Edric felt no inclination to reply to this remark, and they travelled on in perfect silence till they reached Seville. Here they found everything changed: the town had been partially rebuilt, and the lovely groves of orange and myrtle trees in the vicinity, glowing with all the rich luxuriance of a southern spring, gave no idea of the scene of ruin and desolation it had before presented. They inquired for the house of M. de Mallet, and upon entering the inner square, or courtyard, they found him seated under the piazza that stretched round it, enjoying the evening breeze, whilst his fair daughter, now perfectly recovered, was occupied in reading to him.
A fountain played in the centre of the court, its sparkling spray descending in silvery showers; whilst innumerable orange trees and flowering shrubs, which were placed around, perfumed the air with their delicious fragrance; and a light awning, spread over the roof of the court, mellowed the light to a soft though glowing tinge, which gave an air of voluptuous languor to the whole scene.
The delight felt by M. de Mallet and his daughter at again seeing their deliverers was enthusiastic; and though it was most openly expressed by the father, the burning cheeks and sparkling eyes of Pauline spoke quite as intelligibly her silent transport.
“We have long expected you,” said M. de Mallet; “for I cannot describe how anxious we are to leave this country. Pauline has wearied Heaven with prayers for your safety, and as I have felt my strength decay daily, I too have prayed for your return, for I have a secret to confide to you which weighs heavily upon my spirits.”
“To confide to us?” cried Edric.
“Yes, to you,” said M. de Mallet. “It is true I have not known you long; but some circumstances make men better acquainted in a month than the ordinary routine of life does in years. Thus, the kindness with which you have treated me, and the important events in which I have seen you engaged, have made me consider you as old and tried friends, and have induced me to confide to you a secret which I have hitherto guarded with the most scrupulous fidelity.”
“What can you mean?” asked Edric in astonishment; whilst Pauline gazed upon her father with a look of the most intense anxiety.
“Pauline is not my child!” said the old man impressively. Pauline uttered a cry of agony that thrilled through the souls of her auditors, and threw herself at his feet, looking up in his face with an expression of the bitterest anguish, as though she implored him not to desert her. M. de Mallet’s agitation was equal to her own, and, as he fondly regarded her, he continued:
“Yes, miserable being that I am! I am not her father. Alas! often when I have beheld her enduring hunger and thirst for my sake; when I have seen her delicate frame exhausted with fatigue or shivering with cold, whilst still with angelic sweetness she has seemed to forget her own sufferings, and to think only of alleviating mine—oh, then, how I have burned to tell her that I did not deserve her kindness, and that I was an alien from her blood!”
“Oh father! my dearest father!” cried Pauline, her eyes streaming with tears; “what do you not deserve from me? What is there that I could do, that could half express my love and gratitude? Alas! though I am not your child, the tender care you took of my infancy—your kindness, your affection—” Pauline could not continue, her sobs impeded her utterance.
“My dear child!” said M. de Mallet: and folding her in his arms, he mingled his tears with hers; whilst Roderick and Edric were both too powerfully affected to interrupt their sorrows, and stood gazing upon them in silence, though both ardently desired an explanation of this seeming mystery. After a short pause, M. de Mallet resumed: “I see the astonishment I have caused you, and my heart bleeds for the pain I have been compelled to inflict upon Pauline, but I could not die in peace without disclosing the truth.”
“Oh, do not talk of dying!” cried Pauline, still clinging to him with the fondest affection.
“And who are the parents of Mademoiselle de Mallet?” demanded Roderick.
“Alas! I know not,” returned the Swiss. “About twenty years ago, I was travelling in England with my wife, who, afflicted with an incurable disease, had been advised to try the skill of English physicians, they being considered the most able in the world. One night, my poor wife being exhausted with fatigue, we stopped at a small inn in a village near the sea coast. The night was tempestuous, and a blazing light in the kitchen tempted us to wait there whilst the parlour was prepared for us. A woman sat near the fire, with a lovely little girl, about two years old, playing at her feet. My poor wife was always passionately fond of children, though Heaven had never blessed us with any; and attracted by the exquisite beauty of the little cherub, she took it in her arms and began to caress it.
“ ‘Is your honour fond of children?’ asked the woman with an evident affectation of vulgarity.
“ ‘I dote upon them,’ replied my wife. ‘Oh, Louis,’ continued she, addressing me in French, ‘if I could leave such an angel as this to supply my place to you, I think I could be resigned to die.’
“ ‘If your honours like the child, you may have her,’ said the woman.
“I started: but recollecting that, from the overeducation of the lower classes in England, they were all linguists, the circumstance of the woman understanding what we said did not appear extraordinary. ‘She is my child,’ continued the woman; ‘I live hard by—and have only taken shelter here from the storm. The landlady knows me very well. My husband has been dead some months; and,
