"Laurel immortal al gran Palafox,Gloria da España, de Francia terror!"
"Laurel immortal al gran Palafox,
Gloria da España, de Francia terror!"
The expression which she put into this song was indescribable. From the deepest pain of death there flamed forth the most fiery enthusiasm--each note seemed to be a lightning flash which must shiver every ice-covering of the chilled breast. As for Ludwig he was--to use a familiar expression--ready to jump out of his skin with sheer rapture. He interrupted her singing with boisterous "Bravas!" "Bravissimas!" and a hundred other such expressions of approbation.
"Do be so kind, my dear fellow, as to make a little less noise!" Euchar said. "Oh, of course," he answered, "you unimpressionable people are never in the least affected by music!" However he did what Euchar had asked him to do.
When she had finished, she went and leant on a tree, as if wearied. And as she let the chords go on sounding more and more softly till they died away in apianissimo, great tears were falling upon the instrument.
"You are in some need, my poor, pretty child," said Euchar, in the tone which comes only from a deeply moved heart. "Although I did not see the beginning of your dance, you have more than made up for that by your song, and you must not refuse to accept something from me."
He had taken out a little purse in which bright ducats were shining, and was handing it to her as she came closer to him. She fixed her gaze upon his hand, seized it in both her own, and falling on her knees with a loud cry of "Oh, Dios!" covered it with the warmest kisses. "Ah!" cried Ludwig, "nothing but gold is worthy to touch that beautiful little hand." And he asked Euchar if he could give him change for a thaler, as he had no smaller money about him.
Meanwhile the hunchback had come limping up, and he lifted the guitar, which Emanuela had dropped on the ground, making many smiling reverences to Euchar, supposing that he had been exceedingly generous to the girl, from the motion with which she had thanked him.
"Scoundrel--miscreant!" growled Ludwig.
The man started in alarm, and said, in a lamentable tone, "Ah, sir, why are you so angry? Don't condemn poor Biagio Cubas--a good, respectable, honest man. Don't judge me by the colour of my skin, or by the ugliness of my face. I know Ihavean ugly face. I was born in Lorca, and am every bit as good a Christian as you are yourself."
The girl jumped up hastily, crying out to the old man in Spanish, "Come away, little father, as quickly as you can." And they both hurried off, Cubas continuing to make various odd reverences, and Emanuela fixing upon Euchar the most soul-full gaze of which her beautiful eyes were capable.
When the strange couple were lost among the trees, Euchar said, "You must see, do you not, that you were in much too great a hurry to condemn that little cobold in your own mind? Hehasa touch or so of the gypsy about him. As he says himself, he comes from Lorca. And Lorca is an old Moorish town, and the Lorcanese (good enough folks, all the same) bear undeniable traces of their ancestry. So there is nothing which they take in worse part than to have this imputed to them, which is why they keep perpetually declaring that they are Christians of ever so old standing. This was the case with this little fellow, in whose face his Moorish origin is certainly reflected to the extent of positive caricature."
"No matter!" cried Ludwig. "I stick to my opinion; the man is a tremendous scoundrel, and I will leave no stone unturned till I deliver my charming, beautiful Mignon from his clutches."
"If you insist on thinking the little fellow a scoundrel," said Euchar, "I can't say that I have very much confidence, for my part, in the charming beautiful Mignon."
"What!" cried Ludwig. "Not have confidence in that divine little creature, whose eyes beam with the purest, most innocent truth and tenderness? However, there we see the icy, prosaic nature wholly devoid of feeling for all such matters, distrustful of everything which doesn't fit all in a moment into the compartments, the grooves of his everyday business."
"Well, don't get so excited about it, my dear, enthusiastic friend," said Euchar quietly. "You will probably say that I have no tangible reason for distrusting the beautiful Mignon. But my reason is that I have this instant discovered that as she was kissing my hand she took away that little ring with the curious stone (which you know I always wear) from my finger. And I am greatly distressed to lose it, because it is a souvenir of a period of my life which was full of intense interest and importance."
"In heaven's name," said Ludwig, in an awestruck whisper, "it is not possible, surely! No, no!" he cried, loudly and excitedly, "it cannot be possible! That lovely face could not deceive: that eye--that glance--You must have dropped the ring--let it fall."
"Well--" said Euchar, "we shall see. But it is getting dark: let us get back to the town."
All the way home, Ludwig did not cease talking of Emanuela, calling her by the sweetest names, and declaring that he was quite certain--from a peculiar glance which she had cast on him at parting--that he had made a deep impression on her--a sort of event which generally happened to him in similar cases--i.e.when the romantic element entered amongst the circumstances of everyday life. Euchar did not interrupt him by so much as a syllable; but he worked himself up more and more--till, just at the town gate (where the drummer of the guard was beginning to beat the tattoo), he screamed into his friend's ear (a process necessitated by the row made by the military virtuoso on his instrument), as he cast himself upon his bosom, that he was most deeply in love with the sweet Mignon, and that the sole object of his life from thenceforth was to find her again, and free her from the bondage of the atrocious old monster.
There was a servant in a handsome livery standing at Ludwig's door, who handed him a card of invitation. As soon as he had read it, and sent the servant away, he embraced his friend as frantically as he had done at the town gate, and cried, "Oh, Euchar! call me the most fortunate--the most enviable--of mortals. Open your heart! Form some slight idea of my happiness! Mingle your tears of joy with mine!"
"What can there be of such a marvellously fortunate description announced to you on a card?" inquired Euchar.
"Don't be startled," murmured Ludwig, "when I open to you the gates of the magically brilliant Paradise of a thousand delights, which will unfold itself to me by the virtue of this card here."
"Well," said Euchar, "I am sure I shall be very glad indeed, to hear what the piece of good fortune is which is coming to you."
"Hear it," cried Ludwig; "learn it--understand it! Be amazed at it--doubt of it--cry out--shriek--shout! I have got an invitation to the supper and ball to-morrow evening at Countess Walther Puck's! Victorine! Victorine! Sweet, lovely Victorine!"
"And how about sweet, lovely Mignon?" asked Euchar. But Ludwig groaned forth, in the most pathetic tones, "Victorine! My life!" and bolted into his quarters.
The Friends, Ludwig and Euchar. Evil Dream of the Loss, at Piquet, of a Pair of Handsome Legs. Woes of an Enthusiastic Dancer. Comfort, Hope, and Monsieur Cochenille.
It may be expedient to tell the courteous reader a little more concerning this pair of friends, so that he may form, at all events, to some extent, a well-grounded opinion as to each of them.
Both had the title of Baron. Educated together, and having grown up in the most intimate friendship, they could not part even when the lapse of years brought to light most striking dissimilarities in their mental characteristics, which became more and more developed as time went on. In his childhood, Euchar belonged to the class of "good, well-behaved children," so-called, because in "society" they will sit for hours in the same spot, ask no questions, never want anything, and so forth, and then in due course, develop into wooden blockheads. With Euchar the case was different. If when, in his capacity of a "good, well-behaved" boy he chanced to be sitting with bent head and downcast eyes, some one spoke to him, he would start in alarm, stammer, and falter in his speech, often even shed tears, and seem to have been awakened from a deep dream. When alone, he appeared to be a totally different being. If watched without his being aware of it, he would be talking loudly and eagerly, as if with several people about him, and he would "act" whole stories--which he had heard or read--as if they were dramas, so that tables, cupboards, chairs, whatever happened to be in the room with him, had to represent towns, forests, villages, and dramatis personæ. But when he had an opportunity of being alone in the open air, a special ecstasy seemed to inspire him. Then he would jump, dance, and shout through the woods, putting his arms about the trees, throwing himself down into the grass--and so forth. In any sort of game played by boys of his own standing, he was most unwilling to take part, and was consequently looked upon as being "funky," and a creature who had no "pluck," for he would never take his share in anything where there was any chance of risk--such as a big jump, or a difficult piece of climbing. But here, also, it was curious that, when at the end nobody had had the pluck to do the thing, Euchar would wait till they were all gone, and then, when he was by himself, would do with the utmost ease, what they had all onlywantedto do. For instance, if the idea was to get up a high, slender tree, and nobody had managed to do it, as soon as all their backs were turned, and Euchar was alone, he would be at the top of it in a few seconds. Seeming outwardly to be cold and apathetic, he really threw himself into everything with all his soul, and a persevering steadfastness such as only belongs to strong characters. And when--as was often the case--that which he felt keenly came to the surface, it did so with such irresistible force, that everyone who had any knowledge of such matters was amazed at the depth of feeling which lay hidden in the boy's nature. Many schoolmasters, and tutors, who had to do with him, could make neither head nor tail of him as a pupil, and there was only one of them--the last--who said the boy was a poet: at which his papa was very much distressed, thinking that the boy had inherited his mother's temperament, and she had always had the most terrible headaches whenever she went to a party or any social function. However, the papa's most intimate friend, a smooth-spoken young chamberlain, assured him that the schoolmaster in question was an ass to say what he did, and utterly mistaken, seeing that the blood in the veins of young Euchar was noble, so that, being by birth an aristocrat, he never could be in any danger of being capable of poetry. And this was very consoling to the old gentleman. How the lad developed with those dispositions may be readily inferred. Nature had imprinted on his face the unmistakable signet with which she stamps her prime favourites. But Mother Nature's favourites are those who have the power of completely realising the illimitable love of their kind mother, and of understanding the depths of her being: and they are only understood by those who are favourites themselves. Consequently Euchar was not understood by the general crowd--was considered unimpressionable, cold, incapable of the due degree of ecstasy on the subject of the newest tragedy at the theatre--and was stigmatized as a prosaic creature. Above all, a whole coterie of ladies of the most refined intellectual development and culture, who might well be credited with the power of insight on this particular subject, could by no means understand how it was possible that that Apollo's brow, those sharply curving, masterful eyebrows, those eyes which darted such a darksome fire, those softly pouting lips, should belong to a mere lifeless image. And yet all this seemed to be the case. For Euchar did not know in the least degree how to say nothing, about nothing, in words which meant nothing, to pretty ladies, and look, whilst so-doing, like a Rinaldo in bonds.
Matters were quite different with Ludwig. He belonged to the race of those wild, uncontrollable boys of whom people are in the habit of predicting that the world will not be wide enough for them. It was he who always invented the maddest and most adventurous features of all games. It was naturally to be expected that he would be the one of all others to "come to grief" on those occasions: but he was always the one who came out of them safe and sound, because he had the knack of keeping himself in a safe spot during the carrying out of the adventure--if he did not manage to slip out of it altogether. He took up every subject rapidly, with the utmost enthusiasm--and dropped it again as quickly. So that he learned a great many things, but did not learn much. When he came to young man's estate, he wrote very pretty verses, played passably on several instruments, drew very nice pictures, spoke with a certain degree of correctness and fluency several languages, and was, consequently, a paragon of up-bringing. He could get into the most surprising ecstasies about everything, and give utterance to the same in the most magniloquent words. But it was with him as with the drum--which gives forth a sound which is loud in proportion to its emptiness. The impression made upon him by everything grand, beautiful, sublime, resembled the outside tickling which excites the skin without affecting the inner fibres. Ludwig belonged to that class of people who say, "I want to do" so-and-so; but who never get beyond this principle of "wanting to do" into action. But, as in this world, those who announce, with the proper amount of loudness and emphasis, what they "intend," or are "going" to do, are held in far greater consideration than those who quietly go and "do" the things in question, it of course happened that Ludwig was considered "capable" of performing the grandest deeds, and was admired accordingly, people not troubling themselves to ascertain whether he had "done" the deeds which he had talked about so loudly. There were, it must be said, people who "saw through" Ludwig, and, starting from what he said, took some pains to find out what he had done, or if he had done anything at all. And this grieved him all the more that, in solitary hours, he was sometimes obliged to admit to himself that this everlasting "meaning" and "intending" to do things, without ever doing them, was, in reality, a miserable sort of business. Then he came upon a book--forgotten and out of date--in which was set forth that mechanical theory of the mutual interdependence of things. He eagerly adopted this theory, which justified and accounted for his doings, or rather his "intentions" of doing, in his own eyes, and in those of others. According with this theory, if he did not carry out anything which he had intended to do--what he had said he was going to do--it was not he who was to blame: its not happening was simply a part of the mutual interdependence of things.
The courteous reader will, at all events, see the great convenience of this theory.
Moreover, as Ludwig was a very good-looking young fellow, with blooming red cheeks, he would, by virtue of his qualities, have been the idol of all elegant circles, had not his short-sight led to his committing numerous "quid-pro-quos," which had often most annoying consequences. However, he consoled himself with the thought of the "impression," which was indescribable, which he believed himself to make upon all female hearts: and, besides, there was a good deal in the habit he had, just because he was so short-sighted, of placing himself in a closer proximity to ladies with whom he was conversing, than might have been considered altogetherconvenable, a species of innocent pushingness, belonging to the "genial" character, so as to be sure not to make any mistakes with reference to the person he was addressing; a matter which had more than once been productive of annoyance.
The morning after the ball at Count Walther Puck's, Euchar received a note from Ludwig, running as follows:
"Dearest and most beloved friend,--I am utterly miserable. I am stricken by destiny. It is all over with me! I am dashed down from the flowery summit of the fairest hope into the blackest and most fathomless abyss of the deepest despair. That which was to have been the source of my indescribable bliss constitutes my misery. Come to me as speedily as you can, and give me some comfort, if such a thing be possible."
Euchar found him stretched on his sofa, with his head bound up, pale and worn from sleeplessness.
"Is it you?" he cried, in a feeble voice, stretching an arm towards him: "is it you, my noble friend? Ah!youhave some sympathy for my sufferings. At all events, let me tell you what I have gone through, and then say whether you think all is over with me, or not."
"Things did not turn out quite as you expected at the ball, I suppose," said Euchar.
Ludwig heaved a deep sigh.
"Was the lovely Victorine a little unkind?" inquired Euchar. "Didn't she behave to you quite as you expected?"
"I offended her," answered Ludwig, in the most funereal tones, "to an extent, and in a manner, which she can never forgive."
"Good heavens!" cried Euchar; "this is very distressing. How did it happen? Please to let me hear."
Ludwig, after heaving a profound sigh, and quoting some verses of appropriate poetry, went on, in a voice of profound melancholy:
"Yes, Euchar. As the mysterious whirring of the wheels of a clock tells me that it is going to strike the hour, warnings go before coming misfortunes. On the very night before the ball I had an awful, a horrible dream. I thought I was at the ball, and when I was going to begin dancing, I suddenly found that I could not move my feet from the floor. And I saw in the mirror, to my horror, that instead of the well-looking nether extremities which nature has provided me with, I was dragging about under my body, the gouty old legs of the Consistorial President, with all their wrappings and bandages. And while I had to stick to the floor in this terrible manner, lo and behold! the Consistorial President, with Victorine in his arms, whirling along in a Laendler, lightly and gracefully as any bird. But the point of the thing was, that he sniggered at me, with the most insulting style of sneering laughter, and said he had won my legs from me at picquet.
"I awoke, as you may imagine, bathed in a perspiration of anguish. Still sunk in thought over this horrible vision of the night, I must needs set the cup of almost boiling chocolate to my lips, and burn them to that extent, that you may see the mark still, although I have rubbed on as much pomade as I could. Now I know that you don't take much interest in other people's troubles, so I shall say nothing about the numerous fateful events which destiny dogged my steps with all day yesterday, and merely tell you that when it came to be time to dress in the evening, two stitches burst out of one of my silk stockings--two of my waistcoat buttons came off--as I was getting into the carriage to go to the ball, I let my Wellington get into the mud, and at last, in the carriage itself, when I wanted to tighten the patent buckles of my pumps, I found, to my intense annoyance, that my idiot of a servant had put on two which we're not a pair! I was obliged to go home again, and lost a good half hour. However, Victorine came to me in all the glory of her beauty and delightsomeness. I asked her for the next dance. It was a Laendler, we started off together. I was in heaven. But in a moment I felt the spite of adverse fortune."
"The mutual interdependence of things," said Euchar, interrupting.
"Call it whatever you please," said Ludwig, "it doesn't matter to me to-day. All I know is, that it was fate which made me fall over that tree-stump yesterday. As I was dancing I felt the pain come on again in my knee, and it grew more and more unendurable. Just at that moment Victorine said, loud enough to be heard by the other people who were dancing, "We seem all to be going to sleep." Signs were made to the band, people clapped their hands to them, and the pace grew faster and faster. With all my might I struggled with the diabolical pain, and conquered it. I danced along daintily, and put on a delighted expression of countenance; but for all I could do, Victorine kept saying: 'What is the matter, Herr Baron? You are not one bit the partner that you generally are.' Burning dagger thrusts into my heart!"
"Poor, dear friend," said Euchar, laughing; "I see the full extent of your sufferings!"
"And yet," continued Ludwig, "all this was only the prelude to the most terrible of all events. You know that I have been for a long time applying my mind to arranging the figures of a 'seize:' and you know of your own experience, how little I have made of the very considerable amount of china, glass, and stoneware that I have knocked off the tables in my lodgings here, in my practice of the intricacies of those 'tours, or figures,' that I might attain to the perfection of performance which was my dream. One of them is the most utterly glorious that the mind of man has ever hit upon, of its kind. Four couples stand, picturesquely grouped, the gentleman, balancing on his right tip-toe, places his right-arm about his partner, raising, at the same time, his left-arm in a graceful curve above his head--whilst the other couples make the 'ronde.' Such an idea never entered the heads of Vestris or Gardel. Very well. I had based my hopes of highest happiness upon this particular 'seize.' I had been destining it for Count Walther Puck's birthday: I intended to whisper into Victorine's ear during this more than earthly 'tour'--'Most divine countess, I love you unutterably--I adore you! Be mine, angel of light!' that was the reason, dear Euchar, why I was so overwhelmed with joy when I got the invitation to the ball there, for I had had great doubts about it. Count Walther Puck had appeared to be a good deal annoyed with me a little while ago, one day when I was explaining to him the theory of the mutual interdependence of things--the mechanism of the macrocosm--when he took it into his head that I was making out that he was a pendulum. He said it was a piece of chaff in very bad taste; but that he would take no notice of it in consideration of my youth, and he turned his back. Very well! The unfortunate Laendler came to an end. I did not dance any more, I went into the ante-room, and who should follow me but the good Cochenille, who at once opened a bottle of champagne for me. The wine sent fresh life into my veins. I didn't feel the pain any longer. The 'seize' was just going to begin--I flew back to the dancing-room, darted up to Victorine, kissed her hand fiercely, and took my position in the 'ronde.' The 'tour,' which I have told you of, came on; I outdid myself! I hovered--I balanced--the God of the dance in person; I threw my arm round my partner. I whispered, 'Divine, heavenly Countess,' just as I had arranged with myself that I should do. My declaration of love went forth from my lips, I gazed ardently into my partner's eyes. Ruler of heaven! It was not Victorine I had been dancing with! It was somebody else altogether, some lady whom I didn't know in the least, though she was the same sort of person as Victorine in style and feature, and dressed exactly as she was. You may imagine that I felt as if smitten by a flash of lightning. Everything about me was swimming in a chaos. I didn't hear the music any longer; I dashed wildly through amongst the rows of people, hearing cries of pain here and there, till I found myself arrested and held tight by a pair of powerful arms, whilst a voice of fury droned into my ear, 'Death and damnation, Herr Baron, are you out of your senses? Have you nine devils in you, or what?' 'Twas the very Consistorial President whom I had seen in my dream. He was holding me tight in a remote corner of the room, and he went on as follows: 'I was just getting up from the card-table, when you came bursting like a hurricane out of the middle of the dancing room, and jumped about like a creature possessed upon my unfortunate feet, till I could have roared like a bull with the pain of it, if I hadn't been a person of proper conduct. Don't you see what a disturbance you've been making here?' And, in fact, the whole of the 'seize' was in confusion, the music had stopped, and I saw that some of the dancers were going about limping, ladies were being led to their seats, and people were holding smelling-bottles to their noses. I had been dancing the 'tour' of despair upon the poor people's feet, till the President, strong as a tree, had put a period to my fell career. Victorine approached me with eyes sparkling with scorn: 'Verily, Herr Baron, a charming performance!' she said. 'You ask me to dance with you--you dance with another lady, and throw the whole room into confusion.' You may picture to yourself my apologies and excuses. 'These practical jokes are a speciality of yours, Herr Baron,' Victorine went on, scarcely containing her anger. 'I know you--but I beg that you will not selectmeas the object of that cutting irony of yours in the future.' With that she left me standing. The lady I had been dancing with then came up amiability--nay, I may say, even affectionateness--personified. The poor child had taken fire. I cannot wonder at it; but is it any fault of mine? Oh, Victorine! Victorine! Oh, ill-starred 'seize'--dance of the furies, which has consigned me to the depths of Orcus!"
Ludwig closed his eyes, groaned and sighed. His friend had the grace not to break out into irrepressible laughter.
When Ludwig had taken a cup or two of chocolate--without this time burning his lips--he seemed to recover himself to some extent, and bear his terrible fate with somewhat greater equanimity. Presently he said to Euchar, who had been interesting himself in a book which he had taken up. "You had an invitation to that accursed ball yourself, had you not?"
"I had," said Euchar, scarcely looking up from the page.
"And you never came--and you never told me that you had one, at all."
"I had another engagement," said Euchar, "as it happened, which prevented me from going to the ball--an engagement of far greater importance to me than any ball in the world, even had the Emperor of Japan himself been the giver of it."
"Countess Victorine," Ludwig continued, "made the most particular inquiries as to why you didn't come. She was all anxiety, and kept looking towards the door. I should have been really very jealous. I should quite have thought that, for the first time in your career, you had touched a lady's heart, if the matter had not been explained. The fact is, I scarcely dare to tell you in what an unsparing manner the lovely Victorine spoke of you. She even went the length of saying that you were a cold-hearted piece of eccentricity, whose presence often marred all enjoyment: so that she had been dreading that you would act as her kill-joy on that evening as you so often had done before, and was quite delighted when she found that you were not coming. To speak candidly, my dear Euchar, I can't make out how it is that you, gifted by the heavens with so many bodily and mental excellences, should always be so unlucky with the other sex--why I should always cut the ground from under your feet. Cold creature! I feel certain that you have no conception of the heavenly bliss of love, and that is why you are not beloved. Whereas I, on the other hand----Believe me when I tell you that Victorine's fiery indignation itself was engendered by the flames of love which blazed in her heart for me--the fortunate, the blessed one."
The door opened, and there came into the room a quaint little fellow, in a red coat with big steel buttons, black silk breeches, heavily powderedfrisure, and a little round pigtail.
"Good Cochenille!" Ludwig called out to him. "Dearest Monsieur Cochenille, to what do I owe this pleasure?"
Euchar, declaring that important engagements called him away, left his friend alone with the confidential servant of Count Walther Puck.
Cochenille, sweetly smiling, with downcast eyes, stated that their Countly Excellencies were quite convinced that the most honoured Herr Baron had been attacked, during the 'seize,' by a malady which bore a Latin name something like Raptus, and that he, Monsieur Cochenille, was come to make inquiries as to his present state of welfare.
"Raptus! Raptus! Nothing of the kind." And he related, and detailed at length, how the whole matter had come about, ending by begging the talented Kammerdiener to put affairs in order as far as he possibly could.
Ludwig learned that his partner was a cousin of Countess Victorine, just arrived from the country for the occasion of the Count's birthday--that she and the Countess Victorine were one heart and one soul, and--inasmuch as the sympathies of young ladies often display themselves in the form of silks and crapes--were often in the habit of dressing exactly alike. Cochenille was further of opinion that the vexation of Countess Victorine was not very genuine. He had handed her an ice at the end of the ball, when she was standing talking to her cousin, and had noticed that they were laughing tremendously, and had heard them several times mention the honoured Baron's name. The truth was, according to what he had been able to observe, that this cousin was of a temperament exceedingly disposed to the tender passion, and would only be too delighted if the Baron would carry further what he had begun, namely, at once set to work to pay assiduous attentions to her, and in due course put onglacégloves, and lead her to the altar: but that he, for his part, would do everything he could to prevent such a course of events. The first thing in the morning, as he would be having the honour tofriserhis Countly Highness, he would take an opportunity of laying the whole matter before him, and would also take the liberty of begging him, as an uncle regardful of his niece's best interests, to represent to her that the Herr Baron's declaration of love was merely a species of "flourish" belonging to the "tour" which he happened to be executing at the time--just as declarations of the kind generally were. That, he thought, would be of some service. Cochenille finally advised the Baron to go and see Countess Victorine as soon as possible, and told him there would be an opportunity of doing so that very day. Madame Bechs, the Consistorial President's lady, was giving an aesthetic tea that afternoon, with tea which (he had been told by the Russian Ambassador's valet) had come direct overland from China through the Russian Embassy, and had an extraordinarily delicious flavour and scent. There he would find Victorine, and be enabled to put everything straight again.
Ludwig saw that it was nothing but unworthy doubt which had had the power of disturbing his love-happiness: and he resolved to make himself so marvellously charming at the "thé" of Madame Bech, the Consistorial President's lady, that Victorine should never so much as dream of being at all "grumpy."
The Æstetic Tea. Choking Cough of a Tragic Poet. The Story Takes a Serious Turn, and Tells of Bloody Battle, Suicide, and Similar Matters.
The courteous reader must be good enough to accompany Ludwig and Euchar to this æsthetic tea, which is now going forward at Madame Bech's, the Consistorial President's lady. About a dozen of the fair sex, appropriately attired, are seated in a semi-circle. One is thoughtlessly laughing; another is immersed in a contemplation of the tips of her shoes, with which she is managing to practise the "pas" of a "Française," silently and unobserved; a third appears to be sweetly sleeping (and dreaming more sweetly still); a fourth darts the fiery beams from her eyes athwart the room in all directions, with the intention that they shall impinge upon not one but all the men who are present. A fifth lisps forth "Heavenly! Glorious! Sublime!" and those utterances are for the behoof of a young poet, who is reading out with all possible pathos a new tragedy of destiny, tedious and silly enough even to be read aloud on such an occasion. A delightful feature of the affair was, that one heard a species ofobbligatoaccompaniment going on in the next room, a species of growling, like the rumble of distant thunder. This was the voice of the Consistorial President, who was playing piquet with Count Walther Puck, and making himself audible in this manner.
The poet read out, in the most dulcet accents at his command--
"Ah! but once more! once more onlyLet me hear thee, voice of beauty,Voice of rapture, voice of sweetness,Voice from out the deep abysses,Voice from out the heights of Heaven!Hark! oh, listen----"
"Ah! but once more! once more only
Let me hear thee, voice of beauty,
Voice of rapture, voice of sweetness,
Voice from out the deep abysses,
Voice from out the heights of Heaven!
Hark! oh, listen----"
Here the thunder which had been rumbling so long broke out into a peal: "Hell and damnation!" roared the Consistorial President's voice, re-echoing through the room, so that the people jumped up from their chairs, alarmed. But it was pretty that the poet, not suffering himself to be disturbed in the slightest, went on reading--
"Yea! it is the breath beloved,Music of those lips of nectar."
"Yea! it is the breath beloved,
Music of those lips of nectar."
But a destiny higher than that which ruled in the poet's tragedy did not permit him to finish his reading. Just as he was going to raise his voice to the highest pitch of tragic power, to enunciate a terrible execration which his hero was going to utter, something, heaven knows what, got into his throat, so that he broke out into a frightful fit of coughing, by no means to be assuaged, and had to be assisted out of the room, more dead than alive.
This sudden interruption appeared to be the reverse of disagreeable to the lady of the house, who had for some time been giving indications of weariness and annoyance. As soon as the tranquillity of the company was restored, she pointed out that it was time that a vivid narrative of something should take the place of reading, and thought Euchar ought really to make it his duty to undertake this, seeing that, in general, he was so obstinately silent, as to contribute little to the entertainment of the company.
Euchar said, modestly, that he was anything but a good story-teller, and that the tale which he thought of telling was of a very serious, perhaps even terrible description, and might be anything but enjoyable by the company. But four very young ladies immediately cried out, with one voice "Oh! something terrible, please! I do so love to be terrified!"
Euchar took his place in the chair of the narrator, and began as follows:--
"We have been passing through a period in which events have swept athwart the stage of the world like a series of raging hurricanes. Humanity, shaken to its depths, has given birth to things portentous, even as the storm-tossed ocean casts up to the surface of its seething surges the terrible marvels of its abysses. Whatever could be accomplished by lion-like courage, unconquerable valour, hatred, revenge, fury, and despair, was achieved during the Spanish war of independence. I should like to tell you of the adventures of a friend of mine, whom I shall call Edgar, who served in that war, under the banners of Wellington. He had left his native place in deep, bitter irritation, at the shame of his Fatherland, and gone to Hamburg, where he lived in a little room which he had taken, in a retired quarter. He had a neighbour, who lived in the next room to him, with only a wall between them, but he knew nothing more of him than that he was an old man, in infirm health, who never went out. He often heard him groan, and break out into gentle pathetic lamentations; but he did not understand the words he spoke. After a time, this neighbour begun to walk assiduously up and down in his room, and it appeared to indicate returning health when he tuned a guitar one day, and began to sing in a soft voice, songs which Edgar recognized to be Spanish romances.
On being closely questioned, the landlady confided to Edgar, that his neighbour was a French officer who had been invalided from the Romana corps, that he was under secret espionage, and very seldom ventured to go out.
In the middle of the night Edgar heard this Spaniard play on his guitar more loudly than before, and begin, in powerful strangely changing melody, the 'Profecia del Pirineo of Don Juan Baptista de Arriaja.' There came the stanzas commencing--
"Y oye que el gran rugido,En ya trueno en los campos de Castilla," &c.
"Y oye que el gran rugido,
En ya trueno en los campos de Castilla," &c.
The glowing enthusiasm with which the old gentleman's singing was instinct, set Edgar's blood ablaze. A new world dawned on him. He knew, now, how to arouse himself from out his sickly mood, and under an impulse to deeds of valour, fight out the contest which was eating up his heart. He could not resist an eager desire to make the acquaintance of the man who had thus inspired him with new life. The door gave way at the pressure of his hand, but the moment he entered the room, the old man sprung from his bed with a cry of "Träidor" (traitor), and made straight at Edgar with a drawn dagger. Edgar succeeded in evading the well-aimed thrust by a skilful movement, and in grasping the old man, and holding him down on his bed.
While he thus held him, for he had but little strength at the time, he implored him in the most touching language, to forgive the stormy fashion of his entrance: he assured him that he was no traitor; but that on the contrary, what he had heard him sing had lighted up all the rage, the inconsolable pain, which had been tearing his breast asunder into an unslakeable desire for combat. He longed to hurry to Spain, there to fight for the freedom of the country. The old man gazed fixedly at him, and said, "Can it be possible?" and embraced Edgar, who, naturally, continued his assurances that nothing could induce him to forego his resolve, at the same time throwing his dagger down on the ground.
Edgar now learned that the old gentleman's name was Baldassare de Luna, and that he belonged to one of the most noble families of Spain. He was helpless and friendless, and had the prospect, unalleviated, of dragging out a miserable existence, far from home, without a friend or pecuniary resource. It was some time ere Edgar could succeed in infusing any hope or comfort into his heart: but when, at length, he most solemnly undertook to arrange for their escape to England together, new life appeared to circulate in the Spaniard's veins. He was no longer the old invalid, but an enthusiastic youth, breathing out defiance to his oppressors. Edgar kept his word. He succeeded in evading the vigilance of the spies, and in escaping with Baldassare de Luna to England. But it was not the will of fate that this brave and luckless man should see his native land again. He was prostrated by another attack of illness, and died in London, in Edgar's arms. A spirit of prophecy gave him to see the coming glory of his rescued country. Amid the latest prayerful whisperings which issued with difficulty from his lips stiffening in death, Edgar distinguished the word "Vittoria," and an expression of heavenly beatitude glowed on de Luna's countenance.
At the time when Souchet's victorious force was threatening to bear down all opposition and rivet the shameful foreign yoke more firmly than ever, to all eternity, Edgar arrived before Tarragona with Colonel Sterret's English brigade. It is matter of history that Colonel Sterret considered the position so insecure, that he would not disembark his troops. This our eager young soldier could not endure. He left the English force, and betook himself to the Spanish general Contreras, who was occupying the fortress with 8,000 Spanish soldiers. We are aware that Souchet's force took Tarragona by storm, notwithstanding the most heroic defence, and that Contreras himself, with a bayonet wound, fell into the hands of the enemy.
The scenes which passed before Edgar's eyes, displayed all the terribleness of hell itself. Whether it was on account of shameful treachery, or from incomprehensible carelessness on the part of those whose duty it was to attend to the matter, the troops who had to defend the principalenceinteof the fort, soon ran short of ammunition. They for a long time resisted with the bayonet the incoming of the enemy through the gateway which had been forced: but when, ultimately, they had to retire before the urgency of his fire, they rushed across to the further gateway in wild disarray, and in confused masses: and as this gate was too narrow to admit of their passage, they had, therefore, to submit to a terrific massacre. Yet some 4,000 Spaniards--Almeira's regiment, with which Edgar happened to be at the time--managed to force their way through. With the courage of despair they broke their passage through the enemy's battalions which were there posted, and continued their flight towards Barcelona. They were fancying that they were in safety, when they were assailed by a terrible fire from some field-pieces, which the enemy had placed in position behind a trench cut across the road, bringing inevitable destruction into their ranks. Edgar was hit, and fell to the ground.
A violent pain in the head was what he felt when he recovered consciousness. It was dark night, and all the terrors of death permeated him as he heard the hollow groans and the heart-piercing cries which surrounded him. He managed to get upon his legs and creep along. When at length the morning began to break he found himself close to a deep ravine; but as he was about to go down into it a troop of the enemy's cavalry came slowly up. It seemed an impossibility to avoid being taken prisoner; but suddenly shots came dropping out of the thickest part of the wood, emptying several saddles, and presently a party of Guerillas made an attack on the remainder of the troop. He shouted out to his deliverers in Spanish, and they welcomed him gladly. He had only been struck by a spent ball, and soon recovered, so as to be able to join Don Joachim Blake's force, and enter Valenzia with it, after several engagements.
Who does not know that the plain watered by the Guadalquivir, where stands the beautiful Valenzia with her stately towers, is an earthly paradise? All the heavenly delightsomeness of a sky for ever fair penetrates and pervades the hearts and souls of the dwellers there, for whom life is an unbroken festa. And this Valenzia was now the theatre of a most bitter and bloody war. Instead of the dulcet tones of the lute, stealing like the cooing of doves up in the nights to the trellised windows, the place resounded with the hollow rolling of guns and ammunition waggons, the wild challenge of sentries, and the weird, mysterious murmur of soldiery marching through the streets. All joy was driven into dumbness. All the white faces, drawn by grief and horror, had written upon them the dread anticipation of terrible things imminent. The most furious execrations, offspring of inward fury, were showered upon the enemy. The Alameda--at other times the haunt of the gay world--was now a parade ground for the troops. Here Edgar one day, as he was standing alone, leaning against a tree, reflecting on the dark, adverse destiny which seemed to weigh upon Spain, observed that a man, far advanced in years, tall, and of haughty demeanour, who was walking up and down near him with long steps, stopped and scrutinized him keenly each time that he passed him. At last Edgar accosted him, enquiring courteously what in him had attracted such a share of his attention. "I see that I was not mistaken," he answered, whilst a gloomy fire flashed from beneath his black, bushy eyebrows. "You are not a Spaniard--and yet, if your coat does not belie you, I am bound to look upon you as one who fights on our side. And that strikes me as rather remarkable." Edgar, though nettled at the brusquerie of this gentleman's address, told him, temperately enough, what had brought him to Spain.
But scarcely had he mentioned the name of Baldassare di Luna than the old man cried out in much excitement, "Baldassare di Luna do you say? My beloved cousin! the dearest and most intimate friend I have left in the world." Edgar repeated all that had happened, not failing to mention the heavenly hopes with which Baldassare had taken leave of life.
The old man clasped his hands, raised his eyes to heaven--his lips moved--he seemed to be communing with his departed friend. "Forgive me," he said, "if a gloomy mistrust, which is foreign to my character, influenced me against you. Some time ago it was believed that the accursed knavery of the enemy had gone so far as to introduce foreign officers amongst our forces to act as spies. The incidents at Tarragona but too much encouraged suspicions of this kind, and the Junta has now determined to expel all foreigners. Don Joachim Blake, however, has insisted that foreign engineers, at all events, are indispensable to him, solemnly engaging, at the same time, to shoot down every foreigner at once who is subject to the slightest ground of suspicion. If you are a friend of my Baldassare you are undoubtedly a man of valour and honour. At all events, I have told you everything, and you can act accordingly." With this he took his departure.
The fortune of arms appeared to have completely abandoned the Spaniards, and the very courage of despair itself could avail nothing against the rapidly-advancing foe. Valenzia was hemmed in more and more closely on all sides, so that Blake, pushed to extremity, determined to force his way out with twelve thousand chosen troops. It is known that few succeeded in getting through, that the remainder were in part killed, in part driven back into the town. It was here that Edgar, at the head of the brave Ovihuela Rifle Regiment, managed to give a momentary check to the enemy, thus rendering the wild confusion of the flight less disastrous. But, as at Tarragona, a musket bullet struck him down at the crisis of the engagement. He described his condition from that moment till he regained clear consciousness as one inexplicably strange. It often seemed to him that he was in the thick of fighting. He would seem to hear the thunder of the cannon, the wild cries of the combatants--the Spaniards would seem to be advancing victorious, but as he was seized on by the joy of battle and starting off to lead his battalion under fire, he would seem to become suddenly paralysed, and sink down in unconscious insensibility. Then he would become clearly aware that he was lying on some soft bed, that people were giving him cool drink--he heard gentle voices speaking softly, and yet could not arouse himself from his dreams. Once, when he thought he was back in the thick of the battle, it seemed to him that he was grasped firmly by the shoulder, whilst a rifleman of the enemy's fired at him, striking him on the breast, where the bullet in an incomprehensible manner went slowly boring its way into the flesh with the most unspeakable torments till all sense of feeling sunk away into a deep, deathlike sleep.
Out of this death sleep Edgar awoke suddenly into full and clear consciousness, but in such strange surroundings that he could not form an idea as to where he might be. The soft luxurious bed with its silken curtains, was quite out of keeping with the small, low-roofed, dungeon-like vault of undressed stones in which it stood. A dim lamp shed a feeble light around--neither door nor window was discernible. Edgar raised himself with difficulty, and saw that there was a Franciscan friar sitting in a corner, seemingly asleep. "Where am I?" Edgar cried, with all the energy which he could concentrate.
The monk started from his sleep, trimmed the lamp, took it up, looked at Edgar's face by the light, felt his pulse, and murmured something which Edgar could not understand. He was going to interrogate the monk as to what had happened to him, when the wall opened noislessly, and a man came in whom Edgar immediately recognized as the person who had spoken to him on the Alameda. The monk called out to this person that the crisis was over and all would now go well. "Praise be to God," said the old gentleman, and approached nearer to Edgar's bed.
Edgar wished to speak, but the old gentleman prevented him, assuring him that the slightest exertion would be dangerous to him still. It was natural that he should be surprised at finding himself in such surroundings, but a few words would be sufficient, not only to put him at his ease, but to explain why it had been necessary to place him in this dreary prison.
Edgar now learnt all. When he fell wounded in the breast the intrepid "battle-brethren," in spite of the hotness of the fire, had taken him up and transported him into the town. It happened that in the thick of the confusion Don Rafaele Marchez (this was the old man's name) saw the wounded Edgar, and instead of his being sent to the hospital he was carried to Don Rafaele's own house at once, so that the friend of his Baldassare might have every possible care. His wound was serious enough in itself, but the peculiar danger of his condition was the violent nervous fever, traces of which had previously displayed themselves, which now broke out in all its fury. It is matter of notoriety that a tremendous fire had been kept up on Valenzia for three days and nights with the most terrible effect, that all the terror and horror of this bombardment spread abroad in this city thronged to excess with people--that the self-same populace, excited to fury by the Junta, after insisting that Blake should keep up the defence to the very utmost, turned round and demanded an immediate surrender under the most violent threats--that Blake, with heroic self-command, drove the crowds asunder by Walloon Guards, and then made an honourable capitulation to Souchet. Don Rafaele Marchez would not allow Edgar, sick unto death, to fall into the enemy's hands. As soon as the capitulation was arranged and the enemy within the walls of Valenzia, Edgar was removed to the vault, where he was safe against discovery. "Friend of my sainted Baldassare," (thus he finished his narrative) "bemyfriend too. Your blood has flowed for my country--every drop of it has fallen seething into my breast, and washed away every vestige of the mistrust which cannot but arise in this fateful time. The same fire which enflames the Spaniard to the most bitter hatred flashes up in his friendship too, making him capable of every deed, every sacrifice, for his ally. My house is occupied by the enemy, but you are in safety, for I swear to you that whatever happens I will rather let myself be buried under the ruins of Valenzia than betray you. Believe me in this."
In the daytime a profound stillness as of the grave reigned around Edgar's room, but in the night he often thought he heard in the distance the echo of soft footfalls, the hollow murmur of many voices together, the opening and shutting of doors, the clatter of weapons. Some subterranean action seemed to be going on during the hours of sleep. Edgar questioned the Franciscan, who only--and that rarely--quitted him for an instant or two, tending him with the most unwearied care. But the Franciscan was of opinion that as soon as Edgar was well he would hear from Don Rafaele what it was that was going on. And this was so. For when Edgar was well enough to leave his bed, Don Rafaele came one night with a lighted torch and begged Edgar to dress and follow him with Father Eusebio, which was the name of the Franciscan, his doctor and nurse.
Don Rafaele led him through a long and rather narrow passage till they came to a closed door, which was opened on Don Rafaele's knocking.
How amazed was Edgar to find himself in a spacious vaulted chamber brilliantly lighted, in which there was a numerous assemblage of persons for the most part of wild, dirty, sullen appearance. In the middle stood a man who, though dressed like the commonest peasant, with wild hair and all the marks of a homeless, nomadic life, had in all his bearing something of the dauntless and the awe-aspiring. The features of his face were noble, and from his eyes flashed a warlike fire which bespoke the hero. To him Don Rafaele conducted his friend, announcing him as the brave young German whom he had rescued from the enemy, and who was prepared to take part in the grand contest for the freedom of Spain. Then Don Rafaele, turning to Edgar, said, "You are here in the heart of Valenzia, which is besieged by our enemies--the hearth on which burns for ever that fire whose unquenchable flame, ever blazing up with renewed vigour, is destined to destroy our accursed foe when the moment comes when, misled by his fallacious successes, he shall surpass himself in defiant arrogance. You are here in the subterranean vaults of the Franciscan Monastery. Along a hundred bye-paths unknown to betrayers the chiefs of the brave make their way to this spot, and hence, as from a focus, they dart in all directions rays which carry death and destruction to foreigners. Don Edgar, we look upon you as one of ourselves. Take your part in the glory of our undertakings."
Empecinado (for the man dressed as a peasant was none other than the renowned Guerilla chieftain)--Empecinado, whose fearless daring formed the theme of many a popular tale amounting to the miraculous--who set at defiance all the efforts of the enemy, like some incarnation of the spirit of vengeance, who when he had vanished without a trace would suddenly burst forth with redoubled force--who at the very moment when the enemy announced the utter annihilation of his bands would suddenly appear at the very gates of Madrid, placing the Pretender's life in danger--this Empecinado took Edgar by the hand, addressing him in enthusiastic words.
At this point in the proceedings a young man was brought in bound. His face, of deathly pallor, wore all the signs of hopeless despair; he was trembling, and appeared to find it difficult to stand upright when placed in the presence of Empecinado. The latter pierced him through and through with his glance of fire, and at length spoke to him, in a tone of the most appalling calmness. "Antonio," he said, "you are in league with the enemy. You have several times had interviews with Souchet, at unusual hours. You endeavoured to hand over, by treachery, our Place d'Armes at Cuença."--"It is so," answered Antonio, with a terrible sigh, not raising his bowed-down head. "Is it possible," cried Empecinado, breaking out into the wildest anger, "is it possible that you are a Spaniard--that the blood of your ancestors runs in your veins? Was not your mother Virtue personified? Would not the slightest suspicion that she was capable of betraying the honour of her house be an atrocious outrage? But for this I should believe you to be a bastard sprung from the most despicable race on earth. You have merited death. Prepare yourself to die."
Antonio threw himself at Empecinado's feet in anguish and despair, crying, "Uncle! uncle! do you not know that all the furies of hell are rending my breast. There are times--often--when the subtlety of Satan can bring anything to pass. Yes, uncle, I am a Spaniard. Let me prove it. Be merciful. Grant that I may blot out the disgrace which the most abominable arts of hell have brought upon me--that I may appear to you and to the Brethren purified from my offence. You understand me, uncle? You know the reason of my so imploring you!"
Empecinado seemed somewhat moved by the young man's entreaties. He raised him, and said gently, "Your repentance is sincere. You are right in saying that the cunning of Satan is able to accomplish much. I know the reason of your entreaty. I pardon you. Son of my dear sister, come to my heart!" Empecinado with his own hands untied his bonds, embraced him, and at once handed to him the dagger from his own girdle. "My thanks," the young man cried. He kissed Empecinado's hands, bedewing them with his tears, then he raised his eyes to heaven in prayer, and drove the dagger deep into his heart, falling dead without a sound.
This occurrence so shook the invalid Edgar that he nearly fainted. Father Eusebio took him back to his chamber.
Some weeks afterwards Don Rafaele Marchez considered that it was safe for him to liberate his friend from the prison in which he could not recover his health. He took him, in the night, up to a room which had windows looking out upon an unfrequented street, and warned him not to cross the threshold--at all events in the daytime, by reason that the French were quartered in the house.
Edgar could not explain to himself the irresistible desire which one day seized him to go out into the corridor. At the very instant that he did so the door of the room opposite opened, and a French officer came out meeting him.
"Why how cameyouhere, friend Edgar!" cried the Frenchman. "Welcome a thousand times!" Edgar had at once recognized him as Colonel la Combe of the Imperial Guard. Chance had brought this Colonel, just at the time of Germany's terrible degradation, to his uncle's house, where he himself was living, having had to abandon his military career. La Combe came from the south of France. Through the tenderness (by no means a common characteristic of his nation) with which he dealt with those who were so bitterly tried, he succeeded in overcoming the deep dislike--nay, the irreconcilable hatred, which was so firmly rooted in Edgar's soul against the arrogant foe, and finally, by virtue of certain traits of character, which placed beyond all doubt the true nobility of la Combe's nature, in gaming his friendship.
"Edgar," cried the Colonel, "what has broughtyouto Valenzia?"
It may be imagined how sorely the question embarrassed Edgar. He could make no reply. The Colonel gazed at him gravely, and said in a serious tone. "Ah, I understand. You have given the rein to your animosity--you have drawn your sword for the imagined freedom of a nation of madmen, and I cannot blame you for it. I should be forming a very poor opinion of your friendship if I could suppose you capable of imagining that I could betray you. No, my friend; now that I have found you, you are in absolute safety for the first time. From this moment you shall be nobody but the commercial traveller of a German house of business in Marseilles, an old acquaintance of mine. So no more about that." Much as it distressed Edgar, la Combe did not rest until he quitted his hermitage, and shared with him the better quarters provided for him by Don Rafaele.
Edgar hastened to acquaint the suspicious Spaniard with all the circumstances of the case, and his previous relations with la Combe. Don Rafaele restricted himself to the answer, delivered in a grave and dry manner--
"Really; that is a very curious chance indeed!"
The Colonel sympathized keenly with Edgar's position. At the same time he could not divest himself of the characteristic temper of his nation, which sees in liveliness of movement, and the eager pursuit of pleasure, the best means of healing a wounded heart. Thus it happened that the Colonel walked arm in arm with the Marseilles commercial traveller in the Alameda, and drew him into the wild amusements of his light-hearted comrades.
Edgar noticed, clearly enough, that many strange forms dogged him about, watching him with suspicious looks; and it went deeply to his heart when, one day on entering a Posada with the Colonel, he heard distinctly behind him a whisper of "Acqui esta el traïdor!" ("That is the traitor.")
Don Rafaele grew daily more cold and monosyllabic towards Edgar, and at last he saw him no more, and was given to understand by him that, instead of taking his meals with him, he should take them with Colonel la Combe.
One day, when duty had called the Colonel elsewhere, and Edgar was alone, there came a gentle knock at his door, and Father Eusebio entered. He made enquiry after Edgar's welfare, and talked on all kinds of indifferent subjects, but presently came to a pause, and after looking fixedly into Edgar's eyes, cried with much emotion--
"No, Don Edgar,youare not a traitor. It is in human nature that, in that waking dream which constitutes the delirium of fever--when the forces of life are in bitter combat with man's earthly envelope, and the strong tension of the fibres cannot hem in the thoughts and fancies which strive for utterance--it is, I say, in human nature that a man can then no longer help revealing phases of his being which are secret at other times. How often have I, Don Edgar, watched by your pillow during long nights? How often have you, all unknowing, allowed me to read the very depths of your soul? No, Don Edgar, it is impossible that you can be a traitor. But have a care of yourself--have a care of yourself!"
Edgar implored Eusebio to tell him clearly what he was suspected of, and what danger was threatening him.
"I will not conceal from you," said Eusebio, "that your intimacy with Colonel la Combe and his companions has caused suspicion to rest upon you--that fears are entertained that you might, from no evil intention, but out of mere lightheartedness, on some occasion when you may have taken more of our strong Spanish wines than was advisable, perhaps divulge some of the secrets of this house, into which Don Rafaele has initiated you. There is no doubt that you are in a certain amount of danger."
"But," continued Eusebio, after having maintained a thoughtful silence, with downcast eyes, for a time, "thereisone way of escaping all risk. You have only to throw yourself into the arms of the Frenchmen. They will get you out of Valenzia."
"What are you talking about?" Edgar burst out. "Sooner death without reproach, than escape coupled with miserable disgrace."
"Don Edgar," cried the monk with enthusiasm, "youareno traitor!" He strained Edgar to his heart, and left the chamber with his eyes full of tears.
That night Edgar, happening to be alone (the Colonel chancing to be from home), heard steps approaching, and Don Rafaele's voice calling, "Open your door, Don Edgar." On opening it he saw Don Rafaele with a torch in his hand, and Father Eusebio behind him. Don Rafaele begged Edgar to accompany him, he having to attend an important meeting in the vault of the Franciscan monastery.
As they were passing along the subterranean passage, Don Rafaele being in advance with the lighted torch, Eusebio whispered softly in his ear,
"Oh, God, Don Edgar! you are going to your death! There is no escape possible for you now."
Edgar had ventured his life in many a fight with brave lightheartedness; but here all the anxiousness, the uncertainty of the manner of his assassination, could not but weigh heavily upon him, so that Eusebio had some difficulty in supporting him. And yet, as the way was still long, he managed to acquire a measure of self-control which enabled him not only to command himself, but to resolve upon the line of conduct which he should adopt in these circumstances. "When the door of the vault opened, Edgar saw the terrible Empecinado, with rage and fury flashing from his eyes. Behind him were standing several Guerillas and one or two Franciscan friars. Having now quite recovered his calm courage, Edgar walked firmly and fearlessly up to the Guerilla chief, and, addressing him gravely and quietly, said--
"It happens very fortunately that I am brought face to face with you to-day, Don Empecinado. I have been anxious to make a request to Don Rafaele, and now I have the opportunity of laying it before yourself. As Father Eusebio, my doctor and faithful guardian, will testify, I have now quite recovered. I am well and strong, and find it impossible to bear the tedious idleness of life among enemies whom I detest. I therefore beseech you, Don Empecinado, let me be taken and placed upon those secret paths known to you, that I may join your bands, and be engaged in enterprises for which my soul yearns."
"H'm!" said Empecinado, in a tone approaching mockery. "Doyouthen hold with the crack-brained populace, who prefer death to doing homage to the Grand Nation? Have not your friends taught you better?"
"Don Empecinado," said Edgar, "you do not understand the German mode of looking at matters. It is not known to you that German courage, which burns on for ever inextinguishably, like a pure naphtha flame, and German faithfulness, firm as the primeval rock, form the most impenetrable coat of mail, from which all the poisoned darts of treachery and wickedness fall back harmlessly. I beg you once more, Don Empecinado, to let me go out into the open country, that I may prove myself deserving of the good opinion which I believe myself to have already earned."
Empecinado looked at Edgar in amazement, whilst a low murmur circulated amongst the assemblage. Don Rafaele moved forward to speak to Empecinado, but he motioned him back, and going to Edgar, took his hand and said with emotion--
"Another fate was in store for you. You had another destiny reserved for you to-day. However, Don Edgar, think of your own country. The enemies who have covered it with shame are here to-day before you. Remember that your German peoples, too, will raise their eyes to the Phoenix which will soar, with shining plumage, from the flames which are kindling here, and their despair give place to warm longing, the parent of dauntless courage, of battle to the very death!"
"I thought of all this," said Edgar, "before I left my own country, to shed my blood for your freedom. All my being dissolved itself into lust for vengeance, when Don Baldassare di Luna lay dying in my arms."
"If you are serious in this," cried Empecinado, as one suddenly breaking into fury, "you must set forth this very night, this very moment. You must not enter Don Rafaele's house again." Edgar declared that this was precisely what he desired, and was immediately conducted away by a man named Isidor Mirr (who afterwards became a guerilla chief), and Father Eusebio.
As they went the good Eusebio could not sufficiently express his delight at Edgar's escape.
"Heaven!" he said, "seeing your goodness put courage into your heart--a divine miracle, in my belief."
It was much closer to Valenzia than he expected, or than the enemy probably were aware, that Edgar met the first troop of Guerillas, and to it he attached himself.
I pass over in silence Edgar's warlike adventures, which often might sound as if taken from some book of knightly fables, and I come to the time when he unexpectedly encountered Don Rafaele Marchez among the Guerillas.
"You really had great injustice done to you, Don Edgar," said Don Rafaele. Edgar turned his back upon him.
When morning broke, Don Rafaele got into a state of anxiety which grew every instant till it attained a pitch of the most intense anguish. He ran up and down, sighed, clasped his hands, raised them to heaven, and prayed.
"What is the matter with the old fellow?" Edgar enquired.
"He has managed," said Isidor Mirr, "to get safe out of Valenzia himself, and to save the best of his belongings, and get them loaded up upon mules. He has been expecting them all night, and has every reason to anticipate evil."
Edgar marvelled at Don Rafaele's avarice, which seemed to render him oblivious of everything besides. It was midnight; the moon was shining brightly among the hills; when musketry fire was heard from the ravine beneath, and presently some rather seriously wounded Guerillas came limping up, reporting that the troop which was escorting Don Rafaele's mules had been unexpectedly attacked by some French Chasseurs, that nearly all their comrades had fallen, and the mules been captured by the enemy.
"Great heavens, my child--my poor, unfortunate child," Don Rafaele cried, and sank to the ground.
"What is the matter here?" cried Edgar loudly. "Come on, come on, brethren, down into the glen, to avenge our comrades, and snatch the booty from the teeth of these pigs."
"The good German is right," cried Isidor Mirr. "The good German is right," re-echoed all around, and away they rushed down into the ravine like a bursting thunderstorm.
There were only a few Guerillas left, and they were fighting with the courage of despair. With a cry of "Valenzia," Edgar rushed into the thickest mass of the enemy, and with the death-announcing roar of thirsting tigers the Guerillas dashed after him, planted their daggers in the breasts of the foemen, and felled them with the butts of their muskets. Well-directed bullets hit them in their headlong flight. These were the Valenzia men who had overtaken General Moncey's Cuirassiers in their march, dashed upon their flank, cut them down before they gathered how they were situated, and retired into their lurking-places masters of the arms and horses.
All this was over and done when Edgar heard a piercing scream from the densest part of the thicket. He made haste to the spot, and found a little man struggling with a Frenchman, and holding the bridle of the mule he was in charge of in his teeth. Just as Edgar came on the scene the Frenchman struck down the little man with a dagger, which he seemed to have taken from him, and was trying to drive the mule further into the thicket. Edgar gave a loud shout; the Frenchman fired at him, missed him, and Edgar ran him through with his bayonet. The little fellow was whimpering. Edgar raised him up, undid with some difficulty the bridle, which he had been convulsively biting, and noticed for the first time as he was helping him on to the mule that there was a shrouded form upon it already clinging to the creature's neck with its arms, and softly lamenting. Behind this girl, for such, judging by her voice, was the shrouded form, Edgar deposited the little wounded man, took the mule by the bridle, and thus made his way back to the little Place d'Armes, where, as no more of the enemy was visible, Isidor Mirr and his men had again taken up their positions.
The little man, who had fainted from loss of blood, though his wounds did not seem to be dangerous, and the girl, were lifted from the mule. At this moment Don Rafaele in a state of the most wild excitement darted forward with cries of "My child, my sweet child!" and was in the act to clasp the young creature, who did not seem to be more than about eight or ten in years, in his arms, when, suddenly seeing the bright torchlight shining on Edgar's face, he threw himself at his feet, crying, "Oh Don Edgar, Don Edgar! this knee has never bent to mortal man till now; but you are no mortal--you are an angel of light sent to save me from deadly anxiety and inconsolable despair! Oh, Don Edgar, fiendish mistrust was deeply rooted in my bosom, ever brooding upon evil. It was an undertaking deserving the bitterest execration to plan the destruction of one such as you with your true heart all honour and valour---to devote you to a shameful death. Strike me down, Don Edgar--execute a bloody vengeance upon me, vile wretch that I am! Never can you forgive what I have done."
Edgar, fully conscious that he had done nothing more than his duty and honour demanded of him, was pained by Don Rafaele's behaviour, and tried by all means to calm and silence him, at length with difficulty succeeding.
Don Rafaele said Colonel la Combe had been greatly distressed at Edgar's disappearance, and suspecting foul play, he had been on the point of ransacking the house and having him, Don Rafaele, arrested. This was why it had been necessary for him to escape, and it had been entirely owing to the Franciscan's help that he had been able to bring away his daughter, his servant, and many things which he required. Meanwhile the wounded servant and Don Rafaele's daughter had been taken on some distance in advance, whilst Don Rafaele, too old to share in the exploits of the Guerillas, was to follow them. At his sorrowful parting with Edgar he gave him a certain talisman, which brought him deliverance in many a serious danger.