“Alas! Amadour, what can prompt you to seek after a thing that can
afford you no satisfaction, and thus afflict me with the profoundest
grief? You made trial of my inclinations in the days of my youth and
earliest beauty, and they perhaps served to excuse your passion; but I
am amazed that now, when I am old, and ugly, and sorrow-stricken, you
should seek for what you know you can never find. I am sure you do not
doubt that my mind is as it used to be, and so by force alone can you
obtain what you desire. If you observe the condition of my face, and lay
aside the memory of the beauty that once you saw in it, you will have no
inclination to draw any nearer; and if you still retain within you any
remnants of your past love, it is impossible that pity will not subdue
your frenzy. To this pity, which I have often found in you, I appeal
with prayers for mercy. Suffer me to live in peace, and in that honour
which by your own counsel I have resolved to preserve. But if the love
you once bore me is now turned to hate, and you desire, in vengeance
rather than in love, to make me the unhappiest woman alive, I protest to
you that it shall not be so. You will force me against my will to make
your evil purpose known to her who thinks so highly of you; and you may
be sure that, when she learns it, your life will not be safe.”
But Amadour interrupted her.
“If I must die,” he said, “I shall be the sooner rid of my torment.
The disfigurement of your face, which I believe is of your own seeking,
shall not restrain me from making you mine. Though I could have nothing
but your bones, I would yet hold them close to me.”
When Florida saw that prayers, reasoning, and tears were alike of no
avail, and that while he cruelly pursued his evil purpose she lacked
the strength to resist him, she summoned the aid which she dreaded as
greatly as death, and in a sad and piteous voice called as loudly as she
could upon her mother. The Countess, hearing her daughter’s cries,
had grave misgivings of the truth, and hastened into the room with all
possible speed.
Amadour, who was not so ready to die as he affirmed, desisted promptly
from his enterprise; and when the lady opened the door she found him
close beside it, and Florida some distance from him. “Amadour,” said the
Countess, “what is the matter? Tell me the truth.”
Amadour, who was never at a loss for invention, replied with a pale and
daunted face--
“Alas! madam, what change is this in the lady Florida? I was never so
astonished before, for, as I have told you, I thought I had a share in
her favour; but I now see clearly that I have lost it all. While she was
being brought up by you, she was, I think, no less discreet or virtuous
than she is at present; however, she had then no qualms of conscience
about speaking with any one. But now, when I sought to look at her, she
would not suffer me to do so. When I saw this behaviour on her part I
thought I must be dreaming, and asked her for her hand to kiss it after
the manner of the country. This she utterly refused me. I acknowledge,
madam, that then I acted wrongfully, and I entreat your pardon for it;
for I took her hand, as it were by force, and kissed it. I asked nothing
more of her, but I believe that she intends my death, for she called out
to you as you know. Why she did this I cannot tell, unless indeed she
feared that I had some other purpose in view. Nevertheless, madam, be
this as it may, I confess that I am in the wrong; for although she ought
to love all who are devoted to you, fortune wills it that I, who am of
all most attached to her, am banished from her good graces. Still, I
shall ever continue the same both to you and to her; and I entreat you
to continue me in your good favour since, by no fault of my own, I have
now lost hers.”
The Countess, who partly believed and partly suspected him, went up to
her daughter and asked--“Why did you call me so loudly?”
Florida replied that she had felt afraid; and, although the Countess
questioned her minutely on many points, she would give no other reply.
Finding that she had escaped from her enemy she deemed him sufficiently
punished by the failure of his attempt.
After the Countess had had a long conversation with Amadour, she
suffered him to speak again in her presence with Florida, to see how
he would behave. He said but little, save that he thanked her for not
having confessed the truth to her mother, and begged that since she had
expelled him from her heart, she would at least allow no other to take
his place.
“If my voice had not been my only means of defending myself,” she
replied, “it would never have been heard; and from me you shall have no
worse punishment, if you do not force me to it by troubling me again as
you have done. Do not fear that I can ever love another; since I have
not found the good I wished for in a heart that I considered to be the
most virtuous in the world, I do not expect to find it in any man. This
evil fortune will henceforth free me of all the passion that love can
give.”
With these words she bade him farewell.
Her mother, who had been watching her face, was unable to form any
opinion; though from that time forth she clearly saw that her daughter
had lost all affection for Amadour. She imagined her so devoid of reason
as to hate everything that she herself loved; and from that hour she
warred with her in a strange way, spending seven years without speaking
to her except in anger, all which she did at Amadour’s request.
Meanwhile, on account of her mother’s harsh treatment, Florida’s former
dread of being with her husband was changed into a desire of never
leaving him. Seeing, however, that all her efforts were useless, she
resolved to deceive Amadour, and laying aside her coldness for a day
or two, she advised him to pay court to a lady who, she said, had been
speaking of their love.
This lady lived with the Queen of Spain, and was called Loretta. Amadour
believed the story, and, thinking that he might in this way regain
Florida’s good graces, he made love to Loretta, who was the wife of a
captain, one of the viceroys of the King of Spain. She, in her pleasure
at having gained such a lover, showed so much elation that the affair
was rumoured abroad. Even the Countess of Aranda, who was at Court, had
knowledge of it, and thenceforward treated Florida less harshly than
before.
One day Florida heard that the captain, Loretta’s husband, had grown
jealous, and was resolved to kill Amadour in one way or another as best
he might. In spite of her altered treatment of Amadour, Florida did not
desire that evil should befall him, and so she immediately informed
him of what she had heard. He was quite ready to hark back again to his
first love, and thereupon told her that, if she would grant him three
hours of her conversation every day, he would never again speak to
Loretta. But this she would not grant. “Then,” said Amadour, “if you
will not give me life, why prevent me from dying, unless indeed you hope
to make me suffer more pain during life than any death could cause? But
though death shun me, I will seek it until I find it; then only shall I
have rest.”
While they were on this footing, news came that the King of Granada (22)
was entering upon a great war against the King of Spain. The latter,
therefore, sent the Prince, his son, (23) to the war, and with him the
Constable of Castille and the Duke of Alba, (24) two old and prudent
lords. The Duke of Cardona and the Count of Aranda were unwilling to
remain behind, and prayed the King to give them some command. This
he did as befitted their rank, and gave them into the safe keeping of
Amadour, who performed such extraordinary deeds during the war, that
they seemed to be acts as much of despair as of bravery.
22 The last King of Granada was Mahomed Boabdil, dethroned
in 1493. The title may have been assumed, however, by the
leader of an insurrection.--D.
23 As Ferdinand and Isabella had no son, the reference must
be to their daughter’s husband, Philip the Fair of Austria,
son of the Emperor Maximilian I. and father of Charles V.--
B. J.
24 Frederick of Toledo, Marquis of Coria and Duke of Alba,
generally called the old Duke of Alba to distinguish him
from his son.--B. J.
Coming now to the point of my story, I have to relate how his
overboldness was proved by his death. The Moors had made a show of
offering battle, and finding the Christian army very numerous had
feigned a retreat. The Spaniards started in pursuit, but the old
Constable and the Duke of Alba, who suspected the trickery of the Moors,
restrained the Prince of Spain against his will from crossing the river.
The Count of Aranda, however, and the Duke of Cardona crossed, although
it was forbidden; and when the Moors saw that they were pursued by only
a few men they faced about again. The Duke of Cardona was struck down
and killed with a blow of a scimitar, and the Count of Aranda was so
grievously wounded that he was left for dead. Thereupon Amadour came up
filled with rage and fury, and bursting through the throng, caused the
two bodies to be taken up and carried to the camp of the Prince, who
mourned for them as for his own brothers. On examining their wounds the
Count of Aranda was found to be still alive, and was sent in a litter
to his home, where he lay ill for a long time. On the other hand, the
Duke’s body was sent back to Cardona.
Meanwhile Amadour, having made this effort to rescue the two bodies, had
thought so little of his own safety that he found himself surrounded by
a large number of Moors. Not desiring his person to be captured any more
than he had captured that of his mistress, nor to break his faith with
God as he had broken faith with her--for he knew that, if he were taken
to the King of Granada, he must either die a cruel death or renounce
Christianity--he resolved to withhold from his enemies the glory
either of his death or capture. So kissing the cross of his sword and
commending his body and soul to God, he dealt himself such a thrust as
to be past all help.
Thus died the unhappy Amadour, lamented as deeply as his virtues
deserved. The news spread through the whole of Spain; and the rumour of
it came to Florida, who was at Barcelona, where her husband had formerly
commanded that he should be buried. She gave him an honourable funeral,
(25) and then, without saying anything to her mother or mother-in-law,
she became a nun in the Convent of Jesus, taking for husband and lover
Him who had delivered her from such a violent love as that of Amadour’s,
and from such great affliction as she had endured in the company of her
husband. Thus were all her affections directed to the perfect loving of
God; and, after living for a long time as a nun, she yielded up her soul
with gladness, like that of the bride when she goes forth to meet the
bridegroom.
25 The Franciscan monastery of the little village cf
Bellpuig, near Lerida, contains the tomb of Ramon de
Cardona, termed one of the marvels of Catalonia on account
of the admirable sculptures adorning it. One of the
beautiful white marble bas-reliefs shows a number of galleys
drawn up in line of battle, whilst some smaller boats are
conveying parties of armed men to a river-bank on which the
Moors are awaiting them in hostile array. On the frieze of
an arch the Spaniards and Moors are shown fighting, many of
the former retreating towards the water. An inscription
records that the tomb was raised to the best of husbands by
Isabella, his unhappy spouse.
Margaret gives the name of Florida to the wife of the Duke
whom she mentions, but it should be borne in mind that she
has systematically mingled fact with fiction throughout this
story; and that she was alluding to the Duke buried at
Bellpuig seems evident from an examination of the bas-
reliefs mentioned above. Ramon de Cardona was, however, a
more important personage than she pictures him. He became
Charles V.’s viceroy in Naples, and did not die till 1520,
whereas Margaret’s story appears to end in or about 1513.
Possibly she saw the tomb when in Spain.--Ed.
“I am well aware, ladies, that this long tale may have been wearisome
to some among you, but had I told it as it was told to me it would have
been longer still. Take example, I beg you, by the virtue of Florida,
but be somewhat less cruel; and think not so well of any man that, when
you are undeceived, you occasion him a cruel death and yourselves a life
of sorrow.”