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The foregoing narrative changed
the intentions of the Italian
captain; no longer did he think
of making a Marchesa di Montefiore
of Juana di Mancini. He recognized
the blood of the Maranas in the
glance the girl had given from
behind the blinds, in the trick
she had just played to satisfy
her curiosity, and also in the
parting look she had cast upon
him. The libertine wanted a virtuous
woman for a wife.
The adventure was full of danger,
but danger of a kind that never
daunts the least courageous man,
for love and pleasure followed
it. The apprentice sleeping in
the shop, the cook bivouacking
in the kitchen, Perez and his
wife sleeping, no doubt, the
wakeful sleep of the aged, the
echoing sonority of the old mansion,
the close surveillance of the
girl in the day-time,--all these
things were obstacles, and made
success a thing well-nigh impossible.
But Montefiore had in his favor
against all impossibilities the
blood of the Maranas which gushed
in the heart of that inquisitive
girl, Italian by birth, Spanish
in principles, virgin indeed,
but impatient to love. Passion,
the girl, and Montefiore were
ready and able to defy the whole
universe.
Montefiore,
impelled as much by the instinct
of a man of gallantry
as by those vague hopes which
cannot be explained, and to which
we give the name of presentiments
(a word of astonishing verbal
accuracy), Montefiore spent the
first hours of the night at his
window, endeavoring to look below
him to the secret apartment where,
undoubtedly, the merchant and
his wife had hidden the love
and joyfulness of their old age.
The ware-room of the "entresol" separated
him from the rooms on the ground-floor.
The captain therefore could not
have recourse to noises significantly
made from one floor to the other,
an artificial language which
all lovers know well how to create.
But chance, or it may have been
the young girl herself, came
to his assistance. At the moment
when he stationed himself at
his window, he saw, on the black
wall of the courtyard, a circle
of light, in the centre of which
the silhouette of Juana was clearly
defined; the consecutive movement
of the arms, and the attitude,
gave evidence that she was arranging
her hair for the night.
"Is she alone?" Montefiore
asked himself; "could I, without
danger, lower a letter filled
with coin and strike it against
that circular window in her hiding-place?"
At once he wrote a note, the
note of a man exiled by his family
to Elba, the note of a degraded
marquis now a mere captain of
equipment. Then he made a cord
of whatever he could find that
was capable of being turned into
string, filled the note with
a few silver crowns, and lowered
it in the deepest silence to
the centre of that spherical
gleam.
"The shadows will show if her
mother or the servant is with
her," thought Montefiore. "If
she is not alone, I can pull
up the string at once."
But, after
succeeding with infinite trouble
in striking
the glass, a single form, the
little figure of Juana, appeared
upon the wall. The young girl
opened her window cautiously,
saw the note, took it, and stood
before the window while she read
it. In it, Montefiore had given
his name and asked for an interview,
offering, after the style of
the old romances, his heart and
hand to the Signorina Juana di
Mancini--a common trick, the
success of which is nearly always
certain. At Juana's age, nobility
of soul increases the dangers
which surround youth. A poet
of our day has said: "Woman succumbs
only to her own nobility. The
lover pretends to doubt the love
he inspires at the moment when
he is most beloved; the young
girl, confident and proud, longs
to make sacrifices to prove her
love, and knows the world and
men too little to continue calm
in the midst of her rising emotions
and repel with contempt the man
who accepts a life offered in
expiation of a false reproach."
Ever since the constitution
of societies the young girl finds
herself torn by a struggle between
the caution of prudent virtue
and the evils of wrong-doing.
Often she loses a love, delightful
in prospect, and the first, if
she resists; on the other hand,
she loses a marriage if she is
imprudent. Casting a glance over
the vicissitudes of social life
in Paris, it is impossible to
doubt the necessity of religion;
and yet Paris is situated in
the forty-eighth degree of latitude,
while Tarragona is in the forty-first.
The old question of climates
is still useful to narrators
to explain the sudden denouements,
the imprudences, or the resistances
of love.
Montefiore kept his eyes fixed
on the exquisite black profile
projected by the gleam upon the
wall. Neither he nor Juana could
see each other; a troublesome
cornice, vexatiously placed,
deprived them of the mute correspondence
which may be established between
a pair of lovers as they bend
to each other from their windows.
Thus the mind and the attention
of the captain were concentrated
on that luminous circle where,
without perhaps knowing it herself,
the young girl would, he thought,
innocently reveal her thoughts
by a series of gestures. But
no! The singular motions she
proceeded to make gave not a
particle of hope to the expectant
lover. Juana was amusing herself
by cutting up his missive. But
virtue and innocence sometimes
imitate the clever proceedings
inspired by jealousy to the Bartholos
of comedy. Juana, without pens,
ink, or paper, was replying by
snip of scissors. Presently she
refastened the note to the string;
the officer drew it up, opened
it, and read by the light of
his lamp one word, carefully
cut out of the paper: COME.
"Come!" he said to himself; "but
what of poison? or the dagger
or carbine of Perez? And that
apprentice not yet asleep, perhaps,
in the shop? and the servant
in her hammock? Besides, this
old house echoes the slightest
sound; I can hear old Perez snoring
even here. Come, indeed! She
can have nothing more to lose."
Bitter reflection! rakes alone
are logical and will punish a
woman for devotion. Man created
Satan and Lovelace; but a virgin
is an angel on whom he can bestow
naught but his own vices. She
is so grand, so beautiful, that
he cannot magnify or embellish
her; he has only the fatal power
to blast her and drag her down
into his own mire.
Montefiore waited for a later
and more somnolent hour of the
night; then, in spite of his
reflections, he descended the
stairs without boots, armed with
his pistols, moving step by step,
stopping to question the silence,
putting forth his hands, measuring
the stairs, peering into the
darkness, and ready at the slightest
incident to fly back into his
room. The Italian had put on
his handsomest uniform; he had
perfumed his black hair, and
now shone with the particular
brilliancy which dress and toilet
bestow upon natural beauty. Under
such circumstances most men are
as feminine as a woman.
The marquis arrived without
hindrance before the secret door
of the room in which the girl
was hidden, a sort of cell made
in the angle of the house and
belonging exclusively to Juana,
who had remained there hidden
during the day from every eye
while the siege lasted. Up to
the present time she had slept
in the room of her adopted mother,
but the limited space in the
garret where the merchant and
his wife had gone to make room
for the officer who was billeted
upon them, did not allow of her
going with them. Dona Lagounia
had therefore left the young
girl to the guardianship of lock
and key, under the protection
of religious ideas, all the more
efficacious because they were
partly superstitious, and also
under the shield of a native
pride and sensitive modesty which
made the young Mancini in sort
an exception among her sex. Juana
possessed in an equal degree
the most attaching virtues and
the most passionate impulses;
she had needed the modesty and
sanctity of this monotonous life
to calm and cool the tumultuous
blood of the Maranas which bounded
in her heart, the desires of
which her adopted mother told
her were an instigation of the
devil.
A faint ray of light traced
along the sill of the secret
door guided Montefiore to the
place; he scratched the panel
softly and Juana opened to him.
Montefiore entered, palpitating,
but he recognized in the expression
of the girl's face complete ignorance
of her peril, a sort of naive
curiosity, and an innocent admiration.
He stopped short, arrested for
a moment by the sacredness of
the picture which met his eyes.
He saw before him a tapestry
on the walls with a gray ground
sprinkled with violets, a little
coffer of ebony, an antique mirror,
an immense and very old arm chair
also in ebony and covered with
tapestry, a table with twisted
legs, a pretty carpet on the
floor, near the table a single
chair; and that was all. On the
table, however, were flowers
and embroidery; in a recess at
the farther end of the room was
the narrow little bed where Juana
dreamed. Above the bed were three
pictures; and near the pillow
a crucifix, with a holy water
basin and a prayer, printed in
letters of gold and framed. Flowers
exhaled their perfume faintly;
the candles cast a tender light;
all was calm and pure and sacred.
The dreamy thoughts of Juana,
but above all Juana herself,
had communicated to all things
her own peculiar charm; her soul
appeared to shine there, like
the pearl in its matrix. Juana,
dressed in white, beautiful with
naught but her own beauty, laying
down her rosary to answer love,
might have inspired respect,
even in a Montefiore, if the
silence, if the night, if Juana
herself had not seemed so amorous.
Montefiore stood still, intoxicated
with an unknown happiness, possibly
that of Satan beholding heaven
through a rift of the clouds
which form its enclosure.
"As soon as I saw you," he
said in pure Tuscan, and in the
modest tone of voice so peculiarly
Italian, "I loved you. My soul
and my life are now in you, and
in you they will be forever,
if you will have it so."
Juana listened, inhaling from
the atmosphere the sound of these
words which the accents of love
made magnificent.
"Poor child!
how have you breathed so long
the air of this dismal
house without dying of it? You,
made to reign in the world, to
inhabit the palace of a prince,
to live in the midst of fetes,
to feel the joys which love bestows,
to see the world at your feet,
to efface all other beauty by
your own which can have no rival--you,
to live here, solitary, with
those two shopkeepers!"
Adroit question! He wished
to know if Juana had a lover.
"True," she replied. "But
who can have told you my secret
thoughts?
For the last few months I have
nearly died of sadness. Yes,
I would RATHER die than stay
longer in this house. Look at
that embroidery; there is not
a stitch there which I did not
set with dreadful thoughts. How
many times I have thought of
escaping to fling myself into
the sea! Why? I don't know why,--little
childish troubles, but very keen,
though they are so silly. Often
I have kissed my mother at night
as one would kiss a mother for
the last time, saying in my heart:
'To-morrow I will kill myself.'
But I do not die. Suicides go
to hell, you know, and I am so
afraid of hell that I resign
myself to live, to get up in
the morning and go to bed at
night, and work the same hours,
and do the same things. I am
not so weary of it, but I suffer--And
yet, my father and mother adore
me. Oh! I am bad, I am bad; I
say so to my confessor."
"Do you always
live here alone, without amusement,
without pleasures?"
"Oh! I have not always been
like this. Till I was fifteen
the festivals of the church,
the chants, the music gave me
pleasure. I was happy, feeling
myself like the angels without
sin and able to communicate every
week--I loved God then. But for
the last three years, from day
to day, all things have changed.
First, I wanted flowers here--and
I have them, lovely flowers!
Then I wanted--but I want nothing
now," she added, after a pause,
smiling at Montefiore. "Have
you not said that you would love
me always?"
"Yes, my Juana," cried Montefiore,
softly, taking her round the
waist and pressing her to his
heart, "yes. But let me speak
to you as you speak to God. Are
you not as beautiful as Mary
in heaven? Listen. I swear to
you," he continued, kissing her
hair, "I swear to take that forehead
for my altar, to make you my
idol, to lay at your feet all
the luxuries of the world. For
you, my palace at Milan; for
you my horses, my jewels, the
diamonds of my ancient family;
for you, each day, fresh jewels,
a thousand pleasures, and all
the joys of earth!"
"Yes," she said reflectively, "I
would like that; but I feel within
my soul that I would like better
than all the world my husband.
Mio caro sposo!" she said, as
if it were impossible to give
in any other language the infinite
tenderness, the loving elegance
with which the Italian tongue
and accent clothe those delightful
words. Besides, Italian was Juana's
maternal language.
"I should find," she continued,
with a glance at Montefiore in
which shone the purity of the
cherubim, "I should find in HIM
my dear religion, him and God--God
and him. Is he to be you?" she
said. "Yes, surely it will be
you," she cried, after a pause. "Come,
and see the picture my father
brought me from Italy."
She took a candle, made a sign
to Montefiore, and showed him
at the foot of her bed a Saint
Michael overthrowing the demon.
"Look!" she said, "has
he not your eyes? When I saw
you from
my window in the street, our
meeting seemed to me a sign from
heaven. Every day during my morning
meditation, while waiting for
my mother to call me to prayer,
I have so gazed at that picture,
that angel, that I have ended
by thinking him my husband--oh!
heavens, I speak to you as though
you were myself. I must seem
crazy to you; but if you only
knew how a poor captive wants
to tell the thoughts that choke
her! When alone, I talk to my
flowers, to my tapestry; they
can understand me better, I think,
than my father and mother, who
are so grave."
"Juana," said Montefiore, taking
her hands and kissing them with
the passion that gushed in his
eyes, in his gestures, in the
tones of his voice, "speak to
me as your husband, as yourself.
I have suffered all that you
have suffered. Between us two
few words are needed to make
us comprehend our past, but there
will never be enough to express
our coming happiness. Lay your
hand upon my heart. Feel how
it beats. Let us promise before
God, who sees and hears us, to
be faithful to each other throughout
our lives. Here, take my ring--and
give me yours."
"Give you my ring!" she
said in terror.
"Why not?" asked
Montefiore, uneasy at such
artlessness.
"But our holy
father the Pope has blessed
it; it was put upon
my finger in childhood by a beautiful
lady who took care of me, and
who told me never to part with
it."
"Juana, you
cannot love me!"
"Ah!" she said, "here
it is; take it. You, are you
not another
myself?"
She held out the ring with
a trembling hand, holding it
tightly as she looked at Montefiore
with a clear and penetrating
eye that questioned him. That
ring! all of herself was in it;
but she gave it to him.
"Oh, my Juana!" said Montefiore,
again pressing her in his arms. "I
should be a monster indeed if
I deceived you. I will love you
forever."
Juana was thoughtful. Montefiore,
reflecting that in this first
interview he ought to venture
upon nothing that might frighten
a young girl so ignorantly pure,
so imprudent by virtue rather
than from desire, postponed all
further action to the future,
relying on his beauty, of which
he knew the power, and on this
innocent ring- marriage, the
hymen of the heart, the lightest,
yet the strongest of all ceremonies.
For the rest of that night, and
throughout the next day, Juana's
imagination was the accomplice
of her passion.
On this first evening Montefiore
forced himself to be as respectful
as he was tender. With that intention,
in the interests of his passion
and the desires with which Juana
inspired him, he was caressing
and unctuous in language; he
launched the young creature into
plans for a new existence, described
to her the world under glowing
colors, talked to her of household
details always attractive to
the mind of girls, giving her
a sense of the rights and realities
of love. Then, having agreed
upon the hour for their future
nocturnal interviews, he left
her happy, but changed; the pure
and pious Juana existed no longer;
in the last glance she gave him,
in the pretty movement by which
she brought her forehead to his
lips, there was already more
of passion than a girl should
feel. Solitude, weariness of
employments contrary to her nature
had brought this about. To make
the daughter of the Maranas truly
virtuous, she ought to have been
habituated, little by little,
to the world, or else to have
been wholly withdrawn from it.
"The day, to-morrow, will seem
very long to me," she said, receiving
his kisses on her forehead. "But
stay in the salon, and speak
loud, that I may hear your voice;
it fills my soul."
Montefiore, clever enough to
imagine the girl's life, was
all the more satisfied with himself
for restraining his desires because
he saw that it would lead to
his greater contentment. He returned
to his room without accident.
Ten days went by without any
event occurring to trouble the
peace and solitude of the house.
Montefiore employed his Italian
cajolery on old Perez, on Dona
Lagounia, on the apprentice,
even on the cook, and they all
liked him; but, in spite of the
confidence he now inspired in
them, he never asked to see Juana,
or to have the door of her mysterious
hiding-place opened to him. The
young girl, hungry to see her
lover, implored him to do so;
but he always refused her from
an instinct of prudence. Besides,
he had used his best powers and
fascinations to lull the suspicions
of the old couple, and had now
accustomed them to see him, a
soldier, stay in bed till midday
on pretence that he was ill.
Thus the lovers lived only in
the night- time, when the rest
of the household were asleep.
If Montefiore had not been one
of those libertines whom the
habit of gallantry enables to
retain their self-possession
under all circumstances, he might
have been lost a dozen times
during those ten days. A young
lover, in the simplicity of a
first love, would have committed
the enchanting imprudences which
are so difficult to resist. But
he did resist even Juana herself,
Juana pouting, Juana making her
long hair a chain which she wound
about his neck when caution told
him he must go.
The most suspicious of guardians
would however have been puzzled
to detect the secret of their
nightly meetings. It is to be
supposed that, sure of success,
the Italian marquis gave himself
the ineffable pleasures of a
slow seduction, step by step,
leading gradually to the fire
which should end the affair in
a conflagration. On the eleventh
day, at the dinner-table, he
thought it wise to inform old
Perez, under seal of secrecy,
that the reason of his separation
from his family was an ill-assorted
marriage. This false revelation
was an infamous thing in view
of the nocturnal drama which
was being played under that roof.
Montefiore, an experienced rake,
was preparing for the finale
of that drama which he foresaw
and enjoyed as an artist who
loves his art. He expected to
leave before long, and without
regret, the house and his love.
It would happen, he thought,
in this way: Juana, after waiting
for him in vain for several nights,
would risk her life, perhaps,
in asking Perez what had become
of his guest; and Perez would
reply, not aware of the importance
of his answer,--
"The Marquis
de Montefiore is reconciled
to his family,
who consent to receive his wife;
he has gone to Italy to present
her to them."
And Juana?--The marquis never
asked himself what would become
of Juana; but he had studied
her character, its nobility,
candor, and strength, and he
knew he might be sure of her
silence.
He obtained
a mission from one of the generals.
Three days
later, on the night preceding
his intended departure, Montefiore,
instead of returning to his own
room after dinner, contrived
to enter unseen that of Juana,
to make that farewell night the
longer. Juana, true Spaniard
and true Italian, was enchanted
with such boldness; it argued
ardor! For herself she did not
fear discovery. To find in the
pure love of marriage the excitements
of intrigue, to hide her husband
behind the curtains of her bed,
and say to her adopted father
and mother, in case of detection: "I
am the Marquise de Montefiore!"--was
to an ignorant and romantic young
girl, who for three years past
had dreamed of love without dreaming
of its dangers, delightful. The
door closed on this last evening
upon her folly, her happiness,
like a veil, which it is useless
here to raise.
It was nine o'clock; the merchant
and his wife were reading their
evening prayers; suddenly the
noise of a carriage drawn by
several horses resounded in the
street; loud and hasty raps echoed
from the shop where the servant
hurried to open the door, and
into that venerable salon rushed
a woman, magnificently dressed
in spite of the mud upon the
wheels of her travelling-carriage,
which had just crossed Italy,
France, and Spain. It was, of
course, the Marana,--the Marana
who, in spite of her thirty-six
years, was still in all the glory
of her ravishing beauty; the
Marana who, being at that time
the mistress of a king, had left
Naples, the fetes, the skies
of Naples, the climax of her
life of luxury, on hearing from
her royal lover of the events
in Spain and the siege of Tarragona.
"Tarragona! I must get to Tarragona
before the town is taken!" she
cried. "Ten days to reach Tarragona!"
Then without caring for crown
or court, she arrived in Tarragona,
furnished with an almost imperial
safe-conduct; furnished too with
gold which enabled her to cross
France with the velocity of a
rocket.
"My daughter! my daughter!" cried
the Marana.
At this voice, and the abrupt
invasion of their solitude, the
prayer- book fell from the hands
of the old couple.
"She is there," replied the
merchant, calmly, after a pause
during which he recovered from
the emotion caused by the abrupt
entrance, and the look and voice
of the mother. "She is there," he
repeated, pointing to the door
of the little chamber.
"Yes, but has
any harm come to her; is she
still--"
"Perfectly well," said
Dona Lagounia.
"O God! send me to hell if
it so pleases thee!" cried the
Marana, dropping, exhausted and
half dead, into a chair.
The flush in her cheeks, due
to anxiety, paled suddenly; she
had strength to endure suffering,
but none to bear this joy. Joy
was more violent in her soul
than suffering, for it contained
the echoes of her pain and the
agonies of its own emotion.
"But," she said, "how
have you kept her safe? Tarragona
is taken."
"Yes," said Perez, "but
since you see me living why
do you
ask that question? Should I not
have died before harm could have
come to Juana?"
At that answer, the Marana
seized the calloused hand of
the old man, and kissed it, wetting
it with the tears that flowed
from her eyes-- she who never
wept! those tears were all she
had most precious under heaven.
"My good Perez!" she said at
last. "But have you had no soldiers
quartered in your house?"
"Only one," replied the Spaniard. "Fortunately
for us the most loyal of men;
a Spaniard by birth, but now
an Italian who hates Bonaparte;
a married man. He is ill, and
gets up late and goes to bed
early."
"An Italian!
What is his name?"
"Montefiore."
"Can it be
the Marquis de Montefiore--"
"Yes, Senora,
he himself."
"Has he seen
Juana?"
"No," said
Dona Lagounia.
"You are mistaken, wife," said
Perez. "The marquis must have
seen her for a moment, a short
moment, it is true; but I think
he looked at her that evening
she came in here during supper."
"Ah, let me
see my daughter!"
"Nothing easier," said Perez; "she
is now asleep. If she has left
the key in the lock we must waken
her."
As he rose to take the duplicate
key of Juana's door his eyes
fell by chance on the circular
gleam of light upon the black
wall of the inner courtyard.
Within that circle he saw the
shadow of a group such as Canova
alone has attempted to render.
The Spaniard turned back.
"I do not know," he said to
the Marana, "where to find the
key."
"You are very pale," she
said.
"And I will show you why," he
cried, seizing his dagger and
rapping its hilt violently on
Juana's door as he shouted,--
"Open! open!
open! Juana!"
Juana did not open, for she
needed time to conceal Montefiore.
She knew nothing of what was
passing in the salon; the double
portieres of thick tapestry deadened
all sounds.
"Madame, I lied to you in saying
I could not find the key. Here
it is," added Perez, taking it
from a sideboard. "But it is
useless. Juana's key is in the
lock; her door is barricaded.
We have been deceived, my wife!" he
added, turning to Dona Lagounia. "There
is a man in Juana's room."
"Impossible! By my eternal
salvation I say it is impossible!" said
his wife.
"Do not swear, Dona Lagounia.
Our honor is dead, and this woman--" He
pointed to the Marana, who had
risen and was standing motionless,
blasted by his words, "this woman
has the right to despise us.
She saved our life, our fortune,
and our honor, and we have saved
nothing for her but her money--Juana!" he
cried again, "open, or I will
burst in your door."
His voice, rising in violence,
echoed through the garrets in
the roof. He was cold and calm.
The life of Montefiore was in
his hands; he would wash away
his remorse in the blood of that
Italian.
"Out, out, out! out, all of
you!" cried the Marana, springing
like a tigress on the dagger,
which she wrenched from the hand
of the astonished Perez. "Out,
Perez," she continued more calmly, "out,
you and your wife and servants!
There will be murder here. You
might be shot by the French.
Have nothing to do with this;
it is my affair, mine only. Between
my daughter and me there is none
but God. As for the man, he belongs
to ME. The whole earth could
not tear him from my grasp. Go,
go! I forgive you. I see plainly
that the girl is a Marana. You,
your religion, your virtue, were
too weak to fight against my
blood."
She gave a dreadful sigh, turning
her dry eyes on them. She had
lost all, but she knew how to
suffer,--a true courtesan.
The door opened. The Marana
forgot all else, and Perez, making
a sign to his wife, remained
at his post. With his old invincible
Spanish honor he was determined
to share the vengeance of the
betrayed mother. Juana, all in
white, and softly lighted by
the wax candles, was standing
calmly in the centre of her chamber.
"What do you want with me?" she
said.
The Marana could not repress
a passing shudder.
"Perez," she asked, "has
this room another issue?"
Perez made a negative gesture;
confiding in that gesture, the
mother entered the room.
"Juana," she said, "I
am your mother, your judge;
you have
placed yourself in the only situation
in which I could reveal myself
to you. You have come down to
me, you, whom I thought in heaven.
Ah! you have fallen low indeed.
You have a lover in this room."
"Madame, there is and can be
no one but my husband," answered
the girl. "I am the Marquise
de Montefiore."
"Then there are two," said
Perez, in a grave voice. "He
told me he was married."
"Montefiore, my love!" cried
the girl, tearing aside the curtain
and revealing the officer. "Come!
they are slandering you."
The Italian appeared, pale
and speechless; he saw the dagger
in the Marana's hand, and he
knew her well. With one bound
he sprang from the room, crying
out in a thundering voice,--
"Help! help!
they are murdering a Frenchman.
Soldiers of the
6th of the line, rush for Captain
Diard! Help, help!"
Perez had gripped the man and
was trying to gag him with his
large hand, but the Marana stopped
him, saying,--
"Bind him fast, but let him
shout. Open the doors, leave
them open, and go, go, as I told
you; go, all of you.--As for
you," she said, addressing Montefiore, "shout,
call for help if you choose;
by the time your soldiers get
here this blade will be in your
heart. Are you married? Answer."
Montefiore, who had fallen
on the threshold of the door,
scarcely a step from Juana, saw
nothing but the blade of the
dagger, the gleam of which blinded
him.
"Has he deceived me?" said
Juana, slowly. "He told me he
was free."
"He told me that he was married," repeated
Perez, in his solemn voice.
"Holy Virgin!" murmured
Dona Lagounia.
"Answer, soul of corruption," said
the Marana, in a low voice, bending
to the ear of the marquis.
"Your daughter--" began
Montefiore.
"The daughter that was mine
is dead or dying," interrupted
the Marana. "I have no daughter;
do not utter that word. Answer,
are you married?"
"No, madame," said Montefiore,
at last, striving to gain time, "I
desire to marry your daughter."
"My noble Montefiore!" said
Juana, drawing a deep breath.
"Then why did you attempt to
fly and cry for help?" asked
Perez.
Terrible, revealing light!
Juana said nothing, but she
wrung her hands and went to her
arm-chair and sat down.
At that moment a tumult rose
in the street which was plainly
heard in the silence of the room.
A soldier of the 6th, hearing
Montefiore's cry for help, had
summoned Diard. The quartermaster,
who was fortunately in his bivouac,
came, accompanied by friends.
"Why did I fly?" said Montefiore,
hearing the voice of his friend. "Because
I told you the truth; I am married--Diard!
Diard!" he shouted in a piercing
voice.
But, at a word from Perez,
the apprentice closed and bolted
the doors, so that the soldiers
were delayed by battering them
in. Before they could enter,
the Marana had time to strike
her dagger into the guilty man;
but anger hindered her aim, the
blade slipped upon the Italian's
epaulet, though she struck her
blow with such force that he
fell at the very feet of Juana,
who took no notice of him. The
Marana sprang upon him, and this
time, resolved not to miss her
prey, she caught him by the throat.
"I am free
and I will marry her! I swear
it, by God, by my
mother, by all there is most
sacred in the world; I am a bachelor;
I will marry her, on my honor!"
And he bit the arm of the courtesan.
"Mother," said Juana, "kill
him. He is so base that I will
not have him for my husband,
were he ten times as beautiful."
"Ah! I recognize my daughter!" cried
the mother.
"What is all this?" demanded
the quartermaster, entering the
room.
"They are murdering me," cried
Montefiore, "on account of this
girl; she says I am her lover.
She inveigled me into a trap,
and they are forcing me to marry
her--"
"And you reject her?" cried
Diard, struck with the splendid
beauty which contempt, hatred,
and indignation had given to
the girl, already so beautiful. "Then
you are hard to please. If she
wants a husband I am ready to
marry her. Put up your weapons;
there is no trouble here."
The Marana pulled the Italian
to the side of her daughter's
bed and said to him, in a low
voice,--
"If I spare you, give thanks
for the rest of your life; but,
remember this, if your tongue
ever injures my daughter you
will see me again. Go!--How much
'dot' do you give her?" she continued,
going up to Perez.
"She has two hundred thousand
gold piastres," replied the Spaniard.
"And that is not all, monsieur," said
the Marana, turning to Diard. "Who
are you?--Go!" she repeated to
Montefiore.
The marquis, hearing this statement
of gold piastres, came forward
once more, saying,--
"I am really
free--"
A glance from Juana silenced
him.
"You are really free to go," she
said.
And he went immediately.
"Alas! monsieur," said the
girl, turning to Diard, "I thank
you with admiration. But my husband
is in heaven. To-morrow I shall
enter a convent--"
"Juana, my Juana, hush!" cried
the mother, clasping her in her
arms. Then she whispered in the
girl's ear. "You MUST have another
husband."
Juana turned pale. She freed
herself from her mother and sat
down once more in her arm-chair.
"Who are you, monsieur?" repeated
the Marana, addressing Diard.
"Madame, I
am at present only the quartermaster
of the 6th
of the line. But for such a wife
I have the heart to make myself
a marshal of France. My name
is Pierre-Francois Diard. My
father was provost of merchants.
I am not--"
"But, at least, you are an
honest man, are you not?" cried
the Marana, interrupting him. "If
you please the Signorina Juana
di Mancini, you can marry her
and be happy together.--Juana," she
continued in a grave tone, "in
becoming the wife of a brave
and worthy man remember that
you will also be a mother. I
have sworn that you shall kiss
your children without a blush
upon your face" (her voice faltered
slightly). "I have sworn that
you shall live a virtuous life;
expect, therefore, many troubles.
But, whatever happens, continue
pure, and be faithful to your
husband. Sacrifice all things
to him, for he will be the father
of your children--the father
of your children! If you take
a lover, I, your mother, will
stand between you and him. Do
you see that dagger? It is in
your 'dot,'" she continued, throwing
the weapon on Juana's bed. "I
leave it there as the guarantee
of your honor so long as my eyes
are open and my arm free. Farewell," she
said, restraining her tears. "God
grant that we may never meet
again."
At that idea, her tears began
to flow.
"Poor child!" she added, "you
have been happier than you knew
in this dull home.--Do not allow
her to regret it," she said,
turning to Diard.
The foregoing rapid narrative
is not the principal subject
of this Study, for the understanding
of which it was necessary to
explain how it happened that
the quartermaster Diard married
Juana di Mancini, that Montefiore
and Diard were intimately known
to each other, and to show plainly
what blood and what passions
were in Madame Diard.
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