The next day, to the discomfiture of the courtiers, Calderon and the
Infant of Spain were seen together, publicly, on the parade; and the
secretary made one of the favoured few who attended the prince at the
theatre. His favour was greater, his power more dazzling than ever it
had been known before. No cause for the breach and reconciliation being
known, some attributed it to caprice, others to the wily design of the
astute Calderon for the humiliation of Uzeda, who seemed only to have
been admitted to one smile from the rising sun in order more signally to
be reconsigned to the shade.
Meanwhile, Fonseca prospered almost beyond his hopes. Young, ardent,
sanguine, the poor novice had fled from her quiet home and the
indulgence of her free thoughts, to the chill solitude of the cloister,
little dreaming of the extent of the change. With a heart that
overflowed with the warm thoughts of love and youth, the ghostlike
shapes that flitted round her, the icy forms, the rigid ceremonials of
that life, which is but the mimicry of death, appalled and shocked
her. That she had preserved against a royal and most perilous, because
unscrupulous suitor, her fidelity to the absent Fonseca, was her sole
consolation.
Another circumstance had combined with the loss of her protectress and
the absence of Don Martin to sadden her heart and dispose her to the
cloister. On the deathbed of the old woman, who had been to her as a
mother, she had learned a secret hitherto concealed from her tender
youth. Dark and tragic were the influences of the star which had shone
upon her birth, gloomy the heritage of memories associated with
her parentage. A letter, of which she now became the guardian and
treasurer--a letter, in her mother’s hand-woke tears more deep and
bitter than she had ever shed for herself. In that letter she read the
strength and the fidelity, the sorrow and the gloom, of woman’s love;
and a dreary foreboding told her that the shadow of the mother’s fate
was cast over the child’s. Such were the thoughts that made the cloister
welcome, till the desolation of the shelter was tried and known. But
when, through the agency of the porter, Fonseca’s letter reached her,
all other feelings gave way to the burst of natural and passionate
emotion. The absent had returned, again wooed, was still faithful.
The awful vow was not spoken--she might yet be his. She answered; she
chided; she spoke of doubt, of peril, of fear for him, of maiden shame;
but her affection coloured every word, and the letter was full of hope.
The correspondence continued; the energetic remonstrances of Fonseca,
the pure and fervent attachment of the novice, led more and more rapidly
and surely to the inevitable result. Beatriz yielded to the prayer of
her lover; she consented to the scheme of escape and flight that he
proposed.
Late at evening Fonseca sought Calderon. The marquis was in the gardens
of his splendid mansion.
The moonlight streamed over many a row of orange-trees and
pomegranates--many a white and richly sculptured vase, on its marble
pedestal--many a fountain, that scattered its low music round the
breathless air. Upon a terrace that commanded a stately view of the
spires and palaces of Madrid stood Calderon, alone; beside him,
one solitary and gigantic aloe cast its deep gloom of shade and his
motionless attitude, his folded arms, his face partially lifted to
the starlit heavens, bespoke the earnestness and concentration of his
thoughts.
“Why does this shudder come over me?” said, he, half aloud. “It was thus
in that dismal hour which preceded the knowledge of my shame--the deed
of a dark revenge--the revolution of my eventful and wondrous life! Ah!
how happy was I once! a contented and tranquil student; a believer
in those eyes that were to me as the stars to the astrologer. But the
golden age passed into that of iron. And now,” added Calderon, with a
self-mocking sneer, “comes the era which the poets have not chronicled;
for fraud, and hypocrisy, and vice, know no poets!”
The quick step of Fonseca interrupted the courtier’s reverie. He turned,
knit his brow, and sighed heavily, as if nerving himself to some effort;
but his brow was smooth, and his aspect cheerful, ere Fonseca reached
his side.
“Give me joy--give me joy, dear Calderon! she has consented. Now, then,
your promised aid.”
“You can depend upon the fidelity of your friendly porter?
“With my life.”
“A master key to the back-door of the chapel has been made?”
“See, I have it.”
“And Beatriz can contrive to secrete herself in the confessional at the
hour of the night prayers?”
“There is no doubt of her doing so with safety. The number of the
novices is so great, that one of them cannot well be missed.”
“So much, then, for your part of the enterprise. Now for mine. You know
that solitary house in the suburbs, on the high road to Fuencarral,
which I pointed out to you yesterday? Well, the owner is a creature
of mine. There, horses shall be in waiting; there, disguises shall be
prepared. Beatriz must necessarily divest herself of the professional
dress; you had better choose meaner garments for yourself. Drop those
hidalgo titles of which your father is so proud, and pass off yourself
and the novice as a notary and his wife, about to visit France on a
lawsuit of inheritance. One of my secretaries shall provide you with a
pass. Meanwhile, to-morrow, I shall be the first officially to hear of
the flight of the novice, and I will set the pursuers on a wrong scent.
Have I not arranged all things properly, my Fonseca?”
“You are our guardian angel!” cried Don Martin, fervently. “The prayers
of Beatriz will be registered in your behalf above--prayers that will
reach the Great Throne as easily from the open valleys of France as in
the gloomy cloisters of Madrid. At midnight, to-morrow, then, we seek
the house you have described to us.”
“Ay, at midnight, all shall be prepared.”
With a light step and exulting heart, Fonseca turned from the palace of
Calderon. Naturally sanguine and high-spirited, visions of hope and joy
floated before his eyes, and the future seemed to him a land owning but
the twin deities of Glory and Love.
He had reached about the centre of the streets in which Calderon’s abode
was placed, when six men, who for some moments had been watching him
from a little distance, approached.
“I believe,” said the one who appeared the chief of the band, “that I
have the honor to address Senior Don Martin Fonseca?”
“Such is my name.”
“In the name of the king we arrest you. Follow us.”
“Arrest! on what plea? What is my offence?”
“It is stated on this writ, signed by his Eminence the Cardinal-Duke de
Lerma. You are charged with the crime of desertion.”
“Thou liest, knave! I had the general’s free permission to quit the
camp.”
“We have said all--follow!”
Fonseca, naturally of the most impetuous and passionate character, was
not, in that moment, in a mood to calculate coldly all the consequences
of resistance. Arrest--imprisonment--on the eve before that which was
to see him the deliverer of Beatriz, constituted a sentence of such
despair, that all other considerations vanished before it. He set his
teeth firmly, drew his sword, dashed aside the alguazil who attempted
to obstruct his path, and strode grimly on, shaking one clenched hand in
defiance, while, with the other, he waved the good Toledo that had often
blazed in the van of battle, at the war-cry of “St. Iago and Spain!”
The alguazils closed round the soldier, and the clash of swords was
already heard; when suddenly torches borne on high threw their glare
across the moonlit street, and two running footmen called out, “Make way
for the most noble the Marquis de Siete Iglesias!” At that name, Fonseca
dropped the point of his weapon; the alguazils themselves drew aside;
and the tall figure and pale countenance of Calderon were visible
amongst the group.
“What means this brawl in the open streets at this late hour?” said the
minister, sternly.
“Calderon!” exclaimed Fonseca; “this is indeed fortunate. These caitiffs
have dared to lay hands on a soldier of Spain, and to forge for their
villany the name of his own kinsman, the Duke de Lerma.”
“Your charge against this gentleman?” asked Calderon, calmly, turning to
the principal alguazil, who placed the writ of arrest in the secretary’s
hand. Calderon read it leisurely, and raised his hat as he returned it
to the alguazil: he then drew aside Fonseca.
“Are you mad?” said he, in a whisper. “Do you think you can resist the
law? Had I not arrived so opportunely you would have converted a slight
accusation into a capital offence. Go with these men: do not fear; I
will see the duke, and obtain your immediate release. To-morrow I will
visit and accompany you home.”
Fonseca, still half beside himself with rage, would have replied, but
Calderon significantly placed his finger on his lip and turned to the
alguazils.
“There is a mistake here: it will be rectified to-morrow. Treat this
cavalier with all the respect and worship due to his birth and merits.
Go, Don Martin, go,” he added, in a lower voice; “go, unless you desire
to lose Beatriz for ever. Nothing but obedience can save you from the
imprisonment of half a life!”
Awed and subdued by this threat, Fonseca, in gloomy silence, placed
his sword in its sheath, and sullenly followed the alguazils. Calderon
watched them depart with a thoughtful and absent look; then, starting
from his reverie, he bade his torchbearers proceed, and resumed his way
to the Prince of Spain.