I had, some time previously, made up my mind to perform this tardy act of justice to my Alitéa, but had delayed it with the view of exacting favourable terms from her father, who, I thought, as our Spanish saying has it, would rather see La hija mal casada que bien abarraganada.[179] Having failed in this, it became necessary to marry her for my own sake; since, though Don Benito might still send me to prison, I could now insist on my wife accompanying me.
He was outrageous on finding that his revengeful intention was thwarted; but, seeing that menaces had no effect upon me, changed his tone, and proposed that I should resign his daughter for a sum of money. This I resolutely declined, whilst Alitéa, on her knees, implored his forgiveness. How the monster could refuse I know not; but he did, and they parted, to meet no more.
A few days after this scene, a letter was delivered to Alitéa from her unnatural parent. In it, after declaring that he would no longer hold communion with the villain who had brought misery on her, and disgrace on the name she bore, and who, but on her account, he would pursue with the utmost vengeance of the outraged laws of our country, he proceeded to state, that still prompted by the recollection of the unbounded affection he had borne her mother, he had determined to make an allowance sufficient for our bare support, and that a certain sum would, for that purpose, be lodged periodically in the hands of the superior of the convent of San Pablo de la Breña, in our vicinity; where he charged her, if the religious precepts he had implanted in her breast were not entirely eradicated, to make the frequent confessions necessary for the salvation of her soul. The money indeed, he added, was to be paid only on these conditions, and into her own hands, and so long as he was assured that she experienced proper treatment from me. Convinced, however, he pursued, that I was actuated solely by the vilest of motives, and not influenced by any regard for her in refusing to give her up, he once more repeated the offer made at our last interview; or even offered to settle on me alone the sum he purposed to allow us jointly, if I would formally resign his daughter, and allow the marriage to be annulled. In conclusion, he informed her, that though his door would ever be open to admit a repentant daughter, it was closed for ever against that daughter’s seducer, and the offspring of our criminality.
My wife perused the letter, and, with a steady countenance, but brimful eye, placed it in my hands. “Well, Alitéa,” said I, “will you return to your father and luxury, or remain to share the poverty of your husband? I pledge you my word it shall be as you may choose—decide.”—“I have already decided,” she replied: “I remain.”
I sent a scornful reply to Don Benito’s letter, returning, with usurious interest, the opprobrious terms he had lavished upon me. “Villain,” indeed, from him who was the source of all my misfortunes!—Nevertheless, he was as good as his word; the allowance was regularly paid into the hands of Alitéa; and, added to the profits arising from the cultivation of a vineyard, it enabled us, without much labour, to live in comfort, if not luxury.
But short, alas! was this period of happiness; the cup of life appeared only to have been sweetened for a brief space, to render more bitter the long draught of misery that was in reserve for me. My Alitéa had never entirely recovered from the effects of the shock occasioned by her father’s sudden visit; and, as if fate took pleasure in mocking our tardy marriage, the illegitimate Fernando was doomed to be the only issue that proceeded from it. Suffice it to say, my wife fell at length a victim to her father’s rash act, and I was once more alone in the world, and a beggar.
Even now, Caballeros, though two-and-thirty years have elapsed since my Alitéa was torn from me, I cannot speak of her loss with composure. Judge then of my frantic rage at the time. In my ungovernable frenzy, I rushed into the open air, to upbraid the Almighty Being who had given me existence; I invoked his utmost wrath, I defied his utmost power, but in vain! I was fated to live on, to endure yet greater wretchedness. Fool that I was, to repine at what was written in the book of Fate!
I returned to the house of death, to obtain the means of ridding myself of an existence that I abhorred. I was about to snatch my knife from its sheath to execute my purpose, when, casting my eyes yet once more on my adored Alitéa, I saw my child, my helpless Fernando, extended in violent convulsions at her side. A sense of the duty I owed the dear pledge of my Alitéa’s love checked my upraised arm. I determined to live for that boy—that boy thenceforth became my all.
The allowance made by Don Benito was immediately stopped on the death of his daughter, without his condescending even to inquire after her child. It became necessary, therefore, to adopt some course of life better suited to me than that of a field labourer, to earn wherewith to support us; and I accordingly joined a band of Contrabandistas, and, in the lawless life I thenceforth led, found an occupation well suited to my adventurous, and now reckless disposition.
During several years that I devoted to this precarious profession, I made frequent visits to Cadiz, where my knowledge of the French language threw me in constant communication with the various merchants of that nation, who were, at that period, established there. Amongst these, to my inexpressible delight, I discovered my old friend Le Bas—though now glorying in the virtuous republican appellation of Publius Manlius Niveleur. Our intimacy was, of course, renewed, and, as he had the means of throwing a great deal of business into my hands, I soon drove a thriving trade. Through him, also, I became au fait as to the state of affairs in France, and, consequently, aware of the great benefits that had accrued to the people by the change from a Despotic to a Republican government; and of other events, which our rulers took every possible pains to prevent reaching the ears of the Spanish people.