The Sea-Witch by Maturin Murray Ballou (english novels for students .TXT) 📕

wedding may be near at hand,” returned Jean; “but I fear much that Rosa will hardly be my bride. Go, fair maid, and lead this stubborn youth hither. If all else fail, I think that thou wilt be able to hold him captive.”

Rosa sprang from the porch to meet Gulielmo. Flinging her lily arms about his neck, her head reclining on his breast:

“Thou art mine,” she said; “whether poor or rich, it is the same to me. Pardon this deceit; it was not my will to give thee needless pain.”

“How is this?” Gulielmo was with difficulty able to say. “Your bridal—”

“Come, your place!” interrupted Jean. “There, take her hand. How dull you are! It seems to me that after all I should make the readiest groom of the two.”

“Not so!” exclaimed Gulielmo. “But I must not allow you to be deceived, however little my tale may profit me.”

“Hold then a moment,” Sartello cried. “Your hand, friend Jean; I think you bear no ill-will. Or if you do, the settlement we’ll postpone, till this present affair shall be concluded. Here, then, in this bag which I deliver you, you will find a thousand crowns, a forced loan to aid Gulielmo’s studious years; and with the sum, five hundred crowns by way of interest. I enacted the Russian on a certain occasion,—a counterfeit lord,—and yet not altogether so, as you will own when you have heard my story. Four years ago, I held the title of Prince of Cornaro, where I, in the midst of a beautiful country, upheld the privileges of a lord. But one luckless day I joined a secret band, which sought to change the rule by which Italy was swayed. We failed, and I was forced to fly my native towers, to roam the mountain depths as the chief of lawless men. My wide estates were confiscated to the service of the crown. But this noble youth has now obtained for me a full pardon from the king for all past misdeeds. The sovereign also freely restores me to my former rank and possessions.”

He ceased, and every voice was raised in applause.

“Hail, Prince of Cornaro!” was the general exclamation.

“Prince,” cried Jean Maret, “I give you thanks for the thousand crowns. The odd five hundred I will give towards Rosa’s dowry.”

“Nay,” rejoined the prince; “the half thou mayst; it is all that thou canst be permitted, for I desire to find some room to add to Rosa’s store.”

“Ha!” said old Gaspar, with a laugh. “Although not rich, her suitor is yet certain he brings her riches.”

“Good sir,” replied Gulielmo, “I can show you but little coin, it is true; yet you may perceive some gain will be mine if you but choose to read this obligation.”

Thereupon he delivered a slip of parchment into the hand of the host, who turning it once or twice round in the vain attempt to decipher its intention, passed it to the prince, saying:

“I pray your excellency to read it. My eyes are somewhat weak, and indeed my scholarship is not so good as it once was.”

“Know all (read the prince, after naming the date), that I will pay to order of Gulielmo Massani, or his lawful heirs, four thousand crowns, with interest, as soon hereafter as demand may be made. BENVOGLIO.”

“The Cardinal Benvoglio,” said the prince. “Indeed, the lad hath prospered well. But come, the wedding lags. First, let us tie this youthful pair, and after that we’ll join the revel on the green, where Jean and I will teach you all how to dance ‘LA TARANTULA.’”

 

THE GOLDSMITH OF PARIS.

BY H. W. LORING.

 

IN the good old days of France the fair, when no one dared question the divine right of the sovereign, or the purity of the church,—when the rights of the feudal seigneurs were unchallenged, and they could head or hang, mutilate or quarter their vassals at their pleasure,—when freedom was a word as unmeaning as it is now tinder his sacred majesty, Napoleon the Third, there came to the capital, from Touraine, an artizan, named Anseau, who was as cunning in his trade of goldsmith as Benvenuto Cellini, the half-mad artificer of Florence. He became a burgess of Paris, and a subject of the king, whose high protection he purchased by many presents, both of works of art and good red gold. He inhabited a house built by himself, near the church of St. Leu, in the Rue St. Denys, where his forge was well known to half the amateurs of fine jewelry. He was a man of pure morals and persevering industry; always laboring, always improving, constantly learning new secrets and new receipts, and seeking everywhere for new fashions and devices to attract and gratify his customers. When the night was far advanced, the soldiers of the guard and the revellers returning from their carousals, always saw a lighted lamp at the casement of the goldsmith’s workshop, where he was hammering, carving, chiseling and filing,—in a word, laboring at those marvels of ingenuity and toil which made the delight of the ladies and the minions of the court. He was a man who lived in the fear of God, and in a wholesome dread of robbers, nobles, and noise. He was gentle and moderate of speech, courteous to noble, monk and burgess, so that he might be said to have no enemy.

Claude Anseau was strongly built. His arms were rounded and muscular, and his hand had the grip of an iron vice. His broad shoulders reminded the learned of the giant Atlas; his white teeth seemed as if they were formed for masticating iron. His countenance, though placid, was full of resolution, and his glance was so keen that it might have melted gold, though the limpid lustre of his eyes tempered their burning ardor. In a word, though a peaceable man, the goldsmith was not one to be insulted with impunity, and perhaps it was a knowledge of his physical qualities that secured him from attack in those stormy days of ruffianly violence.

Yet sometimes, in spite of his accumulating wealth and tranquil life, the loneliness of the goldsmith made him restless. He was not insensible to beauty, and often, as he wrought a wedding ring for the finger of some fair damsel, he thought with what delight he could forge one for some gentle creature who would love him for himself and not for the riches that called him lord. Then he would sally forth and hie to the river-side, and pass long hours in the dreamy reveries of an artist.

One day as he was strolling, in this tender frame of mind, along the left bank of the Seine, he came to the meadow afterwards called the Pre aux Clercs, which was then in the domain of the Abbey of St. Germain, and not in that of the University. There, finding himself in the open fields, he encountered a poor girl, who addressed him with the simple salutation:—“God save you, my lord!”

The musical intonation of her voice, chiming in with the melodious images that then filled the goldsmith’s busy brain, impressed him so pleasantly that he turned, and saw that the damsel was holding a cow by a tether, while it was browsing the rank grass that grew upon the borders of a ditch.

“My child,” said he, “how is it that you are pasturing your cow on the Sabbath? Know you not that it is forbidden, and that you are in danger of imprisonment?”

“My lord,” replied the girl, casting down her eyes, “I have nothing to fear, because I belong to the abbey. My lord abbot has given us license to feed our cow here after sunset.”

“Then you love your cow better than the safety of your soul,” said the goldsmith.

“Of a truth, my lord, the animal furnishes half our subsistence.”

“I marvel,” said the good goldsmith, “to see you thus poorly clad and barefoot on the Sabbath. Thou art fair to look upon, and thou must needs have suitors from the city.”

“Nay, my lord,” replied the girl, showing a bracelet that clasped her rounded left arm; “I belong to the abbey.” And she cast so sad a look on the good burgess that his heart sank within him.

“How is this?” he resumed,—and he touched the bracelet, whereon were engraven the arms of the Abbey of St. Germain.

“My lord, I am the daughter of a serf. Thus, whoever should unite himself to me in marriage would become a serf himself, were he a burgess of Paris, and would belong, body and goods, to the abbey. For this reason I am shunned by every one. But it is not this that saddens me—it is the dread of being married to a serf by command of my lord abbot, to perpetuate a race of slaves. Were I the fairest in the land, lovers would avoid me like the plague.”

“And how old are you, my dear?” asked the goldsmith.

“I know not, my lord,” replied the girl; “but my lord abbot has it written down.”

This great misery touched the heart of the good man, who for a long time had himself eaten the bread of misfortune. He conformed his pace to that of the girl, and they moved in this way towards the river in perfect silence. The burgess looked on her fair brow, her regal form, her dusty but delicately-formed feet, and the sweet countenance which seemed the true portrait of St. Genevieve, the patron saint of Paris.

“You have a fine cow,” said the goldsmith.

“Would you like a little milk?” replied she. “These early days of May are so warm, and you are so far from the city.”

In fact, the shy was cloudless and burned like a forge. This simple offer, made without the hope of a return, the only gift in the power of the poor girl, touched the heart of the goldsmith, and he wished that he cold see her on a throne and all Paris at her feet.

“No, ma mie,” replied he; “I am not thirsty—but I would that I could free you.”

“It cannot be; and I shall die the property of the abbey. For a long time we have lived here, from father to son, from mother to daughter. Like my poor ancestors, I shall pass my days upon this land, for the abbot does not loose his prey.”

“What!” cried the goldsmith, “has no gallant been tempted by your bright eyes to buy your liberty, as I bought mine of the king?”

“Truly, it would cost too much. Therefore those I pleased at first sight went at they came.”

“And you never thought of fleeing to another country with a lover, on a fleet courser?”

“O, yes. But, my lord, if I were taken I should lose my life, and my lover, if he were a lord, his land. I am not worth such sacrifice. Then the arms of the abbey are longer than my feet are swift. Besides, I live here, in obedience to Heaven that has placed me here.”

“And what does your father, maiden?”

“He is a vine-dresser, in the gardens of the abbey.”

“And your mother?”

“She is a laundress.”

“And what is your name?”

“I have no name, my lord. My father was baptized Etienne, my dear mother is la Etienne, and I am Tiennette, at your service.”

“Tiennette,” said the goldsmith, “never has maiden pleased me as thou dost. Hence, as I saw thee at the moment when I was firmly resolved to take a helpmate, I think I see a special providence in our meeting, and if I am not unpleasing in thine eyes, I pray thee to accept me a lover.”

The girl cast down her eyes. These words were uttered in such a sort, with tone so grave