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FRANK‘ LESLIE’S NEW YORK: JOURNAL: 159
Spanish stamps, when he started back with so
agoni¥ing a cry, that M. Garain’s blood ran cold.
He hastily took up the deed in turn, when he found
it to be a marriage certificate, headed by the names
of Tez Cordova and Henri Darviere!
There was a momentary. pause, during which
these two mén appeared thunderstruck, and insensi«
ble to eich other’s presence. The old lawyer was
the first to recover his composure, and his mind
soon became clear enough to grasp the whole state
of the case. :
When exiled from France, Henri Darviere, on
taking refuge in Spain, had nearly fallen a victim
to the frightful epidemic that had ravaged Barcelona
but a short time previously Abandoned in a dying
state, he-owed his life to the devoted care of a
woman whom he had married out of gratitude, but
who had subsequently died. This much had been
related by Henri to Octaire’s father, befure the mar-
riage, but the old lawyer had never inquired into
any farther particulars, as all recollections of the
past seemed painful to his son-in-law. He now
saw at a glance, that Henri had beiieved Inez to be
dead, and that he had been perfectly justified in
contracting a second marriage.
When their looks at length met, M. Garain
opened his arms, and embraced the young man
affectionately.
“Thank you—thank you, father,”, stammered
forth the distracted Henri; “at least you do not
doubt my honor, and you see at once that my esror
was not a crime.” :
. “No,” said the lawyer, mournfully, “ but a mis-
fortune—an irreparable misfortune.”
“Why so?” i :
Our whole existence will be changed, Henri,
and the knowledge of the truth will impose new
duties upon us.’ at :
. “My duty,” eried the young man, “is to remain
your son,” i
« But here is a wife who has prior claims to your
heart !? > es .
“Then we must escape from her—your daughter
+ and I will fly from hence, and seek some obscure
retreat, where no one will know of the chain I leave
behind me.” - i .
“But you will drag that chain with you—since
your conscience will know of its existence,” ob-
served the old man, “and however far you may fly
you cannot deceive yourself into forgetting, that
there exists in the world a being who has a right to
your protection, whom you vowed to cherish, and
whom you have despoiled of her lawful claims.
Hitherto you were innocent, because you were
ignorant—but henceforward you would become
guilty.” ,
«What! sacrifice my happiness to these hated
ties,’ exclaimed Henri, half beside himself; ‘* no—
do not hope any such thing... I will not exchange
the‘ calm’ delights‘ of a mutual ‘affection, for the
stormy life I used to lead. If the dead arise from
their’ graves to'claim my peace and happiness—I
ery avaunt! I know not the dead !” :
‘"M. Garain attempted in vain to reason with him ;
Venri went ‘on inveizhing against all mankind and
even providence, until, overwhelmed by his anguish,
passion, gave way to tears. He then appealed to
the lawyer's paternal’ feelings—and entreated him
to spare his daughter the pangs of such a_separa-
tion; hoping that the equity of the judge would be
outweighed by the tenderness of the father. M.
Garain felt his’ firmness giving way, when he rose
much agitated, and pale as death, saying, “ Enough,
Henri—do ‘not tempt’ me! ‘It would be unworthy
of you to profit by my weakness. We both require
time to collect‘our thoughts, and to-morrow we will
discuss this dreadful question.’ Only, I entreat you,
let not Octaire ‘suspect anything ‘to-night—let us
spare her a few hours’ longer.” °. When, seeing
Henri was about to protest, he added: “ which God
and our prudence may perhaps prolong! | You can-
not doubt ‘of my ‘goodwill, my dear son, but leave
ime now. to my reflections."” °°... an
’The old lawyer spent a night of anguish. “Placed
in the dreadful alternative of sacrificing either’ his
affections or his duty, he remained several hours in
a’state of painful perplexity, which made his very
brain reel beneath his contending* emotions.” “At
one moment Henri’s reasoning seemed sound, and
he thought him justified in not giving way to prior
claims, merely on ‘'the score of their priority—but
then again he recollected the law, whose devoted
high priest he had always proved himself to be; and
he bowed his head’ to receive a blow he felt was in-
evitable.» Then some faint hope would again creep
into his heart, which reason failed entirely to con-
vince. . Octaire’s blighted happiness put all: his
arguments to flight.: Alter all, was not his daugh-
ter’s happiness the great aim, nay, the duty of his
life? . Why should the Senora’s rights be more
precious to-him than her? And what were mere
Iégal rights against which the heart of one of the
parties so loudly protested? Was the happiness
of two human beings to be sacrificed to mere
chance? And could Donna Inez really expect to
be happy with Henri on renewing their ties as vio-
lently as she had severed them? Inez knew nothing
of this second marriage—and the young couple
might escape; nay, the proofs of her marriage
were in his hands, and he might cancel them—
yes! he held his daughter's life or death within his
rasp !
6 I'he old lawyer wiped away the drops of cold per-
spiration that stood on his brow, and remained a
long while with his head buried in his hands. ‘The
feelings of the father were at first so vehement, as
to out-tongue even the pleadings of conscience—but,
by degrees, those of the man and the magistrate
obtained a hearing, when pushing away the fatal
paper with a convulsive movement, he rose, and
leaned against the wall. Tis heart seemed about to
burst in his bosom, and he hid his face in his hands,
as if the better to concentrate his thoughts, Pre-
sently his arms dropped down—the verdict was pro-
nounced in his inmost soul—his eyes were tearless,
and his lips compressed, but his features wore the
dignified expression of conscious rectitude, On
looking around him, he perceived it was daylight,
and after consulting the clock, he sent word to his
daughter that he wished to speak to her. “
The greatest fear was to tind Henri with her,
when he was informed, much to his relief that the
latter had left the house at early dawn. ' He too had
spent a dreadful night, without being able to come
to any settled resolution. ‘Toward morning, how-
ever, he relied. upon his state of feverish lethargy,
and resolved to put an end to such intolerable sus-
pense, by facing the worst at once.
Having learnt the day before, the name of the
hotel at which Donna Inez Cordova had put up, he
repaired thither at once, and asked to see the Span-
ish lady, whu nearly fainted at the sight of him.
Having come prepared for a scene, Henri’ bore the
first outburst of her impassioned nature with tole-
rable firmness.+ After giving Inez time to- recover
her composure, he’told her how chance had led to
his seeing the papers entrusted to M. Garain, and
how he had thus learnt her arrival in Colmar, The
fair Spaniard listened to him with gasping breath,
She had sunk on her knees before him, and was
looking at him with a kind of ecstacy, with clasped
hands and upraised eyes. Darviere endeavored to
allay her feverish excitement, by insisting on her
ising.
«No—let me ask forgiveness at your feet,’ an-
swered she, in Spanish; “forgiveness for having
deserted you—znd tell me—oh tell me—that you
did not curse me.””
«A coward alone would curse the dead,’’ mut-
tered Henri.
The Senora startled.
«“ True—true,”’ continued she; ‘ you thought me
dead--and who knows if you did not rejoice at the
idea—and if my return does notrob you of your
cherished independence ?”
She looked at him with a searching gaze, while
his head drooped, and he remained silent.
«Then it is but too true!’ continued she, clasp-
ing her hands in despair; «you: had looked upon
our union as forever cancelled ——”
« Whose fault is it if I did?” asked Henri, bit-
terly..« Was it I who sought for deliverance ?”
«But you have profited by it, no doubt?’’ said
Inez, still gazing on him fixedly.
« Suppose I have, madam? . Did you not autho-
rize me to do so, by disappearing so abruptly ?, Did
you think'a man’s destiny a mere shuttlecock, to be
tossed about for your amusement—and ttat, after
giving him back his liberty, you could come and
claim it again, without even enquiring whether it
is still his to dispose of ?” . ay
‘ «What do I hear?’ shrieked Inez, half dis-
tracted, . 7
| «I say,” resumed Ifenri, “that. you took ‘such
pains to deceive me on the subject of your supposed
death, that Iv returned to France, with, heart and
hand entirely free, and being too young to devote
myself to eternal widowhood ——’?,
‘Gracious heavens! what next?’ cried she,
« Why—I married again!”’ ,.,
Inez uttered a scream as she started to. her feet.
Even her most painful misgivings had neyer gone to
such a length as this. But she quickly shook. off
the torpor of despondency, to defend her rights with
the savage energy of a selfish’ passion... What cared
she for this second marriage, which could not can-
cel her prior claims? Henri belonged to her, and
nothing should separate them in future. Tears,
entreaties, and arguments were alike in vain; in-
flexible she was and inflexible would she remain.
Nay, she declared in the egotistical vehemence of
her passion, that she had rather Henri were unhap-
py with her, than happy with another woman—that
she would follow him everywhere—that he was her
lawful property, and that she would defend her own
either by fair means or foul, in the teeth of the
universe.
Tialt stunned by these outbreaks of her selfish
love, and having vainly endeavored to get heard,
Henri at length rose with an angry gesture, and
was about to leave her, when one of the servants of
the hotel entered the room and handed him a letter.
On perceiving the address to be in M. Gerain's
hand, Henri turned pale, and hastily tearing open
the envelope, he read as follows :
“According to my promise, I have turned the
matter over in my thoughts since yesterday, and the
result of my reflections has been to show me my
duty more clearly shan ever. Thia morning I went
up to speak to Octaire, who though surprised at
your having gone out so early, had as yet not the
slightest suspicion of anything wrong.’ Having led
her to speak of her married happiness,'I asked her
as’ playfully as I could, whether she would give all
she had to ensure its prolongation. She smiled
assent.» Would she give her youth and beauty ?
Aye, she would—but would she sacrifice her duty?
She turned pale at this question, and asked me what
I meant! -I then unfolded as gently as I could the
dreadful misfortune that has fallen upon us. I dare
not describe the terrible effects of my revelations—
thank God! however, she withstood this tremendous
shock, and thanks to my entreaties and consolations,
she is now somewhat calmer, and it is by her desire
that I am writing to you. Sheat once felt what was
due to Donna Inez,to you, and to herself; and that of
the two marriages contracted by so fatal a mistake,
it was the second one that must be broken off; and
by the time you receive this letter we shall be far
away from Colmar. Lo
«T need not tell you, my dear friend, how agoniz-
ing this separation is to us. The widow, for I can
call her by no other name, who resigns her claims
upon you,‘has desired me not to close my letter
without entreating of you to take courage and be
resigned, and of her who is about to resume your
name, to show both tenderness and indulgence. To
her she entrusts your future happiness. If you are
happy, she will endeavor to forget the past, and will
forbear complaining.”
Inca had perused the letter over Henri’s shoulder,
and the further she read the more deeply had she
been moved. She could not help comparing’ her
tyrannical and selfish love to su disinterested and
generous .an attachment, ‘and ¢subdued by such
reatness of mind, which she felt incapable of imi-
tating, she seized the old lawyer’s letter, and kneel-
ing down she pressed her lips upon it with as much }
respect as she would have kissed a crucifix, saying,
in a broken voice: ‘¢ Alas! you were living amongst *
angels, and I have dragged you down to the region
of fallen spirits !”’ oa
Three : years after these events had taken place,
two travellers were seated under the verandah of
an inn ‘in the little village of. Aioro, and watching
the sun as it was setting behind the misty summits
of the mountains.- Although time had marked his
assage on the features of both, though so different
in age, it was easy to recognise in them two of the
principal personages of our tale—namely, M. Garain
and his daughter Octaire. Since the dreadful event
that had’ overthrown her happiness, the widowed
wife had travelled with her father throughout Ger-
many and a portion of Italy, but without being for
a moment beguiled of her inconsolable grief. | She
bore it, however, with a dignified resignation’ that -’
was extremely touching.
The two travellers had arrived the day before at
Aioro,, where they were detained by the impossi-
bility of obtaining \a vetturino, and they were the *
more annoyed at this mischance, as the inn was at -
that moment the scene of dismal preparations for’a -§
death: that was momentarily expected. : A strange ©
lady who had arrived that same morning, and: was
not expected to outlive the night, had taken a fancy |<
to have the rooms occupied by the old :lawyer and
his daughter, who had readily consented, at the inn-
keeper's request, to satisfy her dying wishes, and
had allowed their baggage to be carried to the floor
above. . This removal had just been effected, and
they were going to take possession of their, new
lodgings, when a servant hastened to inform them
that the sick lady wished to see them. noah
“To see us!” said. M, Garain, much. surprised,