THE YOUNG LOVERS.
Camillia and Paul Lisimon were no longer children. The young heiress
had attained her nineteenth year, while Don Juan's protege was, as our
readers are aware, two years her senior.
Paul still lived at the Villa Moraquitos. He occupied a small but
neatly furnished apartment, upon the upper floor. Here were arranged
the books he loved; here he often sat absorbed in study till the early
morning hours sounded from the clocks of New Orleans, and the pale
stars faded in the purple river.
Deep in the quiet night, when all the household were sleeping; when
the faintest footfall awoke a ghostly echo in the awful stillness of
the house, the young student, forgetful of the swiftly-passing hours,
toiled on, a steady traveler on the stony road which leads to greatness.
It was to Silas Craig, the attorney, that Don Juan Moraquitos had
articled his protege, much to the dislike of the young man, who had a
peculiar aversion to the usurer.
"Let me be with any other lawyer in New Orleans rather than that man,"
he said; "I can never tell you how deep a contempt I have for his
character."
Don Juan laughed aloud.
"His character! my dear Paul," he replied, "what in mercy's name have
you to do with the man's character? Silas Craig is a hypocrite! a
profligate, who covers his worst vices with the all-sheltering cloak
of religion. Granted! He is not the less one of the cleverest lawyers
in New Orleans, and the fittest person to be intrusted with the
cultivation of your splendid intellect."
These conversations were perpetually recurring between Don Juan and his
protege, prior to the signing of the articles which were to bind Paul
Lisimon to the detested attorney; and the young man, finding that all
his remonstrances were in vain, and fearing that if he objected too
strongly to being articled to Silas Craig, the business would terminate
in his being compelled to lead a life of hopeless idleness, made no
further difficulty about the matter; and some weeks after the signing
of the articles, he took his seat in the office of Mr. Craig.
It was not long before Paul Lisimon discovered that there was a decided
disinclination on the part of the attorney to initiate him even in the
merest rudiments of his profession. He might have sat in the office
reading the paper and lolling in a rocking-chair all day if he had
pleased, but whenever he sought for employment he was put off with some
excuse or other, more or less plausible.
An idle young man would have been delighted with this easy life--not
so Paul Lisimon. Kind and liberal as Don Juan Moraquitos had been to
him, the proud spirit of the young man revolted against a life of
dependence. He yearned not only to achieve a future career, but to
repay the obligations of the past--to erase the stain of dependence
from his youth; to pay for the education which had been given him by
favor. Thus, where another would have rejoiced in the idleness of Silas
Craig's office; where another would have abandoned himself to the
dissipated pleasures that abound in such a city as New Orleans; where
another would have snatched the tempting chalice which youthful passion
offered to his lips, Paul Lisimon, in very defiance of his employer,
slowly but surely advanced in the knowledge of the profession whose
ranks he was predestined to join.
Strange to say, Don Juan, instead of praising and encouraging the
industry of his protege, laughed and ridiculed him from his determined
labors.
"You are the most extraordinary young man I ever met with, Paul," said
the Spaniard. "Where others of your age will be haunting the gaming
houses, which, in spite of our laws for their suppression, secretly
exist in New Orleans--where others would be nightly visitants of the
theatre and the cafe, you are forever brooding over those stupid books."
"Other men are perhaps born to fortune," answered Paul, with quiet
dignity; "remember, dear sir, I have to achieve it."
"Nay, Paul; how do you know what intentions a certain elderly Spanish
gentleman may have with regard to a document called a will?"
"Heaven forbid, sir," replied Paul, "that I should ever seek to fathom
those intentions; and if you allude to yourself, permit me to take this
opportunity of declaring that I would not accept one dollar, even were
your misguided generosity to seek to bequeath it to me."
"Santa Maria, Mr. Lisimon, and why not, pray?" asked Don Juan, laughing
at the young man's impetuosity.
"Because I would not rob her who has the sole claim upon your fortune."
"My little Camillia; she will be rich enough in all conscience. Ah,
Paul," added the Spaniard, looking somewhat searchingly at Lisimon, "it
is a serious matter for a father to have such a daughter as Camillia
Moraquitos to dispose of; a beauty and an heiress! Where in all New
Orleans shall I find the man rich enough or noble to be her husband?"
Paul Lisimon winced as if he had received a thrust from a dagger.
"You will consult your daughter's heart, sir, I trust," he murmured
hesitatingly, "even before the claims of wealth?"
The old Spaniard's brow darkened, and his sombre black eyes fixed
themselves upon Paul's face with a sinister and penetrating gaze that
boded little good to the young man. No more was said upon the subject
between the two men. Paul did not relax his industry by one iota after
this conversation. The enervating pleasures of the rich could not win
him from the stern routine of toil and study.
Perhaps the reader has already guessed the fatal truth.
Paul Lisimon, the unknown dependent upon a rich man's bounty, the
penniless lad who knew not even the names of his parents, or of the
country which had given him birth--Paul loved the peerless daughter
of the wealthy Don Juan Moraquitos; and was it to be wondered that he
loved her?
From her childhood he had seen her daily, and had seen her every day
more beautiful--more accomplished.
She possessed, it is true, much of the pride of her father's haughty
race; but that pride was tempered by the sweetness of Olympia Crivelli;
and it was a high and generous sentiment that led the young girl to
hate a meanness or falsehood with even a deeper loathing than she would
have felt for a crime.
But to Paul Lisimon, Camillia was never proud. To him she was all
gentleness; all confiding affection. The very knowledge of his
dependence, which, had been dinned into her ears by Don Juan, rendered
her only the more anxious to evince a sister-like devotion which should
take the sting from his position.
Instinctively she knew, that spite of all outward seeming that position
was galling to the proud boy. Instinctively she felt that nature in
creating Paul Lisimon had never intended him to fill a subordinate
position. He was one of those who are born for greatness, and who,
constrained by the cruel trammels of circumstances, and unable to
attain their proper level, perish in the flower of youth, withered by
the blighting hand of despair.
So died the poet Chatterton, a victim to the suicide's rash madness. So
dies many a neglected genius, whose name is never heard by posterity.
Paul loved the heiress; loved her from the first hour in which she had
soothed his boyish anguish at the loss of his patron Don Tomaso; loved
her in the tranquil years of their youthful studies; loved her with the
deep devotion of manhood, when his matured passion burst forth in its
full force, and the flickering light became an unquenchable and steady
flame.
He did not love in vain.
No, as years passed on, and the bud changed to the lovely blossom,
Camillia's feelings changed toward her father's protege. No longer
could she greet him with a sister's calm smile of welcome. The ardent
gaze of his dark eyes brought the crimson blush to her cheek and brow;
her slender hand trembled when it rested in his--trembled responsive to
the thrill which shook the young man's strong frame; her voice faltered
as she addressed him, and her Southern eyes veiled themselves beneath
their sheltering lashes, and dared not uplift themselves to his.
She loved him!
Happy and cloudless sunshine of youth. They loved, and earth became
transformed into a paradise--the sky a roof of sapphire glory; the
sunny river a flood of melted diamonds. The magic wand of the young
blind god, Cupid, changed all things round them into splendor.
They dreamed not of the future. They thought not of the stern policy
of a father, implacable in the pride of wealth. No, the distant
storm-cloud was hidden from their radiant eyes.
"My Camillia," exclaimed the young man; "think you I can fail to
achieve greatness when your love is to be the crown of the struggle?
Think you I can falter on the road that leads to success, when your
eyes will be the loadstars to guide my way?"
The reader will see, therefore, that love and ambition went hand in
hand in the soul of Paul Lisimon, and that higher motives than the mere
lust of gain, or even the hope of glory, beckoned him on to victory.
It is not to be expected that Camillia Moraquitos was without suitors
among the higher classes of New Orleans.
Had she been blind, lame, hump-backed, red-haired, a vixen, or a fury,
there would yet, doubtless, have been hundreds ready to kneel before
the charm of her father's wealth, and to declare the heiress an angel.
But when it is remembered that her future fortune was only exceeded
by her glorious beauty, it will be thought little marvel that she
had a host of admirers ever ready to flock round her at her father's
soirees, to attend her in her drives, to haunt her box at the opera or
the theatre, and to talk of her beauty in all the coffee-houses of New
Orleans. Our readers must remember that there is much in this chief
city of Louisiana, which resembles rather a French than an English
town. The inhabitants are many of them of French extraction. The
coffee-houses--or cafes as they are called--resemble those of Paris;
the gambling-houses and theatres are Parisian in arrangements, and the
young men of the upper classes have much of the polish of our Gallic
neighbors, mingled with not a little of their frivolity.
Among the many suitors for the hand of Camillia Moraquitos was no less
a person than Augustus Horton.
But the young planter did not love the Spanish beauty; there was
something terribly repellent in the haughty spirit of Camillia to those
whom she did not love, and Augustus Horton's pride was wounded by the
thought that his attentions could possibly be disagreeable to any
woman whom he condescended to honor by a preference. It was not love,
therefore, which made him so constant in his attendance on the young
beauty. No; mercenary motives, mingled with the resolute obstinacy of
wounded pride. He would not confess, even to himself, that there was
any fear of his failing to attain the prize. He despised the young
fops who whispered soft speeches and high-flown compliments into the
unheeding ear of the disdainful girl, and, thinking these his only
rivals, dreamt not of defeat.
In all the planter's visits to the Villa Moraquitos he had never yet
encountered Paul Lisimon.
The young Mexican scrupulously held himself aloof from the rich and
frivolous guests who assembled in Don Juan's splendid mansion.
In vain did the Spaniard bid his protege to join in the festivities at
the villa. In vain did Camillia reproach her lover with coldness and
neglect, Paul was inexorable.
"No, Camillia," he said, when the young girl remonstrated with him, "I
should hear your father's guests ask each other in the superb disdain
of their creole insolence, 'Who is this Mr. Lisimon?' I wait the time,
Camillia, when my own exertions shall have made this simple and now
unknown name of Lisimon familiar to every citizen in New Orleans."
While the soft echoes of piano and guitar floated through the luxurious
saloons; while the rich contralto voice of Camillia, mingling with the
chords of her guitar, enchanted her obsequious listeners, Paul toiled
in his lonely chamber, only looking up now and then from his books and
papers, to listen for a few brief moments to the sounds of laughter and
revelry below.
"Laugh on!" he exclaimed, as a sarcastic smile curved his finely-molded
lips; "laugh on, frivolous and ignorant ones--whisper unmeaning
compliments, and murmur inanities to my peerless Camillia! I do not
fear you; for it is not thus she will be won."
Augustus Horton was a rich man; he belonged to one of the best families
in New Orleans, and the old Spaniard knew of no one better suited as a
husband for his beloved daughter.
Don Juan therefore encouraged the young planter's addresses, though at
the same time thoroughly resolved to throw him off should any richer or
more aristocratic suitor present himself.
Camillia knew nothing of her father's intentions. All her admirers were
alike indifferent to her, for her heart was irrevocably given, and her
faith irrevocably pledged, to Paul Lisimon.
While these changes had been slowly working among the heads of the
household, the hand of Time had not been idle in the humble chambers of
the Villa Moraquitos.
White hairs were mingled in the black locks of the mulatto woman
Pepita; the negress Zarah was bent with age, and Tristan, the negro
lad, had become a man--a man with powerful passions and a subtle and
cunning nature, hidden beneath the mask of pretended ignorance and
simplicity.
He could sing grotesque songs, and dance half-savage dances, as in the
early days of his young mistress's youth when he was Camillia's only
playfellow. He knew a hundred tricks of jugglery, sleight of hand by
which he could amuse an idle hour, and even now he was often admitted
to display his accomplishments before the Spanish girl, her devoted
attendant Pepita, and her old governess, Mademoiselle Pauline Corsi,
who still remained with her, no longer as instructress, but in the
character of companion and friend.
We have as yet refrained from speaking of the Frenchwoman; but as she
may by-and-by play by no means an insignificant part in the great life
drama we are relating, it is time that the reader should know more of
her.
Pauline Corsi was but seventeen years old when she first came to Villa
Moraquitos as the preceptress of Camillia, then a child of six. She was
therefore thirty years of age at the time of which we write.
But although arrived at this comparatively mature period of life, she
still retained much of her girlish beauty of extreme youth.
Unlike most of her countrywomen, she was very fair, with large, limpid
blue eyes, and a wealth of showery flaxen curls. Small and slender,
with delicate little feet and hands, there was much in her appearance
to indicate patrician extraction. Yet she never alluded to her country
or her friends.
She told Don Juan that she was an orphan, homeless, penniless, and
friendless, glad to leave the shores of her sunny France for the
chances of finding better fortune in the New World.
"And I have found better fortune," she would say, lifting her
expressive eyes to the dark face of her haughty employer; "for where
could I have hoped to meet a nobler patron, or to find dearer friends
or a happier home than I have here. Ah, bless you, noble Spaniard, for
your goodness to the helpless stranger."
It was in the summer that Pauline Corsi first came to Villa Moraquitos,
and it was in the winter of the same year that Don Tomaso Crivelli
expired in the arms of his brother-in-law.
We must request the reader to bear this in mind, for on the truth of
certain dates hangs much of the tale of mystery and crime which we are
about to reveal.
The gossips of New Orleans were ready to insinuate that the Spaniard's
heart would surely be in a little danger from the presence of so young
and lovely a woman as the French governess, but they soon grew tired
of whispering this, for it was speedily perceived by all who knew Don
Juan Moraquitos that his heart was buried in the mausoleum of his fair
young wife, Olympia, and that all the love of which his proud nature
was capable of was lavished on his only child.
Some girls in the position of Pauline Corsi might have nourished
ambitious hopes, and might have angled for the heart and hand of the
wealthy Spaniard; but it was impossible to suspect the light-hearted
and frivolous young Frenchwoman of the mean vices of the schemer. She
was a thing of sunshine and gladness--gay and heedless as the birds
she tended in her chamber, careless of the morrow as the flower that
perfumed her balcony. So thought all who knew Pauline Corsi.
Did any of them know her rightly?
The hideous skeleton, Time, whose bony hand lifts, inch by inch and day
by day, the dark and pall-like curtain that hangs before the vast stage
of the future, can alone answer this question.
Camillia Moraquitos was much attached to her old governess. All her
varied accomplishments she owed to Mademoiselle Corsi; and, far too
generous and high-minded to consider the handsome salary paid to the
Frenchwoman a sufficient recompense for her services, she looked upon
Pauline's devotion to her as an obligation which could only be paid by
gratitude and affection.
The young heiress had often endeavored to bestow some handsome present
upon her instructress (a valuable article of jewelry--a ring, a chain,
a bracelet), but always to be firmly, though kindly repulsed.
"No, Camillia," Mademoiselle Corsi would reply, "I will take no gift
from you but affection--that is a priceless treasure. Bestow that upon
me, and you would amply reward me for a lifetime of devotion; the brief
years I have given to your instruction have been more than repaid by my
pupil's love."
Haughty and reserved as Camillia was to mere acquaintances, she was
almost foolishly confiding to those whom she loved.
She had never kept a secret from Pauline Corsi until within this last
year, and even then she would have told all to her trusted companion,
had she not been forbidden to do so by one whom she loved even better
than the Frenchwoman.
This secret was the engagement between herself and Paul Lisimon.
"You will not breathe one word to a mortal of the vows which bind us
till death, will you, my Camillia?" said the young man, as, intoxicated
with happiness, he pressed his betrothed to his wildly throbbing heart.
"To no one, dearest," answered Camillia, "until your position will
warrant you in asking my father's consent to our union. That is to
say," she added hesitatingly, "to no one but Pauline. I shall be so
anxious to talk of you, and I know I can trust her."
"Not one word to her, Camillia, as you love me," exclaimed Paul, with
energy.
"What? you mistrust my faithful Pauline?"
"I mistrust no one," answered Lisimon; "yet, paradoxical as it may
seem, I trust scarcely any one. To give your secrets into the keeping
of another, is to give your life--nay, the better part of life;
for those secrets appertain to the inmost sentiment of your heart.
No, Camillia, tell nothing until that day comes, when, proud and
triumphant, I can claim you before your father and the world."
"But you believe Pauline to be all that is good?" urged Camillia, her
affectionate nature wounded by the warning of Paul.
"Yes, since you tell me so, dearest; but, young as I am in the winding
ways of the world, I am older than you, and the experience of Silas
Craig's office has taught me many iniquitous secrets."
Augustus Horton had, as our readers are aware, many business
transactions with the attorney and usurer, Craig. Despising the man
most completely, it yet suited the young planter's purpose to employ
him, for Silas was a master in the evil arts of chicanery; a useful
lawyer for all business, but above all useful in such affairs as were
of too dark and secret a nature to bear exposure to the light of day.
He was the attorney employed by Augustus Horton, by Don Juan
Moraquitos, and by most of the wealthiest men in the city of New
Orleans; men who affected ignorance of his character, because his style
of doing business suited their purpose.
It was at Silas Craig's office that Augustus Horton first saw Paul
Lisimon.
The two men encountered each other in an office opening out of the
private room occupied by the attorney.
Paul was seated at his desk copying a deed; he looked up only for a
moment as the planter entered the apartment, and immediately returned
to his work. He knew that the visitor was his rival, Augustus Horton,
but, secure in the love of Camillia, he was utterly indifferent to
his presence. Not so the planter. He looked long and earnestly at the
handsome and Spanish face of the young Mexican.
Simply as Paul was dressed, in the loose linen coat and trousers
suitable to the climate, with an open shirt collar of the finest
cambric, under which was knotted a black silk handkerchief, there was
something so distinguished in his appearance that Augustus Horton could
not help wondering who this elegant stranger was who had found his way
into Silas Craig's office. So great was his curiosity, that when his
business with the lawyer was ended he lingered to ask a few questions
about the strange clerk.
"In goodness name, Craig," he said, as he lit a cigar from a box of
allumerts upon the attorney's desk, "who is that young aristocrat whom
you have secured as a pigeon for plucking, under pretense of teaching
him the law?"
"A young aristocrat!"
"Yes, a young man I saw in the next office. A Spaniard, I should
imagine, from his appearance. Very dark, with black eyes and curling
black hair."
Silas Craig laughed aloud.
"An aristocrat!" he exclaimed, "why, surely you must mean Paul Lisimon?"
"Who is Paul Lisimon?"
"Why, I thought you were a constant visitor at Villa Moraquitos!"
"I am so," replied Augustus.
"And you have never met Paul Lisimon?"
"Never, man! Don't question me, but answer me. Who is this Paul
Lisimon?"
"My articled pupil, a young Mexican, a protege of Don Juan's who is
studying for the law."
"Who is he, and where did he come from?" asked Augustus, eagerly.
"That no one knows," answered Craig; "the brother-in-law of Don Juan
Moraquitos, Don Tomaso Crivelli, brought him to New Orleans thirteen
years ago, when the little heiress was about six years old."
"Indeed!" muttered Augustus, biting his lip fiercely; "and the children
were brought up together, I suppose?"
"They were."
"That explains all," said the planter, striding toward the door.
"All what?" asked Craig.
"No matter," replied Augustus Horton; and, without another word to the
lawyer, he left the apartment and passed once more through the office
where Paul Lisimon was seated.
This time it was with a glance of intense malignity that he regarded
the young man, who, scarcely conscious of his presence, sat with his
head bent over his work.
"So," exclaimed the planter, when he found himself alone; "I thought
that you were an iceberg, Camillia Moraquitos, and that the burning
breath of passion had never melted your frozen nature. I never dreamt
that I had a rival; but the mystery is solved. This Mexican, this
nameless dependent on your father's bounty, is doubtless he for whom
you scorn the proudest suitors New Orleans can offer. I should have
known that a woman is never utterly indifferent to a man's attentions
save when she loves another. No matter, Camillia, you will find it no
trifle to brave the hatred of Augustus Horton. My rival is younger
and handsomer than I; it would be hopeless to attempt to win her love
while he is by to sue and be preferred; but before the year is out, I
will have thrust him from my pathway as I would an insolent slave on my
plantation."