my narrative, and we remained unto a late hour entering upon family affairs, and planning for the future. My mother informed me that upon the estates she had only a life interest, as they were entailed, and would revert to a cousin; but that she had laid by a considerable sum of money, intending it as a dowry for my Clara, and that she hoped to increase it before she died. As I was anxious to quit Seville, where I feared daily discovery, I proposed that we should retire to the estate near Carthagena, by which not only a considerable expense would be saved, but I should feel more happy in the company of Clara and herself. My mother and my intended gladly consented to the proposal, not only for the above reasons, but because she was aware that the questions which might be asked about me would tend to the injury of her character. In less than a fortnight the establishment at Seville was broken up, and we retired to the country, where I was made happy by the possession of my Clara. I now considered myself as secure from any discovery, and although I had led a life of duplicity, meant by future good conduct to atone for the past. Whether Donna Celia was my mother or not, I felt towards her as if she was, and after some time from habit considered it an established fact. My Clara was as kind and endearing as I could desire; and for five years I was as happy as I could wish. But it was not to last: I was to be punished for my deceit. My marriage with Clara, and the mystery attached to my birth, which was kept secret, had irritated the heir of the estate, who had been in hopes, by marrying Clara himself, to secure the personal as well as the real property. We occasionally met, but we met with rancour in our hearts, for I resented his behaviour towards me. Fearful of discovery, I had never paid any attention to music since my marriage; I had always pretended that I could not sing. Even my wife was not aware of my talent; and although latterly I had no fear of the kind, yet as I had always stated my inability, I did not choose to bring forth a talent, the reason for concealing which I could not explain even to my wife and mother, without acknowledging the deception of which I had been guilty.
It happened that one evening at a large party I met my cousin, the heir of the entailed estates. We were very joyous and merry, and had drunk a good deal more than usual. The wine was powerful, and had taken effect upon most of us. Singing was introduced, and the night passed merrily away, more visitors occasionally dropping in. My cousin was much elated with wine, and made several ill-natured remarks, which were meant for me. I took no notice for some time, but, as he continued, I answered with such spirit, as to arouse his indignation. My own blood boiled; but the interference of mutual friends pacified us for the time, and we renewed our applications to the bottle. My cousin was called upon for a song; he had a fine voice and considerable execution, and was much applauded.
“Now then,” said he, in an ironical tone, “perhaps Don Pedro will oblige the company; although perhaps the real way to oblige them will be by not attempting that of which he is not capable.”
Stung with this sarcasm, and flushed with wine, I forgot my prudence. Snatching the guitar from him, after a prelude which created the greatest astonishment of all present, I commenced one of my most successful airs: I sang it in my best style, and it electrified the whole party. Shouts proclaimed my victory, and the defeat of my relative. Some embraced me in their enthusiasm, and all loudly encored; but as soon as there was a moment’s silence, I heard a voice behind me observe—“Either that is the monk Anselmo’s voice, or the devil’s.”
I started at the words, and turned round to the speaker, but he had mingled with the crowd, and I could not discover who it was. I perceived that my relative had followed him on; and I now cursed my own imprudence. As soon as I could, I made my escape from the company, and returned home. As I afterwards found out, my relative had immediately communicated with the person who had made the observation. He was one of the priests who knew me at Seville. From him, my cousin gained the information that brother Anselmo had left the convent about five years ago, and not having returned, it was thought that an accident had happened to him. But a discovery had since been made, which led them to suppose, that brother Anselmo had, for some time, been carrying on a system of deception. You may remember I stated, that when I resumed my worldly apparel to introduce myself as the son of Donna Celia, I changed the dress at my lodgings. I locked up my friar’s dress and the false tonsure in the chest, intending to have returned, and destroyed it; but I quite forgot it, and left Seville with the key of my lodgings in my pocket. The landlord waited until his rent was due, when not hearing any thing of me, he broke open the door and found the chest. This he opened, and discovered the false tonsure and friar’s gown. Knowing the monastic order to which it belonged, and suspecting some mischief; he took it to our convent, and all the habits of the monks being numbered in the inside, it was immediately recognised as mine: the false tonsure also betrayed that I must have been breaking through the rules of my order, and the most rigorous search after me was made for some time without success. Possessed of this information, my vindictive relative repaired to Seville to ascertain the exact date of my quitting the convent, and found that it was about a fortnight previous to Donna Celia having quitted Seville. He then repaired to the landlord for further information. The landlord stated that the lodgings had been taken by a monk, for his brother, who had occupied them. He described the brother’s person, which exactly corresponded with mine; and my relation was convinced that the monk Anselmo and Don Pedro were one and the same person. He immediately gave notice to the Inquisition. In the mean time, I was in the greatest consternation. I felt that I should be discovered, and reflected upon my conduct. I had lately abjured all deceit, and had each day gained a step in the path of virtue. I acknowledged with bitterness, that I deserved all that threatened me, and that, sooner or later, vice will meet with its reward. Had I at first made known my situation to Donna Celia, she would have had interest enough (believing me to be her son), to have obtained a dispensation of my vows. I then might have boldly faced the world—but one act of duplicity required another to support it, and thus had I entangled myself in a snare, by which I was to be entrapped at last. But it was not for myself that I cared; it was for my wife whom I doted on—for my mother (or supposed mother), to whom it would be the bitterness of death. The thoughts of rendering others miserable as well as myself drove me to distraction—and how to act I knew not.
After much reflection, I resolved as a last resource, to throw myself upon the generosity of my adversary; for although inimical to me, he bore a high character as a Spanish cavalier. I desired to be informed the moment that he returned from Seville; and when the intelligence came, I immediately repaired to his house, and requested an audience. I was admitted; when Don Alvarez, for that was his name, addressed me.
“You wish to speak with me, Don Pedro—there are others at your house by this time who wish to speak with you.”
I guessed that he meant the officers of the Inquisition; but pretending not to understand the remark, I answered him:— “Don Alvarez, the enmity that you have invariably shown towards me has, I am sure, proceeded from the affront, which you consider that your noble family has received, by your cousin having formed an alliance with one of unknown parentage. I have long borne with your pointed insults, out of respect for her who gave me birth; I am now about to throw myself upon your generosity, and probably when I inform you, that I am the unhappy issue of the early amour of Donna Celia (which of course you have heard of), I may then claim your compassion, if not your friendship, from having at least some of the same noble blood in my veins.”
“I was not indeed aware of it,” replied Don Alvarez, with agitation; “I would to Heaven you had confided in me before.”
“Perhaps it would have been better,” replied I, “but permit me to prove my assertions.” I then stated my having been the friar Anselmo, the discovery of my birth by accident, and the steps which I had taken. “I am aware,” continued I, “that I have been much to blame, but my love for Donna Clara made me regardless of consequences. Your unfortunate enmity induced me, in an unguarded moment, to expose myself; and it will probably end in my destruction.”
“I acknowledge the truth of your remark, and that no power can save you, I lament it, Don Pedro; but what is done cannot be undone. Even now the officers of the Inquisition are at your house.” As he uttered these words, a loud knocking at the door announced that they had followed me. “This must not be Don Pedro,” said Don Alvarez, “step this way.” He opened a panel, and desired me to go in—and he hardly had time to shut it before the officers came into the room.
“You have him here, Don Alvarez, have you not?” inquired the chief.
“No, unfortunately,” replied he, “I tried to detain him, but suspecting some discovery he forced his way out, sword in hand, and has gone I do not know in what direction; but he cannot be far—saddle all the horses in my stable and pursue the sacrilegious wretch. I would sacrifice half my worldly wealth, that he should not escape my vengeance.”
As Don Alvarez was the informant, and uttered these words with the apparent violence of rage, the inquisitors had no suspicion, but hastened to comply with his request. As soon as they had departed, he opened the panel and let me out.
“So far, Don Pedro, have I proved the sincerity of my assertion; but now, what remains to be done?”
“But one thing, Don Alvarez, to conceal the truth from my poor wife and mother. I could bear it all with firmness, but for them,” (and I fell on a sofa, and burst into tears.) Don Alvarez was much affected.
“Oh, Don Pedro! it is too late now, or I should say, ‘What a warning this ought to be to us—that honesty is the best policy!’ had you communicated to me the mystery of your birth, this never would have occurred. Instead of having been your persecutor, I should have been your friend—What can I do?”
“Kill me, Don Alvarez,” replied I, baring my breast, “and I will bless you for the deed. My death may afflict them, but they will recover from their grief in time; but to know that I am murdered by the Inquisition, as a sacrilegious impostor, will bring them to their grave with shame and mortification.”
“Your observation is correct; but kill you I must not. I will, however, so far comply with your wishes, that I will bear the news of your death, and their hatred of the deed, rather than the family should be disgraced.” He then went to his scrutoire, and taking out a bag of one thousand pistoles—“This is all the money that I have at present—it will serve you for some time. Put on one of my servant’s dresses, and I will accompany you to a seaport, and secure your safety before I leave you. I will then state, that I met you in a fair duel, and will bribe the officers of the Inquisition to hold their tongues about the circumstances which have been communicated.”
The advice was good, and I agreed to it; following him as a servant, I arrived safely at Carthagena, whence I took a passage for New Spain. We sailed; and before we were clear of the Straits of Gibraltar, we were attacked by one of the cruisers of the state. We fought desperately, but were overpowered by numbers; and they took possession, after we had lost more than half of our crew. They brought us into this port; where, with the rest, I was sold as a slave.
“Such is my history,” ended the Spaniard, “which I trust has afforded some amusement to your sublime highness.”
The immediate answer of the pacha was a loud yawn.
“Shukur Allah! Praise be to God you have done talking. I do not understand much about it,” continued the pacha, turning round to Mustapha; “but how can we expect a good story from an unbelieving dog of a Christian?”
“Wallah thaib! Well said, by God!” replied Mustapha; “who was Lokman, that they talk of his wisdom? Are not these words of more value than strung pearls?”
“What was the name of the country?” demanded the pacha.
“Spain, your sublime highness; the infidel tribes which you allow to remain there, are employed in cultivating the olive for true believers.”
“Very true,” rejoined the pacha; “I remember now. Let the kafir taste of our bounty. Give him two pieces of gold; and allow him to depart.”
“May the shadow of your sublime highness never be less,” said the Spaniard. “I have here a manuscript which I received from an ancient monk of our order when at the point of death. At the time of my capture it was thrown on one side, and I preserved it as curious. It refers to the first discovery of an island. As your highness is pleased to be amused with stories, it may be worth while to have it translated.” The Dominican then handed from his breast a discoloured piece of parchment.
“Very good,” replied the pacha, rising. “Mustapha let it be put into Arabic by the Greek slave, who shall read it to us some evening when we have no story-tellers.”
“Be chesm! Upon my eyes be it,” replied Mustapha, bowing low, as the pacha retired to his harem.
Volume One--Chapter Five.The pacha had repeated his perambulations for many nights, without success; and Mustapha, who observed that he was becoming very impatient, thought it advisable to cater for his amusement.Among those who used to repair to Mustapha when he exercised his former profession, was a French renegade, a man of considerable talent and ready invention, but a most unprincipled scoundrel, who, previous to the elevation of Mustapha, had gained his livelihood by daring piratical attempts in an open boat. He was now in the employ of the vizier, commanding an armed xebeque which the latter had purchased. She passed off as a government cruiser but was in reality a pirate. Selim, for that was the name which the renegade had adopted when he abjured his faith, condemned every vessel that had the misfortune to meet with him, taking out the cargoes, burning the hull, and throwing the crews overboard, with the privilege of swimming on shore if they could. By this plan he avoided the inconveniences attending any appeals from the jurisdiction of the High Court of Admiralty, which he had established upon the seas.The consequence was, that his cruises were more successful than ever; and Mustapha, who was not content with pillaging the pacha’s subjects on dry land, was amassing a large fortune at their expense by his maritime speculations.Occasionally, bales or packages would be recognised when landed as having the identical marks and numbers of those which had been shipped from the quay but a fortnight before; but the renegade could always give a satisfactory explanation to the vizier; and after a Jew, who could not bear the idea of parting with his property without remonstrance, had been impaled, people shrugged up their shoulders and said nothing.Now it occurred to Mustapha, that Selim might be able to assist his views. He talked fast and loud, vaunted his own exploits, curled his whiskers as he swore to the most improbable assertions, and had become a general nuisance and terror since he had obtained the vizier’s protection.Mustapha sent for him; and, as a preliminary question, inquired if ever he had read the Arabian Nights.“Yes; vizier,” replied the renegade; “many years before I turned Turk.”“Do you recollect the voyages of Sindbad the Sailor?”“To be sure I do; he is the only man that could ever hold a candle to me in lying.”“Well, then, his highness the pacha delights in such stories; and it is my wish that you prepare to recount your own voyages, as Sindbad has done before you.”“But what am I to get for it?”“My good-will and protection; besides which, his highness if pleased, will not fail to order you a handsome present.”“Well,” replied Selim, “any man who can produce gold in this world will always be able to change it for base metal. I can coin lies in my mint faster than he can coin sequins in his; and since you wish it, and say that it will be profitable, why—I am very much at his service.”“Then, Selim, observe my directions, for every thing must appear accidental.”In pursuance to the orders received from Mustapha, the renegade remained that evening at the corner of a certain street, through which Mustapha took care that the pacha should pass in his disguise. When he perceived their approach, the renegade exclaimed, “Allah, Allah! when is the happy time to come, promised in my seventh and last voyage?”“Who are you; and why do you call upon Heaven for happy times?” inquired the pacha.“I am Huckaback the sailor,” replied the renegade, “who, after a life of danger and disaster, am anxiously awaiting the fulfilment of a promise from the Most High.”“I must see this man to-morrow,” observed the pacha:— “Mustapha, as you value your life, see that he attends.”The vizier bowed; and the pacha returned to the palace without further adventure.The next day, as soon as the business of the divan had closed, the renegade was ordered in. Prostrating himself before the pacha, he then rose, and folding his arms over his breast, awaited his commands in silence.“I have sent for you, Huckaback, to inquire the meaning of the words you made use of last night: and to know what was the promise made to you in your seventh and last voyage; but I will thank you to begin at the first, as I wish to hear the history of all your voyages.”“May it please your highness, as I live but to obey you, all that has occurred in my eventful life shall, if you command it, be submitted to your ear. It will, however, be necessary that I should revert to my early days to enable your highness more fully to comprehend the whole.”“Aferin! well said,” replied the pacha; “I don’t care how long a story it is, provided that it is a good one:” and Selim having obeyed a sign from his highness, intimating that he might sit down, commenced as follows:—Huckaback.I am a native of Marseilles, your highness, where I was brought up to the profession of my father; a profession (continued the wily renegade) which, I have no hesitation to assert, has produced more men of general information, and more men of talent, than any other—I mean that of a barber.“Wallah thaib; well said by Allah!” observed Mustapha.The pacha nodded his approbation; and the renegade proceeded with his story.I was gifted by nature with a ready invention, and some trouble and expense were bestowed upon my education. To the profession of a barber my father added that of bleeding and tooth-drawing. At ten years old I could cut hair pretty well. People did say, that those upon whom I had operated, looked as if their heads had been gnawed by the rats; but it was the remark of envy; and, as my father observed, “there must be a beginning to every thing.”At fifteen, I entered upon the rudiments of shaving; and after having nearly ruined my father’s credit, from the pounds of flesh which I removed with the hair of my customers, who were again consoled by his observing, that “there must be a beginning to every thing,” I became quite expert. I was subsequently initiated into the higher branches of tooth-drawing and bleeding. In the former, at first I gave great dissatisfaction, either from breaking the decayed tooth short off, and leaving the stump in the socket, or from mistaking the one pointed out, and drawing a sound engine of mastication in its stead. In the latter, I made more serious mistakes, having more than once cut so deep as to open the artery, while I missed the vein; in consequence of which I was never afterwards employed, except by a husband to relieve a scolding wife, or by nephews who were anxious about the health of an everlasting uncle. But, as my father wisely observed, “there must be a beginning to every thing;” and, as I could only practise upon living subjects, “individuals must suffer for the good of the community at large.” At the age of twenty I was an accomplished barber.But rapid as was my career, I was not fated to continue in it long. Like the shot propelled from the mouth of the cannon, which, in its extreme velocity, is turned from the direction which has been given it by glancing along the weakest substance, so was my course of life changed from its direction by meeting with a woman.My father had a good customer; he had shaved him every morning for years, had extracted every tooth in his head, and was now winding up his long account by bleeding him daily, under the direction of an ignorant apothecary. I was often at the house,—not to bleed him, for my father either thought him too valuable, or was too grateful for past favours to trust him in my hands;—but I held the basin, procured water, and arranged the bandages. He had a daughter, a lovely girl, whom I adored in secret; but her rank in life was too far above mine to allow me to express my feelings. I was then a handsome young man, although Time has since exerted his utmost, through jealousy, to make me appear almost as old and ill-favoured as himself. The young lady took a fancy to me, complained of the tooth-ache, and asked for remedies. I offered to extract the tooth; but either having heard of my reputation, or not wishing to remove the excuse for our interviews, or, what is still more probable, having no tooth-ache whatever, she would not consent.The death of her mother, which had taken place when she was a child, had left her without guidance,—and the helpless situation of her father, without protection. Naturally of a warm temperament, and yielding to the impulse of her feelings, she carried on an intimacy which could only end in her disgrace; and, at the expiration of a year, her situation could no longer be concealed. I was now in a dilemma. She had two brothers in the army, who were returning home, and I dreaded their vengeance.I loved her very much, but I loved myself more; so, one evening, I packed up all that I could call my own, and all that I could lay my hands on belonging to my honoured parent, and shipped on board a Genoese vessel, which was then standing out of the harbour. She was a large ship, mounting twelve long guns, with a complement of sixty men; being what is termed in European countries a “letter of marque.” This implies that she fights her way without convoy, capturing any of the enemy’s vessels she may happen to fall in with, who are not strong enough to resist her. We had cleared out for Genoa with a cargo of lead, which lay at the bottom of the hold, and which merely served for ballast.I soon found out, by the conversation of the crew, that we were not to proceed to Genoa direct; in fact, your highness, she was a pirate, manned by a most desperate set of men. As soon as my qualifications were made known, I had the honour to remove the beards of sixty of the greatest villains that ever were permitted to exist, receiving nothing but blows and curses for my trouble. I certainly improved very much in my profession; for it was as much as my life was worth to draw blood, although they made no scruple of carrying on a conversation during the whole time of the operation. We had taken the cargoes out of several vessels, all of which were added to the “manifest” by our correct captain; when one day, we were chased by an English frigate. I never met the English on shore, but I must say that, afloat, they are the most impertinent people that swim on the seas. They cannot be content with minding their own business, although they have plenty on their hands, but they must interfere in that of others. They board you, and insist upon knowing where you come from, whither you are bound and what you have on board; examining you with as much scrutiny as if they had been the delegated custom-house officers of the whole world.Now it did not exactly suit our captain to submit to such a rigorous search; he therefore made all sail for an island about seven miles distant, and anchored under the protection of a battery. Austria—the nation to whom the island belonged—was not at war with England; she was preserving what is called an “armed neutrality.”“Pray what is the meaning of an armed neutrality?” demanded the pacha.“It varies according to circumstances, your highness, but, generally speaking, it means a charge of bayonets.”The frigate followed; and being prevented by the shallowness of the water from approaching sufficiently near to us herself, sent her boats to examine us: but as there were six of them full of men, and each mounting a gun at her bow, our captain thought it advisable to refuse them permission to come on board. As a hint that he disapproved of their measures, he poured his whole broadside of round and grape into them, when they were about a quarter of a mile distant: upon which they gave three cheers, and were obstinate enough to pull faster towards us than ever.We received them with all the honours of war, in the shape of cutlasses, pistols, and boarding pikes but they were very determined. As soon as one was knocked down, another jumped up in his place; and somehow or another they had possession of the ship in less time than I have been telling the story. I was on the poop when an English sailor, with a pigtail as thick as a cable, made a cut at me; I ran back to avoid the blow, and, in so doing, came with such force against another of their men, that we both tumbled overboard together. I lost my cutlass, but he had not parted with his; and as soon as we rose to the surface, he seized me by the collar, and presented the point to my breast. It seemed to be all the same to him whether he fought on the deck or in the water. Fortunately I shifted a little on one side, and he only drove it through my jacket. I recollected that I had my razor in my pocket, which I took out under the water unperceived, and, closing with him before he could repeat his thrust, I cut his throat from ear to ear, and then made for the shore as fast as I could. As I swam remarkably well, I had no great difficulty in reaching it. As soon as I landed, I looked back, and observing that the English boats were towing our vessel out, I made all the haste I could to the fort, which was close at hand. There I was hospitably received; and we sat up till past midnight, drinking, smoking, and abusing the English.The next morning, a felucca anchored to procure some water; and, as she was proceeding to Toulon, I requested a passage. We sailed with a fine breeze; but a heavy gale came on, which tossed us about for many days, and the master of the vessel had no idea to where she had been driven. He consoled us, however, by asserting that we could never go to the bottom, as there was a lady of great sanctity passenger in the cabin, who had been sent for to assume the office of lady abbess of a convent near Marseilles, and whom the saints would indubitably preserve.This was some comfort, although fine weather would have been greater. The gale continued; and the next morning we thought that we descried land on the lee beam. The following night we were certain of our conjectures having been correct, for the vessel was thrown on shore, and in a few minutes went to pieces. I had the good fortune to save myself upon a part of the wreck, and lay half-dead upon the beach until the morning. When the day broke, I looked around me: there were the fragments of the vessel strewed upon the beach, or tossed in mockery by the surge; and close to me lay the dead body of the lady, whose sanctity the captain had assured us would be a safeguard to us all. I then turned from the beach to look at the inland country, and perceived, to my astonishment, that I was not three miles from my native city, Marseilles. This was a horrid discovery; for I knew that I should receive no mercy, and could not proceed a mile without being recognised. What to do was now the subject of my thoughts; and at last, as I viewed the body of the dead lady, it occurred to me that I might pass myself off for her.I stripped it of its outer garment; and having then hauled my own clothes upon the corpse, and covered it over with sea-weed, I dressed myself in the religious habit which she had worn, and sat down awaiting the arrival of the people, which I knew must soon take place. I was then without a symptom of beard; and from the hardship and ill-treatment which I had received on board of the Genoese, was thin and sallow in the face. It was easy in a nun’s dress to mistake me for a woman of thirty-five years of age, who had been secluded in a cloister. In the pockets of her clothes I found letters, which gave me the necessary clue to my story, and I resolved to pass myself off as La Soeur Eustasie, rather than he put in prison, or run through the body.I had scarcely time to finish reading these documents when a party, attracted by the fragments on the beach, came up to me. I narrated the loss of the vessel, the death of the whole crew, my name and condition, my having come over at the request of the bishop to assume the guidance of the convent of St. Therese; and added, that I had called upon the Virgin in my distress, who had come to my aid, and floated me on shore with as much care and comfort as if I had been reposing on cushions of down. The report was spread, and credited; for the circumstance of a helpless woman being the sole survivor of a whole crew was miracle enough in itself.The bishop’s carriage was sent for me, and I was conducted into the town, followed by a concourse of priests, monks and common people, who were anxious to kiss even the ground that had been trod upon by a personage so especially under the protection of Heaven. I was conducted to the bishop’s palace, where I held a sort of court, being visited by deputations from the official bodies, the governor, and all the people of consequence. After a sojourn of three days, I removed to the convent of which I was the supposed abbess, and was enthusiastically received by the nuns, who flocked round me with mingled veneration and delight.On the second day of my establishment as abbess, the two elder sisters, who could with difficulty he got rid of even when I retired to bed the night before, introduced the whole of the nuns in rotation, beginning with the elder, and ending with those who last took the vow of chastity. I felt little interest, I must confess, at the commencement of my levee; but as it came near to a close, many beautiful countenances attracted my attention, and I gave the kiss of peace with more zest than prudence would have justified. The last of the sisterhood came forward, and was introduced as Soeur Marie. Gracious Heaven! it was the poor girl whom I had deserted. I started when I saw her advance: her eyes were bent upon the ground, as if in reverence to my acknowledged sanctity. As she knelt before me to receive the kiss, she raised them up. Love can pierce through all disguises.—At the moment, she thought that she beheld her fugitive lover, and caught her breath in amazement—but recollection pointed out to her the utter impossibility of the fact, and she sighed at the uncommon likeness, as she received the kiss from those lips which had indeed been so often pressed to hers before.When the ceremony had been gone through I complained of fatigue, and requested to be left alone.I wished to reflect upon what had passed, and determine how I was to act: to escape the danger which threatened me, I had placed myself in a situation of still greater difficulty. Where could it end? After a long reverie, I decided that I would make Marie myconfidante, and trust to circumstances to guide my future conduct. I rang the bell, and, requesting the presence of the elder sister of the convent, commenced an inquiry into the different characters of the nuns who had been presented.Flattered by the confidence demanded, there was no end to the loquacity and the ill-natured remarks of the old beldame: she held her list in her hand, and ran over the families and private history of each. It was two hours before she had finished, which she did with Marie, of whose history she gave me a most minute detail; and if she was as correct in her reports of all the others, I certainly had no reason to compliment myself upon being abbess, so far as the previous characters of the nuns under my surveillance were concerned. “Good sister,” replied I, “I thank you for your information, which I shall not fail to profit by in my plans for the improvement of the morality of those under my charge. I have always made it a rule, that one of the sisterhood should remain in my room every night, to watch and do penance. I have found that when coupled with my seasonable exhortations, it has produced an excellent effect. Of course I allude not to sage and devout women like you; I refer to those who in their folly and their flow of youthful passions, have not yet humbled themselves sufficiently by abstinence and mortification. Who would you propose to watch here this night?”The old beldame, who I had perceived by the violence of her manner had a dislike to Marie, immediately mentioned her as one to whom severe penance would be of especial benefit. I conversed with her for another half-hour; then, wishing her good night, prepared for bed, and requested that Marie might be summoned to attend.Marie entered with her book ofPrièresin her hand, and, bowing humbly to me as she passed, sat down near to the lamp which was lighted before an image of the Virgin, at the farther end of the room, and commenced her task of watching and of prayer.“Marie,” said I, as I stood by the bed: she uttered a faint scream as she heard my voice for the first time, and throwing herself down upon her knees before the image of the Virgin, covered her face with her hands, and appeared to be in silent but earnest supplication.“Marie,” again said I, “come here.” She rose, and came trembling to the foot of the bed. “To you, and to you alone, do I intrust a secret which, if discovered, would subject me to a painful and ignominious death. You were not deceived, when you started at the face beneath the nun’s attire! and you must now be certain, from the voice which you have heard, that I am indeed François. How I became the lady abbess of this convent you have yet to learn.” I then narrated what I have already done to your highness. “By what means,” continued I, “I am to deliver myself from this dangerous situation, I know not; I have, however, one consolation, in finding myself once more in company with the object of my love. Come hither, Marie; it is indeed your own François.”Marie remained at the foot of the bed, but advanced not; and I perceived that the tears fell fast, as she cast her eyes to heaven.“Speak to me, Marie, if ever you loved me.”“That I loved you, François, you know full well: not even your unkind desertion could affect that love, which was unchangeable. I dared all for your sake; my brothers, my father, could not extort the secret from me, and their suspicions although directed towards you, could never be confirmed. I bore the offspring of my guilt in solitary anguish, afterwards loaded with reproaches when I needed comfort and consolation, and stunned with imprecations when I required soothing and repose. I buried it with shame and sorrow and contumely. You had abandoned me, and I felt that all ties to this world were over. I took the veil; and never was the world quitted by so willing a votary as myself. I have since been peaceful, if not happy.”“And now, Marie, you shall be happy,” cried I, stretching out my arms to her. “Come to me, I will explain my motives for leaving Marseilles, and what my future intentions were, if they had not been frustrated by unforeseen events. All shall yet be well.”“François, all is well. I have taken a solemn vow—it is registered in Heaven. You have by fraud and imposition entered into a holy place, and assumed a holy character. Add not to your crime by even harbouring the idea of impropriety, and add not to my humiliation by supposing for a moment that I am capable of being a participator.“Holy Virgin,” cried she, falling on her knees, “I demand thy powerful aid in this conflict of worldly passions and holy wishes. Oh! make me dead to all but thee, and to the spouse whom I have accepted at thy hands.”She then rose, and continued—“How you will be able to leave this convent, François, I know not; but your secret is safe with me, provided that you do not again request my presence, as you have this night. My prayers shall ever be for you; but we must meet no more!” and Marie waved her hand mournfully, and quitted the apartment.Although I had always a great contempt for the Catholic religion, of which I at that period was a member, I was awed by the beauty of virtue as it appeared in Marie, and I passed the night in melancholy reflections. I felt more love for her than ever, and determined upon persuading her to quit the convent and become my wife. The next morning I sent for her.“Marie, you gave yourself to heaven, when you imagined that you had no tie upon earth. You were deceived; there was one whom you still loved, and who still adored you. Vows made in delusion are not registered. Leave this convent with me, become my wife, and you will do your duty better towards heaven than by pining between these walls, which contain nothing but envy, hatred, and remorse.”“François, you have had my answer. What has been done, cannot be undone. Save yourself, and leave me to my unhappy fate,” answered Marie: then bursting into tears, “O François, why, why did you leave me without one word? Had you but pointed out your danger to me, I should have been the first to have insisted upon your absence, and all, all would have been borne with patience, if not with pleasure, for your sake. If what you now say is truth, all would have been well; but now I have nought to cheer me in my lonely pilgrimage, and nought to wish but that it soon may come unto its close. I forgive you, François; but pity me, for I deserve your pity.”“Once more, Marie, I intreat you to consent to my proposal.”“Never, François; I will not be less faithful to my God than I was to you: he will not desert me; and if I suffer now, will reward me for it hereafter.” And Marie again quitted my apartment.My situation in the nunnery now became insupportable, and I determined to escape. I pleaded ill-health, and kept my bed. The physician of a neighbouring convent, who had a great reputation, was sent for against my wishes. When I heard of his arrival, I dressed to receive him for I was fearful of some scrutiny. He inquired what ailed me: I answered that I had no pain, but that I was convinced I should soon depart. He felt my pulse, and, not being able to discover symptoms of disease, took his leave.To the elder sisters who visited me, I spoke in enigmas, and told them that I had a summons, that they must expect soon to find me gone: and the sanctity of my reputation made them receive my innuendoes as inspired remarks. One night, I complained of being much worse, and requested their early retiring: they would have sent for the physician, but I forbad it, telling them I was beyond a physician’s cure: kissing them all, and pronouncing over them a solemn blessing, I dismissed them. As soon as it was dark, I threw off my nun’s attire, leaving it in my bed, as if I had slipped out of it; and as the windows of my apartment, which looked into the convent garden, were not barred, unclothed as I was I dropped down, and reached the ground in safety. I took the precaution, when I was outside, to shut the window, that my having escaped should not enter their ideas, and climbing a tree which overhung the wall of the garden, dropped from a bough on the other side, and found myself at liberty. As I knew that the farther I was from the nunnery, the less chance I had of being supposed an impostor, I gained the high road, and ran as fast as I could in the direction from Marseilles to Toulouse.I had proceeded several miles without encountering any body at that still hour of the night, occasionally alarmed at the barking of some snarling cur, as I passed through the small villages in my route,—when, worn out with fatigue and cold, I sat down under a hedge to screen myself from the cold “mistral” which blew. As the wind lulled, I heard sounds of voices in lamentation, which appeared to proceed from the road at a short distance. I rose, and continued my route, when I stumbled over the body of a man. I examined him by the faint light that was emitted from the stars. He was quite dead; and it immediately occurred to me that a robbery had been committed, and the lamentations which I had heard proceeded from those who had escaped with their lives. The cloak of the dead man was lying underneath him; it was a capote, such as are worn by officers. I unclasped it from his neck, round which it was fastened with two bear’s-paws chased in silver, and, wrapping it round my benumbed limbs, proceeded further on to where I now occasionally heard voices much plainer than before. I again fell in with two more prostrate bodies, and, as the day had now begun to break, perceived that they were clothed like people of low condition. Passing my hand over their faces, I felt that they were quite dead and stiff. Afraid that if found close to the spot, and unable to give any account of myself, I should be accused of murder, I thought of immediate flight; but the plaintive voice of a woman met my ears, and it was an appeal that I could not resist. I proceeded a few yards further, and perceived a carriage, the horses of which lay dead in their traces, with the driver beside them. To the hind wheels were secured with ropes an elderly man and a young woman.“God be praised, my dear father, help is at hand!” said the young woman, as I approached; and as I came close to them, she cried out, “Oh, I know him by his cloak; it’s the gentleman who defended us so gallantly, and whom we supposed to have been killed. Are you much hurt, sir?”Aware that I had better be any body than myself; with my usual invention and presence of mind I replied, “Not much, madam, thanks be to Heaven! I was stunned, and they left me for dead: I am happy that I am still alive, to be of service to you:” and I immediately proceeded to cast loose the ropes by which the father and daughter (as by their conversation they appeared to be) had been confined to the wheels. The robbers had stripped them both nearly to the skin, and they were so numbed with the cold that they could scarcely stand when they were unbound,—the poor girl especially, who shivered as if suffering under a tertian ague. I proposed that they should enter the carriage as the best shelter they could receive from the bitter keen wind which blew, and they agreed to the prudence of my suggestion.“If I am not requesting too great a favour, sir,” said the old gentleman, “I wish you would lend my poor daughter that cloak, for she is perishing with the cold.”“I will with pleasure, sir, as soon as you are both in the carriage,” replied I; for I had made up my mind how to proceed. I assisted them in, and, shutting the door, slipped off the cloak and put it in at the window, saying, “Believe me, madam, I should have offered it to you before, but the fact is, the rascals served me, as I lay stunned, in the same manner as they have you; and I must now go in search of something to cover myself.” I then went off at a quick pace, hearing the young woman exclaim, “Oh, my father, he has stripped himself to cover me.” I immediately returned to the body of the gentleman whose cloak I had borrowed, and for whom I had no doubt that I had been mistaken. I stripped off all the clothes from his rigid limbs, and put them on: they fitted me exactly, and, what was more fortunate, were not stained with blood, as he had received his death-wound from a bullet in the brain. I then dragged the body to the other side of the hedge, where I threw it into a ditch, and covered it with long grass, that it might not be discovered. Daylight had made its appearance before I had completed my toilet; and when I came back to the carriage, the old gentleman was loud in his thanks. I told him that in returning to strip one of the other bodies I had found my own clothes in a bundle, which the robbers had left in their haste to escape from pursuit.The young lady said nothing, but sat shrouded up in the cloak, in one corner of the carriage. I now entered into conversation with the old gentleman, who explained to me how the attack began, before I had come to their assistance: and from the information I received from him, I was enabled to form a very good idea of the story that I was to tell. I found that I had been on horseback with my servant, when I rode to their assistance; that we had been both supposed to be killed, and that we were about five miles from any post town.By this time it was broad daylight, and I made another discovery, which was, that I was wearing an officer’s undress. Anxious to gratify my curiosity by a sight of the young lady, I turned to her as she lay muffled up in the cloak, and expressed a hope that she did not feel cold. She put her head out, and answered in the negative with such a sweet smile, upon such a sweet face as I never had before witnessed. I looked at her as if transfixed, and did not take my eyes off until she blushed, and again sank back as before.This brought me to my recollection; I offered to go for assistance, and my services were thankfully accepted. I passed by the men who had been killed, as I went on my mission: one was habited in a livery similar to the coach-man who lay dead by his horses; the other was in that of a groom, and I took it for granted that he had been my servant. I searched in his pockets for information; and, collecting the contents, commenced reading them as I walked along.By his memoranda I found out that I had come from Aix. By letters and papers in my own pockets I ascertained who I was, who my father was, to what regiment I belonged, that I was on leave of absence, and that I had a brother, whose affectionate letter I read carefully for further information. I had not time to count a considerable sum of money, which was in my purse, before I fell in with a countryman, who was leading his horses to the plough. Briefly narrating the circumstances, I offered him a handsome remuneration, if he would mount one of his horses, and procure immediate assistance. Having seen him off in a hand-gallop, I returned to the carriage to try if it were possible to have one more view of that face which had so enchanted me. I stated the good fortune I had met with, and my hopes of a speedy deliverance from their trouble. I answered the old gentleman’s inquiry of the name and condition of the person to whom he and his daughter had been so much indebted; talked of my father the Comte de Rouillé, of my regiment; and then requested a similar confidence.He was le Marquis de Tonseca, and the young lady was his daughter; they were proceeding to their château about seven miles distant, where he hoped I would accompany them, and allow him an opportunity of showing his gratitude.I hesitated, talked of engagements—not that I intended to refuse the invitation, but because the young lady had not joined in the request. My plan had the desired effect; again the lovely face appeared from under the cloak, and the sweetest voice in the world expressed a wish that I would not refuse her father’s invitation. I blushed, and stammered consent. Pleased at her victory, she smiled, and again was folded up in the cloak, which I could have torn to pieces for its envious concealment.Assistance had now arrived; a crowd of people, headed by an officer to take theprocés verbal, and two pair of post-horses came up; the deposition of the marquis and myself were briefly taken; his, as to what he had seen, and mine “to the best of my knowledge and belief.” The papers were signed, the dead bodies were carried off, the horses put to; and, at the request of the marquis, I took my seat in the carriage between him and his daughter, and we proceeded to the château.In two hours we arrived at a magnificent pile, which bespoke the wealth and ancestry of the owner; and I had the pleasure of carrying in my arms, up the long flight of steps by which we ascended to the entrance, the beautiful girl, muffled up as she was in the cloak. As soon as I had laid her down upon a sofa, I left her to the care of the females who were in attendance, and quitted the room. The marquis had retired to his own apartment, to supply the deficiencies in his attire, and for a short time I was left alone to my own reflections. What is to be the result of all this? thought I. Is there to be no end of my assumption of the clothes and titles of other people,—this continual transmigration before death? Yet how much more has it depended upon circumstances than upon myself!After much reflection, I determined upon letting things take their own course, trusting to my own ready invention and good fortune for the issue. I felt it to be impossible to tear myself from the sweet creature whose personal charms had already fascinated me, and I vowed that there was no risk, no danger, that I would not brave to obtain her love.In an hour we met at the breakfast-table, and I was more than ever enchanted;—but I will not detain your highness by dwelling too long upon the subject.“No, don’t, yaha bibi, my friend,” said the pacha, yawning, “your story gets very dry already. We’ll suppose the cypress waist, the stag’s eyes, and full moon of her face. We Musselmen don’t talk so much about women; but I suppose as you were a Frenchman, and very young then, you knew no better. Why you talk of women as if they had souls!” The renegade did not think it advisable to express his opinion in contradiction to that of his highness, and the assertions of the Prophet. “It cannot be said that I behaved to them as if they had,” replied he; “and before I changed my religion, I was often smitten with remorse for my selfish and unfeeling conduct towards Marie; but all that is passed, I am now a Turk;” and the renegade passed his hand over his brow; for some long, smothered feelings of virtue had been conjured up by remorse, as he was reminded of the career of guilt which he had run through, and which he had climaxed by the denial of his Redeemer. After a short pause he continued—For a week I remained in the society of the marquis and his daughter, daily ingratiating myself more and more with both. I had not declared my passion to his daughter, for there was something that irresistibly prevented me; yet I knew that I was not viewed with indifference. Our party was then increased by the appearance of the Bishop of Toulouse, the brother of the marquis, who came to congratulate him and his niece upon their fortunate escape. I was presented as the gentleman who had so materially assisted. The bishop stared at me with surprise.“It is strange,” observed he, “that a body has been found in a ditch, near to where the robbery occurred, and has been recognised to be that of the very young officer to whom you now introduce me. How can this be?”The marquis and his daughter appeared astonished at the intelligence (and in truth so was I), but it was only for a second. “How say you, sir,” exclaimed I, with trepidation, “a body recognised as the son of the Comte de Rouillé? My poor, poor brother! my dear Victor have you then perished? what injustice have I done you!”Throwing myself on the fauteuil, I covered my face with my handkerchief, as if overpowered with grief; but, in reality, I was reflecting what I should say next.“Your brother!” exclaimed the marquis in surprise.“Yes, marquis, my brother. I will now state the circumstances which induced me to conceal from you that he was in my company at the time of the attack. When I galloped to your assistance, I was followed by my brother, who was riding with me to Marseilles, and of whom you recollect I have spoken; but after the first discharge of fire-arms I found that he was not at my side, and I imagined that he had deserted me from fear. I could not bear that such a disgrace upon the family should be known, and I therefore made no mention of him when I came back. Little did I think, that while I was accusing him in my heart of cowardice, he was dead, and his heart’s blood had been poured out in my defence. Victor, my dear Victor!” continued I, “how great has been my injustice, and what can repay me for your loss?” and I threw myself down on the sofa, as if frantic with grief.“Huckaback,” observed the pacha, “it appears to me that in your younger days you were a great scoundrel.”“I acknowledge it,” replied the renegade; “but, in extenuation, your highness must call to mind that at that time I was a Christian.”“By the beard of the Prophet, that is well said, and very true!” replied the pacha.The marquis and his brother were shocked at having so unintentionally plunged me into affliction. They offered consolation; but finding their endeavours fruitless, quitted the room, thinking it advisable to leave me to myself. Cerise, for that was the name of the daughter, remained, and after a short pause came to me, and in her silvery voice, as she laid her hand upon my shoulder, addressed me:—“Console yourself, my dear Felix;” but I made no answer. “How unhappy I am!” said she: “it was in my defence that he lost his life: it was to your courage that I am indebted for my preservation:— he is dead, and you are miserable. Can nothing repay you for the loss of your brother?—Nothing, Felix?”I raised my head; her eyes were swimming with tears, and beaming with love. As I resumed my seat upon the sofa, I drew her gently towards me. She offered no resistance, and in a moment she had sunk down by my side, as my arms entwined her beauteous form.“Yes,” murmured I, “Cerise, I am repaid.” Smiling through her blushes, she disengaged herself, and rose to depart. Returning once more at my request, I imprinted a kiss upon her brow: she waved her hand, and hastened out of the room.“That was a very nice girl, by your description,” interrupted the pacha: “pray what might you pay for such a girl in your country?”“She was beyond all price,” replied the renegade, with an absent air, as if communing with times past. “Love is not to be bought. The Moslem purchases the slave and blind submission to his will, but he makes not love.”“No, he buys it ready made,” replied the pacha; “and I must say I wish you had done the same; for, with all this love-making, you get on but slowly with your story. Proceed.”I remained another week, when the bishop, who had not yet taken his departure, one morning drove over to Marseilles, and returned to dinner. “I was sent for,” observed he, as we sat down to table, “to consult as to the propriety of requesting from the Pope the canonisation of the Soeur Eustasie, of whom you have heard so much, and whose disappearance has been attributed to miraculous agency: but during our consultation, a piece of information was sent in, which has very much changed the opinion of parties as to her reputed sanctity. It appears that near the spot where the vessel was wrecked they have discovered the body of a woman dressed in man’s clothes; and it is now supposed that some miscreant has personified her at the convent, and has subsequently escaped. The officers of justice are making the strictest search; and if the individual is found, he will be sent to Rome to be disposed of by the Inquisition.”As your highness may imagine, this was not very agreeable news: I almost started from my chair when I heard it; but I had sufficient mastery over myself to conceal my feelings, although every morsel that I put into my mouth nearly choked me.But before dinner was over the plot thickened; a letter was brought to the marquis from my adopted father, the Comte de Rouillé, stating that such contradictory reports had been received, that he could not ascertain the truth. From one he heard that his eldest son was alive, and at the château; from others that he had been murdered; others congratulated him in their letters upon the escape of one of his sons. He requested the marquis to inform him of the real state of affairs, and to let him know by the bearer whether his eldest son was with him, or whether he had met with the unfortunate death that was reported; and as his youngest son was at home, and had been there for some months, he could not but imagine, as both of them were mentioned in the reports, that there might be some imposture in the business.I perceived by the change of countenance in the marquis that affairs were not going well, and was to a certain degree prepared, when he gravely handed the letter to the bishop; who; having read it, passed it over to me, saying, with a stern look, “This concerns you, sir.” I read it with a composed countenance, and, returning it to the marquis, I observed with a sigh, “There is no kindness in such deception; the blow will only fall heavier upon the old man when it does come. You are aware, sir, I mentioned, it to you (or rather, I believe, it was to Mademoiselle Cerise), that my father is blind, and has been so for the last two years. They have been afraid to tell him the truth, and have made him believe that Victor is there. You must know, sir, that it was clandestinely that my dear brother quitted his father’s house to accompany me. Unhappy hour when I yielded to his intreaties! But, monsieur le marquis, I perceive that it is now imperative that I should go to my father; he will need the assurance of my existence to support him in his grief. I will therefore, with your permission, write a few lines by the bearer of this communication, and to-morrow morning at daylight must unwillingly tear myself away from your charming society.”The cool and confident air with which I answered, removed suspicion; and having written a few lines to the comte, and requested from the marquis the loan of his seal, I applied the wax, and desired the servant to deliver it as an answer to the messenger, whom I was not sorry to see galloping by the window. “Oh,” cried I, “’tis Pierre: had I known that, I should have asked him some questions.”This well-timed exclamation of mine, I perceived, did not fail to have its weight. We again sat down to table, and I was treated with more than usual kindness by the marquis and his brother, as if in compensation for their having, for a moment, harboured a suspicion of my honesty. But I was ill at ease; and I felt that I never had acted with more prudence than in proposing my early departure.In the evening I was alone with Cerise. Since the news of my brother’s death, and the scene that followed, we had sworn unalterable love; and in that instance only was I sincere. I loved her to desperation, and I dote on her memory now, though years have rolled away, and she has long been mingled with the dead. Yes, Cerise, if from the regions of bliss, where thy pure spirit dwells, thou canst look down upon a wretch so loaded with guilt as I am, oh, turn not away with horror, but view with pity one who loved as fondly as man could love, and hereafter will care little for all that Paradise can offer if thy fair spirit must not bid him welcome!“I wish, Huckaback,” observed the pacha, angrily, “that you would go on with your story: you are talking to a dead woman, instead of a live pacha.”“I intreat your pardon,” replied the renegade; “but to amuse your highness, I have entered into scenes which long have been dismissed from my memory and the feelings attending them will rise up, and cannot well be checked. I will be more careful as I proceed.”Cerise was melancholy at the idea of my departure. I kissed the tears away, and the time flew rapidly. I persuaded her to allow me an interview after the family had retired, as I had much to say to her.“Well, well, we’ll suppose all that,” observed the pacha, impatiently: “now go on; you remember you were to set off in the morning.”“Yes, yes, your highness,” replied the renegade, somewhat displeased.And I did set off in the morning upon one of the marquis’s horses, and rode as hard as I could to Toulon. I determined again to try my fortune at sea, as I was afraid that I should be discovered if I remained on shore. I purchased a small venture with the money in my purse, and having made my agreement with the captain of a vessel bound to St. Domingo, exchanged my dress for a jacket and trousers; and was again at the mercy of the waves.“Such, your highness, is the history of my First Voyage, and the incidents which resulted from it.”“Well,” said the pacha, rising, “there was too much love, and too little sea in it; but, I suppose, if you had left the first out it would not have been so long. Mustapha, give him five pieces of gold, and we will have his Second Voyage to-morrow.”As soon as the pacha had retired, the renegade growled out, “If I am to tell any more stories, I must not be checked and dictated to. I could have talked for an hour after I had met Cerise, if I had not been interrupted: as it was I cut the matter short.”“But, Selim,” replied Mustapha, “the pacha is not fond of these sort of adventures: he likes something much more marvellous. Could you not embellish a little?”“How do you mean?”“Holy Prophet! what do I mean!—Why, tell a few lies,—not adhere quite so much to matter of fact.”“Adhere to matter of fact, vizier!—why, I have not stated a single fact yet!”“What! is not all this true?”“Not one word of it, as I hope to go to Heaven!”“Bismillah!—what not about Marie and the convent—and Cerise?”“All lies from beginning to end.”“And were you never a barber?”“Never in my life.”“Then why did you make such long apostrophes to the dead Cerise, when you observed that the pacha was impatient?”“Merely because I was at fault, vizier, and wished to gain time, to consider what I should say next.”“Selim,” replied Mustapha, “you have great talent; but mind that your next voyage is more wonderful; I presume it will make no difference to you.”“None whatever; but the pacha is not a man of taste. Now give me my five pieces, and I’ll be off: I’m choked with thirst, and shall not be comfortable till I have drunk at least a gallon of wine.”“Holy Prophet! what a Turk!” exclaimed the vizier; lifting up his hands. “Here is your money, kafir;—don’t forget to be here to-morrow.”“Never fear me, vizier; your slave lives but to obey you, we Turks say.”“We Turks!” muttered the vizier, as he cast his eyes upon the retiring figure of the renegade. “Well of all the scoundrels—”“Well,” muttered the renegade, who was now out of hearing, “of all the scoundrels—”Whom they were referring to in their separate soliloquies must be left to the reader’s imagination; for caution prevented either of the parties from giving vent to the remainder of their thoughts.
The pacha had repeated his perambulations for many nights, without success; and Mustapha, who observed that he was becoming very impatient, thought it advisable to cater for his amusement.
Among those who used to repair to Mustapha when he exercised his former profession, was a French renegade, a man of considerable talent and ready invention, but a most unprincipled scoundrel, who, previous to the elevation of Mustapha, had gained his livelihood by daring piratical attempts in an open boat. He was now in the employ of the vizier, commanding an armed xebeque which the latter had purchased. She passed off as a government cruiser but was in reality a pirate. Selim, for that was the name which the renegade had adopted when he abjured his faith, condemned every vessel that had the misfortune to meet with him, taking out the cargoes, burning the hull, and throwing the crews overboard, with the privilege of swimming on shore if they could. By this plan he avoided the inconveniences attending any appeals from the jurisdiction of the High Court of Admiralty, which he had established upon the seas.
The consequence was, that his cruises were more successful than ever; and Mustapha, who was not content with pillaging the pacha’s subjects on dry land, was amassing a large fortune at their expense by his maritime speculations.
Occasionally, bales or packages would be recognised when landed as having the identical marks and numbers of those which had been shipped from the quay but a fortnight before; but the renegade could always give a satisfactory explanation to the vizier; and after a Jew, who could not bear the idea of parting with his property without remonstrance, had been impaled, people shrugged up their shoulders and said nothing.
Now it occurred to Mustapha, that Selim might be able to assist his views. He talked fast and loud, vaunted his own exploits, curled his whiskers as he swore to the most improbable assertions, and had become a general nuisance and terror since he had obtained the vizier’s protection.
Mustapha sent for him; and, as a preliminary question, inquired if ever he had read the Arabian Nights.
“Yes; vizier,” replied the renegade; “many years before I turned Turk.”
“Do you recollect the voyages of Sindbad the Sailor?”
“To be sure I do; he is the only man that could ever hold a candle to me in lying.”
“Well, then, his highness the pacha delights in such stories; and it is my wish that you prepare to recount your own voyages, as Sindbad has done before you.”
“But what am I to get for it?”
“My good-will and protection; besides which, his highness if pleased, will not fail to order you a handsome present.”
“Well,” replied Selim, “any man who can produce gold in this world will always be able to change it for base metal. I can coin lies in my mint faster than he can coin sequins in his; and since you wish it, and say that it will be profitable, why—I am very much at his service.”
“Then, Selim, observe my directions, for every thing must appear accidental.”
In pursuance to the orders received from Mustapha, the renegade remained that evening at the corner of a certain street, through which Mustapha took care that the pacha should pass in his disguise. When he perceived their approach, the renegade exclaimed, “Allah, Allah! when is the happy time to come, promised in my seventh and last voyage?”
“Who are you; and why do you call upon Heaven for happy times?” inquired the pacha.
“I am Huckaback the sailor,” replied the renegade, “who, after a life of danger and disaster, am anxiously awaiting the fulfilment of a promise from the Most High.”
“I must see this man to-morrow,” observed the pacha:— “Mustapha, as you value your life, see that he attends.”
The vizier bowed; and the pacha returned to the palace without further adventure.
The next day, as soon as the business of the divan had closed, the renegade was ordered in. Prostrating himself before the pacha, he then rose, and folding his arms over his breast, awaited his commands in silence.
“I have sent for you, Huckaback, to inquire the meaning of the words you made use of last night: and to know what was the promise made to you in your seventh and last voyage; but I will thank you to begin at the first, as I wish to hear the history of all your voyages.”
“May it please your highness, as I live but to obey you, all that has occurred in my eventful life shall, if you command it, be submitted to your ear. It will, however, be necessary that I should revert to my early days to enable your highness more fully to comprehend the whole.”
“Aferin! well said,” replied the pacha; “I don’t care how long a story it is, provided that it is a good one:” and Selim having obeyed a sign from his highness, intimating that he might sit down, commenced as follows:—
I am a native of Marseilles, your highness, where I was brought up to the profession of my father; a profession (continued the wily renegade) which, I have no hesitation to assert, has produced more men of general information, and more men of talent, than any other—I mean that of a barber.
“Wallah thaib; well said by Allah!” observed Mustapha.
The pacha nodded his approbation; and the renegade proceeded with his story.
I was gifted by nature with a ready invention, and some trouble and expense were bestowed upon my education. To the profession of a barber my father added that of bleeding and tooth-drawing. At ten years old I could cut hair pretty well. People did say, that those upon whom I had operated, looked as if their heads had been gnawed by the rats; but it was the remark of envy; and, as my father observed, “there must be a beginning to every thing.”
At fifteen, I entered upon the rudiments of shaving; and after having nearly ruined my father’s credit, from the pounds of flesh which I removed with the hair of my customers, who were again consoled by his observing, that “there must be a beginning to every thing,” I became quite expert. I was subsequently initiated into the higher branches of tooth-drawing and bleeding. In the former, at first I gave great dissatisfaction, either from breaking the decayed tooth short off, and leaving the stump in the socket, or from mistaking the one pointed out, and drawing a sound engine of mastication in its stead. In the latter, I made more serious mistakes, having more than once cut so deep as to open the artery, while I missed the vein; in consequence of which I was never afterwards employed, except by a husband to relieve a scolding wife, or by nephews who were anxious about the health of an everlasting uncle. But, as my father wisely observed, “there must be a beginning to every thing;” and, as I could only practise upon living subjects, “individuals must suffer for the good of the community at large.” At the age of twenty I was an accomplished barber.
But rapid as was my career, I was not fated to continue in it long. Like the shot propelled from the mouth of the cannon, which, in its extreme velocity, is turned from the direction which has been given it by glancing along the weakest substance, so was my course of life changed from its direction by meeting with a woman.
My father had a good customer; he had shaved him every morning for years, had extracted every tooth in his head, and was now winding up his long account by bleeding him daily, under the direction of an ignorant apothecary. I was often at the house,—not to bleed him, for my father either thought him too valuable, or was too grateful for past favours to trust him in my hands;—but I held the basin, procured water, and arranged the bandages. He had a daughter, a lovely girl, whom I adored in secret; but her rank in life was too far above mine to allow me to express my feelings. I was then a handsome young man, although Time has since exerted his utmost, through jealousy, to make me appear almost as old and ill-favoured as himself. The young lady took a fancy to me, complained of the tooth-ache, and asked for remedies. I offered to extract the tooth; but either having heard of my reputation, or not wishing to remove the excuse for our interviews, or, what is still more probable, having no tooth-ache whatever, she would not consent.
The death of her mother, which had taken place when she was a child, had left her without guidance,—and the helpless situation of her father, without protection. Naturally of a warm temperament, and yielding to the impulse of her feelings, she carried on an intimacy which could only end in her disgrace; and, at the expiration of a year, her situation could no longer be concealed. I was now in a dilemma. She had two brothers in the army, who were returning home, and I dreaded their vengeance.
I loved her very much, but I loved myself more; so, one evening, I packed up all that I could call my own, and all that I could lay my hands on belonging to my honoured parent, and shipped on board a Genoese vessel, which was then standing out of the harbour. She was a large ship, mounting twelve long guns, with a complement of sixty men; being what is termed in European countries a “letter of marque.” This implies that she fights her way without convoy, capturing any of the enemy’s vessels she may happen to fall in with, who are not strong enough to resist her. We had cleared out for Genoa with a cargo of lead, which lay at the bottom of the hold, and which merely served for ballast.
I soon found out, by the conversation of the crew, that we were not to proceed to Genoa direct; in fact, your highness, she was a pirate, manned by a most desperate set of men. As soon as my qualifications were made known, I had the honour to remove the beards of sixty of the greatest villains that ever were permitted to exist, receiving nothing but blows and curses for my trouble. I certainly improved very much in my profession; for it was as much as my life was worth to draw blood, although they made no scruple of carrying on a conversation during the whole time of the operation. We had taken the cargoes out of several vessels, all of which were added to the “manifest” by our correct captain; when one day, we were chased by an English frigate. I never met the English on shore, but I must say that, afloat, they are the most impertinent people that swim on the seas. They cannot be content with minding their own business, although they have plenty on their hands, but they must interfere in that of others. They board you, and insist upon knowing where you come from, whither you are bound and what you have on board; examining you with as much scrutiny as if they had been the delegated custom-house officers of the whole world.
Now it did not exactly suit our captain to submit to such a rigorous search; he therefore made all sail for an island about seven miles distant, and anchored under the protection of a battery. Austria—the nation to whom the island belonged—was not at war with England; she was preserving what is called an “armed neutrality.”
“Pray what is the meaning of an armed neutrality?” demanded the pacha.
“It varies according to circumstances, your highness, but, generally speaking, it means a charge of bayonets.”
The frigate followed; and being prevented by the shallowness of the water from approaching sufficiently near to us herself, sent her boats to examine us: but as there were six of them full of men, and each mounting a gun at her bow, our captain thought it advisable to refuse them permission to come on board. As a hint that he disapproved of their measures, he poured his whole broadside of round and grape into them, when they were about a quarter of a mile distant: upon which they gave three cheers, and were obstinate enough to pull faster towards us than ever.
We received them with all the honours of war, in the shape of cutlasses, pistols, and boarding pikes but they were very determined. As soon as one was knocked down, another jumped up in his place; and somehow or another they had possession of the ship in less time than I have been telling the story. I was on the poop when an English sailor, with a pigtail as thick as a cable, made a cut at me; I ran back to avoid the blow, and, in so doing, came with such force against another of their men, that we both tumbled overboard together. I lost my cutlass, but he had not parted with his; and as soon as we rose to the surface, he seized me by the collar, and presented the point to my breast. It seemed to be all the same to him whether he fought on the deck or in the water. Fortunately I shifted a little on one side, and he only drove it through my jacket. I recollected that I had my razor in my pocket, which I took out under the water unperceived, and, closing with him before he could repeat his thrust, I cut his throat from ear to ear, and then made for the shore as fast as I could. As I swam remarkably well, I had no great difficulty in reaching it. As soon as I landed, I looked back, and observing that the English boats were towing our vessel out, I made all the haste I could to the fort, which was close at hand. There I was hospitably received; and we sat up till past midnight, drinking, smoking, and abusing the English.
The next morning, a felucca anchored to procure some water; and, as she was proceeding to Toulon, I requested a passage. We sailed with a fine breeze; but a heavy gale came on, which tossed us about for many days, and the master of the vessel had no idea to where she had been driven. He consoled us, however, by asserting that we could never go to the bottom, as there was a lady of great sanctity passenger in the cabin, who had been sent for to assume the office of lady abbess of a convent near Marseilles, and whom the saints would indubitably preserve.
This was some comfort, although fine weather would have been greater. The gale continued; and the next morning we thought that we descried land on the lee beam. The following night we were certain of our conjectures having been correct, for the vessel was thrown on shore, and in a few minutes went to pieces. I had the good fortune to save myself upon a part of the wreck, and lay half-dead upon the beach until the morning. When the day broke, I looked around me: there were the fragments of the vessel strewed upon the beach, or tossed in mockery by the surge; and close to me lay the dead body of the lady, whose sanctity the captain had assured us would be a safeguard to us all. I then turned from the beach to look at the inland country, and perceived, to my astonishment, that I was not three miles from my native city, Marseilles. This was a horrid discovery; for I knew that I should receive no mercy, and could not proceed a mile without being recognised. What to do was now the subject of my thoughts; and at last, as I viewed the body of the dead lady, it occurred to me that I might pass myself off for her.
I stripped it of its outer garment; and having then hauled my own clothes upon the corpse, and covered it over with sea-weed, I dressed myself in the religious habit which she had worn, and sat down awaiting the arrival of the people, which I knew must soon take place. I was then without a symptom of beard; and from the hardship and ill-treatment which I had received on board of the Genoese, was thin and sallow in the face. It was easy in a nun’s dress to mistake me for a woman of thirty-five years of age, who had been secluded in a cloister. In the pockets of her clothes I found letters, which gave me the necessary clue to my story, and I resolved to pass myself off as La Soeur Eustasie, rather than he put in prison, or run through the body.
I had scarcely time to finish reading these documents when a party, attracted by the fragments on the beach, came up to me. I narrated the loss of the vessel, the death of the whole crew, my name and condition, my having come over at the request of the bishop to assume the guidance of the convent of St. Therese; and added, that I had called upon the Virgin in my distress, who had come to my aid, and floated me on shore with as much care and comfort as if I had been reposing on cushions of down. The report was spread, and credited; for the circumstance of a helpless woman being the sole survivor of a whole crew was miracle enough in itself.
The bishop’s carriage was sent for me, and I was conducted into the town, followed by a concourse of priests, monks and common people, who were anxious to kiss even the ground that had been trod upon by a personage so especially under the protection of Heaven. I was conducted to the bishop’s palace, where I held a sort of court, being visited by deputations from the official bodies, the governor, and all the people of consequence. After a sojourn of three days, I removed to the convent of which I was the supposed abbess, and was enthusiastically received by the nuns, who flocked round me with mingled veneration and delight.
On the second day of my establishment as abbess, the two elder sisters, who could with difficulty he got rid of even when I retired to bed the night before, introduced the whole of the nuns in rotation, beginning with the elder, and ending with those who last took the vow of chastity. I felt little interest, I must confess, at the commencement of my levee; but as it came near to a close, many beautiful countenances attracted my attention, and I gave the kiss of peace with more zest than prudence would have justified. The last of the sisterhood came forward, and was introduced as Soeur Marie. Gracious Heaven! it was the poor girl whom I had deserted. I started when I saw her advance: her eyes were bent upon the ground, as if in reverence to my acknowledged sanctity. As she knelt before me to receive the kiss, she raised them up. Love can pierce through all disguises.—At the moment, she thought that she beheld her fugitive lover, and caught her breath in amazement—but recollection pointed out to her the utter impossibility of the fact, and she sighed at the uncommon likeness, as she received the kiss from those lips which had indeed been so often pressed to hers before.
When the ceremony had been gone through I complained of fatigue, and requested to be left alone.
I wished to reflect upon what had passed, and determine how I was to act: to escape the danger which threatened me, I had placed myself in a situation of still greater difficulty. Where could it end? After a long reverie, I decided that I would make Marie myconfidante, and trust to circumstances to guide my future conduct. I rang the bell, and, requesting the presence of the elder sister of the convent, commenced an inquiry into the different characters of the nuns who had been presented.
Flattered by the confidence demanded, there was no end to the loquacity and the ill-natured remarks of the old beldame: she held her list in her hand, and ran over the families and private history of each. It was two hours before she had finished, which she did with Marie, of whose history she gave me a most minute detail; and if she was as correct in her reports of all the others, I certainly had no reason to compliment myself upon being abbess, so far as the previous characters of the nuns under my surveillance were concerned. “Good sister,” replied I, “I thank you for your information, which I shall not fail to profit by in my plans for the improvement of the morality of those under my charge. I have always made it a rule, that one of the sisterhood should remain in my room every night, to watch and do penance. I have found that when coupled with my seasonable exhortations, it has produced an excellent effect. Of course I allude not to sage and devout women like you; I refer to those who in their folly and their flow of youthful passions, have not yet humbled themselves sufficiently by abstinence and mortification. Who would you propose to watch here this night?”
The old beldame, who I had perceived by the violence of her manner had a dislike to Marie, immediately mentioned her as one to whom severe penance would be of especial benefit. I conversed with her for another half-hour; then, wishing her good night, prepared for bed, and requested that Marie might be summoned to attend.
Marie entered with her book ofPrièresin her hand, and, bowing humbly to me as she passed, sat down near to the lamp which was lighted before an image of the Virgin, at the farther end of the room, and commenced her task of watching and of prayer.
“Marie,” said I, as I stood by the bed: she uttered a faint scream as she heard my voice for the first time, and throwing herself down upon her knees before the image of the Virgin, covered her face with her hands, and appeared to be in silent but earnest supplication.
“Marie,” again said I, “come here.” She rose, and came trembling to the foot of the bed. “To you, and to you alone, do I intrust a secret which, if discovered, would subject me to a painful and ignominious death. You were not deceived, when you started at the face beneath the nun’s attire! and you must now be certain, from the voice which you have heard, that I am indeed François. How I became the lady abbess of this convent you have yet to learn.” I then narrated what I have already done to your highness. “By what means,” continued I, “I am to deliver myself from this dangerous situation, I know not; I have, however, one consolation, in finding myself once more in company with the object of my love. Come hither, Marie; it is indeed your own François.”
Marie remained at the foot of the bed, but advanced not; and I perceived that the tears fell fast, as she cast her eyes to heaven.
“Speak to me, Marie, if ever you loved me.”
“That I loved you, François, you know full well: not even your unkind desertion could affect that love, which was unchangeable. I dared all for your sake; my brothers, my father, could not extort the secret from me, and their suspicions although directed towards you, could never be confirmed. I bore the offspring of my guilt in solitary anguish, afterwards loaded with reproaches when I needed comfort and consolation, and stunned with imprecations when I required soothing and repose. I buried it with shame and sorrow and contumely. You had abandoned me, and I felt that all ties to this world were over. I took the veil; and never was the world quitted by so willing a votary as myself. I have since been peaceful, if not happy.”
“And now, Marie, you shall be happy,” cried I, stretching out my arms to her. “Come to me, I will explain my motives for leaving Marseilles, and what my future intentions were, if they had not been frustrated by unforeseen events. All shall yet be well.”
“François, all is well. I have taken a solemn vow—it is registered in Heaven. You have by fraud and imposition entered into a holy place, and assumed a holy character. Add not to your crime by even harbouring the idea of impropriety, and add not to my humiliation by supposing for a moment that I am capable of being a participator.
“Holy Virgin,” cried she, falling on her knees, “I demand thy powerful aid in this conflict of worldly passions and holy wishes. Oh! make me dead to all but thee, and to the spouse whom I have accepted at thy hands.”
She then rose, and continued—“How you will be able to leave this convent, François, I know not; but your secret is safe with me, provided that you do not again request my presence, as you have this night. My prayers shall ever be for you; but we must meet no more!” and Marie waved her hand mournfully, and quitted the apartment.
Although I had always a great contempt for the Catholic religion, of which I at that period was a member, I was awed by the beauty of virtue as it appeared in Marie, and I passed the night in melancholy reflections. I felt more love for her than ever, and determined upon persuading her to quit the convent and become my wife. The next morning I sent for her.
“Marie, you gave yourself to heaven, when you imagined that you had no tie upon earth. You were deceived; there was one whom you still loved, and who still adored you. Vows made in delusion are not registered. Leave this convent with me, become my wife, and you will do your duty better towards heaven than by pining between these walls, which contain nothing but envy, hatred, and remorse.”
“François, you have had my answer. What has been done, cannot be undone. Save yourself, and leave me to my unhappy fate,” answered Marie: then bursting into tears, “O François, why, why did you leave me without one word? Had you but pointed out your danger to me, I should have been the first to have insisted upon your absence, and all, all would have been borne with patience, if not with pleasure, for your sake. If what you now say is truth, all would have been well; but now I have nought to cheer me in my lonely pilgrimage, and nought to wish but that it soon may come unto its close. I forgive you, François; but pity me, for I deserve your pity.”
“Once more, Marie, I intreat you to consent to my proposal.”
“Never, François; I will not be less faithful to my God than I was to you: he will not desert me; and if I suffer now, will reward me for it hereafter.” And Marie again quitted my apartment.
My situation in the nunnery now became insupportable, and I determined to escape. I pleaded ill-health, and kept my bed. The physician of a neighbouring convent, who had a great reputation, was sent for against my wishes. When I heard of his arrival, I dressed to receive him for I was fearful of some scrutiny. He inquired what ailed me: I answered that I had no pain, but that I was convinced I should soon depart. He felt my pulse, and, not being able to discover symptoms of disease, took his leave.
To the elder sisters who visited me, I spoke in enigmas, and told them that I had a summons, that they must expect soon to find me gone: and the sanctity of my reputation made them receive my innuendoes as inspired remarks. One night, I complained of being much worse, and requested their early retiring: they would have sent for the physician, but I forbad it, telling them I was beyond a physician’s cure: kissing them all, and pronouncing over them a solemn blessing, I dismissed them. As soon as it was dark, I threw off my nun’s attire, leaving it in my bed, as if I had slipped out of it; and as the windows of my apartment, which looked into the convent garden, were not barred, unclothed as I was I dropped down, and reached the ground in safety. I took the precaution, when I was outside, to shut the window, that my having escaped should not enter their ideas, and climbing a tree which overhung the wall of the garden, dropped from a bough on the other side, and found myself at liberty. As I knew that the farther I was from the nunnery, the less chance I had of being supposed an impostor, I gained the high road, and ran as fast as I could in the direction from Marseilles to Toulouse.
I had proceeded several miles without encountering any body at that still hour of the night, occasionally alarmed at the barking of some snarling cur, as I passed through the small villages in my route,—when, worn out with fatigue and cold, I sat down under a hedge to screen myself from the cold “mistral” which blew. As the wind lulled, I heard sounds of voices in lamentation, which appeared to proceed from the road at a short distance. I rose, and continued my route, when I stumbled over the body of a man. I examined him by the faint light that was emitted from the stars. He was quite dead; and it immediately occurred to me that a robbery had been committed, and the lamentations which I had heard proceeded from those who had escaped with their lives. The cloak of the dead man was lying underneath him; it was a capote, such as are worn by officers. I unclasped it from his neck, round which it was fastened with two bear’s-paws chased in silver, and, wrapping it round my benumbed limbs, proceeded further on to where I now occasionally heard voices much plainer than before. I again fell in with two more prostrate bodies, and, as the day had now begun to break, perceived that they were clothed like people of low condition. Passing my hand over their faces, I felt that they were quite dead and stiff. Afraid that if found close to the spot, and unable to give any account of myself, I should be accused of murder, I thought of immediate flight; but the plaintive voice of a woman met my ears, and it was an appeal that I could not resist. I proceeded a few yards further, and perceived a carriage, the horses of which lay dead in their traces, with the driver beside them. To the hind wheels were secured with ropes an elderly man and a young woman.
“God be praised, my dear father, help is at hand!” said the young woman, as I approached; and as I came close to them, she cried out, “Oh, I know him by his cloak; it’s the gentleman who defended us so gallantly, and whom we supposed to have been killed. Are you much hurt, sir?”
Aware that I had better be any body than myself; with my usual invention and presence of mind I replied, “Not much, madam, thanks be to Heaven! I was stunned, and they left me for dead: I am happy that I am still alive, to be of service to you:” and I immediately proceeded to cast loose the ropes by which the father and daughter (as by their conversation they appeared to be) had been confined to the wheels. The robbers had stripped them both nearly to the skin, and they were so numbed with the cold that they could scarcely stand when they were unbound,—the poor girl especially, who shivered as if suffering under a tertian ague. I proposed that they should enter the carriage as the best shelter they could receive from the bitter keen wind which blew, and they agreed to the prudence of my suggestion.
“If I am not requesting too great a favour, sir,” said the old gentleman, “I wish you would lend my poor daughter that cloak, for she is perishing with the cold.”
“I will with pleasure, sir, as soon as you are both in the carriage,” replied I; for I had made up my mind how to proceed. I assisted them in, and, shutting the door, slipped off the cloak and put it in at the window, saying, “Believe me, madam, I should have offered it to you before, but the fact is, the rascals served me, as I lay stunned, in the same manner as they have you; and I must now go in search of something to cover myself.” I then went off at a quick pace, hearing the young woman exclaim, “Oh, my father, he has stripped himself to cover me.” I immediately returned to the body of the gentleman whose cloak I had borrowed, and for whom I had no doubt that I had been mistaken. I stripped off all the clothes from his rigid limbs, and put them on: they fitted me exactly, and, what was more fortunate, were not stained with blood, as he had received his death-wound from a bullet in the brain. I then dragged the body to the other side of the hedge, where I threw it into a ditch, and covered it with long grass, that it might not be discovered. Daylight had made its appearance before I had completed my toilet; and when I came back to the carriage, the old gentleman was loud in his thanks. I told him that in returning to strip one of the other bodies I had found my own clothes in a bundle, which the robbers had left in their haste to escape from pursuit.
The young lady said nothing, but sat shrouded up in the cloak, in one corner of the carriage. I now entered into conversation with the old gentleman, who explained to me how the attack began, before I had come to their assistance: and from the information I received from him, I was enabled to form a very good idea of the story that I was to tell. I found that I had been on horseback with my servant, when I rode to their assistance; that we had been both supposed to be killed, and that we were about five miles from any post town.
By this time it was broad daylight, and I made another discovery, which was, that I was wearing an officer’s undress. Anxious to gratify my curiosity by a sight of the young lady, I turned to her as she lay muffled up in the cloak, and expressed a hope that she did not feel cold. She put her head out, and answered in the negative with such a sweet smile, upon such a sweet face as I never had before witnessed. I looked at her as if transfixed, and did not take my eyes off until she blushed, and again sank back as before.
This brought me to my recollection; I offered to go for assistance, and my services were thankfully accepted. I passed by the men who had been killed, as I went on my mission: one was habited in a livery similar to the coach-man who lay dead by his horses; the other was in that of a groom, and I took it for granted that he had been my servant. I searched in his pockets for information; and, collecting the contents, commenced reading them as I walked along.
By his memoranda I found out that I had come from Aix. By letters and papers in my own pockets I ascertained who I was, who my father was, to what regiment I belonged, that I was on leave of absence, and that I had a brother, whose affectionate letter I read carefully for further information. I had not time to count a considerable sum of money, which was in my purse, before I fell in with a countryman, who was leading his horses to the plough. Briefly narrating the circumstances, I offered him a handsome remuneration, if he would mount one of his horses, and procure immediate assistance. Having seen him off in a hand-gallop, I returned to the carriage to try if it were possible to have one more view of that face which had so enchanted me. I stated the good fortune I had met with, and my hopes of a speedy deliverance from their trouble. I answered the old gentleman’s inquiry of the name and condition of the person to whom he and his daughter had been so much indebted; talked of my father the Comte de Rouillé, of my regiment; and then requested a similar confidence.
He was le Marquis de Tonseca, and the young lady was his daughter; they were proceeding to their château about seven miles distant, where he hoped I would accompany them, and allow him an opportunity of showing his gratitude.
I hesitated, talked of engagements—not that I intended to refuse the invitation, but because the young lady had not joined in the request. My plan had the desired effect; again the lovely face appeared from under the cloak, and the sweetest voice in the world expressed a wish that I would not refuse her father’s invitation. I blushed, and stammered consent. Pleased at her victory, she smiled, and again was folded up in the cloak, which I could have torn to pieces for its envious concealment.
Assistance had now arrived; a crowd of people, headed by an officer to take theprocés verbal, and two pair of post-horses came up; the deposition of the marquis and myself were briefly taken; his, as to what he had seen, and mine “to the best of my knowledge and belief.” The papers were signed, the dead bodies were carried off, the horses put to; and, at the request of the marquis, I took my seat in the carriage between him and his daughter, and we proceeded to the château.
In two hours we arrived at a magnificent pile, which bespoke the wealth and ancestry of the owner; and I had the pleasure of carrying in my arms, up the long flight of steps by which we ascended to the entrance, the beautiful girl, muffled up as she was in the cloak. As soon as I had laid her down upon a sofa, I left her to the care of the females who were in attendance, and quitted the room. The marquis had retired to his own apartment, to supply the deficiencies in his attire, and for a short time I was left alone to my own reflections. What is to be the result of all this? thought I. Is there to be no end of my assumption of the clothes and titles of other people,—this continual transmigration before death? Yet how much more has it depended upon circumstances than upon myself!
After much reflection, I determined upon letting things take their own course, trusting to my own ready invention and good fortune for the issue. I felt it to be impossible to tear myself from the sweet creature whose personal charms had already fascinated me, and I vowed that there was no risk, no danger, that I would not brave to obtain her love.
In an hour we met at the breakfast-table, and I was more than ever enchanted;—but I will not detain your highness by dwelling too long upon the subject.
“No, don’t, yaha bibi, my friend,” said the pacha, yawning, “your story gets very dry already. We’ll suppose the cypress waist, the stag’s eyes, and full moon of her face. We Musselmen don’t talk so much about women; but I suppose as you were a Frenchman, and very young then, you knew no better. Why you talk of women as if they had souls!” The renegade did not think it advisable to express his opinion in contradiction to that of his highness, and the assertions of the Prophet. “It cannot be said that I behaved to them as if they had,” replied he; “and before I changed my religion, I was often smitten with remorse for my selfish and unfeeling conduct towards Marie; but all that is passed, I am now a Turk;” and the renegade passed his hand over his brow; for some long, smothered feelings of virtue had been conjured up by remorse, as he was reminded of the career of guilt which he had run through, and which he had climaxed by the denial of his Redeemer. After a short pause he continued—
For a week I remained in the society of the marquis and his daughter, daily ingratiating myself more and more with both. I had not declared my passion to his daughter, for there was something that irresistibly prevented me; yet I knew that I was not viewed with indifference. Our party was then increased by the appearance of the Bishop of Toulouse, the brother of the marquis, who came to congratulate him and his niece upon their fortunate escape. I was presented as the gentleman who had so materially assisted. The bishop stared at me with surprise.
“It is strange,” observed he, “that a body has been found in a ditch, near to where the robbery occurred, and has been recognised to be that of the very young officer to whom you now introduce me. How can this be?”
The marquis and his daughter appeared astonished at the intelligence (and in truth so was I), but it was only for a second. “How say you, sir,” exclaimed I, with trepidation, “a body recognised as the son of the Comte de Rouillé? My poor, poor brother! my dear Victor have you then perished? what injustice have I done you!”
Throwing myself on the fauteuil, I covered my face with my handkerchief, as if overpowered with grief; but, in reality, I was reflecting what I should say next.
“Your brother!” exclaimed the marquis in surprise.
“Yes, marquis, my brother. I will now state the circumstances which induced me to conceal from you that he was in my company at the time of the attack. When I galloped to your assistance, I was followed by my brother, who was riding with me to Marseilles, and of whom you recollect I have spoken; but after the first discharge of fire-arms I found that he was not at my side, and I imagined that he had deserted me from fear. I could not bear that such a disgrace upon the family should be known, and I therefore made no mention of him when I came back. Little did I think, that while I was accusing him in my heart of cowardice, he was dead, and his heart’s blood had been poured out in my defence. Victor, my dear Victor!” continued I, “how great has been my injustice, and what can repay me for your loss?” and I threw myself down on the sofa, as if frantic with grief.
“Huckaback,” observed the pacha, “it appears to me that in your younger days you were a great scoundrel.”
“I acknowledge it,” replied the renegade; “but, in extenuation, your highness must call to mind that at that time I was a Christian.”
“By the beard of the Prophet, that is well said, and very true!” replied the pacha.
The marquis and his brother were shocked at having so unintentionally plunged me into affliction. They offered consolation; but finding their endeavours fruitless, quitted the room, thinking it advisable to leave me to myself. Cerise, for that was the name of the daughter, remained, and after a short pause came to me, and in her silvery voice, as she laid her hand upon my shoulder, addressed me:—
“Console yourself, my dear Felix;” but I made no answer. “How unhappy I am!” said she: “it was in my defence that he lost his life: it was to your courage that I am indebted for my preservation:— he is dead, and you are miserable. Can nothing repay you for the loss of your brother?—Nothing, Felix?”
I raised my head; her eyes were swimming with tears, and beaming with love. As I resumed my seat upon the sofa, I drew her gently towards me. She offered no resistance, and in a moment she had sunk down by my side, as my arms entwined her beauteous form.
“Yes,” murmured I, “Cerise, I am repaid.” Smiling through her blushes, she disengaged herself, and rose to depart. Returning once more at my request, I imprinted a kiss upon her brow: she waved her hand, and hastened out of the room.
“That was a very nice girl, by your description,” interrupted the pacha: “pray what might you pay for such a girl in your country?”
“She was beyond all price,” replied the renegade, with an absent air, as if communing with times past. “Love is not to be bought. The Moslem purchases the slave and blind submission to his will, but he makes not love.”
“No, he buys it ready made,” replied the pacha; “and I must say I wish you had done the same; for, with all this love-making, you get on but slowly with your story. Proceed.”
I remained another week, when the bishop, who had not yet taken his departure, one morning drove over to Marseilles, and returned to dinner. “I was sent for,” observed he, as we sat down to table, “to consult as to the propriety of requesting from the Pope the canonisation of the Soeur Eustasie, of whom you have heard so much, and whose disappearance has been attributed to miraculous agency: but during our consultation, a piece of information was sent in, which has very much changed the opinion of parties as to her reputed sanctity. It appears that near the spot where the vessel was wrecked they have discovered the body of a woman dressed in man’s clothes; and it is now supposed that some miscreant has personified her at the convent, and has subsequently escaped. The officers of justice are making the strictest search; and if the individual is found, he will be sent to Rome to be disposed of by the Inquisition.”
As your highness may imagine, this was not very agreeable news: I almost started from my chair when I heard it; but I had sufficient mastery over myself to conceal my feelings, although every morsel that I put into my mouth nearly choked me.
But before dinner was over the plot thickened; a letter was brought to the marquis from my adopted father, the Comte de Rouillé, stating that such contradictory reports had been received, that he could not ascertain the truth. From one he heard that his eldest son was alive, and at the château; from others that he had been murdered; others congratulated him in their letters upon the escape of one of his sons. He requested the marquis to inform him of the real state of affairs, and to let him know by the bearer whether his eldest son was with him, or whether he had met with the unfortunate death that was reported; and as his youngest son was at home, and had been there for some months, he could not but imagine, as both of them were mentioned in the reports, that there might be some imposture in the business.
I perceived by the change of countenance in the marquis that affairs were not going well, and was to a certain degree prepared, when he gravely handed the letter to the bishop; who; having read it, passed it over to me, saying, with a stern look, “This concerns you, sir.” I read it with a composed countenance, and, returning it to the marquis, I observed with a sigh, “There is no kindness in such deception; the blow will only fall heavier upon the old man when it does come. You are aware, sir, I mentioned, it to you (or rather, I believe, it was to Mademoiselle Cerise), that my father is blind, and has been so for the last two years. They have been afraid to tell him the truth, and have made him believe that Victor is there. You must know, sir, that it was clandestinely that my dear brother quitted his father’s house to accompany me. Unhappy hour when I yielded to his intreaties! But, monsieur le marquis, I perceive that it is now imperative that I should go to my father; he will need the assurance of my existence to support him in his grief. I will therefore, with your permission, write a few lines by the bearer of this communication, and to-morrow morning at daylight must unwillingly tear myself away from your charming society.”
The cool and confident air with which I answered, removed suspicion; and having written a few lines to the comte, and requested from the marquis the loan of his seal, I applied the wax, and desired the servant to deliver it as an answer to the messenger, whom I was not sorry to see galloping by the window. “Oh,” cried I, “’tis Pierre: had I known that, I should have asked him some questions.”
This well-timed exclamation of mine, I perceived, did not fail to have its weight. We again sat down to table, and I was treated with more than usual kindness by the marquis and his brother, as if in compensation for their having, for a moment, harboured a suspicion of my honesty. But I was ill at ease; and I felt that I never had acted with more prudence than in proposing my early departure.
In the evening I was alone with Cerise. Since the news of my brother’s death, and the scene that followed, we had sworn unalterable love; and in that instance only was I sincere. I loved her to desperation, and I dote on her memory now, though years have rolled away, and she has long been mingled with the dead. Yes, Cerise, if from the regions of bliss, where thy pure spirit dwells, thou canst look down upon a wretch so loaded with guilt as I am, oh, turn not away with horror, but view with pity one who loved as fondly as man could love, and hereafter will care little for all that Paradise can offer if thy fair spirit must not bid him welcome!
“I wish, Huckaback,” observed the pacha, angrily, “that you would go on with your story: you are talking to a dead woman, instead of a live pacha.”
“I intreat your pardon,” replied the renegade; “but to amuse your highness, I have entered into scenes which long have been dismissed from my memory and the feelings attending them will rise up, and cannot well be checked. I will be more careful as I proceed.”
Cerise was melancholy at the idea of my departure. I kissed the tears away, and the time flew rapidly. I persuaded her to allow me an interview after the family had retired, as I had much to say to her.
“Well, well, we’ll suppose all that,” observed the pacha, impatiently: “now go on; you remember you were to set off in the morning.”
“Yes, yes, your highness,” replied the renegade, somewhat displeased.
And I did set off in the morning upon one of the marquis’s horses, and rode as hard as I could to Toulon. I determined again to try my fortune at sea, as I was afraid that I should be discovered if I remained on shore. I purchased a small venture with the money in my purse, and having made my agreement with the captain of a vessel bound to St. Domingo, exchanged my dress for a jacket and trousers; and was again at the mercy of the waves.
“Such, your highness, is the history of my First Voyage, and the incidents which resulted from it.”
“Well,” said the pacha, rising, “there was too much love, and too little sea in it; but, I suppose, if you had left the first out it would not have been so long. Mustapha, give him five pieces of gold, and we will have his Second Voyage to-morrow.”
As soon as the pacha had retired, the renegade growled out, “If I am to tell any more stories, I must not be checked and dictated to. I could have talked for an hour after I had met Cerise, if I had not been interrupted: as it was I cut the matter short.”
“But, Selim,” replied Mustapha, “the pacha is not fond of these sort of adventures: he likes something much more marvellous. Could you not embellish a little?”
“How do you mean?”
“Holy Prophet! what do I mean!—Why, tell a few lies,—not adhere quite so much to matter of fact.”
“Adhere to matter of fact, vizier!—why, I have not stated a single fact yet!”
“What! is not all this true?”
“Not one word of it, as I hope to go to Heaven!”
“Bismillah!—what not about Marie and the convent—and Cerise?”
“All lies from beginning to end.”
“And were you never a barber?”
“Never in my life.”
“Then why did you make such long apostrophes to the dead Cerise, when you observed that the pacha was impatient?”
“Merely because I was at fault, vizier, and wished to gain time, to consider what I should say next.”
“Selim,” replied Mustapha, “you have great talent; but mind that your next voyage is more wonderful; I presume it will make no difference to you.”
“None whatever; but the pacha is not a man of taste. Now give me my five pieces, and I’ll be off: I’m choked with thirst, and shall not be comfortable till I have drunk at least a gallon of wine.”
“Holy Prophet! what a Turk!” exclaimed the vizier; lifting up his hands. “Here is your money, kafir;—don’t forget to be here to-morrow.”
“Never fear me, vizier; your slave lives but to obey you, we Turks say.”
“We Turks!” muttered the vizier, as he cast his eyes upon the retiring figure of the renegade. “Well of all the scoundrels—”
“Well,” muttered the renegade, who was now out of hearing, “of all the scoundrels—”
Whom they were referring to in their separate soliloquies must be left to the reader’s imagination; for caution prevented either of the parties from giving vent to the remainder of their thoughts.