Calderon received the young soldier at the door of his chamber with
marked and almost affectionate respect. “Don Martin,” said he, and there
seemed a touch of true feeling in the tremor of his rich sweet voice, “I
owe you the greatest debt one man can incur to another--it was your hand
that set before my feet their first stepping-stone to power. I date my
fortunes from the hour in which I was placed in your father’s house as
your preceptor. When the cardinal-duke invited you to Madrid, I was your
companion; and when, afterwards, you joined the army, and required
no longer the services of the peaceful scholar, you demanded of your
illustrious kinsman the single favour--to provide for Calderon. I had
already been fortunate enough to win the countenance of the duke, and
from that day my rise was rapid. Since then we have never met. Dare
I hope that it is now in the power of Calderon to prove himself not
ungrateful?”
“Yes,” said Fonseca, eagerly; “it is in your power to save me from the
most absolute wretchedness that can befall me. It is in your power, at
least I think so, to render me the happiest of men!”
“Be seated, I pray you, senor. And how? I am your servant.”
“Thou knowest,” said Fonseca, “that, though the kinsman, I am not the
favourite, of the Duke of Lerma?”
“Nay, nay,” interrupted Calderon, softly, and with a bland smile;
“you misunderstand my illustrious patron: he loves you, but not your
indiscretions.”
“Yes, honesty is very indiscreet! I cannot stoop to the life of the
ante-chamber. I cannot, like the Duke of Lerma, detest my nearest
relative if his shadow cross the line of my interests. I am of the
race of Pelayo, not Oppas; and my profession, rather that of an ancient
Persian than a modern Spaniard, is to manage the steed, to wield the
sword, and to speak the truth.”
There was an earnestness and gallantry in the young man’s aspect,
manner, and voice, as he thus spoke, which afforded the strongest
contrast to the inscrutable brow and artificial softness of Calderon;
and which, indeed, for the moment, occasioned that crafty and profound
adventurer an involuntary feeling of self-humiliation.
“But,” continued Fonseca, “let this pass: I come to my story and my
request. Do you, or do you not know, that I have been for some time
attached to Beatriz Coello!”
“Beatriz,” replied Calderon, abstractedly, with an altered countenance,
“it is a sweet name--it was my mother’s!”
“Your mother’s! I thought to have heard her name was Mary Sandalen?”
“True--Mary Beatriz Sandalen,” replied Calderon, indifferently. “But
proceed. I heard, after your last visit to Madrid, when, owing to my own
absence in Portugal, I was not fortunate enough to see you, that you had
offended the duke by desiring an alliance unsuitable to your birth. Who,
then, is this Beatriz Coello?”
“An orphan of humble origin and calling. In infancy she was left to the
care of a woman who, I believe, had been her nurse; they were settled in
Seville, and the old gouvernante’s labours in embroidery maintained them
both till Beatriz was fourteen. At that time the poor woman was disabled
by a stroke of palsy from continuing her labours, and Beatriz, good
child, yearning to repay the obligation she had received, in her turn
sought to maintain her protectress. She possessed the gift of a voice
wonderful for its sweetness. This gift came to the knowledge of
the superintendent of the theatre at Seville: he made her the most
advantageous proposals to enter upon the stage. Beatriz; innocent child,
was unaware of the perils of that profession: she accepted eagerly
the means that would give comfort to the declining life of her only
friend--she became an actress. At that time we were quartered in
Seville, to keep guard on the suspected Moriscos.”
“Ah, the hated infidels!” muttered Calderon, fiercely, through his
teeth.
“I saw Beatriz, and loved her at first sight. I do not say,” added
Fonseca, with a blush, “that my suit, at the outset, was that which
alone was worthy of her; but her virtue soon won my esteem as well
as love. I left Seville to seek my father and obtain his consent to
a marriage with Beatriz. You know a hidalgo’s prejudices--they are
insuperable. Meanwhile, the fame of the beauty and voice of the young
actress reached Madrid, and hither she was removed from Seville by
royal command. To Madrid, then, I hastened, on the pretence of demanding
promotion. You, as you have stated, were absent in Portugal on some
state mission. I sought the Duke de Lerma. I implored him to give me
some post, anywhere--I recked not beneath what sky, in the vast empire
of Spain--in which, removed from the prejudices of birth and of class,
and provided with other means, less precarious than those that depend
on the sword, I might make Beatriz my wife. The polished duke was more
inexorable than the stern hidalgo. I flew to Beatriz; I told her I had
nothing but my heart and right hand to offer. She wept, and she refused
me.”
“Because you were not rich?”
“Shame on you, no! but because she would not consent to mar my fortunes,
and banish me from my native land. The next day I received a peremptory
order to rejoin the army, and with that order came a brevet of
promotion. Lover though I be, I am a Spaniard: to have disobeyed the
order would have been dishonour. Hope dawned upon me--I might rise, I
might become rich. We exchanged our vows of fidelity. I returned to the
camp. We corresponded. At last her letters alarmed me. Through all her
reserve, I saw that she was revolted by her profession, and terrified at
the persecutions to which it exposed her: the old woman, her sole guide
and companion, was dying: she was dejected and unhappy: she despaired
of our union: she expressed a desire for the refuge of the cloister. At
last came this letter, bidding me farewell for ever. Her relation was
dead; and, with the little money she had amassed, she had bought her
entrance into the convent of St. Mary of the White Sword. Imagine my
despair! I obtained leave of absence--I flew to Madrid. Beatriz
is already immured in that dreary asylum; she has entered on her
novitiate.”
“Is that the letter you refer to?” said Calderon, extending his hand.
Fonseca gave him the letter.
Hard and cold as Calderon’s character had grown, there was something in
the tone of this letter--its pure and noble sentiments, its innocence,
its affection--that touched some mystic chord in his heart. He sighed as
he laid it down.
“You are, like all of us, Don Martin,” said he, with a bitter smile,
“the dupe of a woman’s faith. But you must purchase experience for
yourself, and if, indeed, you ask my services to procure you present
bliss and future disappointment, those services are yours. It will not,
I think, be difficult to interest the queen in your favour: leave me
this letter, it is one to touch the heart of a woman. If we succeed with
the queen, who is the patroness of the convent, we may be sure to obtain
an order from court for the liberation of the novice: the next step is
one more arduous. It is not enough to restore Beatriz to freedom--we
must reconcile your family to the marriage. This cannot be done while
she is not noble; but letters patent (here Calderon smiled) could
ennoble a mushroom itself--your humble servant is an example. Such
letters may be bought or begged; I will undertake to procure them. Your
father, too, may find a dowry accompanying the title, in the shape of a
high and honourable post for yourself. You deserve much; you are beloved
in the army; you have won a high name in the world. I take shame on
myself that your fortunes have been overlooked. ‘Out of sight out of
mind;’ alas! it is a true proverb. I confess that, when I beheld you in
the ante room, I blushed for my past forgetfulness. No matter--I will
repair my fault. Men say that my patronage is misapplied--I will prove
the contrary by your promotion.”
“Generous Calderon!” said Fonseca, falteringly; “I ever hated the
judgments of the vulgar. They calumniate you; it is from envy.”
“No,” said Calderon, coldly; “I am bad enough, but I am still human.
Besides, gratitude is my policy. I have always found that it is a good
way to get on in the world to serve those who serve us.”
“But the duke?”
“Fear not; I have an oil that will smooth all the billows on that
surface. As for the letter, I say, leave it with me; I will show it to
the queen. Let me see you again tomorrow.”