A1r

Eugenia
and
Adelaide.

Vol. I.

A1v A2r

Eugenia
and
Adelaide,

A Novel.

In Two Volumes.

Vol I.

London:
Printed for C. Dilly, in the Poultry. 17911791.

A2v omitted A3r

Preface.

The following Work
was written some years back
by an original hand, now cold,
whose manner will probably
be traced and relished by those Readers A3v ii
Readers who are inclined to
rank nature and truth above
the extravagant fictions which
are daily served up under the
title of Genuine History and
Adventures.

The Editor trusts the
Reader will find incident, interest,
and character in the
story now before him:—To
say more might be looked upon as A4r iii
as impertinent; and it would
not be acting as a friend to
the Work and the memory of
the Author to say less.

Eugenia

A4v
B1r

Eugenia
and
Adelaide.

Adelaide and Eugenia were
both natives of Salerno, in the
kingdom of Naples; the one, daughter
of the Baron St. Seberina; the other, to
Signior Lorenzo Burganeze, of the illustrious
house of Sulmona.

These two young persons had contracted
a friendship almost in their infancy,
which the intimacy subsisting between
their parents served to strengthen
as they grew up. Adelaide was never Vol. I. B easy B1v 2
easy without her dear Eugenia; nor
could that lady be happy in any company
but that of her charming friend.

The years of childhood stole away
insensibly, in the enjoyment of a tender
and mutual friendship, their pleasures
were the same, and their pains (if they
had any) were so too. In short, there
was so perfect a union between them,
that they appeared to be informed by
one mind. But the time was now arrived
when they must part, and each
experience different fortunes and cares,
unfelt before.

Signior Burganeze died, and left his
widow and daughter in such moderate
circumstances, as obliged them all at
once to retrench their expences. Madame
Burganeze
, mortified at this sudden
change in her condition, determined to B2r 3
to leave Salerno and retire to a monastery,
since she could no longer appear
there with her usual splendour. She was
already preparing to depart, when she
received a very obliging letter from her
brother the Marquis of Pescara, who at
that time resided at Milan, where he had
a considerable post.

This nobleman, on receiving an account
of the death of Signior Burganeze,
wrote to his sister in the warmest
terms, inviting her and her daughter to
accept of his house for their future abode,
assuring them they should meet with a
reception answerable to the love he bore
them.

Madame Burganeze did not hesitate
to accept of so kind an offer: she bid
her daughter prepare for their journey;
and, having their equipage considerably B2diminished, B2v 4
diminished, they were soon in readiness
to leave Salerno.

Whatever pleasure Eugenia felt on
the prospect of so agreeable a change in
her fortune, she could not think of being
separated from her beloved companion
without a lively sorrow; but when
the day of her departure came, on which
she was to bid adieu to Adelaide, tears
and embraces were on this occasion employed
to supply the place of words;
and Eugenia, unable to speak, broke
from the arms of her friend; and,
throwing herself into a chariot (in which
her mother was already placed at the
door) they set out directly for Milan.

We will here for a while take leave
of the disconsolate Adelaide, and accompany
Madame Burganeze and her
daughter, who by easy journies arrived in B3r 5
in ten days at Milan; and were received
by the Marquis of Pescara with
the highest marks of affection.

This nobleman was many years
younger than Madame Burganeze, being
her brother only by the father’s side.
He was handsome, accomplished, and
magnificent; which, joined to one of
the gayest tempers in the world, made
his house the rendezvous of all the youth
of quality in Milan: but notwithstanding
the merits of the Marquis had rendered
him the distinguished favourite of
the fair, he had as yet preserved his
heart; and, whilst many in secret sighed
for him, he behaved towards all with
equal appearance of gallantry, though
he felt nothing but real indifference.

After the arrival of Madame Burganeze
and Eugenia, numbers of ladies B3had B3v 6
had come to visit them, who had no
pretence for appearing at the house of
the Marquis before, but were now glad
of this opportunity of seeing and conversing
with him. In short, the concourse
of nobility, of both sexes, who
flocked daily to the palace of Pescara,
formed it into a kind of little court.

Madame Burganeze was in her fortyfifth
year; personal vanity her reigning
foible; a passion for admiration was of
course the result of such a turn of mind:
but during the life-time of Signior Burganeze,
she had been obliged, as much
as possible, to hide this disposition, as
he was not of a temper to allow for it,
in the smallest degree. She had never
loved him; and was but moderately
afflicted at his death. Her daughter she
considered rather as a rival than a friend;
but concealed those sentiments as carefully,fully, B4r 7
and those that more immediately
concerned herself. Her freedom recovered,
and her brother’s invitation to
what she knew must be a scene of gaiety,
had roused those latent sparks of
vanity that time had nearly subdued;
and she went to Milan with the strongest
hopes of finding every wish of her heart
gratified. She had now for almost a
year been a partaker with her daughter
in those pleasures which reigned, and
perpetually succeeded each other, at the
house of the Marquis; but alas, she was
more and more convinced she was no
longer able to charm! cold respect was
all she met with from the men; and
from the younger part of her own sex
a sort of insipid kindness, that showed
her how little formidable she appeared
to them. This observation at first sensibly
afflicted her; when, reflecting that
if she should continue with the Marquis, B4she B4v 8
she should only expose herself to new
mortifications every day, she resolved at
once to abjure those pleasures which (to
her) had now lost their chief relish.
Thus determined, she took an opportunity
one day (after having expressed
the warmest acknowledgments for her
brother’s tenderness) to inform him, that
it was now high time for her to think of
bidding adieu to the vain enjoyments
of this life, and of dedicating the remainder
of her days to devotion. She
told him, the Prioress of St. Bridget’s,
who was her relation, had invited her
to her house on the death of Signior
Burganeze
, and she was about to accept
of her offer when she received the kind
and generous tender of his service; that
it was chiefly on Eugenia’s account she
had declined the invitation made her by
the prioress, whom she acknowledged
she would not think of secluding from the B5r 9
the world but with the greatest reluctance;
yet, finding herself now disposed
to reassume her first intentions, she was
inclined to take her daughter with her;
beauty and innocence being all her portion,
she dreaded leaving her exposed
to the many temptations which youth
and want of experience might lead her
into, and with which, she said, the
house of the Marquis was surrounded:
“perhaps,” said she, “my daughter may
marry below her quality, or have her
charms blasted by some envious tongue.
Oh, brother, I tremble at the thought!
and would sooner bury Eugenia in a
nunnery, than”
—The Marquis interrupted
his sister here, and conjured
her to banish such thoughts; telling
her, if ever she loved, or confided in
him, she would not scruple to trust Eugenia
to his care. “I will be as tender
of her happiness,”
added he, “as you yourselfB5self B5v 10
would be; and as I mean to give
her a fortune equal to her birth, I have
even cast my eyes on a husband for her;
in whose possession (if he has your approbation,
and I find his estate suitable
to his other endowments) I should
think my niece happy. Let me therefore,
dear sister, beg of you to talk no
more of a cloister, since there are much
more desirable prospects for your daughter.”
The Marquis added many arguments
to dissuade Madame Burganeze
from her intentions of retiring; but she
assured him, her resolution with regard
to herself was fixed:—“I yield Eugenia
however to you,”
said she, “and transfer
all my right in her to your fraternal
goodness: take her, brother, dispose
of her; for I am sure your prudence
will make no choice but such as I shall
approve of; and as I should be glad to
see her under the protection of a husbandband B6r 11
before I go to my retreat, tell me
who the person is you have thoughts of
bestowing her on?”
“He is a Spaniard
of high quality,”
answered the
Marquis: “his name is Don Clement
Pimenteles
, and he is descended from
the House of Telbes, one of the most
ancient in Castile. He was introduced
to me a few days ago by the Prince of
Bassiniano
, with whome he came into
Italy. The Prince has a particular
esteem for him: and indeed he is so
very amiable, that I think it is impossible
to see him without loving him.”
“I
see, brother,”
said Madame Burganeze,
“that you are already charmed, and will
make my daughter so too, if you paint
him in such fine colours.”
“As for
that,”
replied the Marquis, “you shall
neither of you be left to judge by my
description of him; for he is to dine B6with B6v 12
with me to-day, and you will then see
whether I have done him justice.”

Eugenia entered the room just as the
Marquis said these words: “We are
speaking of a person,”
said he, addressing
himself to his niece, “whom Madame
Burganeze
already prophecies you
will fall in love with: for my part, I
own, were I a woman, I should prefer
him to all the men I have ever yet seen;
and if I could find one of your sex every
way so charming as Don Clement Pimenteles,
I should no longer have that
liberty to boast of which I have hitherto
preserved. In a word, this young cavalier
is so very agreeable, that I was
struck with him at first sight. The
Prince tells me his wit is as engaging as
his person; and indeed, by what I could
judge from the short conversation I had
with him, he is perfectly accomplished. Such B7r 13
Such a conquest therefore, Eugenia,”

proceeded he, smiling, “would do no
small honour to your beauty.”

Though Eugnenia had but little occasion
for the help of art to set off one of
the finest persons that ever nature formed,
she was not free from the little vanity
of her sex: she omitted nothing in
her dress that day which could add to
her charms. The Marquis was rallying
her on the great pains she had taken
to adorn herself, when a page came
to inform him that Don Clement was
come.

The Marquis went to receive him,
and soon returned with him into Madame
Burganeze’s
apartment; where
presenting him to that lady and Eugenia,
one after the other, “You see, Signior,”
said he, “that I am more devoted to the B7v 14
the fair than people imagine: these
ladies live with me; and I think myself
the happiest man in the world in their
society. My sister indeed has formed
an unkind purpose of leaving me, in
order to retire into a convent: perhaps
if you join with me, we may yet dissuade
her from it, though I have been so unhappy
as not to succeed in my endeavours
towards it: nay, it was with some
difficulty that I could prevail to have
Eugenia left with me.”

“Madame Burganeze,” answered
Don Clement, “has more justice than
to rob the world at once of two such
ornaments. But you, my Lord, I must
say, are too selfish in desiring to engross
so much merit and so many charms, and
to deprive the convent of the share it
has a right to by the pious choice the
lady, your sister, has made.”
It was easy B8r 15
easy to perceive which part of this compliment
was addressed to Madame Burganeze;
and though it seemed rather
to encourage her in her resolution than
dissuade her from it, yet it did not displease
her; every thing which Don
Clement
said was accompanied with a
gracefulness that could not fail of
charming. The most delicate praises
from one who is disagreeable to us may
be uttered without the least effect; but
the slightest compliment pronounced by
a beautiful mouth, is sure to make an
impression. This observation Madame
Burganeze
already found verified in herself,
and that her years and piety were
too feeble a guard against youth and irresistible
charms; for such Don Clement
was possessed of: no wonder then if
the breast of Eugenia, defenceless as it
was, was warmed as soon as that of Madame
Burganeze
.

Don B8v 16

Don Clement discovered so much wit
and delicacy in his conversation, that his
company was as acceptable to the two
ladies as it was to the Marquis:—he
staid till it was late; and the Marquis
would not suffer him to retire, without
first making him promise to pass the
next day at his house.

When Eugenia was alone she had
time to reflect on the person and behaviour
of this stranger: she thought her
uncle’s menaces were not without foundation,
and that she ought to have secured
her heart against charms that she
already began to find too powerful. In
short, she perceived a change in it which
alarmed her; she passed the night unquietly,
and no sooner saw day-light
than she arose and called her woman to
dress her.

She B9r 17

She waited impatiently for the hour
which was to bring Pimenteles to her
sight:—at length he appeared; and Eugenia
thought him a thousand times
handsomer than before. This second
day’s interview entirely subdued her
heart. With what joy then did she hear
the Marquis (who was highly charmed
with Don Clement) insist on his living
at his hotel during his stay at Venice!
The young Spaniard accepted his invitation
with pleasure; of which Eugenia
flattered herself she might be the occasion.

He was now become their guest: she
sawandsaw and conversed with him ever ydayevery day;
and every day became more and more
enamoured. She was not ignorant of her
uncle’s designs; and longed to know
how Don Clement’s heart was affected towards B9v 18
towards her, when an opportunity offered
to satisfy her impatience.

She was alone walking in the garden,
her thoughts full of Pimenteles, when
she saw him enter with the Marquis; to
whose discourse he seemed listening attentively.
Eugenia did not care to interrupt
them by her presence; and had
just time to slip behind an alabaster statue
when they passed her by, and turned
down a close walk that was almost
darkened by a thick row of orange trees,
which shaded it on each side.

Eugenia heard her uncle pronounce
her name as he walked by her; when,
seized with a lover’s curiosity on finding
herself the subject of their conversation,
she stole softly into a little alley, which
ran parallel to the walk in which the
Marquis and Don Clement were engagedgaged B10r 19
in discourse. The former spoke
so loud, that Eugenia could easily hear
him say, “and yet I could not prevail
on my sister till I assured her I had other
views for Eugenia; and that, as I could
give her a fortune equal almost to any
lady in Milan, I intended to look out
for a match for her suitable to her rank.
If Madame Burganeze persists in her
design of going into a convent, I must
be the more speedy in disposing of my
niece; for my house, without a mother’s
care, may not be a sanctuary for one so
young and handsome.”
“Your prudence,
my Lord, is highly to be commended,’”
answered Don Clement; and
turned the conversation with an indifference
that touched Eugenia to the
quick: she had not lost a word of what
her uncle had said, and listened greedily
to what Don Clement would reply to so
broad a hint; but the coldness of his answer B10v 20
answer filled her with a good deal of
confusion.—“What can be the meaning
of this!”
said she; “Don Clement
is very young, and, if I have any judgment,
far from being insensible; I am
not disagreeable, and have some advantages
which might recommend me:
perhaps he is in love elsewhere, or has
discovered my weakness for him; or—
I know not what to think. Cruel Pimenteles!
how easy are you in that indifference
which is so tormenting to
me!”
Here some tears stole down her
cheeks, which a consciousness of her own
worth made her so ashamed of, that she
quickly wiped them off. It is a sufficient
mortification for a woman’s pride to find
her heart in the possession of a man who
never asked her for it; but to find that
man even cold and negligent, is a circumstance
that few know how to support:
such was Eugenia’s situation; and B11r 21
and she now began to experience all
those vicissitudes of hopes, fears, and
jealousies, of which before she had but
an imperfect idea.

Now it was she wanted a faithful
friend to complain to: a thousand
times did she wish for Adelaide; but
those wishes were fruitless, and she continued
in a kind of languor, which
with all her endeavours she could scarcely
hide. At length she resolved to
write to her friend, and hoped for some
consolation. Her letter was as follows:
“Though since we parted I have
perpetually regretted your absence, yet
I now feel the loss of you more sensibly
than ever. I wish you were with me;
but alas, I can no more entertain you as
I used to do: Eugenia is no longer the
same! You will doubtless ask the occasion
of this change, and I will confessfess B11v 22
it to you:—Don Clement Pimenteles,
whom I mentioned to you in my
last, has worked this strange metamorphosis;
and, from the most cheerful person
in the world, has made me the most
melancholy: in short, I shall ever love
him. Dear Adelaide, if you were to see
him!—and yet, would you believe it,
he is as cold as marble! and I could kill
myself for having the least tenderness
for him. Oh that my sighs would bear
me to happy Salerno, the scene of all
my past innocent pleasures! where I
first tasted the sweets of friendship, when
unacquainted with the pains of love!
Why did I leave you? or why did Don
Clement
leave Castile? Adieu, my
Adelaide: advise and pity me.”

Eugenia had but just dispatched this
letter to her friend, and was passing
along a gallery which led to her apartment,ment, B12r 23
when she met the Marquis and
Don Clement; the latter of whom saluting
her, stepped back, and hastily
threw a little note at her feet, and,
without speaking, immediately joined
the Marquis.

Eugenia ran, or rather flew, to her
chamber, to see what this unexpected
billet contained: she was ready to tear
it, so great was her impatience to get it
open. These were the contents:—“I
have long wished for an opportunity to
reveal the secrets of my heart to you;
but my wishes have always been disappointed:
it is in your power to deliver
me from the greatest anxiety of my soul.
Suffer me then, fair Eugenia, to throw
myself at your feet this night, in your
own appartment, where I may, without
witnesses, make an explanation to you —on B12v 24
—on which the happiness of my life
depends.”

The pleasure that Eugenia felt on
reading these words is not to be conceived
by any but those who have been
in the like circumstances. She, who
the moment before had abandoned herself
to sorrow, was now transported with
joy: what was past appeared like a
dream to her; and she persuaded herself
that she was as dear to Don Clement
as he was to her. The satisfaction
she took in this reflection was nevertheless
not unmixed with some alloy of
doubt: she could not account for the
reserve of Don Clement’s behaviour on
the Marquis’s conference with him in
the garden; nor had she in his whole
conduct towards herself ever remarked
any symptoms of love. However, as
we find it an easy matter to persuade ourselves C1r 25
ourselves to believe what we wish, so
Eugenia, satisfied that Pimenteles loved
her with a flame equal to her own, entirely
gave way to the agreeable reflection.
“No doubt”, said she, “he
has prudent reasons for having hitherto
concealed his love, which he now means
to lay open to me in this interview.—
Yes, Don Clement”
, said she, “I will
see you to-night, and deliver both you
and myself from the pain of cruel
suspense.”

She saw Don Clement at supper; he
watched her eyes; and they did not fail
to give a favourable answer to his note.
She retired early to her apartment, and,
dismissing her woman, shut herself into
her dressing-room: she took a book in
her hand to beguile the tedious minutes
till Pimenteles should arrive. Her eyes
indeed were fixed on the paper, and she Vol. I.Cstrove C1v 26
strove to attend to what she was reading;
but her thoughts were too much
agitated for such an employment, from
which she was not released so speedily
as she wished; for the clock struck
twelve before Don Clement approached.
At length she heard him rap softly at the
door which opened from her dressing-
room to the back-stairs: she arose,
trembling, to let him in; he entered,
and seemed to be in as much confusion
as herself. He excused his stay, by
telling her the Marquis had engaged
him till that minute; and added, “How
much am I obliged to you, amiable
Eugenia, for this piece of condescension!
and how miserable would a denial
of my request have made me!”

“I cannot tell you, Signior,” said
Eugenia, “how I can answer it to
discretion, to admit a visit from a young cavalier C2r 27
cavalier so unseasonably; and, I assure
you, you are indebted entirely to my
curiosity for this compliance.”
“I bless
the motive, let it be what it will,”
answered
Don Clement, “that has procured
me such a favour. But I dare not
proceed, without being first assured of
your forgiveness; which, thus suppliant,
I entreat.”
—Saying this, he bent one
knee to the ground, and, taking Eugenia’s
hand with a respect mixed with
tenderness, “Do you promise to pardon
me, Madam,”
said he, “if I declare
myself freely? Oh tell me,—for you
are all my hope—excellent Eugenia,
may I speak!”
“You may,” answered
Eugenia, in a broken voice (her confusion
almost depriving her of speech)
“you may speak; but don’t take advantage
of this liberty, by saying more
than I ought to hear.”

C2Don C2v 28

Don Clement, after a short pause,
was going to reply, when Madame Burganeze
(whose apartment joined close
to those of her daughter) hearing two
persons talk in that lady’s chamber, rose
out of bed, and, with her night-gown
only thrown loose about her, entered
the room with some precipitation.

The consternation they were both in
is not to be described. Eugenia remained
with her face covered with
blushes; her eyes fixed on the ground,
not once so much as daring to lift them
up towards her mother. Don Clement,
who had started from his knees, was almost
in the same condition with herself;
and, not having the courage to speak,
gave Madame Burganeze an opportunity
of looking at them both by turns,
with eyes inflamed with anger, as if
doubtful which should first feel the effectsfects C3r 29
of her rage. At length she turned
it all on poor Eugenia; she gave a
shriek before she could get her words
out (for she was almost choaked with
passion) and then flying at her daughter
with the utmost fury, she would certainly
have done her some mischief, if
Don Clement (who was by this time
recovered from his surprise) had not interposed.
“I beseech you, Madam,”
said he, “be pacified; or turn all your
anger upon me, who alone deserve it:
Eugenia is not to blame.”
“Who then
is to blame, traitor?”
replied she, turning
fiercely towards him. “Ask yourself,
Madam,”
said he, assuming a languishing
air; “accuse your own charms,
which have been the cause of this intrusion.”
“How!” said Madame Burganeze,
“Was it the influence of my
charms that brought you to my daughter’s
chamber at midnight? Ah Don C3Clement! C3v 30
Clement
! that is a weak pretence to
screen your own baseness and Eugenia’s
folly.”
“Alas,” replied Don Clement,
“if you will but hear me, you will be
satisfied of the injustice you do both
your daughter and me.”
“Well, let me
hear what you have to say,”
cried Madame
Burganeze
, who began to grow a
little calm. “Know then, Madam,” replied
Don Clement, “that I have adored
you from the first moment I beheld
you; but the fear of offending you, always
obliged me to conceal my presumptuous
flame. My Lord Marquis informed
me of your resolution of retiring
to a convent:—a resolution that, while
it added to my love, heightened my despair.
At the same time he encouraged
me to raise my wishes to the fair Eugenia.
To any other person this would
have been a happiness to be received
with transport: but, prepossessed as I was C4r 31
was with another passion, I could only
look upon the honour he intended me
as a fresh obstacle to my desires. Thus
embarrassed, I knew no way to extricate
myself, but by disclosing the secret of
my love to the generous Eugenia, and
imploring her interest and assistance in
so delicate an affair.”
Here Don Clement
ceased; and cast his eyes on the
ground, as if waiting for a favourable
answer.

Madame Burganeze remained some
time in suspense what to answer. At
length, with a look half-smiling and
half-reserved, “Methinks, Don Clement,”
said she, “you have not acted
altogether very discreetly: you had
near made me very angry with my
daughter. But I can forgive you, since
it was owing to an excess of modesty:
—Modesty is commendable in a young C4man. C4v 32
man. But go; I will hear no more at
present, ’tis late: so I beg you may retire.
Eugenia, go to bed, child:—I
am sorry for what has passed; but you
must forget it: you see I am pacified.”

With these words she left the room,
and locked the door on her daughter,
having first made Don Clement withdraw;
who had but just time to give
Eugenia to understand, by a sign, the
part he intended to act.

If Eugenia, on the one hand, was
rejoiced that she had escaped her mother’s
resentment, she was however not
a little mortified at being disappointed
of the pleasure she proposed to herself
in hearing Don Clement breathe out his
vows at her feet. She was in pain to
think how he would extricate himself
out of the difficulty into which he had
been brought by this contrivance; for she C5r 33
she saw but too plainly with what pleasure
her mother had received the declaration
he had made; and was terribly
afraid of the consequences.

She spent the remainder of the night
in those uneasy reflections. Don Clement,
on his part, was not without his
cares:—and Madame Burganeze was
as restless as either of them: but her
thoughts were employed in the gayest
manner imaginable. She had conceived
an affection for Don Clement from
the first moment she saw him: nay, and
flattered herself with the hopes of a
return: but the great reserve of that
young Spaniard had almost tired her
expectations.—How agreeably then was
she surprised, when he told her that he
loved her! and that at a time too, when
her jealous fears persuaded her that he
was paying his court to her daughter!

C5She C5r 34

She did not indeed sleep the whole
night; but the thoughts of this new
amour was so pleasing to her, that it
took place of every other consideration:
—the convent was no longer remembered;
and her whole study was now
bent on rendering herself agreeable in
her lover’s eyes.

Accordingly she was no sooner risen
than she seated herself at her toilet:—
jewels were now to be placed advantageously
in her hair; a vanity which she
had lately affected to have an utter abhorrence
to. The weather was grown too
sultry for a veil; so that was thrown
aside, to display the diamonds in her
ears: and her woman was of a sudden
become so very unhandy, that she was
obliged to dress and undress her lady
several times, before she could get her
clothes to fit with any tolerable grace.

At C6r 35

At length Madame Burganeze, adorned
as gay and as splendidly as she was
on her wedding-day, stood before her
glass, to contemplate herself; and remembering
Pimenteles had expressed
his fear of offending her by a discovery
of his love, “—La Pointz,” said she,
“have I any thing forbidding in my
looks? I always thought I had rather
an air of too much complaisance.”

“Madame,” answered the cunning La
Pointz
(who knew her lady’s failing)
“you have without doubt a most affable
countenance; but then you have a certain
air of majesty in your eyes that must
infallibly strike an awe into every beholder.”
“Answer me another question,”
cried Madame Burganeze, “and
answer me sincerely; How old do I
appear to be?”
“Why, Madam,” said
La Pointz, “only that I know, from the
time that I have been in your Ladyship’s C6family, C6v 36
family, that you can’t be much under
forty, I should think that you had hardly
seen three-and-thirty.”
“Impossible!”
cried Madame Burganeze: “You
flatter: you certainly flatter! I am
sure if I should own to six-and-thirty
no one would disbelieve me.”
“Indeed
but they would,”
replied the woman,
laughing (who knew she might have
added several years to the account):
“I don’t believe any one that looked at
you would be persuaded of that.”

The infatuated Burganeze, who was
a coquette in addition to her other
follies, did not perceive that her woman
was ridiculing her vanity: and, beginning
to reassume her former ideas, she
now looked upon herself as irresistible;
and made no doubt of her being able
to secure Don Clement’s heart. But,
notwithstanding the good opinion she had C7r 37
had revived of her own charms, she was
not without some fears on account of
the youth and beauty of her daughter:
and, as jealous eyes are more penetrating
than others, she for a long time had
observed that Eugenia did not look
upon Don Clement with indifference;
and she saw that the Marquis, her brother,
was well disposed to favour an
union between them. These two circumstances,
therefore, made her resolve
to be as watchful over her daughter’s
conduct as possible: for this purpose
she placed an old waiting-maid about
her (that she had known and confided
in for many years) with strict orders to
lie in her chamber, and attend her whereever
she went.

This unusual restraint soon became
intolerable to Eugenia; and the more
so, as she saw it gave Don Clement the greatest C7v 38
greatest uneasiness; for she had it not
in her power to speak to him, but in her
mother’s presence, ever since he had declared
himself that lady’s lover.

However, she flattered herself that
he would, by some means or other, find
an opportunity of conversing with her.
Nor was she deceived; for, sitting one
evening in an arbour in the garden, she
saw her mother enter, leaning on Don
Clement’s
arm. Eugenia rose up, out of
respect to the former (to whom she
thought her presence would not be very
acceptable) and withdrew, to leave her
the more at liberty.

Don Clement was vexed at her retiring
so hastily, as he had prepared a little
billet, which he resolved at all hazards
to convey to her: but her sudden absenting
herself disappointed him in his design. C8r 39
design. He inwardly cursed Madame
Burganeze
, while she was leading him
to a seat, singing an amorous air. He
was forced, however, to affect an appearance
of satisfaction; and, placing
himself by her side, he observed a book
lying on one of the seats, which Eugenia
had by accident left behind her:
he immediately thought of slipping his
letter between the leaves of it; and by
that means to convey it into Eugenia’s
own hands, without her mother’s suspecting
any thing of the matter: wherefore,
taking up the book, after some
discourse with Madame Burganeze, he
proposed taking a turn or two more in
the garden; and, rising up, he gave
that lady his hand, and led her towards
that quarter of the garden to which he
had seen Eugenia direct her steps: he
soon perceived her sitting at the end of a
long terrace: but Madame Burganeze no sooner C8v 40
sooner spied her daughter than she cried,
“Fye, Don Clement, what makes you
chuse this walk? It is the most unpleasant
of the whole garden.”
“I am of
your opinion, Madam,”
replied Don
Clement
; “and I know not how I
came to wander hither: but since we
are here, suffer me to restore this book
to your daughter, which, I suppose, was
her entertainment when we frighted her
out of the arbour.”
“Let me see it
first,”
cried Madame Burganeze; and
immediately taking it out of Don Clement’s
hand, the leaves, without mercy,
opened directly at the place where the
note was concealed:—“What have we
got here?”
said she, and straight unfolded
it; for it was but doubled carelessly,
without being sealed. I leave
my reader to judge what a situation
Don Clement was in at this unexpected
misfortune:—he cursed Madame Burganeze,ganeze, C9r 41
the letter, and his own indiscretion;
and expected every minute
that she would upbraid him with his
falsehood: but happy was it for him
that his mistress’s sight was so impaired
(owing to a heavy illness she had had);
she could not read a word without the
help of her glasses, which she thought
would be a disgrace to make use of in
the presence of her lover: however, she
affected to examine the paper; when,
returning it to Don Clement, “Prithee,
read this,”
said she; “for, I protest,
my eyes have been so weak ever since
the death of my husband, that I can
scarce distinguish a letter.”
Don Clement
was rejoiced at this unexpected
turn of good luck: “It is only a song,
Madam,”
said he; and, pretending to
read it, he repeated the first lines that
came into his head, which Madame
Burganeze
was mightily pleased with, and C9v 42
and suffered him to restore the book and
the song to her daughter.

Eugenia no sooner found herself alone
than she perused her lover’s letter, which
contained these words:—“The constraint
I am under towards you, and the
complaisance I am obliged to shew your
mother, are equally painful to me; but
the time is not yet come for me to undeceive
her. You see the difficulty of my
situation; and yet you do not know the
half of what I suffer. Dear Eugenia,
if you have any pity for me, permit me
once more to talk to you without reserve.
If you will walk this evening, about
seven o’clock, in the great wood adjoining
the park, I will find means to converse
with you.—When you see a person
covered with a white veil, know that
for your obliged
Pimenteles.”

The C10r 43

The reading this note revived Eugenia’s
hopes again: she returned into
the house, with her thoughts more
agreeably employed than they had been
for some days past. She was told that
Don Clement was just going to Lodi, in
order to see a friend; and, making no
doubt but that he feigned this journey,
on purpose that he might have the better
opportunity of meeting her at the
expected rendezvous, she longed for
the appointed hour.

On account of Don Clement’s absence
she the more easily obtained leave
of Madame Burganeze to go abroad.
Wherefore, setting out, attended by
the oldwoman, she quickly crossed the
park which joined the Marquis’s gardens;
and, having reached the wood,
she was not long before she discovered Don C10v 44
Don Clement in the disguise he had
mentioned in his letter.

He was covered with a white silk veil
striped with silver; which, reaching
from head to foot, concealed him so
entirely, that neither his shape nor
clothes could be discovered; and, had
not Eugenia been apprized of his design,
she could never have suspected
him for any other than what he appeared
to be.

Don Clement was at some little distance;
but, having spied Eugenia as
soon as she did him, and altering his
voice, he called out to her; at the same
time advancing to meet her.—Eugenia,
affecting surprise, ran towards him:—
“Is it possible,” said she, “that this
is Donna Aurora? Who would have
dreamt of meeting you at Milan? How charmed C11r 45
charmed will my mother be to see you!”

“I have so short a time to stay,” answered
the counterfeit Donna, “that I
can’t wait on Madame Burganeze; therefore
I beg you will not let her know of
having seen me.”
Saying this, he took
Eugenia under the arm; and speaking
in a tone not to be heard by her attendant,
“Thus far,” said he, “we have
succeeded happily; but your troublesome
guardian pursues us so closely that
I am as much to seek as ever; for she
will certainly suspect something if we
whisper too long.”
“I know no way
to get rid of her,”
answered Eugenia
“but to tire her so heartily that she will
be glad to sit down to rest, and we may
then saunter out of her hearing.”
Don
Clement
could not help laughing at this
contrivance; and, much approving of
it, they both walked as fast as possible,
resolving to lead the old duenna such a dance C11v 46
dance as would make her glad to sit
down, and leave them at liberty.

Ursina (that was the attendant’s
name) trotted after them as fast as she
was able, when, being unused to so
much walking, she called to them, conjuring
them, for God’s sake, not to
walk at such a rate, as she found it impossible
to keep up with them; and assured
them she was ready to faint with
weariness. This was just what they
wanted. Eugenia slackened her pace,
and told Ursina, she might fit down in
the shade, whilst she and her companion
continued their walk. The duenna
begged they wouldn’t go out of sight:
which Eugenia faithfully promising, the
old woman flung herself on the grass,
and, being much fatigued, soon feel
asleep.

Now C12r 47

Now it was that the lovers found
themselves in possession of a few undisturbed
minutes, which they had so ardently
wished for: but they could not
enjoy this happiness long enough
to enter into an explanation, which
would have spared each of them many
sighs.

They were got into a part of the
wood which was by the side of a byeroad,
and was separated from it only by
a shallow brook: the sun was almost set,
and Don Clement, fearing to lose more
time, prayed Eugenia to sit down on the
brink of the water, which they found
very refreshing. Eugenia would have
made choice of a place still more retired;
but, fearing to alarm Ursina, lest
she should chance to awake and miss
them, she consented to remain where
they were; when, seating herself on the brink C12v 48
brink of the rivulet, Don Clement
placed himself by her.

He had drawn the veil from his face,
as well for coolness as to be able to
speak with the greater freedom, and was
just entering into a conversation equally
desired both by him and Eugenia, when
they were alarmed by the appearance of
two horsemen, well mounted and in
Spanish habits, who came in a brisk trot
towards them.

As they had rode out from a cross
path, Eugenia and her lover were not
aware of them, till they were so near
as to have their faces and dress distinguished
at once.

Don Clement no sooner saw them
than he endeavoured, with great precipitation,
to cover his face with the veil, when, D1r 49
when, through the most unlucky accident
imaginable, it had got fast on a
bush which hung just over his head: the
haste he made to disengage it, together
with the confusion he was in, served
only to entangle it the more; so that,
making a violent effort to tear it from
the bush that held it, he dragged it
quite off him; and at once made a discovery
of what he so vainly endeavoured
to conceal.

The two cavaliers, who had made a
full stop from the first moment they observed
him, now alighted from their
horses, which they gave into the hands
of a servant, who was leading an empty
calash after them; and one of them,
crying out in a tone of the greatest exultation,
“Ha! art thou found at last,
vile fugitive?”
he leapt over the brook, Vol. I.Dand D1v 50
and seized hold of Don Clement’s
shoulder.

Eugenia, in her first emotion of fear
and surprise, fled to some little distance
from the place where she had been sitting;
but, her love overcoming her
terror, she turned back, resolving to partake
with her dear Pimenteles in the danger
which she apprehended threatened
him; but great was her astonishment
and grief at seeing him surrounded by
three men. She could perceive that
one of them wrested a poniard out of
his hand; whilst the other two, who had
come to the assistance of the first, took
him under each arm, and, notwithstanding
his resistance, forced him into
the calash; the eldest of the two cavaliers
getting into it with him, whilst the
other mounted his horse again; and all
drove off like lightening.

Eugenia D2r 51

Eugenia during this transaction was
almost sensless; when the cries of the
old duenna, who was by this time
awake, roused her from her lethargy.
Ursina ran to her charge:—“And are
you safe?”
said she: “Are you, Eugenia?
What is become of the lady?
and who are those men that drove away
just now?”
“I can answer none of your
questions,”
replied Eugenia; “for I am
frightened to death.”
“Oh! so I have
you safe, it is no matter,”
said Ursina.
“Let us make haste home. Madam,
your mother will chide me for letting
you stay so long.”

Eugenia was so overwhelmed with
grief that she made her no reply; but,
casting her eyes towards the fatal spot
where Don Clement had been forced
away, she saw his poniard lying on the
ground, which had been dropped in the D2scuffle; D2v 52
scuffle: the handle was gold; on which
his name was decyphered in small diamonds.
She snatched it up, and hid it
under her gown, without being observed
by her duenna.

As they were returning back, Ursina
asked her several questions about the
supposed lady who had met her in the
wood; and Eugenia, finding by her
inquiries that she had not discovered it
to be Don Clement (for she did not
awake till the strangers were driving
away) she resolved not to let her into
the truth of an adventure in which she
had so near and tender an interest.

“That young lady,” said Eugenia,
“is called Donna Aurora de Silvio: she
is a particular friend of mine; and I
should be much concerned if I thought
any misfortune had befallen her. She has D3r 53
has indeed been just now taken away
by two cavaliers; but I am inclined to
believe it is with her own consent; for,
you know, she desired me not to acquaint
my mother with her being at
Milan; and, at the same time, told me
that she was not to remain here long:
therefore I charge you, Ursina, not to
mention the least word of any thing you
have seen; for, if Donna Aurora’s relations
come to hear of it, it may bring
both you and me into trouble.”
Ursina,
who was none of the cunningest of
her sex, promised to be silent.

Eugenia returned home; but with a
heart much heavier than when she left it.
Her mother was indisposed, and the
Marquis was abroad; so she saw neither
of them that night: but the next day
produced a dismal hurricane in the family
of the Marquis.

D3Don D3v 54

Don Clement had promised faithfully
to return next morning; when the impatient
Burganeze, not finding him as
good as his word, dispatched one of the
servants to Lodi, to inquire the occasion
of his delay. The messenger went
to the house where he expected to find
Don Clement; but returned with word
that he had not been there at all.

Madame Burganeze, alarmed to the
last degree at neither seeing nor hearing
from him all that day, had now lost all
patience: when the night and the succeeding
day passed over without bringing
any news of him, she stamped and
raved like a mad woman; beat her
maids, broke her china, and tore her
hair. The Marquis, who till now was
an utter stranger to her extravagant passion
for Don Clement, was amazed at
her behaviour. “What then, Madam,” said D4r 55
said he, “and did you really love Pimenteles?”
“Yes,” cried she, furiously;
“and was beloved again.”“I
am surprised,”
answered the Marquis,
with an indignant smile, “that he should
so cruelly desert you, if you were the
mistress of his heart.”
“Oh traitor!”
said Madame Burganeze, “are you
then at the bottom of this contrivance,
to rob me of my love? Be assured, if
I find it out, I will make you an example
to all persidious brothers.”
She
pronounced this in a resolute tone, staring
all the while at the Marquis as if
she were possessed. “For shame, sister!”
said he, calmly: “moderate this excessive
frenzy, or you will oblige me to
abate of that respect I should chuse to
treat you with; which as I should be
sorry to do, I will leave you to your
cooler thoughts.”
Saying this, he made D4her D4v 56
her a low bow, and left her to vent her
fury by herself.

Whilst many fruitless inquiries were
making after Don Clement, Ursina,
who began to entertain some suspicions
about the adventure in the wood, addressed
Eugenia thus: “Here is a
mighty work,”
said she, “to know what
is become of Signior Pimenteles! Why,
I’ll be burnt if it was not he who carried
away your friend Donna Aurora. It
must be so. What other reason can he
have for absenting himself? If you
should find this to be the case, I hope
you will allow me to be a woman of
penetration.”

Eugenia, pleased to find her in such
an error, said she was certainly in the
right:—“How stupid was I,” said she,
“not to think of this! Aye, I make no D5r 57
no doubt that Don Clement was the
traitor; for,”
added she, “the fright I
was in would not suffer me to make
any particular observations on the ravishers.
But you remember we are not
supposed to know any thing of this
matter; I beg therefore you may continue
to keep the discreet silence you
have hitherto observed.”
Ursina could
hardly be prevailed upon to lose the merit
of this discovery: however she at
last promised to hold her tongue.

Eugenia, who saw that the Marquis
was equally surprised and grieved at the
strange and abrupt manner of Don
Clement’s
disappearing, resolved to keep
him no longer in the dark; but to confess
the truth of this mysterious adventure.
She knew that her uncle loved
her, and was discreet. She therefore,
with the greatest candour, related the D5whole D5v 58
whole story, from the beginning to the
end, without disguising the least circumstance,
not even the passion she had
conceived for Don Clement: and concluded
her narration with conjuring the
Marquis to forgive her for having made
a secret to him of an affair in which her
heart was so nearly concerned; assuring
him, at the same time, she meant to
conceal it no longer than till Don Clement
had made the explanation he had
promised; and which, she was inclined
to believe, would unfold a mystery that
had given her great uneasiness.

The Marquis heard her attentively,
and with evident marks of surprize:—
“You were in the wrong,” said he,
“in not trusting me with this secret;
and, had you ventured to make me
your confidant, it would have saved us
all some trouble. But Don Clement’s strange D6r 59
strange conduct astonishes me. If he
really loved you, he had reason to believe
that he had my approbation: for,
to tell you the truth, Eugenia, I even
gave him to understand so much in
terms, which at once shewed my esteem
for him and the high opinion I had of
his desert. He indeed received the overture
with all the appearance of gratitude
and respect; and made use of
words, to testify his acknowledgements,
so passionate and expressive, that I
thought his heart was sensibly affected.
He thanked me for the honour I intended
him; and, with his face covered
with blushes, told me, he would endeavour
to deserve it.

I could not help smiling at his
bashfulness, at the same time that I
thought it very amiable; but not caring
to increase his confusion. I for that D6time D6v 60
time dropped the subject. I imagined
that Don Clement would, in politeness,
have been the first who would have reassumed
it; but quite otherwise;—I
found he ever after avoided mentioning
any thing that could introduce a theme
which, I supposed, would have been
most agreeable to him. He even grew
melancholy, and sighed whenever you
appeared! I took occasion for this to
rally him a little on his shyness; he fell
again into the same confusion that he
had discovered the first time I mentioned
you to him. He told me that
he was afraid he was not capable of
touching your heart; and added, that
he had a certain delicacy in his sentiments
that made him miserable; for,
said he, ‘the person who is to make me
happy, must love me with a tenderness
equal to that with which my soul is filled;
and, alas! I dare not flatter myself that D7r 61
that I shall meet with that person in the
beautiful Eugenia.’

I must own,” proceeded the Marquis,
“that I was much surprised at
what Don Clement said. I answered,
gravely, ‘I don’t know, Signior, how
my niece is affected toward you; I suppose
she can’t be blind to your merit;
and I have even heard her express the
good opinion she has of you; but for
those tender sentiments which you require,
you are only to expect a discovery
of them from Eugenia’s own
mouth, and that as a reward of your
love and constancy; but, since you are
not inclined to make the experiment,
we will drop a subject which may not
be altogether agreeable to either of us.’

I pronounced these last words in a
tone so serious, and, at the same time, with D7v 62
with some mixture of resentment, that
I perceived Don Clement was almost
ready to sink with grief and shame.
‘Oh my Lord,’ said he, in a broken
voice, ‘you do me the greatest injustice!
Why will you entertain a thought
so injurious to the respect I have always
entertained for you? Ah, if you knew
my heart,’
added he (laying hold,
fearfully, of one of my hands) ‘you
would be convinced of the love, the
gratitude, and the reverence which I
bear you; yes, my Lord,’
continued
he (pressing my hand with a more assured
air) ‘it is nothing but a diffidence
of my own worth which has
prevented me from improving the favourable
disposition that you have towards
me: for, notwithstanding the
flattering prospect which you have permitted
me to entertain, I have remarked a cold- D8r 63
a coldness and reserve in the fair Eugenia,
which have damped all my hopes.’

Don Clement spoke this,” proceeded
the Marquis, “in so dejected a
tone, that I could not forbear pitying
him; and, altering my countenance all
at once, I told him, laughing, that he
had too much modesty for a cavalier so
young and handsome as he was; and
that however necessary a certain degree
of it might be to make one agreeable,
yet an excess served only to render those
who possessed it miserable, by making
them timorous, and filling their heads
with vain doubts and apprehensions.
‘You don’t know your own strength,’
added I; ‘I believe my niece’s heart is
not pre-engaged; she is a woman, and
I suppose, not more obdurate than the
rest of her sex; and I think you have
as much to recommend you as any of ours. D8v 64
ours.’
Don Clement answered this with
a bow; but, at the same time, told me
there was another obstacle to his wishes
which gave him new torment: ‘Madame
Burganeze
,’
proceeded he, seems
averse from my desires, and keeps so
strict a watch over her daughter, that I
find it impossible to speak to her but in
her mother’s presence.’

I had,” continued the Marquis,
“made the same observation myself;
but, little suspecting the real motive of
her conduct, I only fancied your mother
had conceived some secret dislike
to Don Clement; into the cause of
which I had resolved to enquire at a
proper opportunity. In the mean while
I told Don Clement that I would be an
advocate for him, both with you and
my sister; and that, after having founded
your inclinations, which I promised myself D9r 65
myself were favourable enough towards
him, I was in hopes that Madame Burganeze
would not oppose a union which
she would find acceptable to me and
my niece. ‘Be therefore contented,’
added I, ‘for I will not rest till I have
disposed Eugenia’s heart to make you
all the kind returns you can wish.’

This conversation,” continued the
Marquis, “passed between Don Clement
and me the morning of that day
on which he appointed you to meet him
in the wood. What his design was in
this assignation, I am strangely at a loss
to conjecture; but certain I am, that
Don Clement was guided throughout
his whole conduct by so mysterious a
principle, that the more I reflect on it
the more I am puzzled.”

“I am as much at a loss as you are,
my Lord,”
replied Eugenia; “but I am D9v 66
am satisfied Don Clement had something
important to reveal to me, which
probably would have cleared up a behaviour
that now appears so unaccountable;
and, had he not been pursued by
the most whimsical destiny, two minutes
would have disclosed what may now,
perhaps, keep me to the end of my life
in suspense.”

“Time,” answered the Marquis,
“may yet bring this mystery to light;
till then I will suspend my judgment,
and endeavour to think favourably of a
man whom I could wish to find deserving
of the most warm esteem I had for
him.”

While Madame Burganeze continued
to make bitter lamentations for the absence
of her lover, poor Eugenia was a
thousand times more tortured on the same D10r 67
same account; for, not daring to let
her mother be a witness of her tears, she
was obliged to live under the most painful
constraint.

She hourly regretted the loss of Don
Clement
; and some weeks having passed
over without her hearing any news
of him, she begged her mother would
permit her to revisit her native Salerno,
in order, once more, to see her old and
dear friend Adelaide.

Madame Burganeze, to whom every
thing was now become indifferent, easily
consented to let her daughter take this
journey. Eugenia was quickly ready,
little preparation serving for the time
she was allowed to stay; and she set out
for the kingdom of Naples, with her
governante, and a retinue, more suitableable D10v 68
to her quality than that with which
she had left it.

Eugenia had not given Adelaide
notice of her arrival in Salerno; but impatient
to embrace that dear friend, and
having a mind to surprise her with the
suddenness of her appearance, she
alighted at the Baron St. Seberina’s
house, and, with her accustomed freedom,
ran up into Adelaide’s apartment.

She found that Lady in her closet,
seated at her bureau, where she had just
done writing a letter;—she had her pen
in one hand, and with the other held
her handkerchief before her eyes. Eugenia
waited some minutes, to try if her
friend would quit this melancholy posture;
but finding her still continue in it,
she ran to her, and embracing her tenderly,derly, D11r 69
“what ails my dear Adelaide?”
said she; “you had not this sorrowful
air when I last saw you: I came to Salerno
on purpose to receive some comfort
from your sweet society; but I find
you in a way which tells me you have
yourself need of consolation.”
“And
who is more capable of consoling me
than you?”
answered Adelaide, returning
her friend’s caresses; “if I may yet
hope for any happiness, it is in the
friendship of my Eugenia. Tell me,”

added she, “are Madame Burganeze
and the Marquis, your uncle, well?
But above all, say, is Don Clement still
coldly ceremonious, or am I to congratulate
you on being happy?”

“Oh no! far from it,” ansswered
Eugenia, with a sigh; “I am more
wretched than ever; I have lost Don
Clement
; had him torn from me when hope D11v 70
hope began to flatter me! and may perhaps
never see him again!”
Here she
related to her friend the particulars of
all that had passed; some part of which
she had communicated to her by letter.

“How much am I affected with your
story!”
said Adelaide; “there is a purity
in our misfortunes that touches me
strangely, and if I loved you less, would
force me to sympathize with you.”

“How!” cried Eugenia: “is love
then the occassion of this sad alteration
which I perceive in you? is it to love
you owe that dejection in your eyes,
that faded colour in you cheeks, and
that disordered air about your whole
person?”
“To that self same passion,”
answered Adelaide, assuming a little
gaiety, to hide the confusion her friend’s
words had thrown her into; “I shall
tell you the whole secret,”
added she; ’and D12r 71
“and I had even disclosed it to you in
a letter which I just concluded when
you entered the closet. But come, it is
now dinner-time, and you have not
yet seen my father.”
Saying this, she
led her friend to the old Baron, who
was highly pleased at seeing her again;
and, after mutual civilities, they sat
down to table.

Eugenia was so impatient to be alone
with her friend, that dinner was no
sooner over than, making a sign to
Adelaide, that lady immediately arose
from her seat, and, telling the Baron,
with a smile, that Eugenia and she had
many things to talk of, they retired to
Adelaide’s apartment; where, having
locked themselves in, Eugenia claimed
her friend’s promise.

“You may remember,” said Adelaide,
“at your departure from Salerno,no, D12v 72
in how much grief you left me;
and indeed, my sorrow at losing you
was so great, that my health was visibly
impaired by it: my father, with the
greatest concern, saw my melancholy,
but told me he would not suffer me to
indulge it. He assured me I should see
you again, though he were himself to
undertake a journey with me to Milan
for that purpose;—‘mean time,’ said he,
‘I will find a companion for you, who,
though not perhaps so beloved by you
as your Eugenia is, yet may make you
some amends for her absence. I am
now going to pay a visit to my kinsman,
Signior Carassa, whom I have
not seen for some time; and I will ask
leave for his daughter to come and bear
you company.’

I thanked my father for his tenderness;
and assuring him I would be very E1r 73
very glad to have my cousin with me,
he went to wait on her father, who very
readily granted his request; and Faustina
(that was my cousin’s name) came
to me the same day.

My father was so pleased with the
hopes of diverting my melancholy, that
I could not help seeming highly satisfied
with her company. She was mistress
of a great deal of wit, and did not
want for good-nature; but her carriage
was a little too shy and reserved to
make her a very agreeable companion:
and, in reality, I did not think myself
over and above happy in her conversation.

She had now been some weeks
with us, when, one morning, going to
hear mass (as was our custom) we
had but just kneeled down when FaustinaVol. I.Etina E1v 74
whispered in my ear,—‘Look, Adelaide,
at that cavalier, who stands next
the altar, in mourning, and tell me if
you ever saw any thing so handsome?’

I cast my eyes where she directed me,
and saw the gentleman whom she described.
He seemed to be an agreeable
genteel person, though something past
his bloom. I told her I thought he
had nothing remarkable in him: and
the place we were then in not being
proper for observation of this kind, I
turned my face away, and opened my
breviary.

When mass was over, I observed
Faustina under some uneasiness; for the
stranger (who had employed her
thoughts and her eyes when she should
have been minding her devotion) had
suddenly stepped out among the crowd.
She made all possible haste to get out of church: E2r 75
church: I followed her; and we had
but just got without the gate when we
saw our cavalier talking very familiarly
to an Abbé of our acquaintance—
the latter bowed to us as we came towards
him; and immediately the stranger
whispered him, which I judged was
to enquire who we were? for I immediately
heard my name pronounced,
and the cavalier say,—‘She is very handsome!’
Faustina heard those last words;
but not knowing to which of us they
were directed, she flattered herself they
were meant for her.

When we got into our coach,
‘Now, cousin,’ said she to me, ‘tell me
your opinion of that stranger: for my
part, I think I never beheld any thing
so beautiful.’
—I could not help smiling
at so fantastical a taste; which Faustina
observing,—‘I see’, said she, ‘he has not E2the E2v 76
the good fortune to have pleased you;
but as I think you have some skill in
beauty, I should be glad you would tell
me what he wants to make him completely
amiable?’
‘He wants every
thing,’
replied I, laughing out-right;
‘and, if you will hear me patiently, I
will describe him in his true colours, for
I examined him with a less partial eye
than you did.’
‘Come then,’ answered
Faustina, peevishly, ‘let me hear.’

‘In the first place then,’ said I, ‘his
stature is too low.’
‘Why I grant you,’
said she, interrupting me, ‘that it would
be better if he was a little taller; but, to
make amends for this deficiency, he is
perfectly genteel.’
‘I will allow,’ answered
I, ‘that he has a tolerable air, that at
first sight strikes, but when you come to
examine him, he wants shape; I could
almost say proportion: then for his face, since E3r 77
since you take me for a judge of beauty,
indeed, cousin, I think he has neither
features nor complexion; and if I be
not much deceived, he could almost be
your father.’

Though I still kept up my rallying
manner, I found that Faustina had
lost all patience.—‘Oh heavens!’ said
she, ‘that I should fancy you have any
taste! I suppose you admire the coarse
look of a peasant, that lyes down and
rises with the sun. The cavalier has a
delicacy of complexion that may indeed
proceed from a weakly constitution;
but his features are the most elegant
I have seen: and for his age,
which you have advanced so much, I
can, for my part, see no disparity between
it and my own.’

My cousin, who was naturally a
little passionate, spoke this with so much E3earnest- E3v 78
earnestness, that I did not care to contradict
her any further; and was glad
that our conversation was broke off by
the carriage stopping at our own door.

From what I have said, you may
judge what kind of a person this was.
The next morning the Abbé, whom I
mentioned to you, came to breakfast
with us:—you may be sure Faustina did
not forget to enquire particularly after
her favourite. The Abbe informed us
that his name was Signior Ambrosia de
Castellane
; that he was a native of the
island of Sardinia, and came to Salerno
in order to take possession of a small
estate that fell to him by the death of
an aunt. To these he added some other
particulars, which naturally fell in his
way (or at least were thrown there by
my cousin); such as, that he was unmarried;
that he lodged in the college with E4r 79
with a student, his relation; and that he
intended to stay some months in Salerno.

I know not whether it was by design
or accident that Castellane, the
next day, passed by our house. Faustina
was leaning against the window of
my dressing-room, which looked into
the street; I was sitting at my toilet.
‘Come hither, quickly, Adelaide,’ said
she, in a voice of transport: see the
charming stranger!’
—I rose off my chair,
and, stepping to the window, saw Signior
Ambrosia
, who, remarking us,
gazed for a minute, with a look more
of curiousity than politeness. ‘How handsome
he is!’
said Faustina, with an air
of surprise and pleasure: ‘what would I
give’
(added she, after a short pause)
‘that his quality and fortune were such as
would entitle him to ask me of my father!E4ther! E4v 80
—but what am I thinking of? he
does not know me at all; much less does
he know that I am charmed with him.
We must inform him then,’
said she
(looking at me, with an absent air);
‘and teach him to raise his wishes and
his hopes’
. With this she darted suddenly
to my closet, and shut herself in.

I waited, with some impatience,
to see what would be the result of her
contemplations; little dreaming how
she was employed.

In about half an hour she came out
to me, with an air of much satisfaction
in her face. She had a paper, wrote,
in her hand.—‘I have something to shew
you’
, said she; ‘but you must first promise
you will not make any objections;
for I tell you, before hand, I have
taken a resolution which nothing can make E5r 81
make me alter.’
‘Then be assured,’ said
I, ‘that I shall not make any attempts
which, I am persuaded, would be fruitless.’
‘You are in the right,’ replied
Faustina; and at the same time gave
me the paper, which she had held back
whilst she was speaking to me. The
words it contained were as follows:—
‘My tenderness forces me to discover
what my pride would, in vain, persuade
me to conceal. I love you, Don
Ambrosia
; and, if you know your own
worth, this confession will not surprise
you, though I add to it that it comes
from a woman of the first quality in Salerno.
I shall be at the ball which
the Prince gives to-night, in hopes of
seeing you there; for I propose no
other pleasure in going. I shall be in
white and gold; and I shall wear a remarkable
diamond in my breast, which
will be enough to distinguish me: but, E5should E5v 82
should chance alone direct your eyes to
mine, they will be sufficient to discover
her who admires you above all mankind.’

I read this astonishing letter twice”
(pursued Adelaide) “before I could believe
my eyes; when, returning it to
Faustina, I asked her, gravely, what
she meant to do with it?—‘To dispatch
it off hand’
, replied she, ‘to Castellane:
I know where he lives, and my woman
can be trusted.’
—With this she was leaving
the room, when I cried out to her,
‘For heaven’s sake, cousin, reflect one
minute on what you are going to do:
you, indeed, forbid me to contradict
you, but I am too much your friend to
obey you’
.—‘Spare yourself the trouble
of arguments,’
interrupted Faustina; ‘I
believe you love me; and on any other
occasion I would be guided wholly by your E6r 83
your prudence; but in the interests of the
heart, we ourselves are our best counsellors.
I knew every thing you would
say,’
continued she: ‘you would tell me
that I am rash; that I forget what is
due to my sex and my quality; in a
word, that I break in on the rules of
modesty and discretion. Ah, let it be
so:—I know this is what you would say,
and I even think I deserve it; but, conscious
as I am of my own weakness, I
have not power to oppose it. See
then, Adelaide, if I can be reasoned
out of a prepossession which all my own
efforts have not been able to conquer:
but don’t think I yield without reluctance;
for, alas, I must yield, and you
must assist me with your friendship.’

With this she embraced me; and I
was so softened by her words, that I
found myself more inclined to pity than
condemn her.

E6“She E6v 84

She saw the temper she had
wrought me into; and, leaving me in
a moment, she took that opportunity
to dispatch her letter, flattering herself
that, though I did not approve of her
conduct, I would at least not reproach
her with it.

The messenger whom she employed
acquitted herself very well; for,
not finding Don Castellane at home,
she gave the letter to his footman; and
telling him it was of consequence,
charged him to find out his master directly,
and deliver it to him.

Faustina, having her head now
filled with a thousand pleasing ideas,
prepared for the ball. She was genteel,
and, though not a beauty, might yet
stand amongst the foremost rank of the
agreeable. I never saw her take so much E7r 85
much pains to dress herself as she did
that evening; and, having put on the
clothes she described in her note, she
added the jewel which, as a propitious
star, was to direct her lover. This she
made serve as a kind of clasp to fasten a
bouquet of flowers in her bosom.

As I had been invited to the ball as
well as Faustina, I went with her; and
we had but just taken our seats when
we saw our little cavalier enter, dressed
as richly as any body there. He happened
to place himself just opposite to
us: but never did I see any one in such
perplexity as he seemed to be: there
was a splendid appearance of ladies on
all sides of us; and, as we happened
not to sit in the most conspicuous part
of the room, he seemed utterly at a loss
where to fix; and I believe, had almost
tired himself with looking for the lady to E7v 86
to whom he was so much obliged. When
the ball opened, the Prince doing me
the honour to dance with me, the company
on this occasion stood up; and Don
Ambrosia
, more intent on finding out
his mistress than on observing the dancers,
at last discovered her; but whether
by the bright signal on her breast,
or the more expressive language of her
eyes, I never yet could be certain.

He gave her to understand he had
found her out by a most profound bow;
which salute I just saw her returning,
with looks full of more than complaisance.
When I was led back to my seat,
I observed that Castellane began to give
himself more airs than he had done before;
and his eyes were seldom off my
cousin or me during the whole entertainment.

“Faustina E8r 87

Faustina wished often to see him
dance; but he did not give her that
pleasure. However, when the company
broke up (which was not till near
morning) we saw him pressing through
the crowd to get to us, in order, as I
supposed, to lead us to our coach; when
two gentlemen, who had waited on us
to the ball, taking my cousin’s hand and
mine, took that office upon themselves;
which Faustina, for her part, had much
rather have bestowed on Don Ambrosia.
She therefore was obliged to content
herself with casting a look at him;
which shewed with what reluctance she
gave her hand to another. He returned
this with a low bow; and immediately
went out with a crowd of other
gentlemen.

If Faustina was charmed with him
before, this last interview rivetted her chains. E8v 88
chains. She talked of nothing else;—
‘What do you think he will do’, said
she, ‘now that he knows by whom he is
beloved? Do you believe the discovery
was aggreable to him?’
‘You need
not doubt’
, replied I, ‘that he will pursue
a conquest which does him so much
honour.’
Nor was I out in my supposition:
Castellane was too proud of it
not to use it to his advantage. He soon
found means, by the help of Faustina’s
woman, to get a letter conveyed to his
mistress. I happen to have it still in my
possession. You will be a judge of it.”

With this Adelaide went to her cabinet,
and taking the letter from thence gave
it to her friend to read. “Too sure I
am”
(said the letter) “that I have not merit
enough to deserve the happiness you
flatter me with; or you would certainly
make me the vainest of mortals. If it
be indeed possible that the sentiments you E9r 89
you profess for me are real, I shall endeavour
to render myself worthy of
them: if feigned only to divert yourself,
I can easily forgive such an agreeable
deceit: and, either way, I beg you
will afford me an opportunity personally
to thank you for the honour you have
done me.”
Eugenia having read this
epistle, returned it to Adelaide, and
begged her to pursue her story.

“Though my cousin” (continued that
lady) “was pleased with the gallantry of
Signior Ambrosia, relative to his request
of seeing her; though it was no more
than what she might have expected; she
well knew that, as he was not upon a
footing with her, either in point of fortune
or quality, she must never hope to
have him admitted as a lover, either by
her father or by mine. Whatever,
therefore, was to be done, it must be entirely E9v 90
entirely without the knowledge of either
of them.

She had recourse to me in this
emergency; and begged my advice and
assistance. She told me she was resolved
to see Castellane; but did not know in
what manner to contrive an interview
with him. I was sorry to see her embarked
in an affair that I foresaw might
end unhappily: but I knew her temper
too well to hope for any thing by opposing
her; especially where her heart
was so nearly concerned. All I could
expect then was, that she would conduct
herself with as much caution and
secresy as so delicate a point required.

I told her I was satisfied she ought to
comply with Don Castellane’s request of
allowing him to see and talk to her, as
there was no retreating handsomely, after E10r 91
after the advances she had made. Yet
I recommended it to her not to be too
hasty in granting him a meeting, till
we had concerted measures for our mutual
safety.

She saw the reasonableness of this
advice; and, readily agreeing to it, she
answered Don Ambrosia’s letter in a few
lines, telling him she would consider of
the means to gratify him in the desire he
expressed to thank her for the favourable
sentiments she had for him; the
sincerity of which she assured him of, in
a manner that left him no more doubt of
her being in earnest.

I shall not trouble you with a repetition
of all the letters that passed on
both sides, and the contrivances that
were formed, in order to effect the meeting
between the two lovers, before any expedient E10v 92
expedient was fixed upon. At last an
opportunity offered that determined
Faustina in a desire she had before entertained,
of receiving him here; which
she was afraid to venture on before, lest
my father should discover it: but as he
was now obliged, on urgent business,
to be absent from home for a few days,
my cousin was resolved not to let slip so
favourable a juncture. She communicated
her design to me:—I thought it
feasible, and much less liable to censure
than to indulge him in an assignation in
any other place. She thanked me for
my concurrence; and wrote a little note
to Don Ambrosia, appointing the manner
and hour of his visit, which was to
be that evening.

He did not fail to come agreeably to
his instructions; and was conducted by
my cousin’s woman into a parlour remotemote E11r 93
from the rest of the apartments.
Faustina beseeched me to entertain him
for a few minutes, till she had recollected
her spirits, which were indeed much
agitated at the thoughts of her being so
near the object of her love. I went
down into the parlour, where I found
Castellane in a musing posture, with his
eyes fixed on the ground. He started
up on my entering the room; and I observed
he changed colour as he saluted
me. I was in some confusion myself:
however I prayed him to sit down. He
seemed embarrassed; which increased
the disorder that the circumstance of
this whimsical adventure had thrown
me into. We were both silent. I was
very glad when Faustina came in to put
an end to this aukward scene.

Her presence seemed to inspire
him with more boldness; when, on the contrary, E11v 94
contrary, I supposed it would have rather
added to his timidity. He thanked
her in the politest manner for the honour
she had done him; and testified his
gratitude in the most obliging terms; but
it appeared to me he expressed himself
with an ease and freedom that favoured
more of the courtier than the lover:—
his language wanted that warmth and
energy which springs from the heart;
the emotions of which are indeed more
easily counterfeited than disguised. In
a word, I thought I penetrated into his
breast, and did not find there so deep a
sense of the favours my cousin had
vouchsafed him as I could have wished.

After the first compliments were over
(which threw Faustina into fresh agitation)
Don Ambrosia artfully, and not
ungracefully, turned the conversation;
which, on becoming more general, I bore E12r 95
bore an equal part in. I found the Sardinian
did not want wit; he was entertaining
and sprightly; had an agreeable
voice, and a certain vivacity in his
manner which rendered his company
pleasing enough. This was all I could
ever bring myself to think of him,
though Faustina discovered some new
charms in him every time she saw him.

Before he left us, he obtained his
mistress’s permission to wait on her again
the next evening. He came; and my
cousin thought the hours she spent with
him too happy not to wish for a long
continuance of them. In short, though
my father was to return the following
day, and Faustina knew it was of the
utmost importance to conceal her amour
from him, yet, so blinded was she by
her passion for Don Castellane, that she
engaged him to renew his visits on certaintain E12v 96
days which she promised to appoint,
with this caution only, that he should
always come at an early hour, when my
father was engaged in his private devotions;
which took a large portion of his
time every evening.

Having thus concerted measures
for their future meetings, Faustina had
frequent opportunities of seeing her
lover, without any danger of being surprized.
It happened one evening that,
just as Castellane had been admitted,
Faustina received a letter from her mother
on some business which required
an immediate answer: she begged I
would go to him and make her excuses.
While she wrote, the messenger waited
for her letter, which I knew would employ
her for some time. I went into the
parlour, and, making an apology to
Don Ambrosia for Faustina’s absence, I told F1r 97
told him she would hasten hither with
all the dispatch she could make.—‘In
the mean time,’
said he (rising off his
seat, and advancing towards me with
an assured air) ‘we will make ourselves
as happy as if she were here.’
—Saying
this, he sat down by me.—‘Would you
be angry with me now’
, said he, ‘if I
should tell you that I love you better
than I do your cousin?’
—As I was far
from imagining him serious, I only answered
with a careless smile, as a mark
of the little stress I laid upon what he
said. But, instead of understanding it
in this light, he, I suppose, looked upon
it as proof of approbation, which encouraged
him to go on.

‘Believe me, my charming Adelaide,’
said he, ‘I have adored you from
the first moment I saw you; and have a
thousand times cursed my fate that did Vol. I.Fnot F1v 98
not give me your heart instead of Faustina’s.’
—He concluded this impertinent
speech with snatching one of my hands
and pressing it eagerly to his lips. A
behaviour so unexpected quite confounded
me. I pulled back my hand
with indignation, and was going to
speak, when he prevented me by pursuing
his speech with saying, ‘Will you
suffer me to tell you the power you
have over me,—the joy your presence
brings,—and the pain I feel at your absence:
that you are the object of my
wishes,—the delight of my soul; and,
in short, that my existence hangs upon
you?’
‘Hold, Signior,’ said I, scornfully;
‘you carry the jest a little too far!’
‘Oh heavens!’ said he, ‘do you think
I jest? Cruel creature! hear me but
swear—’
‘Fye, fye, Don Ambrosia!’
said I, interrupting him: ‘What would
Faustina say, if she thought you capable of F2r 99
of so much treachery? Reflect but on
what you owe her, and you must blush
for your ingratitude.’
‘Why, I own,’ replied
Castellane, ‘I owe obligations to
that lady, and am sorry I can’t make
her the return she deserves: but,’
added
he, with a sigh (half-real and half affected)
‘one can’t bestow their heart where
they please.’
—I say the sigh was half-
affected, because Ambrosia was not a
man that would die for love: and I
believe that he even repented of having
declared himself so freely to me, when
he found in what manner I received his
addresses. Be that as it will, I forbade
him to say any more on that subject:
and, in reality, I conceived such a despicable
opinion of him at that moment,
that it remained ever after.

Faustina, who had by this time dismissed
her mother’s messenger, flew to F2us F2v 100
us with her usual impatience; and but
just gave Don Ambrosia (who heard her
coming) time to return to the chair he
had quitted at the beginning of our conversation.

He ran to meet her; and even
complained of her being absent so long:
but, whether Faustina had remarked any
disorder in my countenance, or whether,
as she was naturally jealous and had
more penetration than I, she might have
discovered some symptoms of his inclination
for me, ’tis certain she received
him with more coldness than she was
used to do: she spoke but little; and
put Don Castellane in mind of retiring
much sooner than he was accustomed to
do. When he was gone, I asked her,
in the kindest manner, what it was that
made her so thoughtful in the presence
of one who used to banish every uneasy reflection F3r 101
relection from her mind?—‘I was not,’
answered she, ‘in a humour that would
suffer me to be a very agreeable companion
to Don Ambrosia: but you, I
hope, made amends for my unsociableness.
How,’
added she, fixing her eyes
on me, ‘did you entertain him before I
came to you? No doubt he was strangely
impatient at my long delay: but was
there no pretty obliging things passed
between you, to make the time appear
less tedious?’
‘Indeed, cousin,’ answered
I (a little confused at the ironical air
with which she spoke) ‘our conversation
was on matters merely indifferent. I
don’t know what trifles they were we
were talking of; but I believe you was
partly the subject of our discourse.’

‘Don’t be insincere,’ replied Faustina,
gravely:—‘Do you know that it is possible
for a woman to die of curiosity?
Tell me therefore ingenuously, does not F3Don F3v 102
Don Castellane make love to you?’
—So
home a question made me blush extremely.
I remained for some moments
silent; notwithstanding which, my cousin
as if I had already answered her in
the affirmative, cried, ‘Aye, I know it;
the ungrateful wretch!—who would
have expected this from him?’
—Here
she was silent for some time; and walked
to and fro in the chamber, with a very
disturbed air. I did not interrupt her;
but was considering with myself in what
manner I should lay open Don Ambrosia’s
falshood, without too much shocking
her tenderness; or leaving her room
to suspect I had given any encouragement
to the ridiculous declarations he
had made me.

If, on the one hand, I was grieved
to wound her heart with the knowledge of F4r 103
of his persidy; I was, on the other,
highly pleased to think that so flagrant
a proof of it would at once cure her of
a blind passion, which she had so unhappily
conceived.—This last reflection
made me resolve what part to take immediately.
Therefore, addressing Faustina:
‘That Castellane has made some
foolish professions of love to me I will
not deny; but, if you think that I either
heard him with pleasure, or am inclined
to make him the least return, you do
me the greatest injustice. On the contrary,
I most heartily despise him; and
could wish to see him meet with the punishment
which he deserves:—I mean
that of your banishing him from your
thoughts, and forbidding him appearing
before you again.’
‘Ah! dissembler!’
cried Faustina, ‘this artifice is too gross!
Is it thus then you would have me punish
Castellane? You would have me F4banish F4v 104
banish him my sight, that you may for
ever keep him in yours. Yes; you
would engage me to cast away my happiness,
in order to secure your own.
No, Adelaide; no; ’tis you who must
banish him your presence. Alas! I
don’t wonder that you love him: but,
if you love me, and would have me believe
you innocent, you must never see
Castellane again.’

I was strangely surprised to hear
Faustina talk thus. I imagined that,
whatever share of her resentment I was
to feel, that which she would conceive
against Don Ambrosia must produce the
effects I wished; and that nothing less
than an utter contempt of him must have
followed the discovery of his crime; but,
by the most whimsical caprice imaginable,
my cousin accused me of having
a passion for Ambrosia whilst she overlookedlooked F5r 105
a fault in him, which is the last a
woman can pardon in a lover.

I could easily forgive the first part
of her error, as it is natural for us,
when we are prepossessed with too favourable
an opinion of another, to believe
every one else possessed with the
same sentiments. However, I quickly
undeceived Faustina as to this particular,
by assuring her that Castellane was
so very indifferent to me, that, if she
desired no other proof of it than my
never seeing him again, I should consent
to it with a peculiar satisfaction;
which, however, would be doubled if
she would join me in the same resolution:
and I protested to her, that I
urged it from no other motive but a
consciousness of Ambrosia’s ingratitude,
and a desire to see her heart freed from
engagements so unworthy of it.—‘I shall,’ F5replied F5v 106
replied Faustina, ‘require no other testimony
of your regard for me than that
which I have already mentioned: for
the rest, leave it to myself.’

I again repeated it to her, that I
would never see Ambrosia more: and
was as good as my word. But, at the
same time, it gave me real concern to
find, that the light I had given her into
this insincere man’s character had made
an impression on her so contrary to my
hopes; and that, altogether neglecting
my counsel, she obliged me to abandon
her to her own inclinations. And indeed,
so far was she from breaking with
Castellane, that she permitted him to
visit her a few days after; and, I found
by her behaviour, this cunning stranger
had the art to turn every thing which
passed between him and me into ridicule.
Faustina had no doubt accused him; and F6r 107
and I soon perceived that he had justified
himself at my expence; for my
cousin told me, after her first conversation
with him, that I had been a little
too hasty in giving credit to the professions
of love which Don Ambrosia had
amused me with, purely out of gallantry,
and to pass away half an hour that hung
heavily on his hands; but that he was
far from supposing I could be so childish
as to believe him serious, much less
to repeat what he had said to his mistress.

I did not atempt to disabuse
her;—and indeed it would have been
in vain: for, notwithstanding that it
was her own suspicion which had given
rise to the discovery of Ambrosia’s falsehood,
and that she was at first persuaded
of the certainty of it; yet, so inconsistent
was her judgment, and so great F6was F6v 108
was the ascendant Castellane had over
her, that he found it an easy matter to
persuade her to believe what she wished
to be true. In a word, her passion became
so extravagant, that I began to
dread the effect of it; and was resolved
to advise her mother to recall her home;
when an accident happened which prevented
my design.

There was a property in the
neighbourhood of Salerno which had for
some years been in dispute between my
father and a lawyer, named Osorio:—a
suit had been depending on this occasion
for a long time: both parties were
obstinate in the defence of it; and the
cause was pursued so warmly, that it
cost both my father and the lawyer almost
the worth of the estate, without
either of them being the nearer gaining
their point; when, tired at length with the F7r 109
the delays they met with, they, by mutual
consent, let the affair drop.–
Things remained in this posture near
two years, when a certain nobleman,
who had set his heart on this domain
(intending to dedicate it to some religious
use) applied to the lawyer, in order
to purchase it. This revived the controversy.
My father insisted on its being
his property (as it really was); and
Osorio was as obstinate in maintaining
that the right lay solely in him; and
was determined to dispose of it, as soon
as ever he could get possession. My
father, on the other hand, determined
not to part with it out of his family, if
he recovered his hereditary right to it.

This last circumstance inclined the
nobleman, who had a mind to be the
purchaser, to use all his interest in the favour
of Osorio. In short, by the artificialcial F7v 110
management of the lawyer and his
patron, my father was upon the point
of seeing himself cast, when he resolved
to apply to the Viceroy of Naples, to
whom he had the honour of being personally
known.—Accordingly, our
whole family removed to that city: for
my father, not caring to leave me behind
him, begged of Faustina to accompany
me: and, having before obtained
leave of Signior Carassa, she
could not refuse to go. I the rather
pressed her to this journey, as I believed
it would be a more effectual means to
remove Castellane from her thoughts;
whose affairs I knew would not permit
him to leave Salerno.—Alas! could I
have foreseen what miseries this would
plunge me into, I would not have laid
the foundation for a change in that
fickle heart, whose inconstancy has occasioned
me so much torment.

“This F8r 111

This then was the cause of her
separation from Castellane: he was not
enough in love to marry without the
hopes of advancing his fortune: and as
Faustina’s depended entirely on her
father, the mercenary lover could not
venture on entering into any engagements.
Faustina, on the other hand,
wishing to secure his fidelity till some
change might happen in her condition,
was profuse in her vows of constancy.
She took a tender farewell of him the
evening before our departure; and spent
the whole night in tears, which she did
not even dry up in some days after our
arrival at Naples. The first thing she
did was to write to her dear Castellane.
Her letter was the most passionate one
I ever saw. She reiterated her assurance
of eternal love; and begged to
hear from him often, as the only consolation
she could hope for during so
cruel an absence!

“I have F8v 112

I have troubled you with more
particulars of Faustina’s history than
were, perhaps, necessary to its connexion
with mine; but, having a mind
to shew you her persidy and ingratitude
in its full extent, I traced her story back
to the beginning.

My father now, in hopes of reinstating
himself in that right which his
opponent was violently tearing from
him, had prepared a memorial, with
which he intended to wait on the Viceroy,
when, unluckily, a severe fit of
the gout (of which he had but just recovered
when he left Salerno) returned
on him with so much violence, that it
obliged him to take to his bed. He
was extremely vexed at so great a disappointment;
telling me that he knew
that memorials were oftener thrown
aside than read or attended to, unless some F9r 113
some person, interested in their success,
presented them, and endeavoured to
engage the Minister’s protection. I told
him that, as I had the honour of being
known to the Viceroy’s lady, I thought
myself obliged to pay my duty to her;
and would, if he approved of it, wait
on her with the memorial, which I was
sure she would put in her Lord’s hands,
and interest him in our favour. My
father, approving of this, told me there
was no time to be lost; wherefore,
dressing myself immediately, I prevailed
on Faustina to accompany me to the
Viceroy’s palace.

When we arrived there, I enquired
for the Duchess D’Ossuna; but was
informed that she was a little before set
out for a country-seat, some leagues
from Naples, where she proposed staying
a few days. I was mortified at this disap- F9v 114
disappointment; but reflecting that my
father might be greatly injured by delay,
I was resolved not to go back without
making some progress in the business
he had entrusted me with. It was
a gentleman belonging to the Duchess
that informed me she was absent: I desired
to know if I might be admitted to
the Duke himself: he said he would
enquire, and inform me presently.—
We were now in a kind of antichamber,
in which were above a dozen gentlemen;
most of them were walking backwards
and forwards, with a restless unsatisfied
air, except two or three of the youngest
of the company, who had got together
at a window, and were entertaining
themselves with looking at my cousin
and me; and even whispering and
laughing, with so little politeness, that
it threw us into a sort of confusion. We
thought every moment an age, till the Duchess’s F10r 115
Duchess’s gentleman brought us an
answer; when, after making us suffer
a full half-hour, under the ill-breeding
of these loitering gallants, he at last
vouchsafed to send one of the Viceroy’s
pages, to tell us (which he did in very
bad Italian; for he was a little Spanish
boy, whom the Duke was fond of) that
the Viceroy was to be spoke with;
but that we might communicate our
business to his Secretary. Chagrined to
the last degree at this information, I
thought of returning home, without acquitting
myself of my errand; when,
recollecting how much my father had
set his heart on the success of my little
embassy, or rather urged on by my
fate, I resolved to see this Secretary at
all events.

I begged the page to conduct me
to him. He desired us to follow him; which F10v 116
which we did through several apartments.
He was all along, as he went,
playing and jumping:—at last, bringing
us into a sort of lobby, he burst
out a laughing, and ran away; leaving
us to make out the rest by ourselves.

Faustina and I looked at one another,
with much embarrassment:—we
were in a vast large house, that we did
not know which way to turn ourselves
in; nor do I believe we could have
found our way out again,—the little
mischievous page had led us through so
many rooms. I was quite ashamed,
and at a loss how to behave; when I
saw a door open at the end of the lobby,
and two elderly gentlemen came out.
I asked one of them, could he direct me
to the Secretary? He told me I should
find him in the office just before us;
and, at the same time, observing that my F11r 117
my cousin and I were in some little confusion,
he, with great civility, said, if
I pleased, he would acquaint him that
there were ladies who desired to speak
with him. I thanked the gentleman
for this piece of service, which I gladly
accepted of. He went in again; and,
returning in a minute, shewed us into
the office within the first, where the
Secretary waited for us, as it was less
public than the outer one.

He was standing facing us, with
his back to the fire, as we entered the
room; by which means I had at once
a full view of his person:—but never,
Eugenia, never did I behold one so
striking!—He had something so inexpressibly
charming in his countenance,
that, at the first glance, you would
imagine nature never formed any thing
so complete! He seemed to be about thirty F11v 118
thirty years of age; but then, he had a
bloom in his face, that would have
adorned the most youthful cheek; his
eyes were black, and had a mixture of
sweetness and dignity in them. In short,
his countenance and person (which was
of the tallest) conspired at once to form
the most graceful object possible! In a
word, I was struck at first sight; and, I
believe never delivered myself so aukwardly,
or with so much hesitation, as
I did to the Chevalier de Ponces.

I told him, in as few words as my
confusion would let me, the occasion
of my applying to him; and, at the
same time, delivered him the memorial;
which I begged of him, with all
convenient speed, to lay before the
Viceroy.—He just ran his eyes over it,
with the utmost complaisancy; when,
laying it down on a bureau that stood by F12r 119
by him, and addressing himself to me,
with a smile;—‘You, Madam,’ said he,
‘are, I suppose, the Baron’s daughter.’
I told him I was.—‘And that lady’
(looking at Faustina) ‘is you sister, I
presume.’
‘No, Sir,’ was all I answered,
a little surprised at his curiosity; and
adding immediately, ‘I hope, Sir, you
will take the first opportunity of acquainting
the Viceroy with my father’s
business,’
I rose up to be gone.—‘You
may depend upon it, Madam,’
said he;
‘and if you will let me know where I
may wait on the Baron, I hope I shall
have a satisfactory answer to give him
to-morrow:—but, perhaps,’
said he,
seeming to recollect himself, ‘his Excellency
may be at leisure in half an hour,
if you can stay so long; and that may
do better; for you can, probably, inform
him of some circumstances that
may be of weight; and with which I
am unacquainted.’

“I had F12v 120

I had risen, as I told you, to go
away; but sat down quickly again;
desirous, as he imagined, of a conference
with the Viceroy:—but, alas, it was
the person with whom I was already
talking that engaged my stay.

He now and then applied to Faustina;
but most part of his discourse was
addressed to me: and indeed his conversation
had such a charm in it, that,
instead of half an hour, I stayed above
a full one; when, recollecting that I
kept him from affairs of more consequence,
though I well saw he was
pleased with our company, I rose a second
time to take my leave: the Chevalier
got up at the same time. ‘—I am
afraid, Madam,’
said he, ‘I have detained
you too long; and I am the more
concerned at it, as I see no likelihood
of our getting an audience of his Excellencylency G1r 121
this morning:—some important
dispatches, which he has received from
Spain, engages him thus long; but you
may depend on my care’
, added he,
obligingly; ‘for I am determined not to
sleep till I get an answer that will be
every way agreeable to your most sanguine
wishes.’

Though I could not help having
a firm reliance on the Chevalier’s word,
I was, however, a little mortified at
having made no greater progress in the
business entrusted to me.—I told him at
parting, my father would send to him
the next morning. He insisted on
waiting on the Baron with the Viceroy’s
answer: but as my father was then confined
to his bed, I thought a visit might
not be so acceptable to him from a
stranger; and therefore declined it.—
He, very unwillingly, acquiesced, tellingVol. I.Ging G1v 122
me I must be obey’d: and we left him.

When I returned home I gave my
father an account of my negociation.—
I found he was not satisfied that the memorial
was left in the Secretary’s keeping.
‘He may neglect’, said my father,
‘to present it in time to the Viceroy; or,
if he should keep his word with you,
the Duke may, for want of being properly
reminded, throw it in the heap of
undistinguished and neglected papers,
that are every day preferred to his hand.’

—Grieved and mortified at what my father
said, I told him that, though I
could not, without shewing the highest
distrust of the Secretary’s integrity, recall
the memorial, after the promises he
had made; yet, as I would never forgive
myself if, through my inadvertance,
our cause should suffer, I was willinging G2r 123
to try my fortune again; and, for
that purpose would, with his Lordship’s
permission, endeavour to get an
audience of the Viceroy next morning.
My father, who, as I already told you,
had his heart much set on the success of
this suit, approved of this: and I pleased
with the hopes that I should probably
see the object of my new-kindled love,
retired with Faustina to my chamber.

The conversation immediately
turned on the amiable Ponces.—‘Well,
cousin,’
said I, ‘what do you think of this
gentleman? Is your Castellane to be
compared to him?’
‘They are different
kinds of men quite,’
said she: ‘Castellane
is certainly very handsome; but,
yet I think—that Ponces is handsomer,’

said I, interrupting her:—‘allow but
that, and I will even forgive you for
admiring Castellane.’
Alas! her heart was G2but G2v 124
but too conscious of this truth: the poison
was already received, which afterwards
produced the most fatal effects.—She
answered me, carelessly, that she had
not noticed him enough to give her
opinion; but that, upon the whole, he
appeared to be very aggreeable. This
was all that I could get out of her. She
avoided talking of him the rest of the
day, and appeared more thoughtful
than usual: but this I attributed to nothing
but her absence from Don Ambrosia;
whom I always believed uppermost
in her mind.

The next morning I prepared to
wait on the Viceroy. Faustina accompanied
me; and, as I was determined
not to return without having first been
admitted to an audience with the Duke,
I yet thought it previously necessary to
enquire after the fate of the memorial; and, G3r 125
and, in case the Chevalier had not presented
it, I was determined to put it
myself into the Viceroy’s own hands.—
You will smile, Eugenia, and think I
was glad of the pretence for seeing
Ponces. I own it.—I ordered my
coach to stop at the Secretary’s lodgings.
We were shown into a handsome
drawing-room; and the Chevalier, on
hearing my name, immediately appeared.
Though it was yet early, he
was dressed with great elegance.—Oh!
I could break in on my narration every
minute, to expatiate on his graceful
manner and appearance! But what is
that now to me? He accosted us with
a polite and pleasing air.—‘This unexpected
honour, Madam,’
said he, ‘has
saved me from committing a crime this
morning; for I was going to disobey
you; and, notwithstanding your injunctions,
had resolved to wait on you G3with G3v 126
with the news of my success. The
Viceroy,’
added he, ‘is enraged at the
injustice which has been done to my
Lord, your father; and has already
given orders to oblige Osorio to withdraw
his claim.’
—I endeavoured at
making some aukward acknowledgments
for the trouble he had taken; but
he stopped me, by saying, in a softened
tone of voice,—‘If the Baron will allow
me the honour of congratulating him,
it will more than recompense me
for my solicitude on this occasion.’
—I
blushed at this request. There was
something in his looks the expressed a
great deal more than his words.—I told
him that I would venture to assure him,
on the part of my father, that he would
be proud to thank him for the favour
he had done him, whenever he would
give him that opportunity. His eyes
sparkled with pleasure;—and he said he G4r 127
he would, as soon as the Baron was
able to sit up, make use of the privilege
I had allowed him.

We took our leaves; and, I know
not whether the warmth with which the
Chevalier seemed to interest himself in
our affairs, did not give me at least as
much pleasure as his success.

I had occasion to call at the house
of a friend, on my return home, where
Faustina was engaged to pass the day.
I sat about an hour with this lady; who
was one of the most sensible and polite
persons in Naples. Having told her the
business we had been about, she rallied
me on my visit to the Secretary; for
whom she said all the ladies of the court
were dying. ‘He is indeed’, added she,
‘worthy of being beloved; for his mind
is as amiable as his person; he is, besides,G4sides, G4v 128
of a noble family; and few men can
boast more accomplishments than Don
Enenique de Ponces
.’
—This short
sketch of his character delighted me the
more, as coming from one such understanding
and veracity. It served to
strengthen my love; and his praises
were so grateful to my ears, that I
could have thanked the person who uttered
them.

Having left Faustina with our
friend, I returned home alone; and, on
the coach’s stopping at the door of our
own house, I observed a footman walking
backwards and forwards; and examining
the windows, with great curiosity,
as if he waited in expectation of
seeing somebody whom he wanted. I
immediately recollected his livery to be
the same which I had seen but a little
before, at the Chevalier’s lodgings; and, G5r 129
and, looking in the man’s face, I knew
him to be one whom I had seen in the
hall as I passed through it. He came
up to the coach as I stepped out of it;
and, slipping a paper, with a great deal
of dexterity, into my hand, he walked
away, without waiting for my asking
him any questions.

As I knew him to be one of the
Secretary’s footmen, I would have imagined
that the letter which he brought
concerned only my father’s business:
but the caution which the fellow observed
in watching the door; his privacy
in the execution of his errand; and
his precipitate departure afterwards,
made me suspect that the billet contained
something of another nature.

I made these reflections whilst I
was going to my father’s apartment;— G5putting G5v 130
putting, therefore, the paper (which I
found heavier than oridinary) into my
pocket, I acquainted my father with
what the Chevalier had done! and, at
the same time, commanding his diligence,
I told him that De Ponces purposed
waiting on him, to wish him joy,
when he would permit him that favour.

I made haste to my chamber, to
examine the packet which I had just
received. I found, indeed, that it was
a billet from the Chevalier de Ponces:
and folded up in it there was a little
ivory tablet, on the leaves of which
were written, with a pencil, these
words in Spanish:—‘I burn in flames
more pure, more bright, more fierce,
than those which consume the phœnix.
But, alas! my fate is far more unhappy:
the phœnix endures his pains but for a
while;—mine may outlive the object who G6r 131
who creates them!’
—I understand so
little Spanish, that I could scarce pick
out the sense of these lines: and was
surprised that the Chevalier should
make choice of a language to express
his gallantry, in which, though it was
his own native tongue, he might have
imagined I, possibly, did not understand.
I had not yet read his letter;
but that soon explained this seeming
impropriety. It was wrote in Italian:
but I will shew it you, that it may not
lose by my repetition.”
—Here Adelaide
read as follows:—“‘I don’t know whether
I ought to bless the tablets for furnishing
me with a pretence for writing to
you, or accuse them for possessing my
heart with jealousy:—but in the very
same moment, I discovered it was filled
with love.—Jealousy, which to others
serves only to allay an excess of happiness,
torments me before I have experiencedG6perienced G6v 132
any joy, but barely that of
loving you. The words written in the
tablet convince me that your heart is
given away. Oh! how much to be
envied is his felicity, who is master of
such a treasure!—how much to be
pitied, the man who must never hope to
possess it!’

Nobody, my dear Eugenia, can
better judge than yourself, of the pleasure
that this letter gave me. To be
loved by Don Enenique, was to me a
happiness so transcendant, that were I
left to chuse a supreme good from all
the blessings and bounties which the
most indulgent stars ever showered down
on a mortal, this only would I have
desired to have been my lot. How delighted,
then!—how transported was I,
to find myself possessed of what I so
ardently wished. Gracious God, make me G7r 133
me always worthy of his love; and, if
an innocent creature, who reveres thy
laws, has any rights to thy favour, I ask
no other recompense on earth but this
man’s constancy!—I spoke this with my
hands joined fervently, and my eyes
lifted up to Heaven; but my prayers
were not heard.

The tablet which the Chevalier
inclosed in his letter I had never seen
before; therefore, at first I imagined
that he had in reality only made that a
handle for writing to me, under pretence
that he had found it; and believing
it to be mine, restored it to me.
Such devices in love are very common;
however, observing that the lines on the
tablet were wrote in a hand which I
thought I had seen before, I examined
them again; and soon recollected it to
be Faustina’s writing. I knew she spoke G7v 134
spoke Spanish perfectly; and concluded
that her love for Don Ambrosia had
forced those romantic compliments
from her pencil.

I waited with some impatience till
she should come home, in order to restore
her her tablets; the loss of which I
was sure would vex her. She did not
return till late in the evening, when she
immediately shut herself up in her own
apartment.

I went up to her chamber, and was
not a little surprised at the situation in
which I found her:—she was lying on
her bed, with her face bathed in tears;
a letter lay open on the chair by her,
which by the character, I perceived
came from Castellane; and I made no
doubt but something relative to him was
the occasion of her grief.

“I ap- G8r 135

I approached her with great concern:
‘Dear cousin, what is it that afflicts
you? Is Don Ambrosia sick, or
has he committed any crime against
you?’
‘Nothing new,’ replied she (without
looking at me); ‘but I begin to reproach
myself for having ever loved a
man that, I am now convinced, was unworthy
of my regard.’
‘Oh Faustina,’
said I, ‘had you thought thus before you
engaged yourself so far, what an infinite
deal of pain would it have saved you!’

‘That is true,’ said she; ‘but we are
not always so happy as to be governed
by our reason. Look at that letter’

(pointing to that which lay on the
chair) ‘and tell me if you think that
love had any share in the dictating of
it.’
—As Faustina seldom indulged me
with a sight of any of her lover’s leters,
I was surprised at this unwonted
favour: I read it, and found it containedtained G8v 136
a great many compliments, and
some slight assurances of affection.—
‘This is,’ said I, returning it to her, ‘an
exact copy of Don Ambrosia’s mind:
and I will not flatter you so far as to
say I believe you mistress of his heart.’

‘Can you then blame me,’ said she,
interrupting me, ‘if I strive to banish
him from mine? Would not you even
assist me in a design which you yourself
so often wished to see accomplished?’

‘Oh certainly,’ cried I (rejoiced to hear
her talk thus); ‘and, from the disposition
you seem to be in, I fancy there
will be less difficulty in the task than we
imagined. You need only to resolve to
like somebody better than Don Ambrosia,
which I think you can’t fail of
doing in a city like Naples, where you
may have your choice of the handsomest
and most accomplished gentlemen
in Italy.’
‘Suppose my choice was already G9r 137
already fixed,’
replied Faustina, smiling;
‘I believe I shall have your voice for its
being a good one, when I tell you that
the Chevalier de Ponces has pleased me,
and that, by encouraging an inclination
for him, I hope, in a little time, to
blot Castellane entirely from my memory.’

If Faustina had named any one else,
I should have congratulated her on the
change which I already saw was wrought
in her heart; but, at the mention of
the Chevalier, I was seized with such
an impulse of indignation, that I could
scarce forbear reproaching her with her
weakness and inconstancy.

My cheeks kindled up like fire.
However, a moment’s reflection checked
me; and I had so much command
over myself as to reply, ‘You should take G9v 138
take care, cousin, how you give way to
a new passion, before you are sure that
it will be more successful than your old
one. I am sensible of the Chevalier’s
merit; but perhaps you may find his
heart entertains an affection for some
one else. Suppose I should be the object
of his love, would you persist in
nourishing a flame which, instead of
working a cure on your sick mind,
might serve only to plunge you into
new difficulties and misfortune?’
‘Just
so,’
said Faustina, scornfully, ‘you would
have opposed my inclination for Castellane,
because you were but too well
pleased with him yourself; and from the
same motive, I make no doubt, you
would stifle my growing love for Don
Enenique
. But know, Adelaide, that
it already has taken root in my breast;
and that I cherish this new fire more
than ever I did that which I felt for Castellane G10r 139
Castellane.’
‘See then,’ said I (provoked
at this declaration) ‘what return you
are to expect from the Chevalier.’
With
this I put the tablets and the letter
which inclosed them into her hands.

She now, in her turn, felt her
cheeks glowing with blushes she could
not hide; and I perceived in her
countenance, as she read, a mixture of
indignation, pride, and disappointment.
I was in some pain to think what effect
these violent agitations might produce;
when, all of a sudden, and enraged, she
was going to satisfy part of the transport
of her soul by tearing the letter, if I
had not directly snatched it from her.—
‘He might have spared,’ said she, ‘those
fulsome compliments, or else bestowed
them in the right place.’
‘Why, cousin,’
said I, ‘he thought, without doubt, the
tablets were mine:—and, for the rest, you G10v 140
you well know there is so much caprice
in love, that you can’t blame the Chevalier
for liking me, though you may
be a thousand times more amiable. I
confess I am as much touched with his
merit as you are; but I swear to you,
that had you been the object of his
love, I should have crushed my tenderness
for him in its birth for your sake, as
well as my own: and it is for your
peace only that I would conjure you to
use the same precaution.’

I did not perceive while I was
speaking, that her tears began to flow
again. I had no sooner left off, than
she burst into the bitterest exclamations
against the cruelty of her fate; and presented
to me, in a few minute, a picture
of a weak heart torn by a multitude
of different passions. I saw rage, grief
jealousy, pride, and love possess her alternately;nately; G11r 141
and, to complete this hurry and
tumult in her breast, she had not one
resource in the midst of so much distraction:
the natural strength and violence
of her passions not permitting
her even to endeavour to curb them,
or so much as once to call reason to her
assistance. This belief I am the more
willing to entertain, because I would rather
attribute her crime to a frail nature
than a corrupt heart. Be that as it will,
I was so much affected with her tears,
that I believe I should have done any
thing but resign the Chevalier, to have
restored her to her peace; but this was
too great a sacrifice. However, the
tenderness of my nature would suffer
me to aggravate her pain, by discovering
the least joy at the conquest I had
obtained over a heart, which I was persuaded
she as well as I thought inestimable.
On the contrary, I assumed the utmost G11v 142
utmost moderation; and, affecting to
speak of the Chevalier’s passion for me
with some indifference, I conjured Faustina
to calm her transports; and endeavoured,
by the most tender expressions,
to assuage the pangs I saw her suffer.
Nevertheless, I so well knew to what excesses
the violence of her nature inclined
her, that I was very cautious
what words I made use of in trying to
soothe her; and took care to avoid letting
drop any hint that might encourage
her in her unwarrantable love; for I was
convinced by experience, that, were she
even possessed but with the smallest
prospect of success, she would have
gone any lengths to accomplish her
wishes; I attempted, therefore, chiefly
by my caresses, to bring her mind to
its former tranquillity; and flattered
myself I had in some measure effected
this before I left her.

“Ponces, G12r 143

Ponces, I have already told you,
had begged to make my father a visit; he
did not fail sending to inquire after his
health regularly; and in a few days, my
father, being so well recovered as to sit
up, sent the Chevalier word he should
think himself favoured by a visit from
him. You may be sure he did not need
a second invitation. My father had
ordered himself to be carried into his
study, where Faustina and I were sitting
at work, when Don Enenique came to
wait on him.

My father received him with all
the marks of distinction that were due
to his merit, as well as to a person to
whom we were obliged. If the Baron’s
presence was some constraint on the
Chevalier, Faustina’s was a thousand
times more so on me. She watched
both our looks so strictly, that I am sure one G12v 144
one glance of Ponce’s did not escape
her. I believe they were most of them
directed to me. However, I kept so
rigid a guard over my eyes that I seldom
turned them towards him; but
when I did, I could easily perceive
what pain this seeming coldness of mine
gave him.

He did not stay long with us; and
took his leave without having an opportunity
of saying a single word to me
in particular; but, to make amends,
my father was so delighted with his
company, that he insisted, in a free
manner, on his coming frequently to
see him during his stay at Naples; which
he now resolved should be for the
whole winter.

Whatever joy I conceived at this,
it was not unmixed with the bitterest pain. H1r 145
pain. I saw but too plainly that the
unhappy Faustina pined away with love
for the Chevalier; and, far from being
sensible of her error, she had only banished
CestellaneCastellane from her trifling heart,
in order to make room for a man from
whom she could expect nothing but indifference.
What did I not resolve to
say and do, to prevent, if possible, the
growth of this malady? The most solid
remonstrances, the softest persuasions,
I knew, to a temper like hers
were equally vain; and I gave over all
hopes of reasoning her into a sense of
her folly. I once more designed to
write secretly to her mother, to get her,
on some pretence of other, recalled to
Salerno; but I rejected this thought
almost as soon as I had formed it. ‘It
would indeed’
, said I, ‘remove her from
the Chevalier, and thereby rid both
him and me from the uneasiness which Vol. I.Hher H1v 146
her presence must shortly give us, if she
persists in her unseasonable love; and,
though I have all the reason in the
world to believe that absence will work
a speedy cure on a mind so weak and
inconstant as hers; yet, shall I not have
cause to reproach myself if Faustina
should, by returning to Salerno, again
see Castellane, and reassume her former
affection for him (which perhaps may be
easily revived by her presence); and by
this means plunge herself into misfortunes
that may be the utter ruin of her,
and afflict her parents to the last degree.
I might indeed have advised her mother
to be watchful over her conduct, which
might have prevented the evil I dreaded;
but then, I thought I should be
guilty of a piece of cruelty, in not only
removing her from Naples, which I
knew must be a sensible affliction to her,
but even debar her of the liberty and happiness H2r 147
happiness she might enjoy in Salerno,
by inspiring her friends with suspicions
which must awaken all their vigilance.’

—Upon the whole, I dropped this
thought; and even accused myself for
entertaining it a moment. No; let me
never owe my peace to any thing that
is either ungenerous or insincere; I will
rather confess my love for the Chevalier
to Faustina (she already knows of his
for me) and will conjure her, by the
friendship that is between us, not to
disturb an affection which I flattered myself
my father might be brought to
approve of, as he was already sensible
of Don Enenique’s merit, and knew
he had a fortune not unsuitable to
mine.

I so much applauded myself for
this resolution that I immediately went
about the execution of it. I opened H2my H2v 148
my whole heart to Faustina, in terms
the most moving I could think of; I
assured her that the Chevalier had made
an impression on my heart before I
discovered that I had touched his; but
that now convinced of the sincerity of
his love, I had endeavoured only to
conceal my tenderness for him, in order
to spare her the mortification of seeing
us mutually dear to each other: I
pleaded my right to his heart, and to
my cousin’s friendship and aid, as she
formerly had mine on a like occasion.
She heard me with an air rather of melancholy
than resentment.—‘I see but
too plainly,’
said she, ‘what all this tends
to: you marry the Chevalier: Is
it not so? Yet I blame you not. You
must, you will be happy! ’Tis I
only that am marked out to be wretched.’
—She uttered these words in so
mournful a tone, that it redoubled my compassion H3r 149
compassion for her. She thanked me
for my tenderness; and assured me
that, as she knew her love was quite
hopeless, she would not only endeavour
to subdue it, but would try to promote
the success of mine. I embraced her
tenderly: I found my eyes moist with
tears. ‘Cherish, my dear Faustina’, said I,
‘this noble, this amiable disposition, and
you will soon find yourself superior to all
the little ills that have afflicted you.’

I had behaved hitherto with great
reserve to Don Enenique, on my cousin’s
account, who, I saw, was on a
perpetual rack whilst I was in his fight;
but having, as I thought, acquitted
myself with respect to her, and obtained
as it were her permission to avow my
love, I grew less constrained, and assumed
a behaviour more obliging. De
Ponces
, who was a welcome as well as H3a fre- H3v 150
a frequent visitor to my father, was too
observant of me not to perceive this
change; and, resolving to improve a
disposition which appeared so favourable,
he took the first opportunity of
breaking that silence which had been so
painful to him.

He came one morning to wait on
my father, who happened to be engaged
on business; the Chevalier made that
the pretence for stepping into the garden,
though in reality he had discovered
me walking there, from a window in
one of the apartments. I was alone,
and did not expect such an interview,
when I was surprised with the Chevalier’s
accosting me. The air with which
he approached threw me into some confusion,
though it was respectful and
even timid; however, he had time to explain H4r 151
explain himself before I could recover
from my disorder.

Don Enenique had that kind of address
which captivates at once; and one
must hear him favourably almost on any
subject.—‘I can’t tell, Madam’, said he
(bowing gracefully as he drew near me)
‘what impression my boldness may have
made on you, since, from the time I
restored your tablets to you till this
hour, I have never been blessed with a
minute’s conversation with you, but in
the presence of the Baron or your cousin.
This difficulty forces me to be
abrupt. Tell me therefore, I conjure
you, have I offended past forgiveness?
Or’
, added he, after a little pause (with
a voice and look irresistibly sweet) ‘will
you allow me to hope for pardon?’
—I
own to you, Eugenia, I never was so
much embarrassed in my life: I was H4unable H4v 152
unable to speak: the want of words redoubled
my confusion: I cast my eyes
to the ground: the emotion of my
heart was visible in my face. Ponces,
whose delicacy made him suffer for the
confusion he occasioned me, endeavoured
to give me a little more courage:
he withdrew his eyes from my
face; and presenting me his hand, led
me up some steps into a terrace-walk;
for we had both stood from the time of
his first accosting me. I easily apprehended
he did this in order to give me
time to recover myself; for he proceeded
in his discourse as we walked:—
‘Speak, amiable Adelaide,’ said he; ‘I
already begin to flatter myself; I know
you have a soul too generous to take
any pleasure in the painful suspense of
one whose happiness depends on you;
—Speak therefore, and let the candour of H5r 153
of that excellent heart prevail over
your timidity’
.

I raised my eyes to the Chevalier’s
face; and thought I could read there
the very dictates of his heart. In short,
his looks inspired me at once with the
same unaffected openness.—‘What must
I say to you, Signoir,’
said I; ‘have you
not reason to believe that I have the
best opinion imaginable of you, and
even the highest esteem. If you suppose
that I have kinder sentiments for
any other person, you are mistaken;
for the lines you saw on the tablets, and
which indeed seemed to intimate some
such thing, were never wrote by me;
and this, if I had had an opportunity,
I should have informed you of sooner.’

I thought I had not said too much;
but Don Enenique, who I found knew
my heart better than I did myself, put so H5v 154
so favourable a construction on my answer,
that he thanked me in expressions
almost rapturous. In a word, he pleaded
his love so successfully, as forced me
in the end to make some obliging returns
to it.

After a conversation like this, you
may be sure the Chevalier let no opportunity
slip of securing his interest in my
heart; and the artful Faustina had
gained such a command over her passion,
that she never let the least symptom
of it break out; in so much that
I began to flatter myself she had entirely
vanquished it; but, while I was applauding
this perfidious creature for a
conquest which I thought so conducive
to her peace, she was contriving my ruin.

She was now become so careless
with respect to the Chevalier, that we used H6r 155
used sometimes to converse on the subject
of our love even before her; and,
though I did not altogether confide in
her, she yet was well enough apprized
how matters stood between Ponces and
me. In short, his assiduity at last obtained
what he so earnestly solicited, my
consent to ask me of my father. He
did so the same day I granted it. I
can’t tell you the particulars of what
passed at this conference; but I saw the
Chevalier leave my father’s apartment;
and immediately I was called for, before
I had time to hear from him what
he had to tell me.—‘Come hither, Adelaide,’
said he. ‘What is this I hear?
The Spanish Secretary has a mind for
you, has he?’
This he said with a severe
look; and waited with his eyes
fixed upon me for an answer.—I replied,
‘the Chevalier, Sir, has made his addresses
to me, which I confess I have H6listened: H6v 156
listened to; and am not a stranger to
his having asked your Lordship’s approbation.’
‘Approbation!’ interrupted
my father, in an angry tone; ‘why, he
has just now in point blank terms formally
demanded you in marriage; and
I, in as point blank terms, have refused
him; and that for such reasons as you
ought to thank me for. Let it suffice
for the present to tell you, that a nobleman
of worth, and one of the first
estates in the kingdom, seeks my alliance.
I expect therefore you will acknowledge
my tenderness for your welfare,
instead of being chagrined at my
denial; but no,’
added he, ‘I think better
of your obedience than to believe
you can be displeased at any thing that
I shall judge proper to chuse for you.
However, as I perceive that you are a
little disturbed, retire and shake it off.’

—I obeyed, without speaking a word; for H7r 157
for I thought I could never get soon
enough out of my father’s presence;
and indeed I was so shocked and confounded,
that, without directing or even
being sensible of my own motions, I
found myself in the garden, not knowing
how I came there.

I walked two or three turns, in the
utmost distraction; and was endeavouring
to compose my mind, when I entered
a little summer-house, where I
was sometimes used to entertain the
Chevalier. Those thoughts which had
possessed me on my first coming into the
garden had rather agitated than afilictedafflicted
me; but now, my ruffled and confused
ideas began to give way to the most
melancholy reflections. I was seized
with an extreme pensiveness at the sight
of this little retirement; and sighed the
moment I entered it; and, I confess to you, H7v 158
you, Eugenia, my weakness was such
that I could not refrain bursting into
tears. ‘Oh, Don Enenique!’ said I;
‘and are all our hopes, then, come to
this?’
I sighed deeply; my tears flowed
faster than before; and I was obliged
to lean against the colonade: my eyes
were closed; and I can’t say but I was
altogether in a state of sensibility. I
know not how long I should have remained
thus, if I had not been roused
by the noise of somebody’s entering the
summer-house. It was the Chevalier
himself! ‘What is it I see, dear Adelaide?’
said he;—‘is it possible I should
be the occasion of these tears? or rather,
is it possible you can weep when Ponces
is so near you?’
‘Yes,’ answered I,
drying my eyes; ‘when Ponces and I
must part for ever.’
‘How, Madam?’
said he; ‘are you then as cruel as your
father? I could easily support his harsh denial, H8r 159
denial, because I imagined myself secure
of your heart, which I believed
faithful.’
‘What can I do?’ said I, interrupting
him; ‘my father says I never
shall be yours!’
‘And I say you shall be
mine,’
cried the Chevalier, ‘in spite of
all the fathers in the world: and I followed
you into the garden, to tell you
so.’
‘Oh, Enenique! that is impossible!
I know my father is inexorable; and
will never be prevailed with to give his
consent.’
‘How you talk,’ replied Ponces:
‘why, I never mean to ask the
Baron’s consent again: but, if you love
me as you ought, that need not startle
you.’
‘You know I do,’ replied I; ‘but
don’t take advantage of that by endeavouring
to persuade me to do any thing
contrary to the obedience I owe my
father.’
‘Go, then,’ said he; ‘act contrary
to honour, to gratitude, and to
love: break all the promises you have made H8v 160
made me; give yourself to the man
your father intends you for; and leave
me to misery.’
‘My father’s intentions,’
said I, ‘I was ignorant of till this day;
when he equally surprised and shocked
me with the news.’
‘Why,’ answered the
Chevalier, ‘don’t you know the happy
man whom the Baron prefers?’
—I assured
him that many minutes had not
passed since my father, for the first
time, had mentioned this circumstance
to me; but. without naming the person
he had in his thoughts. And I conjured
Ponces at the same time, to
believe me incapable of changing.—
‘You can conceive me of that no way so
effectually,’
said he, ‘as by consenting
immediately to give me your hand.
I have an estate in Spain, where I will
carry you; and then we shall be out of
all reach.’
—I was so far from relishing
this proposal, that, on the contrary, it very H9r 161
very much shocked me; and it was not
till after reiterated intreaties, that I
could be prevailed on to listen to the
scheme which the Chevalier laid down.
However, I insisted on his waiting a
while, in hopes of some favourable
change in my father’s intentions towards
me; though, as I knew him steady in
his resolutions, I had but little reason
to expect this.

Ponces, unwillingly, acquiesed.
‘I know,’ said he, ‘we can have nothing
to hope for from the Baron: the peremptory
denial I received from him
convinces me he is determined to bestow
you on another. Perhaps, if we let slip
the present opportunity, you may be
torn from me for ever.’
—I trembled at
Don Enenique’s presaging this cruel
event; but still conjured him to give
me a few days, at least, to consider of
what he proposed.

“We H9v 162

We parted: and as his visits were
now prohibited by my father, I promised
to meet him every evening in the
summer-house, in which we then were.
For this purpose I gave him a key
(which happened to be in my possession)
of a private door, that opened from the
garden into a bye street; by which he
was to let himself in at a certain hour.

I was extremely at a loss to guess
whom my father intended for my husband.
I knew he had an opinion of
Faustina; and often confided in her
judgment:—I did not doubt, therefore,
but she could give me some light into
this business. I told her what had
passed between my father and me; and
I begged of her to inform me all she
knew of his designs in regard to his disposal
of me.—She answered, very naturally,
that the Baron had not let her into H10r 163
into the whole secret; but had informed
her that he had thoughts of bestowing
me on the Count de la Rosa.—‘Good
God!’
said I, interrupting her; ‘to Count
de la Rosa
!—a man who might be my
father; and is known to be one of the
most avaricious wretches in Italy!’

‘You know,’ answered Faustina, laughing,
‘the Baron in that has some little
resemblance to him; and therefore
does not like him the worse for it.—
However, I hope he will not press you
to so disagreeable a match: you know
he loves you too well to force your inclination.’

I should have mentioned in the
course of my story”
(pursued Adelaide)
“that this Count de la Rosa had, before
I left Salerno, often seen me at the
house of Signior Carassa, Faustina’s
father. He was pleased with me; and told H10v 164
told Signior Carassa that, if he could
gain my approbation, he would demand
me of my father: and, as a substantial
proof of his love, he would
settle any dower on me that my father
should require. Though my kinsman
thought this would be a very advantageous
match for me, he would not,
however, encourage the Count, nor
mention the proposal to my father before
he had consulted me. I at first
only laughed at the mention of De la
Rosa’s
passion; till Signior Carassa assuring
me of his being serious, and at
the same time desiring my sentiments.
I begged of him to give the Count as
polite a refusal as he could; and I entreated
my cousin to conceal the affair
entirely from my father; whose regard
to wealth I was afraid would incline him
to listen too favourably to the Count’s
offer.

“Signior H11r 165

Signior Carassa, who had both
prudence and good-nature, promised to
manage matters so, that I should hear
no more of it: and in effect he kept
his word. I avoided afterwards going
to my kinsman’s house, for fear of
meeting De la Rosa: and I flattered
myself that my old lover had forgot
me; especially as I left Salerno without
hearing any more of him.

You may suppose therefore I was
not a little surprised at Faustina’s naming
this gentleman as the person my father
intended for my husband. I asked her,
could she tell me by what means my
father came to know of the Count’s inclinations
for me? She answered, she
could not tell with certainlycertainty; but she
suspected that De la Rosa, not being
able to get the better of his love; and
having no reliance on any thing but my father’s H11v 166
father’s authority over me, had applied
directly to the Baron. And she was
even of opinion that the Count was then
in Naples.—I was terribly alarmed at
this suggestion; and feared Don Enenique
had but too just grounds for what
he had said to me in the summer-
house.

Faustina had been informed by my
father of the conference that passed between
him and Ponces. She condoled
with me on the disappointment of my
hopes; and, assuring me she had banished
Don Enenique from her heart,
she added, that she would now with
more joy see us united, than formerly
it would have given her pain. Deceived
with these assurances, and forgetting
she had so lately been my rival, I believed
her sincere.

“She H12r 167

She asked me what measures I
purposed taking, in case my father urged
my marriage with the Count? Though
I had no distrust of Faustina’s honour,
I did not however chuse to let her into
the proposal made me by the Chevalier:
—I did not know but there might still
be some unextinguished sparks that lay
smothered in her heart; and that, notwithstanding,
all her efforts might blaze
out again on the thoughts of the Chevalier’s
being lost to her for ever; and
perhaps occasion some imprudence in
her conduct, that would defeat all my
designs:—I therefore only told her that,
as I hoped my father would not force
me to marry against my inclination, so
I had as yet come to no resolution at
all. But my fate was nearer a crisis than
I imagined.

I perceived a coldness in my father’s
behaviour, that he had never shewn H12v 168
shewn towards me before. He spoke
little to me all that day: and the next
morning, as Faustina and I sat at breakfast
with him, he told us he intended in
a few days to depart for Salerno.—If I
was quite thunderstruck at this information,
Faustina seemed no less concerned!
My father observed it in us both. ‘—I
see,’
said he, ‘the news is not pleasing to
either of you. It is for your sake, Adelaide,
that I remove from a place where
I think you have attachments unworthy
of you. I have already told you that I
have other views for you than those
ignoble ones you have for yourself;
and which I hope your prudence will
teach you to resign without reluctance.
And as for you, Faustina,’
added he,
looking at my cousin; ‘I know not what
reason you can have to regret leaving
Naples, and returning to your friends
and parents.’
—I had made my father no answer; I1r 169
answer; and Faustina said, respectfully,
she would gladly attend him back to
Salerno.

I was terrified at this unexpected
resolution of my father’s:—I dreaded
being sacrificed to the Count on my return
to Salerno; for I concluded by
this motion of the Baron’s, that De la
Rosa
was not at Naples, as Faustina
had insinuated. This occasioned me to
make some new reflections on the unaccountable
manner of my father’s
being made acquainted with the Count’s
love for me; which I knew was a secret
to every body but Signior Carassa and
Faustina. However, these thoughts were
but transient; and, without giving myself
the trouble to dive farther into this
mystery, I turned my mind entirely towards
the means of avoiding this hated
match.

Vol. I.I“I knew I1v 170

I knew the Chevalier’s arms were
open to receive me;—the time I had to
resolve in was short;—my heart and my
vows were already Don Enenique’s.
Do not blame me then, Eugenia, when
I tell you that I at once determined
to yield him my hand on the terms proposed.
—However, I concealed my
thoughts from Faustina:—my father’s
knowledge of De la Rosa’s passion for
me had raised some doubts in my mind;
and, though she expressed the utmost
concern on our going to Salerno, which
she said was entirely on my account, I
nevertheless did not chuse to confide in
her too far. She asked me, would not I
see the Chevalier before we set out?
and (as she knew our place of rendezvous,
and that we often met) I made
no scruple of saying I meant to see him
that evening. I found she endeavoured
to penetrate into my designs; but I evaded I2r 171
evaded her questions, or gave her general
answers.

I went at the appointed hour to
the summer-house, where I found the
Chevalier waiting for me. It was in the
dusk of the evening, when my father
always spent an hour alone in his oratory;
so that I was sure of having that
portion of time to myself.—Ponces did
not allow me to keep him long in suspense;
he immediately renewed the
conversation we had had the day before.
My fears now, joined to my love,
served to strengthen his arguments; and
I no longer refused to yield.—We
agreed that Don Enenique should the
next night, between ten and eleven
o’clock, bring his confessor with him,
who should join our hands in the little
summer-house we were then sitting in,
in the presence of my woman, whom I I2was I2v 172
was to take with me; after which, under
covert of the night, we were to be
conveyed in the Chevalier’s carriage
(which was to wait at a private door) to
the sea-side, where a bark was to be in
readiness, to carry us directly to Spain;
for it would be by no means expedient
for the Chevalier, after such an adventure,
to continue in Naples.

Having thus settled our measures,
we parted. Don Enenique went to prepare
for our expedition; and I returned
to the house, to take such other steps as
might be necessary to our design.

I would not allow myself to reflect,
for fear of receding from my promise:
but, putting up my jewels and other
things of value, without once daring to
consider what I was doing, I called my
woman, who had been all along privy to I3r 173
to my correspondence with the Chevalier;
and having, in a few words, imparted
the secret to her, she seemed so
rejoiced at the project, that I began to
lose part of the fears that were already
oppressing me.

I can’t say I was sorry for the resolution
I had taken, though my mind
was far from being easy. However, I
got through the remaining part of the
evening in making some secret preparations
for my intended flight. My
woman was very officious, and took
upon her the conduct of a great many
things; so that, relying entirely on her
care and fidelity, I went to bed, in a
state of mind which, though not altogether
tranquil, was yet free from pain.
As I never closed my eyes, the night
seemed very tedious; and notwithstanding
I did not wish for morning, I3it I3v 174
it however at last appeared, and I arose
off my restless bed.

I passed most of the day with Faustina,
to avoid giving her any suspicion;
and when night came, concluded the
Chevalier would rather be before than
after the appointed time; I sent my
woman into the garden, to prevent his
impatience till I could disengage myself
from my father, who always expected
my company at supper; after which I
was my own misstress, as Faustina and
me, at that hour, usually retired each to
our separate apartments.

My woman had been gone but a
few minutes, when she returned again
quite out of breath. I felt a sudden
shivering at the sight of her.—‘What,
Theresa!’
said I, ‘is the Chevalier come?’
‘No, Madam,’ she replied; ‘I have been just I4r 175
just now speaking to his valet at the garden
door, whom he sent to acquaint
you that the Viceroy has this minute
received some unexpected and very important
dispatches from Madrid, which
must unavoidably detain Don Enenique
for half an hour longer than the appointed
time: but that at eleven he will
not fail. He conjures you to forgive
him, and believe that nothing but his
being locked up with the Viceroy himself
should have delayed him. His valet
assures me that his master was obliged
to deliver his message hastily to him at
the Duke’s closet-door.’
Theresa spoke
this very naturally:—there was nothing
unlikely in what she said; and, as I
knew Don Enenique’s valet was a faithful
person, whom his master had often
trusted with messages to me, I did not
once doubt the truth of this account,
but bid my woman wait for the ChevalierI4lier I4v 176
till he should come, and then let me
know it.

After I had wished my father a
good-night I retired to my own apartment.
Faustina had complained of a
slight indisposition in the evening, and
had withdrawn to her chamber much
sooner than usual. My father had happened
to detain me longer than was his
custom; so that it was now near eleven
o’clock; and I expected every moment
when Theresa would come to acquaint
me with the Chevalier’s arrival: but
after waiting a considerable time without
hearing any thing of her, I concluded
she had fallen asleep somewhere, and
that Ponces might be waiting for me in
vain. In this opinion I stole down
softly into the garden, and called Theresa;
—but no Theresa answered! I
searched the little summer-house, and every I5r 177
every place wherein she might possibly
have concealed herself; but all to no
purpose! when, to complete my amazement,
I found the garden-door (of
which Don Enenique had the key) wide
open! The night happened to be exceeding
dark, so that I moved along
the walks in no small terror of mind;—
when, coming under Faustina’s apartment,
the windows of which looked into
the garden, I saw a light in her bedchamber.
—I told you she had complained
of not being well when she
retired:—I was apprehensive she was
now grown worse, and that her woman
had been called up. In this belief I
ran up stairs; and, entering her chamber,
I found every thing in the greatest
disorder! The clothes which she had
worn that day were thrown on the floor;
several of her drawers were lying open,
and quite empty; and a letter directed I5to I5v 178
to me lay on her toilet! These were
the contents:— ‘I am sorry, cousin,
that, to make myself happy, I must be
the occasion of making you wretched;
but such is the fatality that hangs over
us. Remember, you robbed me of the
heart of Castellane. Is it not just then,
that I should possess that of Don Enenique?
But yet I will do the Chevalier
justice:—he is ignorant of the deceit
my love has made me practice. I overheard
your discourse in the gardenhouse;
and though my first intent in
listening to it was only to frustrate your
defigns by making them known to your
father, on hearing the contrivance of
your marriage, I resolved boldly to turn
it to a more glorious advantage.—I
bribed your woman; and my stars have
for once been propitious; for by the
time this letter comes into your hands
I shall be married to Ponces, in your stead, I6r 179
stead, and far away from Naples. But
yet, believe me, I do not triumph in
your misfortune; but could wish you a
less severe lot. However, I know you
are mistress of resignation enough to
submit to a fate that is not to be controuled.
—Adieu for ever.’

What effect the reading of this
letter had on me is scarce possible to
describe! I continued the remaining
part of this fatal night in Faustina’s
chamber. Amazed and stupified at this
cruel stroke of fate, I remained rather
dead than alive: and day peeped in at
the windows when, endeavouring to
rouze myself a little from the lethargic
state I was in, I arose from the floor on
which I had fallen (perhaps in a fainting
fit) and continued there. After I recovered
(if I could be said to recover the
whole night) I would have persuaded I6myself I6v 180
myself what had passed was a frightful
dream; when, finding Faustina’s shocking
epistle still lying by me, I read it
over again; and was but too severely
convinced of the reality.

I told you I had entirely concealed
my intended marriage with the Chevalier
from Faustina: compassion for her
weakness had for a long time made me
conceal even my love. But what did
my pity or my caution avail! I found
myself betrayed in the cruellest manner.
Had I suffered alone, my sorrow would
have been less poignant; but, when I
considered that Ponces had fallen a
victim to the same treachery that ruined
me, my pangs were insupportable.

I found that Faustina had taken the
perfidious Theresa along with her. Her
own woman, who had never been let into I7r 181
into any part of this wicked secret, informed
me, that her mistress used to
have frequent private conversations with
that ungrateful creature; and that Faustina
had that very evening forbid her to
come near her, saying that Theresa
should for the future attend her. I gave
but little heed to what this woman told
me; and only endeavoured to arm myself
against the storm which I saw was
coming towards me; for I resolved at
once to confess the whole truth to my
father, and endure the utmost of his resentment
rather than suffer Don Enenique
to be branded with falshood and
ingratitude.

My cousin’s flight could not be
long a secret. My father was prodigiously
alarmed at her woman’s not being
able to give any account of her; but,
if I did not dissipate his fears, I at least put I7v 182
put an end to his uncertainty, by throwing
myself at his feet, and, with many
tears, relating to him the strange circumstances
of the preceding night. My
father heard me with more temper than
I could have expected. He seemed
even melted while I spoke; and raising
me,—‘You were to blame, Adelaide,’
said he; ‘and I should be angry at your
indiscretion, but that I think it mortification
enough to you to lose the person
you love:—a suitable punishment, I
may say, for your undutifulness. I suppose
you can now have no reluctance to
return to Salerno. Prepare therefore
for your journey immediately. But,’

added he, ‘I am grieved that, in return
for Signior Carassa’s friendship, I have
so mortifying an account to render him
of his daughter.’
—I withdrew, without
making any reply: my heart overflowed
with gratitude for the tenderness of my father’s I8r 183
father’s behaviour to me. I quitted
Naples in two days after this sad adventure;
and should have departed with
some satisfaction, but for the fear of
my being pressed to marry at Salerno.

My father and I set out in our
coach; and on the journey I assumed a
cheerfulness that was very pleasing to
him; he even complimented me upon
it.—‘I am charmed with your spirit,
Adelaide,’
said he; ‘I own I was apprehensive
that your heart was too much
prepossessed in favour of that tall Spaniard,
to permit you so soon to recover
your former gaiety; but since I find
your prudence and good-sense will
shortly teach you to overcome a childish
and ill-placed passion, I have hopes
that the same motives will incline you
to believe, that it was your happiness
and interest alone that made me reject the I8v 184
the Chevalier’s suit; and I flatter myself
that the husband I have chosen for
you, will soon make you forget the
husband of your abandoned cousin.’

‘Oh, my Lord,’ said I, ‘I need not be
put in mind, by that epithet, that Don
Enenique
is for ever lost to me. I will
banish him from my memory; and I
am not without hopes that I have resolution
enough to effect this, without the
aid of any new object; therefore, though
I can never enough thank you for your
indulgence, I conjure you to let me
continue as I am. I go with you most
willingly to Salerno; but, if you really
wish your daughter’s happiness, dispense
with my accepting this new lover, till
a little time and my own reason will
better dispose my heart to receive him;
mean while I pray you, my Lord, to
name the person whom your paternal
goodness has thought of for me.’
‘’Tis the I9r 185
the Count de la Rosa,’
answered my father.
‘I find he has loved you long,
though it has been kept a secret from
me, till your kinsman, Signior Carassa,
informed me of it by letter; which I will
now show you, as Signior Carassa’s
doubts have partly explained themselves.’
—Saying this, my father put the
letter into my hands. This was the subject
of it:—

‘I could not justify it to the friendship
I owe you, if I did not inform
you of an affair on which I think your
daughter’s happiness depends. The
Count de la Rosa loves her; and would
long ago have asked her of you in marriage,
if he had not been prevented by
me, who was moved to this by Adelaide’s
reluctance to the match (for she
was not acquainted with his passion);
but, as I think it too considerable to be I9v 186
be rejected, and the Count still retains
the same sentiments for my cousin, he
has requested me to apply to your Lordship
for him. If your answer is favourable,
he means to set out directly for
Naples. I hope my young kinswoman
will have prudence enough to consider
her own interest on this occasion: and
that she will take care not to compliment
her fancy at the expence of her
judgment. You need not let Adelaide
know of your having received this notice
from me. At a proper time I shall
explain myself.’

When I had returned this letter to
my father, he told me that he had communicated
the contents of it to Faustina
as soon as he had received it; that
she had enlarged upon the Count’s
passion for me; but had entreated my
father not to let me know that either she or I10r 187
or Signior Carassa had given him any
information on this head; ‘for,’ said she,
‘my cousin does not like the Count; and
she may take our interposing unkindly;
and, as that Lord will certainly come to
Naples as soon as he hears that you are
inclined to favour his suit, the application
will then appear to come immediately
from himself.’

I beseeched my father to let me
know what answer he had returned to
Signior Carassa? He told me, such a
one as he thought the worth of the offer
deserved; and that he had in consequence
of that, received a letter from
the Count de la Rosa himself, full of
acknowledgments, and an assurance of
waiting on him at Naples in a few days.
‘I have,’ added my father, ‘expected
the Count for some time past; when I
received the disagreeable news of his being I10v 188
being ill (from Signior Carassa) which
obliged him to defer his intended journey;
but I hope by the time we reach
Salerno, to find him perfectly recovered.’

Though” (continued Adelaide) “I
easily saw that Faustina was at the bottom
of this black intrigue, I was yet at
a loss to conceive by what means she
had engaged her father to interest himself
so warmly in an affair which his
kindness toward me had formerly made
him decline meddling in: this, together
with some ambiguous words he had
made use of in his letter, convinced
me that Faustina had used treachery to
engage my kinsman to observe the conduct
he had done. I made no reflections
however on the matter to my father,
knowing that on my arrival at
Salerno all would be unravelled.

“Signior I11r 189

Signior Carassa was the first to
compliment us on our return. My father
had not chosen to inform him by
letter of his daughter’s flight, concluding
that an event so shockingly circumstanced
would require all the alleviating
powers of friendship to interpose, in
order to enable the unhappy father to
sustain the news. In this my father
judged wisely; for, though he endeavoured
to relate the story with all the
circumstances he could think of to extenuate
the wretched Faustina’s crime,
her incensed father had hardly patience
to hear him out; he uttered the bitterest
imprecations against his daughter; and,
turning towards me,—‘I am not surprised,
Madam,’
said he, ‘that the ungrateful,
treacherous creature should
take the pains she did to promote your
marriage with the Count de la Rosa;
and to engage me, contrary to my promise,mise, I11v 190
to espouse his interest; but I little
imagined, that whilst she appeared so
solicitous for your honour, she was contriving
the means of sacrificing her own.
Oh cousin!’
said he to my father, ‘this
vile creature told me that your Adelaide
was on the brink of ruin; and that, if
I did not interpose, nothing could save
her. She wrote me word (forgive me
while I relate it) that your daughter had
fallen in love with a young man of very
mean degree; and that she was apprehensive
either of a stolen marriage, or
of something still more fatal. She told
me, she was afraid to discover the secret
to you, dreading the effects of your resentment
towards her cousin; and therefore,
as the best means to save her from
destruction, she conjured me to sound
Count de la Rosa’s inclinations; and, if
I found them still bent towards Adelaide,
to give him all the encouragementment I12r 191
in my power, and write directly
to you; who, she assured me, would
listen favourably to such a proposal. I
did as she requested. The Count eagerly
embraced the motion; and would, long
before this, have been at Naples, if a
dangerous fit of illness had not attacked
him, just as he was preparing to set out.’

My father here took occasion to inquire
very particularly after the Count’s state
of health, Signior Carassa’s distraction
about his daughter having prevented
him doing it sooner; but he had the
mortification to hear from that gentleman,
that his illness was so much increased,
that the physicians had no hopes
of his life. Though my father was
much disturbed at this news, you may
suppose it gave me little pain; and the
poor Count’s death, which happened
two days after, as it delivered me from
my fears of becoming his wife, was the I12v 192
the only consolatory circumstance that
could, in my situation, have befallen
me.”

“I wish,” cried Eugenia, “I could
heal your grief as effectually as I
share in it: but alas! my dear, I am as
unfortunate as yourself. Have I not
lost the man I loved as well as you?
—and lost him in a way so unaccountable,
as fills me with apprehensions for
his life; or, if even that is preserved, I
may never see him more.—Is your situation
more unhappy?”
“Oh! a thousand
times more,”
replied Adelaide;
“you may still call Pimenteles yours;
and one fortunate day may yet make
you amends for all that is past; but, as
for me, I can’t even think of Don Enenique
without a crime: his vows are
dedicated to another: he muft live for
Faustina; and I don’t flatter myself even with K1r 193
with the smallest hopes; for have I not
reason to believe that he is not so dissatisfied
with my cruel cousin, since, in
so long a time as he has been absent, he
has not once found means to let me hear
from him? No, no; the cunning
Faustina has found the way to his gentle
heart; and has perhaps made a merit
of her perfidy, by imputing it to an
excess of love. Oh Heavens!”
(continued
Adelaide, lifting up her eyes) “thou
sufferest the treacherous and the deceitful
to prosper, while the secure, the credulous,
and the innocent are often undone!

But no more of this,” added she;
“your presence, my Eugenia, brings
me comfort; and, whilst you are with
me, I will, if it be possible, forget
every thing that gives me pain. Let
us be happy then, whilst you remain Vol. I.Khere: K1v 194
here; and, when you return to Milan,
I am resolved to ask leave of my father
to go with you. This I am sure he will
not refuse me, as it will be a means of
dispelling that melancholy, which, in
spite of my endeavours to hide it from
him, he sees preys incessantly on my
heart.”
—In effect, these two lovely
friends assuaged each other’s grief by
the most tender and soothing expressions.
Adelaide endeavoured to persuade
Eugenia, that her dear Don Clement
would one day be restored to her;
whilst she, on the other hand, who had
less consolatory hopes to offer her friend,
strove only to prevail on the Baron St.
Seberina’s
daughter to believe that the
Chevalier de Ponces would perpetually
regret his separation from her; and, so
far from loving the author of it, would
would certainly detest and fly her.

The K2r 195

The time that Eugenia had allotted
to her stay at Salerno, wanted a good
deal of being expired, when one day,
sitting with Adelaide, a letter was
brought to her, which by the character
she knew came from the Marquis, her
uncle. As it was but a few days since
she had heard from him before, this
packet was quite unexpected.—“I have
no reason,”
said she to Adelaide, “to
expect any agreeable change in my fortune;
and yet something whispers me
that this letter brings most welcome
news.”
Indeed she had scarce glanced
her eyes on the paper, when such an
unusual joy diffused itself over her whole
countenance that Adelaide easily guessed
it contained something in which her
friend’s heart was nearly interested.—
“Come,” said she, shew it me; I
see Pimenteles writ in every line of your
face.”
“Here, read, my friend,” answeredK2swered K2v 196
Eugenia, “and participate with
me in the extreme joy I am filled with.”

These were the terms of the letter:—
“Your presence here, my dear niece,
is become necessary. Don Clement,
whose loss you so much deplore, is now
at Milan: he arrived but this day. I
am in haste to communicate the news;
which I am sure will be very agreeable
to you. I had a glimpse of him as he
entered a houfe adjoining mine; where I
am informed he is lodged. My joy at
seeing him again had almost made me
fly to embrace him: however, I checked
that emotion on reflecting what I owe
myself and you. I pray Heaven Don
Clement
may be able to clear up his
conduct in such a manner as may make
it consistent with your honour and mine,
to accomplish the union I have so much
at heart! Nevertheless, I shall not solicit
any explanation till you return; as in K3r 197
in so delicate a point I do not care to
proceed without your concurrence.—
Your mother is almost out of her wits
for joy. I dread the violence of her
passions and the weakness of her conduct:
hasten therefore on all accounts
your departure from Salerno. In the
mean time, be assured I shall be as
tender of your love as of your fame.”

When Adelaide had read this letter
she returned it to her friend.—“I rejoice
with you, happy, happy Eugenia,”

said she: “This delightful event fills
me with pleasure in the midst of chagrin.
Let us go, my dear; let us fly;
you to your faithful Don Clement; and
I——from Salerno, from the remembrance
of my sufferings, and if possible,
from myself.”
Eugenia was too impatient
to delay her return to Milan; and
the Baron St. Seberina having before K3consented K3v 198
consented that his daughter should take
that journey with her friend, these two
ladies set out the following day, having
each of them a governante and a suitable
number of other attendants.

They arrived safely at Milan; where
the Marquis of Pescara welcomed his
niece with all the marks of a tender affection;
and Adelaide with the tokens
of esteem and respect that was due to
so charming a guest.

Though Eugenia was very impatient
to learn something concerning Don Clement,
she yet thought it proper to be
silent till the Marquis should mention
him first: wherefore, leaving that nobleman
to entertain her beautiful friend,
she withdrew to pay her duty to her
mother, who, as the Marquis told her, had K4r 199
had retired, a little indisposed, to her
chamber.

Though Eugenia judged (and not
without good reafon) that her presence
would not be very acceptable to Madame
Burganeze
, she yet thought it an
indispensable duty to wait on her immediately,
after an absence of some months.
She ran to her chamber without the
ceremony of having first apprised her
of her arrival. She found Madame
Burganeze
lying on a couch; but so
far from having the appearance of a
person disordered by pain or sickness,
she seemed rather to have renewed her
former youth and sprightliness: a loose
gown of silver brocade was wrapped
carelessly around her; and her hair was
adorned with a variety of flowers, in
the disposal of which a luxurious and romantic
fancy had exerted its utmost skill. K4Her K4v 200
Her hair, which when Eugenia had left Milan
was inclining to grey, was now of
the most agreeable brown; and hung
in easy ringlets on her neck. To complete
the picture, her cheeks bloomed
with a freshness as new as it was becoming.
Eugenia was not a little surprised
at this unexpected metamorphosis. It
was night; but by the light of a single
wax-taper (Madame Burganeze not caring
for too much glare) she had an opportunity
of surveying this enamoured
dame, as she lay in reverie, something
between slumber and the most agreeable
contemplation.

Eugenia, concluding from the gallantry
of her mother’s dress that she
expected a more welcome visitant
(which was really the case) was going
to withdraw, without disturbing her,
when the languishing Madame Burganezeneze K5r 201
suddenly started up; and the dimness
of the light which was in the
chamber, together with the like imperfection
in her eyes, made her mistake
her daughter for another person for
whom she waited.

“Good,” said she, in a pretty loud
voice, “how impatient you are! Why
it must want at least an hour of the appointed
time.”
Eugenia was startled
at these words: she concluded that Don
Clement
was the impatient lover whom
her mother meant; and was very much
afraid, that, when she should discover
her mistake, her rage would be without
bounds. She therefore thought it more
prudent to dissemble; and seeming not
to have marked what her mother said,
she approached her couch and, falling
on her knees, desired her blessing; but
Madame Burganeze, whether thrown K5into K5v 202
into a more than ordinary confusion, or
not being thoroughly awake, or blind,
or altogether, was so prepossessed with
the notion that it was her expected
lover who knelt before her, that, holding
out one of her hands, she cried, in
the softest tone of voice, “Here, sweet
Pimenteles, take my hand; but I conjure
you ask no more.”
Had Eugenia
been less interested in this unlucky
scene, she could have laughed at it;
but as her mother and her lover were so
deeply concerned in it, it had a very
different effect on her: she blushed for
the weakness of the former, and was
seized with mortifying fears on account
of the latter. The love-sick dame
still held out her stretched hand; but
Eugenia, willing to undeceive her
(having first kissed it)—“’Tis I, Madam;
’tis your daughter; ’tis Eugenia.
I should be under the greatest uneasiness,ness,’ K6r 203”
added she, “for having broke your
rest, but that I fear your sleep was much
disturbed; for you just now uttered
some broken words, which seemed the
effect of a troublesome dream, from
which I can’t repent having awaked
you.”
Madame Burganeze, who was
by this time perfectly roused from her
rapture, was thunderstruck at those
words. It was well her daughter had
the presence of a mind to impute her extravagance
to a dream; for Eugenia
already saw her mother was beginning
to swell with indignation.—“Your
company,”
said Madame Burganeze,
looking disdainfully at her, “is as unwelcome
as it was unexpected. If Don
Clement
were not at Milan, you would
not have been in such haste to return to
it; but let me tell you, child, you
have no more share in his affections than
my chambermaid has, whatever your K6vanity K6v 204
vanity may suggest to you. His heart,
I may venture to say, is devoted to me:
and neither your unseasonable presence
nor your uncle’s policy shall deprive me
of it. We don’t want you,”
added she,
with a malicious smile, “for an internuncio.
Don Clement has no farther
occasion for proxies.”
“You do me
wrong, Madam,”
answered Eugenia,
“to suppose that Don Clement is the
motive of my return from Salerno; it
was in obedience to the Marquis, who
recalled me. Besides, you may remember
I was not a stranger to Pimenteles’
passion for you before my departure
from Milan; therefore can’t possibly
entertain those presumptuous hopes you
upbraid me with; and I assure you my
sentiments for Don Clement are the very
same with those I believe he has for
me.”
“So much the better,” answered
Madame Burganeze, in a tone less severe K7r 205
severe than she had spoke in before;—
“I should pity you, to love without the
hopes of being beloved again; for that
would infallibly be the case. You did
ill,”
said she, after a little pause, “to
come so abruptly upon me; I was not
prepared to receive you; and till tomorrow
shall dispense with your attendance;
for at present I am much more
disposed to rest than conversation.”

With these words she threw herself
again on the couch, and waved her
hand to Eugenia to retire.

It happened that Madame Burganeze,
in flinging herself carelessly on the
couch, had dropped a letter out of her
bosom, which Eugenia took up; and,
though she was immediately going to
restore it, a strong impulse of curiosity
prevailed with her to keep it, as she
imagined the contents might possibly discover K7v 206
discover something in which perhaps she
had no inconsiderable share. This reason
she thought might, in some measure,
justify an action, which in its own
nature she would have condemned.
Having quitted Madame Burganeze’s
apartment, she hastened to her own to
examine the letter. She found it subscribed
by Don Clement; and it contained
these few words:—“You are
the first lady that ever reproached me
with indifference; and, if I have been
so long in Milan without discovering
the least gallantry, it is far from being
owing to a want of sensibility in me;
on the contrary, you will find no one
more tender, or more grateful when I
have the happy opportunity of kissing
your hand, which I shall not fail to do
at the appointed hour.”
Though Eugenia
thought the character in which
this note was written, was not that of Don K8r 207
Don Clement, yet his name subscribed
to it, together with her mother’s expressions,
and some other concurring circumstances,
left her no room to doubt
but that it came from him; and, as it
seemed altogether an enigma, so she
supposed some new mystery had occasioned
its not being written in his own
hand.

She was impatient to speak to the
Marquis on this subject; but, recollecting
that he was then engaged in
converfation with Adelaide, she returned
to the apartment where they were, leaving
Madame Burganeze impatiently
expecting Don Clement.

And here it will be necessary to relate
that part of the old lady’s conduct
which was the occasion of Eugenia’s
finding her in so extraordinary a situation.

Madame K8v 208

Madame Burganeze had no sooner
heard that Don Clement was returned
to Milan than she looked upon herself
as possessed of all her wishes. She flattered
herself that his being lodged so
near the Marquis, was to have the more
frequent opportunities of conversing with
her: and expected every minute when
she should receive a visit from him, his
avowed passion for her, and his friendship
for the Marquis, her brother, being
sufficient motives for him to wave all
punctilious forms; and, without ceremony,
throw himself into the arms of
two persons by whom he knew he was
so much beloved:—but, when several
days past without her either seeing or
hearing from him, she began to be terribly
alarmed!—The Marquis, extremely
surprised at this slight, spoke of
it in terms which gave her room to think
he highly resented it. Fearing therefore that K9r 209
that a total breach would ensue between
her brother and her lover, she resolved
at all events to use her endeavours to
renew their former intimacy, though
she too plainly saw that Don Clement
seemed rather inclined to avoid it.

As the Marquis had never let his sister
into the secret of Eugenia’s adventure
with Pimenteles, she could not penetrate
into the reason of his resentment
against that gentleman; and, believing
it proceeded only from the jealousy of
his friendship, which could not brook
so cold a behaviour in one who had
been so dear to him, she hoped (if by
any means she could bring them to a
meeting) the Marquis would soon forget
his anger; and she should by degrees
reconcile him to the union she meditated
between the youthful Don Clement
and herself:—for she still was weak K9v 210
weak enough to flatter herself that, notwithstanding
his distant behaviour, his
love for her had brought him back to
Milan. Her hopes thus revived, she
sent in the Marquis’s name to Don
Clement
, desiring to see him; concluding
that he would not refuse the invitation;
and that her brother, without
knowing that such a compliment had
passed, would receive his friend with
his usual warmth:—but how was she
mortified at the ill-success of her plot!
Don Clement received the message with
the utmost politeness; but at the same
time excused himself from waiting on
the Marquis, on account of some perplexing
affairs, which he said for the
present engrossed all his hours.

Madame Burganeze was half distracted
with rage and jealousy at this reply:
for she now feared that it was on accountcount K10r 211
of Eugenia’s absence that Don
Clement’s
indifference proceeded.

The Marquis (without knowing the
lengths his sister had gone to allure Don
Clement
back again) was of the same
opinion; nor did he wish for an ecclaircissement
till his niece should arrive,
whose return he now daily expected.—
Finding therefore that Pimenteles persisted
in his estranged behaviour, he
became in his turn as cold and averse
to him as he had once been fondly and
warmly attached to him; so that Madame
Burganeze
, despairing of a reconciliation
between them, and trembling
at the thoughts of losing Don Clement
again, and perhaps for ever, resolved to
put herself at least out of suspense; on
which account, shifting her resentment
and composing her ruffled thoughts,
she wrote him the following lines, and sent K10v 212
sent them by her woman:—“You have
been eighteen long days in Milan, without
seeing me! Unkind, cold Pimenteles!
where is all your love? Must I
forget that I am a woman, and woo
you to your happiness?—Ah! let me
chide you for this strange indifference;
and if you hope for my pardon, fail not
to ask it to-night. The bearer will
wait to conduct you to my apartment at
ten o’clock; where, if the charming
Don Clement repents, the tender Burganeze
can forgive.”

To this kind letter Don Clement returned
the answer which Eugenia found
in her mother’s chamber; and with
which Madame Burganeze was so well
pleased that, without considering how
unbecoming and rash her proceedings
were, she thought of nothing but how
to appear amiable in her lover’s eyes. Accord- K11r 213
Accordingly she adorned, or rather
transformed, herself in the manner already
described; and having dismissed
her daughter from her presence, who
happened to arrive at so unlucky a minute,
she disposed herself to receive
Don Clement. He was punctual to a
minute; for the clock no sooner struck
ten than she heard him coming up stairs
with La Pointz, who had introduced
him the back way.—As he entered the
room she would have rose to salute him;
but he appeared so very handsome, that
the extreme pleafure she took in gazing
at him made her forget all ceremonies;
and she continued leaning on her couch
with her eyes languishinglyfi xedlanguishingly fixed on
him. Don Clement, who, from the
posture she was in, could have but an
imperfect view of her face, drew nearer
to her; and, putting one knee to the
ground,—“So unlooked-for a happiness as K11v 214
as this,”
said he, “would more than
recompense the sufferings of an age:—
and I flatter myself that fortune has
yet fome favours in ftore for me; since
when I least expected it, she has bestowed
so great a blessing.”
“How
transported I am,”
said Madame Burganeze,
raising herself up, “to find you
fo constant:—but wherefore do you
say this blessing was unexpected?—
What had you not to hope from a
love so ardent and faithful as mine?”

Don Clement, instead of answering
this soft language as fhe expected,
started up from his knee; and, falling
back two or three paces, seemed to survey
her with an air of surprise!—“What
ails the trifler?”
cried Madame Burganeze;
“what new whim have you
taken into your head?—Was it for this
I sent for you?”
“Was it you then, Madam,dam,“ K12r 215”
answered Don Clement, “who
did me the honour to write to me?”

“This is very silly,” anfwered Madame
Burganeze
; “and if you continue these
airs, I shall be downright angry with
you.”
“I know not,” cried Don Clement,
“whether to be serious or merry
on this occasion; but as I think I am
more inclined to the former, we will, if
you please, let the joke end here:—
therefore, Madam, you must allow me
to take my leave.”
Saying this, he
turned towards the door, when Madame
Burganeze
caught him by the
hand. “Come, come,” said she, “no
more of this foolery. I am displeased
with you already; and let me tell you,
you have gone too far.”
Don Clement
drew his hand gently from hers; and,
bowing low at the same time, “I have
been in an error, Madam,”
said he;
“and so I believe have you; therefore I beg K12v 216
I beg once more you will not detain
me.”
With this he took two or three
steps towards the door: but Madame
Burganeze
, now quite enraged, could
contain herself no longer.—“What possesses
you?”
said fhe; “Does this behaviour
agree with your former protestations
of love? nay, with what you
but just this moment said?—Am I less
amiable now than I was three minutes
ago?—or can your heart rebel so soon?
—Speak, coxcomb; and don’t provoke
my anger too far.”
“As for what I
just now said,”
answered Pimenteles, a
little nettled, “it was not meant for
you, Madam: and as to your talking of
former protestations, not knowing that
I ever had the honour of seeing you
before, it makes me rather suspect that
it is you who are possessed;—therefore,
lady, to avoid disturbing the family, I
beg once more that you will permit me to L1r 217
to retire.”
Don Clement here again attempted
to be gone; but, unluckily for
him, La Pointz had locked the chamber-door
on the outside; so that he
found himself under a necessity of sustaining
all Madame Burganeze’s fury.
“Ungrateful wretch,” said she, “have
you forgot our mutual love?—Must all
the tears which your absence cost me
meet with this return?—And have you
the insolence, the barbarity, to own
your falsehood, and aggravate it in the
most presumptuous manner?—Not only
deny your having loved me, and confess
those raptures were meant for another,
but even disown that you ever
saw me.—Monster,”
added she, “your
unparalleled villany shall not go unpunished:
and if Eugenia be the object of
your love, she shall be the first victim
to my revenge.”

Vol. I.LThe L1v 218

The violent passion which this frantic
woman had thrown herself into agitated
her whole frame so much, that, happening
to lean against a cabinet, on
which stood a pyramid of rich china,
she unluckily threw down the whole
pile; which, rattling on the floor with
such noise, greatly alarmed the Marquis
with Eugenia and Adelaide, who were
not yet risen from supper. As Madame
Burganeze’s
apartment was not far distant
from that in which they were sitting,
her brother and the ladies made haste
to her assistance; as did La Pointz and
some more of the female servants who
had been frightened at the noise. They
all ran in together without ceremony:
so that the chamber was filled in an instant.

Though Don Clement was under
some confusion, he nevertheless accosteded L2r 219
the Marquis with great politeness;
and, without giving him time to enquire
into the fracas,—“My Lord,” said he,
“I don’t at all wonder at the surprise
you seem to be in at seeing me here. I
confess, nothing can appear in a worse
light; but I hope this lady will do me
the juftice to remove any ill impressions
which this accident may have made on
you. For my own part, I am so much
ashamed of having occasioned all this
disorder, that I must for the present beg
leave to withdraw; but will at any other
time you please, satisfy your Lordship
that, if I have committed an offence, it
was unknowingly; and that, bold and
suspicious as this visit may appear, I
had no design to insult any of your
house.”

Don Clement had time to make an
end of this speech without any interruption.L2ruption. L2v 220
Madame Burganeze was so
overwhelmed with confusion, that she
could not open her lips nor lift her eyes
from off the ruins of the china; where
they were fixed immoveably. The
women who had ran in, in their first surprise,
concluding that a scene of this
nature was not so proper for them to be
witnesses to, had all stole out of the
chamber; so that none but the three
ladies and the Marquis remained.—
“Stay, Don Clement,” said the latter;
“there are no persons now present but
those who are particularly interested in
what relates to you; and there can be
no time more proper than this for you
to make that explanation we would wish
to have:—therefore, with my sister’s
permission, I must beg leave to enquire
into the motives of this secret and unseasonable
interview between you?”

Don L3r 221

Don Clement, who was unwilling to
mortify Madame Burganeze by mentioning
her letter, was somewhat at a
loss how to make a reply; when, casting
his eyes on that lady, as if to demand her
leave to answer the Marquis’s question,
fhe (who read his looks) cried out,—
“Speak, cruel Pimenteles! my brother
is not unacquainted with my weakness
for you; nor can any thing you have
farther to say make me more miserable.”

With this she flung out of the room,
and, locking herself in her closet, left
Don Clement at liberty to declare himself
how he pleased.

“I believe then, my Lord,” said
that gentleman, addressing himself to
the Marquis (and at the same time
giving him the letter he had that day
received from Madame Burganeze)
“you would think me a very insensible L3man L3v 222
man if I refused a summons like this:
but I own I thought it had come from
a fairer hand, or you would not have
found me so rude a disturber of your
family.”
“’Tis my sister’s writing,”
answered the Marquis; “and I can’t
imagine how you should suspect it came
from any other person!”
“Nothing
more natural,”
interrupted Don Clement;
“and if your Lordship and these
ladies will have but the patience to hear
me, you will be convinced of this yourself.

I had just received that letter,
and was breaking open the seal when a
gentleman with whom I had been intimate
in Castile, and renewed my acquaintance
with since my arrival here,
came in to make me a visit:—as there
is an unreserved friendship between us,
I made no scruple of shewing him the note; L4r 223
note; and asked him, laughing, how
he would advise me to act; for my valet
had told me that the woman who had
brought it waited for an answer. As
my residence in this city has been but
short, and my time ever since I have
been here so wholly taken up with business,
I had few moments for pleasure;
of course I have had no opportunity
of making any acquaintance
amongst the ladies; on which account
I imagined that some gay damsel had a
mind to divert herself a little. I was
not, however, willing to engage in an
amour which was to commence so mysteriously,
though I confess my curiosity
inclined me strongly to pursue it.—
While I was making some reflections
on the novelty of the thing, my friend
was perusing the letter with a good deal
of attention.—‘Are you not acquainted,’
said he, ‘with the lady from whom this L4epistle L4v 224
epistle came?’
‘No,’ replied I; ‘I am a
stranger to the name and the hand! and
am in doubt whether I shall take any farther
notice of it: for perhaps it may only
come from some female adventurer, who
has a mind to make herself merry at my
expence; or, what is worse, to lead me
into an unlucky snare: as strangers who
appear to be of distinction are sometimes
treated.’
My friend laughed at my
fears; telling me I need to be under no
concern:—‘for if’ (said he) ‘this letter
comes from the lady whose name is subscribed
to it, you are so far from being
in the least danger, that you ought rather
to look upon yourself as the happiest
man in the world—to have inspired
Signiora Eugenia Burganeze with an
inclination for you! I am surprised,’

continued he, ‘that you should be a
stranger to this young lady, as she lives
next door to you, and is niece to the Marquis L5r 225
Marquis of Pescara!’
—I told him that I
had, indeed, received a compliment
from that Lord; but that I had not the
honour of his acquaintance, nor did I
ever hear of his having any family but a
sister; who is a lady far advanced in
years.—‘Yes,’ replied that gentleman,
‘Madame Burganeze, the fair Eugenia’s
mother. I have been absent from Milan,’
added he, ‘for some months, and
know not whether that lady is still with
her brother; for when I left this city,
she designed retiring into a convent;
and even talked of carrying her daughter
along with her. Let us not flatter
ourselves therefore too far; for perhaps
’tis some other lady of the name
who has wrote to you: or possibly some
woman who has only assumed the name
to engage you the fooner in her toils.’

‘But we have the means to discover this
in our own hands,’
cried I; ‘for the L5woman L5v 226
woman who brought the letter waits
below:’
—whereupon I called my valet,
with a design to bed him bring the woman
to me; when my friend happening
to ask him, did he know her?—the
man replied that he believed she was
one of Madame Burganeze’s attendants;
for that he had often seen her going in
and out of the Marquis of Pescara’s
hotel.—‘Oh, ’tis enough,’ cried my
friend, laughing:—‘we need ask no
more questions. Write an answer immediately,’
continued he: ‘Signiora Eugenia
is as virtuous as she is beautiful;
and though she may have a mind to
amuse herself with an innocent piece of
gallantry, yet, depend upon it, she
means nothing contrary to the strictest
honour: and if you have in reality been
so happy as to please her, it is the
greatest felicity that could have befallen
you.’
—He added a great many other things, L6r 227
things, that inspired me with such an ardent
desire to see the lovely Eugenia,
that I did not hesitate a moment what
my reply fhould be:—and having in a
few words answered the billet, which I
now no longer doubted came from her,
I thought every minute an hour till the
appointed time arrived in which I was
to be admitted to her presence.—I came,
my Lord, full of the idea which my
friend had given me of your charming
niece. But judge of my surprise and
disappointment! when, instead of her,
I found myself on my knees before a
person fit indeed to inspire me with
reverence, but far unlikely to create
love!—Ashamed to be thus deceived by
my own too flattering hopes, I was
ready to excuse myself to the old lady,
and to take my leave of her; when she
flew into a violent passion; urged former
vows and protestations; told me of (I L6know L6v 228
know not what) love that was between
us; and had almost raised herself into a
phrenzy, when the destruction of the
china luckily alarmed her friends!—
This, my Lord,”
added Don Clement,
“is the truth you desired to be informed
of, and which Madame Burganeze herself
must acknowledge. I have therefore
nothing to say farther in my justification;
but to implore the beautiful
Eugenia’s pardon for my presumption in
entertaining, but for a moment, the belief
of being honoured with her love.”

—Here he bowed low to Eugenia, and
remained silent.

I believe my reader is by this time as
much surprised at Don Clement’s behaviour
as the Marquis and the two
ladies were; and think him a very audacious
and lying Spaniard: but we shall
see presently how he came out of this
whimsical situation.

’I know L7r 229

“I know not,” said the Marquis, in
a grave and resolute tone, “what has provoked
you to frame this unaccountable
story; but certain I am, that nothing
but my astonishment could have suffered
me to let you run on so long. Whatever
reasons you may have for playing
on my imprudent sister, I think you
owe something to my friendship, and
more to my niece; who has made me
her confidant in an affair which you ungenerously
strove to conceal from me;
notwithstanding the regard I always
treated you with.”
“How, my Lord?”
cried Don Clement, angrily; “this
farce is too long, and must needs end
unluckily!”
“I am of your mind,” answered
the Marquis, briskly. “You
are at present under my roof; remember
that is your only protection:—for
know, young Spaniard, that Eugenia’s
honour is not a toy for such boys as you to L7v 230
to sport with.”
“By Heaven, you
amaze me,”
cried Don Clement; and
added, after a short pause, “I begin to
think there must be some strange mystery
in this affair, which I tremble to
penetrate. But I declare to you, by
every thing that is sacred, that it is
yet scarce three weeks since I first saw
Milan; nor did I ever, during the
whole courfe of my life, till this night,
behold Madame Burganeze or her
charming daughter.”

Eugenia, who till now had been
silent, could contain herself no longer;
but turning to Adelaide, who had been
a spectatress of this odd scene, “Such
insolence,”
said she, “is not to be borne;
but, if it is possible to raise a blush in a
face where boldness and deceit are
painted, I will produce something which
must cover this daring man with confusion.sion.“ L8r 231”
Saying this, she ran to her apartment;
and bringing thence the poniard
which Don Clement had dropped in the
wood, and which had been carefully
preserved by Eugenia ever since, she
put it into that gentleman’s hands:—
“Look there, Signior Pimenteles,”
said she, “and if you can deny that
poniard to be yours, on which your
name is decyphered, I will allow you
to be a master-piece of dissimulation.”

Don Clement looked at the poniard with
manifest tokens of amazement; when,
turning towards the Marquis, “I am
no longer in doubt, my Lord,”
cried he:
“this dagger has unravelled the whole
mystery. Alas! we have all been deceived
by false appearances. That
young stranger, who assumed the name
of Don Clement Pimenteles, was a
woman, and my unhappy sister.

’Hear L8v 232

Hear then, my Lord, and you ladies,
that part of my sister’s story which
gave occasion to this strange event.

We are twins; and owe our birth,
as she may possibly have informed you,
to Don Manuel Pimenteles, whose house
is not accounted the most obscure in
Castile. My sister’s beauty (for she was
allowed to have much) had gained her
a great many admirers; but my father
would give access to none of them, except
Don Gabriel Sahabedras, Count
of Castellar, who was possessed of an
estate of eighty thousand piastres a year.
This nobleman was upwards of fifty
years old; of an imperious, haughty
temper; and without any thing to recommend
him, but his immense fortune.
You may be sure my sister
looked upon him as a very unequal
match. However, in obedience to my father L9r 233
father she received his addresses civilly;
but with so much coldness and indifference,
that he soon perceived how disagreeable
he was to her. This did not
however discourage him: he had none
of those delicate sentiments with which
a generous lover is affected; so as he was
possessed of the person of my sister, it
was all he desired. He used to tell her
that the heart of a woman was too great
a trifle for a serious man to spend his
time in pursuit of; that he knew it was
impossible to confine their inclinations
for ever to one object, were it the most
amiable; that therefore he was indifferent
whether he was beloved or not;
and that, so as he was but secured of the
person of her he admired, he would take
care to preserve her virtue from any
attacks; and, for the rest, he would leave
her to her own humour.

’His L9v 234

His carriage was answerable to this
unfeeling declaration; he took not the
least pains to make himself agreeable to
my sister; for, having obtained my father’s
consent to espouse her, he assumed
such an air of authority over Clementina
(so my sister is called) as rendered him
perfectly hateful to her. In vain did she
throw herself at my father’s feet, and
beseech him not to sacrifice her to a
man whom she so much disliked. He
had engaged his promise to the Count,
and was resolved not to break it. Besides,
as Clementina was the youngest
of three daughters, he thought it was
an alliance she ought to be proud of;
and told her, in a peremptory manner,
that she should marry Castellar, or never
see his face again. My poor sister,
drove to the last extremity, came to me
all in tears:—‘Dear brother,’ said she, ‘if
you have a mind to preserve my life, endeavour L10r 235
endeavour to soften the obdurate heart
of my father; for if he persists in the
resolution he has taken, of marrying
me to Don Gabriel, I assure you, you
will lose a sister who loved you tenderly.’
—I promised her my assistance; and
went that moment to my father. I
found him in his closet with Sahabedras
and a lawyer, who was busied writing
at a table. I gave the caufe over at this
sight; but, resolving to make one effort
more on my father’s tenderness, I begged
of him to step into the next room
with me. He knew I was extremely
fond of my sister; wherefore, guessing
my errand, he told me, in an angry
tone, without giving me leave to speak,
that if I should interpose in behalf of
that obstinate girl, I would incur the
height of his displeasure. ‘Besides,’ added
he, ‘’tis now too late; for every thing
is agreed on between the Count and me; therefore, L10v 236
therefore, Sir, be pleased to let your
sister know that I expect the last proof
of her obedience within these eight days.’

—I went with this unwelcome message to
Clementina’s apartment. She received
it with more calmness than I expected;
and told me, that however rigorous her
father’s commands were, she was resolved
to obey them.

She concealed her chagrin so well,
that none of us had the least suspicion
of her design. On the contrary, we
began to imagine that she had reconciled
herself to a lot which she found
it was impossible to avoid. In short,
the preparations for her nuptials were
making with great magnificence, when,
on the eve of the day appointed for the
solemnization of them, Clementina and
her waiting-woman disappeared; and,
notwithstanding the strictest inquiry, there L11r 237
there was not the least trace of them to
be discovered. We found she had taken
all her jewels with her, and a pretty
large sum of money: at the same time
I missed this poniard; but I did not
suspect that my sister had disguised herself
in man’s apparel; I only supposed
her fondness for me had induced her
to carry it with her as a token of remembrance.”

End of the First Volume.

L11v L12r