Gil Blas by Alain-René Lesage (best romance books of all time TXT) 📕

human heart, contrived to cheat my sorrows by falling in with their tone and tenor: he was artful enough to reconcile me to the duty of taking food, by serving up soups and lighter fare with so disconsolate an arrangement of features, that it looked as if he urged me to the revolting employment, not so much to preserve my life, as to perpetuate and render immortal my affliction.

This affectionate servant wrote to Don Alphonso to let him know of the misfortune which had happened to me, and my lamentable condition in consequence. That tenderhearted and compassionate nobleman, that generous friend, very soon repaired to Lirias. I cannot recall the moment when he first presented himself to my view, without even now being sensibly affected. “My dear Santillane,” said he, embracing me, “I am not come to offer you impertinent consolation, but to weep over Antonia with you, as you would have wept with me over Seraphina, had the hand of death snatched her from me.”

In good truth, his tears bore testimony to his sincerity, and his sighs were blended with mine in the most friendly sympathy. Though overwhelmed with my affliction, I felt in the most lively manner the kindness of Don Alphonso.

The governor had a long conversation with Scipio respecting the measures to be taken for overcoming my despair. They judged it best to remove me for some time from Lirias, where every object incessantly brought back to my mind the image of Antonia. On this account the son of Don Caesar proposed carrying me back with him to Valencia; and my secretary seconded the plan with so many unanswerable arguments, that I made no further opposition. I left Scipio and his wife on my estate, where my longer stay could have produced no other effect but that of aggravating and enhancing all my sorrows, and took my own departure with the governor. On my arrival at Valencia, Don Caesar and his daughter-in-law spared no exertions to divert my sorrows from perpetual brooding; they plied me alternately with every sort of amusement, the most proper to turn the current of my thoughts to passing objects; but, in spite of all their pains, I remained plunged in melancholy, whence they were incompetent to draw me out. Nor was it for want of Scipio’s kind attentions that my peace of mind was still so hopeless: he was continually going back and fore between Lirias and Valencia to inquire after me; and his journey home was cheerful or gloomy in proportion as he found more or less disposition in me to listen to the words of comfort, and to reward the affectionate solicitude of my friends.

He came one morning into my room. “Sir,” said he, with a great deal of agitation in his manner, “a report is current about town, in which the whole monarchy is deeply interested: it is said that Philip the Third has departed this life, and that the prince, his son, is actually seated on the throne. To this it is added that the cardinal Duke of Lerma has lost the premiership, that he is even forbidden to appear at court, and that Don Gaspard de Guzmán, Count of Olivarez, is actually at the head of the administration.” I felt a little agitated by this sudden change, without knowing why. Scipio caught at this manifestation, and asked whether the veering of the wind in the political horizon might not blow me some good.

“How is that possible? What good can it blow me, my worthy friend?” answered I. “The court and I have shaken hands once for all: the revolutions which may take place there are all alike indifferent to me.”

“For a man at your time of life,” replied that cunning son of a diviner, “you are uncommonly mortified to all the uses of this world. Under your circumstances my curiosity would be all alive; I should go to Madrid and show my face to the young monarch, just to see whether he would recollect it, merely for the amusement of the thing.”

“I understand you,” said I; “you would have me return to court and try my fortune again, or rather you would plunge me back into the gulf of avarice and ambition.”

“Why should such baleful passions any more take possession of your breast?” rejoined Scipio. “Do not so much play the calumniator on your own virtue. I will answer for your firmness to yourself. The sound moral reflections which your disgrace has occasioned you to make on the vanities of a court life, are a sufficient security against all the dangers to be feared from that quarter. Embark boldly once again upon an ocean where you are acquainted with every shoal and rock in the dangerous navigation.”

“Hold your tongue, you flatterer,” said I with a smile of no very positive discouragement; “are you weary of seeing me lead a retired and tranquil life? I thought my repose had been more dear to you.”

Just at this period of our conversation, Don Caesar and his son came in. They confirmed the news of the king’s death, as well as the Duke of Lerma’s misfortune. It appeared, moreover, that this minister, having requested permission to retire to Rome, had not been able to obtain it, but was ordered to confine himself to his marquisate at Denia. On this, as if they had been in league with my secretary, they advised me to go to Madrid and offer my congratulations to the new king, as one of his former acquaintances, with the merit of having rendered him even such services as the great are apt to reward more willingly than some which are performed with cleaner hands. “For my part,” said Don Alphonso, “I have no doubt but they will be liberally acknowledged: Philip the Fourth is bound in honor to pay the Prince of Spain’s debts.”

“I consider the affair just in the same light as you do,” said Don Caesar; “and Santillane’s visit to court will doubtless prove the occasion