Volume Three—Chapter Nine.
In a large saloon, richly furnished with every article of luxury then invented to minister to comfort or to pride, a young lady was seated on a sofa, before a table, on which had been thrown some fancy-work, with which she had been endeavouring to amuse herself. Her face was turned towards the ground, and while, her elbow resting on a cushion, she supported with her hand her small and delicately formed head, her other arm, of beautifully rounded proportions, hung carelessly by her side. A greyhound, of the graceful Italian race, and of pure fawn colour, was leaping up and licking her fingers, in a vain endeavour to attract her attention to himself. A lamp, which hung from the lofty ceiling, (for it was night,) cast a bright light upon her high and polished brow, from which her hair, as was the fashion, was drawn back; and it seemed that those long silken eyelashes of jet, which scarce concealed the lustre of her eyes, cast down though they were, were glistening with tears. One of her small feet, on which she wore a high-heeled satin shoe, resting on a cushion, an ankle of the most slender proportions was revealed. Her gown was of the richest flowered silk; her whole costume, indeed, notwithstanding that she was thus alone and sad, was arranged with the greatest elegance and care.
More than once a deep-drawn sigh escaped her, as her bosom heaved with agitated throbbings, which in vain she endeavoured to calm. Alas! lovely and young as she was, anguish was at her heart; for an accusing conscience was already at work within. Yet were others far more guilty—traitors doubly damned, who walked abroad in the well-sustained characters of honest men; while she, the betrayed, the abandoned wife, was left to mourn alone, or to receive the treacherous consolations of the subtle seducer, a licensed prey to the slanderous tongues of the malignant.
Time passed on, yet she stirred not from her position; nor did any of her domestics enter to interrupt her solitude. Her little dog had desisted from his attempts to gain her notice, and, weary with his gambols, had lain himself down at her feet, yet anxiously watching to win a look of encouragement from her eye. A clock, on a side table, had some time given notice that it wanted but two hours to midnight, when the Italian greyhound lifted his broad falling ears, half rising from his recumbent position. In a few seconds more, the noise which had first aroused him was reiterated, and, leaping up, he ran towards the door, uttering a shrill bark, again running back to his mistress.
“Lie down, my pretty Fiel, lie down,” the dog instantly obeying her. “Ah! you will not too desert your mistress,” she said, and relapsed into her former thoughtful mood.
The next moment the door opened slowly—so silently, that the lady did not look up; but her four-footed companion bounded forward, and leapt up fawningly on a gentleman who entered, of a dignified figure, dressed in a handsome costume, with a sword with a richly jewelled hilt by his side. He allowed his hand to caress the little dog, as he advanced close to the lady, and pronounced the name of “Theresa!”
The lady starting, with marked confusion, instantly rose, making one step towards him; while he, stooping low, took her unresisting hand with respectful devotion, imprinting on it a kiss: he then led her back to the sofa, and seated himself by her side, gazing with deep admiration on her lovely countenance, now softened by an expression of melancholy which rather increased than dimmed its attractions.
“Theresa, in spite of your commands, your wishes, I could not resist the temptations of my heart again to visit you. I come to entreat you to withdraw your cruel prohibitions, which must reduce me to despair,” and the stranger knelt at the feet of Donna Theresa de Tavora.
“Rise, in mercy rise!” she exclaimed, with a trembling voice. “Your Majesty must not thus kneel to a subject.”
“I will not rise till I know from those sweet lips that I am forgiven for my fault,” answered the King, in a tone of tender passion; for he it was who thus took advantage of the forced absence of her husband to urge his criminal suit.
“Your Majesty has committed no fault which I have power to forgive,” returned the Marchioness; “’tis I alone who am to blame for having dared to cherish a sentiment—for having owned that unhappy love which has attracted your Majesty hither.—Rise, Sire, I must not see you thus.”
“Your words afford balm to my bruised heart,” answered the King, in an enraptured tone, again placing himself by her side; but she gently withdrew her hand from his clasp.
“Your Majesty mistakes my meaning,” she said, with a vain attempt at firmness; for her lips quivered as she spoke. “Hear me, my liege: it is not on my own account I speak; for myself, I have no longer the power to retract. You know too well the secret of my heart; from henceforth my lot is one of sorrow and remorse: but it is for your Majesty’s sake, I beseech you to come hither no more. There is a danger in it which I may not—I dare not reveal, so terrible that I tremble at the thought alone.”
“For your sake, sweet one, I would brave all danger,” answered the King, with a gallant bow and a smile of incredulity; then suddenly changing his tone, he added, “Surely no one would venture to lift his arm against our person? Speak lady, does your husband meditate revenge, that we have more highly appreciated those matchless charms than himself?”
“Oh! do not ask me, my liege,” exclaimed the unhappy lady. “My husband has always proved himself a loyal subject; and surely naught but the most aggravated offence would drive him to commit treason against your Majesty. I speak not of what I know, but my fears have raised up suspicions, perchance but phantoms of the brain, yet should I be far happier if I knew that you, my sovereign, would avoid the risk you run by pursuing one whose love may bring destruction on your head.”
The King seemed dissatisfied with this answer, and the recollection of his Minister’s assertions, that plots and conspiracies were constantly brewing, but were discovered and defeated by his sagacity, now recurred to his mind with full force. In his fear, he forgot the character of the lover he was playing. “You hint to me that you have suspicions of danger to my person; but you neglect to tell me how to discover and defeat it,” he said, in a far different tone to that in which he had before spoken.
A woman is quick to perceive when the lordly heart of man begins to tremble with fear, and as Donna Theresa’s discerning glance fell on the countenance of her royal admirer, for the first time a feeling nearly allied to scorn entered her breast: it was transitory, but it left an impression not easily effaced. She wished to warn, but she loved him the less that he was so easily alarmed. Such is woman. She will fondly cling to man—she will idolise him, in the full majesty of his power, even though he treat her as an inferior being, so that he exert that power to shield her from harm; but let him once show that he is equally alive with herself to the sensations of fear, which is cowardice in him, he at once sinks in her estimation to a level with herself, and she no longer regards him as her lord and protector.
The young Marchioness withdrew her eyes from the King, as she answered, “Pardon me, your Majesty, I spoke but of my own womanly fears, indefinite also, and perhaps groundless they are, yet, when once they had arisen in my bosom, I could not but speak them; then, if I possess your Majesty’s love, do not press me further. Mine is a cruel, a hard duty to perform, yet for your sake, my King, I will not shrink from it. We must part now and for ever!”
“This is a tyranny, lovely lady, to which I cannot submit,” exclaimed the King, his passion for the moment conquering his fears; “I should pine to death were I to be banished from your sight.”
“Your Majesty possesses the hearts of many other ladies, who will console you for my loss,” returned Donna Theresa, with a faint smile.
“What! ’tis but a fit of jealousy then!” thought the King. “No, lovely one, believe it not,” he exclaimed aloud. “None have enchained my heart as you have done. Tell me that you will receive me to-morrow. Let my unswerving devotion, since you first honoured my Court with your presence, plead for me: let my ardent love be my excuse if I disobey your commands,” and he again took her hand, and would have knelt, but rising from her seat, she drew back.
“Let me be the suppliant,” she said. “Do not work upon the weakness of my sex, but exert your powerful judgment, my King, and ask yourself whether the pursuit you follow will repay you for risking both life and crown. No, Sire, it cannot; and therefore I once more beseech you to desist. I should indeed be doubly guilty were you to suffer for my sake.”
Her voice faltered as she uttered the last words. Never had the young Marchioness looked so lovely as now that she stood with her hands clasped in an attitude of entreaty before the sovereign; the energy of her feelings throwing the rich blood into her hitherto pallid cheeks. It served unhappily to increase the King’s admiration.
“It is useless, lovely Theresa, thus endeavouring to dissuade me; crown, life, all, I would risk to retain your love.”
How easily are our most firm resolves turned aside,—how wonderfully is our judgment obscured, when passion intervenes! Man, with all his boasted power of intellect, in a moment sinks to the level of the soulless beings, who have but despised instinct for their guide. Let haughty man remember, secure, as he fancies himself in the strong armour of superior wisdom and calculating judgment, that he, too, is but mortal, and liable any instant to fall; and let him learn not to pass too harsh a judgment on those whose reason has been, perchance, but for one fatal moment overcome.
Donna Theresa’s rising feelings of disdain, her fears for his safety, all other thoughts were forgotten at the King’s last passionate declaration of his love; and, in a fatal moment, she consented no longer to persist in her determination to see him no more.
Having gained his point, the King soon after took his leave, with further protestations of unalterable constancy. On entering his carriage, in which Teixeira was waiting for him at the door, he threw himself back in his seat, exclaiming,—“Truly these women are wonderful creatures; changeable and uncertain in their tempers, as the vane on the topmast head! At one moment, my lovely Marchioness vowed she would enter a convent, or see me no more; and the next she was all love and affection. At one time, overcome by fears that her husband, I suppose, in a fit of jealousy, would attempt my life, and then forgetting all about the matter. The truth is, she loves me to distraction, when a woman is always full of alarms; but methinks none of my nobles are of that jealous disposition, that they would endeavour to revenge themselves for the honour I pay their wives.”
“Few, perhaps, would harbour a treacherous thought against your Majesty; but all are not equally loyal,” answered Teixeira. “The Tavoras are of a haughty and revengeful disposition, and it would be well to guard against them. I told your Majesty how, the other day, the old Marquis almost struck me in the palace, because, not seeing his Excellency approach, I was by chance standing in his way.”
“What, do you truly think there is danger to be apprehended from them?” said the King, in a voice expressive of suspicion.
“I have no doubt of their disloyalty, if such a feeling can possibly be harboured by any against your Majesty,” answered Teixeira.
“We must speak to Sebastiaö Jozé about it,” said the King. “He will know well how to discover their feelings.”
“Senhor de Carvalho is of my opinion, that they are not to be confided in,” observed the confidant, who had thus the power, with a few words, to cast the taint of disloyalty on a whole noble race.
“I thought that Donna Theresa’s fears arose from idle fancies, though I now suspect she had some foundation for her warnings,” observed the King. “Sebastiaö Jozé, however, will discover whatever is wrong.”
“The country is truly blessed, which possesses so good a King, and so wise a Minister,” said the confidant.
“Which way are we going?” asked the King, looking out of the window, though, from the darkness, it was impossible to distinguish the road.
“I ordered him to drive the usual way, past the Quinta da Cima, and down by the Quinta do Meyo,” answered Teixeira. “We are now near approaching the arch of do Meyo.”
“’Tis a night, which an assassin would select to commit a deed of blood,” said the King; the thought arising probably from his own fears, and from the observations of his servant. He had scarce uttered the words, when both were startled by a loud cry from the postilion, Custodio da Costa, and by seeing the flash of a pistol in front; the next instant two musketoons were discharged, the bright flashes from which lighted up the dark figures of two horsemen, urging their steeds towards the carriage, and several shot rattled past the window.
“Jesu Maria! what means this?” exclaimed the King, in a tone of terror.
“Foul treason! your Majesty,” answered Teixeira. “We are betrayed.”
“Stop, fool! or you die!” shouted one of the horsemen to the postilion; but he, disregarding the command, boldly galloped on his mules, crying out, “’Tis the King you are firing at!” when two other horsemen rushed out towards him from behind a high wall. With admirable presence of mind, though at great risk, he suddenly wheeled round the carriage.
“Stay, mad fool!” cried the assassins; but he heeded them not, and proceeded down a steep path to the left, nearly in the direction from whence he had come. Just as he had succeeded in turning, the report of two fire-arms was heard.
“Holy Virgin! I am slain!” ejaculated the King, falling backwards.
“My life shall preserve your Majesty’s,” cried Teixeira; and, with a heroism worthy of a better man, he forced his sovereign down into the bottom of the carriage, covering him to the utmost with his own person.
The urgency of the case added nerve to the postilion’s arm, and keenness to his sight; for, avoiding all obstacles, he galloped on through streets where it would seem almost impossible that he could pass; which, as the chronicler observes, “was one of the wonderful and miraculous works performed on the unfortunate night of that most horrid and sacrilegious insult, in order to preserve the inestimable life of his most sacred Majesty, for the common benefit of these realms of Portugal.”
The postilion, Custodio da Costa, (for he deserves that his name should be commemorated, on account of his gallantry and presence of mind), as soon as he perceived, after driving some way, that he was not followed, stopped the carriage, when his anxiety for his Majesty’s safety was relieved by hearing his voice ordering him to proceed to the palace of the Marquis of Tancos, which was close at hand.
“Say not what has occurred,” said the King to the postilion, as, descending from the carriage with Teixeira’s aid, a cloak being thrown over his shoulder, he entered the palace of the Marquis.
The noble host, wondering at the cause of his being honoured by a visit from his sovereign at so unusual an hour, hastily rose from his bed, and entered the apartment into which his royal guest had been ushered.
The King, who was seated on a chair, was pale, but perfectly calm. “I have met with an accident, my friend, though I know not its extent,” he said. “Send for Senhor Assiz, my chief surgeon, and speak to no one else of the affair.”
The Marquis immediately sent to obey the commands of the King, who, on his return desired that his chaplain might forthwith be summoned; when, all retiring except the holy man, he returned thanks to the King of kings for the preservation of his life from so great a danger, and then confessed himself of his sins at the feet of the minister of the gospel.
In the mean time, the honest Custodio could not restrain his tongue from whispering to the servants of the Marquis, under promise of secrecy, an account of the dreadful occurrence; and they, of course, repeated it to their fellows; so that, before the morning dawned, the tale, with wonderful additions and alterations, was spread far and wide.
On the arrival of the surgeon, he and the Marquis, with Teixeira, were again admitted into the presence of the King, who had concluded his religious devotions; and the horror of all may be better conceived than described, when, his cloak being taken off, his breast and right arm were perceived covered with blood, which had trickled down over the rest of his dress. Without having uttered a word of complaint since he was wounded, the King now submitted himself into the hands of his surgeon, who, to the extreme satisfaction of his friends, pronounced the wounds to be unattended with danger, although they were very severe. Several slugs had entered his shoulder and breast, tearing away the flesh from the arm, but no other injury was committed on his person.
“Another mark of the miraculous interference of Divine Omnipotence,” as again observes the chronicler, “on that night of horrors; for it cannot be in the common order of events, nor can it be in anywise ascribed to the casualty of accidental occurrences, that two charges of slugs, fired out of such pieces, should make their way through the narrow space of a carriage, without totally and absolutely destroying the persons who were in such a carriage.”
The surgical operation having been performed, the King took leave of his host, and, accompanied by Teixeira and the surgeon, returned to the royal palace; the Marquis, however, with two of his servants, riding on each side of the carriage, to protect him from a further attack; nor did he quit his post till he had aided his sovereign to descend at the private door, where he was in the custom of alighting.
Pale and agitated with the alarming occurrences of the night, the King entered his private cabinet, where the sagacious Minister was still seated, deeply immersed in business. Carvalho rose as he entered, but started back with horror as he beheld the countenance of his sovereign. “What has happened to your gracious Majesty?” he exclaimed.
“Foul treason has been at work, Senhor Carvalho; though, through the mercy of Heaven, we have escaped destruction.”
“Alas! then, my fears have not been groundless,” said Carvalho; “and your Majesty will be convinced that there are men wicked enough to seek your life. Let me now entreat you to retire to your chamber, where, if it pleases your Majesty, you can detail all that has happened.”
The King, when placed in bed, no one but the Minister, his surgeon, and Teixeira being admitted, gave an account to the former of what had occurred.
Carvalho listened with breathless anxiety, and well he might; his fame, his life, and power depended on the preservation of the King. A slight frown was on his brow, and a quivering movement might have been perceived on the upper of his closed lips, but he gave no other evidence of the thoughts passing within, till he answered, in a deep voice, “I will discover every one of the instigators and perpetrators of this atrocious outrage; and I ask but one condition of your Majesty:—Let me deal with the vile monsters as I may deem expedient, and all others shall learn such a lesson that, from thenceforth, your Majesty shall have no cause to dread a recurrence of such deeds. Will you, my Liege, grant this promise, which you owe to your own safety, and to the happiness of your people?”
“I give you the power you ask, my friend,” said the King.
“Then am I satisfied,” said the Minister.
Those words sealed the fate of the nobility of Portugal.