 | CHAPTER II.
SCENE BETWEEN THE COUNT AND THE ASSASSIN. The quadroone, or, St. Michael's day |  |
2. CHAPTER II.
SCENE BETWEEN THE COUNT AND THE ASSASSIN.
The Count of Osma, without a word of explanation,
remanded his guards to their station in the Plaza before
the palace, and was left only with Sulem and the
slaves. Sending the latter away, he paced the chamber
which had been the scene of such varied events, as
if to get time to calm his thoughts. At length the
agitated and violent character of his face settled down
into a still expression. Not a trace of anger, or vindictiveness,
or disappointment remained. All was
calm save the eye, which shone with a triumphant
light. He had formed a plan to avenge himself upon
Renault, against whom he concentrated all his displeasure
towards his daughter, and his vengeance at being
thwarted in the assassination of the judges.
“Follow me, Sulem,” he said, leaving the chamber.
Traversing half the length of the paved passage
along which Estelle had guided Renault and his band,
he opened a door at the left, and entered a small but
elegant cabinet, with which communicated a sleeping
and ante room.
“Didst thou not tell me, slave, that this lovely quadroone,
Azèlie, had a brother Renault, a youth in great
favour with the town's-people, and of late leader of a
party hostile to Spain?”
“Even so, cadi.”
“Of whom learned you this?”
“Of the same porter at the gate of their dwelling,”
answered the Moor; for, obedient to his master's
orders given at the door of the Cathedral, he had, at
an indifferent, careless pace, followed Azèlie to her
threshold, where, seeing the old porter take a look
out into the street before closing the gate after them,
he skilfully detained him, and, by shrewdly-put questions,
learned everything he desired to know of the
quadroone family. He then returned and reported it
to the count, who, involved in the busy affairs of the
day, scarce questioned him at the time beyond his relation,
though by no means indifferent to his communication.
He was now free from his engagements,
and, as his sudden passion for the fair quadroone was
stronger than his resentment against the brother, he
banished from his breast all else, and gave his mind up
only to its gratification. He reflected a few moments
after Sulem had answered, and then observed abruptly,
“Said you not one spoke with you in the hall who
desired to see me on matters of moment?”
“He bade me say he could serve your excellency
better than a score of men-at-arms if you would give
him audience.”
“Did you bid him wait?”
“Nay, I was hastening with the guard to your relief—”
“Well, well, enough. Go, now, and see thou return
not without him. Stay! Heard you aught to-day of
I mean? He seems to delight in mystery.”
“Nothing beyond the words of the dark woman.”
“Go!”
Left alone, Garcia of Osma threw himself into a
seat, and began to think over the events of the evening.
He had been thwarted in his deliberate and
coolly-planned attempt to assassinate the provincial rulers.
Did he hope to do so black a deed in secret,
and to escape after without suspicion, and walk among
men unmarked by the finger of detestation? No. He
was willing—the deed done—to publish it! and, trusting
to the protection of the army he commanded, defy
the province. To his own king and the Spanish cortes
he was the representative of his own person, and the
only source through which his personal acts could be
officially recognised. He was now foiled indeed; but,
inwardly determining that his vengeance should yet
have its victims, he banished for the present these reflections,
and passed the time until Sulem's return in
the contemplation of the enchanting quadroone, resolving
to combine his revenge towards Renault with his
passion for her.
Sulem had heard from the porter of Renault's pride;
and the count's knowledge of character plainly told
him that the high-spirited youth would scarce resign
his sister to an open enemy, though of so high a rank
as himself; and that, in pursuing his passion, he was
best bringing about his vengeance. But Ramarez of
Osma was not a man to let a deep affront be atoned
for alone by moral punishment however degrading.
Not only dishonour and contempt did he hope to heap
upon Renault through his sister, but he was sure never
to rest until he had also added his blood.
While he was meditating on this theme the Moor
reappeared, and ushered in a short, swarthy man,
with restless, snaky eyes, that seemed ever watchful
with suspicion. His dress was a blue frock, thickly
adorned with bell-shaped silver buttons, the breast and
cuffs of it covered with needlework. His low-crowned
and his smallclothes and hose were of one piece, and
fitted tightly to a pair of spindle-legs, that had a gliding
rather than walking motion. He wore scarlet morocco
slippers, a scarlet sash about his waist, and a scarlet
bandanna kerchief loosely wound about his neck.
He looked a thorough-paced villain; and his thin, wiry
fingers had a constant and nervous clutch against the
palm, that reminded the observer of stilettos and midnight
murders. Osma measured him at a glance, and
seemed, by a sort of freemasonry and affinity of
brotherhood, to read him at once. Without hesitation,
he said instantly to him,
“You are the man I want.”
“I thought so,” said the other, with a cold laugh.
“You thought so, villain!” repeated Osma, sternly.
“I heard you had some matter to settle with the
quadroon Renault.”
“Who told thee?”
“My own wits, with the aid of my eyes and ears.”
“What is thy name?”
“Rascas.”
“Rascal, rather, if I might read it in thy face.”
“We should be cousins, then, for I read it in thine
to-day.”
“Ha! this is too bold, sir!” cried the count, half
drawing his sword.
“I am here to serve a bold man.”
“Go to—thou hast as much brass as villany in thee.
In what wouldst thou serve me?” he demanded, eying
him sharply.
“With my dagger.”
“Thou hast as little grace of speech as of visage,
sirrah.”
“And am, therefore, fitter for deeds.”
“Wherefore hast thou sought me?”
“To aid thee in thy vengeance and thy passions.”
“Dost thou know this?”
“I was in the Cathedral to-day,” he answered, dryly.
“And now do I remember I met thee in the street,
signor,” said Sulem.
“When thou wert coming from gossiping with Renault's
garrulous porter,” he answered, significantly.
“By the rood, Monsieur Rascas, thou art invaluable
if thy discretion measure thy subtlety.”
“Gold will buy secrecy.”
“Be it so. Sulem, place in his hands an onza of
gold. Thou shalt have this, sirrah, so long as thou
servest me faithfully. But, if thou prove false to me,
I shall not be backward in changing it for steel.”
“Thou art never backward in its use, if men lie
not.”
“Thy tongue is flippant, sirrah.”
“I did but allude to thy soldierly skill, signor,” answered
Rascas, with an ironical leer.
“Thou knowest more than thou wouldst seem to
know of me.”
“We have met in Spain, signor.”
“Ha! When?”
“On the night the southern tower of the castle of
Osma fell into the sea.”
The count started with an exclamation, and for a
moment eyed him fixedly.
“Wilt trust me, signor?” asked Rascas, with a confident
smile.
“Yes, yes. So thou speak to me no more of this.
Thou hast been a wanderer since—”
“That night's work, dost thou mean?”
“Speak of it again, and thou diest.”
“Why, blood-letting afterward I took to so kindly,
that Spain became too warm for me, and I have since
been a traveller on other men's purses. But this province
hath no wealthy hidalgoes; and I was wellnigh
impoverished and tempted to take to the highway,
when your excellency came and filled me with hopes;
for, by mine honour, though I have done a kindly deed
for many a cavalier since, I have never served so free
a hand as thyself.”
“Thou art a rare villain, sirrah; and I marvel thou
art unhung.”
“The devil hath sworn I shall not hang till a greater
professional assassin, with a forward and bold bearing,
that caused the Count of Osma to bite his lip with
shame and vexation; for joint crime is a leveller of
all distinctions of rank, and he keenly felt it to be so.
“Rascas, thou hast done well in coming hither; I
have need of thee, though not of thy dagger, this very
hour,” he said, in a grave tone, that gave him to understand
it was time for him to restrain his freedom
of tongue, and devote himself to the will of his new
master. “Your knowledge of this city and people
will be of infinite use to me.”
“Speak, signor!” he said, with attention.
In a few words the count detailed the scenes that
had transpired in the banquet-chamber, much of which
the wily villain had learned through listening, and that
spirit of ever-active suspicion which caused him to
know, as if by intuition, everything that passed around
him, if by any means he might work mischief out of
it for his own ends.
“Now, sirrah, I would have you bear this note,” he
said, writing it as he spoke, “to the colonel of my
cuirassiers in the barracks. It is a command for him
to mount and follow you with sixty horse. These
station at the eastern gate, and, if not too late, take
these councillors prisoners as they ride forth. Here
is a new countersign for the night, Sulem,” he continued
to his slave, “which bear to the captain of the
palace guards, and command him instantly to have it
delivered to all the posts; then go thyself, and, on thy
life, see that every barrier be closed for the night save
the eastern gate. Fly, and, having done my bidding,
hasten back hither.”
“It shall be done.”
“Now, Rascas, I depend on your sagacity and cunning,
as much as on the courage of my cuirassiers, to
seize these rebellious judges. It is not half an hour
since they left, and it will take time for them to prepare
and get to saddle. If they have passed the gate,
pursue them.”
“What shall be done with them, signor, if taken?”
“Cast them into the keep of the prison, and then
bring me word. See that it is done without parade
or show of tumult. Away with thee.”
The assassin glided from the apartment, and when
his light, swift tread ceased to reach his ear, the Count
of Osma threw over his rich banquet dress a sable
velvet cloak, and covered his brow with a black Spanish
bonnet without a plume; then exchanging his
dress sword for a short hanger, and concealing his face
to the eyes with the folds of the mantle, he left the
cabinet, and, entering the marble passage, paused an
instant, as if undetermined which way to go. At
length he exclaimed,
“A guerdon of thanks to this Renault. Yonder
private door, which he opened for the escape of the
councillors from the banquet-room, will aid my secret
departure from the palace.”
He was about to turn in this direction, when the
light from Estelle's door arrested his eye. He changed
his purpose instantly on seeing this, and walked
rapidly and noiselessly towards her apartment. The
door was ajar, and open wide enough to admit him.
He softly entered the antechamber, where two of her
slaves were sleeping on mats laid before the inner
door of her toilet closet. This door was open, and
all was still within. He entered, and beheld his
daughter kneeling beside an ottoman, on which her
head rested, her face laid on her snowy arm, sleeping
like a child. A tear was on one cheek, and a liquid
drop glittered with trembling lustre upon her long eyelash.
He gazed upon this sweet picture a few moments,
and his face grew sad and tender.
“Poor child, thou hast wept thyself to sleep!” he
said, half audibly. “She hath but acted like a loving
daughter, to save a guilty father from what she esteemed
a crime—not understanding I have power
of life and death! Sweet child! Thou lovest me,
Lil, and thou art, of human kind, all my stern heart
yearns to! I have too often wounded thy generous
art unhappy.”
He stooped and kissed her, and the touch of his
lip instantly awoke her. She opened her eyes, and,
seeing who it was, and the kind look with which he
was bending over her, threw her arms around him,
and, joyfully repeating “my dear father,” burst into
tears.
“Nay, Lil, thou hast my forgiveness,” he said, affectionately.
“Thou art ever kind to me, dearest father! Oh
that thou wert not thine own enemy!”
“Thine error is, child, that thou judgest my acts as
a conqueror and governor of a rebellious province, as
thou wouldst do those of a private person. Does the
king commit a crime when he condemns a traitor
to the scaffold? Is a judge a murderer who sentences
the murderer to death? These men have done
deeds worthy of death. They have strengthened the
resistance of the colonists; have been the fomenters
of sedition in the town; and have not only refused to
surrender their authority and the seals of the province,
but have traitorously dissolved their body, and, by the
act, placed themselves in the attitude of rebels. 'Fore
Heaven! they are well worthy of death.”
“There is the tribunal of the Cabildo, my father,
where they should have been arraigned.”
“The judgment of the Cabildo is but the echo of
my own, girl. I adjudged them worthy of death
in the tribunal of my own mind, the Cabildo would
have done the same.”
“Nevertheless, thou wouldst have escaped the odium
of the act, and not taken into thine own hands the
duty of the public executioner!” she answered, with
animation.
“Thou hast well spoken, child,” he said, with a
changed manner, after a moment's thought; “they
have now escaped. If taken, they shall be arraigned
before the tribunal of the Cabildo, as you desire. I
ought to thank thee I did not make my banquet-room
smiling and tapping her cheek; “but I would have
made an example of them to the people, and every
hour's delay was dangerous, inasmuch as rumours
reached me that they were already conspiring against
my power. The escapade of three hundred horsemen
through the eastern gate before dawn reported by the
captain of the guard, I have reason to think they had
something to do with. Now, my daughter, I have forgiven
thee this once for thy filial love; but let not
any future interference in my affairs call from me
harsh chidings where alone I would speak the language
of affection. Seek thy couch! To-morrow I
will have an entertainment for thee to receive the fair
signoras of the town, who, doubtless, desirous of following
the example of their lords, would gladly throng
hither to pay homage to thy rank and beauty.”
“Nay, father, I need it not.”
“It becomes our station, daughter, to endure the
ceremony; besides,” he added, with a smile, “I would
see, with a father's jealousy, if Louisiana has loveliness
to match thine. Seek thy couch early, that the
rose in the morning may take the place of the lily
now on thy cheek. Good-night, mia alma,” he added,
kissing her.
Then, casting his mantle about his noble form, this
subtle, designing, intriguing man—the more dangerous
for the virtues that mingled with his vices—left the
chamber, and traversed the paved passage to the private
banquet-room. He was about to enter, when a voice
within arrested his steps. Advancing cautiously forward,
he saw through the partly-open door a singular-looking
being sitting in his own state-chair, at the head
of the gold and silver piled board, with a goblet of wine
in one hand and a pineapple in the other, alternately
sipping of the wine and eating of the fruit, keeping up
a running soliloquy between. His dress consisted of
a yellow doublet, spotted with black fleur-de-lis; scarlet
breeches, and a high, conical cap of flaming red.
His shape was ludicrously deformed, a hump-back
at his physiognomy, having never before beheld so
extraordinary a one. He, moreover, seemed drunk.
“Now I would steal this gold cup an' I knew it to
be gold,” he soliloquized, surveying the goblet wishfully;
“but gold hath a look o' brass; and, were I to
steal a brass goblet for a gold one, I'd hang myself for
an ass. Here be a silver tankard; that has a good
complexion and genuine. I'll put that in my pocket,”
he said, suiting the action to the word. “There is a
gold salt-spoon; verily it doth look like brass; but, an'
it were not gold, methinks cousin Spain would not
have it. I will take it at a venture; and, as the saltcellar
is of no value without the spoon, like a mortar
without pestle, I must needs let it keep company with
the spoon. I would gossip Boviedo were here. He
could tell me an' these platters be silver. An' I thought
so, I would have the largest, and cut it up into twelve-penny
bits. This bottle is out, but here is one that
hath a cup gone out o' it; I will e'en fill from it. 'Tis
strange I am not drunk! Had I brains like other
men for the wine to get into, I had been dead drunk
two good hours agone! Cousin Spain hath made a
bountiful—a bounteous supper,” he said, surveying the
gorgeous board; “it were a lucky hour I found my
way in here, and especially discovered this snug supper,
after my false subjects had left me for drunk in the
other room. 'Tis true (this wine hath flavour!) I did
roll off the table; but wine that doth not put a true
man on his back hath water in it—(Ah! this is rare
wine; here's to cousin Osma's health!)—but I got to
my feet again when I had laid long enough to do credit
to the vintage. (This is grown in Madeira, or Gobin
is a fool.) I would cousin Spain were here to
hob and nob; 'tis dull work drinking alone; it will
take till daylight to put all these seventeen bottles o'
wine 'eneath my belt. (I shall never love any other
wine save cousin Osma's after this.) I can get drunk
nine times at a sitting on't, and go home sober. Out
on the vile trash gossip Boviedo and I were sopping
it, he lieth twenty-four hours like a hog, and waketh
up with his head split in two. Here's to cousin Osma,
and may he never want good wine, or Gobin to drink
it for him!” he added, emptying his goblet for the
third time since he was first discovered by the count.
“Here's to cousin Gobin, who shall never drink bad
wine while Osma can give him good,” responded the
count, amused at Gobin's soliloquy, and instantly appreciating
and chiming in with the humour of his character.
He had entered the chamber before he spoke,
and, advancing unseen to the table, had a goblet already
in his hand, when Gobin looked up and beheld him.
“Art thou cousin Osma?” he asked, with ready
self-possession.
“None other, gossip Gobin. Dost thou love wine?”
“Doth an unweaned child love its mother's milk?”
he answered, without being moved by the sudden appearance
of the governor.
“How many goblets hast thou emptied, gossip?”
asked the count, smiling.
“When I get this and another down that I shall soon
pour out, cousin, I shall have seen the bottom o' it eleven
times since I adjourned to this room.”
“Hast thou been feasting in the hall, too?”
“Wouldst thou have a man stuff his gullet with meat
when wine abounds? I have been bibing, cousin, not
feasting—no, by my mother's beard!”
“And how many cups didst thou put down there?”
“Nineteen, cousin, and should ha' rounded the score
had I not tumbled off the table.”
“How comest thou here, then, in such sober guise?”
“The goodness o' the wine, cousin Osma, I got
drunk upon. I slept twenty minutes like an infant,
and got up as fresh as if wine had not crossed my lip
for a twelvemonth. Finding my compatriots fled, and
seeing a door partly open, I ventured in, and soon made
myself at home here.”
“So I perceive, worthy Gobin, and am glad thou
lovest my wine. Art thou in service in the town?”
“I am a gentleman of leisure, and live by mother
wit,” he answered, gravely.
“Wilt thou take service with me at wages? Thou
shalt serve at court.”
“Nay, folly is at a discount in courts. Nothing
hath merit nowadays but wine,” he answered, emptying
his cup.
“Thou shalt drink such wine as that at thy dinner
each day,” said the count, taken with a sudden humour
to attach him to his household.
“I have a conscience at swearing allegiance, cousin.”
“Thou shalt not owe allegiance save to mirth and
folly. Our palace is somewhat grave, and we would
make thee master of mirth. Wilt thou serve me?”
“Verily will I do't, till I find a master who keepeth
better wine than thou dost. Let us take a goblet upon
it, gossip.”
The count drank to him by the title of Bacchus the
Second, and then was about to deliver him, with the
deserted banquet-halls, to the care of his master of
the ceremonies, who chanced to approach at that moment,
when Gobin drew from his vest a small folded
and sealed paper, saying, with a drunken hiccough,
“Speakin' o' Bacchus, gossip Spain, reminds me
that a womankind made me a Mercury, and bade me
place this in thy hands ere I touched goblet to lip.
Thou seest I have most faithfully done her bidding!”
“A most trusty messenger,” said the count, taking
the note from him.
With an eager and surprised eye, he read the superscription
to “The most noble Count Ramarez of Osma,”
in a strong but evidently female hand. He tore it
open.
“Ninine, the mother of the Quadroone Azèlie, has
witnessed the noble Count Osma's admiration of her
daughter. If agreeable to his excellency to grant her
an audience in his own cabinet, the intimation of his
wishes will be a command to
“Ninine,”
The connt read this extraordinary, but in that clime,
in that day, no unusual document, with a degree of gratification
he could not conceal.
“This is far beyond my hopes! Fortune hath favoured
me strangely,” he said, half aloud. “How well
hath that handsome, intriguing mother read my deep
passion! This is my first lesson in the romance of
this Western Ind. I will go to this interview, and,
thanks to my cousin Gobin, I shall not have to trust to
stratagem, as I was about to do, to gain admittance beneath
the same roof with this divine Azèlie. Now are
love and revenge both in my grasp.”
He threw aside, as he spoke, the arras that concealed
the door through which the councillors had escaped,
and, followed by his Cuban bloodhound, descended
the stairway to the street. Here he carefully and effectually
enveloped his features and person in the folds
of his mantle from the scrutiny of passers-by; for at
that early hour, nine o'clock having just struck, the
Place d'Armes and streets adjacent were filled with
revellers retiring from the banquet, and citizens, male
and female, drawn forth either by curiosity or the calm
beauty of the night. Then, taking his way for a short
distance along the shaded wall of the prison, he turned
into a side street and disappeared.
| CHAPTER II.
SCENE BETWEEN THE COUNT AND THE ASSASSIN. The quadroone, or, St. Michael's day | |