‘BE not apprehensive of any harm, said he to me, as he approached; I come by the command of madame de Benavides: she has had esteem enough for me, to trust me with every thing relating to you, probably, (added he, with a sigh which he could not suppress,) she would have judged differently if she had known me well; but I will be just to her confidence; I will save you, and I will save her, if I can.’
‘You shall not save me, replied I; it is my duty to justify the innocence of madame de Benavides, and I will do it at the expence of a thousand lives, if I had them to lose.’ I then acquainted him with my design of keeping myself concealed, and passing for an assassin, to prevent any imputation falling upon her.
‘This project might be necessary, replied Don Gabriel, if my brother was dead, as I perceive you think, but his wound, although great, is probably not mortal, and the first sign of life and sense he gave, was to order that madame de Benavides should be confined to her own apartment: this proves that he suspects you are her lover, and if you persist in your design, you will lose your own life, without preserving hers. Let us go, added he, the safety I offer you to-day, I probably cannot afford you to-morrow.’
‘And what will become of madame de Benavides? cried I; no, I can never resolve to withdraw myself from danger, and to leave her in it.’
‘I have already told you, replied Don Gabriel, that your presence will only render her situation worse.’ ‘Well, said I, sighing, I will fly, since you will have it so, and that her interest demands it. I had hoped that by the sacrifice I had intended to make her of my life, I should at least have been pitied by her; but I deserve not to have this consolation: I am an unhappy wretch, who am not even worthy to die for her. Protect her, added I, to Don Gabriel, the tears streaming from my eyes as I spoke: you are generous; her innocence, her misfortunes must move you.’
‘You may judge, said he, by what has escaped me, that I am too much for my own quiet concerned in the fate of madame de Benavides. I will do every thing for her. Alas! added he, I should have thought myself well paid, if I could have hoped that she had loved no one. How is it possible that you should not be satisfied with your good fortune in having touched a heart like hers? but let us go, pursued he, let us take advantage of the night.’ Then taking my hand and turning a dark lanthorn, he led me through the courts of the castle. Transported with rage against myself for what I had done, in the wildness of my despair, I wished myself still more miserable than I was.
Don Gabriel, when he left me, advised me to retire to a convent of religious, which was within a quarter of a league of the castle. ‘You must, said he, keep yourself concealed in their house for some days, that you may not be in danger from the search I myself shall be obliged to make for you; and here is a letter for one of those religious, which will procure you admission into the house.’
I loitered a long time about the castle after he left me, not being able to remove myself from the place where Adelaida was; at length the desire of hearing all that happened to her, determined me to set out for the convent. I arrived there just at day-break, the religious to whom I presented Don Gabriel’s letter received me very civilly, and conducted me into a chamber near his own. My paleness, and the blood he observed on my cloaths, made him apprehensive that I was wounded. He was beginning to enquire after my health, when I fainted away. With the assistance of a servant he put me to bed, and sent for a surgeon belonging to the convent to examine my wound: he declared that it was in a dangerous condition, through the fatigue and cold I had suffered.
When I was alone with the good father to whom I was recommended, I intreated him to send to a house in a certain village, which I named to him, to enquire for Saint Laurent, for I supposed he would take refuge there: I was not mistaken; he came with the messenger I had sent to him: the poor fellow was in excessive affliction when he heard that I was wounded: he approached my bed-side, and anxiously enquired how I did.
‘If you would save my life, said I to him, you must learn in what state madame de Benavides is, inform yourself of all that has passed; haste, lose not a moment, and remember that what I suffer in this uncertainty, is ten thousand times worse than death.’ Saint Laurent promised to do every thing I desired, and went away to take proper measures to satisfy me.
Mean time I was seized with a violent fever, my wound grew more dangerous, they were obliged to make great incisions, but the torments of my mind made me almost insensible to those of my body; the image of madame de Benavides bathed in tears, as I had seen her when I left her chamber, and kneeling by her husband, whom I had wounded, was continually before my eyes. I took a review of the misfortunes of her life; I found myself in all: her marriage, to which she was forced on my account, her fatal choice of the most jealous and brutal man in the world for a husband, was made for my sake; and I had lately compleated all her misfortunes, by exposing her reputation to injurious censures. I called to my remembrance the unjust jealousy I had discovered, which although it had lasted but a few moments, and was banished by a single word from her, yet I could never pardon myself for. Adelaida could not but think me unworthy of her esteem; she could do no otherwise than hate me.
Saint Laurent returned the next day; he informed me that Benavides was still extremely ill of his wound; that Adelaida was in the utmost affliction; and that Don Gabriel made a shew of seeking for me every where. This news was not very likely to calm the perturbation of my mind. I know not what I ought to wish for, every thing was against me. I could not even wish for death; I thought I owed the prolonging of my wretched life to the justification of madame de Benavides.
The good father to whom I was recommended beheld me with great compassion: he heard me sigh continually, and always found my face bathed in tears. He was a man of sense and politeness, who had been long in the world, and whom a concurrence of strange accidents had driven into a cloister: he did not endeavour to reason me out of my grief, or to console me by the usual methods; he only expressed great sensibility of my misfortunes. This way succeeded; by degrees he entirely gained my confidence, perhaps also I only wanted an opportunity to speak and to complain to him. I conceived so great an affection and esteem for him, that I related to him my whole story. He became so necessary to me after a few days stay in the convent, that I could not bear him to be absent from me a moment. I never met with a man that had more goodness of heart: I repeated to him the same things a thousand times over; he always listened to me with the utmost attention, and sympathised in all my griefs.
It was through him that I learned every thing that passed in the house of Benavides: he had been in great danger from his wound, but it was at length cured. I was informed of it by Don Jerome, so was my friend the religious called. He afterwards told me, that all seemed quiet in the castle; that madame de Benavides lived more retired than before, and that she was in a very languishing state of health. He added, that I must resolve to remove as soon as I was able; for if it should be discovered that I was concealed there, it would expose the lady to new distresses.
It was not likely that I should be soon in a condition to leave the convent; I was wasting away with a continual fever, and my wound was not yet healed. I had been in this religious house above two months, when one day I observed Don Jerome to be pensive and melancholy; he always turned his eyes away when they met mine; he seemed studiously to avoid looking at me, and with difficulty answered my questions. I had conceived a very tender friendship for him; misfortunes give sensibility to the heart. I was going to express my concern for his uneasiness, and to enquire into the cause, when Saint Laurent entering my chamber, told me that Don Gabriel was in the convent, and that he had just met him.
‘Don Gabriel here, said I, looking at Don Jerome, and you never to mention to me his coming! what is the meaning of this reserve? you fill me with the most dreadful apprehensions; what is become of madame de Benavides? for pity draw me out of this cruel uncertainty.’ “Would I could leave you always in it.” said Don Jerome at length, embracing me.
‘Ah, cried I, she is dead, Adelaida is dead; Benavides has sacrificed her to his rage. You answer me not—alas! then I have nothing to hope: Ah! it was not Benavides, but I who have plunged the poniard into her breast: had it not been for my fatal passion she might have been still alive—Adelaida is dead; I shall never behold her more—I have lost her for ever, she is dead, and I still live! why do I not follow her? why do I delay to revenge her upon her murderer? alas! death would be too great an indulgence to me; it would separate me from myself, and I am made up of horror and anguish.’
The violent agitation I was in caused my wound, which was not well healed, to open again. I lost so much blood that I fell into a swoon, which lasted so long that they thought me dead: but after continuing several hours in this happy state of insensibility, I woke to grief unutterable. Don Jerome, apprehensive that I should make an attempt upon my own life, charged Saint Laurent to watch me with the strictest attention. My despair now took another form: I complained not, I shed not a tear; then it was that I formed a resolution to go and inhabit some solitude, where I might, without controul, deliver myself up a prey to my affliction.
I was desirous of seeing Don Gabriel, for I eagerly caught every thing that could heighten my despair. I intreated Don Jerone to bring him, and the next day they came together into my chamber; Don Gabriel seated himself upon the side of my bed. We continued along time silent; neither of us was able to speak, he looked upon me with eyes swimming in tears. ‘You are very generous, monsieur, said I at length, to visit a wretch whom you have so much reason to hate.’
‘You are too miserable, replied he, to make it possible for me to hate you.’
‘Ah, cried I, tell me, I beseech you, every circumstance of my misfortunes, leave me ignorant of nothing; the explanation I desire of you may possibly; prevent my taking some measures which you have an interest to hinder.’
‘I shall redouble your affliction and my own, replied he, but I cannot help it—I will satisfy you; and in the recital I am going to make you, you will find you are not the only person to be pitied. Take then the incidents in order as they happened; we shall too soon come to the melancholy catastrophe.’
‘I had never seen madame de Benavides till she became my sister-in-law. My brother, who had some affairs of consequence to settle at Bourdeaux, saw her there, and fell in love with her, and although he had several rivals, whose birth and riches were superior to his, yet madame de Benavides, for reasons I never could guess at, preferred him to them all. A short time after their marriage, he brought her to his estate in Biscay, and there it was that I saw her for the first time; if her beauty excited my admiration, I was still more charmed with the graces of her mind, and the extreme sweetness of her temper, which my brother put every day to new trials. However, the passion I then had for a very amiable young person, made me believe that I was secured from the influence of her charms, which it was impossible to behold without love: I even designed to make use of my sister-in-law’s interest with my brother, to prevail upon him to consent to our marriage. The father of my mistress, offended at my brother’s refusal, had given me but a very short time to bring him to a compliance, declaring that when it was expired, he would marry his daughter to another.’
‘The friendship and esteem which madame de Benavides expressed for me, gave me courage to implore her assistance. I often went to her apartment with an intention to speak to her; but the slightest obstacle imaginable restrained me. Mean while, the time which had been prescribed to me drew towards a period; I had received several letters from my mistress, in which she prest me to use every method to gain my brother’s consent. My answers did not satisfy her: without my perceiving it, an air of coldness ran through them, which drew many complaints from her; these complaints appeared to me to be unjust, and I reproached her with it. She now believed herself abandoned, and resentment, joined to the commands of her father, determined her to marry the person he proposed to her. She herself in a letter she wrote to me, informed me of her marriage; she reproached me, but it was with tenderness, and concluded with earnestly intreating me never to see her more. I had loved her passionately; I imagined I still loved her, and I could not learn that I had lost her for ever without feeling a real affliction. I was afraid she was unhappy, and I reproached myself with being the cause of it. Absorbed with these reflections, I continued walking in a melancholy manner, in the little wood which you used often to visit; there I was met by madame de Benavides, who, observing my uneasiness, kindly desired to know the cause of it. A secret repugnance which I felt within myself restrained me from telling her: I could not resolve to own to her that I had been in love; but the pleasure of speaking to her of that passion carried it over that consideration. All these emotions passed in my heart without my perceiving the cause: as yet I had not dared to examine into the nature of what I felt for my sister-in-law. I related my story to her: I shewed her the letter which Isabella had wrote me.’
‘Why did you not mention this sooner to me? said madame de Benavides; perhaps I might have been able to obtain the consent of your brother, though he refused it to you. My God! how much I pity you, how greatly I am concerned for her: she doubtless will be miserable.’
‘The compassion which madame de Benavides expressed for Isabella, made me apprehensive that she would think hardly of me, as the person who had made her unhappy. To diminish therefore this compassion, I eagerly told her that the husband of Isabella was a man of birth and merit; that he held a very considerable rank in the world; and that it was highly probable his fortune would be still more so.’
‘You are deceived, answered my lovely sister-in-law, if you think all these advantages can make her happy; nothing can make a mends for the loss of what one loves. It is a cruel misfortune, added she, when we are obliged to act contrary to our inclination, to comply with our duty.’
‘She sighed several times during this conversation; I even perceived that it was with difficulty she restrained her tears. She left me soon afterwards; I had not power to follow her, I remained in a trouble and confusion I am not able to describe. I now for the first time perceived what I had hitherto industriously concealed from myself, that I was in love with my sister-in-law, and I thought I could discover a secret passion in her heart; a thousand circumstances then rushed upon my memory, which before I had given no attention to: her taste for solitude, her indifference for all those amusements which make the delight of persons of her sex and age. Her extreme melancholy, which I had attributed to my brother’s bad treatment of her, now seemed to me to proceed from another cause. How many sad reflections now rose in my mind! I found myself in love with a person whom I ought not to love, and this person’s heart in the possession of another.’
‘If she loved nothing, said I, my passion although without hope would not be without sweetness: I might pretend to the blessing of her friendship; in that I would place my felicity. But this friendship will not satisfy my heart, since she has sentiments more tender for another. I was sensible I ought to use my utmost endeavours to vanquish a passion so dangerous to my quiet, and which honour would not permit me to entertain. I took a resolution to fly from my too lovely sister; and I returned to the castle to tell my brother that some affairs called me from him, but the sight of madame de Benavides left me no power to follow the dictates of my reason. All my resolutions vanished into air; yet to furnish myself with some pretence to continue near her, I persuaded myself that I was necessary to her, in being sometimes able to calm the tempestuous humour of her husband. About this time you arrived; I found in your air and behaviour somewhat greatly above the condition you appeared in: I treated you with familiarity and kindness. I would have entered into your confidence and have made you my friend. My intention was to prevail upon you afterwards to draw a picture of madame de Benavides for me; for notwithstanding the delusive reasons my passion found for staying with my sister, yet I resolved some time or other to leave the castle: but in this separation so just, so necessary, I was willing at least to have her picture. The manner in which you received the advances I made you, shewed me that I had nothing to hope for from you; and I was gone to bring another painter into the house that unhappy day when you wounded my brother. Judge of my surprise at my return, when I was informed of what had happened. My brother, who was desperately kept a gloomy silence, casting from time to time a terrible look upon madame de Benavides. As soon as he saw me, he called me to his bed-side. Deliver me, said he, from the sight of a woman who has betrayed me; cause her to be conducted to her own apartment, and give strict orders not to suffer her to stir out of it.’
‘I would have said something against this rigorous order to my brother; but he interrupted me at the first word.’
‘Do as I desire you, said he, or never see me more. I was obliged to obey; and, approaching my sister-in-law, I intreated her to let me speak to her in her own chamber. Let us go, said she weeping, execute the order you have received.’
‘These words, which had the air of a reproach, pierced me to the soul: I durst not make her any answer in the place we were then in; but no sooner had I led her to her chamber, than looking on her with that grief and tenderness my heart was full of, what madam, said I, do you confound me with your persecutor; I who feel your trouble as sensible as you do yourself; I who would sacrifice my life to save you? I grieve to say it, but I tremble for you; retire for some time to a place of safety, I will endeavour to have you conducted wherever you please, provided it is a secure asylum from your furious husband.’
‘I know not whether monsieur de Benavides has any design to take away my life, but I know it is my duty not to abandon him, and I will fulfil it, though I perish.’ Then after a short pause me added, ‘I am going, by placing an entire confidence in you, to give you the greatest mark of my esteem it is in my power to give; and indeed the confession I have to make you is necessary to preserve yours for me. But go and attend your brother, a longer conversation may make you suspected by him; return hither as soon as you conveniently can.’
‘I obeyed madame de Benavides, and went to my brother’s apartment; the surgeon had visited him, and desired that no one might be allowed to come into his chamber. I flew back again to his wife, agitated with a thousand different thoughts: I was anxious to know what she had to say to me, and yet I feared to hear it. She related to me the manner in which she became acquainted with you, the passion you conceived for her the moment you saw her, the generous sacrifice you had made her, and she did not conceal the tenderness with which you had inspired her.’
‘Ah, interupted I, have I then been dear to the most perfect woman upon earth, and have I lost her?’ This idea filled my soul with such tender sorrow, that my tears which had hitherto been restrained by the excess of my despair, began now to stream in great abundance from my eyes.
‘Yes, continued Don Gabriel, with a sigh, you were beloved. Good heaven! what tenderness did I not discover for you in her heart! Notwithstanding her misfortunes, and the horror of her present situation, I perceived that she indulged with pleasure the thought, that her affection for you was authorised by what you had done for her. She confessed to me, that when I led her into the chamber where you was painting, she knew you; and that she had wrote to you, to command you to leave the castle, but that she could not find an opportunity to give you her letter: she afterwards related to me how her husband had surprised you together, at the very moment when you was bidding her an eternal farewel, that he attempted to kill her, but that you interposed and wounded him in defending her.’
‘Save this unhappy man, added she, you only can preserve him from the fate that waits him; for I know that in the fear of exposing me to the least suspicion, he will suffer the most cruel death, rather than declare who he is.’
‘He is well rewarded for all he can suffer, madam, replied I, by the good opinion you have of him.’
‘I have owned my weakness to you, said she; but you have seen that if I am not mistress of my affections, I have at least been so of my conduct; and that I have taken no steps which the most rigorous virtue could condemn.’
‘Alas! madam, interupted I, it is not necessary that you should condescend to justify yourself to me. Too well am I convinced by my own experience, that it is not always in our power to dispose of our own hearts: I will use my utmost endeavours to obey you and deliver the count de Comminge; but, oh madam, permit me to assure you, that I am more miserable than he is.’
‘I left the room as I pronounced these words, without daring to raise my eyes to madame de Benavides. I shut myself up in my own chamber, to consider what I had to do. I had already taken a resolution to deliver you; but I was doubtful whether I ought not to fly from the castle myself. The torments I had suffered during the relation madame de Benavides had made me, shewed me the excess of my passion for her. It was necessary that I should suppress sentiments so dangerous to our virtue; and in order to suppress them, it was necessary I should see her no more; but it seemed cruel to abandon her in such a distressful situation; to leave her unprotected, in the hands of a husband who believed himself wronged by her. After continuing long irresolute, I determined at once to assist madame de Benavides, and to avoid seeing her as much as possible. I could not inform her of your escape till next day: she seemed to be a little more easy on your account; but I thought I could perceive that her grief was increased, and I doubted not but the declaration I had made of my sentiments was the cause. I quitted her immediately, in order to free her from the embarrassment my presence threw her into. I was several days without seeing her; my brother grew worse, and his physician thought him in great danger. I was obliged to make her a visit to acquaint her with this news.’
‘If I had lost Monsieur Benavides, said she, in the ordinary methods of providence, his death would have less sensibly affected me; but the part I have unfortunately had in it, makes it an insupportable affliction to me. I am not apprehensive of the ill treatment I may meet with from him; I am only afraid of his dying in a persuasion that I have wronged him. If he lives I may hope that he will one day be convinced of my innocence, and restore me to his esteem.’
‘Suffer me, madam, said I, to endeavour to merit yours; I implore your pardon for these sentiments I have dared to let you perceive. I was not able to prevent their birth, or to conceal them from you; I even know not whether I can subdue them, but I swear to you that I will never importune you with them. I had taken a resolution to fly from you, but your interest retains me here.’
‘I confess to you, replied Madame de Benavides, that you have given me great uneasiness; Fortune seemed desirous of taking from me the consolation I have found in your friendship.’
The tears she shed when she spoke to me were more powerful than all the efforts of my reason; I was ashamed of having augmented the miseries of one already so unhappy. ‘No, madam, replied I, you shall never be deprived of that friendship you have the goodness to set some value upon; and I will endeavour to render myself worthy of yours, by my solicitude to make you forget the extravagance I have been guilty of.’
‘In effect, when I left her, I found myself more calm and easy than I had ever been since I first beheld her. Far from leaving her, I endeavoured, by the resolutions I vowed to take when in her presence, to furnish myself with arguments for performing my duty. This method succeeded; I accustomed myself by degrees to reduce my former sentiments to friendship and esteem: I told her ingenuously the progress I made in my cure. She thanked me for it as for some consideble service I had rendered her, and to reward me, gave me every day new marks of her confidence. Still my heart would sometimes revolt, but reason always got the victory. My brother, after languishing a long time, at length began to recover: he would never be prevailed upon to give his wife permission to see him, though she often requested it. He was not yet in a condition to leave his chamber, when Madame de Benavides fell ill in her turn. Her youth saved her this time, and I was full of hope that her illness had softened her husband’s heart; for though he had continued obstinately resolute not to see her during his own danger, notwithstanding her earnest entreaties, yet he shewed some solicitude in enquiring for her when she was ill. She was almost recovered, when my brother ordered me to be called to him.’
[To be continued.]