The queen had no sooner quitted me than I got up, and dressed myself as quickly as possible, and taking my scimitar, I followed her so closely, that I heard her footsteps just before me, when, regulating my steps by hers, I walked softly for fear of being heard. She passed through several doors, which opened by virtue of some magic words she pronounced; the last she opened was that of the garden, which she entered. I stopped at this door that she might not see me, while she crossed a parterre; and following her with my eyes, as well as the obscurity of the night would permit, I remarked, that she went into a little wood, the walks of which were enclosed by a thick hedge. I repaired thither by another way, and hiding myself behind the hedge of one of the paths, I perceived that she was walking with a man.
I did not fail to listen attentively to their discourse, when I heard what follows: “I do not deserve,” said the queen to her lover, “your reproaches for my want of diligence; you well know the reason of it; but if all the marks of love which I have hitherto given you are not sufficient to persuade you of my sincerity, I am ready to give you still more convincing proofs of it; you have only to command, you know my power. I will if you wish it, before the sun rises, change this great city and this beautiful palace into frightful ruins, which shall be inhabited only by wolves, and owls, and ravens. Shall I transport all the stones, with which these walls are so strongly built, beyond Mount Caucasus, and farther than the boundaries of the habitable world? You have only to speak, and all this place shall be transformed.”
As the queen finished this speech, she and her lover, having reached the end of the walk, turned to enter another, and passed before me; I had already drawn my scimitar, and as the lover was next me, I struck him on the neck, and he fell. I believed I had killed him, and with this persuasion, I retired precipitately, without discovering myself to the queen, whom I wished to spare, as she was my cousin.
Although her lover’s wound was mortal, she yet contrived by her enchantments to preserve in him that kind of existence, which can be called neither dead or alive. As I traversed the garden to return to the palace, I heard the queen weeping bitterly, and judging of her grief by her cries, I was not sorry to have left him alive. When I reached my chamber I went again to bed, and feeling satisfied with the punishment I had inflicted on the wretch who had offended me, I fell asleep. On waking the next morning, I found the queen by my side; I cannot say whether she was asleep or feigned it, but I got up without disturbing her, and retired to my closet, where I finished dressing: I afterwards attended the council; and, on my return, the queen, dressed in mourning, her hair dishevelled and torn, presented herself before me. “Sire,” said she, “I come to entreat your majesty not to be displeased at the state in which you now see me. I have just received intelligence of three events, which occasion the grief I so strongly feel, but can ill express.”—“What are these events, madam?” I inquired.—“The death of the queen, my beloved mother,” replied she; “that of the king, my father, who was killed in battle; and also of my brother, who fell down a precipice.”
I was not sorry that she had invented this pretext to conceal the true cause of her affliction, and I imagined, that she did not suspect me of having been the murderer of her lover. “Madam,” said I, “I do not blame your sorrow; on the contrary, I assure you that I am not insensible to the cause. I should be much surprised if you were not affected by such a loss; weep, for your tears are an undoubted proof of your good heart; I hope, nevertheless, that time and reason will restore to you your wonted cheerfulness.”
She retired to her apartment, where, abandoning herself to her grief, she passed a whole year in weeping and bewailing the death of her lover. At the expiration of that time, she requested my permission to build a mausoleum for herself in the centre of the palace, where she said she wished to pass the remainder of her days. I did not refuse her, and she erected a magnificent palace with a dome, which may be seen from hence, and she called it the Palace of Tears.
When it was finished, she had her lover removed from the place, whither she had transported him on the night I wounded him, and brought to this mausoleum. She had till that period preserved his life by giving him certain potions, which she administered herself, and continued to give him daily, after his removal to the Palace of Tears.
All her enchantments, however, did not avail, for he was not only unable to walk or stand, but had also lost the use of his speech, and gave no signs of life, but by looks. Although the queen had only the consolation of seeing him and saying to him all the tender things that her love inspired, yet she constantly paid him two long visits every day. I was well acquainted with this circumstance, but I pretended to be ignorant of it.
Excited by my curiosity, I went one day to the Palace of Tears, to know what was the occupation of the princess, and concealing myself in a part where I could see and hear what passed, I heard her speak in this manner to her lover: “It is the heaviest affliction to me to see you in this state; I feel as much as yourself the agonies you endure; but, dearest life, I am always speaking to you, and yet you return no answer: how long will this distressing silence continue? Speak but once, and I will be satisfied. Alas! these moments that I pass with you, endeavouring to mitigate your sufferings, are the happiest of my life. I cannot exist away from you, and I should willingly prefer the pleasure of seeing you continually, to the empire of the whole universe.”
This discourse, which was frequently interrupted by tears and sobs, at length exhausted my patience. I could no longer remain in concealment, and approaching her, “Madam,” said I, “you have wept enough; it is now time to have done with a grief, which dishonours us both; you forgot what you owe to me, as well as what you owe to yourself.”—“Sire,” replied she, “if you still retain any regard for me, I entreat you to leave me to my sorrows, which time can neither diminish nor relieve.”