A1r

Eugenia
and
Adelaide,

A Novel.

In Two Volumes.

Vol II.

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

A1v
B1r

Eugenia
and
Adelaide.

“My father and the Count were
so enraged at Clementina’s elopement,
that for some time they could
not tell what resolution to come to. At
length Don Gabriel declared that he
would search all Spain, nay the whole
world, till he had recovered her; and,
on his leaving Castille he swore he never
would return to it without Clementina.
—It was then that I discovered he passionately
loved my sister, notwithstanding
the indifference he always affected. Vol. II. B For B1v 2
For my own part, as my honour was as
much concerned as his, I resolved not
to be behind hand with him in this expedition;
so we both set out together,
like true knights-errant, uncertain what
road to take; for Clementina had concerted
her scheme so cunningly, that nobody
was privy to her flight but her
woman, who was the companion of it.”

“I shall not trouble your Lordship
with the particulars of this fruitless
search; let it suffice to tell you, that,
after we had traveled most parts of
Spain and Portugal to no sort of purpose,
we resolved to separate, and take
different routes. We have some relations
in France, where I designed to
steer my course; and Castellar determined,
at the same time, to push his inquiries
into Italy. What success he has
had I don’t know; but I had the mortificationtification B2r 3
to leave France without hearing
any news of her; and, almost despairing
of ever seeing her again, I was
returning into Castile, when, by an
express I had the news brought me of
my father’s death. This obliged me for
a while to suspend my purpose of returning
home, and to pass into Italy, in
order to negotiate some business, and
receive certain sums of money from a
banker in this city. Some unlooked-for
perplexing circumstances in my affairs
have obliged me to make a longer stay
at Milan than I at first proposed: and,
as the uncertain fate of my sister gives
me unspeakable concern, I must beseech
you, my Lord, and you, Madam”
(addressing
himself to Eugenia) “to inform
me what you know relating to her; for I
am well satisfied that her prodigious
likeness to me, joined to her having B2 bor- B2v 4
borrowed my name and habit, has occasioned
all this strange confusion.”

“It will be an easy matter, Signior,
to satisfy you,”
replied the Marquis;
“but, as my niece is best acquainted
with the particulars of your sister’s
story, I shall put that task upon her.—
Here, Eugenia; give Don Clement an
exact account of all that has past concerning
Clementina.”
But, during her
narration, she took so much pains to
conceal the passion she had conceived
for the counterfeit Don Clement, that
the Marquis several times could not forbear
smiling. But, notwithstanding all
her care, she discovered so great an
emotion at the repetition of several passages
of her story, that it was no difficult
matter for Don Clement to discover
that the charms of his sister had made
way for him in the heart of Eugenia. He B3r 5
He told that lady that he was certain it
was no other than Count Castellar who
had forced his sister away: and added,
that not having heard from him since,
he was under terrible apprehensions on
that account.—“Don Gabriel,” said he,
“is violent and haughty: and, as my
sister is now entirely in his power, I am
sure he will not scruple to use her with
the greatest severity if she refuses to
marry him; and I know Clementina
would sooner suffer death than consent
to a union so hateful to her.—Ah dear
creature,”
continued he, “were I now
in Castile, you should soon be delivered
from your tyrant, since you have no
longer a father, whose harsh commands
forced you on the brink of ruin.”
“I
join with you,”
replied the Marquis,
“in bewailing the fate of so amiable a
creature. I own I felt sentiments in my
heart for Clementina, for which I was B3 at B3v 6
at a loss to find a name: and I can tell
you, niece,”
proceeded he, laughing,
“that, had I discovered this secret
sooner, you would have found in me a
more dangerous rival than you did in
Madame Burganeze.”

Don Clement seized on this opportunity
to assure Eugenia (with a modest
ardour) that, though she had lost a
feigned lover in the person of Clementina,
she had found a real one in that
of Don ClementEugenia answered
this only by an obliging look:—and the
Marquis said, “I believe my niece
will do no great violence to her inclinations
in transferring them from the amiable
Clementina to the accomplished
Don Clement.”
Indeed the resemblance
was so perfect between this amiable
brother and sister, that it could
hardly be called a change in Eugenia’s heart, B4r 7
heart, which now felt the same sentiments
for the true Don Clement that it
had at first conceived for the supposed
one. As there was no difference in the
age of these beautiful twins, so there
was none either in their faces of statures;
at least it was so very inconsiderable as
not to be distinguished when they were
asunder. Don Clement was scarce
twenty years old; and had not yet loft
that delicacy which youth generally retains
to that age. The conversation on
this extraordinary event lasted till the
night was almost fpent; when Pimenteles
took his leave of the Marquis, with
a promise to come and dine with him
next day.

Madame Burganeze, who from her
closet had not loft a word of their discourse,
was so much ashamed of what
had past, that she would not appear; B4 so B4v 8
so that the Marquis and Don Clement,
with the two young ladies, were the
only persons at the table. Clementina’s
distress too much engrossed their
thoughts for them to talk on any other
subject. The Marquis assured Don
Clement
that he would join with him most
heartily for the recovery of his sister.—
“I hope,” continued he, “our dear
Clementina will have resolution enough
to resist the unhuman Castellar till we
can come to her relief. What should
hinder us then from immediately setting
out for Spain? for thither I suppose
Don Gabriel has carried her. I die
with impatience to see my ever-loved
creature, and free her from the insolent
ravisher.”
The Marquis spoke this with
a warmth which shewed how much his
heart was interested. Don Clement, after
expressing his thanks for so generous
an offer of his friendship, told him he would B5r 9
would readily embrace it.—“Though
my affairs here,”
said he, “are in so intricate
a situation as to require my presence
to settle them, yet, where the welfare
of so dear a sister is at stake, I must
forego every other advantage to fly to
her assistance.”
“Let us be gone then,”
cried the Marquis; “we will set out
to-morrow.”
Accordingly he gave orders
for this sudden expedition; and his
commands being executed with as much
rapidity as they were given, Don Clement
and he found themselves in
readiness to depart very early the next
morning.

The Marquis in taking leave of the
ladies told Adelaide, that he hoped to
have the happiness of finding her at his
house, on his return to Milan. As for
Don Clement, short as the time was, he B5 did B5v 10
did not leave Eugenia without receiving
some marks of her esteem for him.

Their voyage was prosperous: they
arrived safely at Valencia; and set out
immediately for the kingdom of Castile,
where the Count of Castellar’s whole
estate lay, and where he always resided.
They were informed by a gentleman
whom they met on the borders of Castile,
that the Count was at a castle he
had on the banks of the Euadimara, a
few leagues from Madrid: but they
could not learn whether he had a lady
or any stranger with him. However,
as they made no doubt but that Clementina
was really in his possession, they
resolved, without losing time, to set forward
for his castle. Accordingly they
redoubled their speed, and reached it
towards the close of the day. The
nearer they approached, the more they were B6r 11
were confirmed in their opinion, that
this was the prison of the unhappy Clementina.
It was an old castle, which
formerly had been very stately and
magnificent, but was now partly fallen
to ruin; and the walls everywhere so
overgrown with moss and ivy, that it
could at a little distance be hardly distinguished
from a thick dark wood, with
which it was surrounded.

There was something however so romantic
and charming in the situation,
that the Marquis and Don Clement could
not help stopping to contemplate the
awful solitude. Its remoteness from any
other dwelling gave it an aspect peculiarly
solitary; and it had been so neglected
by the Count, who had a great
many other fine seats, that it looked
more like the remains of an ancient
monastery than the mansion-house of a B6 grandee B6v 12
grandee of Spain. The outer court,
which was as full of weeds as if no human
creature had ever trod on it, was
inclosed with a very high wall, and the
entrance secured by a strong gate,
which was locked and barred on the
inside.

The Marquis and Don Clement, who
had alighted from their horses and given
them to the servants who attended them,
advanced towards the gate, and thundered
at it with all their might: but,
instead of its being opened, they were
demanded from within, Who they were,
and what they wanted? The Marquis
returned no answer, but knocked louder
than before; when the same voice cried
out, “You may be as noisy as you
please; but till I know your business
you shall not be admitted.”

This B7r 13

This suspicious answer redoubled the
Marquis’s impatience.—“Let us force
the gate,”
said he to Don Clement; “I
find but too plainly that this pernicious
solitude is the abode of your lovely
sister. Let us not stand to importune a
wretch who no doubt has received orders
from his guilty master, not to suffer
any but himself to enter the castle.”

Saying this, he beckoned to the two
footmen to come to his assistance. But
Don Clement, who was of a calmer temper,
or perhaps was not at that time
agitated with emotions so violent as the
Marquis, begged of him to desist; telling
him such an attempt would be very
imprudent, as they had but two servants
with them; and perhaps there might be
numbers in the castle who would, without
a doubt, oppose them, should they
even succeed in forcing the gate.—“I
believe,”
added he, “the Count is not in B7v 14
in reality here, by the caution his domestics
observe; I will therefore try an
expedient that may get us admittance,
without committing such outrages.”

He spoke those words so low that nobody
but the Marquis could hear him;
when, raising his voice, and addressing
himself to the person on the inside of the
gate, “Let not Don Gabriel think,”
said he, “to conceal his treasons within
these walls. We are certainly informed
that he hides himself here; and, if he
does not immediately surrender himself,
he will compel us to use violence; and
whoever you are that thus obstinately
refuse us entrance, you may perhaps
have your Lord’s life to answer for.”

Don Clement had no sooner spoke
these words than he heard the fellow on
the inside unbarring the gate. The
time he took to do it, and the number of B8r 15
of bolts and locks they heard him undo,
convinced them how difficult it would
have been for them to have forced an
entrance. The gate was but now half-
opened, which a gigantic ill-looking
fellow held in his hand, at the same time
that he had fastened a strong chain across
it on the inside. He looked rudely at
the two strangers; and without the least
mark of civility, told them that his
master was not there, but at Madrid.—
“Friend,” answered the Marquis, “we
are but just now come from thence; and
had the Count been there, it would have
saved us this journey. I therefore once
more command you, as you shall answer
the contrary at your peril, to give us
admission immediately.”

The sharpness with which the Marquis
pronounced this, seemed to intimidate
the fellow; and, though it did not procure B8v 16
procure them the least good manners
from him, it however somewhat lowered
the insolence of his looks; he threw off
the chain; and, at the same time flinging
open the gate, he told them, with
a surly grin, they might search if they
pleased; but they would have their labour
for their pains.

The Marquis and Don Clement,
without regarding the insolence of this
fellow, entered the court, and proceeded
directly into the castle, which was
readily opened to them by a footboy.
He seemed startled at seeing two strange
cavaliers; when the porter, who had
followed them close, said bluntly,—
“These gentlemen want my Lord.—I
have told them already he is not here;
but they won’t believe me; so carry
them in, and let their own eyes convince
them.”
The lad appeared in great confusion B9r 17
confusion at this request. He protested
the Count was not there:—but the
Marquis and Don Clement persisting in
their demand of being allowed to search
the castle, the lackey was obliged to
yield: wherefore, civilly enough, desiring
them to walk in, he led them
through all the lower apartments of the
castle, which, though lofty and pleasant,
were nevertheless most of them
empty and full of dust.

The two gentlemen who, from all
these circumstances, concluded that
Clementina was a prisoner here, after
having gone through the lower chambers
and those in the first floor, without
making any discovery, were ascending
another stair-case, in hopes of meeting
with better success; when they were
stopped by an old Moorish woman who
was coming down. She catched hold of B9v 18
of the Marquis by the arm, and told
him hastily, in broken Spanish, that he
would only dirty himself if he went up;
for that in the upper story there were
only lumber and rubbish. This but
served to heighten their curiosity:—so,
rushing hastily up, they were followed
by the Mooress, who seemed to be much
frightened.

The first chamber they entered was
so dark, that they could not distinguish
any object; when, after having thrown
open the shutters, they saw lying on an
indifferent bed a young man, who
seemed to be in a profound sleep. His
fine long hair covered half his face.—
But how were they filled with a mixture
of delight and grief, when, on the
youth’s starting up (who had awoke
with the noise) they discovered him to be
Clementina! She no sooner saw her brother B10r 19
brother and the Marquis than she gave
a loud shriek, and fainted away on the
bed, from which she had just risen.—
The means used to recover her by the
Moresco soon brought her to herself.—
She opened her eyes; and casting them
first on the Marquis and then on her
brother, with looks of transport!—she
remained gazing on them, without once
offering to speak.

Though the Marquis could hardly
refrain throwing his arms round her
neck, his respect for her with-held him;
and he permitted Don Clement first to
embrace her; when, in his turn, advancing
to do the same, Clementina’s
face was immediately overspread with
blushes: and she cast her eyes on the
ground; from whence she seemed unable
to raise them.—“Dear sister,”
said Don Clement (seeing her embarrassment)rassment) B10v 20
“assume a little more courage.
You see yourself in the hands of
two persons who love you dearly. The
Marquis already knows your whole
story; and has undertaken this journey
with me into Spain, on purpose to join
his aid with mine in delivering you from
Don Gabriel.—You should therefore
rather return him thanks for his generosity,
than thus give yourself up to
the confusion which overwhelems you;
and for which I am sure your innocence
never gave any cause.”

Clementina, a little emboldened at
this kindness from her brother, threw
herself suddenly at his feet. “Ah! my
dear brother!”
said she, “how your
goodness transports me!—I am indeed
covered with confusion when I reflect
on what is past; and might reasonably
expect nothing but reproaches from you; B11r 21
you; when, instead of these, you receive
me with the most extreme tenderness!
—I can’t,”
added she, “I dare not
look at you without blushing:—and for
my Lord Marquis, to whom I owe a
thousand obligations, I cannot lift up
my eyes to him.”
“Why so, Madam?”
cried the Marquis, with an air that
spoke his joy (and at the same time
raising her up; for she was still embracing
her brother’s knees) “why
should you not look at me?—If while
I thought you the most accomplished
and deserving of my own sex, I loved
and esteemed you, do you think you
will be less dear to me for being in reality
the most amiable of women? So
far from it, that I declare to you, this
discovery will make me the happiest of
men.—If I am still possessed of that
place in your heart which you have so
often assured me I held; nay, I shall insistsist B11v 22
on the right I have there,”
continued
he, smiling; “for I don’t see why the
changing your habit should make you
change your mind; and if I thought it
would have that effect, I would rather
for ever see you in this dress than endure
the loss of your affection.”

“Come, come,” said Don Clement
(seeing his sister quite embarrassed)
“the Marquis is in the right in what
he says; and I think you can hardly
ever make him sufficient amends for the
disorder you have created in his family.
Madame Burganeze is almost run mad
for love of you: and I find that you had
even made some progress in the heart
of the beautiful Eugenia!”
“In short,”
interrupted the Marquis, “as you have
made the whole family sigh for you by
turns, I know not of any reparation that
can be offered, unless Don Clement will
yield you to me, to punish you for the mischiefs B12r 23
mischiefs you have occasioned.”

“Agreed,” cried Don Clement; “provided
you will consent that Eugenia
shall be mine, who owes large amends
for the indignity she offered me in mistaking
me for my sister.”
—The frankness
and vivicity with which both the
Marquis and Don Clement delivered
themselves, recovered Clementina from
her confusion, when all of them growing
more serious, Don Clement immediately
turned the discourse.—“We
waste time,”
said he, “and forget,
whilst in the company of our restored
Clementina, that we are all within the
hostile walls of our foe. Let us first go
from hence, and then we shall have leisure
to enquire what Castellar’s behaviour
has been to my sister.”

The Marquis, who was just going to
make the same proposal, immediately arose B12v 24
arose and took Clementina under the
arm, while Don Clement led the way
down stairs with his sword drawn.—
The Mooress having alarmed the servants
with the danger they were in of
losing the young prisoner committed to
their care, two lusty attendants of the
Count’s, who (together with the surly
porter) were all the men he had left at
the castle, presented themselves before
the Marquis and Don Clement, in order
to stop their passage; but both protesting
that their swords should force
their way through them, they thought
it most prudent to submit to the necessity
they were under of yielding. Clementina,
whose heart fluttered like a
bird newly escaped from the snares of
the fowler, hung upon the arms of her
two deliverers. They hastened out of
the castle to their two servants, who
attended at the gate with their horses.

In C1r 25

In this manner they set forward for
Madrid, and arrived about midnight
at the house of Don Clement, which his
two elder sisters still lived in since the
death of Don Manuel, their father—
It is impossible to describe the raptures
of Donna Clementina on seeing herself
thus happily restored to every thing that
was dear to her!—Her brother, her
sisters, and the Marquis, whom she despaired
of ever seeing again, were all at
once given back to her wishes!

Late as it was, they none of them
thought of rest; for Pimenteles, impatient
to know how the Count of Castellar
had conducted himself towards his
sister, begged of her to relate what had
passed since her forced departure from
Milan.—“You shall be informed of
every particular,”
answered Clementina;
“but as there are some circumstances in Vol. II. C the C1v 26
the beginning of my story which may be
necessary to mention, I shall acquaint
you with every thing in order.

As the Marquis, as well as yourself
and my sisters, already know the
motive of my leaving Castile, I need not
repeat it:—I shall only say that having
resolved to fly, I made nobody acquainted
with my design but my woman,
whose fidelity I knew might be
depended upon:—and here, my dear
brother, I must entreat your forgiveness
for concealing my purpose from you:
for, though you were as averse from
my marrying Don Gabriel as I was,
yet I knew you would oppose so rash
an action. For this reason therefore I
departed privately the night before my
intended marriage; having first equipped
myself and my maid with man’s
apparel.

C2 ‘I had C2r 27

I had heard that the Prince of Bassiniano
(who you knew was at Madrid)
was returning to Italy; and as I had no
settled plan for my conduct, I thought
of nothing so much as the means of
avoiding the hated Sahabedras; I resolved
to take this opportunity of getting
out of his reach, and at the same
time of seeing a charming country, of
which I had heard so much. As I could
speak Italian tolerably, I was the more
encouraged in this resolution. Taking
therefore a close chaise, my woman and
I set out, and got safe to Barcelona;
where we waited for the Prince’s coming.
We had the satisfaction to see
him the day after our arrival, and embarked
with him in a vessel for Genoa,
which we reached very happily; and
passing from thence to Milan, I had an
opportunity of seeing part of the finest
country in the world.—The Prince of Bas- C2v 28
Bassiniano
, with whom, brother, you
know you had some slight acquaintance
Madrid, treated me with great distinction;
as he looked upon me to be
the individual Don Clement whom he
knew in Spain: and this circumstance
in a manner obliged me to assume your
name, which I should not, for my own
security, otherwise have done: but I
now found it was like to be of great
service to me; for by this name the
Prince introduced me to many persons
of the first quality at Milan, and amongst
the rest, to the generous Marquis of
Pescara
; whom I found every way so
deserving of my esteem, that I thought
myself more obliged to the Prince for
procuring me his friendship, than for
all the other favours he had conferred
on me. How many happy hours, my
Lord,”
pursued Clementina, addressing
herself to the Marquis, “have we past together, C3r 29
together; when your ignorance of my
sex gave me the liberty of discoursing
with you without reserve! How often
have you boasted to me of the freedom
of your heart; and that you would not
exchange the sweets you enjoyed in my
friendship for the love of the greatest
Princess upon earth! These were indeed
most flattering assurances, and
filled me with inexpressible delight:—
but whatever satisfaction I took in being
beloved by one whom I so highly valued,
that happiness had like to have
been wholly destroyed; and that at a
time, too, when you were endeavouring
to bind me still more closely to you
by the most endearing ties. In short,
my Lord, you gave me to understand
that you wished to see me united to
your niece, the fair and amiable Eugenia.

C3 ‘So C3v 30

So unexpected a favour, and at the
same time a circumstance so contrary to
the whole scope of my designs, threw
me into the utmost consternation.—
What could I do? The honour was
too great to be refused;—and yet the
impossibility of accepting it was still
greater!—‘What,’ said I, ‘must the Marquis,
or what must Eugenia think of a
denial?—I am their guest, and have
received so many marks of their friendship
and affection, that I could kill
myself for acting so disingenuous a part.
Oh! let me rather confess myself at
once to be an unfortunate woman who
seeks so much goodness and generosity.
I had almost put this purpose into action
the same minute, and was ready to discover
myself to you, when I was stopped
by an impulse of shame. What am I
going to do? The Marquis must look upon C4r 31
upon me as a rash and imprudent creature;
and that friendship which he has
hitherto indulged towards me, may be
turned into contempt and aversion.’

This last reflection silenced me effectually,
and threw such a damp on my
spirits that I was near sinking down on
the spot: but though I resolved still to
conceal my sex from you, I was yet at
a loss what answer to return; for there
were two circumstances which embarrassed
me to the last degree. The one
was that, as in the frequent conversasationstions
we had together, you with the
greatest freedom opened your heart to
me; I in return had more than once
assured you that I had brought my freedom
into Italy; and that no lady had
yet obliged me to resign it:—so that
this was an irremediable bar to my
pleading a pre-engagement. But what
was still more perplexing to me, I had C4 discovered C4v 32
discovered that I was far from being indifferent
to Donna Eugenia.

I had reason to imagine she would
not refuse me, in case I was proposed to
her for a husband. ‘If the Marquis,’
said I, should communicate his designs
to his niece, and find that she already
approves of me, into what sad st raitsstraits
shall I be driven?—I must either fly
from the presence of persons so dear to
me, branded perhaps as an impostor or
an ungrateful wretch; or else disclose a
secret that must plunge me into the
deepest confusion!’
—The thoughts of
this cruel alternative tortured me for
some hours. At length I resolved (as
my last expedient) before the Marquis
should speak to Eugenia, and discover
her favourable sentiments towards me,
to throw myself at her feet, confess the
whole truth of my story to her, and conjurejure C5r 33
her to keep the secret. Accordingly
I entreated Eugenia by a note I
conveyed to her, to allow me a private
interview; for I must not omit to tell
you that (as we women are more quick-
sighted than men in discovering the
foibles of our own sex) I had observed
that Madame Burganeze had cast a favourable
eye on me from the first time
she saw me; which had made her more
than ordinarily watchful of her daughter,
whose beauty she was not a little
jealous of, insomuch that I could never
find an opportunity of speaking to Eugenia
but in her mother’s presence:—
for this reason then it was that I was
obliged to act with so much precaution
in requesting a secret interview with the
young lady.—She granted it; and I
was just making the intended discovery
to her when we were surprised by Madame
Burganeze
.

C5 ‘I leave C5v 34

I leave you to judge, my Lord,
and you, brother,”
proceeded Clementina,
“how vexatious such an interruption
was!—Eugenia was still ignorant
of my sex; and I thought it a secret of
too much importance to trust Madame
Burganeze
with; especially at a time
when the violence of her jealousy had
almost robbed her of her reason. You
will think perhaps that the best way to
cure her of it was to disclose myself to
her at once: but I was of a different
opinion. Prepossessed as she was with
the belief of my being a man, I could
not have disabused her without entering
abruptly into a detail of circumstances,
which I thought of a nature too nice to
be committed to the discretion of a
person of so violent a temper. Besides,
might it not be a disappointment to her,
to find she had set her affections on one
of her own sex; which would rather serve C6r 35
serve to exasperate her against me for
the deceit, than engage her to befriend
me. Added to all this, I had prepared
to relate my story to Donna Eugenia
with all the interesting circumstances
that could induce her to pity me; and
I could not think of making all at once
a discovery which I thought might, if
managed with prudence, secure me in
the happiness which I then enjoyed.

My thoughts were thus employed
whilst Madame Burganeze was venting
her fury against the innocent Eugenia,
whose fear and confusion served to increase
mine. At length, in the hurry
of my reflections an expedient came
into my head, which I did not hesitate
a moment in practising.—I feigned a
violent passion for Madame Burganeze,
and had the courage to declare it; and
even went so far as to assure her that I C6 came C6v 36
came to her daughter on no other account,
than to beg her assistance in the
prosecution of my love. I added a
great deal to strengthen what I asserted;
and Madame Burganeze, already infatuated
with her passion for me and vanity
of her own charms, was so very
weak as to give credit to what I said;
and even swallowed the bait with a
facility which surprised me. She heard
me with pleasure; and I had no reason
to complain of the cruelty of my mistress.

But though I had the good fortune
to extricate both Eugenia and myself
out of this dilemma, I had nevertheless
the mortification of being obliged
to quit the apartment of that lady, without
having it in my power to undeceive
her in the opinion she might entertain
of the odd confession I had just made to her C7r 37
her mother, otherwise than by a sign;
which however I endeavoured to make
as expressive as possible.

You, my Lord,” pursued Clementina,
to the Marquis, “are no doubt
apprized of many of these particulars:
I have therefore endeavoured to run
them over briefly; and have told you
what my own sentiments were, in order
to account to your for a conduct which
must otherwise appear very strange, even
though that secret which was the grand
spring of my seemingly mysterious actions
is now discovered.

Madame Burganeze conjured me
to keep our loves concealed till she could
dispose of her daughter in marriage,
which she said she would endeavour
speedily to do; and then hoped to get
her brother to consent to our union.— You C7v 38
You may be sure I was not backward in
approving these measures; but having
already taken such a step towards discovering
myself to Eugenia, I was impatient
to complete my design.

The Marquis must remember the
extreme embarrassment which his discourse
threw me into, when, in plain
terms, he proposed to me the honour of
his alliance. I was driven to extremity.
I once more begged of Eugenia to give
me a meeting. I thought that after
having disclosed myself to her, and engaged
her in my interest, my heart
would be at ease, and I could at leisure
find means to extricate myself from my
ridiculous amour with Madame Burganeze.
It was only the esteem of the
Marquis of Pescara and Donna Eugenia
which I was in dread of losing. That
amiable lady condescended to gratify me C8r 39
me a second time. We were surprised
in the wood, and I was forced away, in
spite of my feeble resistance. I believe
Count of Castellar (accompanied by a
Spanish gentleman, who was his friend) that used this violence.

It seems that after having searched
for me in several other parts of Italy, he
had been at Milan for some time in disguise,
where he by chance heard the
name of Don Clement Pimenteles.—As
he very well knew that my brother was
in France, he immediately concluded
it could be nobody but myself who had
assumed this new character. Trusting
therefore for the certainty of his intelligence
to no eyes but his own, he
watched all my motions, and had frequent
opportunities of seeing me at
mass; for I avoided all other places of public C8v 40
public meeting as much as possible. Being
now convinced he had found the
prey he sought after, he kept a constant
spy on me; who giving him intelligence
of my setting out from the Marquis’s,
attended only by a single servant,
that day on which I had feigned a journey
to Lodi, in order to meet Eugenia
in the wood, he resolved not to let slip
this opportunity of seizing me.

These particulars I afterwards learned
from himself: and thus that name,
which I was in a manner under a necessity
of bearing, and which had procured
me a various mixture of pleasure and
of pain, was now at length the means
of betraying me; and, had it not been
for my late deliverance, would have
been my destruction; for the Count
having accomplished his cruel design,
forced me into a calash, which an attendanttendant C9r 41
was leading after him for the
purpose: and Castellar, seating himself
by me, drove with such fury, that in less
than three hours we had got above six
leagues from Milan.

It was late when we arrived at an
ordinary inn, where Don Gabriel told
me I was to pass the night. He led me
out of the calash with very little ceremony.

We were shewn by the mistress of
the house into a chamber which the
Count obliged me to enter with himself;
when, after having locked the door, he
began to load me with the bitterest reproaches:
he did not even stop at calling
me wanton and abandoned!—I
answered him only with tears.—He assured
me, that the world should not
rescue me out of his hands; and then left C9v 42
left me to the repose I stood in need of,
having first ordered something to refresh
me.

I threw myself on the bed without
taking off my clothes, and passed the
most dismal night I had ever known in
my life. I reflected with horror on my
situation.—‘I am now in the power of
my cruel persecutor’
, said I:—‘he no
doubt will force me back to the presence
of a much incensed father, from
whom I must expect the most rigorous
treatment: he will compel me to marry
Don Gabriel, whom I now hate more
than ever; and think that too small a
punishment for my fault!’
I bitterly regretted
my separation from my amiable
friends at Milan, who I knew would be
grieved at my absence; and I was in despair
of ever seeing them again. Thus
I tortured myself till day-break, when the C10r 43
the Count knocked at my door, and
asked me, if I was up? I arose off the
bed, and he immediately entered the
chamber, followed by a servant, who
brought in chocolate. I had but very
little inclination to taste any thing;
however I was obliged to accompany
him at breakfast.

When we had done, he proposed
pursuing our journey; for he told me,
he meant to carry me directly back
to Spain. I made him no answer; but
being again forced to take my seat by
him in the calash, which had fresh
horses, we travelled at the same rate we
had done the evening before, the Count
entertaining me with threats, and expressions
of resentment.

Nothing could be more dreadful to
me than this journey; when having got out C10v 44
out of the Milanese territories, we entered
the Pope’s dominions; and having
reached Civita-Vechia, we found
there a vessel ready to sail for Alicant.
—The Count, without losing time, obliged
me to go on board with him.—
The voyage was as prosperous as Don
Gabriel
could have wished. We arrived
safely in Spain. But the sight of
my native country served only to redouble
my grief!—‘This,’ said I, ‘this is
the fatal place where I am for ever to be
consigned to the arms of a man whom
I detest; and who will even think he
does me a great honour in accepting
of me!’

We were no sooner got on shore
than the haughty Sahabedras put me
into a coach, which he had hired to
carry me to Madrid; and, without allowing
me time to repose myself after the C11r 45
the fatigue of the voyage, he set out
with me for the kingdom of Castile.
My terror increased in proportion as we
drew nearer to Madrid; and what with
grief and the hurry of my journey, Don
Gabriel
found me so ill that he thought
it adviseable to stop at the castle where
you found me. I was carried in in so
weak a condition, that it was some days
before I could leave my bed. Meanwhile
there was no care omitted for my
recovery.—The Count’s physician attended
me; and in a little time assured
him that I would be well enough to be
removed to Madrid.

But Don Gabriel had now changed
his design of carrying me thither:—he
began to consider that my father might
perhaps have by this time repented his
severity toward me; and that, softened
by my tears and prayers, he would no longer C11v 46
longer press me to accept of a husband
whom I had run so many hazards to
avoid. On the other hand, he knew
that I was entirely at his own disposal;
none of my family knew of my being
in Spain. He therefore thought it most
prudent to conceal me from them, and
make use of the power he had over
my person, to force me to accept of him.

The solitude I was in seemed fit for
so black a purpose. Wherefore, having
put one or two of the apartments
into some tolerable order, he retained
such of his domestics as he thought he
could depend on; amongst which number
was the old Moorish woman, who
was always trusted with the care of that
castle.

I was now perfectly recovered; and
was surprised that the Count had not ordereddered C12r 47
some change of apparel for me
(for I was still in the male habit in
which he had found me); when one
morning he entered my chamber, and
accosted me with his usual haughtiness.
‘You can now, Madam,’ said he, ‘no
longer refuse me your hand; you know
you are mine by mutual agreement between
your father and me: and I question
whether any person of quality, after
your having abandoned your friends
and your country, to ramble about in
masquerade, would be very fond of fulfilling
those engagements. However, I
am willing to pass over your irregularities,
provided you will submit with a
good grace to obey your father’s will,
in consenting to make me your husband.’

—He waited for my answer with his
eyes fixed severely on me.—‘If my father,’
replied I, ‘persists in his cruel resolution
of forcing me to accept of you, I can C12v 48
I can no longer resist his commands:
but till I receive those commands from
his own mouth, be assured your importunity
is in vain.’
‘I will go then this
very day to Don Manuel Pimenteles,’

said he, ‘and acquaint him with your return
to Spain. If he continues just to
his promise, I will yield you to his authority;
but be assured, that if I find
him disposed to break his word with
me, or to shew the least indulgence to
your headstrong humour, I will convoy
you to a place where he shall never hear
of you; and from whence all the united
power of mankind shall not be able to
force you.’

He left me after this insolent menace;
and I heard no more of him till
the next evening; when he entered my
chamber with a disordered countenance. I am D1r 49
‘I am sorry, Madam,’ said he, ‘to bring
you news that must afflict you; but I
under the necessity of letting you
know that your father is dead, and
that you have no choice to make, but
that of accepting me for your husband.
I have not acquainted any of your
friends that you are in my possession;
therefore, if you entertain hopes of being
delivered out of my hands, they are
vain; for I am now absolute master of
your destiny.’
—But added, in a softer
tone (seeing me dissolved in tears) ‘I
shall make no other use of that power
than to procure you a happy establishment
for life, and make you mistress of
a fortune more splendid than you could
have even hoped for. Reflect on the
situation you are in, the value of the
offer I make you, and what mischiefs
your refusal must create. I will give
you,’
continued he, ‘three days to considerVol. II. D sider D1v 50
of it: and I am persuaded you will
not be so blind to your own happiness
as to continue obstinate.’
—I was too
much taken up with the grief which the
melancholy news he had just related
filled me with, to be able to make him
any reply. He observed it, and retired.

Though I was greatly afflicted at
the death of my father, I however drew
this consolation from it,—that there was
now no authority which could compel
me to marry the Count. ‘Were my father
still living,’
said I, ‘it would no longer
be in my power to resist his will; but his
death having freed me from all obligations
of duty, I shall have nothing to
combat but the persecutions of a
wretch, whose love or hatred I equally
contemn.’

‘Don D2r 51

Don Gabriel did not appear before
me till the three days were expired in
which he had desired me to consider of
his proposal.

I received him with an air that
could give him but little encouragement;
however he seated himself by
me, and assuming an affable countenance,
‘I come, Madam,’ said he, ‘to
receive a decisive answer to what I proposed
to you. You have had time to
reflect on it; and I even flatter myself
before hand, that you will no longer oppose
what must contribute to your happiness,
as well as to mine. Speak,’
added
he, taking one of my hands:—‘Do
you consent to make me yours?’
—I remained
silent for some time; which Don
Gabriel
interpreted in his favour; for I
observed he waited, smiling, for my answer.
In reality, I was studying what D2 reply D2v 52
reply to make; for I thought it best to
dissemble a little, in order if possible to
obtain my liberty. At last, casting my
eyes on him with more mildness than I
was accustomed to do,—‘You take very
strange measures, my Lord,’
said I, ‘to
soften my heart towards you.—Do you
think that the rigorous confinement you
impose on me, and this habit, which I
blush still to behold myself in, are not
rather motives of disgust, than inducements
to listen to your pretensions.—
Furnish me at least with apparel proper
for my sex: and if you would inspire
me with any favourable sentiments for
you, restore me to my friends; suffer
me to wipe away my tears for the loss
of my father; and you may then claim
that from my gratitude which you must
never hope to extort from my fears.’
—I
pronounced this in a resolute tone, and
looked steadfastly in his face. He only laughed D3r 53
laughed at me: and shaking his head,
‘Ah Donna Clementina!’ said he, ‘you
must forgive me if I doubt a little the
sincerity of your intentions:—after the
experience I have had, you may imagine
I can have but small dependence
on your generosity; for if, whilst you are
in my power without any resource, you
contemn the advantages I propose to
you, do you think I can be so silly as
to believe, that when you are at your
liberty, and amongst your family, who
have always opposed me, that you will
then accept of them? No, no,’
added
he; ‘were your father still living, I might
perhaps consent to what you demand;
but since he can no longer oppose his
authority in my favour, I shall hardly
be so weak as to put you in possession of
a freedom that will for ever destroy my
hopes. As for your dress, as nobody
but myself shall see you, I declare it to D3 you D3v 54
you by every thing sacred, that you
shall never alter it, unless it be for your
wedding-clothes,’
interrupted I, furiously;
‘and take this as my final answer,
—that I would rather throw myself into
the arms of death than yous.’
‘And so
you shall,’
cried he, enraged in his turn;
and drawing his sword, with distracted
looks, he lifted his arm, in order, as I
imagined, to plunge it in my breast. I
was seized with a sudden terror at this
action, which not being able to overcome,
I fell in a swoon at the cruel Sahabedras’
feet.

I know not what impression this
scene made on him; for when I recovered
my senses, I found myself in another
chamber, laid on the bed, and no
one with me but the Moorish woman.—
she made haste to inform me, that her Lord, D4r 55
Lord, exasperated almost to madness
at my refusal, had certainly deprived me
of life, if my sudden fainting had not
staid his arm.—‘I yet tremble,’ added
she, ‘at the remembrance of his fury;
and I even fear that nothing but your
immediate compliance with his wishes
will shield you from the terrible effects
of his resentment.—Consider, my dear
lady,’
continued she (affecting to interest
herself in my happiness) ‘how fatal
your obstinacy may prove to you! My
Lord is too haughty and passionate to
brook a denial, without a revenge the
most severe that he can inflict. Alas!
who knows what mischiefs he is now
meditating? Indeed,’
pursued she after
a short pause, ‘if I might presume to
advise you, I would have you endeavour
to repair the injury you have offered
him, by beginning this very minute to
change your behaviour towards him. D4 Suffer D4v 56
Suffer me to carry him some obliging
expressions of your sorrow for having
offended him. I will tell him,’
said she,
rising,—I interrupted her here; and
catching her by the arm,—‘You shall
tell him nothing from me,’
said I, ‘but
that I despise him; and would sooner
suffer that death which he just now
threatened me with (and which I believe
him still barbarous enough to inflict
on me) than ever consent to be his
wife.’

The woman, who no doubt had
been instructed in every thing she said,
expected that the danger I saw myself
exposed to, would have inspired me
with other sentiments. She seemed
confounded at this reply; and left me
with a very surly air, and muttering
something to herself.

‘Upon D5r 57

Upon the whole, when I began to
reflect a little, I was far from being terrified
at Don Gabriel’s menaces. On
the contrary, believing that he would
not be so wicked as to take away my
life, I resolved to treat him with so
much scorn and aversion, that he must
at length lose all hopes, and abandon
me to my fate.

This reflection made me pass the
day with some little tranquility. The
Moor attended me at supper as usual:
she assured me that she had not dared
repeat what I had said to her Lord;
who was so exasperated against me, that
he protested I should remain a prisoner
in the chamber I was then in (which
was much worse than that which was at
first assigned me) till I had altered my
mind. ‘However,’ added she, ‘he has
commanded me to attend on you with D5 my D5v 58
my accustomed services; which indulgence
I question whether he would have
granted you, had I told him with what
contempt you treated him this morning.’

—I affected to believe her; but at the
same time assured her that I would never
swerve from my resolution.—And
indeed I spent the greatest part of the
night in fortifying myself more strongly
in it.

I was but just risen next morning
when the Count came into my chamber.
I observed a sort of languor in his face,
which dissipated some little impressions
of fear that his first appearance made on
me. I waited till he should begin the
conversation; and from the embarrassment
I remarked in his looks, I guessed
that his love had got the better of his
resentment. He walked several times
about the room without speaking. At last, stopping D6r 59
stopping short, he said, in a tone gentle
enough,—‘Are you resolved then, Madam,
to persist in your cruelty? Or
may I yet hope that you will consent to
happiness? Speak,’
added he; ‘you
know I love you. Don’t abuse the ascendant
you have over me, by shewing
fresh marks of scorn which I have endured
but too long.’
—I replied, I was
steadfast in the resolution I had taken,—
never to hearken to him till he had restored
me to my friends; and in the end
assured him, that I would set my love
at no other price whatever but that of
my liberty.

I saw indignation in his eyes at my
discourse: he fell again into those transports
of rage which had so terrified me
the day before. He threatened me in
the severest terms with his vengeance;
and accusing himself of madness for D6 having D6v 60
having loved a creature so unworthy of
his care, he flung out of the room, telling
me I should have time enough to
repent of my folly and ingratitude.

I gave but little heed to his threats,
being glad to be relieved from his presence.
It was some weeks before I saw
him again; in all which time I was never
permitted to stir out of my chamber,
nor did I see any one except the Moorish
woman, who told me one day, that the
Count was resolved to try me once
more; but that if he found me continue
obstinate, I was to expect the worst
treatment.—Don Gabriel accordingly
made me a visit a day or two after:—
but whether my resolution had staggered
him a little or that he still retained some
degree of respect for me, he did not
offer any outrage; but then he protested
he would keep me a prisoner till he had D7r 61
had humbled that stubborn heart which
refused to be his; and at the same time
he declared that he would blaze it everywhere,
that he had kept me for some
months in his castle, concealed in man’s
clothes; ‘and we will then see,’ said he,
‘whether you will have much reason to
wish herself out of my possession.’
—He
left me with this base insult; and, taking
horse for Madrid, where his employments
oblige him for the most part to
reside, I found myself exposed to the
cruellest misfortune, with no other
consolation than that of my innocence.

’Tis now some days since he departed;
and I make no doubt but he has put his menace in execution.—I
had already begun to sink under my
fears, when Heaven heard my prayer,
and sent the only two persons in the
world to my assistance whom I most
ardently wished for.”

Cle D7v 62

Clementina having finished her relation,
her sisters, who many times had
been in tears, conjured her to think of
taking some rest; wherefore, retiring to
her apartment, the Marquis and Don
Clement
did the like to those which
were prepared for them.

It was late next morning before they
rose; when Clementina, having reassumed
her proper dress, recalled also
with it those modest graces which she
had before endeavoured to banish; and
she now appeared to the Marquis the
loveliest of her sex. After the first salutations
were over, the conversation immediately
turned on the Count of Castellar.
Clementina, who was well acquainted
with the fierceness of that Lord’s
temper, trembled to think of the flames
which she knowknew were kindling, and
which must inevitably break out. Her appre D8r 63
apprehensions were not for her brother
alone:—the Marquis of Pescara had
an equal share in her concern; for I
believe it is needless to inform the reader
that the passion she had conceived for
that accomplished gentleman had governed
all her actions, and had enabled
her so strenuously to resist Don Gabriel’s
violence.—She was persuaded that the
Marquis, as well as Don Clement, meditated
revenge against Castellar, though
both of them affected to speak carelessly
of him, in order to disguise their
real intentions from her, and prevent
her from being alarmed; but they had
in reality agreed between themselves to
go in search of Don Gabriel that very
day, and oblige him to atone for the
outrage he had offered Clementina.—
The Marquis begged that Don Clement
would let him have the honour of
avenging his mistress. Pimenteles, whose D8v 64
whose courage was not inferior to his
friend’s, opposed this, and declared it
belonged to himself alone to chastise
Don Gabriel for the insults he had
thrown upon his sister; alledging that he
only was injured, as the Marquis was
not supposed by Don Gabriel to have
any interest in Clementina’s fate. The
Marquis was too much in love, and too
much provoked at the remembrance of
that lady’s ill treatment to accede to
the reasonableness of this plea.—A
friendly contest continued for some time
between the brother and the lover,
which should take upon him the punishment
of the Count; but in the end
each was obliged to yield so far to the
other, as to agree that Castellar himself
should chuse which of the two he would
decide to contest with.

Having thus concerted their measures,
the better to conceal them they talked D9r 65
talked of nothing but pleasures, and the
joy Eugenia would feel on seeing them
all return safe to Italy.—They were discoursing
with the ladies in this manner
in Clementina’s apartment, when a servant
came into the room and whispered
Don Clement. He rose off his seat,
and, telling his sisters he would return
in a minute, he left the room with so
composed an air, that they did not suppose
it was a business of any moment
that called him from them. He went
directly into a drawing-room, where the
servant told him the Count of Castellar
waited for him.

Don Gabriel having been informd
of what had happened the night before
by one of his domestics (whom the
Moor had dispatched to Madrid immediately
after Clementina had been taken
from the castle) was so enraged at the account, D9v 66
account, that the messenger had nearly
fallen the fi rstfirst sacrifice to his fury:
he however constrained himself enough
to hear the particulars of her escape,
and the artifice the two gentlemen had
made use of to get admittance. None
of the servants knew either the Marquis
or Don Clement; but the Count was so
fully persuaded that it could be no other
than the latter that had freed Clementina
from her captivity, he did not hesitate
a moment what to do, but, commanding
his footman who had brought
him this information not to say a word
of the affair to any one, he ordered him
to go back to the castle; and, forbidding
any of his people to follow him,
he went directly to Don Clement’s
house, who lived but a few streets from
his own. That gentleman, as I have
already said, found the Count in the
drawing-room, where he was walking to D10r 67
to and fro in a violent manner, “You
have saved me the trouble,”
said Don
Clement
, “of going to look for you at
your house; for be assured that you
shall answer for the wrongs you have
done my sister.”
“Your insolence,”
replied Don Gabriel, “in presuming to
make use of such violence as you have
done, can be atoned for with nothing
but your life!”
“Come then,” cried
Don Clement, “we have each of us
swords; and a few minutes shall end
our quarrel.”
Saying this, he threw
open the chamber-door which led into
the garden, and invited the Count to go
along with him. They both hastened
down a terrace that faced the door, and
turning into a grass-plot from whence
they could not be discerned from any
of the windows, Don Clement stopped,
and drawing his sword, the Count did
the like; when somebody called out, “Hold, D10v 68
“Hold, Don Clement!—remember our
agreement:—the honour of his combat
may fall to my lot.”
The Marquis,
who spoke these words with the greatest
precipitation as he ran towards them,
and having his sword drawn, ran in between
them in an instant, and obliged
them to suspend their engagement.

It was the same servant who had acquainted
Don Clement with the Count’s
being in the house, who, happening to
overheard part of what they said, had the
curiosity to listen to the remainder:—
he was one of those who had attended
his master and the Marquis at the rescue
of Clementina; so, apprehending
some ill consequences from Don Gabriel’s
visit, he had the discretion to
beckon the Marquis out of the chamber,
where he was discoursing with
Clementina and her sisters. He followedlowed D11r 69
Don Clement and the Count;
wherefore getting to the spot where they
were going to engage almost as soon as
they, he had time to prevent the execution
of their design. If Don Clement
was mortified at the unexpected
appearance of the Marquis, who he had
no mind should interfere in the quarrel,
Don Gabriel was fired with the utmost
indignation. “I don’t know how seasonable
this interruption may be to you,
Signior Pimenteles,”
said he, scornfully;
“but for my own part, I am so little
disposed for delay, that I desire this gentleman
may either retire instantly, or
resolve to be a passive witness of our
contest.”
“I am too much concerned
in your quarrel,”
said the Marquis, hastily,
“to submit to those terms:—for
learn, proud Castellar, that I love
Donna Clementina, and hope shortly to
become her husband.”
—He needed to have D11v 70
have said no more to provoke Don Gabriel.
“I am for you then,” cried he;
“not the brother but the lover of Clementina
shall be my first victim, since
he will have it so.”
Saying this, he
advanced towards the Marquis with so
much fury, that he hardly escaped a
thrust which Don Gabriel made at his
heart:—however he avoided it, yet not
so nimbly but that he received a wound
in his arm. The Count, eager to pursue
his victory, pressed on with so much
warmth and so little conduct, that the
Marquis, who had the advantage of a
cooler and more deliberate courage,
easily defended himself; and at the same
time gave his adversary a wound which
made him fall motionless to the earth.

Though Don Clement (who was
forced to be a spectator of this rencounter)
was rejoiced at his friend’s success, he D12r 71
he was nevertheless greatly alarmed at
the condition in which he beheld the
Count. He knew his fortune, and the
rank he held at the court of Spain; and
was apprehensive his death might be attended
with very will consequences to the
Marquis, who was a stranger there:but
these fears began to diminish when
he perceived that Don Gabriel still
breathed.—The Marquis and he took
him in their arms, and, carrying him
in, laid him gently on the bed, whilst a
surgeon was sent for with the utmost
speed. The great quantity of blood
which the Count had lost threw him into
a swoon; wherein he continued till after
his wound was dressed, which the surgeon
declared was not mortal: nevertheless,
the Count was so much weakened
that he remained speechless the whole
night.—Don Clement never left his
bedside; and even begged of his sister to D12v 72
to visit him, which she readily consented
to; and, notwithstanding the cruel
treatment she had received, she attended
him with as much care and assiduity as
if he had been as dear to her as he was
really odious; for during six days, in
which he continued in a fever, the amiable
Clementina seldom left his chamber.

In all this time there had not any
enquiries been made after the Count:
for since his carrying Clementina to his
castle on the banks of the Guadimara,
he had been often accustomed to pass
from thence to Madrid and back again,
without suffering any of his attendants
to follow him; fearing lest the secret
should be revealed, by his domestics
conversing too freely together; for notwithstanding
his threats to Clementina,
that he would discover her being his pos- E1r 73
possession, he in reality used all his endeavours
to conceal it. But all his
caution could not prevent his servants
from suspecting that it could be nothing
but a mistress which occasioned his
making such frequent and private excursions;
so that now, far from being
alarmed at his absence, they only imagined
he was gone to pass a few days
with his incognita:—on the other hand,
those servants whom he had left at the
castle, believing him safe at Madrid,
gave themselves no farther trouble
about him. So that had the wound
which he received from the Marquis
proved mortal, his death might have
remained a secret at least till the authors
of it had time to withdraw:—but it was
otherwise ordained; for in ten days the
Count’s illness was so much abated, that
the physicians declared he was out of
danger. Don Clement therefore findingVol. II. E ing E1v 74
him in a condition to bear the conversation
with which he intended to
entertain him, sat down by his bed-side,
when, accosting him with an air of
friendship,—“My Lord,” said he,
“it is with infinite satisfaction that I
see you restored almost to your former
health; nor would I have you believe
that this proceeds from any fears I was
under on account of your death: for
had that misfortune really come to pass,
your rencounter with the Marquis and
concealment in my house are both such
profound secrets, that that Lord might
have retired into Italy before the affair
could possibly be discovered:—or should
he stay, the justness of our cause and the
greatness of our injuries would have been
a sufficient plea for his pardon.”
Don
Clement
paused here; and finding the
Count made no reply, but seemed as if
he attended the conclusion of this speech, E2r 75
speech, he proceeded,—“Consider,
Don Gabriel, the insults which you
have thrown on our family!—’Tis true
my father promised to give you Donna
Clementina
for a wife; and I myself
should have thought your alliance an
honour to our house, if the unconquerable
dislike my sister had to you had not
inclined me to wish the marriage might
not take place. I made no secret of
this to yourself; and you know I conjured
my father not to force Clementina’s
inclinations; but he was obdurate,
and the consequence of this was that my
sister was compelled to abandon her
friends, her country, and even her sex,
in order to her concealment and protection
against injuries! Was not this sufficient
cause for her to hate you?—But
this was not all; you followed her indeed,
but rather with the arrogance of a
master who pursues a fugitive slave, than E2 with E2v 76
with the respect of a lover who would
conquer the aversion of his mistress!—
What right had you to treat a young
maiden of quality in the manner you
have since done? To make her a prisoner
in your house, to conceal her from
her friends, to threaten her with death!
or what’s worse, the ruin of her reputation,
if she refused to comply with your
desires!—These are truths, my Lord,
which, should they appear against you,
would redound but little to your honour;
and I much doubt whether your
high rank would screen you from the
punishment I might with so much justice
demand on you: but I am satisfied
to overlook all these injuries; and even
Clementina herself has with the utmost
generosity bestowed the tenderest care
on you, and is already inclined to forget
the hardships you have made her
suffer, provided you will promise to trouble E3r 77
trouble her quiet no more, nor make
any farther attempts upon her person.
She is now in the hands of a brother,
from whom you will find it no very easy
matter to tear her:—therefore, my
Lord, resign with a good grace those
pretentions which no force in the world
will enable you to make good.”
—Here
Don Clement stopped, to observe what
impression his discourse had made on
the Count. He had avoided in the latter
part of his speech to make any mention
of the Marquis; believing that the
name of a rival would only serve to encrease
the consternation he began to
remark in Don Gabriel’s face, who had
heard him attentively without once
offering to interrupt him.

When the Count found Don Clement
had done speaking;—“You have opened
my eyes, Signior,”
said he, with a E3 sigh, E3v 78
sigh, “which have been but too long
blinded by a misplaced, though ardent,
passion for your sister:—I am fully sensible
of the indignities I have offered to
that lady; I am the more ashamed of it
when I reflect on her sweetness and generous
concern for me in my illness.—
Teach me therefore,”
said he (grasping
one of Don Clement’s hands) “teach
me how to make her a reparation; for
I swear to you I have no longer any designs
upon her but what tend towards
her happiness.”
“Oh, my Lord!” said
Don Clement, “I am charmed to see
you in this happy temper of mind!
Our revenge, though just, has already
been too severe:—since it almost
cost you your life, we can demand no
farther reparation: and I think, after
the declaration you have made, it would
be only injurious to suspect you capable
of harbouring any sentiments contrary to E4r 79
to so generous a change in your heart.
You may depend upon it that I shall
for ever bury in oblivion all that is past.
I entreat your friendship from this moment;
and promise you that neither the
Marquis nor Clementina shall any longer
look upon you as their foe.”

At the name of the Marquis Don
Gabriel
blushed and betrayed some
inward emotions which he would fain
have concealed.—Don Clement observed
it; and believing that he still entertained
a secret jealousy against him as a
rival, or that the remembrance of his
being so lately vanquished by him
had occasioned this disorder, was willing
to divert so disagreeable a subject:
so all at once changing the discourse,
“I believe, my Lord,” said he, “you
will in a day or two be able to leave
your chamber. I am impatient to see E4 you E4v 80
you well again:—not,”
continued he,
smiling, “that I intend you shall leave
me so soon, but I long to entertain you
as a welcome guest, without the restraint
that physicians and surgeons have laid
on you: and I have two sisters besides
Clementina to whom you owe a compliment,
for the fright they have been
in on your account ever since your illness.”
“Indeed,” answered the Count,
“I am the most unfortunate man in the
world, to be the occasion of so much
trouble; but, à-propos, where is the
gentleman to whose prosperous courage
I think you are indebted for my being
burdensome to you thus long—the
Marquis I have heard you call him?—
He told me before that unlucky combat,
that he was to marry your sister; I
believe him indeed worthy to be her
husband. Has he yet obtained that
happy title? Tell me, for I am no longer E5r 81
longer Clementina’s lover, and therefore
cannot be his rival.”
—He spoke this
with so open and candid an air, that
Don Clement made no doubt of his
sincerity.—“They are not yet married,
my Lord,”
said he; “you may imagine
that we would not make choice of
a time in which your life was in danger
to celebrate a wedding. The Marquis
himself, whose love for my sister might
justify a little impatience on this occasion,
was too generous even to press
me to conclude the matter till he was
assured of your recovery, which (as I
hope) will be completed in a few days;
and we then flatter ourselves that you
will honour with your presence a ceremony,
which nothing but the condition
you have been in should have retarded.”
“I have,” replied Don Gabriel,
“entirely renounced all pretensions to,
or even hopes of gaining your sister’s E5 favour; E5v 82
favour; and can hear of her being in
the arms of another without a sigh: but
I must still confess myself so weak that
I could not endure to be a witness of it:
therefore spare me, Don Clement,—
spare me the mortification of this view;
and to be truly generous, suspend your
sister’s marriage till I am in a condition
to remove from your house, when I
shall leave you all in full possession of
your happiness.”

A request so natural, and even delivered
in a soft and humble tone of
voice, from a man of the Count’s
haughty temper, could not fail of moving
the person to whom it was addressed.
“I shall obey you, my Lord,” answered
Don Clement, “though I assure
you I shall regret losing you more than
you can imagine!”

After E6r 83

After this conversation the Count,
Don Clement, and the Marquis (whom
the former had desired to see and be
reconciled to) lived together in perfect
amity. In a few days Don Gabriel
found himself in a condition to go
abroad:—so, taking leave of Don Clement,
with many acknowledgments for
his care and tenderness, he told him he
had one request to make, which he
hoped he would not refuse to grant.—
“I am now going,” said he, “to a seat
I have about two leagues from Madrid,
where I intend to pass a month or two;
I insist on returning the civilities I have
received at your hands, by having the
Marquis and you, together with your
fair sisters, to spend some days with
me.”
“Though nothing would be
more agreeable to me,”
answered Don
Clement
, “than to accept this mark of
your friendship, yet I cannot take upon E6 me E6v 84
me to promise any thing in the name of
the Marquis; on the contrary, I know
he is impatient to return to Italy; that
he is already tired of delays; and, for
my own part, I have some reasons to
wish myself in that country, which incline
me to hasten our departure as much
as possible:—I fear therefore we must
debar ourselves the happiness you propose
to us;—but you may depend upon
it we shall not leave Spain without making
you a visit at your villa.”
—Though
the Count was very pressing with Don
Clement
, he could obtain no more from
him than a promise of waiting on him
speedily; upon which he took his leave
in a very polite manner, and set out immediately
for his country-seat.

The Marquis now at liberty to pursue
his inclinations, did not fail of putting
Don Clement in mind of his promise.— ‘I shall E7r 85
“I shall defer my return into Italy,”
said he, “no longer than till my marriage
with Donna Clementina is concluded;
I shall therefore judge of your
impatience to see Eugenia again by the
haste you make in completing my happiness.”
Don Clement did not need to
be put in mind of his mistress; for her
longed as ardently to return to the Marquis’s
beautiful niece as that Lord did
to see himself united to Clementina:he
soon fixed the day for his sister’s
nuptials; and gave orders for such preparations
as were suitable to the occasion
and the quality of the persons concerned.

In this interval of time it was that Don
Clement
recollected his engagement to
the Count of Castellar; and concluding
that it would not be so grateful to him to
seeClementinasee Clementina and theMarquisthe Marquis after their mar- E7v 68
marriage, he proposed to the latter to
pay Don Gabriel a visit the following
day, and carry the ladies along with
them. The Marquis readily agreed to
it; and Clementina, no longer regarding
the Count as an enemy, was as
willing to be of the party as either of
them.

Accordingly the next morning they
all set out for the Count’s country-seat.
The weather was extremely fine, and
happened not to be so warm as is usual
in Spain;—so that to make this little
journey the more agreeable, the Marquis
begged to have the honour of driving
his mistress in an open chaise, whilst
Don Clement with his two sisters went
in a coach.—They were received by
the Count Castellar with every mark of
friendship and respect:-and after an
entertainment, which testified the vast magnificence E8r 87
magnificence of this Lord, he presented
Clementina with a little casket, which
contained a diamond necklace, together
with a ring, and jewels for her ears, all of
very great value; telling her, in a gallant
manner, that though he had intended
those ornaments as a bridal-present
for the Countess of Castellar, yet he
thought Fate had destined them much
more gloriously for the Marchioness of
Pescara
.—The Marquis was charmed
with so obliging a compliment: and
Clementina was even better pleased with
it than with the magnificent present
which accompanied it; which, however,
she accepted with the politest acknowledgements,
fearing Don Gabriel would
take a refusal very ill.

The day passed over in the most delightful
manner; when, Don Clement
thinking it time to be gone, the whole company E8v 88
company took leave of the Count, and
set out on their return to Madrid, in
the same manner they had left it, the
Marquis insisting on bearing Clementina
company in the chaise.

They had now got about half-way
home, and were passing through a narrow
road, which was cut across a wood,
in which it was impossible for two carriages
to go abreast. By means of this
circumstance Don Clement’s coach had
got on at some distance before the chaise
in which his sister and the Marquis were.
The unevenness of the road obliged
them to drive slowly; and they were
entered into a very interesting conversation,
when they were suddenly alarmed
at the appearance of several horsemen,
who galloped out of the wood, and
enclosed them on every side. The Marquis
was attended only by two servants, and E9r 89
and Don Clement with the like number,
besides his coachmen; so they found
themselves but seven in all, against
twelve, which was the number of their
enemies.

The shrieks of Donna Clementina
alarmed her brother, who immediately
got out of the coach and ran to her assistance.
The Marquis had by this time
leaped out of the chaise; and having
no other weapon but a short sword,
which would have been of little use, he
hastily snatched a pistol from the hand
of one of his servants (who had just
taken it from his holster) and let fly
at a person masked and muffled up in
a cloke, who was endeavouring to force
Clementina out of the chaise. The miserable
Count of Castellar (for it was
he) was born to fall by the hand of the
brave Marquis. The bullets with which the E9v 90
the pistol was loaded, lodged in his
breast; and he dropped dead under the
horses feet. His mask falling off at the
same time, discovered this treacherous
Spaniard, to the amazement of Don
Clement
and his friend. The persons
who had assisted the Count in this villanous
expedition, were so terrified at
seeing him fall, that they thought it
safest to fly. However, one of them had
the boldness to discharge his pistol at
the Marquis. It missed him; but unfortunately
killed one of his servants
who stood near him.

Clementina could not behold Don
Clement
without horror. She was put
almost breathless with fear into the
coach with her sisters; whilst her brother
and the Marquis, with the three remaining
servants, rode on each side of it. It was
dark when they reached Madrid: and Don E10r 91
Don Clement, believing that the Count’s
death would soon be published, was
afraid that, notwithstanding the manner
of it and the greatness of his crimes,
the Marquis might be put to some
trouble on that occasion, as the deceased
was a man of the highest rank, and
had relations in the greatest posts about
court; he thought it therefore adviseable
to be beforehand with his accusers,
and to rely on the clemency of Philip
the Third
(who then reigned) for his
friend’s pardon. He made the Marquis
acquainted with his design; and, though
it was now night, they both took coach
immediately for the Escurial.

As Don Clement was known and
much respected by the principal ministers,
he found it no difficult matter to
be admitted privately into the royal presence;
where, throwing himself at his sovereign’s E10v 92
sovereign’s feet, he declared the cause
of his presenting himself before his Majesty;
and having informed him of the
death of Count of Castellar, he in
a few words acquainted him with the
injuries he had received from that Lord,
and concluded with presenting the Marquis
of Pescara
to the King. The Monarch
had often cast his eyes on him
during Don Clement’s narration, and
found his person and carriage so graceful,
that he was already prepossessed in
his favour; he received him therefore
with the most gracious condescension;
and, finding he could speak Spanish
perfectly well, he talked to him some
minutes, and assured him, that, as Don
Clement
had represented the matter,
Count Castellar had very justly merited
the death which he had brought upon
himself; adding, that if his friends were
discreet, they would chuse not to make a noise E11r 93
a noise about an affair which would be
so much to the dishonour of a man of
Don Gabriel’s years and high station;
and concluded with telling him he might
rely on his protection.

The Marquis and Don Clement
having with the warmest of expressions testified
their gratitude to the Prince, took
their leave, not a little glad they had so
easily got rid of an affair which they
apprehended would have been attended
with unpleasant consequences. But indeed
they had less reason for their fears
than they imagined; for Don Gabriel’s
relations being informed of every particular
relating to the affair with Clementina,
thought it most prudent to
hush up the matter; and, having given
out that he was attacked and murdered
by robbers in the night, on his way to
Madrid, they had him privately interred;red; E11v 94
and there were few, except his own
followers, who knew the truth of the
story.

Every obstacle being now removed,
the marriage of the Marquis with Donna
Clementina
was no longer delayed. It
was solemnized at the house of Don
Clement
, though with less pomp than
was intended, on account of the tragical
adventure which had preceded it.
The Marquis however thought nothing
wanting to his happiness in the possession
of his admired Clementina.

Don Clement, having now acquitted
himself towards his friend, reminded
the Marquis in his turn of his engagements
to him; and, the day after his
sister’s nuptials, proposed their departure
from Spain.—“Your impatience to E12r 95
to return to Eugenia pleases me,”
cried
the Marquis, “and believe me, my
dear Pimenteles, I long to tie the bond
which unites us still closer, by giving
you my niece: I am ready therefore to
depart for Italy; for I am sure Clementina
will gladly go with us.”
“Let us
be gone then,”
cried Don Clement; “I
feel my absence from Eugenia becomes
more and more insupportable.”
In effect,
Don Clement ordered every thing
with so much diligence, that in three
days they were in a condition to set out
on their journey; when, after having
taken leave of the two sisters of Don
Clement
(who chose to remain in Spain)
they departed from Madrid; and, after
a prosperous journey, reached Milan,
without meeting the least accident that
could for a moment interrupt their happiness.

Don E12v 96

Don Clement found himself received
by Eugenia, with a joy equal to that he
felt at seeing her again. She was
charmed at the sight of Clementina,
and transported at finding she had become
the Marquis’s wife.

As for Madame Burganeze, she no
sooner heard of her brother’s arrival,
than, unwilling to undergo the confusion
which his presence, together with that
of his lady and Don Clement must
create in her, she shut herself up in her
apartment; when, having wrote a letter
to the Marquis, in which she acknowledged
her daughter to his care, she
privately withdrew from his house, without
bidding any one farewell, and retired
to the monastery of St. Bridget,
where she spent the rest of her days;
and the Marquis, impatient to see his friend F1r 97
friend as happy as himself, resigned Eugenia
to the arms of Don Clement.

It is now time to say something of
Adelaide, whom we left at the Marquis
de Pescara’s
, when he went into Spain;
and whom at his return he found still
her friend’s happiness; but her own secret
discontents left her but little relish
for those pleasures which every day took
place at the Marquis of Pescara’s house
and though Eugenia was now blest in
a union from which she promised herself
the utmost felicity, she found an
alloy to her joy from the constant melancholy
which preyed upon her dear
Adelaide: that unhappy lady nourished
a secret grief which nothing could
diminish. The Marchioness, who was
charmed with her, strove all in her power
to divert her melancholy; but being Vol. II F unac- F1v 98
unacquainted with the cause, her obliging
endeavours were only a constraints
upon Adelaide, who would often slip
from the company, and retire to her
chamber, in order to give a loose to her
sorrow.

Eugenia, who had often observed
this, followed her one day, and surprised
her in tears,—“Dear Adelaide,”
said she, “why will you persist in afflicting
yourself thus for an ungrateful
man (for such at length I am compelled
to think him) whose death would not
merit on of those tears which you shed
in such floods for his inconstancy:—
have more regard to your youth and
beauty, which have already gained you
a thousand admirers; consider your
birth and the vast fortune you have in
prospect;—Shall the young, the fair,
the rich heiress of the Baron St. Seberinarina F2r 99
sigh away her bloom for a worthless
creature, who, had he been ever so faithful,
was undeserving of her love?”

She was going on, but Adelaide interrupted
her:—“How easy is it, my
dear,”
said she, “to counsel others,
when our own hearts are at ease! I am
as sensible as you can be, of the folly of
tormenting myself for an irreparable ill;
and I am even ashamed of my weakness
in continuing to weep for a man
that any other but myself would despise;
but, alas! my heart has been too long
accustomed to love him; and I even
persuaded myself at some moments, that
he is entirely without blame; and, notwithstanding
that he never let me know
his fate, I persist in thinking that I am
still to accuse nobody but Faustina.”

“You rave,” cried Eugenia; “don’t
indulge sentiments so favourable to the
Chevalier, unless you would for ever destroyF2 stroy F2v 100
your own peace. I indeed encouraged
you in them at first, imagining it
would alleviate your grief to think that
Don Enenique would ever preserve you
in his memory; but what reason have
we had since to suppose that he does so?
I grant you, that he was deceived by
your cousin; but could the deception
last? Was he not at least at liberty to
lament his fate to you, since all other
consolation was cut off? Yes, certainly
he was: do not therefore, I conjure
you, nourish an opinion that will serve
only to feed the flame which devours
your heart. I would to Heaven, my
dear Adelaide, that Ponces had never
known you loved him! you would then
have but little reason to regret the losing
him. This circumstance was what
chiefly consoled me under the loss of
Don Clement. I then felt all the pangs
that you now suffer; but it was a great satisfaction F3r 101
satisfaction to me to think that, should
he be unfaithful, he would never know
the pain it would cost me; and I was
so far from flattering myself with vain
hopes, that I called every aid in my
power to assist me in banishing from my
thoughts an object that served only to
torment me; and I declare to you, that
had I never seen him more, I should
have supported such a misfortune without
impatience, and would have endeavoured
to console myself as much as
possible.”
“How you preach!” cried
Adelaide (a little piqued at her friend’s
words); “have I not been a witness to the
tears you so often shed for the absence
of Don Clement? and did I not also
see the transports of joy which you discovered
on his being restored to you?
—Transports that nothing but a happiness
which you looked upon as supreme,
would have inspired you with. F3 Yes, F3v 102
Yes, Eugenia; I saw every thing that
passed in your heart. I shared your
sorrows with you; but, alas! I cannot
partake with you in your joys: and I
will even confess to you, that the tenderness
which you and Don Clement have
for each other, is often a matter of mortification
to me. Every word, every
look of your amiable husband serves
only to keep my misfortune fresh in my
memory.—Such, said I, would Don
Enenique
have been to the unfortunate
Adelaide, if a treacherous creature had
not robbed her of him.”
—Here she
melted into tears; and Eugenia was so
affected, that, far from being able to
comfort her, she could only accompany
her in her sorrow.

Such was the situation of the disconsolate
daughter of Baron St. Seberina,
when she received an express from Salerno,lerno, F4r 103
which brought her an account
of her father’s death, who had been
carried off so suddenly, that there was
not time to give her the least advice of
his illness. Her presence was absolutely
necessary at home; wherefore, taking
a hasty leave of Eugenia, and the rest
of her noble friends, she set out for the
kingdom of Naples, in a coach with a
gentleman of her kindred, who had
come on purpose for her.

The Baron’s body had been embalmed
before she arrive; so that she had
time enough to order his funeral with
a solemnity suitable to his quality and
the affection she bore his memory.

Adelaide now found herself mistress
of thirty thousand ducats a-year: she
was just nineteen, and possessed of many
personal charms; yet, with all these advantages,F4 vantages, F4v 104
she still retained so deep a
melancholy, that she had almost resolved
to renounce all commerce with the
world, and shut herself up in a nunnery
for life; but she was reserved by fate
for other things.

Her father had but just time before
his death to recommend her to the care
of an old friend of his, a gentleman of
the strictest honour and integrity. He
was called Signior Fernando Deffari;
and was married to a Spanish lady of a
noble family, whose virtue and politeness
made the Baron believe that his
daughter would be perfectly happy under
her protection. It was to Signior
Deffari’s
house then that Adelaide repaired
after her father’s death; and that
worthy man having settled her fortune
in the most convenient and advantageous
manner, she found in him and his lady F5r 105
lady every thing that could conspire to
form the most valuable and agreeable
friends; that lady had, along with a great
deal of prudence, a gaiety in her manner
that is not often found amongst persons
of her nation; she endeavoured by
the most endearing carriage, to soften
Adelaide’s grief for the loss of her father;
to which she wholly imputed the
tears which she saw her shed incessantly.
But though Adelaide was sincerely afflicted
for her father’s death; yet she
had another source of sorrow which she
had hitherto concealed from her friend.
Her superior years, and the respect she
had for her (now standing in the room
of a parent) prevented her from revealing
the secret of her heart; but the repeated
caresses of Madame Deffari, and
the freedom with which she treated her
young friend, at length prevailed over
her reluctance; and she one day took F5 an F5v 106
an opportunity, from the frank behaviour
of her protectress, to make her
the confidante of her passion for the
Chevalier de Ponces, and the unhappy
consequences which had attended it.

Madame Deffari condoled with her
sincerely; but at the same time bade
her have comfort:—“I know the Chevalier,”
said she, “when I was in Spain;
he was of the same province with me;
I lived in strict intimacy with his mother,
who was a lady of one of the best
families in Andalusia. The Chevalier,
when I saw him (which is almost ten
years since) was a young man of great
hopes; he had fine parts, improved by
a noble education; and he promised to
be as worthy as he was amiable. But the
account you have given me of him has
indeed much surprised me. Yet, if I
be not mistaken, Don Enenique thinks himself F6r 107
himself still more unhappy than you are.
I grant you that appearances are against
him: but what if you should find that
he, after having too late discovered the
fatal error he committed in marrying
your cousin, so far from continuing with
her, has retired from the world, overwhelmed
with shame and grief?—Would
it not be some consolation to think
that the Chevalier, seeing himself for
ever deprived of you, had abandoned
the perfidious woman who had been the
occasion of that misfortune? Yes, certainly
it would: and you wrong yourself
as well as him, in believing that he
would pass his life with Faustina, after
having once dedicated it to you. No,
my dear; think better of Don Enenique;
for I could almost swear that,
let him be in what part of the world he
will, he is at this moment regretting the
loss of you.”

F6 Adelaide F6v 108

Adelaide heard her friend talk in this
manner with unspeakable satisfaction.
“You have filled my mind,” said
she, “with a delightful idea. I confess
I feel an infinite pleasure in the reflection
that I am still dear to Don Enenique,
though I can no longer hope
to be his, and probably may never see
him more:—but yet, my dear friend,
now that you have taken upon you to justify
that gentleman, how can you reconcile
his leaving me, with the unkind silence
he has observed ever since our separation,
which is now more than a year?
Might I not expect to have heard him
complain of a destiny which he knows
must have made me as wretched as himself?
—had his fate appeared so cruel to
him, would it not have been some consolation
to have acquainted me with his
sufferings?—me, who bore so great a
share in them!—And though I neither expected F7r 109
expected nor desired to see him, I was
yet within reach of a letter, which
might have spared me the uncertainty I
have ever since lived in!—Tell me,
Madam, I conjure you, what would
you have me think of this?”
“I don’t
pretend,”
said Madame Deffari, “to
account for every part of his conduct;
what I have already said is only an opinion
founded on my former knowledge
of him; and I confess this last circumstance
somewhat puzzles me:—but
however, even with respect to this, we
may form conjectures of the cause of
your never having heard from him;—
perhaps your father might have taken
care to intercept any intelligence from
him, to prevent a fruitless and improper
correspondence:—or maybe Faustina,
with the assistance of the unfaithful
Theresa, might have been artful enough
to prevail on the credulity of Ponces so far, F7v 110
far, as to make him believe that you
yourself were accessary to her flight with
him. Might not she, with all the dissimulation
she is mistress of, have represented
her passion in the most lively
colours, and assured him that Adelaide,
touched with her grief, and not loving
half so well as she did, had yielded him
to her wishes, and even assisted her in
the accomplishment of them; resolving
herself to wed the Count De la Rosa,
whose wealth and titles she preferred to
the Chevalier’s passion. Might not
Theresa have backed this by a thousand
protestations; and might not Don Enenique,
deceived perhaps by oaths,
tears, and a million falsehoods, have
his jealousy raised to such a height”

“Forbear,” cried, Adelaide, “for Heaven’s
sake forbear to finish this cruel
picture!—I consent to his marrying
Faustina, and myself wed the Count! Sure F8r 111
Sure he could not believe such a monstrous,
such an impossible thing!—Alas,
he knows my heart too well! But yet,
the treacherous, the artful Faustina!”

added she (after a pause) “Oh! Madam,
you have awakened a dreadful
thought! Why did you not rather encourage
me to believe that Ponces had
abandoned me ungratefully? I should
have endeavoured to despise, and (in
time) to forget him:—but if, on the
contrary, he accuses me of ingratitude
and perfidy,—how do you imagine I
can support such a terrible reflection?
Oh! if this be the reason of his neglect,
I lay nothing to his charge:—I forgive
him and acquit him. But I must sink
under this weight which oppresses me.”

—Her tears stopped her speech, and she
sunk down on the arm of Madame Deffari,
who sat by her.—That tender
friend was afflicted to the last degree, at the F8v 112
the condition in which she saw this unfortunate
lady. She pressed Adelaide’s
face to her bosom, and drying up her
tears with her handkerchief,—“Forgive
me, my dear child,”
said she, “and
don’t put me to the pain of believing
myself the cause of this heavy affliction.
Why will you thus torment yourself for
what may be only a chimæra?—You
know I told you it was a conjecture,
merely, which I was going to offer;
and one that probably has nothing in
it: at least all the foundation which I
had for it was that, knowing the Chevalier
to be a man of integrity, I was of opinion
that there must have been some foul play
to prevent his making explanations to
you:—however, I beseech you, don’t
let what I have just now said make the
least impression on you: you know I
love you with the tenderness of a mother,ther, F9r 113
and would do any thing to dispel
the grief which hangs over you perpetually:
—and I don’t know,”
said she
(after a short silence, and seeing Adelaide
disposed to listen to her) “but I
have thought of a remedy, which, if it
will not quite effect a cure, may at least
divert the malady. You must know
then, I have long had a design to pay
a visit to my native country, and had
even prevailed on Signior Deffari to go
with me, when your father’s death (by
consigning you to our hands) put a
stop to our intended journey. However,
if you are inclined to see Spain, I
think this need not retard us any longer;
but remember we are not to see the
Chevalier,”
added she, smiling; “and
you must promise me that you will not
make any enquiries after him but
through my means.”
“I consent to
that most willingly,”
answered Adelaide,laide, F9v 114
“though perhaps your tenderness
for me may incline you to conceal
the truth from me, if you find his situation
to be such as you think the knowledge
of it would give me pain.”

“Don’t trouble your head about that,”
replied Madame Deffari; “I’ll answer
for it we shall find better entertainment
than a recital of his adventures.”
Adelaide
made no reply to this, but begged
Madame Deffari to let their departure
be as speedy as possible.

Signior Deffari, who tenderly loved
his wife, was rejoiced that his ward had
consented to take this journey with her;
he made haste to prepare every thing for
it; and in a few days they were ready to
sail in a vessel bound for Cadiz. The
voyage was extremly pleasant and
agreeable. Signior Deffari wanted nothing
in the society of his amiable wife, who F10r 115
who, for her part, was charmed with
the prospect of seeing her relations and
her country, from which she had been
absent so long: and Adelaide felt a secret
pleasure at the idea of being in a
place which she believed contained every
thing that was dear to her. Her head
was filled with these thoughts when she
reached Spain; and Madame Deffari
(impatient to see her friends, who,
most of them, resided in Andalusia)
hastened ashore, and went directly to
the house of her brother, who had for a
long time been expecting her arrival.

Whatever emotion Adelaide felt at
finding herself in the very province
where Ponces was born, and where she
was sure he must be known; she however
resisted the curiosity she had to be
informed what was become of him: the
promise she had made to Madame Deffarifari F10v 116
she resovedresolved punctually.
That lady however did not fail to enquire
privately amongst her friends,
whether he was in Andalusia, and what
was his situation? But all she could learn
was that he had been at an estate he had
in Valencia about a year before; and
that, having left his affairs in the hands
of a particular friend, he had disappeared,
and nobody could give any account
of him but that friend, who said he had
gone abroad, and intended to make a
tour through Europe. But she could
not discover whether he had a lady in
his company, or any other particular
relating to him.

This account (believing that Adelaide
was impatient to hear something of
him) Madame Deffari communicated
to her, as there was nothing in it which
could augment her trouble. “I believe,lieve, F11r 117”
added she, “that the Chevalier
flies from all the world. Had Faustina
been with him I should certainly have
heard of it; but I am apt to think that,
detesting her for the vile cheat she put
on him, he abandons her, and seeks to
hide his grief and disappointment in
some place where he is not known;—
but be that as it may, we must not think
of him any more; for it is plain to me
that Don Enenique, despairing to possess
you from his fatal engagements to
your cousin, is studious to avoid every
thing which may recal you to his mind.
Be satisfied then, dear Adelaide, and
follow his example, by endeavouring
to forget a man to whom Heaven did
not think fit to join you.”
“I submit,”
cried Adelaide; “I submit without
murmuring to the decrees of Providence!
—but let us talk no more on a
subject that has already cost me too dear.” F11v 118
dear.”
Madame Deffari, pleased to
find her in such a disposition, said all
she could to fortify her mind; and Adelaide
received great consolation from
this very amiable woman.

Amongst the number of friends who
came to compliment Madame Deffari
on her return to Spain, the Bishop of
Seville
was one of the first. This Prelate,
for whom she had a particular esteem,
came one morning to see her;
and, after a short visit, was ready to
take his leave, telling her he was engaged
to pass the day with two young
and handsome ladies, who lived at a
villa about a league from thence. He
added that they were so very amiable,
he wished that she and her fair friend
were acquainted with them.—“I,” continued
he, “think myself highly honoured
by their friendship, as they are not F12r 119
not only women of great quality, but of
exemplary virtue; and withal endowed
with so much wit and judgment, that I
often prefer their conversation to that
of the most ingenious of the men.”

He had no occasion to say more to excite
the curiosity of the ladies to whom
he addressed himself. So great an encomium
from a person of this good
Bishop’s character, made them long impatiently
for a sight of these two excellent
women.—“And do you fancy,”
said Madame Deffari, “that you shall
have the charming creatures all to yourself,
and not take us along with you?—
For my part, I long to embrace them;
I am sure Adelaide does the same; and
we insist on your letting us have that
pleasure this very day.”
“I should
have made you an offer of this myself,”

replied the Bishop; “for though these
ladies live extremely retired, yet I am sure F12v 120
sure they will be pleased with your acquaintance,
and even thank me for the
honour.”
“Come then, my dear,”
cried Madame Deffari to Adelaide;
“let us go and fee if my Lord Bishop
has not enlarged on the perfections of
those two unknown fair ones.”
—Saying
this, she led the way down stairs; and
finding the Bishop of Seville’s coach
waiting at the door, they got into it.

During their short journey, the Bishop
told them that the persons whom they
were going to see, though they lived
in the most perfect union, were not
sisters, nor any way related; that one of
them was called Donna Clara d’ Avilas,
daughter of the Marquis of Solar; the
other, Donna Cynthia Cardonas, niece
of the Duke of Segorbe, and allied to
the house of Arragon.—“There is
something,”
added he, “a little particularticular G1r 121
in their history, which is the occasion
of their retiring at an age when
the pleasures of the gay world (in which
they were bred) must have appeared
very alluring.—I will not relate any part
of their story, because you would lose
much pleasure by hearing it from any
mouth but their own; and I make no
doubt but they will entertain you with
it when you become a little acquainted
with them.”
—These words brought
them to the gate of the castle of Cardonas,
where, being informed that both
the ladies were within, the Bishop gave
his hand to Madame Deffari while Adelaide
followed them into a large handsome
parlour, where they found Donna
Clara
and Donna Cynthia busied in a
piece of embroidery.

By the air with which they received
the Bishop of Seville, his two companionsVol. II. G nions G1v 122
perceived how welcome a guest
this venerable man was to them. They
accosted Madame Deffari and Adelaide
(whom the Bishop introduced as a young
stranger of quality) in a manner that
shewed at once their politeness and the
sweetness of their dispositions:—they embraced
the latter with the freedom of a
sister, asking the Bishop what they must
give him for making them so happy?—
In short, these ladies found one another
so very agreeable, that they soon became
familiarly acquainted. They thought
the day passed too quickly; and these
amiable Spaniards would not suffer
their two new friends to depart without
making them promise to come again in
a few days, and spend a week at their
castle; which Madame Deffari the more
readily consented to, as Signior Deffari
was to be absent from her for some time,
on business which called him to Seville.

On G2r 123

On their return home, the two ladies
did not fail to express their admiration
of the two young persons they had just
been visiting:—they bestowed a thousand
praises on them; and protested
they were more charming than even
the Bishop had represented them,
though Madame Deffari said she observed
a certain air of melancholy in
their faces, especially in that of Donna
Clara
.—Adelaide was so impatient to
see them again, that Signior Deffari was
no sooner gone to Seville than she put
his lady in mind of her promise; who,
as well to gratify Adelaide as her own
inclination, went the same day to the
castle of Cardonas; where they now
purposed to pass some time.

The two amiable friends received
their guests with the utmost joy. They
told them they must now look upon G2 them- G2v 124
themselves as at home; and that, laying
by all constraint and ceremony,
they were each to suppose themselves in
their own house.—“I will shew you
your apartments,”
said Donna Cynthia
(to whom the castle belonged) “and
you shall tell me how you like them.”

Saying this, she led them into a gallery,
from whence there was a door to their
lodgings, which consisted of a handsome
antichamber, two bedchambers,
and three neat closets; two of which
were properly furnished for dressing-
rooms, and the third for a study.—
“There,” said Donna Cynthia, “are
to be your quarters:—you will find
some entertainment in that little library,
as well as in our park and other improvements.”

Madame Deffari and Adelaide were
charmed with their situation!—Every thing G3r 125
thing was elegant and regular within
the castle; and the woods, meadows,
and gardens, with which it was surrounded,
together with the river Guadelquiver,
which washed the walls of it,
rendered it one of the most delightful
abodes in the world.—They passed the
day with all the satisfaction that could
possibly result from the conversation of
persons highly pleased with each other;
and it was late before they parted to betake
themselves to rest.—Donna Clara
having waited on the two ladies to their
apartment, gave Adelaide the keys of
a cabinet which stood in the library;
and, having called a woman to wait on
them, retired.

When Madame Deffari had withdrawn
to undress, Adelaide unlocked
the cabinet, to lay by some jewels which
she had just taken off; when, opening G3 one G3v 126
one of the drawers, she saw a little gold
box, which seemed by the colour to
have lain a long time neglected. She
took it up, and, having opened it, she
was surprised with the picture of a
young man of about five or six-and-
twenty years of age, and of an agreeable
soft countenance!—The painting
was very delicate and lively, and the
setting adorned with precious stones;
but by the circumstance in which she
found this picture, she concluded that
it represented some person whom the
ladies of the castle either had but little
value for, or else had some other reasons
for putting it out of their sight!—
She remembered that the Bishop had
told her there was something particular
in their stories; and fancying that this
picture might possibly have some relation
to them, she resolved to take occasion
from thence to lead them into a con- G4r 127
conversation she so much wished for.—
She laid the picture as she found it, and
went to bed without saying any thing of
the matter to Madame Deffari.—They
rose early next morning; and hearing
that Donna Clara and Donna Cynthia
were both up and gone into the park,
they followed them. After the first
compliments were over, Madame Deffari
seating herself at the foot of a tree,
the pensive Donna Clara took her place
by her, and both entered into a serious
conversation; whilst Adelaide, taking
Donna Cynthia under the arm, walked
gently on to enjoy the sweets of the
morning.

Adelaide, who thought this a good
opportunity to engage Donna Cynthia
to a recital of her story, which she was
impatient to hear, entered immediately
on a subject which she thought was most G4 likely G4v 128
likely to introduce it.—“I am little
obliged to Donna Clara,”
said she, in a
lively way, “for giving me the keys
of her cabinet, where I found the picture
of a young man, so very handsome
that I could scarce sleep the whole
night, for thinking of him!—How
pleased should I be,”
added she, “to
find that he was one of your family, and
that he was to pass the day with us!”

Donna Cynthia sighed; and, shaking
her head, answered, “I should be
very sorry if that picture had in reality made
any impression on you; because the person
for whom it was done is dead! and
it has lain a long time where you found
it, as we seldom go into that apartment;
being unwilling to be too often
reminded of the original.”
“A brother?”
replied Adelaide.—“no,” cried
Donna Cynthia; “nothing a-kin to
either of us: but he was a man who was G5r 129
was once very dear to Clara; and I
don’t know whether his death (had he
been faithful) would not have occasioned
hers.”
“Did he then forsake her?”
cried Adelaide (who could not help
being moved) “Oh, Heavens!” added
she; “are all mankind perfidious?”
“You would think so,” added Donna
Cynthia
, “were I to relate to you the
circumstances which have befallen myself
and Donna Clara. But why, lovely
Adelaide, do you exclaim against the
treachery of men? I hope you have
never experienced any of their ingratitude.”
Adelaide blushed a little at this.
“I don’t know.” said she, “whether I
have any thing to accuse but my own
ill stars, for the loss of a person who was
engaged to me by the most solemn
vows:—but I shall let you into the
whole secret, provided in return, you
will relate your story to me, which I am G5 sure- G5v 130
sure must have something interesting in
it.”
“That I will readily do,” answered
Donna Cynthia; “but as I must at
the same time, acquaint you with some
particulars of Donna Clara’s life, it is
but just that lady should participate with
me in the pleasure of hearing your relation.”
Adelaide quickly consented to
this; and they agreed to walk into the
park after dinner, with Donna Clara,
whom they now saw advancing towards
them with Madame Deffari.—After
their walk they went into the castle:—
and Donna Cynthia having told her
companion of the promise she had made
Adelaide, they were all three impatient
for an opportunity of being by themselves.
Dinner being over, and Madame
Deffari
having retired to the
study, where she said she would amuse
herself with a book for an hour or two,
the three ladies hastened to the park; and G6r 131
and there, chusing a seat in which the
heat of the sun could not molest them,
Donna Cynthia, without waiting for
the least entreaty, immediately began
her tale:—

“The incidents of my life, and those
of Donna Clara’s, have such a connection
that, in relating to you my story,
I must necessarily spare my friend the
trouble of repeating any of the circumstances
of hers. We are both of Madrid;
and, entering into an early acquaintance,
our friendship increased
with our years. It happened that we
were both addressed at the same time,
by two gentlemen who were considered
as highly accomplished. Donna Clara’s
lover was called Don Raphael de Portia
(the same whose picture you saw); and
he who called himself my slave, was
named Don Izidor de St. Ivorio.

G6 ‘If G6v 132

If I was pleased with the agreeable
person and sprightly wit of this young
man, Clara was no less charmed with
the like graces in Don Raphael: there
scarce past a day in which we had not
some new instance of the gallantry of
those two gentlemen (between whom,
I must inform you, there was as strict a
friendship as that which Donna Clara
and I had for each other). It was now
about four months that an intercourse
had subsisted, as delightful as can be
imagined to result from an innocent
passion for a deserving object; for such
my friend and I believed each of our
lovers to be; and we looked upon our
affection for them but as a suitable return
to their love for us.

Donna Clara was then under the
conduct of her father and a stepmother,
not the most indulgent, who had a daughter G7r 133
daughter of their own to provide for, before
she would suffer Clara to be disposed
of:—she was therefore under
much greater embarrassments than I
was, who had my fortune almost at my
own disposal, and had nobody to controul
me but an aunt, with whom I had
been brought up, and from whose tenderness
I might expect every thing that
could make me happy.—‘How much do
I envy you,’
said Donna Clara to me one
day! ‘It is in your power to recompense
Don Izidor’s merit whenever you please;
your happiness is in your own hands:
but my case is very different; for I dare
not make Don Raphael’s pretensions
known to my father till my sister is first
disposed of;’
‘which I believe will be
soon,’
interrupted I; ‘for I know your
mother is a lady of too active a temper
not to promote her daughter’s interests;
and I am apt to think she has some design G7v 134
design on foot, by the great intimacy
she has lately entered into at the old
Count de Pulvez, whose son, you
know, is one of the finest gentlemen of
the province.’
Clara was of the same
opinion with me, so that we now both
imagined that her sister (who was the
only obstacle in her way) would soon
be removed; and she would then be at
liberty to allow Don Raphael to apply
to her father. ‘Our loves,’ said I, ‘began
together; and one happy day (I
hope) shall tie both the nuptial knots.
My aunt already approves my choice;
and I only wait till your father has done
the same by yours, to give my hand to
Izidor.’

Clara embrace me for this mark
of my tenderness for her. ‘But should
Izidor,’
said she, ‘be acquainted with
your intentions, he must needs be jealouslous G8r 135
of a friendship which so much delays
his happiness.’

This conversation happened whilst
we were walking in the gardens of the
Escurial; and we had just done
speaking when we perceived our two
lovers coming towards us. They soon
joined us; and after a short general
conversation, Don Izidor took me by
the hand, and, making a gallant compliment
to Clara, who had that moment
given hers to Don Raphael, he led me
towards another walk; leaving our
friends at liberty to entertain each other
where they thought proper.

We were no sooner alone than Don
Izidor
, throwing himself on his knees
with an air of transport, seized both my
hands; and fixing his eyes on mine,
with the most passionate looks, he seemeded G8v 136
at a loss for words to express the
emotions of his soul.—I chid him for
so unseasonable a rapture; and made
him rise from the posture he was in.—
‘What do you mean,’ said he, ‘by depriving
me of the inexpressible pleasure I
just now tasted? Was it not cruel in
you disturb a reverie so transporting?
Can these proofs which I give you of
my tenderness be displeasing? or have
you found out any new method by
which you would have me convince
you of the excess of my love? Dear
Cynthia,’
continued he, ‘why won’t you
suffer me to name that long-expected
day which is to make you mine for
ever? Why these insupportable delays?’
—I should not,”
pursued Donna
Cynthia
, “repeat to you a trifling conversation
so little worth your attention,
but for reasons which you will hear presently
explained. The ardent and tender
manner in which Don Izidor spoke, made G9r 137
made me almost forget the promise I
had made to Donna Clara; but, soon
recollecting myself, I told him the obligation
I had laid myself under to her;
‘and if,’ added I, ‘you love me as you
would have me believe, you will make
no difficulty in conforming to my will
in this particular.’
‘Ah cruel!’ cried he,
‘how severe a task you enjoin me! Perhaps
it may be a tedious while before
Donna Clara will be at liberty to marry
Raphael; and I perceive my happiness
is wholly to depend on that of another!
Ungrateful Cynthia! I see but too
plainly how indifferent I am to you!’

With this he turned from me with all
the marks of violent grief.—Who would
not have believed him sincere!—‘Stay,
Don Izidor,’
said I; ‘and be convinced
that Cynthia does not deserve these reproaches.
’Tis true indeed I promised
Clara that I would not make you my husband G9v 138
husband till she should have it in her
power to do the same by Don Raphael;
but she is too generous to insist on this
agreement, if she finds her marriage is
not likely to be accomplished in a very
short time.’
‘I shall then,’ said he, after a
short pause, ‘be more obliged to Donna
Clara
than I am to you. I know a heart
tender as hers will readily absolve you
from a promise so injurious to my love.
I will go to her this minute, throw myself
at her feet, and beseech her to free
you from it.’
‘Hold, hold,’ said I, seeing
him ready to leave me; ‘to what are
you going to expose me? Of what
weakness would not Donna Clara accuse
me, when she should find that one half-
hour’s conversation with you had made
me forget the promise which our long
friendship had exacted from me! Be
contented,’
added I; ‘and believe that I
shall be as just in fulfilling the engagementsments G10r 139
to love, as I am to those of a
friend; I will desire you to wait but two
months (no very important trial of your
constancy) and will, at the expiration
of that time give you my hand, let the
event of Clara’s love be what it may.
I flatter myself, however, that her sister
will in the mean time be espoused by the
Count de Pulvez’s son; but if the Marchioness
her mother should be disappointed
in this scheme of hers, I doubt
poor Don Raphael’s constancy will undergo
a severe trial.’
‘Don’t mistake the
matter,’
answered Izidor, laughing, ‘if
Raphael should lose Donna Clara, I
have hopes that he would outlive the
misfortune.’
‘How!’ said I, ‘does he not
love her then?’
‘Oh certainly!’ cried
Izidor (in some confusion); ‘but, as he
is not without fears of a disappointment,
I believe he is armed against it.’
—This
answer was far from satisfying me. I trembled G10v 140
trembled for Donna Clara, and pressed
Izidor so earnestly to explain himself,
that at last I obtained the hateful discovery
to which I urged him.

‘Don Raphael,’ said he, ‘does not in
reality love your friend; for he is actually
engaged to another. His mistress
is now in Portugal; and it is only to
divert his melancholy till her return,
that he pays his court to Donna Clara,
whose situation he knows will hinder him
from being obliged to come to a sudden
ecclaircissement; for we both know
that the Count of Pelvez has other
views for his son than the elder sister of
Clara. But, dear Cynthia,’
continued
he, ‘he must keep this secret inviolably.
For Heaven’s sake, suffer Donna
Clara
to continue in her error till time
shall disabuse her.’

‘It G11r 141

It is impossible for me,” proceeded
Donna Cynthia, “to describe to you
was seized with disquiet from the first
moment he had dropt those words which
led me to foresee part of Clara’s misfortune;
I even dreaded the explanation
which I was pressing him to make; and
every word he uttered pierced me like
an arrow. I made sad reflections on the
baseness of Don Raphael; and could
not help turning them all at once on
Don Izidor.—What have we not to fear,
thought I, from a sex which is capable
of so much cruelty and dissimulation;
perhaps this very Izidor, this favoured
lover, may be as vile as Don Raphael,
who was no less lavish in his testimonies
of affection to Clara.

I was so struck with this thought,
that I listened without interruptingrupting G11v 142
him; and even remained silent
for some minutes after he had done
speaking. He imagined no doubt that
some suspicions of himself might naturally
enough mix themselves with my
reflections on what I had just heard;
and to remove those, he told me, with
an obliging confidence, that I must not
judge of all mankind by Don Raphael.
‘I own,’ said he, ‘he has not dealt with
that sincerity we could have wished; but
I hope my charming Cynthia does not
therefore form an opinion injurious to
her faithful Izidor.’
‘I don’t know what
to think,’
said , coolly; ‘but, in my
mind, a lady of Donna Clara’s birth is
not a fit person to be trifled with; and,
if Don Raphael could not live without
an amour till the return of his mistress,
he should have made choice of some
other object.’
‘Hush, hush, for God’s
sake!’
cried Izidor, alarmed at my grave G12r 143
grave manner of speaking; ‘you forget
that I trusted this to you as a secret of
the greatest consequence!’
—And indeed
I then believed that Don Izidor’s disclosing
it was more owing to his warmth
than any infidelity to his friend.

The day began now to close, and we
parted. I saw Donna Clara alone advancing
towards me; but my thoughts
were so wholly taken up with what I had
just heard, that without speaking one
word to her, I took her under the arm,
and we both walked to our coach (which
waited for us at the garden-gate) as neither
of us chose our lovers should attend
us to it.

Clara during our walk had been
as silent as I was; and being seated in
the carriage, I perceived a pensiveness in
her looks, which I had never observed before: G12v 144
before:—she seemed to be wrapped
up in thought; and I could easily see
the constraint she put herself in endeavouring
to hide something that
troubled her. At last, with a deep
sigh (which she tried to suppress) ‘What
ails you, Cynthia?’
said she.—I looked
earnestly at her; and saw so much grief
in her eyes that I no longer doubted her
having discovered the infidelity of her
lover.—‘Ah Clara!’ replied I, ‘how can
you ask me the occasion of my trouble,
when I find you are no longer ignorant
of the falsehood of that ungrateful man?’

‘How!’ said she, with some surprise,
‘does Don Izidor make a boast then of
his treachery! and has he had the barbarity
to insult you?’
‘Don Raphael,
you mean,’
replied I (thinking in her
confusion she knew not what she said);
‘God forbid that Izidor should be guilty
of so much perfidy!’
—These words threw H1r 145
threw her into a perplexity from which
I saw she could scarce recover herself;
she remained in suspense for a minute,
and then told me that she did not mistake
that Don Izidor de St. Ivorio was
the basest of all mankind; and added,
that it was on my account she appeared
so dejected; assuring me at the same
time, that she imagined, by my melancholy
and the answer I made her,
when she asked me the occasion of it,
that I had penetrated into her thoughts.
These words left me no room to
doubt that I was betrayed as well as she.
However, I begged of her to explain
herself.—She told me that after Izidor
and I had left them, Don Raphael and
she had taken several turns in the walks,
and that at length, being tired, they
seated themselves on the brink of a
canal; the flowers which painted the
banks of it, the smooth transparency of Vol. II H the H1v 146
the water, and the thick spreading trees
which shaded it, formed so delightful a
scene, that it seemed to inspire Don Raphael
with a thousand new and agreeable
thoughts.—‘“This place,” said he, “is
certainly inhabited by the Muses. I
feel their inspiration; or rather, one of
them has just now whispered something
in my ear, sacred to the beautiful Clara.
—Give me leave,”
said he, “to commit
the precious lines to paper, before they
escape my memory.”
—With this he took
a pencil out of his pocket, and at the
same time a handful of papers; but
with so little care, that he dropt one of
them without observing it.’

‘He fell immediately to writing with
so much attention, that he gave as little
heed to my taking up the paper as he
had done to his letting it fall. It was
folded so carefully that, seeing it addresseded H2r 147
“To the beautiful Donna Violante,”
I with a jealous curiosity proceeded directly
to the contents; and, though I
made no doubt of its being wrote by
Don Raphael, yet, casting my eyes first
at the bottom, judge of my surprise,
to see it subscribed by Don Izidor!—
Believe me, my dear love,’
continued
Donna Clara, ‘this sight grieved me as
much as if I had seen Don Raphael’s
name to the detested paper. I read it
twice over. These were the words:’

‘“The more I struggle with my
chains, the stronger they hold me;—
doubtless a punishment imposed on me
by Love, for endeavouring to free myself
from a captivity so delightful; which,
in spite of your coldness, most beautiful
and obdurate Violante, I am determined
to submit to whilst I live.”

H2 ‘Don H2v 148

Don Raphael, having finished his
verses, presented them to me to read;
but I was too much disturbed to give
any attention to them; I returned him
the note, and begged of him to tell me
who this dangerous beauty was, of whose
cruelty Don Izidor complained?—Don
Raphael
could not conceal the chagrin
that this unexpected question gave him.
I saw vexation in his face; but, affecting
an air of raillery, he told me, that
in reality Don Izidor had no great reason
to complain of the severity of Violante,
as she was a lady of a temper not
apt to throw her lovers into despair.—
“In short,” said he, “Don Izidor has a mind
to divert himself with a piece of gallantry,
in which (were you to know the
character of the lady he addresses) you
would be convinced there is nothing serious.”
—I told him that neither the sense
nor the language of that letter seemed to be H3r 149
be adapted to a loose woman, as he
would insinuate; nor was it possible for
him to persuade me into a belief that
Izidor would address a person of that
character in the style of a respectful
lover.

Notwithstanding the gaiety which he
had assumed, this speech quite confounded
him: he blushed; and, casting
his eyes on the ground, seemed to study
for an answer. I took advantage of his
perplexity; and tapping him gently on
the shoulder,—“Come, come, Don Raphael,”
said I; “I know you are vexed at
the discovery I have made. It is in
vain to dissemble with me; and since I
am obliged to chance for letting me into
part of this secret, make me indebted
to your sincerity for the remainder.—
You can’t call it an infidelity to your
friend,”
continued I, finding him still H3 silent, H3v 150
silent, since it was without your participation
that I got my first light into this
intrigue; and I can assure you, you will
leave me under much worse impressions
of him, if you don’t explain the matter
truly to me.”
“What will you have me
explain,”
answered Don Raphael, looking
fearfully at me? “Would it not vex
you on Donna Cynthia’s account, if I
should tell you that Izidor loves another?”
“No,” replied I (affecting indifference);
“I know not how far he is engaged
with Donna Cynthia; and we
can none of us dispose of our hearts.”

These words seemed to revive his confidence;
and begging my care of the
secret he was going to repose in me, he
told me, that he had done Donna Violante
the greatest injustice in painting
her in such false colours; for that she
was in reality a virtuous and beautiful
widow; and possessed of a fortune so brilliant, H4r 151
brilliant, that Izidor would be the happiest
man in the world if he could obtain
her. “’Tis about a month,” added
Raphael, since he first saw her; and,
dazzled with her charms, or rather with
her riches, he formed a design on her;
and began by writing to her in a manner
as animated as if by a real passion.
He would trust no one but me to be the
bearer of his letter, lest (by means of
his servants, who knew of his attachment
to Donna Cynthia) the secret
should be betrayed. I put the letter
into Donna Violante’s hands, as she received
it without hesitation; and, having
just cast her eyes on me, continued
her walk.

I drew no ill presage from this beginning;
and went directly to Izidor,
who waited for me, to declare my success.H4 cess H4v 152
In talking of the merit of Violante,
I took occasion to ask Izidor what
had encouraged him to address her;
and on what foundation he built his
hopes of success.—He told me that, on
Violante’s part he had yet met with little
encouragement, his acquaintance with
her having scarce gone farther than a
bare salute; ‘but,’ added he, ‘I am not
without good hopes from the vivacity of
a young widow, who, I am sure, can’t
be proof against the spirit with which I
mean to pursue her.’
—I stopped him
short, and asked him,—had he forgot
Donna Cynthia? ‘No,’ he replied; ‘I
should prefer her to any woman living;
but, as my principal end in the choice
of a wife is a commodious fortune, Violante
has this point the advantage of
her; and, if I succeed in that quarter,
I fancy I must make a little free with
my fidelity to Donna Cynthia, whom, however, H5r 153
however, I will not lose sight of till I
am secure of the widow; but if I fail
there, I shall assume the marriage-chain
with Cynthia with the credit of as constant
a swain as ever sighed. I need
not in the mean time,’
added he, ‘be
afraid of pressing her to come to a conclusion;
for I find by some hints she
has dropped, that her romantic attachment
to her friend Clara is likely to keep
her single till that lady is at liberty to
give you her hand; for it seems she
can’t be happy herself till her friend is
so.’
In short,”
pursued Don Raphael,
“Violante’s reception of his letter filled
Izidor with the gayest expectations imaginable;
he had begged for an answer;
which he requested a servant of mine
might call for, on account of the reasons
I mentioned. I was with him when
the footman returned with a letter in his
hand. Izidor, who flattered himself H5 that H5v 154
that the letter was as favourable as his
heart could wish, broke it open with
eagerness; but his joy was suddenly
damped when he found that it was his
own letter which Violante had sent back,
with no other ceremony than that of
putting it in a cover.

I confess I could not help laughing
at the consternation of my poor friend;
he looked sometimes at me, and sometimes
at the letter he held in his hand,
and seemed quite confounded at this behaviour
of Violante.—What is become
of your hopes now Izidor? said I; you
see the conquest is not so easy as you
imagined.—‘I don’t give it up yet,’ answered
he (a little recovered from his
surprise; ‘it is a peevish trick of Violante’s
I must own; but I am not so
young a lover as to take the first repulse.’

—Upon the whole, he was so far from being H6r 155
being disheartened, that he wrote to
Donna Violante again the next day, in
terms more passionate than before. She
did not indeed treat this letter with the
same contempt she had done the other,
by sending it back; but then her answer
was such as I thought would have
discouraged Izidor from any farther attempts.
—She sent him word by her woman,
that it was in vain for him to hope
that he could ever make the least impression
on her heart, which was not at all
disposed to love: that she indeed pitied
him; but that she could not afford him
even that sentiment, if he continued to
persecute her with letters: and in conclusion,
desired him to think no more of
her.—This answer, forbidding as it was,
did not however incline Izidor to despair.
He drew no unfavourable omen
from Violante’s keeping his last letter,
and condescending so far as to send her H6 woman H6v 156
woman to him with a message. He
therefore resolved to make use of this
lucky opportunity of gaining over to his
interest one whom he found was in Violante’s
confidence. He slipped a purse
of pistoles into her hand, telling her at
the same time, in a melancholy tone,
that he would endeavour to obey the
cruel orders of her lady, as far as it was
in his power: but for her last injunctions,
‘that he should think no more
of her,’
if she expected to be obeyed
in that, she should at once have commanded
him to die.—Biancha (that
was the maid’s name) was on a sudden
become so fast a friend to Don Izidor,
that she could not resolve to leave him,
after executing such rigorous commands,
without affording him some comfort.
She told him that she wondered
the hardness of Violante’s heart could
be so very insensible to so much merit and H7r 157
and generosity! She owned indeed that
her mistress had never appeared much
affected with his passion; but added, she
did not think his case so desperate, since
Violante did not seem to prefer any
other to him. ‘I have executed her orders
faithfully,’
continued she; ‘and now
if I give you a word or two of advice
from myself, I think it will not be amiss.
I know,’
pursued she, ‘that Donna Violante’s
heart is tender and susceptible of
soft impressions; but then I know too
that she loves to make trial of the constancy
of her admirers.—Not,’
said she
(hastily interrupting herself) ‘that I
would have you think I would by this
insinuate that she is less serious in the
sentiments I just now delivered from
her; but you know, Signior, that perseverance
is what a lady can easily forgive
in a lover: same time it must be
managed with address. I advise you therefore H7v 158
therefore to let this matter rest for a few
days, as if in compliance to Donna
Violante’s
will (as well as to prevent her
having any mistrust of my aiding you
in your design) and then, the violence
of your passion getting the better of
your resolution, and not permitting you
to be silent any longer, you must renew
the attack. You understand me,’
added
she, with a significant look; ‘and if my
interest to Donna Violante can be of any
service to you, I am more yours than
my lady’s.’
Don Izidor relished the
advice of the cunning Biancha so well,
that he could not forbear embracing
her; and promising to follow it to a
title, dismissed her.

I was present,” pursued Don Raphael,
“at this conversation, and could
not help observing to Don Izidor that
the promises of this mercenary girl had elated H8r 159
elated him as much as if he had received
the kindest message from his mistress.
He told me the work was half done;
and that he was impatient to have a few
days over, that he might put Biancha’s
idea in practice; the success of which
he said he did not doubt. I knew it
would be in vain for me to represent to
him the injustice he did Donna Cynthia:
Izidor is of a temper not to be contradicted;
and I was convinced of the impossibility
of dissuading him from what
he had once resolved on.”’

‘“It is now five days,” added Don
Raphael
, since he last wrote to Donna
Violante
;—and thinking that long
enough for a man so much in love to
impose silence on himself, he this day
sent those lines which I so unluckily
dropped. I am to wait on the fair
widow with them to-night; and am to add H8v 160
add every thing which I can think of
to soften her heart, in favour of my
friend.”
Such are the particulars,’
continued
Donna Clara, ‘which I learned
from Don Raphael. I parted from
him without making any remarks on
Don Izidor’s conduct, which he, by
reiterated intreaties, conjured me to
conceal from you.’

I could not help admiring the singularity
of these incidents,”
pursued
Donna Cynthia: “and however ill-natured
our stars were in condemning us
to love such hypocrites, I thought we
yet owed them some thanks, for the discoveries
we had made of their falsehood.
—I did not hesitate a moment to acquaint
Donna Clara with the perfidy of
Don Raphael.—‘You see,’ said I, ‘we are
equally abused: our injuries, like our
loves, are the same:—but let us at least be H9r 161
be just to ourselves, and abandon these
traitors before they have time to add to
our vexation.’
‘Agreed,’ answered
Donna Clara; ‘and my Don Raphael’s
mistress (whoever she be) repay his love
with ingratitude.’
‘Yes,’ cried I; ‘and
let Violante be the ruin of the faithless
Izidor!’
—These words,”
(continued
Cynthia) “though they seemed to be
nothing more than the first sallies of
anger in a disappointed woman, were
afterwards but too fatally verified. We
made a resolution on the spot, never to
see our two lovers again, nor to vouchsafe
them any reasons for the conduct
we intended to observe towards them.

We had an opportunity the next
day to try the strength of these resolutions.
Don Izidor came as usual to
make me a visit; but I refused absolutely
to see him:—Donna Clara observedserved H9v 162
the same behaviour with regard
to Don Raphael. They each of them
wrote to us; but we sent back their letters
unopened; at the same time forbidding
the messengers to bring us any more, on
pain of being ill-treated.—As for our
two lovers, though such a conduct
might probably pique their pride, yet,
certain I am, it was so far from giving
them any disgust, that I rather believe
they were glad of such an opportunity
to break with us; for they were so
punctual in obeying our orders, that
neither Clara nor I heard any more
from them!

I could not however resist a curiosity
(hardly to be excused) to know
how Izidor succeeded with Donna Violante.
I was some time at a loss to
know who to employ to get me the intelligence
I wanted:—at last I fixed on a proper H10r 163
a proper person. There was a young
man who had formerly been a valet de
chambre
to my father, to whom (on
account of his good services) he had at
his death left a pretty annuity, which
enabled him to live independently.—
This fellow had, together with a good
person, some agreeable qualifications,
which I knew would be of use to my
design:—in short, my project was that
he should endeavour to insinuate himself
into the good graces of Biancha (Donna
Violante’s
woman); and by that means
make himself master of her lady’s
actions.—I proposed it to him; and he
readily embraced an opportunity of
obliging me. There was no great difficulty
in getting an access to this damsel:
Roderigo (that was my agent’s
name) in a few days got acquainted
with her; and soon found the way to
her heart, in so much, that in a short time H10v 164
time after I had enjoined him his task,
he had gained so far upon her confidence
as to enable him to give me the
account I am going to relate.

‘Don Raphael,’ said he, ‘according
to the promise he had made his friend,
went that very evening (after he had
parted from Donna Clara) to wait on
the fair widow, fully resolved to use all
his art in giving her a favourable impression
of Don Izidor. Violante no
sooner heard his name pronounced by
Biancha, than she desired him to be admitted.
Raphael, charmed at this
happy beginning of his negociation,
was in a moment in her dressing-room,
whether she had thought proper to
withdraw on purpose to receive him:
and my friend Biancha, out of a curiosity
natural to her station, posted herself
where she could not lose a word of their
discourse.

‘After H11r 165

After the first compliments were
over, Don Raphael, being seated near
Violante, conjured her to hear him
patiently on a subject, on which he said
he would not dare to entertain her,
without being first assured of her pardon.
Violante answering this preliminary
with a gracious nod, encouraged
him to proceed.—“Suffer me then, Madame,”
said he, “to solicit you in behalf
of Don Izidor; the most deserving and
the most unfortunate of men! I don’t
come to represent him as an obstinate
and importuning lover, who is resolved
to tire you with his passion: on the contrary,
I would have you look on him
as an unhappy generous man, who submits,
without murmuring, to the fate
your scorn has condemned him to; and
I am only now come to lay at your feet
the last efforts of a passion which his
reason, in obedience to your will, has in H11v 166
in vain attempted to subdue. Behold,”

added he, putting one knee on the
ground, and presenting Don Izidor’s
letter to her,—“behold the dictates of a
heart pierced with your cruelties! and
which nothing but death or the adorable
Violante can restore to peace!”
—Here he
paused to observe what impression this
fine preamble made on the lady.

He discovered indeed, that she
listened to him with a sort of pleasure,
which encouraged him to proceed in
the same strain; for having taken the
letter out of his hand, she remained
with her eyes fixed on his face, as if in
expectation that he had something more
to say.—Don Raphael, who rightly
enough guessed that Violante was of a
romantic turn of mind, resolved to treat
her in that style.—“Permit me then,”
said he, “to breathe Don Izidor’s sighs, to H12r 167
to speak all his pains, and to pour out
a torrent of vows at your feet.”
—He
ended his rhapsody by throwing himself
prostrate on the floor, and protesting he
would not rise till she had expressed
some pity towards his friend.—“You are
a skilful advocate, Don Raphael,”
added
she; “and Izidor is much obliged to
you. If any thing could win me, ’tis
his way of making love by proxy: it
has something whimsical in it, which suits
my humour:—prithee let us carry on
this scene. I will suppose you to be your
friend Don Izidor; and let me see how
you would go about to woo an obdurate
mistress.”
“Oh, Madam!” answered
Don Raphael, “if you would suffer the
real Don Izidor to speak his sentiments
before you, you would find them much
fuller of tenderness and delicacy than I
shall be able to express.”
“Psha,” cried
Violante, “you must be a very insensible Cavalier H12v 168
Cavalier indeed, if the sight of a fine
woman can’t inspire you with nothing
that is pretty.”
“Oh! pardon me, Madame!”
answered Don Raphael, “I was
only doing justice to my friend: but if
you will have me to personate him, permit
me then to tell you, relentless Violante,
that I can no longer support your
cruelty:—you know that I have loved,
or rather, adored you, from the first
moment I saw you; and no words can
express that anguish, the anxiety, the
unsupportable torment, which your
scorn has, since that fatal time, condemned
me to! Cease than at length,
your frowns, most amiable creature; or
prepare to see the heart which idolizes
you bleed before your eyes!”

Don Raphael accompanied these
words with an air and tone of despair;
and, clapping his hand with the most passionate I1r 169
passionate gesture on his sword, he had
drawn it half-way from the scabbard,
when Violante, either quite forgetting
herself or alarmed for the poor gentleman’s
life, threw her arms suddenly
about his neck (as he kneeled before
her) and, embracing him ardently,—
“You shall not die, my dear Chevalier,”
said she; “Violante is not insensible to
your merit; and loves you with a passion
equal to that which you express for her.”

—Though Don Raphael thought this
was carrying the jest a little too far,
he was not however remiss in point of
gallantry; but, returning Violante’s
caresses, he told her that he thought
Don Izidor, from being the most
wretched, was become the happiest of
men! and that he hoped his friend had
nothing now to do, but to come and
receive those marks of favour in person,
which she had vouchsafed him as his Vol. II I repre- I1v 170
representative. “How!” cried Violante,
starting; “would you so easily forego the
right I have given you to my heart, and
yield up that love to another which I
have just now lavished upon you!—
Impossible! I can’t entertain so mean
an opinion of you; and I promise myself
you will be as willing to return my
tenderness as Don Izidor would.”
Don
Raphael
, who did not expect this, was
struck almost speechless. She perceived
his embarrassment.—“Don’t be surprised,”
said she; “you see my weakness; and
after what I have said, I shall no longer
endeavour to conceal it:—I liked you
the first moment I saw you, and had
even the curiosity to enquire who you
were. I flattered myself that the billet
which you presented to me as I came
from church, contained your own sentiments:
—judge then, how I was chagrined
at the disappointment, when I found I2r 171
found it came from Don Izidor! I determined
never to see him; nor could
I endure to hear his name pronounced
by any mouth but yours. Consider
then, Don Raphael, whether you will
prefer his friendship to the love I offer
you? Don’t mistake my meaning,”
said
she seeing him thoughtful); “I have no
design upon your liberty, nor do I intend
ever to give up my own again;—
but you see I am young and rich: and
I am vain enough to think that nothing
but the regard you have for Izidor,
could hinder you from improving the
kindness I have for you.”

Don Raphael laid hold on these
last words, which he was resolved to
turn to his own justification.—“You
judge right, Madam,”
said he; “nothing
but the inviolable friendship which subsists
between Don Izidor and me, could I2 make I2v 172
make me hesitate a moment; I am but too
sensible of the value of these favours you
would bestow on me, but must own I am
not worthy of the honour you do me:—
for, alas! charming Violante, I can
repay you nothing but my utmost gratitude!
Don Izidor suffers enough already
from the scorn of an adored mistress,
without receiving a fresh wound
from the treachery of a beloved friend!
Recall your heart then; and if you are
determined not to bestow it on the unhappy
Don Izidor, reserve it at least
for one more worthy of it than Don
Raphael
.”
—He pronounced these words
in so grave, yet persuasive, a tone,
that any female but Violante would
have retreated: but she was not so
easily to be put off; she was a woman
of impenetrable cunning; was extremely
insinuating, and had all her life been
used to intrigue. She found she had mistaken I3r 173
mistaken Don Raphael’s temper (which
was not the most forward); and apprehended,
very justly, that the strange
advances she had made had shocked
him. She resolved, if possible, to retrieve
this wrong step; and, seeming to
be moved at what he said, she bent her
eyes dejectedly to the ground; and
then, as if it were stealing a bashful look
at Don Raphael, she let fall some tears,
which she could always command, and
begged him to leave her to repent a
weakness she was not then able to conquer.
This piece of dissimulation had
the desired effect. The artful tears of
this cunning creature entirely subdued
the weak inconstant heart of Don Raphael,
and washed away all his scruples
of honour. He threw himself at her
feet, implored her pardon, and swore
he would sacrifice every thing to her.—
Don Izidor’s friendship and the confidenceI3 dence I3v 174
he had in him, were no longer
remembered!

The artful Violante dried her
eyes; and finding that Don Raphael
had fallen into her snare, they from
that time commenced an amour, from
which they promised themselves great
felicity.

Don Raphael told her it would be
best to flatter Izidor with some hopes,
that he himself might continue his visits
under pretence of negociating for his
friend, till his intimacy in Violante’s
family should intitle him to visit her on
his own account. Violante approved
of this; and Don Raphael took his leave.’

These were the particulars,” continued
Donna Cynthia, “which Roderigo
told me past at their first meeting: he I4r 175
he added, that Don Raphael had often
waited on the widow since, under the
notion of a friend and confidant to Don
Izidor
; that he had even prevailed on
her once to see Izidor, the better to
amuse and blind him, as well as to
prevent him from prying too curiously
into Raphael’s conduct;—which he was
so far from suspecting, that he thought
himself obliged to his good offices for
this mark of the lady’s favour.

Roderigo, who knew how Clara
and I stood with respect to those two
base men, too the liberty to say we
had no great loss of them as lovers; and
made so many keen reflections on this
new piece of treachery in Don Raphael,
that I could not help blushing at finding
a more lively sense of honour in a
poor fellow of his education, than in
two men who might boast of their birth I4 and I4v 176
and breeding! I did not chide him
for this freedom; but bid him continue
the part he had acted, and inform me
if Izidor should come to discover his
friend’s kindness to him.

I communicated this news to Donna
Clara
; and told her that as Violante
was become as much, or more, her
rival than mine, she had an equal right
with me to be informed of what past
between her and Don Raphael. We
could neither of us forbear laughing at
this whimsical turn:—and as we already
looked upon our two lovers with a good
deal of contempt, we imagined that the
farther accounts which we expected
from Roderigo, would serve to confirm
it:—and we proposed some diversondiversion as
the figure Don Izidor would make when
he should come to know how much he
had been fooled by Don Raphael.

‘It I5r 177

It was almost a month before we
heard any more of the adventure; when,
one morning, before Donna Clara (who
had past the night at my house) or I
were up, my woman came in and told
me that Roderigo desired to speak with
me. We both dressed ourselves hastily;
and concluding something extraordinary
had brought him at so early an
hour, we desired that he might be admitted.
He no sooner appeared at my
chamber-door than I observed such an
unusual concern in his looks, that I
could not forbear crying out,—‘What’s
the matter, Roderigo? What news?’

‘Ah! Madam,’ cried he, looking at
Donna Clara, ‘the worst that can be
imagined!’
‘And it relates to Don Raphael,’
cried Donna Clara: ‘you may
speak without disguise; for he is so indifferent
to me, that nothing concerning
him can give me the least pain.’
I5 She I5v 178
She spoke these words without well
knowing what she said: they seemed to
drop from her tongue without being
guided by her reason; and I believe they
were uttered through a sort of confusion,
which Roderigo’s expression had thrown
her into: for the first thought which
rushed into her mind was, that Raphael
was married to Violante (which, considering
that woman’s character, would
have been mortification enough to
Clara, had she in reality hated Raphael)
Roderigo still looked at her with concern
in his face.—‘God be praised, Madam!’
said he; ‘I wish you may always
continue indifferent towards ungrateful
men!’
‘Why, Roderigo?’ said Clara,
affecting to smile, ‘pray, is Don Raphael
married, or dead?’
‘He is dead,’ answered
Roderigo;—‘the unfortunate
Don Raphael has paid the price of his
folly with his life!’

‘I desired I6r 179

I desired Roderigo to repeat the particulars
of this melancholy event.—‘You
may remember, Madam,’
said he, ‘that
I told you Don Raphael paid several
visits to Violante, under colour of serving
Don Izidor; but that gentleman
growing at length a little impatient at
the coquetry of Violante, or perhaps
suspecting part of the truth (by Biancha’s
means, who was always his friend)
he resolved to watch Raphael at his next
interview with the lady. He gave him
a letter to deliver to her; and, without
appearing in the least to suspect his
fidelity, he prayed him to carry it to
her; which the other readily undertook
to do. Last night was the time appointed
for this purpose, or rather was
the fatal period marked out by Heaven
to end Don Raphael’s life! The jealous
Izidor, by the help of a few pistoles,
prevailed on Biancha to conceal him in I6 her I6v 180
her mistress’s closet; first engaging him
by a solemn promise, that he would
take care not to discover himself. He
appeared so calm, that Biancha did not
apprehend any evil consequences from
this compliance. Don Izidor, impatient
to have his suspicions either banished
or confirmed, was looking
through a casement in the closet door,
which was covered by a silk curtain,
where Don Raphael entered the chamber
where Violante was waiting to
receive him. Her dress was negligent,
but elegant at the same time. He saw
her receive Don Raphael with a freedom
which convinced him they were
on very good terms: and making him
sit by her on a sopha, they entered into
a conversation which left him no reason
to doubt his friend’s treachery. He
could scarce contain himself at what he
heard:—but this was not all; he saw Don I7r 181
Don Raphael take the letter he had
given him for Violante out of his pocket,
and presenting it to her, with an ironical
smile,—“I had almost forgot,” said he,
“to deliver you this letter from one of
the most passionate of your lovers, the
unfortunate Don Izidor, who languishes
under your frowns.”
“Prithee read it,”
said Violante: “it will divert us a little.”
Don Raphael broke open the seal, and
read it with a loud voice; accompanying
every word with so ridiculous a tone
and gesture, that Violante was ready to
die with laughing.—The enraged Don
Izidor
could bear no more;—he burst
open the closet-door, and, throwing
himself on the two lovers, he buried
his dagger in the unhappy Raphael’s
bosom, who instantly expired! Violante
had only time to give a loud
shriek, and then fell motionless on the
sopha! Don Izidor, satisfied with the sacrifice I7v 182
sacrifice he had made to his revenge,
left the house directly; Biancha (who
had been a witness to this scene from
another closet, where she had hid herself
at my request) not having power to
stop him or give the alarm to the family.
These,’
continued Roderigo, ‘are the
particulars which I learned from Biancha
this morning. Violante, who has
been the occasion of this miserable disaster,
is in the most deplorable state
imaginable; and all the friends of Don
Raphael
are now in pursuit of his murderer!’

Whatever my concern was at this
dreadful account, Donna Clara’s was
infinitely greater: for now it was that
she found how dear Don Raphael had
been to her. She reproached herself
for it; and would fain have believed
that she rejoiced at his death as a punishmentment I8r 183
due to his crime. She accused
him of treachery and ingratitude, and
of having occasioned her a thousand
torments! for which she ought to detest
his memory, and to congratulate Izidor
on his having at once both revenged himself
and her! Thus for a while she
pleased herself, with thinking that her
just anger had got the better of her
love:—but, alas! I soon found she
deceived herself!—this was but a vain
resource, which her resentment at first
offered to console her under a misfortune,
that she was in reality scarcely
able to support! Whilst Raphael lived
and courted another, a just pride stifled,
and she flattered herself had entirely
subdued her passion for him; but in
that her heart betrayed her: for now
the scene changed in a moment, and
represented this faithless lover to her
imagination in the most amiable light in I8v 184
in which partial love could place him.
She condemned herself for having deserted
him, without being sure that
what Don Izidor had said of him was
true:—she blamed Violante alone for
his unhappy fate; and accused that
wretched woman, Don Izidor, and herself,
by turns. She lamented Don Raphael
with floods of tears; and I found
that it was a sort of decorum she kept
up with herself, which prevented her
giving a loose to them at first; for when
she had, as it were, mitigated his
crime, she gave herself leave to weep
without restraint. I knew the softness
as well as the generosity of her nature,
required this tribute to the memory of
a man whom she had once loved so
well. I therefore gave way to her grief;
considering that time and her own good
sense, would administer more comfort
than I was capable of affording her.

‘Don I9r 185

Don Raphael’s friends used the utmost
diligence to find out Don Izidor;
but he had the good fortune to escape
their pursuit. His flight however was
so precipitate, that it was found he had
taken nothing with him but a small sum
of money; and his whole estate, which
was considerable, was confiscated to the
crown. As this affair made a great
noise, and was little to the credit of
Donna Violante, she soon after disappeared;
and I believe has never been
since in Madrid.

As for Donna Clara and myself,
we could no longer relish a place which
had been the scene of such a disaster.—
My aunt, who love me too well to oppose
my inclination, at last yielded to
my desire of retiring to this castle,
which is on my own estate. Donna
Clara’s
father dying about the same time, I9v 186
time, left her entirely mistress of herself;
and I had no difficulty in persuading
her to accompany me. Here my
friend and I pass our time in an agreeable
though melancholy solitude; for
we converse with few besides the good
Bishop of Seville, who now and then
honours us with his company. ’Tis
now three years since we lived here; and
we are so well satisfied with the pleasures
of our retirement, that we have not
the most distant thought of ever changining
it.”

Here Donna Cynthia ended her narrative;
and, perceiving that night had
insensibly stole upon them, she proposed
to the ladies to return home, telling
Adelaide she would claim her promise
the next evening, when they would
with pleasure take the opportunity of
adjourning to the same place.

They I10r 187

They were surprised at their return
into the castle, to find the Bishop of Seville
sitting with Madame Deffari, who
told them, that that prelate having just
alighted from his carriage, she was going
to send for them into the park; saying,
she believed they had met with
some enchanted palace, or fairy abode,
which had so much prolonged their
walk. Donna Cynthia excused herself
and her companions; and changing the
discourse, addressed herself to the Bishop,
asking him to what mighty good
chance they owed the honour of seeing
him at that unusual hour (for that
gentleman living some miles from the
Castle of Cardonas, never came to visit
them so late, but when he intended to
pass the night there; and of this he always
sent them notice)? so that Donna
Cynthia
concluded that it was something materially
particular which had been the occasion I10v 188
accasionoccasion of his coming at almost nine
o’clock at night.

“You may be surprised indeed,
daughter”
answered the Bishop, “at
seeing me here at such an hour, without
first acquainting you with my design:—
but an accident brought me into your
neighbourhood this evening, and detained
me in it longer than I expected;
and, as I know my chamber is always
ready for me, I make no scruple of
throwing myself on you as a guest tonight.”
“You do us honour,” replied
Donna Cynthia, “but, if it be no secret,
will you let us know what that accident
was, to which we are so much
obliged?”
“I will tell you,” answered
the Bishop; “you know Father Theodore,
whom you surnamed the Solitary,
and have had such a curiosity to see
from the description I have given you of I11r 189
of him. The person we are speaking
of”
(added he, directing his speech to
Madame Deffari) “lives about a quarter
of a league from this castle; and it was
mere chance which led me first into his
acquaintance. A violent storm of wind
and rain obliged me once, as I happened
to ride this way, to turn into his
little lodge for shelter. He received
me with great civility and good-nature;
and upon my inquiring into his circumstances
(as I saw him in a poor habitation)
he told me he was an Italian
monk, of the order of St. Hyronimo,
who, having raised himself some enemies
on a point of religious controversy,
was obliged to fly from their persecution.
I found him a man of so much
humanity and good-sense, that I have
since that time frequently called at his
house in my way thither, to have the
pleasure of half an hour’s conversation with I11v 190
with him; but he is so complete a recluse,
that these ladies, though he has
for a long time lived so very ear them,
never once had a sight of him. But
indeed it is no wonder; for he assures
me he has never stirred farther than his
little garden. You must know then,
that this poor solitary is now at the
point of death; and, having sent a peasant
to me this morning, I made all the
haste I could to him, the countryman
telling me he was dangerously ill, having
got a violent cold (by sleeping late
on the grass which had thrown him into
a fever.

I found him in reality very ill, and
weak. Having begged me to sit down
by him, and first thanked me for affording
him my presence, he told me he
had something to communicate to me, which, I12r 191
which, amongst his other sins, would
not suffer him to die in peace.

‘Know then,’ said he, ‘that I have
deceived you in my profession, my
name, and my country: for the former
of which in particular I must intreat
your pardon and absolution. You know,’

continued he, ‘that I have always made
you believe that I was an Italian priest,
who fled from the persecution of my
enemies; but this is far from the truth;
for I only put on the religious habit for
my better security and convenience, as
I believed the monk’s cowl would not
only render my person more inviolable,
but would make people less curious to
pry into the method of life I purposed
to lead.’

‘Are you not an ecclesiastic?’ cried
I, amazed at what I hear him fay.— No, I12v 192
‘No, my Lord, no,’ answered he; ‘I am
the most unfortunate man living.—But
pray hear me out.’
—He then proceeded
to tell me his real name and country,
which I find to be our own; for he is
actually a Spaniard; but having gone
into Italy in quality of Secretary to the
Viceroy of Naples, he there got acquainted
with a young woman of quality,
whom he married unknown to her
friends; and embarking with her in a
vessel for Spain, he had the misfortune
to lose her.

This disaster so much embittered
his life, that, resolving to renounce the
world, he, on his arrival in Spain, sold
his estate in Valencia, and retired to
this province, where it seems he was
born; and where,”
added the Bishop,
“I am afraid he will soon end his days;
for, after having exhausted his spirits in relating K1r 193
relating to me all the circumstances of
his unhappy story, he had scarce
strength enough to go through with his
confession, and to repeat some prayers
after me, which he begged I would offer
up for his sins.

I stayed so late with him,” pursued
he, “that I thought it would be in
vain for me to attempt going home tonight.
Besides, as I have sent to Cadiz
for a physician, I would chuse to be in
the way when he visits him.”

Adelaide, who listened attentively to
the good bishop’s discourse, had laid the
most violent constraint upon herself to
hide the tumult in her bosom which this
relation had occasioned. She concluded
that the supposed Father Theodore
could be no other than her lover, the
Chevalier de Ponces. She asked the BishopVol. II. K shop K1v 194
of Seville
, with a trembling voice,
—Whether the sick person had desired
his name to be concealed?—“No,”
replied the Bishop; “he is called Don
Enenique de Ponces
.”
—At that dear
name Adelaide could no longer contain
herself:—she fetched a deep groan,
and fainted away on the neck of Madame
Deffari
, who sat by her. All the
company were startled and surprised,
except that lady, who well knew the
cause. Adelaide was soon brought to
herself by the remedies which were applied;
and the Bishop of Seville, with
Donna Cynthia and Donna Clara, having
altogether, with great earnestness,
demanded the occasion of her so sudden
illness, Madame Deffari, with
Adelaide’s permission, acquainted them
in a few words with the whole of her
friend’s story.

The K2r 195

The good Bishop seemed quite astonished
with this new discovery; and,
addressing himself to Adelaide (whom
he now saw easing her swoln heart with
tears) “Be comforted, Madam,” said he;
“your husband is indeed dangerously
ill; but the hopes of seeing you again
may work miracles; and perhaps restore
him to health,—you whom he believes
dead, and whose loss I have heard
him so bitterly deplore.”
“Alas, my
Lord,”
answered Adelaide, “it is not
me whom he deplores; you know my
friend informed you that it was my cousin
whom he married and took away
with him (believing her indeed to be
me) but he must certainly have soon
been undeceived; therefore it is to
Faustina’s memory that he dedicates all
his sorrow.”
“You are mistaken,”
cried the Bishop, “and wrong the
Chevalier; for he lost his wife without K2 ever K2v 196
ever being undeceived in his belief of
its being you whom he married; and, if
you be that Adelaide, the daughter of
the Baron St. Seberina, Don Enenique
never was unfaithful, nor ceased one moment
to love you.”
“Explain this, my
Lord,”
cried Madame Deffari. “I am
overjoyed at what you tell us.”
—To
this the Bishop replied:—“I shall give
you the information you desire in the
Chevalier’s own words:—

‘I have informed you, my Lord, of
the opposition my passion met from my
Adelaide’s father.—With difficulty I
prevailed on her to yield to my entreaties;
and obtained at length an almost
reluctant promise to meet me the following
evening, after dark, in a summer-house
in the garden; where a priest,
whose service I had secured, had engaged
to unite us in indissoluble bonds. She K3r 197
She was faithful to her appointment;
but appeared under such extraordinary
agitation, that, fearing a return of her
former scruples, I hastened the ceremony
that secured her mine; and, putting
her and her attendant into my
chaise, I mounted my horse; and in a
short time we reached the sea-side;
where, still favoured by the obscurity of
the night, we got on board a brigantine
I had hired for the purpose; and we set
sail immediately.

Adelaide instantly retired to her
cabin; and I was preparing to follow
her, when Theresa stopped me, saying,
her mistress had requested to be left a
short time to her own thoughts.—
Though grieved and disappointed at
this proposal, I replied, “Her will should
be obeyed”
, however painful to my
heart; and, desiring Theresa to return K3 to K3v 198
to her mistress, I remained buried in reflection
on a conduct which might have
been construed into indifference, had
she not that very night given such undoubted
proofs of the most sincere attachment.

In a few minutes Theresa delivered
me a short note from my dear Adelaide:
the hand was scarcely legible, so greatly
were her spirits affected. As nearly
as I can remember (and often have they
come across my thoughts) these were the
words:—

“Your ready compliance with a request
so apparently unkind, has obliged
me greatly. You cannot, my dearest
Ponces, doubt of my love; but you
must own the sacrifice I have made of
filial affection, duty, and all those ties
I have hitherto most revered, require the K4r 199
the tribute of sorrow I cannot deny
them.—A few hours, I trust, will compose
my spirits; and I shall meet you
in the morning in a frame of mind better
suited to that union on which my future
happiness must depend.”

I reiterated my assurances of compliance
to her maid; and even admired
this sensibility of mind in my Adelaide.
—I retired to the captain’s cabin for the
remainder of the night. In a few hours
we fell in with a little fleet, which the
Viceroy of Naples was then sending on a
grand expedition. We had scarcely
joined them (which we would rather
have avoided, and should have done so,
had the weather been clear) when we
were, most unfortunately met by some
pirates of Barbary, who instantly attacked
us.—The Spaniards fought
bravely, though under much disadvantage,K4 tage, K4v 200
the brigantines being so crowded
with men that they had not room to defend
themselves regularly. It was now
peep of day, and I had mingled in the
fight, not daring to trust myself with a
sight of Adelaide in such an alarming
moment; but the precious charge animated
me with uncommon fire; so that,
after a fierce engagement which lasted
near an hour, I leapt in the enemy’s
ship which had grappled my brigantine,
and advancing with my sword drawn
towards the captain (who had more than
once attempted to board me) we began
a very sharp and long encounter.—
Most of my men followed my example,
and engaged with the Turks; who defended
themselves with great bravery.
For my own part, I was received by
the infidel with uncommon intrepidity;
when, after exchanging several blows,
I fortunately laid him dead at my feet.

“But K5r 201

But oh! how dear did this victory
cost me! During the engagement between
the two vessels, my brigantine had
started a plank, which the crew in the
confusion they were in, had not discovered,
and most of them having followed
when I boarded the Turk, there remained
but few hands to assist her behind.
The ships had by this time got
clear of each other; and, to complete
our distress, the wind had risen so high,
that it was impossible for the sailors who
were with me to get to the relief of their
comrades. How dreadful was my situation
when I saw the brigantine which
contained the treasure of my soul just
ready to be swallowed up by the waves;
for the water had by this time almost
filled it. The storm had severed our
vessels so, that it was only possible to
distinguish my dear Adelaide running
distractedly on the deck, followed by K5 her K5v 202
her woman, who was wringing her
hands. But what were my agonies,
when, after a fruitless endeavour to get
to their succour, I saw the fatal brigantine
sink to the bottom!—I beheld every
thing dear to me perish before my eyes
in one dreadful moment, and was at
this sight so little master of myself, that I
was going to plunge in after her, if some
of the people about me, who saw my
despair, had not held me. I was carried
to the cabin, where my servant had
followed me, rather to prevent me from
committing any violence on myself than
to offer me any consolation; which he
knew at that time would be a vain attempt.

In the mean time the two fleets
were dispersed, as well the Turkish as
Spanish; which without doubt was providential;
for it not only saved a great many K6r 203
many lives that must have been lost,
had the engagement continued, but also
retarded that black enterprise the Neapolitan
ships were going on; and which
God has since been pleased so happily
to defeat.—Your Lordship can’t be ignorant
that I mean that execrable design
against the Republic of Venice.

We tossed about the remainder of
that day and the whole ensuing night,
when the following morning the storm
abated. As we had made ourselves
masters of the Turkish ship, I ordered
them to pursue our melancholy course
to Spain, where we arrived without
meeting any farther molestation.

Of all the money and jewels I had
carried with me from Italy I had nothing
left, having lost all in the vessel;
but this would have given me little concern,K6 cern, K6v 204
had the waves spared my beloved
wife. The master of the brigantine
which was sunk, lost nothing in the exchange
he had made; for the Turkish
ship proved to be very rich; so that
most of his crew were well rewarded for
the hazard they had run.

I now found myself the most forlorn
wretch in the world. In one moment
I took a review of all my calamities.
“In what condition,” said I, “am I
returned to my native country! I left
it, possessed of a considerable employment,
and flushed with a thousand flattering
hopes: but where are they now?
I have abused the Duke d’Ossuna’s favour
by absenting myself from my post
without his knowledge; and that at a
most critical time.—I have stole away
from Naples like a criminal; and such
indeed I am; for, after having engaged a virtuous, K7r 205
a virtuous, young, and beautiful maid
to forsake her friends and her country
to follow my fortunes, I have seen her
perish before my eyes! I accuse myself
of her death; for it was her love for
me which had occasioned it.—Yes,”
cried I,
“had Adelaide never beheld the wretched
Enenique, she had still lived, still been
happy.”

Thus I reflected that I had lost
the best part of my fortune, my hopes,
and my wife. I made no doubt but
the Baron St. Seberina, her father,
would make the most diligent inquiry
after her; and that, assisted by the Viceroy,
who must also be provoked at my
flight, I should inevitably be discovered;
and though, had Adelaide lived,
I was not without hopes of appeasing the
Baron, yet I had every thing to apprehend
from the fury of an incensed father,ther, K7v 206
who, having lost an only child,
would not fail to look upon me as the
author of her death. These reflections
made me form a resolution at once what
course to take. I repaired with the utmost
privacy to Valencia, where I have
an estate.—I put it into the hands of a
friend, who was to remit a small sum to
me yearly, making him acquainted with
my design; and at the same time desired
him to give out that I was gone to
travel. I changed my name to that of
Father Theodore; and disguising myself
in a monk’s habit, I resolved to pass the
rest of my days in mourning the loss of
Adelaide; and to live as solitarily as if I
had really been a holy man.—The many
years I have been absent from Andalusia,
together with the alteration in my
person, made me so little known there,
that I concluded it would be no hard
matter to conceal myself under a borrowed
name.

“I chose K8r 207

I chose Andalusia for my residence
for two reasons; the one, that being the
place of my nativity, and at the same time
one of the most delightful parts of Spain,
I had a particular attachment to it; the
other, that I imagined, should there be
any search for me, my enemies would
least suspect me to be in the very province
whither I knew it was most likely
they would direct their first inquiries.
I bought this little dwelling from a poor
man who had lived here many years;
and I only wish to exist, in order to
make an atonement for a life which
(thought not blameless) has yet been
fuller of misfortunes than crimes.’

I could not,” proceeded the Bishop,
“hear this unhappy young man conclude
his sad story without shedding
tears. I have already told you how
much he had impaired his strength by talking K8v 208
talking so long. However, after having
past some hours at his bed-side,
which were spent as well in affording
him consolation as in hearing a detail of
his adventures, I left him in a tranquil
state of mind; but so weak in body,
that I am not without fears of losing
him:—therefore, good daughter,”

added he, addressing Adelaide, “though
you have again found your lover, and
found him such as you would wish him
to be; yet have a care in giving a loose
to the emotions of your heart! He is
indeed most worthy of your love; and
I wish Heaven may spare him to make
you happy:—but I conjure you not to
build your happiness on a life, of which
we must be so uncertain.”
“Oh, my
Lord!”
cried Adelaide (her face bathed
in tears) “assist me with your counsel;
and teach me, if possible, to bear
these cruel strokes of fate without murmuring.muring K9r 209”
“Don’t talk of murmuring,”
interrupted the Bishop, gravely; “God
forbid, child, that you should presume
to repine at the decrees of Providence.
You ought rather to fall on your knees,
and adore its wife and merciful dispensations,
which have preserved you in a
most wonderful manner, at the same
time that it permitted the destruction
of that miserable woman who betrayed
you!—Consider that, had you been in
her place, you must have perished; and
the Chevalier would, in reality, have
had the loss of that wife to lament,
whose life seems to have been the care
of Heaven! Let this consideration fill
you with the utmost gratitude.—You
are to believe that, if God is pleased to
make Don Enenique to himself, it is not
in order to afflict you; but, on the
contrary, to work some special end of
his own; perhaps to give you a farther oppor- K9v 210
opportunity of exercising that admirable
patience and submission, which he has
already blest you with; and to teach
you not to put too great a value on the
transitory enjoyments of this life.—We
ought therefore, without laying schemes
of happiness for whole years, which an
accident of one minute may destroy, to
content ourselves to live (as we all are)
poor dependants on the mercies which
are hourly vouchsafed us!”

Whilst the good prelate was thus
endeavouring to comfort his fair pupil,
she strove as much as possible to stifle
her sighs.—Whatever submission she
shewed to this venerable man’s advice,
her thoughts were too much agitated at
this time, to be easily calmed.—She
thanked him, however, in the most respectful
terms, for the zeal he expressed
for her happiness and peace of mind.— It K10r 211
It was now pretty late; and the messenger
whom the Bishop had sent to Rios for
the physician, was returned with him, and
came to acquaint his Lord that he had
left him at the house of the sick man.—
Adelaide was afraid to shew too great an
impatience to know what was the state
of the Chevalier; but Madame Deffari,
who guessed at what past in her mind,
entreated the Bishop to send for the
physician, that he might give them an
account of his patient’s state of health.
Accordingly the Bishop dispatched one
of his servants for him; the Chevalier’s
little habitation being only two or three
fields length from the castle.

When the physician arrived, he assured
them that the Chevalier was still
in a high fever; and that he had little
hopes but from his youth and strength.
He added, that his patient was delirious, and K10v 212
and could not be prevailed on to take a
cordial which he had brought with him
to procure sleep.—The whole company
were alarmed at this account! The
Bishop was deeply moved at Adelaide’s
sorrow, as well as at the Chevalier’s
danger.—He assured her there should
be nothing omitted that could tend towards
his relief:—and, rising up, he
let the physician know that he would go
with him to his patient, to try if his presence
would have any salutary effect.—
Accordingly they both departed from
the castle:—and Donna Cynthia, perceiving
that it was now almost midnight,
entreated her guests to think of taking
some repose.

Adelaide went indeed to bed; but
those persons must never have felt a
pain like hers who imagine that she
slept.—Ponces, the amiable Ponces, still K11r 213
still faithful and constant as ever, was a
thought which transported her beyond
expression:—but then, that same Ponces,
amiable and constant as he is, is
at the point of death!—This cruel reflection
quite distracted her; and she
rose before day, to learn, if possible,
what she was to expect.

Madame Deffari was still asleep;
and finding all the house in a profound
silence, she waited in her antichamber,
walking backwards and forwards with
the utmost anxiety, till she should hear
some of the family stirring. But the
Bishop of Seville, who judged of her
inquietude, did not leave her long in
suspense. That good man, who had
(together with the physician) sat up all
night, no sooner saw day-light than he
hastened to the castle of Cardonas; and,
going directly to Adelaide’s apartment, he K11v 214
he met that lady in the gallery; who,
on hearing him come up the stairs, was
advancing to receive him in the utmost
agitation.—“The Chevalier is still
alive,”
said he (without waiting for her
asking him) “and though not out of
danger, yet, from having rested a little,
his fever is somewhat abated.—I found
him,”
added the Bishop, “light-headed,
as the physician told us; and I
remained almost two hours by his bedside
before his reason returned, when I
prevailed on him to take the dose which
was prepared to make him sleep; and
which I almost began to suspect he had
refused from the physician, less out of
want of recollection than a disinclination
to live; for it was with some difficulty
that I persuaded him to take it;
and not till after I had represented to
him the heinousness of his endeavouring
to hasten his own death, by not only K12r 215
only the neglecting, but absol flawed-reproduction3 lettersrefusing
all means of preservation. But
I found he had quite different notions
from mine:—for, shaking his head, he
told me that, after having made his
peace with God, he hoped it would not
be imputed to him as a crime, if he
pressed forward on his journey to a better
world, in order to leave one which
was hateful to him:—however, at my
request he said he would no longer refuse
the aids which I had so generously
procured him. In effect, the cordial
which he accepted from my hands so
composed him, that he slept for near
three hours; and on his awakening
seemed much refreshed.”
“Oh, my
Lord!”
cried Adelaide, “how infinitely
good are you! Sure Heaven sent you
to be a comforter and preserver to me,
as well as to the unhappy Chevalier,
who, without your charitable assistance, had K12v 216
had by this time been no more!”

“Give God the praise,” answered the
Bishop) “who has pleased to make me
instrumental in this good work. But
moderate your joy; for I have already
told you that, though Don Enenique is
much better, he is nevertheless not out
of danger.”
“If he knew I was alive,
and so near him,”
replied Adelaide,
blushing, “I am sure it would help him
to recover.”
“On the contrary,” answered
the Bishop, “it might only
serve to irritate his disorder; for sudden
impulses of joy and surprise have
often produced effects as fatal as those
of grief. However, you may be sure I
shall, when his strength permits, take
an opportunity of making the discovery
to him in such a manner as he will be
best able to bear. In the mean time I
must chide you for your impatience:
for I well perceive by your eyes, that you L1r 217
you slept but little last night.”
Adelaide
was something abashed at this
gentle reprimand: however, relying
entirely on the goodness of the Bishop,
she conjured him to continue his kind
offices to the Chevalier, and to indulge
her so far as to let her know from time
to time how he did.—“And I leave it
to you, my Lord,”
added she, turning
her face away, “to inform him that
Adelaide still lives, and lives only for
him.”

Madame Deffari, with Donna Cynthia
and Donna Clara, were by this
time up; and, longing to enquire after
the Chevalier’s health, they were rejoiced
at the hopes the Bishop gave
them by his account: and indeed they
so much interestd themselves in Adelaide’s
happiness, that one would have
thought it was the particular concern of Vol. II. L ea L1v 218
each of them.—Donna Cynthia invited
the physician to breakfast with them;
and they had the satisfaction to hear
from him that the Chevalier’s disorder
was so much abated, that he began to
entertain the best hopes imaginable of
him:—in effect he recovered his strength
so well in a few days, that the Bishop
of Seville
, believing that the knowledge
of Adelaide being alive would
much contribute towards restoring him
to perfect health, he resolved no longer
to defer a discovery on which the happiness
of two such virtuous and amiable
persons depended. He intended to
prepare the Chevalier by degrees for the
joyful news he had to disclose to him:
wherefore going to make him a visit, as
was his daily custom, he found him reclining
on his bed, with a book before
him, on which he seemed very attentive.
He laid it by when he perceived the L2r 219
the Bishop at his bedside; and, accosting
that reverend man with a cheerful air,—
“I would prefer nothing on earth but your
Lordship’s company,”
said he, “to the
author I have been just now reading,
whose sentiments I am the more delighted
with as they serve to confirm me in
a resolution I had taken (in case it
pleased God to restore me to health) to
assume that holy weed in reality, which
I have so long presumed to wear only
as a disguise. This I think the smallest
atonement I can make for my profanation
of the sacred habit.”
“I am pleased,”
answered the Bishop, “to find
you entertained in so edifying, as well
as agreeable a manner; and wish you
would bestow more of your time in an
employment which would take off your
thoughts from the melancholy subjects
which so often engage them. You are
now but just recovered from a dangerousL2 ou L2v 220
fit of sickness, which had almost
brought you up to the brink of the grave!
summon up therefore all your spirits;
banish the gloom which has so long
hung over you; and prepare your mind
to taste the sweets of peace. You have
disburthened your soul of a weight
which had a long time oppressed it;—
you have made me the confidant of
your sorrows, as well as of your sins.—
I have absolved you from the one, and
hope I have administered some consolation
to the other. In such a frame of
mind as I flatter myself you are now in,
I must approve the resolution you have
taken, effectually to bed the world and
its vanities adieu. You will in this solitude
have leisure to discover the charms
of piety and true devotion:—charms
which the world are but little acquainted
with; where they are so obscured with
avarice and hypocrisy, that their splendordor L3r 221
is altogether lost! Here you must
look upon yourself as just entered into
a new world. You must forget that
you were ever any other than what you
now are:—that you ever had a name,
a fortune, or a wife. Let all the vanities
of your youth be forgotten; and
let the memory of nothing but your
faults dwell with you. A little use will
make all these things easy; and every
day will advance your happiness and
repose. You must learn to fix your
eyes on the supreme Author of all good;
and to look upon him as the end of all
your wishes and desires:—this will put
you in a state to be envied by kings.—
Your life will be always sweetened with
hopes the most ravishing that can touch
a human heart, without any mixture of
those fears which render the mortal condition
so miserable:—you will no longer
regret the feeling your treasure swallowed L3 up L3v 222
up by the waves, nor sigh for having
the object of your love torn from you.
Such blessings are those which you may
promise yourself from a religious life:
I would wish you therefore, my son, to
have a relish for such a life before you
enter upon it. ’Tis true, the longer you
are acquainted with it, the more amiable
it will grow (an attribute, I think,
which piety has peculiar to itself); but
then, I would be no means encourage
you to bind yourself by vows before
you are well apprized of your own
strength of mind, and are sure that no
motives would be powerful enough to
tempt you back into the world, which
you renounce. ’Tis necessary therefore
before you proceed too far, to weigh
nicely the importance, and be fully
convinced of the steadiness of your resolution.”

‘Oh,’ L4r 223

“Oh, my Lord!” replied the Chevalier,
“that task is long ago performed.
I have searched into the innermost
recesses of my soul; and I can boldly
declare that if all the riches, titles, and
honours in the universe were laid at my
feet, they would not shake my settled
purpose, nor once tempt me to renounce
this poor covering. No, my
reverend friend; you have inspired
me with a holiness, and raised my hopes
to such a degree, that it is not in the
power of any thing to make me forego
them.”
“Ask your heart one question
more,”
replied the Bishop, “and then
I have done. Suppose your Adelaide,
that Adelaide whom you so much loved,
were to be restored to your wishes, are
you proof against a temptation so full of
charms?”
“Ah! why do you rip up a
wound,”
replied the Chevalier, “into
which you have but just poured a balm? L4 Alas! L4v 224
Alas! I fear were such a miracle to be
wrought, I should too soon forget all
my pious resolves!—Yes, my Lord, I
own myself so frail a wretch, that Adelaide
could even force me from the altar!”
“How weak is man!” replied
the good pastor, lifting up his eyes to
heaven. “Oh, my God! what wretches
are we! to be thus enslaved by our passions!
—Indeed, young man, I pity
you,”
added he. “Alas! you are deceived
in imagining that you have acquired
that victory over yourself, which
is necessary for the holy life you purpose
to lead. I well perceive that you despise
riches and pomp not out of a
christian humility, but because another
object engrosses all your affections!”

“Don’t reproach me thus cruelly,” answered
the Chevalier, “with a weakness
which I have made no scruple to confess
to you. ’Tis true, my love for Adelaide L5r 225
Adelaide was beyond all description;
but I own this without blushing. She
was my wife; amiable and virtuous as
ever man was blest with; and if it be
in the power of nothing but that dear
wife (who now lies buried in the deep)
to make me swerve from my duty,
don’t, I conjure you, let the thoughts
of an impossibility debar me from that
happiness, for which you have made
me long for so ardently.”

The worthy prelate fixed his eyes
gravely on the Chevalier. The secret
he had to disclose to him was of so uncommon
and very affecting a nature, as
obliged the Bishop to pause for some
time, in order to collect himself, so as
to be able to make the important discovery
in such a manner as would least surprise
and discompose the mind of his
friend. The Chevalier observed his L5 coun- L5v 226
countenance, which seemed expressive of
something more than common; and,
bending respectfully towards him, “I
fear,”
said he, “you think me incapable
of discharging those severe duties which
the profession I am ready to embrace will
exact from me; and that you judge it
expedient perhaps that I should undergo
a longer probation than ordinary.
If these be your sentiments, speak, my
Lord; for I attend with the utmost submission
to hear your final sentence on
me.”
“Hear me then, my son,” answered
the Bishop; “for I am going
to speak, though not on the subject you
expect yet on one; which, next to your
eternal welfare, concerns you most nearly.
Prepare yourself then for astonishment;
prepare your heart for joy; but
above all, prepare, with gratitude and
humility, to adore that Providence who
in so wonderful a manner preserved and now L6r 227
now restores to you—your wife! For
know, Don Enenique, your Adelaide
lives! To her then, who has the best
right to your vows, be they all dedicated;
whilst I, highly content with being
instrumental in promoting the happy
union, will join with you in admiring
the various ways which Heaven takes to
bring about its purposes.”

The Chevalier, who was fully possessed
with a belief of Adelaide’s death,
looked upon this as the effect of a delirium;
and, fearing that he was again
fallen into his former state of raving,
conjured the Bishop to tell him, whether
he was awake, and in his senses;
and if all he had heard was real?—The
Bishop then proceeded to relate ever
particular as he had it from Adelaide’s
own mouth.—But Don Enenique, still
doubting of his own happiness, asked, L6 —might L6v 228
—might he not be permitted to see
Adelaide? The Bishop answered, she
was not far off; and that if he thought
the sight of her would not agitate his
spirits so as to endanger his health, he
himself would conduct her to him directly.
Don Enenique grasped his benefactor’s
hand, and, pressing it eagerly,
conjured him by no means to delay his
felicity.

The Prelate arose, and kindly bidding
him endeavour to govern the impetuosity
of his wishes, he left him to
go to the Castle of Cardonas, where he
informed the ladies of what had passed.
But he had scarce time to finish what
he had to say, when the overjoyed Adelaide
flew to the Chevalier’s habitation;
the Bishop and Madame Deffari (who
had a desire to be witnesses of their meeting)
followed. Adelaide had stopped at L7r 229
at his chamber-door a little, to recover
her agitated spirits; and, notwithstanding
her impatience to behold her beloved
Don Enenique, she had not the
courage to enter the room, till the Bishop,
laying hold of her hand, and begging
her to compose herself, led her directly
to the Chevalier.

An extasy of joy overpowered him
so, that (although he endeavoured) he was
not able to rise; and the equally transported
Adelaide could only throw herself
on his bosom, where, hiding her
face, she gave vent to her tears.—She
wept indeed; but sure they were not
tears of sorrow which she shed on the
breast of Don Enenique, but such as
flow from transports too strong for the
poor expression of words! However,
having recovered herself a little, she
raised her head, and the Chevalier and she L7v 230
she gazed at each other in silence so
long, that the Bishop, fearing such tumultuous
joy might overcome Don
Enenique’s
hardly recovered strength,
thought proper to correct those raptures,
which seemed so wholly to possess
their faculties as almost to deprive them
of their proper powers.

“Chevalier,” said he, “gentlygently tapping
him on the shoulder, “you see that
without a miracle your wife (for such I
suppose she will shortly be) is restored to
you, beyond your hopes. Let the future
part of your life therefore (since
your temporal engagements must necessarily
prevent those spiritual ones you
proposed) be spent so, as to render you
worthy this distinguished mark of favour
from Heaven; and though the first steps
you took to gain this lady were not
quite blameless, yet you have I think fully L8r 231
fully atoned for them; and I know of
no reward so suited to your fidelity as
that which is now bestowed on you.—
May you live many days to participate
of such an unlooked for enjoyment,
and may your gratitude and future conduct
in life be such as will justly entitle
you to merit so divine a favour;—
for so I think I may justly pronounce
it!”

Adelaide during this interval of the
Bishop, had not yet thoroughly recovered
herself from the unspeakable
transport of joy which the sight of her
dear Enenique had occasioned. But
when the good man had finished his
congratulations to her lover, she attempted
in broken accents to utter
some expressions in return for the Bishop’s
kind wishes; however, the worthy
prelate observing that she was not yet L8v 232
yet properly composed to deliver herself,
kindly interrupted her; and taking
her by the hand, addressed her as
follows:

“Pardon me, my dear Adelaide,
for being so abrupt as to interpose
whilst you are speaking: But as I’ve said
thus much to my worthy friend Don
Enenique
, suffer me also the indulgence
of a word or two to you.—As for
your part, Madam,”
added he, with
a most affable air, “I well perceive
that it is needless for me to tell you
that you are fully recompensed for all
you have suffered, by being in the
possession of this virtuous and valuable
man; and, as you have also expiated
the fault of your disobedience (when
you meditated your former flight with
your lover) so I hope you will pass
the remainder of your days in that uninter- L9r 233
uninterrupted state of felicity which in
my opinion you both are so highly deserving
of.”

This grave address of the Bishop recalled
(as it was intended) the two
lovers from their mutual transport; they
both at once, as if informed by the
same mind, threw themselves at the
venerable man’s feet, and embracing
his knees, began to pour out the warmest
acknowledgments that hearts overflowing
with love and gratitude could suggest.
—He raised them both up, and,
presenting Madame Deffari (who till
now in the hurry of their joy they had
overlooked) to the Chevalier, he quickly
recollected her; and, being told it was
to her he was indebted for seeing his
Adelaide in Spain, he broke into fresh
exclamations of praise, thanking Madame
Deffari
, and calling her his good angel. L9v 234
angel. In short, Don Enenique having
once given a loose to the transports
of his heart, almost exhausted
his strength in endeavouring to give
them utterance.

Donna Cynthia had desired the Bishop
of Seville
to make a compliment
on her part to the Chevalier, and to
invite him to her castle; where he would
find every thing more for his convenience
than he could at his own house.—
Don Enenique was easily prevailed on
to accept of this offer; wherefore, finding
himself now able to perform so short
a journey, he was put in the Bishop of
Seville’s
coach, who, with Madame
Deffari
and Adelaide, accompanied him
to the Castle.

That amiable lady, Donna Cynthia,
received him with all the tokens of com- L10r 235
complaisance and affection which a sincere
and generous heart could dictate:
—it was done in such a manner as convinced
the Chevalier that she interested
herself in his happiness; so that
now being accommodated with every
thing necessary to his present state, and,
above all, blest with the company of his
ever-dear Adelaide, he in a short space
of time recovered his former health and
spirits.

No obstacle now remaining to the
joining the hands of this truly happy
pair, the preparations for this ceremony
were short, and without that pomp so
much affected by the great, and so
little essential to happiness. The Chevalier
Ponces
received his Adelaide from
the hands of Signior Deffari, who came
to the Castle of Cardonas for the purpose
of being present on this happy occasion;casion; L10v 236
and the good Bishop of Seville
(who was so much delighted at their
union) tied the nuptial knot of this amiable
couple.

Donna Cynthia entertained her noble
guests for several days at the Castle;
where they spent the time in the greatest
harmony and conviviality: and it
was her wish and expectation to have
had the happiness of their agreeable
company for a considerable while, without
the least interruption: but unluckily
Signior Deffari received a
packet, which informed him that his
affairs immediately required his presence
in Italy. As he was therefore
under the necessity of taking his leave,
he politely apologized to Donna Cynthia
and the new-married couple, at the
same time expressing an uneasiness at
being obliged to withdraw himself earlierlier L11r 237
than he designed. Adelaide in her
own mind was not displeased at this
event, and gladly laid hold of the opportunity
of returning home. She took
however an unwilling leave of her valued
friend, the Bishop of Seville: nor
could she bid adieu to Cynthia and
Clara without shedding tears,—the unhoped
for happiness she had found at the
Castle of Cardonas, had endeared that
spot to her so much; and though, she
carried thence the blessing it had put her
in possession of, she could not take her
leave of it without a considerable degree
of regret. Donna Cynthia and
Clara were equally affected at parting
with so amiable and endearing a
friend.

They all embarked together for Italy;
where, being safely arrived, the first
thing Adelaide did was to repair to Milan, L11v 238
Milan, to pay a visit to her old and dear
friend Eugenia, whom she found in perfect
contentment with the accomplished
Don Clement; that gentleman having
been prevailed on by his lady to remain
still in Italy. Don Enenique and
Adelaide stayed some time with the
Marquis and Marchioness of Pescara,
and then returned to Salerno (whither
Signior Deffari and his lady had gone
before); where they lived in the enjoyment
of as perfect happiness as this
life can afford.

The End.

omitted