Marisalada was surrounded with a numerous court, at which strangers of distinction, present in Madrid, made part. Among them were those of high rank, either from personal merit or from birth. What were the powerful motives which moved them? Some visited the singer to give her a ton according to modern custom. And what is this ton? It is a servile imitation of what others do. Some were guided by the same sentiment which prompts children to examine closely the secret springs of a plaything which amuses them.
Marisalada required to make no effort to feel at ease in the midst of this brilliant circle. She had in nothing reformed her cold and haughty indolence; but her person was more elegant, a better taste presided at her toilet;—material conquests, all exterior, which, in the eyes of certain persons, could supply the want of intelligence, tact, and distinction. At evening, on the stage, when the reflection of the lights rendered her paleness more transparent, and her large black eyes more brilliant, the Gaviota was really beautiful.
The duke was so fascinated with this woman, whose triumphs touched him some little, for they had confirmed his prophecies; and such was also the enthusiasm which her singing excited in him, that he thought it not improper to beg her to give lessons to his daughter. Notwithstanding he remembered very well the prediction of his amiable friend in Seville, and he trembled in thinking over the delay fixed by the lovely countess.
Then he formed the decision to respect the innocent woman, whom he had himself led into the brilliant and dangerous career she was now embarked in, and he thought of the duchess. The duchess was a virtuous and beautiful woman. Although she had passed her thirtieth year, the freshness of her complexion and the candid expression of her face made her appear much younger. She belonged to a family as illustrious as that of her husband. Leonore and Carlos had loved each other almost from their infancy, with that truly Spanish affection, affection profound, constant, which never leaves the heart, which never grows cold. They were married very young, and at eighteen years of age Leonore gave a daughter to her husband, who was himself then just twenty-two years of age.
The family of the duchess, like many families among the great, was entirely devotional; Leonore had been educated in the same spirit. Her modesty and her austerity kept her away from the pleasures and the noise of the world, for which, indeed, she felt no desire. She read little, and her hand never opened a novel. She was quite ignorant of the dramatic effects of the grand passions; she had never learned, neither at the theatre, nor from looks, the interest inspired by adultery, which she regarded as a crime as abominable as homicidal. She could never be made to believe, as had been told her, that there was adopted in the world a standard under which to proclaim the emancipation of women. Never could she comprehend this pretension; no more than she could comprehend much of other women who, nevertheless, did not live so retired, and did not adopt a reserve so strict as the duchess. If she had heard said that there are apologists for divorce and for detractors of marriage, she would believe she dreamt; she would think the end of the world had come. Loving and devoted as a daughter, generous and sure friend, tender and devoted mother, a wife consecrated to her husband even to blindness, the Duchess of Almansas was the type of the woman whom God loves, of whom poets sing, society admires and venerates, and who should take the place of those amazons who possess nothing of the exquisite delicacy of woman.
The duke submitted himself for a long time to the attractive influence Marisalada exercised over him, without the slightest cloud arising to trouble that peace, calm and pure as heaven, which reigned in the heart of his wife. He, however, until then so affectionate, neglected the duchess each day more and more. The duchess wept, but she was silent. Later she learned that this Cantora, who upset all Madrid, was protected by her husband, who passed his life in the house of this woman. The duchess shed fresh tears, and still doubted. One day the duke conducted Stein to his house, to give lessons to his young son; and soon he wished, as we have said, that Marisalada should also give lessons to his daughter, a beautiful creature, eleven years of age. Leonore energetically opposed this last wish of the duke, alleging that she could not permit a woman of the theatre the least contact with her child. The duke, accustomed to the easy compliances of his wife, saw in this opposition a doctrinal scruple, a want of the habits of the world, and he persisted in his idea. The duchess yielded, in obedience to her confessor: a double motive, which, if comprehended, would cause bitter tears.
She received, then, Marisalada with excessive circumspection, extreme reserve, cold politeness. Leonore, who, according to her tastes, lived very retired, received but few visits, and these chiefly those of her relations. Her other visitors were priests, and some few persons in whom she had full confidence. She followed the lessons of her daughter with a perseverance which never tired, and she devoted so much care as not to separate her child from her maternal regards: so the system of surveillance could not give offence to the susceptibility of Marisalada. The duchess’s visitors had but a cold salute for the mistress of song, and never addressed a word to her. All this rendered very humiliating, in this noble and austere house, the position of this woman whom the public of Madrid adored. The Gaviota felt it, and her pride daily became indignant: but how to complain? The duchess always practised an exquisite politeness; never a smile of disdain had passed over the serenity of her calm and beautiful countenance; her eye had never shown a haughty look. On the other hand, the duke, so full of dignity and of delicacy, would he have permitted a complaint against his wife? Marisalada was endowed with sufficient penetration and taste to know that silence was necessary on her part, and that she could lose neither the friendship of the duke, which flattered her; nor his protection, which was indispensable; nor his presents, which enchanted her. She must bear her trials until a proper occasion should present itself to put an end to this painful position.
One day when, all decked out in silk and velvets, resplendent with bijoux and diamonds, enveloped in a rich mantle of lace, she entered the duchess’s drawing-room, she met there her grace’s father, the Marquis of Elda, and the bishop of ——. The marquis was an old and austere man, one of the partisans of the olden time, a Catholic Spaniard and pure loyalist. He lived near the court since the death of the king, whom he had faithfully served since the war of independence.
There was a great deal of coldness in the relations of the marquis with his kindred, whom he reproached with conceding too much to the ideas of the present times. This coldness increased when this virtuous and severe old man heard the public rumors which accused the duke of being the protector of a singer of the theatre.
When Maria entered the drawing-room, the duchess rose with the intention of thanking her, and giving her congé for this day; but the bishop, ignorant of what was passing, manifested the desire to hear his little grand-daughter sing. The duchess resumed her seat, saluted Marisalada with her accustomed politeness, and called her child, who came immediately at the request of her mother. She had hardly executed the three measures of the prayer of Desdemona when there were heard three taps on the door.