entertain you; for, when such friends as you are honour me with their
company, I like to be hospitable." The two followers of the Marquis
bowed at the compliment. "Ah! it is not every day I have this
pleasure," continued the host. "But never mind, we shall soon all see
better days, when a certain friend of mine becomes higher than he even
now is, and Senhor Don Joseph finishes his life. The sooner he does so
the better, as far as I am concerned."
We do not intend to detail the conversation of these worthy personages;
indeed, it is so nearly illegible in the manuscript before us, that it
would be a work of great labour to decipher it. During the time, Senhor
Policarpio went to a closet, from which he produced three guns, or
rather blunderbusses, praising their excellent qualities. At first
sight of them, his guests seemed much alarmed by the observations he at
the same time made; but, quickly recovering, he persuaded them to repair
with him to a retired part of the garden, where they might exercise
themselves by firing at a mark.
While they were thus occupied, the lovely Duchess of Aveiro was seated
in her drawing-room, with her embroidery frame before her, gazing over
the orange groves at the lovely scene which the Castle of Belem on one
side, and the placid river, now shining in the light of the setting sun,
and covered with vessels and boats, presented. A fine boy, of some
fifteen years old, was in the room; her only son, the young Marquis of
Gouvea. He was leaning against the side of the window opposite to her,
regarding her with a look of affection and respect, when the Duke
abruptly entered. He threw his hat on the table with an indignant air,
as he exclaimed--"By Heavens! I have again been insulted by this King
beyond all bearance! He has had the audacity to declare to me that my
son, forsooth, cannot marry the daughter of the Duke of Cadaval; and
when I demanded his reasons for the refusal, he chose to give none. I
told him that they were betrothed, and that I had set my heart on the
match, as one in every way suitable to both parties; when he only
answered, that he had arranged it differently. What say you, my son?
how do you like losing a fair bride through the caprice of a tyrant?"
"That I wish I were a man, to carry her off in spite of him," answered
the young Marquis.
"Spoken like my son!" exclaimed the Duke. "But you shall not be
disappointed. His days are numbered; and then we shall see who will
venture to dispute our authority."
At these words the Duchess looked anxiously up at her husband. "I trust
that you allude not to the designs you once spoke to me about," she
said. "I had long hoped you had abandoned them."
"Why did you nourish so foolish a hope, lady?" exclaimed the Duke. "I
should have thought my wife was equally interested with myself in their
success."
"I hoped so because I feel convinced that they cannot fail to bring
destruction on yourself, and ruin on all your family; to drag many to
the scaffold, if you are unsuccessful; and to introduce the horrors of a
civil war into the country should they succeed: but such cannot be;
Heaven will not favour so guilty a purpose. Oh! hear me, my lord.
Abandon the dark and evil designs you have meditated. If you have any
remaining love for your wife, if you regard the interests of your son,
think not again of them."
The Duke laughed scornfully, as he asked, "What! would you not wish to
be a queen, and see your son a prince?"
"I would far rather be a peasant's wife, than the queen of a
blood-stained usurper; for, to become a king, such you must be,"
answered the Duchess, boldly. "No, my lord, I would not be cheated of
my happiness by so deceitful a phantom."
"Silence, madam!" exclaimed the Duke, angrily. "This is but weak folly.
Would not you wish to be a prince, my boy?" he said, turning to his
son.
"Gladly, if my father becomes a king," answered the young Marquis.
"Fear not, my boy. You shall be so; before long, too; but speak not of
it, though I know I can trust you. Such I cannot your cousin, who would
turn pale at the very thoughts of the enterprise; so utter not to him a
syllable of what I have said."
His wife rose, trembling with agitation, to make a last appeal, and
laying her hand upon his arm, she exclaimed, "Let me solemnly implore
you to desist from this purpose; it cannot thrive--even should the King
fall, you cannot succeed to his throne; the nobles and people would rise
up in one body against you, and hurl you, with your few friends, to
destruction. Many who now, for their own interests, are cordial, would
desert you, and, instead of a throne, you would mount a scaffold."
The Duke turned a scornful smile on her as she spoke, but she continued
boldly,--"Last night I dreamed of this, and that I saw you, mangled and
bloody, upon the ground, while a rude mob stood around, gazing at you
with scoffs and jeers."
"Silence, foolish woman!" suddenly exclaimed the Duke, shaking her off,
though turning pale at the thought of what she described. "I remain not
to hear such mad nonsense as this. Go, and learn more wisdom;" and,
with an angry frown on his brow, he rushed from the room.
The Duchess gave vent to her feelings in a flood of tears, while her son
threw himself into her arms with fond solicitude, endeavouring to soothe
her agitation, but in vain. She saw too clearly the dreadful future.
Volume 3, Chapter VII.
If the country inns of Portugal are bad, those of the cities are very
little better. So thought Luis d'Almeida, as, towards the evening of a
day at the very end of autumn, accompanied by his faithful Pedro, he
rode into the capital. So think, also, most travellers of the present
time, except when they are fortunate enough to secure rooms at the one
or two tolerable hotels which Lisbon now affords.
Luis had never before been compelled to seek lodgings, having always had
his father's palace to which to resort; so that now he was at a loss
whither to direct his steps; for so unfitted did he feel himself for
society, that he was very unwilling to seek for the hospitality of
several friends, who he knew, however, would be very willing to afford
it.
At last Pedro, who was very anxious to get housed in some place or
other, intimated to his master that he had the honour of claiming as a
relation an old lady who lived in a small house in the suburbs; that she
was of the highest respectability, for her husband had held an office
under government; and, indeed, she was apt rather to look down upon the
number of poor relations who insisted on her acknowledging them as
nephews, nieces, and cousins, to the sixth degree. Pedro, however, felt
confident that, notwithstanding her high pretensions, she would be happy
to receive, as a lodger in her house, a young nobleman so highly
esteemed as his master; and he undertook, if Don Luis would ride as far,
to assure him of a cordial reception, provided she had not, by any
chance since he heard of her, departed this life, or from any other
reason changed her residence. Luis very gladly acceded to Pedro's
proposal, for he was fatigued both in body and mind, and he thought
that, in so remote a part of the city, he should be better able to avoid
the annoyances to which he must be subject in a more public situation.
As they reached the house Pedro had indicated, he looked up, and, to his
great delight, beheld an old lady busily employed in knitting at the
open window.
"There she is, Senhor Conde," exclaimed Pedro. "That is my good aunt,
and as kind an old lady as ever lived, when nothing puts her out of her
way."
The old lady, hearing horses stopping at her door, put her head out of
the window to see what it could possibly mean, when Pedro, bowing most
respectfully, exclaimed, "Ah! my good aunt, my master and I have come a
long way to see you; now do not come down, I will run upstairs to
explain matters;" and, leaping from his horse, he begged the Count to
excuse him, while he performed his promise.
As may be supposed, he had no great difficulty in persuading the old
lady to receive a gallant cavalier like Luis for her guest, and she
forthwith hurried down to pay him due honour. Pedro, assisting his
master to dismount, the hostess conducted him upstairs, when, begging
him to be seated, after various little complimentary speeches, she set
about preparing a repast for him: with the aid of Pedro, and a little
damsel, her maid-servant, a room also was made ready for his reception.
By the time these arrangements were completed, it was too late to think
of going out in search of his friends, and he was glad when he was at
length able to retire to his room. He threw himself on his bed, but not
to sleep; the images of the past haunted him, and sad forebodings for
the future. He thought of the danger to which Theresa was exposed,
indefinite, and therefore more to be dreaded, and of the aid which he
had pledged himself to afford, by means uncertain, perhaps criminal. He
knew full well the passionate and fierce disposition of the young
Marquis of Tavora, and that no fears for the consequences would make him
hesitate in proposing any measures which might rescue his wife, or, at
the worst, vindicate his honour.
Early the following morning, Luis despatched Pedro to inform his young
friend, Joze de Tavora, of his arrival; for, remembering the warnings of
the Minister and of his mysterious friend, Senhor Mendez, he was
unwilling to become more intimate with the rest of the family than was
necessary, and therefore refrained from visiting at their house except
on occasions when custom required it.
Luis had just taken his morning meal, when the young Tavora rushed into
the room, and embracing him with affectionate warmth, exclaimed, "I lost
not a moment, my dear Luis, in hastening hither, when I heard of your
arrival. Say, you have come to aid us; you have come to join the noble
cause of justice and honour, arrayed against the overbearing tyranny of
the plebeian Minister, and his profligate tool--the so-called King of
Portugal?"
"I came to offer my aid, if necessary, in rescuing my cousin Theresa
from the persecutions of the King," answered the young Count; "but in no
other scheme ought I to engage, nor will I; for I feel assured, that
maintaining the peace and happiness of the people at large is of
paramount importance, to avenging any slight, which we nobles, as a
body, may conceive ourselves to have suffered. Beforehand, therefore, I
warn you not to attempt to induce me to engage in any enterprise which
will in any way cause disorder or bloodshed in the country."
"What! can you, one of the purest of our class, speak thus?" exclaimed
the young Tavora. "Is not our honour paramount to every other
consideration? Surely we ought not for a moment to weigh it with the
interests of the base plebeians,--the scum of the earth,--wretches
beneath our notice. In that creed have I been educated, and in that
will I die."
"'Tis a creed, my young friend, which, put in practice, has already
injured us, and will finally drag us all to destruction," answered Luis.
"Let us endeavour to maintain our position in the scale of society, as
did our noble ancestors, by being the foremost in every danger, the most
upright, and the most honourable; then no one will venture to molest or
insult us; but, by following any other course, we may, in a moment, find
ourselves hurled from our high posts, and trampled on in the dust damp
with our gore."
"In Heaven's name, my dear Luis, where did you gain these extraordinary
ideas?" cried his visitor. "I did not suppose such could exist in the
brain of any fidalgo in Portugal."
"They are taught by the study of every history, from the earliest times
to the present day," answered Luis, smiling at his own vehemence. "But
we will not now discuss the subject. Tell me, where are Donna Theresa
and your brother?"
"She is at their palace; but he,--you know his temper,--is not there.
He is offended at her conduct, and vows he will not return to her till
she promises never again to exchange a word with the King. This she,
being equally firm, will not do; so that they are not exactly on the
best terms for husband and wife; but I suppose that they will, before
long, get tired of being separated, and so make up their quarrel, as
other people do."
"Alas! I regret to hear this," said Luis. "She is thus left exposed to
the persecutions of the King."
"So I tell my brother," interrupted the young Tavora; "but do not speak
of it--my heart burns when I think on the subject. Will you come with
me to-night where you can meet him, and you may be able to persuade him
what is right to be done? He knows, perfectly well, since his quarrel
with the King, that he hates him; so that he has thought it wiser not to
appear anywhere in public, and is, at present, in a place of
concealment, whither I will conduct you. Will you go with me this
evening?"
Luis, without making further inquiries as to the spot where the young
Marquis was concealed, promised to visit him, in company with his
brother. After some time more spent in conversation, the younger Tavora
agreed to call for Luis, with a horse for his use, desiring that Pedro
might be in attendance, to take charge of it, while they approached his
brother's abode on foot. These arrangements having been made, his
visitor took his departure; leaving Luis, for the rest of the day, to
his own solitary meditations; for he felt utterly averse to moving from
the house, and mixing with the noisy and careless crowd in the city
below. He attempted to read, but in vain, so he threw his book aside,
and paced the room for many hours, unable to concentrate his thoughts on
one point. He could not divest himself of the feeling, that some
indefinite disaster was hanging over him, yet that he wanted the power
to avoid it. It is a sensation we have often ourselves experienced,
although our forebodings have seldom, if ever, been accomplished; until,
at last, we have learned to consider them as arising more from the
effects of past sorrows, fears, or annoyances, than from any prescience
of forthcoming events. Luis, however, had many reasons for his
feelings, both from the past and for the future. His spirits were
lowered by many griefs; the loss of her he loved--his father's death--
the destruction of his property,--and he was too well aware that many
dangers surrounded him; for, from the language his young friend had
used, in the course of their conversation, he could not help suspecting
that the younger Marquis was meditating some desperate plot against the
government, if not against the King himself; nor could he tell how far
he might find himself compromised by his connexion with him.
Daylight had nearly departed, when Joze de Tavora, with a servant on a
second horse, rode up to the house.
"Up, mount, my dear Count!" he exclaimed, as soon as Luis appeared at
the door. "I have brought you a good steed, and we have no time to
lose. Our servants must follow in the best way they can on foot, and
keep us in sight. I will tell you whither lies our course as we ride
along."
Luis, accordingly, desiring Pedro to follow, mounted a dark stout
Spanish horse, provided for him; and at an easy pace, the fastest,
however, that the execrable roads would allow of, they wound their way
for a considerable distance through the outskirts of the city, to the
north of Belem, passing beneath one of the vast arches of the grand
aqueduct, which had, fortunately, escaped the devastating effects of the
earthquake with but slight injury, and then, turning to the left, they
approached the river to the westward of the castle.
"Whither are we going?" asked Luis. "Are we near your brother's abode?"
"We are yet a long way from it," answered his companion, "though we go
not much further on horseback. I ought to have told you, that a
considerable part of our journey must be by water; yet, as it is a fine
night, that will be by far the most agreeable mode of conveyance, if you
do not object to it."
Luis assenting to the proposal, they soon after reached a sheltered spot
beneath a high wall, where, dismounting, they left their horses in
charge of the servants, and proceeded on foot to the river's side.
The bank was in that spot high and steep, so that they were obliged to
descend by a narrow and winding path to reach the water, and when there,
no boat was to be seen, and not a sound was heard but the gentle ripple
of the tide upon the shore, or the sudden splash of some finny
inhabitant of the stream, as it leapt up from its limpid home. Joze de
Tavora, after waiting impatiently for some minutes, gave a low whistle;
the silence still continued unbroken,--he again gave a second and third
signal, when it was answered, at a short distance from where they stood,
and a boat shot from behind a little promontory which jutted out into
the river. The crew, on seeing two persons, seemed in some doubt
whether they ought to approach, but the young Tavora again signalising
to them, they pulled in without hesitation.
"Why were you not waiting at this spot, as I ordered you?" he asked.
"We came here first, senhor," answered one of the two men in the boat;
"but we saw two or three persons on the shore, who seemed watching us,
so we pulled round beneath yonder point, where we could be out of
sight."
"You did well, though they were, probably, but chance idlers. Come,
Luis, we will embark," he added, stepping into the boat, followed by his
companion. "Now, my men, bend to your oars!" he said, taking the helm,
and guiding the bark down the stream.
It was a lovely night, though so late in the year: the air was soft and
balmy, the water smooth as a polished mirror, reflecting the bright and
glittering stars which shone from the deep blue sky. The scene and hour
had a soothing effect on the spirits of Luis, as he leaned back in the
boat, and gave himself up to their calm influence. Now and then they
would pass through a shoal of fish, sporting on the surface, their
bright scales shining in the light of some lustrous star. Far off, too,
the song of the fisherman would rise in the still air, as he sallied
forth to his night of toil; and in the distance might be seen the sails
of the larger fishing-boats, as they slowly glided up with the current,
or the canvas of some vessel looming large through the obscurity, like
some giant phantom of the deep. Not a word was exchanged for some way;
and at length, when Joze de Tavora broke the silence, by addressing his
friend, their conversation was carried on in low whispers, which could
scarcely have been heard by the men who rowed the boat. After rowing
about two miles, at a sufficient distance from the shore to be unnoticed
from thence, the boat's head was directed again towards it, at a spot
where the shattered remains of some building could be seen rising
against the sky. Luis demanded of his companion whither they were now
going.
"To yonder ruins," he said, "of a summer residence of the good monks of
the convent of San Bento. It was once a lovely spot, but the sea
destroyed the grounds, and the earthquake shattered the walls, though
there are still some chambers which escaped total destruction."
He had got thus far in his description, when the boat ran alongside the
remains of a quay and jetty, from whence the friars used to embark on
their fishing expeditions, or when they chose the water as a means of
conveyance to the city. Stepping on shore with Luis, he ordered the men
to wait their return, and led the way towards the ruins, which were at
some little distance from the landing-place. They proceeded among heaps
of walls overthrown, shattered pillars, formed to support the graceful
vines which overshadowed the long cool walks, and fragments of broken
statues, which had ornamented the sides of the tanks, once stocked with
fish; but the flood had uprooted the vines, and carried away the
aqueducts which supplied the tanks. Passing beneath an archway, once
forming the entrance to the convent, and winding through several
passages open to the sky above, they arrived at a small door, through
the chinks of which a light streamed forth. The young Tavora knocked
three times without hesitation, at the same time mentioning his name,
and begging to be admitted.
"You will find more persons here than you expect," he said to Luis,
during the time which elapsed before the door was opened; "and many whom
you will be surprised to meet in this place; but they are all friends of
my family, who have come hither to listen to the exhortations of a holy
and pious man, who has resided here for some time past, concealed from
the persecutions of those who hate him for his virtue and zeal for
religion."
"I thought we had come hither to see your brother," answered Luis. "If
there are strangers here, whom I may not wish to meet, I will wait
outside in the garden till they have departed, or till he can come to
meet me."
"There are none you can object to meet," eagerly responded Joze de
Tavora. "See, the door opens. Come, you must enter, or our friends
will be disappointed, and look upon you in the light of an enemy." And,
taking the arm of Luis, he led him forward a few steps through the
portal, when the door was suddenly closed behind them.
"Your blessing, Father," said Joze de Tavora, to a tall figure, in the
black habit of the order of Loyola, who stood before them, holding a
lamp in his hand.
"You have it, my son," answered the deep-toned voice of the Jesuit
Malagrida. "And blessed are all they who follow my counsels! Who is
your companion?" he added, in a different tone. "I recollect not his
face among the millions I have known."
Joze de Tavora explained who Luis was, and that he had brought him to
see his brother.
"My blessing on his head, if he joins our righteous cause!" exclaimed
Malagrida.
While this conversation was taking place, Luis looked round the chamber
in which he so unexpectedly found himself. It was low and vaulted, the
roof being supported by rough stone pillars, and had, apparently, formed
a capacious cellar to the not over-abstemious brethren of San Bento.
Some rude attempts had been made to convert it into both an habitation
and a chapel, it would seem; for great was the surprise of Luis to
observe, at the further end, a rough altar, on which lights were burning
before a figure of the Virgin, and a number of people seated on benches
on each side of it; others, standing about in knots, and conversing,
their glittering swords and rich dresses forming a strange contrast to
the ruined and sombre appearance of the chamber. He had just finished
this slight survey, when one of them, rising and advancing towards him,
he perceived the young Marquis of Tavora. The latter, giving him an
embrace, exclaimed, "I am, indeed, grateful for the favour you do me by
coming here, though prepared for it by a message my brother sent me; and
I must rejoice that there is another partisan added to the cause of
honour and the privileges of the nobles."
"I certainty, when I promised your brother that I would visit you, did
not expect to find you in so strange a place as this, and with so many
companions," returned Luis.
"As for my abode, it is one selected by the Father Malagrida, where no
one has ever thought of coming to search for him; so I was advised to
share it with him; and for my companions, they are my nearest relations
and friends, so do not be afraid of them," answered the Marquis, in an
offended tone.
As he finished speaking, the Father Malagrida addressed them. "Come, my
sons," he said, "let us not tarry here, at the portals of my abode, but
straightway join the goodly company who are called together to hear my
words, and to consult about the welfare of our holy Church."
Having thus delivered himself, he led the way to the further end of the
vault, followed by the young men; for, though Luis felt that he had been
unfairly seduced into associating with persons whom he more than
suspected were met together for some unlawful purpose, it was now, he
thought, too late to withdraw. As they approached the party, who were
all in earnest conversation together, Luis, to his still greater
surprise, perceived a lady among them, in whom he recognised the elder
Marchioness of Tavora. She was the only female among the party; but
there were present, besides many members of her own family, several
nobles of the highest rank, and dignitaries of the Church, with a few of
inferior grades in society, attached to the houses of the fidalgos, and
whose only rule of action was their masters' will. With many of the
persons assembled Luis was already acquainted; and, as he advanced among
them, they rose to receive him, and welcome his return to Lisbon. The
Marchioness was most particular in her attentions, thanking him for the
interest he took in the welfare of her sons, and assuring him that she
should be for ever grateful for what he had done.
"Why have you brought me here?" said Luis to Joze de Tavora, as soon as
he could escape from the Marchioness, and had led his young friend on
one side of the vault, out of hearing of the rest of the party. "Had
you forewarned me of whom I was to meet, I might have acted as I thought
right."
"I brought you here to give you an opportunity of listening and judging
of the truth," was the answer. "Had I told you that you were to meet
some of the first nobles in the land, who were engaged in forming plans
to protect their honour, their lives, and fortunes from destruction, you
might have answered that you would engage in no conspiracy; and as I was
not at liberty to reveal any of their intentions, I could not have
reasoned with you. But now you are here, stay and listen to what is
proposed; if you like it not, you can depart without hindrance, for I
will answer for your honour."
"I will remain, to convince those assembled here that I will not betray
their place of meeting; but, except for the purpose of protecting my
cousin, will I engage in no scheme whatever. My refusal arises from no
fear of danger to myself individually, but from a dread of the
consequences to the nation at large. Inform your friends of my
opinions, and I will here await the result."
"Such is unnecessary; they will ask none to join them who do not
willingly enter into their projects; so come, we will return to our
friends; for hark! the prophet is addressing the assembly, and when you
have heard him, you will be convinced that his words are those of
inspiration."
Although there was, at that time, a more general belief in prophets and
saints, than there is, in Portugal at all events, in the present day,
Luis was surprised to hear his young friend profess faith in the
inspired character of a man whom he had learned to look upon as a
madman, if not an hypocritical impostor; but still greater was his
astonishment when he discovered that the whole assembly placed the most
implicit confidence in his declarations. On one side of the altar a
sort of pulpit had been formed of rough boards hastily nailed together,
and into it Malagrida now mounted, stretching forth his hands to bless
his congregation. A complete silence ensued, and for some minutes he
refrained from speaking, to cause a greater effect; at length he
commenced, in a slow and impressive tone, to deliver a discourse, of
which we shall venture only to give a few sentences.
"You have assembled here, my children, to listen to the words of one who
has propagated our holy religion even in the far corners of the world,
but who now, through the wickedness and impiety of the rulers of this
hapless country, is compelled, like a fox, to burrow beneath the earth,
and to hide his head from the bright light of heaven. Will you--can
you--allow sin to be thus triumphant? Will you stand calmly by, and see
our holy religion trampled in the dust, your altars profaned, your
priests degraded?"
"No! no! we will die to protect them," answered several voices.
He continued, without noticing the interruption. "Will you allow all
you have considered sacred to be despised, and yourselves to be insulted
by the tyrant and his Minister?"
"We will not! we will not!" repeated the voices again.
"Hear me, then. Even now a decree is about to come forth to banish all
the true priests of the order of Jesus from the land. A few days, and
the impious command will be executed, if our rulers are not stopped in
their heaven-accursed career of crime. What say the sacred writings?
`The judges of the earth stand up, and the rulers take counsel together,
against the Lord, and against his anointed.' Such do our rulers, and
they will not listen to the words of warning. Thrice has the King been
warned, and he has turned a deaf ear to our words; still does he persist
in his wickedness. We have, then, but one course to pursue--to avenge
our wrongs, and right our grievances. Boldly I speak it, for I speak
what is just, what Heaven demands at our hands--the King must die! and
blessed is the man by whose hands the deed is done!"
The speaker paused, and at these words fear and trembling took
possession of his infatuated audience. They doubted not that he spoke
the words of inspiration, but each man feared lest he himself should be
called upon to perform a deed which he had longed to see executed by the
hands of another. At last the young Marquis of Tavora, with much of his
mother's boldness, mingled with superstition, arose and exclaimed, "I
have been the most grievously wronged, and I will undertake to avenge
the cause of all. I will lead a chosen band of followers into the very
heart of the palace, while others surround the building; and, while the
King deems himself most secure, I will accuse him of the foul injury he
has done me, and slay him on the spot. I will teach a lesson to all his
successors, and sovereigns shall learn to tremble, who, presuming on
their power and station, dare to insult the dearest rights and honour of
their subjects."
Some of the younger conspirators applauded the speech of the Marquis,
but the older men shook their heads in disapprobation, and were silent,
till Malagrida took upon himself to answer. "Alas! my son," he said,
"such plans are hopeless! By force alone can force oftentimes be
repelled, but never thus openly attack power. To ensure success,
commence with secrecy and caution. Let not your enemy suppose that you
feel aught but friendship for him, and then strike him unawares, when
none can know who did the deed: the poisoned bowl, the dagger, or the
pistol, are far more certain means than such as you propose. As the
injuries our foe inflicts are silent and secret, so, does Heaven decree,
must be the retributive punishment."
To these observations the older men more cordially assented, but no one
proposed any definite plan. An air of doubt and uncertainty hung over
all who were present, except the Marchioness, her eldest son, and
Malagrida. Many whom they expected had not arrived; others had refused
to join them till their plans were successful, and all danger was
passed; these last were very numerous, and, in this case, the wisest
part of the nobility; "others," they reasoned, "will be found to risk
the peril, while we shall equally secure the profit, if they succeed."
"Why came not the Marquis of Tavora with his lady?" asked one of his
neighbour.
"He knows not of our designs," was the answer. "It is supposed he would
not approve of them, and his sons fear to confide them to him."
"The Duke of Aveiro ought to have been here long ago," said another
noble. "He told me that he purposed coming, and no common cause would,
I am sure, detain him."
"On the former night we met he seemed eager in our enterprise,"
responded a fourth. "Can he have been suspected and apprehended? I
always fear that vigilant-eyed plebeian--nothing escapes him."
"Can the Duke, fearing detection, have repented of his intentions, and,
perhaps, informed the Minister of our designs?" observed one who was
cynically inclined, and had ever hated the Duke. "It would be a certain
way of securing his own pardon, though at the expense of a few of us."
"In mercy, do not put such dreadful thoughts into our heads--you quite
unnerve me," said the person he spoke to. "I wish I had refused to join
the enterprise."
"That is a pity, seeing you will probably share the fate of all, if it
miscarries," answered his friend. "Do, my dear Count, _pretend_ to be
brave, or you will frighten the rest. You will not feel comfortable, I
fear, till it has succeeded."
"You offer rather doubtful consolation. I wish some one would propose
himself to kill our tyrant quietly--it would save much discussion."
"Likely enough. What, and if he happens to have a secret enemy among
us, who might be tempted to turn traitor, how completely he would be
within his power without risking the safety of the rest? No, no; we
have, doubtless, a good many fools among us, but not quite so great a
one as you suppose."
"You are in a severe humour this evening, my friend."
"Have I not cause for it, when I have heard so much nonsense spoken, and
our enterprise not advanced since the first day it was proposed? It
provokes me: I shall lose my South American property before anything is
accomplished, I very clearly perceive, so I think of embarking for
France to await the result."
Such was the style of conversation carried on in all directions round
Luis, so that he began to entertain hopes that the conspirators would
abandon intentions which he considered, notwithstanding the assurances
of the prophet, to be both highly criminal, and dangerous in the
extreme.
All were looking for the arrival of the Duke of Aveiro, who, having more
to gain by the destruction of the King, was the most active leader in
the conspiracy; but, after waiting a considerable time longer, some of
the party expressed their impatience to depart, and the Duke came not at
all.
The assembly at length broke up, Malagrida first performing a short
religious ceremony at the altar, dismissing them with his blessing.
Before Luis took his departure with his young companion, he addressed
the Marquis. "Tell me," he said, "how can I aid you in the object for
which I came here? How and where is Theresa?"
"Speak not of her, my friend," exclaimed the young husband, with
vehemence. "I live but for revenge! Farewell! I ask you not to share
our dangers; but you will pardon what you look upon as a crime, when you
know the cause which has driven me to desperation."
Joze de Tavora took Luis's arm. "It is time to go," he said. "Follow
me closely, for the night is dark, and you know not the intricacies of
the path. We will still trust to the river, though no one else ventures
on it. The rest have departed in different ways and directions, and my
lady mother passes the night at a house at no great distance, whither my
brother will conduct her."
On emerging into the open air, they found the night to have become
excessively dark, there being no moon, and a thin mist obscuring the
brightness of the stars; but they soon sufficiently recovered the use of
their eyes, to be able to find their way among the ruins towards the
landing-place, where the boat was waiting. Not a breath of wind stirred
the silent night air, their footfalls alone being heard as they
proceeded through the ruined garden.
Just as they were about to step into the skiff, not having exchanged a
word on their way, for fear any foe might be lurking in the
neighbourhood, Joze de Tavora fancied he heard a shout in the distance:
they listened attentively, but it was not repeated; and at length, being
persuaded that it was but fancy, they took their seats in the stern of
the boat, the crew pulling rapidly up the stream, which was now in their
favour. So dark was the night, that they had much difficulty in seeing
their way, and had they not kept close in with the banks, they would
have found it nearly impossible to steer a direct course.
Luis was silent; for, though unwilling to blame his young companion, he
felt that the latter had not acted towards him with openness and honour.
Of this Joze de Tavora seemed aware, as he was the first to speak.
"Luis, I must crave pardon for what I have done; for I now see, when too
late, that I ought not to have led you blindfold into the society we
have just quitted, which seems not to your taste; but say, will you
forgive me?"
He spoke in so deprecating a tone, that Luis could not resist his
petition; and, giving him his hand, in token of forgiveness, assured him
that he believed his motives, at all events, had been good.
After nearly an hour's row, they reached the spot where they embarked,
and near which they found Pedro and the other servant waiting with their
horses,--Joze de Tavora insisting on accompanying his friend to his
lodgings. Thus so much time passed, that the first streaks of dawn were
in the sky before the latter was seen to enter the gates of his father's
Quinta at Belem.
Volume 3, Chapter VIII.
We left that very respectable personage, Senhor Policarpio, entertaining
two friends in the garden of the Duke of Aveiro's residence. As it grew
dark, he invited them again into the house to partake of a supper he had
prepared for them. After the repast was finished, and he had plied his
guests well with wine, he opened an attack which he had been meditating.
"So the Marquis complains that he has been insulted by that low-born
villain Teixeira, and that the King will give him no redress," he began.
"Now, that is what I call not acting in a kingly way; and I think your
master very ill-treated."
"Your observation is a just one, Senhor Policarpio," answered Manoel.
"And this is not the only instance in which he has been ill-treated. He
applied to be created a duke the other day, and the King, without any
reason, refused his request, to the great indignation of the
Marchioness, who had determined to enjoy the title."
"Ah! if the Marquis would but follow the advice of my master, he might
easily be made a duke," said Senhor Policarpio; "but that he will not
do, talking instead about his loyalty, and all that sort of nonsense.
Now listen, my friends. It strikes me that we might arrange these
affairs ourselves, without consulting our masters till the work is done,
when they will reward us accordingly. We are not likely to be made
dukes and counts, but we are certain to get as many purses of gold as we
want, which are far better than all the titles in the world without
them. As we well know, there are certain plots and conspiracies
hatching, which will, if not discovered, all end in smoke. Now, when I
have an object in view in which I wish to succeed, I entrust it to no
one more than is necessary. You feel assured that your master would
reward you, if you were to punish this Teixeira for his insolence; and I
am ready to aid you, on condition that you speak to no one on the
subject, or it will be certain to fail. This is my plan:--Teixeira
drives out every night in his carriage (vain as he is of it) to some
place or other. I propose to watch for him, mounted on good horses,
when, as he passes by, we will fire into his carriage, and cannot fail
to kill or wound him severely. We may then, favoured by the darkness,
easily escape before any alarm is given, and you may then claim a reward
from your master. For me, it will be sufficient to know that I have
served you; besides that, I owe him a debt of vengeance on my own
account."
The brains of the two servants being by this time considerably confused
by liquor, they willingly assented to Senhor Policarpio's proposal, not
having sufficient judgment left to perceive that he had probably other
motives for the deed than their interests, or his own wish for revenge.
"Well, then, my friends, there is no moment like the present, when work
is to be done," he continued. "I have notice that Teixeira will this
night visit a certain house; and I propose to waylay him on his return
to the palace, and pay him his deserts. Are you agreed?"
"Agreed! agreed!" exclaimed both the men. "We are ready to do anything
so honourable a gentleman as yourself proposes."
"You flatter me, gentlemen, by your good opinion. We will not dream on
the work, then--this night it shall be done. I must tell you, another
friend of mine will join us; but do not speak to him, as he wishes not
to be known. We will divide into two parties. You, Manoel, must
accompany my friend; and you, Antonio, keep by my side; then, if the
first shots do not take effect, the second ambush will be more
fortunate. Come, gentlemen, we will prepare for our expedition. I have
horses in readiness at a stable in the neighbourhood; for I fully
counted on your assistance. Another glass to our success. Nerve your
arms for the deed, and it cannot fail!"
It was an intensely dark night, when three men, with masks on their
faces, (for a guilty countenance would fain hide itself even from the
sight of Heaven,) sallied forth from the Quinta of the Duke of Aveiro.
They walked some way, when, stopping before the door of a low, solitary
building, the principal of the party applied a key to the lock, and, all
entering, they found three steeds ready saddled. Without uttering a
word, they led forth the horses, the last closing the door; and,
mounting, they rode back in the direction they had come. They had not
proceeded far when they encountered a fourth horseman, dressed
completely in black, with a black mask, and a horse of the same hue.
"Who goes there?" said the principal of the three, in a low voice.
"A friend of religion," was the answer, in the same low tone.
"'Tis well," said the first speaker. "This is the friend I expected,"
he continued, turning to one of his companions. "Do you, Manoel,
accompany him. Fire, when he fires, and keep close to his side. We
will all again meet at the stables, where we will leave our horses, and
return on foot to the Quinta. Onward, my friends, to our work."
The stranger, accompanied by him who was addressed as Manoel, now
separated from the other two, both parties, however, proceeding by
different routes toward the upper part of Lisbon, to the neighbourhood
of a house called the Quinta da Cima, which lay directly in the way
between the residence of the young Marchioness of Tavora and the royal
palace.
Antonio and his companion, who, as our readers may have suspected, was
no other than Senhor Policarpio, rode on in silence whenever they passed
any houses, the former, who was of a more timid disposition than his
fellow-servant, already repenting of the deed he had undertaken to
perform.
"Hist!" he said, drawing in his rein as they were passing between some
of the high blank walls with which that part of Lisbon abounds. "Are
you certain there is no one following us? Methought I heard a horse's
footsteps."
"On, on," muttered his companion with an oath. "The more reason for
speed."
They proceeded a few paces further, when the other again stopped.
"I am sure I heard the sounds again," he whispered.
"Cursed fool, his cowardice will spoil all," thought Policarpio. "'Tis
but the echo of our own horses' feet, friend," he said aloud. "Fear
not; 'tis too late now to draw back, and the work must be done."
They again rode on, encountering no one on their way; for, at that late
hour, and in those solitary roads, few ventured out, if they could avoid
it, and then only in large parties, with servants and torches, to guard
against the daring marauders who infested them, committing every
atrocity with impunity. They at length observed a number of people
advancing towards them with torches, the flames throwing a lurid glare
on their figures and the surrounding walls; but Policarpio, desiring his
companion to follow, turned down a lane on one side, till they had
passed by. Riding a little further on, Antonio again vowed he heard the
sounds of horses' feet. Policarpio listened.
"Yes," he said, "'tis our friends--we are near the spot agreed on."
As he spoke, four horsemen were perceived emerging from the gloom
towards them.
"How is this?" exclaimed Antonio in a tone of alarm. "There were but
two!"
"They are more of our friends," was the answer.
"What, all enemies of Teixeira?"
"All, and trusty men. Speak not again, friend. We come to act, not to
talk," whispered Policarpio.
The six horsemen rode on at a slow pace, so as to allow their horses'
hoofs to emit the least possible sound, till they arrived at a deep
archway, into the recesses of which not a ray of light penetrated. Here
the stranger, in sable garments, with his companion, Manoel, took their
posts, their horses' heads turned towards the road, so as to sally forth
at a moment's notice. This was the ambush nearest the residence of the
young Marchioness of Tavora. A little further on, a lane between high
walls turned off to the right, and towards it Policarpio and Antonio
directed their course; the two other unknown horsemen passing further on
to another place of concealment.
"Halt here, my friend," said Policarpio; "we shall not have long to
wait; this is the best place we could have selected. As soon as the
deed is done, follow me down the lane, and we will make a circuit to the
Quinta."
"How is it there are so many engaged in the work; I thought we three
only were to be privy to it?" observed Antonio.
"The man has many foes," was the laconic reply. "Now silence."
Slow seemed the hours of darkness to lag along over the heads of the
intended assassins. It was a time of the most harrowing anxiety, of
doubts and fears to them all. During the bright glare of day, or when
excited by wine and conversation, they had contemplated the deed as a
duty they were called on to perform; but now, on the silent watch, when
the moment for action was drawing on, they felt that they were about to
commit a deed such as would, if discovered, hold them up to the
execration of mankind. Darkness, which serves to cloak a crime from the
eyes of others, reveals it to the startled conscience of the criminal in
its native deformity. In vain each man sought to banish the voice which
rung in his ear--Murder! murder!--but that mocking voice would not be
silenced; and yet it was a useless warning, for each had resolved to do
the deed, and now it was too late to fly; besides, when one would have
done so, the thought of the reward to be reaped rose up in his mind, and
determined him to persevere in spite of all consequences.
Policarpio listened eagerly for the expected sound of the
carriage-wheels. "Ah! he comes," he muttered, as a low rattling noise
at a distance was heard; and even he, cool and hardened villain as he
was, felt his heart beat quicker, and he drew in his breath at the
thought of what he was about to do; he felt almost a relief from
suffering as the noise died away in a different direction. The clear
ringing sound from the clock of a neighbouring church now struck; he
listened attentively to mark the hour--one, two; he counted on--ten,
eleven, and no more. He must have been mistaken; he thought it was much
later. Another dreadful hour of suspense must elapse, for their
intended victim was not expected to pass till nearly twelve o'clock, and
he was sometimes much later. His doubts were soon set at rest, for
another clock, at a greater distance, now gave forth the hour of eleven.
Thus they waited, sometimes supposing that their enemy had not paid his
usual visit; that he might have taken another road, or that, by some
mysterious chance, he had been forewarned. There was one among those
midnight assassins whose fierce and fiery temper could ill brook this
delay, and, as he sat on his horse beneath the arch, he gnashed his
teeth with impatience, and grasping a pistol in his hand, longed for the
moment to use it. Twelve o'clock struck, and scarcely had the sound
from the last stroke of the bell died away on the calm midnight air,
when a carriage was heard rapidly approaching. Each of the assassins
gathered in his rein, and more firmly grasped his weapons to prepare for
action. There could be now no further doubt--another minute and their
victim would be in their power!
Onward came the carriage. It approached the dark archway; it had
scarcely passed it, when the stranger in black, followed by Manoel,
dashed forward, discharging his pistol at the head of the postilion; but
the piece missed fire, as did that of his companion.
"Curses on the weapon," he cried, raising his carabine, as the carriage
dashed by; he fired, but the ball took no effect.
"Forbear! forbear!" shouted the postilion, as he drove on; "'tis the
King you are firing at!"
He had just uttered the words, when Policarpio and his companion rode
furiously towards him; the former discharging a pistol, but without
effect. On their approach, he was seen to turn rapidly round before
Policarpio could come up with him, and to drive down a steep and rugged
path, towards the river.
"Fire!" shouted Policarpio to his companion, as they galloped after the
carriage. "Fire! or they will escape us!" and, at the same moment, both
discharged their pieces at the back of the carriage. A loud cry was
heard, but they could not further tell the effect of their shots, for
the postilion, driving for his own life, as well as that of his master,
if he had escaped destruction, urged on his mules at a furious pace
beyond their reach, before they had time to reload their fire-arms.
"What shots are those?" cried a voice from a window above them.
"Murder! murder!"
The sound struck terror into the bosoms of the guilty assassins; and,
turning their horses, they galloped off from the spot, by the roads
previously agreed on, fancying that they were closely pursued. Onward
they dashed, the dying shriek of their victim ringing in their ears,
mixed with unearthly sounds--it seemed like the mocking laughter of
demons. But at that time they dreaded not the supernatural powers half
so much as the anger of man; him they had made their enemy, and now
detection was what they most feared. "Whoso sheddeth man's blood, by
man shall his blood be shed," was the rigid law to which they had become
amenable. No obstacles stopped them in their course. Their steeds, as
if conscious of their masters' haste, leapt fearlessly over the
fragments of ruins which, in many places, strewed the road. With bridle
and spur their riders kept them up, for a fall would have thrown them
into the power of their fancied pursuers. After making a considerable
circuit, Policarpio and Antonio approached the stable where they were to
leave their horses. Leaping from his horse, Policarpio opened the door
of the stable, for they were the first arrived, and entered, ordering
his companion to follow, and to take off the saddles from their steeds.
Having placed the horses in their stalls, they waited the return of the
other two, in anxious expectation. Some minutes elapsed, and yet they
arrived not.
"Can they have been seized?" muttered Policarpio to himself; "if so, all
is lost, and I must make my escape."
"We have made Teixeira pay dearly for his insolence," said Antonio
Ferreira. "Think you he could possibly have escaped? We sent shot
enough through the carriage to kill most men."
"Think you we should have run all this risk, and taken so much trouble,
merely to kill a vile wretch as he is? But talk not of it again. We
aimed at far higher game than he is; he may have been within, for it was
his carriage; but it was not his paltry life we aimed at. It is the
King we have killed!"
"Heaven pardon me!" exclaimed Antonio, in a trembling voice; "I thought
not to have done such a deed!"
"Bah! this is no time for repentance," answered Policarpio. "What is
the difference between one man's life and another's. You have done your
master a greater service than you thought. But silence; some one may
overhear us: the devil has quick ears."
They waited some time longer for their companions.
"I fear me, Manoel and your friend have been captured," whispered
Antonio.
"If so, we shall to a certainty be betrayed; and in flight is our only
chance of safety. Adeos! friend Antonio. I shall take one course, and
you may take another. This country will be no longer a safe abode for
either of us."
He went, as he spoke, to the door of the stable, and was about to hasten
away, when he heard the sound of horses approaching, and directly after,
the masked stranger, with Manoel, rode up. The former leaping to the
ground, gave the reins to Policarpio. "I shall return homeward on
foot," he said. "Let silence and discretion be your motto, my friends,
and you are safe; you shall not be forgotten." And the stranger in
black disappeared in the obscurity. Having relieved the horses from
their saddles, and well fed them, Policarpio, with his two friends,
returned to the Quinta.
As they entered a room, where lights were burning, they gazed at each
other's pale and haggard countenances, on which guilt had already
stamped its indelible marks. Conscience-struck, they scarce dared to
speak of the deed they had done. Policarpio was the first to recover
his usual daring.
"Come, my friends," he cried, filling for himself a bumper of wine,
"banish these childish fears. Here's to the health of the next King who
shall reign over us, and may he prove a better master than the last!"
His companions endeavoured in vain to imitate his careless bearing,
though, at his desire, they gladly pledged him.
"Ah!" he continued, "to-morrow the whole city will ring with this
night's work! but no one will suspect us of the deed; and if they do, it
matters little--we shall be above all fear of punishment."
"I wish it were not done," muttered Antonio; "I thought not to kill the
King."
"I pray we have not missed doing so," answered Policarpio. "Curses on
the weapons that failed when most required."
"Who were those who accompanied us," asked Manoel; "they seemed not of
low degree?"
"That matters not, friend," responded Policarpio; "you will gain your
reward, and seek not to know more."
Fearful of returning home, the two servants of the Marquis of Tavora
threw themselves, overcome with fatigue, on the ground; but sleep
visited not the murderers' eyes that night, their victim's shriek still
rung in their ears, and their guilty hearts still beat with fears of the
future.
Volume 3, Chapter IX.
In a large saloon, richly furnished with every article of luxury then
invented to minister to comfort or to pride, a young lady was seated on
a sofa, before a table, on which had been thrown some fancy-work, with
which she had been endeavouring to amuse herself. Her face was turned
towards the ground, and while, her elbow resting on a cushion, she
supported with her hand her small and delicately formed head, her other
arm, of beautifully rounded proportions, hung carelessly by her side. A
greyhound, of the graceful Italian race, and of pure fawn colour, was
leaping up and licking her fingers, in a vain endeavour to attract her
attention to himself. A lamp, which hung from the lofty ceiling, (for
it was night,) cast a bright light upon her high and polished brow, from
which her hair, as was the fashion, was drawn back; and it seemed that
those long silken eyelashes of jet, which scarce concealed the lustre of
her eyes, cast down though they were, were glistening with tears. One
of her small feet, on which she wore a high-heeled satin shoe, resting
on a cushion, an ankle of the most slender proportions was revealed.
Her gown was of the richest flowered silk; her whole costume, indeed,
notwithstanding that she was thus alone and sad, was arranged with the
greatest elegance and care.
More than once a deep-drawn sigh escaped her, as her bosom heaved with
agitated throbbings, which in vain she endeavoured to calm. Alas!
lovely and young as she was, anguish was at her heart; for an accusing
conscience was already at work within. Yet were others far more
guilty--traitors doubly damned, who walked abroad in the well-sustained
characters of honest men; while she, the betrayed, the abandoned wife,
was left to mourn alone, or to receive the treacherous consolations of
the subtle seducer, a licensed prey to the slanderous tongues of the
malignant.
Time passed on, yet she stirred not from her position; nor did any of
her domestics enter to interrupt her solitude. Her little dog had
desisted from his attempts to gain her notice, and, weary with his
gambols, had lain himself down at her feet, yet anxiously watching to
win a look of encouragement from her eye. A clock, on a side table, had
some time given notice that it wanted but two hours to midnight, when
the Italian greyhound lifted his broad falling ears, half rising from
his recumbent position. In a few seconds more, the noise which had
first aroused him was reiterated, and, leaping up, he ran towards the
door, uttering a shrill bark, again running back to his mistress.
"Lie down, my pretty Fiel, lie down," the dog instantly obeying her.
"Ah! you will not too desert your mistress," she said, and relapsed into
her former thoughtful mood.
The next moment the door opened slowly--so silently, that the lady did
not look up; but her four-footed companion bounded forward, and leapt up
fawningly on a gentleman who entered, of a dignified figure, dressed in
a handsome costume, with a sword with a richly jewelled hilt by his
side. He allowed his hand to caress the little dog, as he advanced
close to the lady, and pronounced the name of "Theresa!"
The lady starting, with marked confusion, instantly rose, making one
step towards him; while he, stooping low, took her unresisting hand with
respectful devotion, imprinting on it a kiss: he then led her back to
the sofa, and seated himself by her side, gazing with deep admiration on
her lovely countenance, now softened by an expression of melancholy
which rather increased than dimmed its attractions.
"Theresa, in spite of your commands, your wishes, I could not resist the
temptations of my heart again to visit you. I come to entreat you to
withdraw your cruel prohibitions, which must reduce me to despair," and
the stranger knelt at the feet of Donna Theresa de Tavora.
"Rise, in mercy rise!" she exclaimed, with a trembling voice. "Your
Majesty must not thus kneel to a subject."
"I will not rise till I know from those sweet lips that I am forgiven
for my fault," answered the King, in a tone of tender passion; for he it
was who thus took advantage of the forced absence of her husband to urge
his criminal suit.
"Your Majesty has committed no fault which I have power to forgive,"
returned the Marchioness; "'tis I alone who am to blame for having dared
to cherish a sentiment--for having owned that unhappy love which has
attracted your Majesty hither.--Rise, Sire, I must not see you thus."
"Your words afford balm to my bruised heart," answered the King, in an
enraptured tone, again placing himself by her side; but she gently
withdrew her hand from his clasp.
"Your Majesty mistakes my meaning," she said, with a vain attempt at
firmness; for her lips quivered as she spoke. "Hear me, my liege: it is
not on my own account I speak; for myself, I have no longer the power to
retract. You know too well the secret of my heart; from henceforth my
lot is one of sorrow and remorse: but it is for your Majesty's sake, I
beseech you to come hither no more. There is a danger in it which I may
not--I dare not reveal, so terrible that I tremble at the thought
alone."
"For your sake, sweet one, I would brave all danger," answered the King,
with a gallant bow and a smile of incredulity; then suddenly changing
his tone, he added, "Surely no one would venture to lift his arm against
our person? Speak lady, does your husband meditate revenge, that we
have more highly appreciated those matchless charms than himself?"
"Oh! do not ask me, my liege," exclaimed the unhappy lady. "My husband
has always proved himself a loyal subject; and surely naught but the
most aggravated offence would drive him to commit treason against your
Majesty. I speak not of what I know, but my fears have raised up
suspicions, perchance but phantoms of the brain, yet should I be far
happier if I knew that you, my sovereign, would avoid the risk you run
by pursuing one whose love may bring destruction on your head."
The King seemed dissatisfied with this answer, and the recollection of
his Minister's assertions, that plots and conspiracies were constantly
brewing, but were discovered and defeated by his sagacity, now recurred
to his mind with full force. In his fear, he forgot the character of
the lover he was playing. "You hint to me that you have suspicions of
danger to my person; but you neglect to tell me how to discover and
defeat it," he said, in a far different tone to that in which he had
before spoken.
A woman is quick to perceive when the lordly heart of man begins to
tremble with fear, and as Donna Theresa's discerning glance fell on the
countenance of her royal admirer, for the first time a feeling nearly
allied to scorn entered her breast: it was transitory, but it left an
impression not easily effaced. She wished to warn, but she loved him
the less that he was so easily alarmed. Such is woman. She will fondly
cling to man--she will idolise him, in the full majesty of his power,
even though he treat her as an inferior being, so that he exert that
power to shield her from harm; but let him once show that he is equally
alive with herself to the sensations of fear, which is cowardice in him,
he at once sinks in her estimation to a level with herself, and she no
longer regards him as her lord and protector.
The young Marchioness withdrew her eyes from the King, as she answered,
"Pardon me, your Majesty, I spoke but of my own womanly fears,
indefinite also, and perhaps groundless they are, yet, when once they
had arisen in my bosom, I could not but speak them; then, if I possess
your Majesty's love, do not press me further. Mine is a cruel, a hard
duty to perform, yet for your sake, my King, I will not shrink from it.
We must part now and for ever!"
"This is a tyranny, lovely lady, to which I cannot submit," exclaimed
the King, his passion for the moment conquering his fears; "I should
pine to death were I to be banished from your sight."
"Your Majesty possesses the hearts of many other ladies, who will
console you for my loss," returned Donna Theresa, with a faint smile.
"What! 'tis but a fit of jealousy then!" thought the King. "No, lovely
one, believe it not," he exclaimed aloud. "None have enchained my heart
as you have done. Tell me that you will receive me to-morrow. Let my
unswerving devotion, since you first honoured my Court with your
presence, plead for me: let my ardent love be my excuse if I disobey
your commands," and he again took her hand, and would have knelt, but
rising from her seat, she drew back.
"Let me be the suppliant," she said. "Do not work upon the weakness of
my sex, but exert your powerful judgment, my King, and ask yourself
whether the pursuit you follow will repay you for risking both life and
crown. No, Sire, it cannot; and therefore I once more beseech you to
desist. I should indeed be doubly guilty were you to suffer for my
sake."
Her voice faltered as she uttered the last words. Never had the young
Marchioness looked so lovely as now that she stood with her hands
clasped in an attitude of entreaty before the sovereign; the energy of
her feelings throwing the rich blood into her hitherto pallid cheeks.
It served unhappily to increase the King's admiration.
"It is useless, lovely Theresa, thus endeavouring to dissuade me; crown,
life, all, I would risk to retain your love."
How easily are our most firm resolves turned aside,--how wonderfully is
our judgment obscured, when passion intervenes! Man, with all his
boasted power of intellect, in a moment sinks to the level of the
soulless beings, who have but despised instinct for their guide. Let
haughty man remember, secure, as he fancies himself in the strong armour
of superior wisdom and calculating judgment, that he, too, is but
mortal, and liable any instant to fall; and let him learn not to pass
too harsh a judgment on those whose reason has been, perchance, but for
one fatal moment overcome.
Donna Theresa's rising feelings of disdain, her fears for his safety,
all other thoughts were forgotten at the King's last passionate
declaration of his love; and, in a fatal moment, she consented no longer
to persist in her determination to see him no more.
Having gained his point, the King soon after took his leave, with
further protestations of unalterable constancy. On entering his
carriage, in which Teixeira was waiting for him at the door, he threw
himself back in his seat, exclaiming,--"Truly these women are wonderful
creatures; changeable and uncertain in their tempers, as the vane on the
topmast head! At one moment, my lovely Marchioness vowed she would
enter a convent, or see me no more; and the next she was all love and
affection. At one time, overcome by fears that her husband, I suppose,
in a fit of jealousy, would attempt my life, and then forgetting all
about the matter. The truth is, she loves me to distraction, when a
woman is always full of alarms; but methinks none of my nobles are of
that jealous disposition, that they would endeavour to revenge
themselves for the honour I pay their wives."
"Few, perhaps, would harbour a treacherous thought against your Majesty;
but all are not equally loyal," answered Teixeira. "The Tavoras are of
a haughty and revengeful disposition, and it would be well to guard
against them. I told your Majesty how, the other day, the old Marquis
almost struck me in the palace, because, not seeing his Excellency
approach, I was by chance standing in his way."
"What, do you truly think there is danger to be apprehended from them?"
said the King, in a voice expressive of suspicion.
"I have no doubt of their disloyalty, if such a feeling can possibly be
harboured by any against your Majesty," answered Teixeira.
"We must speak to Sebastiao Joze about it," said the King. "He will
know well how to discover their feelings."
"Senhor de Carvalho is of my opinion, that they are not to be confided
in," observed the confidant, who had thus the power, with a few words,
to cast the taint of disloyalty on a whole noble race.
"I thought that Donna Theresa's fears arose from idle fancies, though I
now suspect she had some foundation for her warnings," observed the
King. "Sebastiao Joze, however, will discover whatever is wrong."
"The country is truly blessed, which possesses so good a King, and so
wise a Minister," said the confidant.
"Which way are we going?" asked the King, looking out of the window,
though, from the darkness, it was impossible to distinguish the road.
"I ordered him to drive the usual way, past the Quinta da Cima, and down
by the Quinta do Meyo," answered Teixeira. "We are now near approaching
the arch of do Meyo."
"'Tis a night, which an assassin would select to commit a deed of
blood," said the King; the thought arising probably from his own fears,
and from the observations of his servant. He had scarce uttered the
words, when both were startled by a loud cry from the postilion,
Custodio da Costa, and by seeing the flash of a pistol in front; the
next instant two musketoons were discharged, the bright flashes from
which lighted up the dark figures of two horsemen, urging their steeds
towards the carriage, and several shot rattled past the window.
"Jesu Maria! what means this?" exclaimed the King, in a tone of terror.
"Foul treason! your Majesty," answered Teixeira. "We are betrayed."
"Stop, fool! or you die!" shouted one of the horsemen to the postilion;
but he, disregarding the command, boldly galloped on his mules, crying
out, "'Tis the King you are firing at!" when two other horsemen rushed
out towards him from behind a high wall. With admirable presence of
mind, though at great risk, he suddenly wheeled round the carriage.
"Stay, mad fool!" cried the assassins; but he heeded them not, and
proceeded down a steep path to the left, nearly in the direction from
whence he had come. Just as he had succeeded in turning, the report of
two fire-arms was heard.
"Holy Virgin! I am slain!" ejaculated the King, falling backwards.
"My life shall preserve your Majesty's," cried Teixeira; and, with a
heroism worthy of a better man, he forced his sovereign down into the
bottom of the carriage, covering him to the utmost with his own person.
The urgency of the case added nerve to the postilion's arm, and keenness
to his sight; for, avoiding all obstacles, he galloped on through
streets where it would seem almost impossible that he could pass; which,
as the chronicler observes, "was one of the wonderful and miraculous
works performed on the unfortunate night of that most horrid and
sacrilegious insult, in order to preserve the inestimable life of his
most sacred Majesty, for the common benefit of these realms of
Portugal."
The postilion, Custodio da Costa, (for he deserves that his name should
be commemorated, on account of his gallantry and presence of mind), as
soon as he perceived, after driving some way, that he was not followed,
stopped the carriage, when his anxiety for his Majesty's safety was
relieved by hearing his voice ordering him to proceed to the palace of
the Marquis of Tancos, which was close at hand.
"Say not what has occurred," said the King to the postilion, as,
descending from the carriage with Teixeira's aid, a cloak being thrown
over his shoulder, he entered the palace of the Marquis.
The noble host, wondering at the cause of his being honoured by a visit
from his sovereign at so unusual an hour, hastily rose from his bed, and
entered the apartment into which his royal guest had been ushered.
The King, who was seated on a chair, was pale, but perfectly calm. "I
have met with an accident, my friend, though I know not its extent," he
said. "Send for Senhor Assiz, my chief surgeon, and speak to no one
else of the affair."
The Marquis immediately sent to obey the commands of the King, who, on
his return desired that his chaplain might forthwith be summoned; when,
all retiring except the holy man, he returned thanks to the King of
kings for the preservation of his life from so great a danger, and then
confessed himself of his sins at the feet of the minister of the gospel.
In the mean time, the honest Custodio could not restrain his tongue from
whispering to the servants of the Marquis, under promise of secrecy, an
account of the dreadful occurrence; and they, of course, repeated it to
their fellows; so that, before the morning dawned, the tale, with
wonderful additions and alterations, was spread far and wide.
On the arrival of the surgeon, he and the Marquis, with Teixeira, were
again admitted into the presence of the King, who had concluded his
religious devotions; and the horror of all may be better conceived than
described, when, his cloak being taken off, his breast and right arm
were perceived covered with blood, which had trickled down over the rest
of his dress. Without having uttered a word of complaint since he was
wounded, the King now submitted himself into the hands of his surgeon,
who, to the extreme satisfaction of his friends, pronounced the wounds
to be unattended with danger, although they were very severe. Several
slugs had entered his shoulder and breast, tearing away the flesh from
the arm, but no other injury was committed on his person.
"Another mark of the miraculous interference of Divine Omnipotence," as
again observes the chronicler, "on that night of horrors; for it cannot
be in the common order of events, nor can it be in anywise ascribed to
the casualty of accidental occurrences, that two charges of slugs, fired
out of such pieces, should make their way through the narrow space of a
carriage, without totally and absolutely destroying the persons who were
in such a carriage."
The surgical operation having been performed, the King took leave of his
host, and, accompanied by Teixeira and the surgeon, returned to the
royal palace; the Marquis, however, with two of his servants, riding on
each side of the carriage, to protect him from a further attack; nor did
he quit his post till he had aided his sovereign to descend at the
private door, where he was in the custom of alighting.
Pale and agitated with the alarming occurrences of the night, the King
entered his private cabinet, where the sagacious Minister was still
seated, deeply immersed in business. Carvalho rose as he entered, but
started back with horror as he beheld the countenance of his sovereign.
"What has happened to your gracious Majesty?" he exclaimed.
"Foul treason has been at work, Senhor Carvalho; though, through the
mercy of Heaven, we have escaped destruction."
"Alas! then, my fears have not been groundless," said Carvalho; "and
your Majesty will be convinced that there are men wicked enough to seek
your life. Let me now entreat you to retire to your chamber, where, if
it pleases your Majesty, you can detail all that has happened."
The King, when placed in bed, no one but the Minister, his surgeon, and
Teixeira being admitted, gave an account to the former of what had
occurred.
Carvalho listened with breathless anxiety, and well he might; his fame,
his life, and power depended on the preservation of the King. A slight
frown was on his brow, and a quivering movement might have been
perceived on the upper of his closed lips, but he gave no other evidence
of the thoughts passing within, till he answered, in a deep voice, "I
will discover every one of the instigators and perpetrators of this
atrocious outrage; and I ask but one condition of your Majesty:--Let me
deal with the vile monsters as I may deem expedient, and all others
shall learn such a lesson that, from thenceforth, your Majesty shall
have no cause to dread a recurrence of such deeds. Will you, my Liege,
grant this promise, which you owe to your own safety, and to the
happiness of your people?"
"I give you the power you ask, my friend," said the King.
"Then am I satisfied," said the Minister.
Those words sealed the fate of the nobility of Portugal.
Volume 3, Chapter X.
On the morning after the events last described, a rumour was spread over
Lisbon that something dreadful had happened; and people met each other
in the streets with alarmed and inquiring countenances. Some said the
King had been assassinated; others that his carriage had been
overturned, and that he had been killed by the shock; others that he had
died of apoplexy; while others, again, affirmed that he was still alive.
The greater number, however, fully believed that he had been
assassinated, several declaring that they had been aroused from their
sleep in the dead of night, and looking out of their window's had
perceived the dark figures of horsemen galloping along at a furious
rate. By degrees, large crowds assembled in the neighbourhood of the
palace, all anxious, from many different motives, to learn the truth;
but the windows were kept closed, and not a person was seen to issue
forth to give the information sought for.
"I wonder who will be king now," said a seller of lemonade, to a
fisherman, who stood near him with large baskets of fish balanced at
each end of a pole upon his shoulder. "Some say it will be Dom Pedro.
I hope so; he encourages religion and processions, and they bring people
abroad, and make them thirsty. Who'll buy my cool lemonade?"
"For my part, I care little: one king is as good as another," answered
the fisherman. "What difference can it make to us who sits upon the
throne? I hear the Duke of Aveiro is a likely man, and he is a friend
of the Jesuits, who patronise fasting and fish-eating, which is all I
have to look after. Fresh fish! alive and jumping!" he cried in a loud
drawling tone, and passed on.
Men now inquired of each other who had committed the deed, if an
assassination had been perpetrated; and several persons were seen moving
among the crowds, spreading various reports. It was soon loudly
declared that the Jesuits were the perpetrators of the outrage; while
others whispered that the members of the Tavora family knew more about
the affair than anybody else, for that their servants were the first to
inform them that the King had been killed. Some, again, contradicted
that report, declaring that one or two people had first heard of it when
going, in the morning, to the Quinta of the Duke of Aveiro; and that
Senhor Policarpio had not only affirmed that the King was dead, but
that, if a certain noble Duke came to the throne, he would establish
some more saints' days, encourage the ceremonies of the Church, and
bull-fights, with unprecedented magnificence; that he would abrogate all
taxes, and increase the pomp of their processions.
"The Duke will make an excellent king," whispered many; "he is so
religious and so generous."
The friends of the Tavoras, though they credited the report of the
King's assassination, stoutly denied that that noble family could be in
any way implicated in so atrocious a crime. Unfortunately, however, for
their assertions, a little humpbacked water-carrier declared that he
knew every member of them perfectly well by sight, for that he had
served the palace of the Marquis with water for many years, till it had
been destroyed by the earthquake, and, while in the hall, had seen them
go in and out a thousand times; and that he was confident he had seen
young Joze de Tavora, at day-break on that very morning, galloping
towards Belem, from the upper part of Lisbon. This story gained rapid
credence, and, as it spread from mouth to mouth, various additions were,
of course, made to it; so that, before many minutes had passed, it was
currently believed that the old Marquis of Tavora, with his two sons,
had been encountered, with pistols in their hands, rushing from the spot
where the King had been assassinated.
On an occasion like the present, our friend Antonio, the _soi-disant_
cobbler, was certain not to be absent; and, unnoticed by any, in his
working costume, he moved among the crowds, collecting the various
reports with indefatigable industry; though, whenever he had an
opportunity of putting in a word, he cautioned his hearers not to accuse
any without clear evidence of their guilt, but that if the criminals
were discovered, they would deserve condign punishment. Great, however,
was the surprise of all, both the friends and enemies of the Tavoras,
when the Prime Minister himself appeared at a window of the palace, and,
lifting up his hand to impose silence, assured the populace that not
only was the King alive, but that, as far as he could learn, no attempt
whatever had been made against his august life; that the report had
arisen, probably, owing to some words uttered by the postilion in his
alarm, when the mules of his Majesty's carriage had taken fright; that,
owing to the latter circumstance, the carriage had been thrown on one
side, by which his gracious Majesty had received a slight injury in the
arm.
"Long live the King!--viva, viva!" exclaimed the populace, on hearing
this announcement; for they are ever ready to shout, it matters little
to them for whom. The cry saluted the ears of the Duke of Aveiro, who,
followed by Senhor Policarpio, rode up, with eager haste, the very first
of the nobility, to make inquiries for his sovereign's health. His
cheek, perchance, turned a shade more pale, as he heard the cry; but,
dashing onward, regardless of the collected rabble, he dismounted at the
gate of the palace, desiring to be admitted to the presence of the King.
The Prime Minister alone received him in the audience-chamber, and,
with marked suavity and courtesy, assured him that the King could not
then receive him, but would do so on the earliest occasion.
"I came to offer my services to sally forth, with my attendants, in
search of the vile perpetrators of the dreadful outrage committed
against his Majesty," said the Duke.
"What! my lord Duke, do you give credence to the absurd story which has
got about, that our beloved sovereign's life has been attempted?" said
the Minister, with a bland smile. "Calm your apprehensions: I trust so
black a traitor does not exist in Portugal."
The Duke was completely deceived.
"I indeed rejoice to hear that the report was unfounded, Senhor
Carvalho," he answered; "and pray inform me the first moment his Majesty
is sufficiently recovered from his indisposition to receive me, for I
long to throw myself at his feet, and express my deep loyalty and
devotion."
As the Duke took his leave, and was retiring, the Minister muttered,
gazing sternly after him, "So humble and loyal already, my lord Duke?
Your pride shall yet be brought lower than you think of!"
The nobility now flocked in numbers to the palace, some, perhaps, with a
hope that the report might prove true, others with fears for the
consequences, and, among them, the Marquis of Tavora drove up in his
carriage. Carvalho received him with the most respectful courtesy,
assuring him of the King's regard; the frank expression of the Marquis's
countenance setting at fault the sagacity of the Minister, if he had
entertained any suspicions of his loyalty.
"Ah, my lord Marquis, it would be happy for other countries if they
possessed no worse traitors than live in Portugal!" observed the
Minister. "By-the-bye, you made an application to his Majesty for a
ducal title, not long ago, and I heard the King regretting he had then
refused you, but observing, that he now considered your services in
India entitled you to the rank. He does not forget his friends."
"I am grateful for his Majesty's recollection of my wishes. I shall
esteem the honour greater as a gift from him," answered the Marquis.
"I shall have much pleasure in reporting what your Excellency says,"
returned the Minister, as the Marquis, pleased with the idea of at
length having his request acceded to, took his leave, with a less
haughty air than was his custom.
"If the report I have just heard, and my own suspicions, are correct,
that man is an admirable hypocrite," thought the Minister. "He will be
a difficult person to deal with; but I think I have lulled his fears, if
he entertained any."
"I regret that his Majesty cannot see you to-day, but you are one of the
first he will receive," said the Minister to the Marquis d'Alorna, who
then entered. "I trust your lovely daughter is well, for whom both the
King and Queen entertain the most respectful regard?"
His hearer, who could not be otherwise than fully convinced of the truth
of his words, answering briefly, retired.
What golden opinions Sebastiao Joze de Carvalho that day won from all
classes of men! It was one of difficulty, though of triumph, to him;
for he felt that he was now fully establishing a power no future events
could shake.
He did not, however, use the same style of language towards all. When
the King's favourite, Marialva, appeared, he drew him aside.
"I know, my dear Marquis, that you can thoroughly be trusted," he said.
"It behoves all true friends of our gracious sovereign's to be prepared
for his protection. He would see you, but it would excite jealousy in
others. He has been wounded, though, under the grace of Heaven, not
severely; and I leave you to judge whether by traitors or not. We must
exert ourselves to discover and bring them to punishment, even if they
are our brothers or dearest friends. Yet speak not your suspicions to
any."
Marialva promised to follow Carvalho's advice, and left him, with a
conviction that he was the most sagacious of ministers, and the most
attached servant of the King.
At last the young Count d'Almeida appeared, to make the usual inquiries,
and to express his sorrow at the King's accident.
"I am glad to see you again at Court, for you have been long a truant,"
said Carvalho. "Should you wish for employment, I can now better fulfil
the promise I made long ago, to give you some post worthy of your
talents."
Luis expressed his gratitude and willingness to serve the state in any
capacity for which he was fitted.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
"I am glad to hear you say so," answered the Minister, adding, with
emphasis, "We have need of honest men to guard the country, when treason
stalks abroad with daring front. I trust never to have to number the
Count d'Almeida among the traitors in Portugal."
Luis started, and his heart beat quick, as if with conscious guilt; for
he remembered the scene, in which he had been an unwilling actor on the
past night. For an instant it rushed across his mind that the Minister
must have been aware of the meeting of the conspirators, and he trembled
for the safety of them all. The dangerous position in which he himself
also stood occurred to him; for, though feeling himself innocent of any
evil intent, he well knew that, in the eye of the law, he was equally
amenable to punishment for concealing the conspiracy. When the first
reports reached him of the assassination of the King, the dreadful
thought occurred to him, had any of those whom he had met in the vault
of Malagrida been the perpetrators of the act?--he could not banish the
suspicion that such might have been the case. He had quitted the ruin
at an early hour, and there was then time for a horseman to reach the
city before midnight, when, it was said, the event had taken place.
Might not even suspicion alight on him, and on his young friend, of the
Tavora family, too, who were already suspected,--at that very hour they
were abroad, armed, and on horseback, perhaps passing near the spot?
Would not his landlady, when she heard of the outrage, suspect that he
was concerned in it? Should he be once apprehended and interrogated,
what plausible reason could he possibly give for having made a secret
expedition at night? If he said that he had gone at the request merely
of his young friend, Joze de Tavora, he would at once condemn both
himself and all he had then met. Whichever way he looked at his case,
it appeared desperate; and, for the first time in his life, that
sinking, that paralysing sensation of fear, struck his heart,--not the
fear of death, but of dishonour and disgrace,--of seeing his hitherto
proud name branded as that of a traitor and assassin; and he shuddered
as he thought that his life must end on the scaffold, amid the hootings
and execrations of the populace, without the slightest means of
vindicating his character from opprobrium. He knew Pedro was to be
fully trusted, and he wished to beg his hostess not to mention to any
one his having quitted home on that fatal night; but the request itself
would seem to have been made from a consciousness of guilt, so he
resolved not to speak to her on the subject.
At one moment he thought of hastening to the Minister, who, having
before expressed an interest in his affairs, would, he trusted, believe
him, and of confessing that he had been abroad on that night on
horseback, and that he had thought it wiser to say so, lest any unjust
suspicions might be raised against him, resolving, at the same time, to
endure every torture, and death itself, rather than betray any of those
who had confided in his honour. Then it occurred to him, that the very
confession itself, notwithstanding all his caution, might throw some
suspicion on the young Tavora, and from him on his relations, so he
quickly abandoned his purpose. Next he thought of instantly quitting
the country, but then he should leave his character open to the mercy of
any who might choose to blacken it; or should he not be able to effect
his escape, (a difficult undertaking in those days, when every ship was
searched before sailing,) the very attempt would offer a presumptive
proof of his guilt. At last he came to the determination of braving the
worst, and, buoyed up with the consciousness of innocence, trusting in
Heaven's protection, to repair at once to the palace, to make his
personal inquiries as to the state of the King.
What was his surprise and satisfaction, then, on approaching the
neighbourhood, to hear that the reports were false, and that the King
had met merely with a slight accident. His confidence being thus
perfectly restored, he appeared before the Minister with a calm heart
and clear brow; nor had he any cause to dread the consequences of his
unfortunate expedition, till he heard the last words the latter uttered.
Carvalho's hawk-eyed glance marked the agitation Luis could not entirely
conceal; a dark shade, like a cloud on the summer sky, passing across
his brow; but his countenance again shone with deceitful smiles; for it
was his purpose to lull in fancied security, not to alarm, the guilty
ones. He had, throughout the day, marked, with unerring acuteness,
every look, every variation of feature, of those with whom he had made a
point of conversing when they visited the palace; and many, who fancied
that they had outwitted him, had but the more completely betrayed
themselves. He was still more courteous, and full of expressions of
regard for Luis than at first; but from that moment he suspected him of
being privy to the conspiracy; for that there was one against the King
had not escaped his searching vigilance, from many facts which had come
to his knowledge.
As he contemplated the dreadful punishment which awaited the young
Count, he felt a regret for his fate, slight and transient though it
was, and one of the few, perhaps, which ever passed through his stern,
unyielding heart; for Luis was akin to a dear friend, early lost, and
long mourned; but he banished the weakness, and resolved to perform his
duty.
"I shall see you soon again, Count, when his Majesty has recovered,
which I trust will be in a few days, when we will arrange about the post
you are to fill," he observed, as Luis took his leave, and he, with a
bland smile, turned towards some of the other courtiers.
As the Count d'Almeida was quitting the palace, he encountered in the
passage his former and hated rival, the Count San Vincente. The two
young nobles regarded each other, as they advanced, with fierce glances,
when the latter, casting a look of scornful triumph at Luis, passed
onward, almost brushing him with his sword. Luis, recollecting that he
was within the precincts of the palace, was unable to take any notice of
the intended insult, though he longed for a day of retribution, when he
might avenge himself for the deep injuries he had received at the hands
of the treacherous noble. Brooding over the feelings which the meeting
with the Count had raised, he returned homeward, at the same time fully
satisfied that he was free from any danger on account of his unfortunate
excursion with Joze de Tavora.
Many days passed away, while many-tongued rumour was busy with spreading
tales of various colours in all directions, blasting the characters of
some of the highest and noblest in the land. Few, at length, there were
who disbelieved that treason was on foot; the names of some were
ascertained, it was said, without a doubt, and were whispered abroad in
every circle, except where the true conspirators moved; for, as often
happens, reports, whether true or scandalous, often reach last the ears
of those most concerned. Thus, the Duke of Aveiro, whose wishes had, at
all events, instigated the assassins to their deed of blood, appeared
everywhere in public with an untroubled brow, and continued to be the
most assiduous in his inquiries at the palace after the health of his
Majesty.
The King, however, still kept himself closely confined to his chamber,
to which even the Queen was not admitted; the Minister, as before,
receiving all guests with the most affable courtesy, seeming to take a
delight in paying them attentions, and holding them in lengthened
conversations. Many an eye sunk beneath his piercing glance, though a
smile wreathed itself about his lips, and his voice was softly
modulated, and many a heart trembled lest he should read its inmost
thoughts. Two or three nobles, from whom, not suspecting them, he had
less concealed his thoughts, passed their estates in trust into other
hands, being suddenly seized with a strong desire to visit other lands;
not even waiting for permission to leave the country. Those who did so,
had full reason, shortly afterwards, to congratulate themselves on their
caution. The flight of these gave security to others; the young Marquis
of Tavora being advised to return to the city, and plead illness as an
excuse for his short absence,--while his father rejoiced that he himself
had not acted according to the counsels of his wife, lest suspicion
might have fallen upon him.
Among the visitors at the palace was our friend Goncalo Christovao, who
had, a short time before, arrived in Lisbon. Senhor Carvalho welcomed
him with even more than his usual courtesy, regretting that the King
could not receive the petition, which he understood he had come to
present from the city of Oporto; but assuring him, that he would use his
utmost endeavours to abolish the grievances of which the inhabitants
complained. He then took him aside.
"I have a subject, Senhor Christovao, which I have long wished to broach
to you. It is to make a request, which I trust you will not deny me,
for it will conduce to strengthen your family interests, and add honour
to mine."
The high-born fidalgo gazed at the Minister with an air of surprise,
wondering what he could possibly mean.
"You have a fair daughter, full worthy of her high name," continued the
latter, "whom my son beheld when Lisbon was honoured by her presence."
The fidalgo started, and a frown gathered on his brow. "He has ever
since pined to possess her; and, as I hear she is still not betrothed, I
now ask her hand in marriage for him."
If a leper, or one of the vilest of the children of earth, had made the
same request, the proud fidalgo could scarce have cast a look more full
of indignant scorn towards him than he now threw at the powerful
Minister, as, in a tone of mingled anger and disdain, he answered, "You
strangely forget our relative positions, Senhor Carvalho; but know,
senhor, that in my garden there is no room for oaks." Alluding to his
hereditary estate called the "Fair Garden," and the name of Carvalho,
which is the Portuguese for an oak.
The Minister bowed, and returned a smile, which could scarce be called
treacherous, if the fidalgo had not been too much excited by his
indignation to observe the withering gleam which shot from the eyes of
the man whose vengeance he had thus provoked, but the latter in no other
way committed himself.
"You indulge somewhat in pleasantry this morning, Senhor Christovao," he
said, in a tranquil tone. "However, I conclude that you have good
reasons for refusing my son's suit, and I therefore withdraw it."
"You act wisely, senhor," answered the fidalgo, still in an offended
tone. "My daughter's hand is not to be bought and sold, and of her own
free-will she has dedicated it to the Church."
"The young lady has not professed yet?" asked Carvalho.
"No, senhor; some months must yet elapse before she takes the final
vows," said the father.
"It were better she abandoned her project," observed the Minister. "It
is one few young ladies so lovely as she is follow willingly; and
remember, Senhor Christovao, the King has determined to allow the
inclinations of no lady of this realm to be forced in that respect--I
must see to it."
"I require no one to dictate to me how I am to dispose of my daughter,"
answered the fidalgo, haughtily.
"Your pardon, my dear sir," returned the Minister.
"Present my duty to the King," said the fidalgo, taking his leave.
"I will not forget you, Senhor Christovao," said the Minister, bowing
him out.
"Haughty fool!" he muttered, as he returned to his seat. "Dearly shall
you rue your insolence. Sebastiao Joze de Carvalho never forgets his
friends or his foes."
Several weeks passed tranquilly away, so tranquilly that men began to
suppose they had mistaken the character of the Prime Minister, and that,
weary of bloodshed and severity, his government was to be henceforth one
of mildness and conciliation. The larger number were loud in their
praise of the great man; favours which had long been sought for were now
granted, promises were made to others, even his former enemies appeared
forgiven; the Duke of Aveiro, among others, requested leave to retire to
his country seat at Azeitao, and permission was instantly given him to
do so. Some few suspected, it is true, that this mild behaviour was
like the treacherous calm before the hurricane; but they were cautious,
and uttered not their opinion.
Volume 3, Chapter XI.
"O who would wish to be a King?" said the gallant King James of
Scotland, when the fantastic, fickle, fierce, and vain herd were
shouting the name of Douglas; and we ask, Who would wish to be a Prime
Minister? No one, surely, who has any regard for his own tranquillity
or happiness; no one who cannot scorn the base revilings of the
thankless crowd, in whose service he is exerting all the energies of a
noble intellect, and wasting his health; no one who is not prepared to
encounter the treachery of friends, and the hatred of enemies; who has
not a heart of adamant and nerves of steel; unless he be a true patriot,
and _then_ the consciousness of rectitude and nobility of purpose will
support him through all.
A fair girl was leaning over a balcony in the residence of the Prime
Minister of Portugal, inhaling the sweet odours which rose from the
garden beneath. Her light hair, not yet brought under the slavish
subjection of fashion, fell in long ringlets over her fair neck, while
her laughing blue eye, and lips formed to smile, betokened her German
extraction, for she was the daughter of Sebastiao Joze de Carvalho and
the Countess Daun; though neither in her gentle disposition, or her
small and beautifully rounded figure, did she partake of her father's
qualities. She started, for a sigh was breathed near her, and she
beheld a handsome youth by her side, gazing at her with a look of
enraptured devotion. A blush mantled on her cheeks as she asked, "What
brings you here, Senhor Alfonzo? I thought you were with my father at
the palace."
"I am about to go thither, Donna Agnes," answered the youth, "but I
sought first to see you."
"Pardon me, senhor, I must not delay you," said the young lady.
"Lady, in mercy save me from destruction!" exclaimed the youth, in a
tone which thrilled to her heart.
"What mean you, Senhor Alfonzo? In what way can I aid you?" said the
Minister's daughter.
"In your hands is my fate, either to leave me a wretch unworthy of
existence, or to raise me from despair, and grant me bliss
incomparable."
"I dare not, I must not, understand the meaning of your strange
expressions," said Donna Agnes, her hand, which rested on the
balustrade, slightly trembling. "Let me entreat you, senhor, to leave
me. I would not be the unhappy cause of your ruin."
"You, you alone, can be the cause of my salvation," exclaimed the youth,
with enthusiastic passion. "Donna Agnes, I love you."
"In mercy to yourself--to me, do not say so," faltered the young lady.
"My spirit would not rest, when I am in the grave, had I not declared
the love I bear you," exclaimed the Secretary.
"Oh no, no; it must not be thus! Say you will not utter those words
again, and I will endeavour to forget what you have said. You cannot
know my father, if you think that he would let me listen to such
declarations," answered Donna Agnes.
"I know him well--he has ever been my benefactor, and I would show my
gratitude," responded the youth.
"Then, as you value his favour, do not renew this conversation. It has
caused me much pain already," said Donna Agnes.
"I cannot longer conceal the consuming love I feel for you," exclaimed
the Secretary. "Can you, in return, hate me for it?"
"Oh no, no," responded Donna Agnes.
"Will you, can you love me, then?" exclaimed the youth. "Will you grant
me but one hope to endure existence?"
The colour forsook the fair cheek of the Minister's daughter; her bosom
heaved, and her eyes sunk to the ground.
"Oh leave me, leave me, Senhor Alfonzo!" she cried. "These words are
cruelty to me and to yourself. It cannot be. My father esteems you,
and confides in you; but, did he suspect what you have told me, his
anger would be aroused to a pitch you little dream of, and of my hand he
has already determined the disposal; but I shall ever regard you as a
friend."
"Then were you free, you might, you would love me?" exclaimed the
infatuated youth. "Donna Agnes, you do love me?--utter but the word,
and no power shall tear you from me."
"This conduct is ungenerous, unworthy of you," responded Donna Agnes.
"I would not speak harshly to you; but you drive me to it. From
henceforth, I must fly your presence. Again I ask you to leave me. I
never can be yours."
"Then you have sealed my doom and your father's,--his death be upon your
head, cruel girl!" ejaculated the Secretary, as he rushed from the spot
where they stood, and hastened to the royal palace.
"Oh stay, stay!" cried the young lady, alarmed at his agitated look, and
extraordinary violence; "what mean you?" but he was gone; and, placing
her fair young face in her hands, she wept bitterly.
Poor girl, she had never before been told by any one that she was
beloved; and for two years past daily had she seen the young and
handsome Secretary, who, grave and reserved as he was towards others,
could teach his tongue to utter the softest eloquence to her; and when
his eye met hers, his whole countenance would beam with animation,--yet
she had performed her duty to her father, and promised to marry whoever
he might select. He had made his choice, and she must abide by it.
The Secretary hastened to the cabinet in the palace, where the Minister
always employed him; but the latter had not arrived. He first opened
some papers on which he was employed, and then examined every corner of
the room with the utmost care. His naturally pallid cheek was more
bloodless than usual; his hands trembled; his eyes cast furtive glances
around, even though he had convinced himself no one was present. Every
instant he started,--his knees knocked together; but still he went about
the work he had vowed to perform: his determination was strong, though
his frame was weak. A small ewer of water, with a tumbler, stood on a
table, on one side of the closet. He eyed it for some time, with his
hand grasping the back of a chair, to give himself support--his breath
came and went quickly. At length he approached it--for an instant he
bent over it--he drew from his bosom a small packet--he tore it open,
and poured a powder it contained into the ewer, then, securing the empty
paper beneath his dress, he waited another minute without moving. So
pale was his cheek, so rigid did he stand, that he looked more like some
statue of bronze or marble, than a living man. Again he started, and
seizing the ewer, he poured some of its contents into the tumbler: the
liquid was pure and sparkling as crystal. He heaved a deep, long-drawn
sigh, and turned away; but there was a fascination in that fatal goblet!
Again and again were his eyes attracted by it, till the orbs almost
started from his head--his lips were parched--there was fire in his
brain, yet his heart was as ice. The first fatal step was made! the
rest was easy. He endeavoured to collect his thoughts--to grow calm,
and reason with himself. What had he done? He had committed no
crime,--no one had suffered by his hand,--he was not a murderer! Oh no.
Then why this abject fear? He attempted to smile at his first
sensations,--he recalled all the rules with which he had been taught to
reason at college; all the later lessons he had received from the Father
Jacinto, and he was successful. He sought to reason against conviction.
The struggle was severe,--intellect (he called it) against conscience;
and intellect was the victor! Yes, the victor! But how long would it
remain so? He knew not what an active, harassing enemy was
conscience,--how it seizes on its victim in the dead of night,--how it
rushes on him, when laid prostrate by disease and sickness! Then which
is the victor? Then does it take ample vengeance on intellect for its
former defeat.
The apt pupil of the Father Jacinto da Costa now seated himself calmly,
to finish the copy of a despatch on which he had been employed. He then
arose, and taking a key, which hung suspended from his neck, beneath his
clothes, he approached the Minister's private cabinet. He opened it,
and searched carefully among the papers, endeavouring to replace each as
he found them. At last he came to one, which he seized eagerly; and
running his eye over it, he carried it to his desk, rapidly making
extracts from it, and placed the paper which he had written in his
bosom. With the one he had taken he returned to the cabinet, kneeling
to restore it to the spot it had occupied, and to search for another.
Deeply absorbed, his eye running over paper after paper, he heard not
the door open. A hand was laid heavily on his shoulder; he started, as
if it had been a hand of fire, and, gazing upward, he beheld the stern
features of the Minister! The paper he held dropped from his grasp,--
despair was marked on every lineament of his countenance, and, trembling
and pale, he would have sunk on the ground, but that an arm of iron
upheld him.
"Fool!" said the Minister. "Is it thus you return my confidence? Have
you before betrayed the secrets of this cabinet? Speak! You answer
not,--your silence is a confession of your guilt. Behold yon bright
sun--'tis the last time its beams will glad your sight; for know, he who
possesses the secrets of Carvalho must be surrounded by stronger walls
than his own bosom affords; the deepest dungeon in the Jungueira will
henceforward be your abode." The Minister withdrew his hand.
"Stir not," he added, as he walked towards the door, to summon some
attendants who were without. At first they did not hear his voice, and
he was obliged to go to the end of the passage again to call them. They
rushed up hastily, and followed Carvalho to the apartment. On entering,
the young Secretary was discovered stretched on the ground in a swoon,
it seemed, close to the open cabinet. They raised him up, and
endeavoured to restore animation, while the Minister went to his desk,
and wrote a few lines.
"When he revives, bear him hence," he said, "and deliver this paper to
Senhor Fonseca;" and, without appearing to pay further attention to what
was going forward, he continued writing.
The endeavours of the attendants were soon successful, for the unhappy
youth opened his eyes, gazing wildly at those surrounding him. "Water!
water!" he murmured.
One of the men, observing the ewer on the table, pouring out a
tumbler-full, brought it to him, and placed it to his lips--he eagerly
drank off the cooling draught. They threw some on his head, to cool his
brow, and again gave him to drink. The water completely restored him,
and, as they led him away, he ventured not to turn his eye towards the
man he had deceived; but, as he passed the door, his glance fell on the
fatal ewer. A thought like the vivid lightning, scorching all in its
path, crossed his mind. Had he been given to drink of the poisoned
water? Impossible! He felt no ill effects from it; but he dared not
ask the question.