Don Fadique’s Declaration of Love
While Blanche sat all alone, the arras gently lifted and Don Fadique
stood before her. Not gay and triumphant as she had seen him at
Narbonne, but pale and grave and habited in a grey _justaucorps_ with a
simple hood--more in the guise of a penitent than a gay young knight.
“My princess,” and he kissed her hand, carefully looking round to assure
himself that they were alone, “I am come to ask you a last favour before
the king arrives. Already his presence is signalled on the outskirts of
the city.”
At that dreaded name, Blanche, whose soft face had broken into the
sunniest of smiles as Don Fadique entered, trembled and sank back
against the wall. At that one word, “the king,” the soft glamour her
imagination had conjured up, vanished. She was the bride of the cruel
tyrant all men hated. He was at hand to claim her. She burst into tears.
“Sweet Blanche,” and Don Fadique’s eyes melted at her distress, as
taking her tenderly by the hand, upon which he impressed another
fervent kiss, he knelt on the floor before her, “be comforted, and
listen to me. The time is come when we must part. For a moment, it
seemed to me a dream of heavenly bliss, and that, standing in my
brother’s place, I could claim you for ever. But now I am less than
nothing in your eyes. Tell me, oh, tell me,” and a sigh broke from him,
so deep, his very soul seemed poured out in it, “tell me quickly, for
our time is short. You will not quite hate me?”
Some wild words were on Blanche’s lips, but remembering the
expostulations of Claire she checked them, blushed hotly over brow and
neck, hesitated, and said nothing.
“Your pity is all I dare ask,” he continues, drawing nearer and leaning
over her, as she shrinks away among a pile of embroidered cushions,
anxiously turning her eyes towards the drapery behind which Claire had
disappeared. “Of all men I am the most wretched. There is one whom I
love more than anything on earth, and I am nothing to her. If it were
not so----”
He broke off abruptly, but there is something so bitter and hopeless in
his tone that, spite of an involuntary pang of jealousy, Blanche’s eyes
turned on him full of sympathy.
“I am so sorry,” she replies, simply. “I think all the world should care
to please you. But"--the jealous feeling is growing spite of
herself--“if any one----”
At this moment Don Fadique stooped and grasped her arm with such a wild
look that she stopped. “If,” lowering his voice, “if this lady,” and he
paused to touch her hand, “loved me--could love me at all; if I could
hold her for an instant as mine own--though the whole kingdom of Spain
were between us----”
Blanche’s gaze has grown dreamy. This was love then. Simple as she was
she understood it. Oh! Claire, Claire. If he felt so, what would she
think of her, and her face paled and her lips quivered.
“Do I know the lady?” she asks, then pauses to steady her voice, while
Fadique gazes down at her with a swift searching glance, terrified by
one word to shatter the rapturous conviction which her trouble gave him.
“Yes, you know her well,” is all he says, and he seizes her hand and
covers it with kisses. “Do you love me?”
No word comes to her blanched lips, but she bows her head and softly
answers to the pressure of his fingers. On the imprisoned hand is the
diamond ring of her espousal. It _would_ gleam out, though she tries not
to see it. Oh! where was Claire? What would she say to her? Alone with
Don Fadique, she feels all her good resolves melting.
For nearly a minute Blanche let Fadique hold her hand. There was no
sound below in the _patio_ to distract them, only the chiming of the
great bells of San Pablo close by across the square, the beautiful
flamboyant portal reared against the sky.
Blanche lay quite still while Fadique covered her little hand with
kisses, even the lace ruffles she wore at her wrist he kissed.
A moment before no words could express how she dreaded the king, but
with her hand in his, listening to his muttered words of love, the earth
seemed to melt away, and she was suddenly transported to some unknown
paradise, full of infinite felicity.
She knew she was doing wrong and that Claire would bitterly reproach
her--perhaps go away in disgust and leave her.
But for all that she could not help it; and after all, what was a crown,
or Claire, or Castile, or France, or the most Christian king, her
kinsman, or her father, compared to the lover with angelic eyes kneeling
before her?
It might be that they never should be alone again, and that she might
not be allowed to speak to him, for Don Pedro was, they told her, a
devil of jealousy--_that_ she could readily believe--and that he
possessed every vice human nature can compass. If this was indeed the
last time, would it not be too cruel to be cold to Fadique in this _one
hour_ when his heart spoke to hers?
Blanche was but a child, cause and effect were unknown to her; but love,
first love, that blessed light direct from heaven, had transformed her
[Illustration: A VIEW IN TOLEDO.]
whole being, and from a simple, tranquil-hearted girl, content to pass
her days joyously as the birds do, without thought, she had become a
sensitive, anxious woman, trembling beneath that terrible prescience
that comes with the first lesson of life; and when Fadique, after a long
silence, asked her again: “Are you sure you love me? Say it once more,
Blanche, and that you will never love another man,” in a low voice she
answered earnestly: “Yes, I love you. I did not know what love was,
until you came to Narbonne,” and then, unable to bear the strain upon
her, she hid her pale face on his shoulder. “What will Don Pedro do to
me?” she cried, trembling all over with a sudden revulsion. “What will
he say to me? I feel so treacherous and wicked, and yet it is not my
fault.”
“No,” answers Fadique, pressing her slight form to his and still holding
her imprisoned hand. “It is the fault of those who forced you into such
a marriage. That is the sin; but remember, my own Blanche, though
silent, I am ever near you at the Court. One heart at least bleeds for
you.”
“I am sure I hear footsteps!” cries Blanche, starting back and standing
upright listening--“What will Claire say? Am I indeed such a sinner?”
“Claire? By Santiago! what has she to do with us? Claire? Ah! do not
look at me so, Blanche, or you will break my heart.”
“Oh, that mine was broken too, and I were dead!” she sobs.
“Then let us die together,” replies Don Fadique.
They are standing hand in hand, backed by the high Gothic casement. The
fretted frame, filled with devices, crowns, and coats of arms, casts a
pale reflex on them. The sun is setting behind the castellated towers of
San Pablo, opposite, and soft fragrant shadows gather in the chamber.
Both in their hearts are longing that this moment may last for ever.
Deeper and deeper the shadows fell, engulfing the two young figures in
its gloom, save where a shaft of vivid light fell upon them like a
sword, the point turned towards them.
“My love,” murmurs Don Fadique, passionately, “do you hear me?”
As Blanche moved in response, a sudden light was in her eyes that had
never been there before--a Moorish scarf Claire had placed around her
fell from her waist.
“This shall be my talisman,” cries Don Fadique, stooping to pick it up,
“the token of your love, and my safeguard in battle. You will not refuse
me?”
“Oh! hide it, hide it,” whispers Blanche under her breath. “Claire may
come in and miss it.”
Then there was a dead silence which neither of them broke.
Suddenly, with a crash like thunder, the clatter of horses’ feet rises
up from the _patio_; the clang of armed men is in the air, the roll of
cumbrous equipages, and the shrill voice of drums and clarions. Now a
single horseman rides in and challenges the guard. Then there is the
sound of marching of many feet and the far-off blare of trumpets.
Blanche rose to her feet, speechless with terror. Was the king already
there? Where could Claire be?
Then comes the echo of many steps in the antechamber, and Claire rushes
in through the arras as Don Fadique disappears by a door on the other
side.
Following Claire appears a tall and stately _jefe_, holding a white wand
of office, with many crosses and decorations on his breast, and a high
plumed hat in his hand, which he doffs, bowing low.
“Madam, the Queen,” says he, in a sonorous voice, again inclining
himself to the ground, “it is my duty to apprise your Majesty that the
king is now passing the drawbridge outside the city. A royal page bears
his greeting to your Grace.”
“Claire, oh, Claire!” sighs Blanche, casting herself into her arms. “Oh!
_why did you leave me?_”