THE QUEEN AND THE SOLDIER.
It was a noble and brilliant presence into which Lorenzo Bezan was
summoned on the day following his arrival from the seat of war. Dons
and senoras of proud titles and rich estates, the high officials of the
court, the prime ministers the maids of honor, the gayly dressed pages
and men-at-arms, all combined to render the scene one of most striking
effect.
The young soldier was fresh from the field; hard service and exposure
had deepened the olive tint of his clear complexion to a deep nut
brown, and his beard was unshaven, and gave a fine classical effect to
his handsome but melancholy features. The bright clearness of his
intelligent eye seemed to those who looked upon him there, to reflect
the battles, sieges and victories that the gallant soldier had so
lately participated in. Though neat and clean in appearance, the
somewhat sudden summons he had received, led him to appear before the
court in his battle dress, and the same sword hung by his side that had
so often reeked with the enemy’s blood, and flashed in the van of
battle.
There was no hauteur in his bearing; his form was erect and military;
there was no self-sufficiency or pride in his expression; but a calm,
steady purpose of soul alone was revealed by the countenance that a
hundred curious eyes now gazed upon. More than one heart beat quicker
among the lovely throng of ladies, as they gazed upon the young hero.
More than one kindly glance was bestowed upon him; but he was
impervious to the shafts of Cupid; he could never suffer again; he
could love but one, and she was far away from here.
Lorenzo Bezan had never been at court. True that his father, and indeed
his elder brother, and other branches of the house had the entree at
court; but his early connection with the army, and a naturally retiring
disposition, had prevented his ever having been presented, and he now
stood there for the first time. The queen was not present when he first
entered, but she now appeared and took her seat of state. Untaught in
court etiquette, yet it came perfectly natural for Lorenzo Bezan to
kneel before her majesty, which he did immediately, and was graciously
bidden to rise.
“Count Basterio,” said the queen, “where is this Colonel Bezan, whom
you were to bring to us to-day? have you forgotten your commission,
sir?”
“Your majesty, he stands before you,” replied the complaisant courtier.
“Where, count?”
“Your majesty, here,” said the courtier, pointing more directly to our
hero.
“This youth, this Colonel Bezan! I had thought to sec an older person,”
said the queen, gazing curiously upon the fine and noble features of
the young soldier.
“I trust that my age may be of no detriment to me as it regards your
majesty’s good feelings towards me,” said Lorenzo Bezan, respectfully.
“By no means, sir; you have served us gallantly in the field, and your
bravery and good judgment in battle have highly commended themselves to
our notice.”
“I am little used, your majesty, to courtly presence, and find that
even now I have come hither accoutred as I would have ridden on to the
field of battle; but if a heart devoted to the service of your majesty,
and a willing hand to wield this trusty weapon, are any excuses in your
sight, I trust for lenient judgment at your royal hands.”
“A brave soldier needs no excuse in our presence, Colonel Bezan,”
replied the queen, warmly. “When we have heard of your prowess in the
field, and have seen the stands of colors you have taken from the
enemy, far outnumbering your own force, we have thought you were some
older follower of the bugle and the drum-some hardy and gray old
soldier, whose life had been spent in his country’s service, and
therefore when we find an soldier like yourself, so young, and yet so
wise, we were surprised.”
“Your majesty has made too much of my poor deserts. Already have I been
twice noticed by honorable and high promotion in rank, and wear this
emblem to-day by your majesty’s gracious favor.” As he spoke, he
touched his colonel’s star.
“For your bravery and important services, Captain Bezan, wear this next
that star for the present,” said the queen, presenting the young
soldier with the medal and order of St. Sebastian, a dignity that few
attained to of less distinction than her privy councillors and the
immediate officers of the government.
Surprised by this unexpected and marked honor, the young soldier could
only kneel and thank her majesty in feeble words, which he did, and
pressing the token to his lips, he placed it about his neck by the
golden chain that had supported it but a moment before upon the lovely
person of his queen. The presence was broken up, and Lorenzo Bezan
returned to his barracks, reflecting upon his singular good fortune.
His modest demeanor, his brilliant military services, his handsome face
and figure, and in short his many noble points of manliness; and
perhaps even the slight tinge of melancholy that seemed ever struggling
with all the emotions that shone forth from his expressive face, had
more deeply interested the young queen in his behalf than the soldier
himself knew of. He knew nothing of the envy realized by many of the
courtiers when they saw the queen present him with the medal taken from
her own neck, and that, too, of an order so distinguished as St.
Sebastian.
“What sort of spirit has befriended you, Colonel Bezan?” said one of
his early friends; “luck seems to lavish her efforts upon you.”
“I have been lucky,” replied the soldier.
“Lucky! the whole court rings with your praise, and the queen delights
to honor you.”
“The queen has doubly repaid my poor services,” continued the young
officer.
“Where will you stop, colonel?”
“Stop?”
“Yes; when will you have done with promotion?-at a general’s
commission?”
“No fear of that honor being very quickly tendered to me,” was the
reply; while at the same moment he secretly felt how much he should
delight in every stop that raised him in rank, and thus entitled him to
positions and honor.
Such conversations were not unfrequent; for those who did not
particularly envy him, were still much surprised at his rapid growth in
favor with the throne, his almost magic success in battle, and
delighted at the prompt reward which he met in payment for the exercise
of those qualities which they could not themselves but honor.
Scarcely had he got off his fighting harness, so to speak, before he
found himself the object of marked attention by the nobility and
members of the court. Invitations from all sources were showered upon
him, and proud and influential houses, with rich heiresses to represent
them, were among those who sought to interest the attention if not the
heart of the young but rising soldier-he whom the queen had so markedly
befriended. Her majesty, too, seemed never tired of interesting herself
in his behalf, and already had several delicate commissions been
entrusted to his charge, and performed with the success that seemed
sure to crown his simplest efforts.
So far as courtesy required, Colonel Bezan responded to every
invitations and every extension of hospitality; but though beset by
such beauty as the veiled prophet of Khorassan tempted young Azim with,
still he passed unscathed through the trial of star-lit eyes and female
loveliness, always bending, but never breaking; for his heart would
still wander over the sea to the vision of her, who, to him, was far
more beautiful than aught his fancy had pictured, or his eyes had seen.
All seemed to feel that some tender secret possessed him, and all were
most anxious as to what it was. Even the queen, herself, had observed
it; but it was a delicate subject, and not to be spoken of lightly to
him.
Lorenzo Bezan had most mysteriously found the passage to the queen’s
good graces, and she delighted to honor him by important commissions;
so two years had not yet passed away, when the epaulets of a general
were presented to the young and ambitious soldier! Simply outranked now
by General Harero, who had so persecuted him, in point of the date of
his commission, he far outstretched that selfish officer in point of
the honors that had been conferred upon him by the throne; and being
now economical with the handsome professional income he enjoyed, he was
fast amassing a pecuniary fortune that of itself was a matter of no
small importance, not only to himself, but also in the eyes of the
world.
Among the courtiers he had already many enemies, simply because of his
rise and preferment, and he was known as the favorite of the queen.
Some even hinted darkly that she entertained for him feelings of a more
tender nature than the court knew of, and that his promotion would not
stop at a general’s commission, and perhaps not short of
commander-in-chief of the armies of Spain. But such persons knew
nothing to warrant these surmises; they arose from the court gossip,
day by day, and only gained importance from being often repeated.
“She delights to honor him,” said one lady to another, in the queen’s
ante-chamber.
“Count Basterio says that he will be made prime minister within a
twelvemonth.”
“The count is always extravagant,” replied the other, “and I think that
General Bezan richly merits the honors he receives. He is so modest,
yet brave and unassuming.
“That is true, and I’m sure I don’t blame the queen for repaying his
important services. But he doesn’t seen to have any heart himself.”
“Why not? He treats all with more than ordinary courtesy, and has a
voice and manner to win almost any heart he wills. But some dark hints
are thrown out about him.”
“In what respect, as having already been in love?” asked the other
lady.
“Yes, and the tender melancholy that every one notices, is owing to
disappointed affection.”
“It is strange that he should meet with disappointment, for General
Bezan could marry the proudest lady of the court of Madrid.”
“O, you forget when he came home to Spain he was only an humble captain
of infantry, who had seen little service. Now he is a general, and
already distinguished.”
They were nearer right in their surmises than even themselves were
aware of. It was very true that Captain Bezan, the unknown soldier, and
General Bezan, the queen’s favorite, honored by orders, and entrusted
with important commissions, successful in desperate battles, and the
hero of the civil war, were two very different individuals. No one
realized this more acutely than did Lorenzo Bezan himself. No step
towards preferment and honor did he make without comparing his
situation with the humble lieutenant’s birth that he filled when he
first knew Isabella Gonzales, and when his hopes had run so high, as it
regarded winning her love.
Of all the beauty and rank of the Castilian court, at the period of
which we write, the Countess Moranza was universality pronounced the
queen of beauty. A lineal descendant of the throne, her position near
the queen was of such a nature as to give her great influence, and to
cause her favor to be sought with an earnestness only second to the
service rendered to the queen herself. Her sway over the hearts of men
had been unlimited; courted and sought after by the nobles of the land,
her heart had never yet been touched, or her favors granted beyond the
proud civility that her birth, rank and position at court entitled her
to dispense.
She differed from Isabella Gonzales but little in character, save in
the tenderness and womanliness, so to speak, of her heart-that she
could not control; otherwise she possessed all the pride and
self-conceit that her parentage and present position were calculated to
engender and foster. On Lorenzo’s Bezan’s first appearance at court she
had been attracted by his youth, his fame, the absence of pride in his
bearing, and the very subdued and tender, if not melancholy, cast of
his countenance. She was formally introduced to him by the queen, and
was as much delighted by the simple sincerity of his conversation as
she had been by his bearing and the fame that preceded his arrival at
the court. She had long been accustomed to the flirting and attention
of the court gallants, and had regarded them with little feeling; but
there was one who spoke from the heart, and she found that he spoke to
the heart, also, for she was warmly interested in him at once.
On his part, naturally polite and gallant, he was assiduous in every
little attention, more so from the feeling of gratitude for the
friendship she showed to him who was so broken-hearted. Intercourse of
days and hours grew into the intimacy of weeks and months, and they
became friends, warm friends, who seemed to love to confide in each
other the whole wealth of the soul. Unaccustomed to female society, and
with only one model ever before his eyes, Lorenzo Bezan afforded, in
his truthfulness, a refreshing picture to the court-wooed and
fashionable belle of the capital, who had so long lived in the
artificial atmosphere of the queen’s palace, and the surroundings of
the Spanish capital.
The absence of all intrigue, management and deceit, the frank,
open-hearted manliness of his conversation, the delicacy of his
feelings, and the constant consideration for her own ease and pleasure,
could not but challenge the admiration of the beautiful Countess
Moranza, and on her own part she spared no means to return his
politeness.