THE HISTORY OF THEIR LOVE
Chaste, yes, and perhaps it was the first kiss that had been so in that
long love affair. All that was tender and poetic in their affection
seemed to rise like a perfume, and transport them with raptures of
delight. The remorse that had hitherto weighed so heavily on the
sensitive soul of the count was gone. The mad agitation that had
tormented them both, the ardour, violence and bitterness which, like the
hidden worm in the bud of a rose, had poisoned their wicked love
passages, had passed away. Nothing remained but pure love--love
satisfied, love consecrated by the holy mysterious force of nature's
mysteries.
If only they had met earlier! How often has this been said by people in
similar circumstances! And if they had met earlier, they would probably
have parted without the slightest feeling of attraction.
Love flourishes on difficulties and takes root on shifting sand, in fact
they seem to be the most propitious circumstances for its cultivation.
The report in Lancia was true about Amalia having been forced into a
marriage with Don Pedro by her family who were in great straits. Don
Antonio Sanchiz, the lady's father, was a Valencian gentleman of means,
but gambling and dissipation swallowed up three-fourths of his property.
His eldest son, who had the same tastes, spent the remaining fourth by
the same means. Amalia was the youngest of the family, which consisted
of four girls and one boy. Her eldest sister, who had come in for a
little of the decaying splendour of the house, managed to marry a rich
banker. Nobody approved of the connection, especially as neither Don
Antonio nor his son Antonito managed to see the colour of the money of
their respective son, and brother-in-law. The other two married men of
good family but without money. Amalia grew up in the midst of the total
ruin of her house. Neither her elegant figure nor her high birth brought
her admirers. The well-known misfortunes of the house, and her father
and brother's bad reputation, constituted an unsurmountable barrier
around her. Her feelings were often touched by those who only paid her
attention out of idleness, or love of flirtation. She was certainly not
a typical beauty: she was wanting in gracefulness of figure, plumpness
of form, and brightness of complexion. But in spite of her slight, and
not at all well formed figure, and the constant pallor of her cheeks,
there was something attractive about her, which grew upon one the more
you saw of her. Perhaps this charm lay in her large expressive dark
eyes, which reflected every emotion: now they shone with a fire that
breathed a deep and passionate nature, now they looked quiet, ecstatic
and limpid in a sort of mystic rapture, now they were merry and
mischievous, now they were dreamy and melancholy, now tender and
tearful, now sparkling with fun or shining with anger. Perhaps her charm
lay in her versatility, in the keenness of her intellect, in her
sympathetic and insinuating voice. She was, in short, an interesting,
charming woman. I do not know whether it was owing to her pride or her
naturally tempestuous mind, but scorning the young men of her own rank,
who courted her without resolving to ask for her hand, she lost her
heart to a modest young man, a poor government clerk with an income of
forty thousand reales,[I] son of a schoolmaster. The blue blood of the
Sanchiz in the veins of Antonio, Antonito, her sisters, and the banker,
her brother-in-law, in whom it was conspicuous by its absence, boiled in
indignation.
She was the victim of active, fierce persecution. But as she was not
wanting in spirit, and was moreover possessed of a mind fertile in
resources, she certainly managed to defy the family for some time; their
entreaties and threats were of no avail and her time of enforced retreat
in a convent was equally ineffectual. If the clerk had not happened to
die of phthisis, which killed him in a few months, it is almost certain
that the very noble and straitened house of the Sanchiz would have had
to see itself allied to the son of a schoolmaster.
After this adventure Amalia lost caste in the place. But she well knew
that if she had retained her prestige, it would have been the same. Men
do not marry for prestige, but for money. It never occurred to her to
feel remorse for the past. She lived sad and resigned for two years,
showing an utter indifference to the pleasures belonging to her
position, and without making any effort to gain the good graces of the
young men so as to get a husband. It was when she was about twenty-four
years old and she had given up all thought of matrimony, that Don Pedro
Quinones, her third or fourth cousin, began to think about her. She
rebelled against marrying this gentleman, whom she had only seen two or
three times as a child, and who had been a widower for a short time, and
whose eccentricities she had heard her father and brother relate with
fits of laughter, and now they were the very ones to press her
acceptance of him as a husband! She was not very firm in her resistance.
She was so disillusioned, she lived in such a state of deep dejection
and apathy, that as soon as her father became angry about the matter and
pressed her to accede to his entreaties he extorted a consent. They all
said that the marriage would be the salvation of the family. She did not
trouble to find out if that were the truth or not. After she was
married, she found that all that they could get out of Don Pedro was a
little allowance, which gave them hardly enough for food.
So the noble descendant of the Quinones of Leon was hopelessly in love
with a statue. On the journey that they made from Valencia to Lancia the
bride was so cold and circumspect, but at the same time polite, that Don
Pedro was kept at the same distance as at the beginning of his suit. In
Lancia we know what the public version of the story was. The persistent
coldness and the infinite contempt with which she treated him for some
time, far from repelling him, only increased his passion. Quinones was,
as we know, of a strong, tenacious, indomitable will. The obstacles
which at first merely irritated him, finally enraged him. He wanted to
conquer the heart of his wife, and he spared no means in the attempt: he
overwhelmed her with attentions, he gratified her slightest wishes, and
lived for several months in perpetual anxiety, in a perfect fever of
alternate hope and despair. He would, however, never have attained his
end without the astuteness of his friend the canon, who advised him to
take a journey in the mountains, which, rife with frights and dangers,
drew them together in closer intimacy. During the first two years of her
marriage Amalia led a retired life, without ever hardly leaving the
gloomy old palace of the Calle de Santa Lucia. She lived alone in her
depression, and made her life more sad than it need have been, by
nursing a dumb rebellion against a fate that threatened to drive her
insane. To all outward appearance she was resigned, treating those that
were about her with studied courtesy. The dreadful illness which
happened to her husband distracted her a little, and a sentiment of pity
touched her heart. For some time she thought she was destined for the
vocation of a nursing sister, and she tried with assumed affection to
make his life more bearable to him. By degrees she grew to like the
little gatherings of friends round her husband, and she began to
interest herself and take part in the local political conversations.
Don Pedro was the arbiter of the province whilst the Moderate party was
in power. Now that it was out, he still retained great prestige and
influence, from people not knowing how long it would be before it was in
again. It was to augment this prestige and this influence, and to add to
the dignity of the house, that Amalia opened her drawing-rooms to the
Lancian society that she had hitherto kept at a distance, doing nothing
but pay a few complimentary visits. She now gave concerts, organised
sociable gatherings, and had large state balls, by means of which she
regained her lost energy, and the gracious and sympathetic versatility
which had characterised her; the light returned to her eyes and the
smile to her lips. Nobody could better do the honours of her
entertainments. She was a model of gentleness and courtesy, and she made
herself adored by the young people of the place to whom she afforded the
means of killing interminable winter evenings.
Fernanda Estrada-Rosa was one of the most beautiful ornaments of her
concerts and parties. The Count of Onis, her admirer, came in her train.
The count had long been on visiting terms at the house of Quinones, but
until lately he only went occasionally in the evening for a formal
visit, or at the new year, &c. Notwithstanding, he had a profound
sympathy for Quinones. It was enough for him to belong to the nobility,
for the young noble to consider him superior in all respects to
everybody else in the place. Amalia, who hardly knew him, began to
observe him with much curiosity. She had heard so much said about his
affection and respect for his mother, his melancholy temperament, his
habits and his exaggerated piety, that she wished to cultivate his
acquaintance, she wanted to gauge the depths of the soul of such a
superior and high-minded young man. She was not long in seeing that he
was not yet in love. Noting his attention to Fernanda with interest,
she perceived a coldness on his side which was certainly not on that of
the rich heiress. She knew that the count was deceiving himself, making
efforts to fall in love, or at any rate, to seem so. He seemed to look
upon love as an obligation pertaining to his age and position. The chief
young man in Lancia ought to love the richest, most beautiful girl of
Lancia. Besides, it seemed as if he also wanted to show the place that
he was neither eccentric nor a maniac, as he had heard that he was
reported to be. He therefore went in for being a recognised lover; he
spent a couple of hours in the morning in the Calle de Altavilla, where
his young lady lived, he sat at her side at the parties of the Senoritas
de Mere or de Quinones, and he danced with her at the balls of the
Casino. But at the same time Amalia did not fail to see, with
considerable interest, that his conversation was cold, and that the
count was often silent and distrait until she took part in the
conversation and made it more lively.
The love affair interested her more and more, she courted the girl's
confidence as well as his. It was not long before her ardent, sagacious,
strong-willed soul sympathised with that of Luis, which was so timid,
childlike, pitiful, and affectionate. More proficient in the art of
love-making than the Estrada-Rosa girl, she soon won the count's
confidence and affection and she drew from him a number of confidences,
not only about his feelings, but the whole of his life. No clever Jesuit
could have made a better confessor. Luis, delighted at such a show of
interest, completely opened his heart to her, at first telling her his
habits, then relating things of his past life, and finally confiding
secret feelings which are only told to a brother. But Amalia expressed
no surprise at such original and morbid thoughts; she gave her opinion
on them, and told him affectionately that he might confide in her and
count upon her counsel in difficult matters of life, of which
complicated mechanism the count was totally ignorant. This clever game
advanced her scheme, and he confided in her more and more, happy in the
opportunity of unbosoming sentimental ideas, and confessing the strange
unhappy timidity to which he was a victim.
Amalia knew how to avoid arousing Fernanda's jealousy by posing as the
confidante and protectress of her love. If she had long and interesting
conversations with the count, she had equally long and interesting ones
with her. She would have great pleasure in giving them assistance in the
form of finding them opportunities of seeing and talking to each other,
and when they understood each other, &c. &c. But, without the innocent
girl suspecting it, without even the count realising it, the Valencian
lady rapidly gained the affections of Luis. If in youth, beauty, and
elegance, she was inferior to the rich heiress, she was much superior in
expressive grace of countenance, power of conversation, and fine
intelligence. The count soon came to telling her what was the true state
of his heart with regard to Fernanda. The astute Senora knew how to turn
such confidences to her own advantage by making him see that what he
felt was only admiration for the beautiful works of nature, a vain
desire to make himself beloved by the prettiest and richest girl in the
town, the necessity of distraction from depression--anything, in short,
but real love. That was shown in great sadness, ineffable joy, sleepless
nights, anxiety, and agitation, both sweet and bitter, by which the
breast is constantly consumed.
Luis was soon won over to her opinion. Then she added that his coldness
was unjustifiable; she did not understand how a man of such good taste
had not fallen hopelessly in love ere this. She joked him, she laughed
at him, and she praised the qualities of the gentle heiress up to the
clouds.
But whilst she said this with her lips, her eyes belied her words: the
black pupils, so full of fire and intelligence, were fixed on him with
an expression somewhat languid, somewhat malicious, which ended by
fascinating him. At the same time her small, delicate, aristocratic
hands took hold of his on every occasion; and on parting she pressed
them with nervous tenacity. If sometimes, in bending to look at
anything, their heads touched, Amalia did not move hers, and the count
was not loth to inhale the subtle perfume which entered his veins like
poison. She took a great interest in his clothes, and told him what she
liked: he was not to wear a frock-coat, the blue jacket suited him
admirably. Why did he like dark gloves?
"I forbid you," she said, laughing, "to wear them any more."
She professed a great taste for cravats, and she told him that those in
a bow suited him better than those in a knot.
"Why do you not get your hats from Madrid?" she asked. "Those that you
get in Lancia are so old-fashioned and ridiculous."
And the count was pleased to follow her suggestions, and gradually let
himself be ruled by the woman who was so weak in body and so strong in
will.
One night on arriving at the Quinones' house before anybody else, the
lady said to him sharply:
"Who gave you that button-hole? Fernanda?"
The count smiled and coloured, as he gave a sign in the affirmative.
"Then you must excuse my saying it is a very ugly colour. Look here, I
will give you a prettier one."
So saying, she went straight to a flower-stand in the room, and took out
a magnificent pink clove. She then turned to where the count was
standing, and with great boldness, although with a certain affectation
of one who is showing her power, she took away the flower he was
wearing, and replaced it by the fresh one. He suffered this substitution
in silence, upset and surprised. She, feigning not to notice his
surprise, took a step back, and said with interest:
"Yes, I think that is better!"
Then ensued a few minutes of embarrassed silence. She then began to play
with Fernanda's clove, pulling the petals, whilst darting frequent
glances at the count, who stood confused, not knowing what to say, nor
where to look. At last their eyes met with a smile. There was a spark of
malice in hers, and in the sudden scornful gesture with which she threw
the flower she held in her hand under a chair.
The count instantly became serious, and his cheeks coloured. At that
moment Manuel Antonio came in.
The count could not regain his equanimity.
When Fernanda arrived, and, with visible displeasure, asked him for her
clove, he was in a very awkward position. The gardener's little boy was
said to have pulled it from him when he stooped to kiss him, and so he
had taken another from his mother's room. But Amalia, who was
implacable, made matters worse by saying in a loud voice with a
malicious smile:
"Who gave you that beautiful clove? Fernanda?"
"No, no," he hastily replied.
And then the count, quite red and upset, had to proceed to give in a
loud voice the explanation he had been giving in an undertone to
Fernanda. That little act of treason was a bond between them; it
established a peculiar relation which the count did not dare to define
in his thoughts, for he trembled as though an abyss yawned at his feet.
He continued paying attention to the heiress of Estrada-Rosa with the
same, if not more, assiduity, but he could never talk with the Senora of
Quinones without feeling agitated; her glances were long and earnest,
the pressure of her hand was full of affection, and yet they both acted
before Fernanda as if she were already his affianced wife. And yet they
had not uttered a word of love! But Luis knew he was not treating the
lady he was courting fairly, and that he was acting criminally with
regard to Don Pedro, his friend. He did not know how, or why, but his
conscience told him that he was. Sometimes he tried to persuade himself
that he had not taken one step in the direction of crime, that he was
involved in a train of circumstances in which love, intelligence,
treason, all played a part without one's knowing how it had happened.
More than a month passed by in this way. Amalia not only discoursed to
him of love with her eyes, but she made him carry out all her most
capricious fancies whilst sometimes sharply calling him to task.
If, for example, he caught a glance from Amalia when he was going for a
walk telling him to stay, he would stay. If he was about to dance with
Fernanda, a severe look would prevent him doing so.
One day he announced his intention of going for six or eight days to his
property in Onis; but Amalia made a negative sign with her head, and he
gave up the idea. What right had she thus to cross his wishes and direct
his line of conduct? He did not know, but he felt very pleased to obey
her. He lived in a state of pleasant, exciting unrest, sometimes hoping
for something so ineffably delightful, that he hardly dared to formulate
it even to himself.
In the meanwhile she quietly watched him with her sphinx-like smile,
strong in the conviction that the something would happen when the time
was ripe.
One afternoon in June the count was at The Grange inspecting the
operations of some workmen he was employing in opening a wider aqueduct
for the mill, when the boy who minded the cattle, came to tell him that
a lady wanted him.
"A lady?" he exclaimed, surprised; "do you not know her?"
The servant stared stupidly without replying. How could he know her,
when he had passed his life among the cattle and only went to Lancia on
some market-day to buy or sell a cow? The count recollected this, and
proceeded to inquire:
"Is she short?"
"No, she is very tall, Senor."
"Eyes very black and bright, pale colour? her gait graceful and
elegant?"
And before the servant could answer these questions that he had not
understood, he began running in the direction of the house with his
heart beating with excitement at the presentiment that it was her.
"Where is she?" he cried, without ceasing running.
"In the courtyard by the garden door," shouted the boy in reply.
He arrived breathless at the courtyard, but before opening the door he
stopped for an instant to check his presumption. How could he have
thought of such a thing? What devil could have put it into his head?...
Notwithstanding he could not dismiss the idea. It was she, it was
she--he could not doubt the fact.
He raised the bolt of the large wooden door, painted green, and went in.
The courtyard was large. Several outhouses for working purposes were
built against the wall. Tied up to a roughly made wooden kennel was an
enormous mastiff, who pulled at his chain as if he would break it in his
attempts to get near his master.
There at the other end, near the iron gate communicating with the
garden, he actually saw her looking through the bars at the flowers. She
had her back to him. She was dressed in a light pink and white striped
dress, with a little straw hat trimmed with roses. In her left hand she
had a sunshade which matched her dress, and in her right she held some
silk gloves.
How these details became engraven in his memory! They were indelibly
fixed in his mind!
"You here?" he said, feigning a calmness he was very far from feeling.
"Who would have thought that you were the senora whose arrival the
servant just announced to me?"
"Did you really not think it was me?" she asked, looking at him
fixedly.
"No, no, Senora."
But he coloured even as he said it, and the lady smiled kindly.
"Very well; now show me the Malmaison roses you told me about."
The count opened the gate, and they both went through to the garden,
which was very large and somewhat neglected.
Since the countess had almost entirely given up coming to the Grange,
the servants hardly touched it. Luis was more interested in making
experiments with new modes of agriculture, breeding cattle, and draining
ground, than in gardening. But there were many kinds of flowers, put
there when his mother used to tend them every afternoon, and there were
great bushes which time, combined with the fertile soil, had transformed
into thick trees.
Whilst they passed along the walks, which were over-grown with moss, the
countess explained in high, clear tones how she came to be there.
She had wished to drive to Bellavista, but passing by the little road
that led to the Grange, she recollected the beautiful roses, and gave
orders to the coachman to go that way. She had never seen the place
before, she said; and she became quite enthusiastic over the thick
foliage and the intense green of the place. In her country the
vegetation was much paler.
"But more fragrant--like the women," said the count with gallantry.
The lady turned to give him a smile of thanks, and went on praising the
beauty of the rhododendrons, the azaleas, and the gigantic camellias.
As soon as they had seen the roses, and the count had made her choose
some to have sent to her the next day, they directed their steps towards
the entrance-gate.
"And are you sure that I only came to see the roses?" said Amalia,
suddenly stopping and fixing her eyes upon him.
The count's heart gave a bound, and he commenced to stammer in a
lamentable fashion.
"I do not know--this visit, certainly. I should be so pleased if the
rose-trees----"
But the lady, taking pity on him, did not let him proceed.
"Well, besides the rose-trees, I came to see the whole place,
particularly the wood. And so you can show it to me," she added
resolutely, taking him by the arm.
Whereupon the count was conscious of a new and violent emotion, at first
painful, and then pleasurable, as he felt the lady's hand upon his arm.
And moved to his inmost being at the honour conferred on him, he showed
everything of interest on the estate: the beautiful large meadows, the
stables, the new machinery for working the mill, and finally the wood.
She watched him out of the corner of her eye. Sometimes a smile of
amusement played about her lips. She entered into everything with
interest, praised the improvements he had made, and suggested fresh
ones. And, in going about, she sometimes let the count's arm drop, and
then took it again, which inspired the count with many diverse
sensations, all intense and exciting. When she noticed he was getting
more at his ease, she made some little sudden mischievous remark which
plunged him into fresh confusion and made him blush to the roots of his
hair.
"Now, count, when you caught sight of me just now, you said to yourself:
'Amalia has fallen in love with me and she cannot resist the desire to
come and see me.'"
"Amalia, _por Dios_! What can make you say that? How could I ever have
dared----?"
But the lady, without seeming to notice his distress or to lay any
importance on her own words, passed immediately to another subject. She
seemed to like shocking him, and keeping him agitated and trembling. And
in the furtive glances she cast at him there was the touch of
superiority and irony of one, who was sure of the game.
The count turned grave under that enigmatical smile. He saw he was
playing an awkward part, and, feeling that she was laughing at him, he
made heroic efforts to recover his equanimity.
The lady admired, and was more enthusiastic about the wood than
anything. It was a mass of ancient oaks, where the sun never penetrated.
The ground was carpeted with thick turf and quite free from caltrops. No
other private property was so richly wooded; it was, perhaps, due to the
primitive forest where the monastery had been founded which was the
origin of Lancia.
The lady found it pleasant to rest a little under the green bower where
the light hardly penetrated. A peace, a pleasant calmness sweeter than
the silence and calm of a Gothic cathedral, pervaded the place. She
leant her back against a tree and gave a long look at the thick foliage
around her.
The count stood near. Both were silent for some time. At last the man
felt, without seeing it, that the lady's gaze was fixed upon him. He
resisted the magnetic attraction of the look for some minutes. When at
last he raised his eyes, he saw that her expression was so merry and
daring that he dropped them again. Amalia gave vent to a mischievous
laugh, which surprised, confused, and somewhat irritated him; and then
seeing that her merriment did not cease, he said with a forced smile:
"At what are you laughing, my friend?"
"Nothing, nothing," she returned, putting her handkerchief to her mouth.
"Take me to see the house."
And then she took his arm again. The house was a large, very old
building of yellowish stone, worm-eaten by age, with two little square
towers at the sides. Everything about it was shabby or worn out. Some
bars were wanting in the stair-rails as well as in the balconies; the
ceilings of the rooms were discoloured, the partition walls cracked,
the plaster in holes; the looking-glasses, so much thought of in bygone
days, were so covered with dust that they reflected nothing; the walls
were damp and dirty, and the pictures hung thereon were so discoloured
that one could not see what the artists had intended to depict; the
scanty furniture of the rooms was worn out by the use of past
generations. The things were all quite done for. Amalia liked the look
of past grandeur. How many different beings had lived in that house! How
they must have laughed and wept in these large rooms. Each one had its
particular name: one was called the cardinal's room, because in times
past a cardinal of the family occupied it when on a visit to the Grange;
another the portrait-room, because a few pictures hung on the walls; and
another the new room, although it looked as old and even older than the
rest of the apartments. Everything bore traces of the private life of a
family of bygone ages.
"This is the countess's chamber," said Luis, as he took his friend into
a moderate-sized room, which, in spite of the dust and ravages of time,
looked better furnished than the others. It was an elegant style of
apartment, bearing evidence that past generations had not been destitute
of a love of decoration. There was a Pompadour escritoire, some chairs
of the Regency, several pictures in pastel; and painted on the ceiling
were cherubs floating in an atmosphere which had once been blue.
"Is this your mother's room?" asked Amalia.
"No," replied the count, smiling; "my mother sleeps on the other side.
It has been called the countess's from time immemorial. Perhaps some old
ancestor of mine chose it for herself. I often take my siesta here when
the fatigue of going about the estate makes me want to have a sleep."
In one of the corners of the apartment there was a splendid bedstead of
carved oak, grown black with age, one of those beds of the fifteenth
century that antiquaries go perfectly mad on. The hangings were also
very ancient, but there was a modern damask counterpane spread over the
mattress.
"So it is here that you retire to think of me to your heart's content,
is it not?" said Amalia.
The count looked as stunned as if she had given him a blow on the head.
"I! Amalia! How?"
Then with a sudden assumption of courage he exclaimed:
"Yes, yes, Amalia, you are quite right! I think of you here as, for some
time past, I think of you everywhere I go. I do not know what has come
to me: I live in a constant state of excitement, which, as you told me,
is a sign of true love. I am in fact madly in love with you. I know that
it is an atrocity, a crime, but I cannot help myself. Forgive me."
And, like one of his noble ancestors of the Middle Ages, the gentleman
fell on his knees at the feet of the lady.
She was terribly angry at first. What? Was he not ashamed of such a
confession? Did he not understand that it was an insult to address such
words to her in his house? How could he suppose that she could quietly
listen to such words? It seemed impossible that the Conde of Onis, such
a perfect gentleman, could be so wanting in the respect due to a lady
and to himself.
The count remained prostrate on his knees under such a storm of
invectives. He knew his words had been of grave import, but the anger
that they provoked in the lady was not what he had most feared.
At last Amalia was silent. She regarded him for some seconds with eyes
blazing with fury, but a happy smile soon suffused her expressive face.
She approached him with a slow, majestic step, put her hand upon his
shoulder, and bending down to bring her lips to his ear, she said in a
loud voice:
"You are quite right not to be ashamed of anything of this, for I love
you at least as much as you love me."
Then the young man seemed to go mad with joy. The terror was over, and
he clasped and kissed her knees in a frenzy of delight, breaking into a
torrent of incoherent, passionate words, full of fire and truth; whilst
she, so short and diminutive, gazed at the adoring Colossus with her
mysterious Valencian eyes glowing with passion and love.
It was thus that the Conde of Onis accomplished the difficult task of
winning the affections of the elegant Senora of Don Pedro Quinones de
Leon.
The first months of their connection, fraught with poignant remorse and
fascinating delight, were very agitating to the count. Amalia went
occasionally to the Grange. At the social gathering in the evening she
would give an account of her visit in a high-pitched voice; and he was
in an agony of confusion, anxiety, and distress, whilst she with perfect
_sang froid_ told all that she could tell; spoke of the garden, scolded
him for its state of neglect; and she amused herself with bringing home
some plants every time she went there, so as to clear the ground, as he
did not care for them; in short, her audacity became almost farcical.
"Would you believe it?" she said one day; "there is no bearing with this
gentleman since ladies have taken to visiting him. You cannot think what
airs he gives himself. I am afraid that the next time I go to the Grange
he will make me wait in the hall."
The guests laughed, and said really some notice ought to be taken about
it; and as Fernanda smiled she cast an affectionate glance at the count;
Don Pedro even relaxed his severe expression and burst into a roar of
laughter. At such moments it was indeed a superhuman effort for the
count to keep his countenance, when an abyss seemed to open at his feet.
When alone with Amalia he reproached her for her audacity, and implored
her by all that she held sacred to be more cautious; whilst she,
perfectly unmoved, seemed to take a pleasure in his anxiety, and her
lips curled in a disdainful enigmatical smile.
As they could not often meet at the Grange, Amalia managed other
interviews, by admitting Jacoba into her confidence. In this person's
house they met two or three times a week. The count entered by a little
door opening on to a certain little street at one o'clock in the day,
when people were dining. He had to wait at least two or three hours, and
Amalia at last managed to get there under the pretext of having some
commission for her _protegee_. But not being satisfied with this
arrangement, she conceived the idea of his entering her house by the pew
of the church of San Rafael. The count was horrified at such a
manoeuvre; all his religious scruples revolted at the idea; he was
terrified at the possibility of the discovery of the intrigue and the
profanation of the sanctuary. What a scandal it would be! But Amalia
laughed at his fears as if the terrible consequences of retribution did
not concern her. She was a woman who had absolute confidence in her
star. As first-rate toreadors consider themselves quite safe under the
very horns of the bull, as long as they keep their presence of mind, so
she set danger at defiance, and even went out of her way to court it
with a coolness that was foolhardy.
And it must be confessed that her supreme calmness and incredible
audacity saved her more than once. The Conde de Onis, the colossal man
with a long beard, was a mere puppet in the hands of the bold,
unprincipled little woman.
A mad passion had taken possession of them both, especially of her. By
degrees she became so accustomed to not living without him, that a day
was not bearable without seeing him alone, and to this end she brought
incredible efforts of ingenuity and skill into play. If the combination
of circumstances was such as to render it impossible for three or four
days to have a _tete-a-tete_, her temper revolted against the restraint
like an impatient prisoner, and she was ready to commit the greatest
imprudence: she squeezed his hand and gave him little pinches in the
presence of guests; she embraced him behind the doors, when under some
pretext or another she escorted him into another room; and more than
once she kissed him on the lips in the very presence of the Grandee,
when he happened to turn his head, whilst Luis trembled and turned pale
as a catastrophe seemed imminent.
By the expiration of some months his engagement with Fernanda gradually
cooled, and it ended by being broken off altogether. This was all a
preconcerted plan of Amalia's, arranged from the beginning with
consummate art: she began by telling him how long he might be with his
_fiancee_, notified the number of times he could ask her to dance, and
finally it was she who suggested what he was to say to her. And as she
had foreseen, the heiress of Estrada-Rosa, being proud, could not brook
her lover's coldness, and so gave him back his liberty and his word.
The poor girl confided her trouble to Amalia, who was the only person
who knew the cause of the much-talked-of broken engagement. She
expressed great indignation at the count's behaviour, and spoke in
strong terms of disapprobation of his conduct. In fact, she took the
young girl's part and launched into praises on her behalf and spoke most
flatteringly of her eyes, figure, discretion, and amiability; and she
even went so far as to take ostensible measures for their
reconciliation. In the bosom of confidence, particularly among the
friends of Don Juan Estrada-Rosa, she was not contented with saying that
Fernanda was superior to her ex-lover in every feeling, but she
proclaimed Luis as an arrant impostor, hypocrite, &c. And when she saw
him the next day in Jacoba's house, she embraced him, choking with
laughter, saying:
"What a character I gave you yesterday before the various friends of
Don Juan! You don't know! pincers would not get the words out of my
mouth again!"
What with all this, and the remorse continually preying on him, the
count was in a perpetual state of agitation. How far he was from being
happy! But it was a way strewn with flowers, compared to what was
coming. Five months after entering into this _liaison_, Amalia informed
him that she believed she was _enceinte_. She told him this with a smile
on her lips, as if she were mentioning that she had drawn a good ticket
in the lottery. Luis felt giddy with terror, turned pale, and looked as
if he were about to fall.
"_Dios mio_! what a misfortune!" he exclaimed, covering his face with
his hands.
"Misfortune?" she returned in surprise. "Why? I am very happy."
Then seeing his eyes dilate in stupefaction, she laughingly explained
that she was glad to have a pledge of their love, and that she had no
fear because she would have everything so arranged that nothing would be
discovered. And in truth she laced herself so tightly that nobody would
have thought another creature's life was bound up in hers. The anxiety
and distress of the count during this time of expectancy was awful! If
any one looked at her attentively he trembled, and if, in the course of
conversation, any guest made a casual allusion to some act of
dissimulation, he turned pale as he thought they were speaking of him.
He imagined smiles and meaning glances in every face, and the most
innocent remarks were fraught in his mind with the deepest and most
compromising insinuations.
In the meanwhile, Amalia ate and slept with composure, and her constant
cheerfulness astonished the count, whilst it excited his admiration.
Time went by, the seven months passed, and then the eighth. And hide as
he would the fact from himself, there was no denying that the figure of
his beloved was no longer slight; but when he made the remark to her in
a great state of anxiety, she burst out laughing:
"Be silent, you foolish creature! You notice it because you know about
it. Who is going to suspect anything because I am a little stouter?
Sometimes one likes a loose corsage."
When the critical time arrived, she evinced a courage bordering on
heroism. Luis wanted her to have a doctor.
"But why?" she said; "Jacoba's services will be quite sufficient, and it
would be dangerous to trust the secret to anybody else."
The first symptoms came on in the early morning, so she kept her bed;
but it was not until eight o'clock that she sent for Jacoba, who had
been sleeping for some days in the house on pretence of making curtains.
Then they were both locked in the room where everything in the way of
linen was prepared; and without a groan, without an unnecessary
movement, this brave woman went through the ordeal. The little creature
was subsequently taken away by Jacoba in a bundle of linen after the
servants had been sent out on various pretexts.
The count wept with joy and admiration at the happy solution of the
difficulty. But when Jacoba told him that he was to take the child to
the Quinones' door, he was quite overwhelmed. However, although his
lover's plan quite took him aback, he did what he was told, and the
crowning audacity of the lady turned out as she had foreseen. So now
that the child was safe for ever, their love not only seemed
strengthened and purified, but they felt the delightful flush of victory
over unheard-of dangers before finally arriving in the port of safety.
With their heads bent over the child, and sometimes touching its
forehead with their lips, they sat with their hands clasped in one
another's, and talked, or rather wove dreams in their efforts to gain a
glimpse into the unfathomable abysses of the future.
"What was to be the fate of the lovely little creature? How was she to
be educated?" Amalia said she would undertake to have it treated like
her own daughter, she would have her brought up as a perfect little
lady, and she was sure Don Pedro would not oppose her in the matter. And
as he would have no sons, what was more likely than that he would take a
fancy to it and leave her a lot of money at his death.
But the count repudiated this idea with scorn. The child should have
nothing from Don Pedro. He would leave her all his own money.
"But perhaps you will marry and have children," returned the lady,
glancing at him with a mischievous smile. Then his fingers were laid on
her lips in protest.
"Silence! silence! You know I can't bear anything of that; I am for ever
united to thee."
Whereupon she kissed him with effusion.
"That's a compact, is it not so?"
"It is a compact," he replied, in a tone of decision.
"But do not trouble about leaving her your property in a will, because
it would give rise to the suspicion that she is your daughter."
This difficulty absorbed them both for some minutes. Both were busy
devising some means of eluding it. The count wanted to leave it to some
confidential person in trust; but this idea also bristled with
drawbacks, and they thought it would be better for the money to
accumulate in his name in some bank until she came of age, and then a
father could be invented who had fallen from the skies.
At last Amalia concluded by saying: "We shall talk for ever of this.
Leave it to me."
And he was only too pleased to leave it to her, as he had unbounded
confidence in her inexhaustible imagination, power of will, and
limitless audacity.
When tired of talking of the future, they turned their attention to the
present. The child had to be baptised, and the ceremony was fixed for
the following day.
"Yes, and we have settled that I am to be the godmother, and you the
godfather."
"What! I?" he exclaimed in astonishment. "But, my dear woman, do you not
understand that it will give rise to suspicions?"
But the lady was obstinate. She had set her heart on his being
godfather. If it gave rise to suspicions, well and good. She would do it
without the least fear.
Then, seeing that he was really distressed at the idea, she changed her
mind.
"Do not vex yourself, man, do not vex yourself," she said, giving a
little pull at his beard. "It was only a joke. It would be fun to see
you hold it at the font. I believe you would call out: 'Senores, here!
come every one of you and see the father of this child.'"
It was finally settled that the godfather was to be Quinones, with Don
Enrique Valero as his proxy, and she was to be the godmother, with Maria
Josefa as her representative; and the count was quite satisfied with the
arrangement. All that was cleverly and prudently arranged in a way to
secure the welfare of his child. But just when he was feeling more
comfortable, a noise in the passage made him jump from his armchair, and
turn perfectly livid.
"What is the matter, man?"
"That noise?"
"It is Jacoba."
But seeing he was still uneasy, and his eyes looked scared, she got up,
and holding the child in her arms she opened the door and exchanged a
few words with Jacoba, who was in fact still there. After giving her the
baby and locking the door, she came back and sat down again.
"How could you be such a coward, eh?"
"It is not cowardice," he returned, blushing. "It is being so
constantly upset. I don't know what has come to me. Perhaps it is
conscience."
"Bah! it is because you are a coward. What is the good of having such a
powerful body if you have no spirit in it?"
Then, noticing the expression of pain and distress that overshadowed his
face, she turned and embraced him with enthusiasm.
"No, you are not a coward, but you are innocent, eh? And it is that that
I love you for. I love you more than my life, and you love your little
girl, don't you? I am all yours. You are my only love. I am not really
married."
Then she caressed him in a kitten-like way, passing her delicate white
hands over his face, and kissing him several times; then she put her
arms round his neck, and gave him little mouse-like bites. And at the
same time, she, who was generally so grave and quiet, let flow a
perfect stream of affectionate words which calmed and charmed him to
a wonderful degree. The fire which shone in her mysterious, large,
treacherous-looking eyes, now broke forth in veritable flames. Passion
had taken possession of her being, but it was also fraught with the
malicious pleasure of a satisfied caprice, vengeance and treachery.
The Conde de Onis felt himself more in her power with every day that
dawned. The caresses of his lover were tender, but her eyes, even in the
moments of greatest abandon, retained a cruel cat-like look; and his
love was strangely mingled with fear. Some times his superstitious mind
would make him wonder if this Valencian woman were an incarnate devil of
temptation.
After saying three or four times that he must go without being able to
break away from her, he at last got free from her arms, and rose from
the armchair. The farewell was long as usual, for Amalia would not leave
him until she saw he was quite intoxicated with the power of her
caresses.
Jacoba was expecting him outside the door. After taking him along
several corridors, they came to the place of the secret staircase
leading into the library. Here she signed to him to wait whilst she
reconnoitered to see that nobody was about the passages. Then she came
back again to tell him all was right, and the count went down with as
little noise as possible.
The intermediary left him at the passage after opening the door. Then he
bent down with his hands on the ground to prevent any one seeing him
from the street, and so crossed the passage to the pew. He opened the
door and entered. The darkness blinded him. He made a few steps forward,
when he felt a sudden blow on his shoulder, and a rough voice said in
his ear, "Die, wretch!"
The blood froze in his veins, but he gave a spring forward and saw a
dark heap blacker than the darkness. Quick as a dart it threw itself on
him, and he would soon have done for it with his enormous strength if he
had not heard a stifled laugh, and the voice of Amalia said:
"Take care, Luis, or you will hurt me!"
He was dumb with astonishment for some minutes.
"But how did you get here?" he said at last.
"By the front staircase. I popped on this black cap and ran down."
Then, seeing that he looked cross and disgusted at a joke in such bad
taste, she stood on tiptoe, put her arms round his neck, and after
pressing a long and passionate kiss upon his lips, she said, in a
coaxing tone:
"Now I know that you are not a coward, but I wanted to prove it."