THE MEETING OF THE LOVERS.
The two men whom Pauline Corsi had met on her way from the house of
Silas Craig to the Villa Moraquitos are not entirely strangers to us.
We saw them last in the solitude of California, living a life of labor,
far from all civilized society.
They only reached New Orleans upon the evening after the slave auction,
and when Pauline Corsi met them they were in search of an hotel where
they could spend the night.
In outward appearance they were very much altered from the day when we
last beheld them.
Their rough garments were exchanged for the fashionable attire of
gentlemen, and their bearing harmonized well with the change in their
costume.
Let us return to the moment when Pauline Corsi met these two
gold-diggers.
They entered the hotel, and were immediately conducted to a handsomely
furnished and brilliantly lighted apartment upon the first floor.
The elder of the two men, the one who had called himself Smith, flung
himself into an easy-chair, after dismissing the waiter with an order
for a couple of bottles of claret and seltzer water, and looked
complacently round the room.
The younger man walked to the open window, from which he watched the
receding form of Pauline Corsi, who, after observing the two men enter
the hotel, hurried onward toward the end of the deserted street.
"This is a little better than the diggings, eh, Brown?" said Smith.
His companion seemed scarcely to hear him.
"That girl's figure reminds me--" he muttered, "but pshaw! what foolish
fancies have addled my brain! She is far away on the shores of another
continent."
"What are you muttering about over there?" said Smith, who was
evidently in high spirits; "Come here, and drink a tumbler of claret,
and let's talk of our plans. To-night has brought us to the end of our
journey. The time for silence is past, the hour has come in which we
are to speak freely."
"It has."
"Remember; I ask your confidence from no spirit of idle curiosity, and,
unless you can give it as freely as I shall give you mine, withhold it
altogether."
Brown held out his hand, and grasped that of his companion.
"Friend, brother," he exclaimed, "there shall be no longer a secret
between us. I will be the first to speak, light your cigar, and fill
your glass, for the story I have to tell will be a long one."
It was past three o'clock, when the two men retired to rest; they had
talked long and earnestly, and the reader will soon learn the purport
of their conversation.
But late as they sat up overnight, the two friends breakfasted together
early the next morning.
They were too much excited to sleep long.
A New Orleans paper, published that morning, lay on the breakfast table.
Smith opened the journal, and ran his eye hastily over its columns.
It contained a full account of the slave auction of the previous day.
The gold-digger's face blanched as he read the paragraph.
"Gracious Providence," he ejaculated, solemnly, "how mysterious are Thy
ways! I have but come in time. Cora, the beloved daughter of Gerald
Leslie, sold in the public auction room! It is too horrible!"
He put on his hat, and after a few words to his friend, hurried
down-stairs to the bar of the hotel, where he ordered a vehicle to be
got ready for him, without delay.
It was strange, that, though so evidently anxious to depart, he
preferred waiting for this vehicle, to walking through the sunny
streets.
He had, no doubt, some powerful motive for this line of conduct.
In ten minutes, a close carriage was at the door, and, slouching his
hat over his eyes, the gold-digger hurried from the bar to the vehicle,
into which he sprung, after giving a brief direction to the negro
driver.
Meanwhile his companion lounged over his untasted breakfast. The New
Orleans papers appeared to possess little interest for him. He looked
at them for a few moments and then threw them carelessly aside.
He had shaved off the bushy whiskers he had worn in the California
solitude, and his face was only adorned by a small brown mustache.
He was about five-and-thirty years of age, but so slim and elegant in
figure as to look considerably younger; and it was easy to see that he
was not a native of America.
Half an hour after the departure of his friend, the waiter brought him
a note which had been left at the hotel by an elderly mulattress.
At the first glance at the superscription on this note, the face of the
man who called himself Brown, was convulsed by a tumult of emotion.
The letter was addressed to "Monsieur Armand Tremlay."
He tore asunder the envelope, and perused the few lines it contained,
then snatching up his hat, he rushed from the house, to the alarm of
the waiters, who were inclined to think the stranger had suddenly lost
his senses.
A quarter of an hour afterward he was at the Villa Moraquitos.
It was now ten o'clock, and eleven had been appointed for the
performance of the marriage ceremony, but neither the bride nor
bridemaid had as yet assumed the attire prepared for the occasion, and
the elderly bridegroom, Don Juan Moraquitos, paced uneasily up and down
his solitary chamber.
The gold-digger was admitted by the mulattress, Pepita. It was she who
had carried the note to his hotel.
She conducted him to the elegant boudoir, usually occupied by Camillia
Moraquitos and Pauline Corsi, but which was now untenanted.
The stranger gazed around him in bewilderment, but before he could ask
a question of Pepita, she had hurried from the room.
He took the note from his waistcoat pocket, and once more devoured its
contents.
"If Armand Tremlay would ascertain the fate of her whom he once loved,
let him call without delay at the Villa Moraquitos."
He had read and reread these words, during the brief interval he had to
wait, before he heard a light footstep approaching the door of the room.
The door opened, and Pauline Corsi stood before him.
Another moment, and she was clasped in the stranger's arms.
"Pauline," he exclaimed, "my beloved, my darling, what magic is this?
How is it, that after thirteen weary years I find you here in America?"
"Because I came hither to see you, Armand! But tell me, before I say
another word, have you been to France during the past thirteen years?"
"Seven years ago I was in Paris--seven years ago I returned to my
native country, wealthy and distinguished, to fling all at the feet
of her, whom I dared to hope might still be faithful. A bitter blow
awaited me on my arrival."
"Stay, Armand," said Pauline, laying her hand lightly upon her lover's
lips; "tell me all, as it occurred from the first."
She pointed to a sofa and seated herself by the side of Armand Tremlay.
Upon a table near her lay the bridal wreaths, which were to be worn by
herself and Camillia. The Frenchman perceived the floral coronets, and
asked eagerly:
"These orange blossoms, Pauline, for whom are they intended?"
"You shall know that by-and-by," she answered, with an arch smile; "not
another word, until I have heard your story."
An observer would have wondered at the transformation which the
presence of Armand Tremlay effected in Pauline Corsi. She was no longer
the cold and ambitious woman, but a loving and gentle girl, with the
tender light of affection beaming in her blue eyes.
"Tell me," she repeated; "tell me all, Armand!"
"You remember the day upon which the Duke B---- dismissed me from his
house."
"Remember it," answered Pauline, "I have good reason to remember it.
That day was the turning point of my life."
"And of mine. Reckless and desperate, I strode through the streets
of Paris, with my breast rent with contending love and hatred. Love
for you, hatred for the conventionalities of rank, which elevated an
insurmountable barrier between genius and beauty; for I felt that I
had genius, energy, and patience, to conquer fortune--all the gifts
which help to make men great, and which the haughty lordling dare not
despise, since they are the root of all aristocracies. The very air
of France seemed hateful to me, for I despised a country in which
the differences of rank could part those whom Heaven had created for
each other. I sailed for America, determined that in a free country
I would attain such eminence as might entitle me to sue for the hand
of a duke's daughter. So enraged was I against the fate which had
separated us, that I threw aside my old name, and whatever small degree
of distinction might be attached to it, and called myself Forester
Townshend."
"And it was thus that my search for you was fruitless," said Pauline;
"but go on."
"Under that assumed name I won considerable eminence as a portrait
painter, throughout the United States, and seven years after leaving
France, had amassed a considerable fortune. I returned to my native
country, resolved, if I found you still true to me, to make one more
appeal to the Duke; and failing in obtaining his consent, to persuade
you to agree to a clandestine marriage. On reaching Paris, my first
act was to go to the house you had occupied with your supposed father
and mother. I was told that the family had removed to Milan. I lost
not an hour in traveling to that city, and there I heard from the
Duke's steward, the story of Jeannette's death-bed confession, and the
heartless way in which you had been treated, by those who for nearly
seventeen years had caressed you as their only child."
"But they never loved me," murmured Pauline.
"No, dearest; it was an heir for a haughty title, and not a father's
affections, that they sought. Providence punished their ambition,
and terrible retribution overtook them for their cruelty in visiting
upon your innocent head the crimes of others. The duchess died,
broken-hearted at the discovery of her guilty deception, and the Duke
was stabbed by an assassin in the streets of Milan. It is thought that
this assassin was his kinsman and the heir to his fortune."
Pauline bowed her head in silence.
"This story is very terrible," she said, solemnly; "I had long ago
forgiven their wrong to me, in casting me from home and shelter; but I
had never forgiven them for parting me from him I loved."
"Dearest Pauline, the ways of Providence are indeed inscrutable. I left
Milan, after vainly endeavoring to ascertain whither you had gone after
leaving the ducal palace. My inquiries were vain, and my only thought
was to find you in Paris, to which city I imagined you would have fled.
I remained in Paris for three months, during which time I inserted
numerous advertisements in the papers, and applied to the police in
order to discover your retreat. At the end of that time I began to
despair of ever finding you, and I was seized with a gloomy conviction
that you had committed suicide in the first moments of your anguish. I
left my fortune in the hands of my mother, in whose care it has been
accumulating year by year, and withdrawing only sufficient to pay my
voyage to America, I once more turned my back upon my native country."
"You returned to America."
"I did, but I was an altered man. I had no longer a purpose to uphold
me--the motive for industry was gone. I traveled from city to city,
earning plenty of money by my art, but spending it recklessly; and,
forgive me, Pauline, wasting it often in the transient excitement of
the gaming-table. I was too restless to remain in one place; I sought
for change of scene, and for a life of action, for I was forever
haunted by the memory of your unhappy fate; and one day I found myself
in San Francisco, homeless and penniless. I had flung away my last
dollar at the gaming-table. It was then that I resolved on accumulating
a second fortune, and returning to France once more to seek for you. A
sudden inspiration seemed to take possession of my mind; I felt that in
all I had done, I had not done enough, and I determined to redouble my
efforts, and devote the remainder of my life to the search for you."
"And you have succeeded."
"Ay, Pauline, in so unlooked for a manner, that I almost doubt now if
this is not some strange but rapturous dream."
"You have arrived at New Orleans in time to assist at my wedding."
"Your wedding?"
"Yes, this day I become the wife of a wealthy Spaniard."
"Pauline!"
"Armand!"
She held out her hand to him as she spoke, and in the expression of
that one word, "Armand," there was enough to tell him that he had no
cause for fear. He lifted the little hand to his lips and covered it
with kisses.
He was interrupted by the entrance of the mulattress, Pepita, who
brought a sealed packet addressed to Pauline Corsi, in the hand of
Silas Craig.
Pauline took the packet, and glanced carelessly at the address.
"Has Mr. Lisimon arrived yet, Pepita?" she asked.
"He has, mademoiselle; he is in the drawing-room."
"Very good, Pepita; and Donna Camillia, where is she?"
"In her own room, mademoiselle."
The mulattress retired. Pauline broke the seals of the envelope, and
took from it a parchment document, folded in an oblong form. Upon the
flap of the envelope were written these words:
"I send you that which you required of me. The advertisement appears in
to-day's paper.--S.C."
"Come, Armand," said Pauline, "I have changed much since you first knew
me; the bitter wrongs of my youth had a terrible influence upon my
womanhood. I have been ambitious, heartless, mercenary, designing; but
with your return my old nature comes back to me, and the fresh feelings
of my girlhood revive."
"My dearest Pauline! but this marriage--that bridal wreath."
"Shall be worn by me, but not to-day. Tell me, Armand, do you still
love me, the nameless orphan, the spurious child, as you did, when you
thought me the heiress of one of Italy's proudest dukes? Have your
feelings for me undergone no change since you learned that secret?"
"They have, Pauline, a very great change."
"Armand!"
"Yes, my beloved, and the change is that you are ten times dearer to me
to-day than you were ten years ago; for I have known what it is to lose
you."
They descended to the drawing-room, where Paul Lisimon was seated in
company with two of the most fashionable men in the city; guests who
had been invited to witness the intended marriage ceremony.
Every citizen in New Orleans had seen the advertisement in that
morning's paper, an advertisement which declared the entire innocence
of Paul Lisimon of the crime imputed to him, and described the whole
affair as a practical joke.
The young man rose as Pauline Corsi entered the room, and dropping his
face, said to her, "I received your letter from the hands of Captain
Prendergills, and am here in answer to your summons."
"And you have seen the advertisement?"
"Yes; tell me in Heaven's name--how did you work so great a miracle?"
Pauline smiled with arch significance.
"When a woman has a powerful will, there is scarcely anything she
cannot accomplish. When last we met, Paul Lisimon, I made you a
proposal, which you rejected with scorn. In spite of my anger I honored
you for that rejection; I am now about to avenge myself."
"How, mademoiselle?"
"I no longer address you as Paul Lisimon; that name is in itself a
lie; Paul Crivelli, read this document; it is the genuine will of your
father, Don Tomaso."
As she spoke, she placed the parchment which had been sent her by Silas
Craig, in the hands of the bewildered young man.
This brief dialogue had been spoken in so low a tone as to escape
the ears of the two visitors standing by the chimney-piece. It was
only overheard by Armand Tremlay, to whom the entire conversation was
unintelligible.
At this moment a young mulattress entered the room, and announced
"Captain Prendergills."