 | CHAPTER XII.
THE SORCERESS. The quadroone, or, St. Michael's day |  |
12. CHAPTER XII.
THE SORCERESS.
Thus speaking, the stately quadroone-mother left
the apartment. The indignity offered to her by the
solicitor of her daughter's person was not the only
motive that influenced the change so agreeable to
Azèlie in her manner, who had wondered that she had
betrayed no regret at her disappointment in the loss
of the young marquis, on whom, for his wealth and
rank, she had fixed as her vowless lord, and whose
suit she had for several weeks encouraged with the
exercise of all her authority. A noble mansion, a
train of slaves, gorgeous equipages, and a style of appearance
above all other quadroones in the province,
were temptations, both to her pride and cupidity, that
were not to be thought lightly of; for they confirmed
her most sanguine hopes for Azèlie, fulfilled the end
of her jealous care and education, and constituted, in
her opinion, the highest and happiest condition in which
she could place her.
Such was the highest happiness sought or wished
by the quadroone-mother for her daughter! Such
was the fate to which each lovely daughter was destined—such
the fruition of their maiden hopes. That
she betrayed no regret, nor uttered a word of disappointment
at resigning all these, but, on the contrary,
was calm and more than usually gentle, surprised
There was, indeed, a deep yet concealed cause for this,
which, for the present, the quadroone-mother kept secretly
hidden in her own breast, but which, if known
to the lovely girl, would have redoubled the weight of
heaviness upon her spirits that her kind parting words
had so magically removed. The secret intelligence
and duplicity that marked her smile, and the proud
hopes that elevated her air and step as she retired
from the boudoir, were lost upon the daughter, who,
happy in the relief the words conveyed, sought beyond
them for no covert meaning.
Whatever the secret motive might be that reigned
so supremely in the breast of the quadroone-mother
as to leave no room for natural regret at the destruction
of long-cherished hopes, it was plain, from her
manner, that it was sufficient to make amends for her
disappointment, and must be a high and commensurate
cause to induce her so readily to permit her
daughter to cease to think of Jules Caronde.
That she was no longer to speak to her on the subject
she so sensitively shrunk from was not to be believed.
Azèlie was still a quadroone! Her spirited
protest had not been understood by the mother, who,
like the Circassian parent, looked to this disposal of
her daughter as a natural and suitable one. If her
feelings were understood, they produced no impression
upon her. As well might the mothers of Europe
cease to regard the hymeneal welfare of their daughters,
as the quadroone-mother to cease to look after
the happiness and interests of a beautiful child. To
her custom has made concubinage as honourable as
marriage. There was, therefore, still another trial in
store for Azèlie.
These reflections, however, scarcely flitted across
her mind, and left no more permanent impression
than the wing of the swallow upon the still lake. She
thought only of her present happiness, and scarcely
restrained herself from flying to her brother and communicating
the intelligence. Once she thought of the
be greater than her brother's, and she looked up to
heaven, as if her hope was there, and became reassured.
She was now about to prepare for her late toilet,
when the sonorous calls of the sentries throughout
the city drew her to the lattice where she had before
been seated. She listened to the answering cries, loud
and prolonged, of “All's well!” at first with a startled
ear, and then with a strange delight, as voice after
voice broke the stillness and died away in the distance.
She then cast a hasty glance at the quiet sky, with its
heraldry of stars, and with the half-breathed wish of a
child that she was there, far from the world's woes,
was about to retire from the chilly night air, when a
rustling in the branches of a tree before the lattice attracted
her ear and eye. While in a half-flying attitude
she endeavoured to penetrate the shadow into
which the lower part of the tree was cast, a tall figure,
wrapped from head to feet in a mantle, suddenly stepped
forth from the obscurity, and, ere she could utter
an exclamation either of terror or surprise, or fly
from the casement, laid a hand upon her arm.
“Maiden, fear not—cry not out! I am thy friend,
and am here to save and bless thee!”
The voice was gentle and kind, and was that of a
woman. She repressed the cry of alarm that rose to
her lips, and said with firmness,
“What would you with me?”
“I may not speak with thee here, without,” she
said, releasing her hold upon her arm; and, passing
through the doorlike window, she entered the boudoir.
Azèlie retreated to the centre of the room, and
gazed upon her with emotions more of surprise and
curiosity than of fear; for the singularly gentle and
kind tones of her voice had instantly and surprisingly
dispelied all anxiety for her own safety, even when she
found herself alone with her.
“A gorgeous abode, gentle maiden,” said the extraordinary
intruder, looking round the rich apartment,
lamp. “It becomes thy birth; this is as it
should be! Nay, drop not thy head! Thou thinkest
I mock thee, and that there is irony in my words.
Thou wilt one day learn, my Lalla, that I speak no
riddles. 'Tis well,” she added, surveying the sumptuous
furniture and silken drapery; “'tis befitting thee!
I would have it so. There is an altar! thou art a
Christian, too! they have taught thee this faith!
Whose is this crucifix?” she demanded, taking up the
image.
“Mine, mother!”
“There is but one God, and Mohammed is his
prophet,” she repeated, in a deep, impressive voice.
“Surely I have heard those words before!” exclaimed
Azèlie, starting with sudden recollection; “and thy
form and voice are like an indistinct passage of a half-remembered
dream of childhood.”
“Bless thee, child'!' said the woman, with a smile
of pleasure, “thou hast not forgotten all! Memory
hath been faithful to her trust. Let me kiss thy hand
in token of my gratitude.”
Ere she could withdraw it, she enthusiastically, and
with a look and air of adoration, seized and pressed
her lips upon it.
“Who art thou, strange woman?” demanded Azèlie,
with increasing wonder.
“Thy guardian angel. One who will watch over
thee for thy good; who will defeat the machinations
of thine enemies, and secure thy happiness on earth.
Dost thou know me?”
“No, mother!”
“Wilt thou believe and trust me?”
“I will,” she said, earnestly; “for friends to the
unfortunate are prized jewels not to be cast aside.
The sound of thy voice wins me. I will believe thou
seekest my good.”
“It is enough. I knew it. I knew I should find
thee of this spirit. Bless thee, child. Enemies are
around thee. But I know thy virtue, and the guilty
beautiful woman who left thee but now. Fear her
not. I have power over her that you know not of.
Power to make her spirit tremble. One word from
me will be a poisoned dagger to her heart. Thy trials
are not yet over. I foresee danger to thee in the future.
It is even close at hand. But fear not! I, who
foresee the evil, can see the remedy. Trust to me,
and thou shalt be triumphant. The trial is less for
thee than for the retribution of one who, ere the morrow's
sun, will have sought thee out and found thee;
for the fame of thy beauty hath reached him.”
“Save me, I beseech thee, mother! Thy foreboding
words are death!” she cried, supplicating her with
clasped hands.
“Nay, in thy utmost peril, lay not a hand upon thy
life! Here is a token of my truth. Take it and wear
it. It will ever command my power and presence!
When thou art in thy greatest extremity, use it.”
She took from her neck a small hollow circlet of
gold, on which were inscribed some Arabic verses, surrounding
an amethyst of singular shape, in the centre
of which was graven a mysterious sign, and placed it
around her neck.
“Now, child of my heart, thou art under my protection,
and that of the good spirits. No harm shall
attend thee, though the danger that hangs over thee
will be great and imminent.” She then placed her
hand upon her head, and, looking upon her pale but
beauteous face, said, as if unconscious of speaking
aloud.
“There is the brow and eye of the mother—the
firm and beautiful lip of the sire. Maiden, thou art
very fair. There is no wonder that thy beauty hath
been, even as thy mother's was, a bane to thee! But
thy mother's fate shall not be thine.”
“Bless thee, bless thee for that word!” cried Azèlie,
gratefully.
“Dost thou know of whom I speak? Nay, thou
thine, gentle Lalla.”
“Why call me Lalla, good mother?”
“It is thy name.”
“Nay, Azèlie.”
“Be it so. Thou art Lalla to me. Adieu. I
have watched thee many a night when thou knewest
it not. The hawk hath now slipped its jess, and it becomes
the keeper of singing birds to be present and
watchful. Therefore have I come hither now to put
thee on thy guard, and bid thee hope. I would have
thee know me too. See that no one, not even thy
brother, knoweth of our interview! Is he abroad
still?”
“He is with a Spanish cavalier who has been
wounded—”
“And is beneath this roof. He hath done well.
How fares the stranger, maiden?”
“He hath slept,” she answered, quickly.
“He will be better, then. Guard thy heart, for
speech of him, I perceive, is already a talisman to
call the blood to thy brow.”
“Is he not worthy?” she asked, earnestly.
“If thy beauty and gentleness can win him, he is
worthy to win and wear even thee,” she said, with a
smile that made even her dark countenance pleasing.
“Now, good-night. I must go and make a visit of a
sterner kind to a warrior, and not to a maiden;” and,
once more kissing the hand of the surprised Azèlie, she
hastily passed through the window, and vanished amid
the foliage.
While the bewildered Azèlie, to whom this brief
visit had been like a dream, still stood on the spot
where the sorceress had parted from her, gazing after
her dark, tall form, and wondering in her mind at the
event, a light touch was laid upon her shoulder, and,
looking round, she beheld standing behind her her
brother, who that moment had taken his leave of the
young Spaniard.
“I heard a voice besides thine, sister; and this eager
Ha! there is no wind to move yonder acacia!”
he cried, darting past her.
“Stay, brother, stay!” she cried, holding him by
the hand ere he could break from her.
“Thou hast not been alone, then,” he said, obeying,
and eying her with a look of inquiry; “I know you
too well,” he added, with the tone of confidence due to
her truth and love, “to believe there has been anything
wrong, whoever hath been with thee. It is
enough for me that you wish the intruder to escape.”
“Dearest Renault, I should die to labour under your
suspicions. Your generosity weighs more with me
than the command I received to keep her presence a
secret. Moreover, thou thyself hast discovered it.”
“It is but a woman, then?”
“A woman, indeed, but one whose voice and words
had strange power over me,” she said, in an impassioned
tone.
“Was she not known to thee?” he asked, in surprise.
“No, brother; yet with early memories her tall
figure is strangely mingled.”
“Tall! Ha! this chimes! Wore she a gray
mantle that descended to the ground?” he eagerly demanded
of her.
“You have seen her, then, Renault!”
“I must believe that I have, and that it is the same
who bade me succour the Spanish cavalier. Spoke
she of this wounded stranger?”
“She did, and commended you for bringing him
hither.”
“It is the same. What will come of it all? It is
mysterious. What interest can she have in thee?
What was the matter and manner of her visit?”
In a few words she related to him all that had
transpired, not omitting the interview with her mother,
and then watched earnestly the expression his thoughtful
face assumed after she had ended.
The maturer mind of Renault was deeply impressed
corresponding facts without the medium of passion.
He took a calm and rational survey of what had been
said and done at both interviews. The result was, he
arrived at the just and certain conclusion that his mother
had laid some deep and dangerous plot for the sacrifice
of his sister, and that it was discovered by this
singular woman, who had warned her against it. Who
could she be, or why she should take such an interest
in his sister, he was unable to divine. He did not
communicate his opinions to Azèlie, but internally resolved
to discover the conspiracy, if such there was,
ere it should ripen, and, in the mean while, watch over
her safety against enemies, within and without, with
double diligence.
“What think you, brother?” she asked, seeing him
so long silent and thoughtful.
“That Heaven hath given thee another protector
besides thy brother. I came hither to bid thee good-night,
and pray thee to keep within till my return at
noon. Walk not even in the garden, nor abroad, save
at mass. Nay, this barricade must be dropped.”
As he spoke he touched a bar, and a framework of
iron slid from the wall, and, catching in the opposite
side of the window, presented a firm barrier to egress
or ingress. “Thou wert careless, child, to leave this
open, knowing your danger from Caronde and his
minions. This visit of the sorceress, as thou callest
her, is a warning to thee! What said she of our
mother? was it not that she had power over her?”
“That would make her tremble!”
“Ah! this knowledge may be of use to me. I will
bear it in mind. Now good-night, dearest. Haste
to thy couch, and in the morning see that our guest is
well entertained, even as his need and wounded state
shall require.”
“Is he better?”
“Not so well. Let him be kept quiet.”
Thus speaking, he affectionately took leave of his
sister, and departed by the door leading to his mother's
her chamber, took up her mandoline, and, accompanying
it with her voice, created that flood of melody
which fell on the ravished ears of the cavalier, and
lulled his senses into sweet and calm repose. In a
few minutes afterward she herself was asleep, and
dreaming that she was watching by the pillow where
she had left her heart.
| CHAPTER XII.
THE SORCERESS. The quadroone, or, St. Michael's day | |