“I confess, my poor count,” replied Lorenzo, “that your service has been attended with danger; yet am I so far from supposing it be past all endurance that I shall probably solicit you to carry on your amours still further.”
“From that petition I conclude that the little Antonia has made some impression upon you.”
“I cannot express to you how much I am charmed with her. Since my father’s death, my uncle the Duke de Medina, has signified to me his wishes to see me married; I have till now eluded his hints, and refused to understand them; but what I have seen this evening. …”
“Well? What have you seen this evening? Why surely, Don Lorenzo, you cannot be mad enough to think of making a wife out of this granddaughter of ‘as honest a painstaking shoemaker as any in Cordova’?”
“You forget, that she is also the granddaughter of the late Marquis de las Cisternas; but without disputing about birth and titles, I must assure you, that I never beheld a woman so interesting as Antonia.”
“Very possibly; but you cannot mean to marry her?”
“Why not, my dear Condé? I shall have wealth enough for both of us, and you know that my uncle thinks liberally upon the subject. From what I have seen of Raymond de las Cisternas, I am certain that he will readily acknowledge Antonia for his niece. Her birth therefore will be no objection to my offering her my hand. I should be a villain could I think of her on any other terms than marriage; and in truth she seems possessed of every quality requisite to make me happy in a wife. Young, lovely, gentle, sensible. …”
“Sensible? Why, she said nothing but ‘Yes,’ and ‘No.’ ”
“She did not say much more, I must confess—but then she always said ‘Yes,’ or ‘No,’ in the right place.”
“Did she so? Oh! your most obedient! That is using a right lover’s argument, and I dare dispute no longer with so profound a casuist. Suppose we adjourn to the comedy?”
“It is out of my power. I only arrived last night at Madrid, and have not yet had an opportunity of seeing my sister; you know that her convent is in this street, and I was going thither when the crowd which I saw thronging into this church excited my curiosity to know what was the matter. I shall now pursue my first intention, and probably pass the evening with my sister at the parlour grate.”
“Your sister in a convent, say you? Oh! very true, I had forgotten. And how does Donna Agnes? I am amazed, Don Lorenzo, how you could possibly think of immuring so charming a girl within the walls of a cloister!”
“I think of it, Don Christoval? How can you suspect me of such barbarity? You are conscious that she took the veil by her own desire, and that particular circumstances made her wish for a seclusion from the world. I used every means in my power to induce her to change her resolution; the endeavour was fruitless, and I lost a sister!”
“The luckier fellow you; I think, Lorenzo, you were a considerable gainer by that loss: if I remember right, Donna Agnes had a portion of ten thousand pistoles, half of which reverted to your lordship. By St. Jago! I wish that I had fifty sisters in the same predicament. I should consent to losing them every soul without much heart-burning—”
“How, Condé?” said Lorenzo in an angry voice; “Do you suppose me base enough to have influenced my sister’s retirement? Do you suppose that the despicable wish to make myself master of her fortune could. …”
“Admirable! Courage, Don Lorenzo! Now the man is all in a blaze. God grant that Antonia may soften that fiery temper, or we shall certainly cut each other’s throat before the month is over! However, to prevent such a tragical catastrophe for the present, I shall make a retreat, and leave you master of the field. Farewell, my knight of mount Aetna! Moderate that inflammable disposition, and remember that whenever it is necessary to make love to yonder harridan, you may reckon upon my services.”
He said, and darted out of the cathedral.
“How wild-brained!” said Lorenzo; “With so excellent an heart, what pity that he possesses so little solidity of judgment!”
The night was now fast advancing. The lamps were not yet lighted. The faint beams of the rising moon scarcely could pierce through the gothic obscurity of the church. Lorenzo found himself unable to quit the spot. The void left in his bosom by Antonia’s absence, and his sister’s sacrifice which Don Christoval had just recalled to his imagination, created that melancholy of mind which accorded but too well with the religious gloom surrounding him. He was still leaning against the seventh column from the pulpit. A soft and cooling air breathed along the solitary aisles: the moonbeams darting into the church through painted windows tinged the fretted roofs and massy pillars with a thousand various tints of light and colours. Universal silence prevailed around, only interrupted by the occasional closing of doors in the adjoining abbey.
The calm of the hour and solitude of the place contributed to nourish Lorenzo’s disposition to melancholy. He threw himself upon a seat which stood near him, and abandoned himself to the delusions of his fancy. He thought of his union with Antonia; he thought of
