Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 60, No. 372, October 1846

"Well, Alphonse," said De Lucenay, "let me congratulate you. This serenade is for you; but I presume you will no longer deny the coquettery of your innamorata?"

"Hush, hush!" exclaimed his friend hastily, as Doña Inez resumed her seat: "be sure there is some better motive for it."

The music now recommenced, but it was the same air again.

"This is strange!" muttered Ernest: "her repertoire seems limited. Does she know nothing else, I wonder?"

"Silence!" replied the other. "Did you mark the words?" exclaimed Alphonse hurriedly, as the music concluded. "Descuidado caballero, este lecho es vuestra tumba, &c."

"No, indeed; I was much better employed in watching the fair syren herself. Foi de dragon! she is charming. I have half a mind to dispute her with you."

"She has something to communicate!" exclaimed Alphonse, in an agitated voice; "we are in danger." And, running rapidly into the room, he replaced the light on the table, so that they were full in view.

His conjecture was right; for no sooner did the light discover to her those whom she was looking for, than, uttering a fervent "gracias a Dios!" she clasped her hands together, and rushed into the apartment, from which she almost instantaneously returned with a small envelope, which she flung with such precision that it fell almost in the centre of the room, with a sharp metallic sound. It was the work of an instant to tear open the packet, take out the key which it contained, and decypher the following words: —

"Señores, – Strange, and I trust unjust suspicions have arisen concerning you. It is whispered that you are not what you appear: that secret and traitorous designs have led you amongst us. To-morrow's dawn will bring the proof to light. But, should you have any thing to fear, fly instantly – not a moment must be lost. Descend by the small staircase; the inclosed is a passe-partout to open the gate, outside which Pedro will wait you with your horses, and guide you on your way, till you no longer require him. Alas! I betray my beloved parent's confidence, to save you from a certain and ignominious death. Be generous, then, and bury all that you have seen and heard within these walls in oblivion, or eternal remorse and misery must be mine. – Inez."

"Generous, noble-minded girl!" enthusiastically exclaimed Alphonse, as he paced the room with agitated steps. "Scarcely do I regret this hour of peril, since it has taught me to know thee!"

"For heaven's sake, Alphonse, no heroics now!" cried De Lucenay, who, not being in love, estimated the value of time much more rationally than his friend. "Scribble off an answer – explain that we are not spies – while I prepare for our departure. Be quick! – five minutes are enough for me."

Alphonse followed his friend's advice, and, in an incredibly short space of time, penned off a tolerably long epistle, explaining the boyish frolic into which they had been led by getting possession of the dispatches of an imprisoned English aide-de-camp, and the reports of her beauty; filled up with protestations of eternal gratitude and remembrance, and renewing all the vows and declarations of the evening – the precipitancy of which he excused by the unfortunate circumstances under which he was placed, and the impossibility of bidding her adieu, without convincing her of the sentiments which filled his heart then and for ever. The letter concluded by intreating her carefully to preserve the signet-ring which it contained; and that should she at any future time be in any danger or distress, she had only to present or send it, and there was nothing, within their power, himself or his friends would not do for her. Having signed their real names and titles, and dispatched the billet-doux in the same manner as its predecessor, the young men waited till they had the satisfaction of seeing Doña Inez open it; and then, waving their handkerchiefs in sign of adieu, Alphonse, with a swelling heart, followed his friend down stairs. All happened as the young girl had promised, and in a few moments they were in the open air and in freedom.

"Señores," said Pedro, as they mounted their horses, "the Señorita thinks you had better not return to your quarters, for Don Alvar is such a devil when his jealous blood is up, that he might pursue you with a troop of assassins, and murder you on the road. She desired me to conduct you to S – , whence you may easily take the cross-roads in any direction you please."

"The Señorita is a pearl of prudence and discretion: do whatever she desired you," said Alphonse.

Pedro made no answer; but seemingly as much impressed with the necessity of speed as the young men themselves, put the spurs to his horse; and in a moment they were crossing the country at a speed which bid fair to distance any pursuers who were not gifted with wings as well as feet; nor did they slacken rein till the dawn of day showed them, to their great joy, that they were beyond the reach of pursuit, and in a part of the country with which they were sufficiently well acquainted to enable them to dispense with the services of Pedro – a discovery which they lost no time in taking advantage of, by dismissing the thenceforth inconvenient guide, with such substantial marks of their gratitude as more than compensated him for the loss of his night's rest. A few more hours saw them safely returned to the French camp, without having suffered any greater penalty for the indulgence of their curiosity, than a night's hard riding, to the no small discomfiture of the friendly circle of frères d'armes, whose prophecies of evil on the subject had been, if not loud, deep and numerous.

It was on a somewhat chilly evening, towards the beginning of winter, that Alphonse was writing a letter in his tent; while De Lucenay, who, when there were no ladies in question, could never be very long absent from his Pylades, was pacing up and down, savouring the ineffable delights of a long chibouque, when the orderly suddenly entered, and laid a letter on the table, saying that the bearer waited the answer. Desiring him to attend his orders outside, Alphonse broke open the envelope.

"What the devil have you got there, Alphonse?" exclaimed De Lucenay, stopping in the midst of his perambulations, as he perceived the agitated countenance and tremulous eagerness with which his friend perused the contents of the letter. "It must be a powerful stimulant indeed, which can make you look so much more like yourself than you have done for these last five months. You have not been so much excited since that mysterious blank letter you received, with its twin sprigs of forget-me-not and myrtle. I began to fear I should have that unlucky expedition of ours on my conscience for the rest of my days. You have never been the same being since."

"There – judge for yourself!" exclaimed Alphonse, flinging him the note after he had hurriedly pressed it to his lips, and rushed out of the tent.

It was with scarcely less surprise and emotion that De Lucenay glanced over the following lines: —

"If honour and gratitude have any claims upon your hearts, now is the moment to redeem the pledge they gave. Danger and misfortune have fallen upon us, and I claim the promise that, unasked, you made; the holy Virgin grant that it may be as fresh in your memory as it is in mine. I await your answer. – Inez." The signet was inclosed. Scarcely had De Lucenay read its contents when his friend re-entered, leading in a trembling sister of charity, beneath whose projecting hood Ernest had no difficulty in recognising the beautiful features of Doña Inez di Miranda.

"This is indeed an unlooked-for happiness!" passionately exclaimed Alphonse, while he placed the agitated and almost fainting girl on a seat. "Since that memorable night of mingled joy and despair, I thought not that such rapture awaited me again on earth."

"Oh, talk not of joy, of happiness!" imploringly exclaimed the young girl. "I have come to you on a mission of life or death. My father – my dear, my beloved father – is a prisoner, and condemned to be shot. Oh, save him! save him!" she cried wildly, falling on her knees. – "If you have hearts, if you are human – save him! and God will reward you for it; and I shall live but to bless your names every hour of my existence." Exhausted by her emotion, she would have fallen on the ground, had not Alphonse caught her and raised her in his arms.

"Calm yourself, calm yourself, sweet child!" he whispered soothingly: "our lives, our blood is at your service; there is nothing on earth which my friend and I would not do for you."

A declaration which De Lucenay confirmed with an energetic oath.

Somewhat tranquillized by this assurance, she at last recovered sufficiently to explain that her father was at the head of a guerilla band which had been captured, having fallen into an ambuscade, where they left more than half their number dead on the field. Some peasants had brought the news to the chateau, with the additional information that they were all to be shot within two days.

"In my despair," continued the young girl, "I thought of you; and ordering the fleetest horses in the stables to be saddled, set off with two servants, determined to throw myself on your pity; and if that should fail me, to fling myself on the mercy of heaven, and lastly to die with him, if I could not rescue him. But you will save him! will you not?" she sobbed with clasped hands – and a look so beseeching, so sorrowful, that the tears rushed involuntarily into their eyes.

"Save him! oh yes, at all costs, at all hazards! were it at the risk of our heads! But where is he? where was he taken? where conveyed to?"

"They were taken to the quarters of the general-in-chief in command, and it was he himself who signed their condemnation."

"My father!" said De Lucenay, in a tone of surprise.

"Ernest!" exclaimed his friend, "they must be those prisoners who were brought in this morning while we were out foraging."

"No doubt, no doubt, you are right," replied De Lucenay, his countenance lighting up with pleasure. "Oh, then, all is well! I will go instantly to my father; tell him we owe our lives to you – and that will be quite sufficient. Have no fear – he is saved!"

"He is saved! He is saved!" shrieked Doña Inez. "Oh, may heaven bless you for those words!" and with a sigh – a gasp – she fell senseless on the ground.

"Poor girl!" said De Lucenay, pityingly, "she has suffered indeed. Alphonse, I leave you to resuscitate her, while I hurry off to the General. There is not a moment to be lost. As soon as the grand affair is settled, I will make my father send for her. She will be better taken care of there; and besides, you know, it would not be convenable for her to remain here; and we must be generous as well as honourable."

"Oh, certainly – certainly! It is well you think for me; for I am so confused that I remember nothing," exclaimed Alphonse, as De Lucenay hurried away.

It was not quite so easy a task, however, as he had imagined, to bring the young girl to life again. The terror and distress she had undergone had done their worst; and the necessity for exertion past, the overstrung nerves gave way beneath the unwonted tension. One fainting-fit succeeded to another; till at last Alphonse began to be seriously alarmed. Fortunately, however, joy does not kill; and after a short while, Doña Inez was sufficiently recovered to listen with a little more attention to the protestations, vows, and oaths, which, for the last half hour, the young Frenchman had been very uselessly wasting on her insensible ears.

"And so, then, you did remember me, it seems!" said Doña Inez, after a moment's silence – while she rested her head on one hand, and abandoned the other to the passionate kisses of her lover.

"Remember you! What a word! When I can cease to remember that the sun shines, that I exist – then, perhaps, I may forget you; but not till then. Not an hour of my life, but I thought of you; at night I dreamed of you, in the day I dreamed of you; amidst the confusion of the bivouac, in the excitement of battle, in the thunder of the artillery, amidst the dead and the dying, your image rose before me. I had but one thought; – should I fall – how to convey to you the knowledge that I had died loving you, – that that sprig of forget-me-not, that lock of dark hair, so often bedewed by my kisses, had rested on my heart to the last moment that it beat!" And Alphonse drew out a medallion.

Doña Inez snatched it out of his hand, and covered it with kisses. "Blessed be the holy Virgin! I have not prayed to her in vain. I, too, have thought of you, Alphonse; I, too, have dreamed of you by day, and lain awake by night to dream of you again. How have I supplicated all the saints in heaven to preserve you, to watch over you! For I, too, love you, Alphonse; deeply – passionately – devotedly – as a Spaniard loves – once, and for ever!"

"Mes amis, I regret to part you," said De Lucenay, who re-entered the tent a few moments after; "but the Conde is pardoned – all is right, and you will meet to-morrow; so let that console you!"

"Oh, you were destined to be my good angels!" cried Doña Inez enthusiastically, as she drew the white hood over her head, and left the tent with the two friends.

Less enviable were the Conde's feelings, when at noon, on the following morning, an order from the General summoned him to his tent, to receive, as he supposed, sentence of death. Great, therefore, was his surprise, when he was ushered into the presence of three officers, in two of whom he instantly recognised his former suspicious guests; while the third, a tall dignified-looking man, advanced towards him, and in the most courteous manner announced to him his free pardon.

As the Conde poured forth his thanks, the General interrupted him by saying, that however happy he was at having in his power to remit his sentence, it was not to him that the merit was due.

"To whom, then?" exclaimed the Conde in a tone of surprise.

"To one most near and dear to you," replied the General.

"Who? who?"

"You shall see." And the General made a sign to Ernest, who slipped out of the room, and in a few moments returned leading in Doña Inez.

"And it is to thee, then, my own Inesilla, my darling, my beloved child," passionately cried the Conde as she rushed into his arms, and hid her face upon his breast, "that I owe my life!" To describe the joy, the intense and tumultuous delight of that moment, were beyond the power of words. Even the stern, inflexible commander turned to hide an emotion he would have blushed to betray.

After waiting till the first ebullition of their joy had subsided, General de Lucenay walked up to the Conde, and shaking him cordially by the hand, congratulated him on possessing a daughter whose courage and filial devotion were even more worthy of admiration, more rare, than her far-famed beauty; "and which," he added, "even I, who have been in all countries, have never seen surpassed."

"Though not my own child, she has indeed been a blessing and a treasure to me," said the Conde; "every year of her life has she repaid to me, a thousand-fold, the love and affection which I have lavished on her; and now" —

"Not your child!" exclaimed De Lucenay and Alphonse in a breath.

"No, not my child," replied the Conde. "The story is a long one, but with my generous preservers I can have no secrets. Just seventeen years ago, I was returning from a visit, by the banks of the Guadiana, with only two attendants, when I heard a faint cry from amongst the rushes on the water's edge; dismounting from our horses, we forced our way through the briars to the spot whence the sound proceeded. To our great surprise, we discovered there a little infant, which had evidently been carried down the stream, and its dress having got entangled amongst the thorns had prevented its being swept further on. Our providential arrival saved its life; for it was drawing towards the close of evening, and the little creature, already half dead with cold and exposure, must inevitably have perished in the course of the night. In one word, we carried it to my chateau, where it grew up to be the beautiful girl you see – the sole comfort and happiness of my life."

"But her parents, did you never discover any thing about them – who or what they were – the motive of so strange an abandonment?" exclaimed General de Lucenay in an agitated voice. "Was there no clue by which to trace them?"

"No, I made all inquiries, but in vain. Besides, it was many miles from any habitation that we found her. I sent the following day, and made many inquiries in the neighbourhood; but no one could give us any information on the subject; so, after an interval of months, I gave the point up as hopeless. One thing only is certain, that they were not inferiors; the fineness of her dress, and a little relic encased in gold and precious stones, that she wore round her neck, were sufficient proofs of that."

"This is, indeed, most singular!" cried the General. "And do you recollect the precise date of this occurrence?"

"Recollect a day which for many years I have been in the habit of celebrating as the brightest of my life! Assuredly – it was the fourteenth of May – and well do I remember it."

"The fourteenth of May! it must be, it is, my long-lost, my long-mourned daughter!" cried the General.

"Your daughter!" exclaimed all around in the greatest astonishment.

"Yes, my daughter," repeated the General. "You shall hear all: but first – the relic, the relic! where is it? let me see it. That would be the convincing proof indeed."

"It is easy to satisfy you," replied Inez, "for it never leaves me;" and, taking a small chain, she handed him a little filigree gold case that she wore in her bosom.

"The same! the same! these are my wife's initials on it. This is indeed a wonderful dispensation of Providence, to find a daughter after having so long mourned her as lost; and to find her all my heart could have wished, more than my most ambitious prayers could have asked! Oh, this is too much happiness! Alas!" he continued in a tone of deep feeling, while he drew the astonished and stupefied girl towards him, and, parting the dark locks on her brow, imprinted a paternal kiss upon her forehead, "Would that my poor Dolores had lived to see this hour! how would it have repaid the years of sorrow and mourning your loss occasioned her?"

"But how! what is this; it is most extraordinary?" exclaimed the Conde, who had waited in speechless surprise the dénoûment of this unexpected scene.

The General explained. His wife had been a Spanish lady of high birth. Returning to France from a visit to her relations, they had stopped to change horses at a little posada on the banks of the Guadiana; their little daughter, a child of eight months old, had sprung out of its nurse's arms into the river. Every effort to recover the child was fruitless; it sank and disappeared. They returned to France, and, after a few years, his wife died. "You may judge, then, of my feelings on hearing your story, Señor Conde," concluded the General; "the name of the river and the date first roused my suspicions, which the result has so fully confirmed."

"My child, my child! and must I then lose thee!" cried the Count, clasping the young girl in his arms in an agony of grief.

"Never!" passionately exclaimed Inez. "Tuya à la vida a la muerta!"

"Not so, Señor Conde; the man who has treated her so nobly has the best right to her," said the General. "I will never take her from you; an occasional visit is all I shall ask."

"But if you will not take her, I know who would, most willingly," said Ernest, stepping forward. "But first, my little sister, let me congratulate you upon dropping from the clouds upon such a good-natured, good-for-nothing, excellent fellow of a brother, as myself. And now, gentlemen, I have a boon to ask – where there is so much joy, why not make all happy at once? There is an unfortunate friend of mine who, to my certain knowledge, has been all but expiring for that fair damsel these last five months; and if for once our sweet Inez would dismiss all feminine disguise, and confess the truth, I suspect she would plead guilty to the same sin. Come, come, I will spare you," he added, as the rich blood mantled over Doña Inez's cheek – "that tell-tale blush is a sufficient answer. Then, why not make them happy?" he added, more seriously; "the Marquis de La Tour d'Auvergne, the heir of an ancient line, and a noble fortune, is in every respect a suitable alliance for either the Conde de Miranda, or General De Lucenay. Besides which, he is a very presentable young fellow, as you see, not to speak of the trifle of their being overhead and ears in love with each other already."

"What say you, my child? – Bah! is it indeed so?" exclaimed the Conde, as Inez stood motionless, her dark eyes fixed on the ground, and the flush growing deeper and deeper on her cheek every minute – while Alphonse, springing forward, declared that he would not think such happiness too dearly purchased with his life.

"No, no – no dying, if you please. A ghostly mate would be no very pleasant bridegroom for a young lady. What say you, General? shall we consent?"

"With all my heart."

"Hurrah! Vive la joie!" cried Ernest, tossing his cap into the air.

"Oh, this is too much bliss!" murmured Inez almost inaudibly.

"No, dearest! may you be as happy through life as you have rendered me," said the Count, folding her in his arms.

1

Wild Sports and Natural History of the Highlands. From the Journals of Charles St John, Esq. Murray. London: 1846.

2

Briefe aus Paris, 1842. Pariser Eindrücke, 1846. Von Karl Gutzkow. Frankfurt am Main, 1846.

3

Methodius and Cyril, who were sent missionaries to the Sclavonians in the ninth century.

4

Hochelaga; or, England in the New World. Edited by Eliot Warburton, Esq. Two Volumes. London: 1846.

5

Nemesis.