“Your Majesty’s rank, I should think, would prevent your even thinking of Mademoiselle de Mallet.”
“Why should my rank prevent the possibility of my being happy?”
“Your Majesty’s rank prevents the possibility of your marrying Pauline; and I should hope you would not dare to entertain dishonourable views respecting her.”
“Dare! dishonour! Do you remember to whom you are speaking, Edric?”
“Perfectly; for I have not forgotten Roderick, though he appears to have forgotten himself.”
“Edric! But I won’t be angry with you. When people are in love, they never mean what they say; in fact, they very seldom know what they are talking about. I remember once when I was in love myself—”
Alexis, who had waited at the entrance of the tent during the visit his master had paid to M. de Mallet, and was now following them, sighed heavily at this remark. Roderick heard him;—“What is the matter with the boy?” said he: “Were you ever in love, Alexis?” The page sighed yet more deeply than before, and, crossing his arms upon his breast, bent his head in token of assent.
“It is to be much lamented, you cannot tell us all about it,” continued Roderick; “for you could never choose a more fitting moment for such a tale; as you may depend upon the sympathy of Mr. Montagu, even if I should be so barbarous as to refuse you mine:—
‘We pity faults to which we feel inclined,
And to our proper failings can be kind;’
as one of your own rhymsters says. Eh, Edric! Don’t you think he’s right?”
“I think you are very provoking.”
“That is because I am touching upon a string that happens to be not quite in tune; so no wonder it jars a little. Do you not remember the old proverb—
‘Touch a man whose skin is sound,
He will stand and fear no wound:
Touch a man when he is sore,
He will start and bear no more.’ ”
“How can you condescend to repeat such nonsense?” cried Edric, indignantly. “It is unworthy the poorest beggar in your dominions!”
“And how can you condescend to be moved at such nonsense, Edric?” replied Roderick, laughing. “Come, come! own the truth, for it is useless to attempt any longer to deny it. Say, candidly, that you are in love with Mademoiselle de Mallet, and I will tease you no longer.”
“In love is too strong a term. I admire, esteem, and respect Mademoiselle de Mallet. I even think her possessed of a thousand charms and a thousand virtues; but as to being in love—”
“Well, well, we will not quarrel about words. I do not think you will ever make a romantic lover. You Englishmen are too reasoning and prudent ever to fall violently in love. Your blood is as cold as your climate. Now we take the thing quite differently; with us love is a devouring flame! a fire that absorbs our whole being—a stream that sweeps everything before it—a madness—a delirium! In short, I don’t know what it is!”
“I think not,” said Edric, drily.
“Psha, psha!” continued Roderick; “if it could be described, it would not be worth feeling. It is all spirit! all soul! if you tie it down to rules, it evaporates. Don’t you think so in Greece, Alexis?”
The page bowed, and shaking his head, pressed his finger upon his lips.
“True,” returned his master; “I had forgotten: but if you cannot speak, you can write. Take these tablets, I should like to know your opinion.”
The page took the tablets, and wrote with astonishing rapidity—“Since your Majesty condescends to ask my opinion, I think that the love which can stay to reason, or hesitates to sacrifice everything to the beloved object, does not deserve the name.”
“Bravo, my little hero!” cried Roderick, tapping him upon the shoulder; “spoken like a true Greek. An Irishman, however, would have said nearly the same.”
The boy’s slender figure trembled in every nerve at his master’s touch, and his cheeks were flushed with unwonted passion, though his eyes remained fixed upon the ground, from which indeed, he rarely raised them. Roderick gazed upon him a few minutes in silence, as though he wished to read his inmost soul. Then turning abruptly to Dr. Entwerfen, who had taken no part in the last conversation, he demanded gaily what he was thinking of.
“I was thinking, your Majesty,” said the doctor, gravely, “that it is a long way from hence to Madrid, and that it will be very fatiguing for your men to march so far.”
“Upon my word, doctor,” said Roderick, laughing, “you have really made a most sublime discovery, and I perfectly agree with you in the justice of your conclusions.”
“That being granted,” continued the doctor, “if any means could be devised by which your army could be transported to the gates of the city without the trouble of walking there, it would be a good thing.”
“Certainly,” said the King; “the fact does not admit of a dispute.”
“The only difficulty is to contrive how it is to be done,” resumed the doctor, musing.
“Aye, there’s the rub,” cried Roderick, laughing immoderately; “however, if anyone can do it, I’m sure you can, my dear doctor. So rally your energies, and consider the best means of commencing operations: I am sure, if you exert yourself, you cannot fail of success.”
“Your Majesty does me honour, and I will endeavour to prove I am not undeserving of the confidence you repose in me,” said the little doctor, drawing up himself to his full height, and puffing out his cheeks as he walked on absorbed in meditation. “I have it,” cried he, suddenly stopping short; “what does your Majesty think of an immense raft?”
“Excellent, my dear doctor! I see but three objections to making one large enough to convey the whole army:—First, that we have no timber to make it of;—secondly, we have no horses to draw it;—and thirdly, the roads are not wide enough to admit it.”
“Balloons
