Harper's New Monthly Magazine, Vol III, No 13, 1851

"And a dog?" replied Gervais.

"Ah! I would not give mine for your valley or mountains if he had not loved you, but now I give him to you."

"Your dog!" exclaimed he. "Your dog ah! he can not be given away."

"Adieu, Gervais!"

I did not speak to Puck, or he would have followed me; as I was moving on I saw Puck looked uneasy and ashamed; he drew back a step, stretched out his paws, and bent down his head to the ground. I stroked his long silky coat, and with a slight pang at my heart, in which there was no feeling of anger, I said, so. He flew back to Gervais like an arrow. Gervais will not be alone at any rate, thought I.

A few days afterward I found myself at Milan. I was not in spirits for enjoying society, yet I did not altogether avoid mixing in it; a crowded room is, in its way, a vast solitude, unless you are so unfortunate a person as to stumble upon one of those never-tiring tourists whom you are in the habit of meeting occasionally on the Boulevards, at Tortoni's, or with whom you have gaped away an hour at Favert's, one of those dressed-up puppies with fashionable cravat and perfumed hair, who stare through an eye-glass, with the most perfect assurance imaginable, and talk at the highest pitch of their voice.

"What! are you here?" cried Roberville.

"Is it you?" replied I. He continued to chatter, but his words were unheeded by me, for my eyes suddenly fixed upon a young girl of extraordinary beauty; she was sitting alone, and leaning against a pillar in a kind of melancholy reverie.

"Ah! ah!" said Roberville, "I understand; your taste lies in that direction. Well, well, really in my opinion you show considerable judgment. I once thought of her myself, but now I have higher views."

"Indeed," replied I, as I gazed at him from head to foot, "you do not say so."

"Come, come," said Roberville, "I perceive your heart is already touched, you are occupied only with her; confess that it would have been a sad pity if those glorious black eyes had never been opened to the light."

"What do you mean?"

"What do I mean? why, that she was born blind. She is the daughter of a rich merchant of Anvers, and his only child; he lost his wife very young, and was plunged in consequence in the profoundest grief."

"Do you believe it?"

"I should think so, for he quitted Anvers, gave up his mercantile pursuits, which had never been more profitable to him than at that time, and, after making magnificent presents to those persons employed in his service, and pensions to his servants, left his house and occupation."

"And what became of him afterward?" said I, somewhat impatiently, for my curiosity was gradually increasing.

"Oh! it's a romance, a perfect romance. This good man retired to Chamouny, where we have all been once in our life, for the sake of saying that we have been, though, for my part, I can never understand the charms of its melancholy grandeur, and there he remained several years. Have you never heard him mentioned? let me see, it's a plebeian name – M. Robert, that's it."

"Well?" said I.

"Well," continued he, "an occulist succeeded in restoring his daughter's sight. Her father took her to Geneva, and at Geneva she fell in love with an adventurer, who carried her off because her father would not have him for a son-in-law."

"Her father felt that he was unworthy of her," said I.

"Yes, and he had formed a correct opinion of him, for no sooner had they reached Milan than the adventurer disappeared, with all the gold and diamonds of which he had been able to possess himself; it was asserted that this gallant gentleman was already married, and that he had incurred capital punishment at Padua, so that the law punished him."

"And M. Robert?"

"Oh, M. Robert died of grief; but this affair did not create a great sensation, for he was a very singular man, who had some extraordinary ideas; one of the absurd plans he had formed was, to marry his daughter to a blind youth."

"Oh, the poor girl!"

"She is not so much to be pitied either, but look at her instead of talking of her, and confess that she has many advantages, with two hundred thousand francs a year, and such a pair of eyes!"

"Eyes, eyes, curses rest upon her eyes, for they have been her ruin!" There is a leaven of cruelty in my composition, and I like to make those, who have caused others suffering, suffer in their turn. I fixed one of those piercing looks upon Eulalie, which, when they do not flatter a woman, make her heart sink within her; she raised herself from the pillar, against which she was leaning, and stood motionless and tremblingly before me. I went up to her slowly, and whispered Gervais.

"Who?"

"Gervais."

"Ah, Gervais," replied she, while she placed her hand before her eyes.

The scene was so singular that it would have shaken the nerves of the most composed person, for my appearance there was altogether so sudden, my acquaintance with her history so extraordinary.

"Ah, Gervais," exclaimed I, vehemently seizing her at the same time by the arm, "what have you done to him?" She sank to the ground in a swoon. I never heard any more of her from that memorable night.

I entered Savoy by Mount St. Bernard, and again found myself once more in the valley of Chamouny. Again I sought the rock where Gervais was accustomed to sit, but though it was his usual hour for sitting there, he was not to be seen. I came up to the old spot, and discovered his stick of Cytisus, and perceiving that it was ornamented with a piece of green ribbon, on which were some words printed in relief, the circumstance of his leaving this behind him made me feel very uneasy. I called Gervais, loudly; a voice repeated Gervais; it seemed to me like an echo; I turned round; and beheld Marguerite, leading a dog by a chain. They stopped, and I recognized Puck, though he did not know me, for he seemed occupied by some idea; he sniffed his nose in the air, raised his ears, and stretched forth his paws, as if he was going to start off.

"Alas, sir," said Marguerite, "have you met with Gervais?"

"Gervais," replied I, "where is he?" Puck looked at me as if he had understood what I had said, he stretched himself toward me, as far as his chain would permit; I stroked him with my hand, the poor thing licked my fingers and then remained still.

"I remember now, sir, that it was you who gave him this dog to console him for one which he had lost, a little while before you came here; this poor animal had not been eight days in the valley before he lost his sight like his master."

"I lifted up Puck's silky head, and discovered that he was indeed blind. Puck licked my hand, and then howled.

"It was because he was blind," said Marguerite, "that Gervais would not take him with him yesterday."

"Yesterday, Marguerite! what, has he not been home since yesterday?"

"Ah, sir, that is exactly what astonishes us all so much. Only think on Sunday, in the midst of a tremendous storm, a gentleman came to the Valley; I could have declared he was an English milord; he wore a straw hat, covered with ribbons."

"Well, but what has all this to do with Gervais?"

"While I was running to fetch some fagots to make a fire for drying M. Roberville's clothes, he remained with Gervais. M. de Roberville! yes, that was his name. I do not know what he said, but yesterday Gervais was so melancholy; he, however, seemed more anxious than ever to go to the rock; indeed he was in such a hurry that I had scarcely time to throw his blue cloak over his shoulders; and I think I told you that the evening before was very cold and damp. 'Mother,' said he, as we went along, 'be so kind as to prevent Puck from following me, and take charge of him; his restlessness inconveniences me sometimes, and if he should pull his chain out of my hand, we should not be able to find each other again perhaps.'"

"Alas, Gervais!" cried I, "my poor Gervais!"

"Oh, Gervais! Gervais, my son! my little Gervais!" sobbed the poor woman.

Puck gnawed his chain, and jumped impatiently about us.

"If you were to set Puck at liberty, perhaps he might find Gervais," said I.

The chain was unfastened, and before I had time to see that Puck was free, he had darted off, and the next moment I heard the sound of a body falling into the depths of the Arveyron. "Puck! Puck!" shouted I; but when I reached the spot, the little dog had disappeared, and all that could be seen was a blue mantle floating on the surface of the waters.

THE DAUGHTER OF BLOOD – A TALE OF SPANISH LIFE

At Aranjuez, some twenty years ago, there lived a youth of the poorer class, whose good nature and industry were the proverb of the village. His name was Julio. His disposition was naturally indolent, morally I mean rather than physically; and although he was by no means deficient in understanding, he allowed himself to be guided by any person who, for any purpose, thought fit to undertake the task. Julio delighted in doing a kindness and, as his good-nature equalled his ductility, he granted every request, whether it lay in his power or not. No one was more ready to play at the village dance than Julio; and though he loved to dance himself, he never thought of indulging in this predilection until his companions, knowing his weakness, insisted on his allowing some one else to take the guitar. It was to him always that damsels resorted who had quarreled with their sweethearts, or youths who had fallen under the displeasure of their Chloe; for, on behalf of the first, he was best able to soften jealousy and extort promises of future amendment, and for the latter, he would smooth matters by appropriate words, nay, often by a small gift purchased by a sacrifice of part of his own scanty store, and presented as though from the culprit. Great were this charming young man's accomplishments; and not only were his companions, but the higher class of inhabitants, grieved when his facile disposition brought him into any scrape. It had always been supposed that Julio was attached to a young girl, with whom he had been brought up. His patrimonial cottage adjoined to that of her parents, and he had ever seemed to court her society more than that of his other fair acquaintances. As for her, she adored him. She was much of the same disposition as himself, and undecided; but in her love for him, she had come out of herself; she would have followed him to the scaffold, and would infinitely have preferred a disagreeable death in his society, than the most agreeable life without him. As yet he had scarcely sufficiently reciprocated her attachment; he liked her society; he perhaps did not object to her devotion! nay, he wished to marry her; but she had not inspired him with the same absorbing love she herself felt; she had not sufficient command over him to draw forth his passion in its full tide; and while that passion was accumulating, pent up for some event, she was content with his simmering affection. Her name was Faustina.

But his love was soon to be proved, and poor Faustina's heart was to be sorely tried. While she confidingly looked up to him who was virtually her betrothed, she little thought how slight was the bond that attached him to her. She knew his love did not reach one tithe of that she would have wished, but she thought it infinitely more than what it eventually appeared.

An Italian family from Madrid came to reside during the spring months at Aranjuez. In their retinue came Ursula, an Italian femme-de-chambre, a woman whose name is never uttered in the pueblo but with a curse.

She was older than Julio, who became acquainted with her while employed in the house in his trade as carpenter; but as she saw his pliable disposition, and perhaps his nascent passion, her experience and acuteness taught her to turn them to account; and in a short time she obtained such an ascendency over him, that he became a perfect plaything in her hands. He ruined himself in purchasing presents for the artful woman; he furnished her with all she required; he gave her money; in fact, had she requested his life, it would not have been considered an exorbitant demand. Ursula was handsome, tall, dark, and fierce-looking flashing eyes she had, with heavy arched brows; and considering these advantages, folks wondered that she would condescend to turn her ideas so humbly; but after inquiries showed that in her own land, and in Madrid, her conduct had been so very profligate, that all was now fish that came to her net, and that, to obtain the consummation of the wishes of every woman, a husband and independence, she must stoop far below what must have been her original expectations.

Meanwhile poor Faustina wept and prayed, now scorned by Julio, but pitied by the little world in which she had lived. She wept and prayed, but tears seemed to afford no relief to the maiden in her anguish, and prayers appeared to have lost their efficacy: they brought no success, nay, worse, no comfort. Still Julio pursued his headlong career, heedless of the past, the present, or the future. It was dreadful to see the change in him: he seemed as one possessed. The reckless passion that had been roused by the wily Italian, burst all bounds, knew no restraint, no path; it was like a torrent that has been for some time dammed up, which, when set free, acknowledges no demarkation, no rule of banks or bed, but tears forward, involving in its impetuous rage the verdure and bloom that are around it.

Such was the state of affairs that occupied the attention of all the Aranjovites, when one morning Ursula the Italian disappeared. Julio was at work when the fact was communicated to him, which being done, he fell to the ground, as though the intelligence had struck him dead; and when he recovered from the swoon, he raved, frantic. He wandered to Madrid, but could discover no intelligence of her; he visited all the neighboring towns, he inquired of the police, but no trace of the woman could be found, till at last the reaction of his spirits, after the tense excitement, the grief, the balked passion, seemed to have prostrated his senses; he walked as a spectre, taking heed of no passer-by, callous to all changes, careless of remark and of appearance, a noonday ghoul preying on his own misery. But now the prayers of the poor girl who loved him so fondly seemed to her to have been granted. She had not besought a return of his former lukewarm regard, only an opportunity of proving her own devotion; and in his dull apathy she indeed proved herself a loving woman. She followed him in his walks, she arranged his cottage, sang to him the songs she thought he best loved; nay, to cheer him, would endeavor to repeat the airs she had at times heard from the lips of her Italian rival, though the attempt was but a self-inflicted wound; and in the heat of the day, she would take him often her own share of the domestic meal, or placing his unconscious head on her bosom, would tend him like a child, as he lay half sleeping, half senseless.

Her constancy received a qualified reward – Count – , an officer having the chief authority in the royal demesnes, hearing the story, offered to Julio a good appointment in the gardens, with the proviso that he should espouse Faustina. To this Julio yielded without a sigh; poverty was beginning to make itself felt, and having resigned all hope of happiness he did not anticipate increased misery. His marriage did not alter his late mode of life. Listless and stupid he wandered about the gardens, inspecting, with an uninterested eye, the workmen over whom he had been placed, and he would soon have lost his appointment had it not been for his wife, who, "tender and true," in addition to her household duties, executed those which had been committed to his charge, slaving night and day for him she loved, careless of suffering and of labor, her only object to win his approbation, and some, however slight, token of returned affection: but she labored in vain; Julio did not see, or affected not to see, these exertions; he would enter the house or leave it, without uttering a syllable, while his wife continued her thankless office, rewarded only by her conscience. And how disheartening a task it is to practice self-denial unappreciated, to resign all for one who deigns not even to bestow a word of kind approval. But thus Faustina lived her life – one uninterrupted self-sacrifice. Alas! how often are such lives passed by women in every rank of life! How little can a stranger tell the heroism that occurs beneath the roofs of the noble or on the cold hearth of the beggar; at odd times, at sudden epochs, the world may hear of deeds practiced, that, of old, would have deified the performer; but often, how often, will noble acts, such as these, receive a thankless return; years passed as this, acknowledged only when too late; their premium in life, perchance, may be harsh words or curses, or transitory tears may moisten the grave when the gentle spirit passes from its earthly frame. These observations may be just, but they are somewhat trite.

Thus they lived for five years, one pretty little girl being the only fruit of this union; a child who, in her earliest days, was taught to suffer, and who partook her mother's disposition, nay, even her mother's character, as it appeared, tempered by the grief of womanhood; when one day, to the horror and disgust of the township, Ursula, the teterrima causa, reappeared at Aranjuez. She was grown much older in appearance – years and evident care had worn furrows in her cheeks; but the flashing eye of sin was not yet dimmed, her head not bent, nor the determination that had of old gained such a baneful influence on the mind of Julio. One morning Faustina, leaving her house, beheld her husband in conversation with her rival. That day had sealed her doom. Morning, noon, and night, Julio was at the side of Ursula, as before, obeying her slightest command, groveling at her feet, like a slave; his ancient energy of passion had returned, but only to brutalize his nature; instead of cold looks to his wife, he now treated her with blows at the rare interviews he held with her; the cold apathy was changed into deep hate, and though no direct act of violence caused her death, the shock, the harshness, added to neglect, soon broke her heart. Poor Faustina died, blessing with her latest breath, the being who had by his cruelty killed her, and deprecating even remorse to visit him, she left the world, in which she had loved in vain.

At her death, Julio found himself comparatively wealthy – wealthy by her exertion; and ere another moon shone over his roof, his bride, the dark Italian, beat his child on the spot where the mother had so lately died.

Dark rumors soon spread over the village, a scowling Italian, given out by Ursula as her brother, came and took up his abode in her newly-acquired house; curious neighbors whispered tales how, peeping in at night, they had beheld the three deal heavy blows to poor Faustina's daughter; screams often were heard from the desecrated habitation, and the child was never seen to leave the house. Julio had recovered, to a certain extent, the use of his faculties, and was enabled now himself to attend to his affairs, but his subordinates soon felt the loss of Faustina's mild rule, and with the discrimination of the Spanish peasantry, attributed their sufferings, not to the miserable tool, but to the fiend-hearted woman.

Julio was walking in the garden alone, during the time usually devoted to the mid-day sleep; his underlings were reclining beneath the shade of the trees; and, at last, overcome by the heat, he himself gave way to slumber; his dreams were troubled, but were not of long duration; for he had not long laid himself on the sward, when he felt himself rudely shaken, and, awaking, discovered an officer of justice standing near him, who desired his society. The alguazil led him to his own abode, and, on reaching it, what did he behold? His wife, who was then with child, pinioned, between two villagers acting for the nonce as constables, one of whom held in his hand a bloody navaja; the brother(!), also pinioned, standing near her; and on the ground, surrounded by a knot of peasants, glad at the vengeance that was to overtake the guilty pair, he saw the child of Faustina, decapitated, dismembered, discovered thus on the floor of the cottage, ere the murderous couple had been enabled to conceal the mangled remains. A workman, a near relation of Julio's first wife, who had, by chance, heard a suppressed scream in passing, hastily summoning assistance, had arrived in time only to apprehend the assassins, the shedders of innocent blood. There was no flaw in the evidence, and, ere long, Ursula and her paramour, for such was the true relative position in which she stood with the stranger, were sentenced to the doom they so richly deserved. I have not, however, ended, my narrative, but I will endeavor to curtail the rest of my history, to me the strangest part of it. Julio was not disenchanted; by extraordinary exertions to save the mother of a child, shrewdly suspected not to be his own, he prevailed on his patron, Count – , to procure the commutation of his wife's sentence to a term of imprisonment; and though the murderer forfeited his life, the murderess escaped after some years' incarceration, having given birth to a child shortly after her trial, who, innocent, bore on her brow the mark of the instrument of her mother's crime; and, can it be credited! – Julio took the woman to his home, his love unabated, his subserviency undiminished!

They now live in Aranjuez, and the child is left to wander about unnoticed, except with punishment; my kind-hearted landlady alone feeds the poor creature, whom all others shun: and even she feels uncomfortable in the presence of one born under such auspices. Her fellow-townsfolk, as they pass the scene of virtue and of crime, bless the memory of Faustina, and curse the life of Ursula, praying for the peace of the first one and of her child; and, while execrating the latter, refuse shelter or relief to her innocent offspring, who, in the universal spirit of poetry that reigns in Spain, is known far and near, and pointed to the stranger as La Hija de Sangre, the Daughter of Blood.

THE EXECUTION OF FIESCHI, MOREY, AND PEPIN

About one o'clock on a cold winter night in 1835, a party of four persons were seated in the coffee-room of the Hôtel Meurice, at Paris. It was chilly, sloppy, miserable weather; half-melted snow, mixed with the Paris mud, and a driving, sleety rain hissed against the ill-fitting windows.

Our four convives were drinking – not the wines of sunny France, but something much more appropriate and homely – a curiously-fine sample of gin, artfully compounded into toddy, by Achille, the waiter.

When the clock struck one, three of the party made a show of retiring; but the fourth, a punchy gentleman from Wolverhampton, entreated that the rest would not all desert him while he discussed one glass more – nay, perhaps, would join him! But here Achille was inexorable: the master was in bed, and had taken the keys.

Our four friends have taken their candles, and are moving from the room, when a cab drives rapidly to the door – there is a smart ring at the bell, and a gentleman in full evening dress, and enveloped in a Spanish cloak, hastily enters the room.

"Who is inclined to see Fieschi's head chopped off?" said the stranger, unfolding himself from the cloak. "The execution is to take place at daylight – I had it from a peer of France, and the guillotine has been sent off an hour ago."

"Where?"

Our informant could not tell. It was known only to the police – there was an apprehension of some attempt at a rescue, and ten thousand troops were to be on the ground. It will be either the Place St. Jaques, or the Barrière du Trône – the first, most likely; let us try that to begin with, and there will be plenty of time to go on to the other afterward: but we must be early, to get a good place.

We are not of those who make a practice of attending executions with a morbid appetite for such horrors. Under any circumstances, the deliberate cutting off a life is a melancholy spectacle. The mortal agony, unrelieved by excitement, is painful in the extreme to witness, but worse still is reckless bravado. Rarest of all is it to see the inevitable fate met with calm dignity. Here, however, was a miscreant, who, to gratify a political feeling – dignified, in his opinion, with the name of patriotism – deliberately fired the contents of a battery of gun-barrels into a mass of innocent persons, many of whom, it was quite certain, would be killed, for the chance of striking down one man, and, probably, some of his family. That this family, with their illustrious father, should have escaped altogether, is an instance of good fortune as remarkable as the attempt was flagitious. But the magnitude of the crime invested the perpetrators with a terrible interest, which overcame any lingering scruples, and the whole party decided upon setting out forthwith. We made for the nearest coach-stand, which was that upon the quay, near the Pont Neuf.