The Manuscript Found in Saragossa (44 page)

‘You may go now, Don Diego,' said the lady to her equerry. ‘I want to be left to weep over these beloved remains with which my grief will soon reunite me.'

As soon as the lady was alone she sat down beside me and said, ‘You monster! Look where your implacable rage has got you! You condemned us without even listening to us. How will you be able to answer this before the awful tribunal of heaven?'

At that moment another woman appeared, looking like a fury and carrying a dagger in her hand. ‘Where are the vile remains of that monster with a human face?' she said. ‘I want to know whether he has bowels. I want to rip them out. I want to tear his pitiless heart asunder. I want to crush it in my hands. I want to satisfy my rage.'

It seemed to me at that point that it was time to make myself known. I threw off my black sheet, clasped the knees of the woman
with the dagger and said, ‘Señora, take pity on a poor schoolboy who hid under this shroud to escape being beaten.'

‘You little wretch,' she screamed. ‘Where is the body of the Duke of Sidonia?'

‘It's in the hands of Dr Sangre Moreno,' I replied. ‘His pupils snatched it tonight.'

‘Merciful heavens!' exclaimed the woman. ‘He alone realized that the duke had been poisoned to death. I am lost!'

‘Don't be frightened,' I said. ‘The doctor will never dare admit to having snatched bodies from the Capuchin cemetery. And the Capuchins, who believe that the devil carried off the bodies which have disappeared, will not admit that Satan has acquired so much power within the walls of their monastery.'

Then the woman with the knife looked at me severely and said, ‘And you, you little wretch, who is there to answer for your discretion?'

‘Señora,' I replied, ‘today I am to be sentenced by a tribunal of Theatines presided over by a member of the Inquisition. They will probably sentence me to a thousand strokes of the whip. I beg you to ensure my discretion by keeping me out of everyone's sight.'

Instead of replying, the lady opened a trap-door which had been fitted in the corner of the room, and indicated that I should go down through it. I obeyed, and the trap-door was shut above my head.

I went down stairs plunged in darkness which led me to an equally dark underground vault. I bumped into a post. My hands encountered chains. Then my foot struck the stone of a sepulchre on which stood a metal cross. These gloomy objects do not inspire slumber. But I was at that happy age when one sleeps in spite of everything. I lay down on the marble tomb and fell quickly into a deep sleep.

The next day I saw that my prison was lit by a lamp situated in another vault separated from mine by iron bars. Soon the lady with the knife appeared at the bars and put down a basket covered by a cloth. She wanted to speak but her weeping prevented her. She led me to understand by making signs that the place brought terrible memories back to her. I discovered an abundance of food and some
books in the basket. I was safe from being beaten and safely out of the sight of any Theatine. These thoughts made my day pass by quite agreeably.

The following day it was the young widow who brought me food. She too tried to speak to me but didn't have the strength to do so. She went away unable to utter a single word.

The day after, she came back with her basket under her arm, which she passed through the iron bars. In the vault where she stood there was a large crucifix. She cast herself down on her knees before this image of our Saviour and prayed as follows: ‘Oh God, underneath this marble slab lie the mutilated remains of a sweet, loving creature. He has no doubt already taken his place among the angels of whom he was the very image on earth. Doubtless he is begging you to spare not only his barbaric murderer but also the person who avenged his death and her unwitting accomplice, that unhappy victim of so many horrors.'

The lady then continued praying in a low, but very fervent voice. Eventually she rose, came up to the bars and said to me in a calmer tone, ‘Tell me if you are lacking anything, or if there is anything we can do for you.'

‘Señora,' I replied, ‘I have an aunt called Dalanosa. She lives in the same street as the Theatine monastery. I would like her to know that I am alive and safe.'

‘Such a mission could compromise us,' said the lady. ‘None the less, I promise to try to find a way to reassure your aunt.'

‘Señora,' I replied, ‘you are goodness itself. The husband who caused you such unhappiness must indeed have been a monster.'

‘Alas,' she said. ‘You could not be more wrong. He was the best and the most affectionate of men.'

The next day the woman with the knife brought me food. She seemed less upset or at least more in control of herself.

‘My child,' she said. ‘I myself went to see your aunt. She seems to love you like a mother. No doubt you have lost your parents.'

I replied that I had indeed lost my mother, and that as I had had the misfortune to fall into my father's inkpot he had banished me for ever from his presence.

The lady asked me to explain what I had just said to her. So I told
her my story, which appeared to draw a smile from her. She then said:

‘My child, I think I laughed. I haven't done that for a very long time. I had a son. He is lying beneath the marble slab on which you are sitting. I would like to discover him again in you. I was the wet-nurse of the Duchess of Sidonia. I am only a woman of the common people but I have a heart which knows how to love and knows how to hate. People with such a character are never to be despised.'

I thanked the woman and assured her that my feelings towards her would always be those of a son.

Several weeks went by more or less in this way. The two ladies grew more and more used to me as the days passed. The nurse treated me as her son and the duchess showed me great kindness. She would often spend several hours in the vault.

One day, when she seemed a little less sad than usual, I ventured to ask her to tell the story of her misfortunes. She demurred for a long time but in the end she decided to give in to my entreaties. She spoke as follows:

My youth was spent in Asturias, in the company of my mother, who had separated from her husband early in their marriage and who lived with her father, the Marqués de Astorgas, of whom she was the sole heir.

I do not know to what extent my mother deserved to lose the affections of her husband, but I do know that the long sufferings of her life would have been sufficient to expiate the gravest of sins. She seemed steeped in melancholy. Her eyes were full of tears, her smile full of sorrow. Even her slumbers were not free from sadness: their peace was disturbed by sighs and sobs.

Not that the separation was total. My mother received letters
regularly from her husband and replied to them. She had been twice to Madrid to see him but his heart was shut to her for ever. The marquesa had a loving and tender soul. All her affections, which she carried to the point of exaltation, she directed towards her father, and they brought some balm to the bitterness of her enduring sorrows.

As for me, I would find it difficult to define the feelings of my mother towards me. She certainly loved me, but she seemed to be frightened to involve herself in my destiny. Far from preaching at me, she scarcely dared to give me advice at all. In short, if you must know, she did not feel able to teach her daughter virtuous ways, having strayed from them herself. So my childhood was marked by a sort of neglect which would have deprived me of the advantages of a good education if I had not had la Girona, who was first my nurse and then my governess, at my side. You have made her acquaintance, and you know that she has a strong spirit and a cultivated mind. She has done all she could to make me the happiest of women, but inexorable fate defeated all her efforts. Pedro Girón, her husband, was known for his enterprising if dubious character. Having been forced to leave Spain, he had embarked for America and nothing more had been heard of him. La Girona had had only one son by him, with whom I had been suckled. He was a remarkably good-looking child, which caused him to be nicknamed ‘Hermosito',
¹
a nickname that he kept throughout his short life. We were nourished by the same milk, and we often slept in the same cradle. Up to the age of seven we grew closer and closer together. Then la Girona thought that it was time to tell her son about our difference of rank and the great distance which fate had set between himself and his young girlfriend.

One day, after we had had some childish squabble, la Girona called her son over to her and said with great gravity, ‘Never forget that Señora de Val Florida is your mistress and mine and that we are no more than the first servants of her household.'

Hermosito did not question this. He made all my desires his own. He would make it his business to guess and anticipate them. His
complete devotion seemed to have ineffable charm for him, and I took great pleasure in seeing him obey me in everything.

La Girona soon saw the dangers of the new relationship which had developed between us and decided to separate us once we reached the age of thirteen. Then she forgot all about it and turned her attention to other matters.

La Girona, as I have said, had a cultivated mind. When we were still very young she put the works of good Spanish authors into our hands and gave us a general notion of history. She also wanted to train our judgement, so she made us think about our reading and showed us how to use it as a basis for moral reflection. It is quite usual for children when they first begin to study history to enthuse over historical figures whose role in history is very brilliant. In such cases my hero became that of my young friend too, and if I changed my mind he too would at once adopt the object of my new enthusiasm.

I had grown so used to Hermosito's submissiveness that I would have been astonished had he shown any resistance to my wishes. But this was hardly to be feared, and I was obliged myself to place limits on my authority or at least use it very carefully. One day I wanted to have a bright shell which I could see lying in deep, clear water. Hermosito jumped in at once and almost drowned. Another time, as he tried to reach a nest that I wanted, a branch broke under him and he hurt himself badly. Thereafter I was very circumspect in expressing my desires, but I found it very agreeable simply to have such great power and not to use it. It was, if my memory serves me aright, the first time I felt pride. I think I have felt it on several occasions since then.

Our thirteenth year went by in this way. When Hermosito had completed it his mother said to him, ‘My son, today we have celebrated the thirteenth anniversary of your birth. You are no longer a child and cannot live as close to Señora de Val Florida as you have up to now. Tomorrow you will leave and make your way to Navarre to live with your grandfather.'

La Girona had no sooner finished her sentence than Hermosito manifested the most terrible despair. He wept, fainted and, on coming to his senses, wept again. As for me, I consoled him more than I shared his distress. I looked on him as a being who was wholly
dependent on me and who only breathed, as it were, with my permission. I found nothing unusual in his despair but I didn't feel the slightest obligation to reciprocate it. I was too young and too accustomed to the sight of his remarkable good looks for these to make any impression on me.

La Girona was not one of those persons who can be moved by the sight of tears. Those which Hermosito shed were to no avail. He had to leave. But two days later his muleteer returned, looking upset, to report that in going through a wood he had left his mules for an instant and had returned to find Hermosito gone. He had called to him, then searched the forest in vain. Apparently he had been eaten by wolves. La Girona seemed more surprised than distressed to hear this.

‘You'll see,' she said. ‘The wilful little wretch will come back to us.'

She was not wrong. We soon witnessed the return of the young fugitive. He clasped his mother's knees and said, ‘I was born to serve Señora de Val Florida and I will die if you try to banish me from this house.'

A few days later la Girona received a letter from her husband, who had not been heard of for a very long time. He told his wife about the fortune he had made in Vera Cruz and expressed the desire to have his son with him. La Girona, who wanted at all costs to get Hermosito away, readily accepted this offer.

Since his return Hermosito had not been living in the castle. He had been lodged in a farm, which we owned by the sea. One day his mother went to fetch him and made him embark on the boat of a fisherman who had undertaken to escort him to a ship bound for America. During the night Hermosito threw himself overboard and swam to the shore. La Girona forced him to board ship again. These actions were so many sacrifices she made to her duty. It was easy to see at what cost to her heart they were done.

The events which I have just related all came one upon another in quick succession. They were followed by very sad occurrences. My grandfather fell ill and my mother, who had long been declining, mingled her last breath with that of the Marqués de Astorgas.

My father had been expected daily in Asturias but the king could
not make up his mind to give him leave, as the state of affairs was not such as to allow him to absent himself. The Marqués de Val Florida wrote to la Girona in the most moving terms and told her to bring me as quickly as possible to Madrid. My father had taken into his service the whole household of the Marqués de Astorgas, of whom I was sole heir. They set off in my company and formed a splendid cortège. The daughter of a secretary of state is in any case pretty sure of being well received from one end of Spain to the other. The honours which I received on that journey contributed, I think, to engendering the ambitious feelings which since then have ruled my destiny. I felt a different sort of pride as I approached Madrid. I had seen that the Marquesa de Val Florida loved and idolized her father, living and breathing only for him, and that she had treated me with a sort of coldness. Now I was to have a father for myself. I promised myself to love him with my whole heart. I wanted to contribute to his happiness. This hope made me proud. I thought of myself as grown up even though I had not yet reached my fourteenth birthday.

These flattering thoughts still filled my mind when my coach entered the courtyard of our mansion. My father received me at the foot of the steps and embraced me affectionately a thousand times. Soon after, he was summoned to the court by order of the king. I withdrew to my apartment. I was very excited, and spent a sleepless night.

The next morning I was summoned by my father. He was drinking his chocolate and he had me take breakfast with him. Then he said to me, ‘My dear Leonor, my heart is sad, and my humour has become somewhat melancholy. But since you have been restored to me I hope from now on to see happier days. My study will always be open to you. Bring some needlework with you. I have a more private study for meetings and secret negotiations. I shall try to find time to chat with you in the midst of my work. And I hope that I shall rediscover in such sweet conversation an image of the domestic happiness which I have long since lost.'

Having uttered these words, the marqués rang. His secretary came in, carrying two bags – one containing the letters which had arrived that day, the other letters whose dispatch had been held back.

I spent some time in the study and then came back at dinner time.
There I found some of my father's close friends, who, like him, were employed in the most important affairs of state. They spoke about them in my presence without much restraint. I added to their discussions a few naïve remarks which amused them. I saw, or so I believed, that they interested my father. I grew more bold as a result.

The next day I went back to his study as soon as I knew him to be there. He was drinking his chocolate and he said with a satisfied expression, ‘It is Friday today. We will receive letters from Lisbon.' Then he rang. His secretary brought the two bags. My father hurriedly rummaged through one; he drew out a letter comprising two sheets, one in code, which he gave to his secretary, the other in writing, which he began to read himself with an expression of pleasure, affection and benevolence.

While he was busy reading, I picked up the envelope and looked at the seal. It was decorated with a fleece over which there was a ducal crown. Alas, those grandiose arms would one day be mine! The next day the French mail arrived, after which came mail from other quarters, but none interested my father as much as the mail from Portugal.

After a whole week had passed, I said to my father as he was drinking his chocolate, ‘Today is Friday. The mail from Lisbon will come.'

The secretary came in, and I hurried to rummage in the bag. I drew out my father's favourite letter and ran to give it to him. He rewarded me with a tender kiss.

I repeated the same routine several Fridays in succession. Then, one day, I was brave enough to ask my father what the letter was that he treated differently from all the others.

‘This letter,' he replied, ‘is from our ambassador in Lisbon, the Duque de Medina Sidonia, my friend, benefactor, and even more than that, for I sincerely believe that my life depends on his.'

‘In that case,' I said, ‘the charming duke has claims on my attention. I must try and make his acquaintance. I will not ask you what he writes to you in code, but I beg you to read to me the letter written in plain handwriting.'

This suggestion seemed to whip my father into a real fury. He called me a spoiled, wilful, whimsical child. He said other hurtful
things. Then he calmed down, and not only read me the Duke of Sidonia's letter but told me to keep it. I have it upstairs. I shall bring it to you the next time I come to see you.