Фредерик Марриет
The Pacha of Many Tales
The next morning, a felucca anchored to procure some water; and, as she was proceeding to Toulon, I requested a passage. We sailed with a fine breeze; but a heavy gale came on, which tossed us about for many days, and the master of the vessel had no idea to where she had been driven. He consoled us, however, by asserting that we could never go to the bottom, as there was a lady of great sanctity passenger in the cabin, who had been sent for to assume the office of lady abbess of a convent near Marseilles, and whom the saints would indubitably preserve.
This was some comfort, although fine weather would have been greater. The gale continued; and the next morning we thought that we descried land on the lee beam. The following night we were certain of our conjectures having been correct, for the vessel was thrown on shore, and in a few minutes went to pieces. I had the good fortune to save myself upon a part of the wreck, and lay half-dead upon the beach until the morning. When the day broke, I looked around me: there were the fragments of the vessel strewed upon the beach, or tossed in mockery by the surge; and close to me lay the dead body of the lady, whose sanctity the captain had assured us would be a safeguard to us all. I then turned from the beach to look at the inland country, and perceived, to my astonishment, that I was not three miles from my native city, Marseilles. This was a horrid discovery; for I knew that I should receive no mercy, and could not proceed a mile without being recognised. What to do was now the subject of my thoughts; and at last, as I viewed the body of the dead lady, it occurred to me that I might pass myself off for her.
I stripped it of its outer garment; and having then hauled my own clothes upon the corpse, and covered it over with sea-weed, I dressed myself in the religious habit which she had worn, and sat down awaiting the arrival of the people, which I knew must soon take place. I was then without a symptom of beard; and from the hardship and ill-treatment which I had received on board of the Genoese, was thin and sallow in the face. It was easy in a nun’s dress to mistake me for a woman of thirty-five years of age, who had been secluded in a cloister. In the pockets of her clothes I found letters, which gave me the necessary clue to my story, and I resolved to pass myself off as La Soeur Eustasie, rather than he put in prison, or run through the body.
I had scarcely time to finish reading these documents when a party, attracted by the fragments on the beach, came up to me. I narrated the loss of the vessel, the death of the whole crew, my name and condition, my having come over at the request of the bishop to assume the guidance of the convent of St. Therese; and added, that I had called upon the Virgin in my distress, who had come to my aid, and floated me on shore with as much care and comfort as if I had been reposing on cushions of down. The report was spread, and credited; for the circumstance of a helpless woman being the sole survivor of a whole crew was miracle enough in itself.
The bishop’s carriage was sent for me, and I was conducted into the town, followed by a concourse of priests, monks and common people, who were anxious to kiss even the ground that had been trod upon by a personage so especially under the protection of Heaven. I was conducted to the bishop’s palace, where I held a sort of court, being visited by deputations from the official bodies, the governor, and all the people of consequence. After a sojourn of three days, I removed to the convent of which I was the supposed abbess, and was enthusiastically received by the nuns, who flocked round me with mingled veneration and delight.
On the second day of my establishment as abbess, the two elder sisters, who could with difficulty he got rid of even when I retired to bed the night before, introduced the whole of the nuns in rotation, beginning with the elder, and ending with those who last took the vow of chastity. I felt little interest, I must confess, at the commencement of my levee; but as it came near to a close, many beautiful countenances attracted my attention, and I gave the kiss of peace with more zest than prudence would have justified. The last of the sisterhood came forward, and was introduced as Soeur Marie. Gracious Heaven! it was the poor girl whom I had deserted. I started when I saw her advance: her eyes were bent upon the ground, as if in reverence to my acknowledged sanctity. As she knelt before me to receive the kiss, she raised them up. Love can pierce through all disguises.—At the moment, she thought that she beheld her fugitive lover, and caught her breath in amazement—but recollection pointed out to her the utter impossibility of the fact, and she sighed at the uncommon likeness, as she received the kiss from those lips which had indeed been so often pressed to hers before.
When the ceremony had been gone through I complained of fatigue, and requested to be left alone.
I wished to reflect upon what had passed, and determine how I was to act: to escape the danger which threatened me, I had placed myself in a situation of still greater difficulty. Where could it end? After a long reverie, I decided that I would make Marie my confidante, and trust to circumstances to guide my future conduct. I rang the bell, and, requesting the presence of the elder sister of the convent, commenced an inquiry into the different characters of the nuns who had been presented.
Flattered by the confidence demanded, there was no end to the loquacity and the ill-natured remarks of the old beldame: she held her list in her hand, and ran over the families and private history of each. It was two hours before she had finished, which she did with Marie, of whose history she gave me a most minute detail; and if she was as correct in her reports of all the others, I certainly had no reason to compliment myself upon being abbess, so far as the previous characters of the nuns under my surveillance were concerned. “Good sister,” replied I, “I thank you for your information, which I shall not fail to profit by in my plans for the improvement of the morality of those under my charge. I have always made it a rule, that one of the sisterhood should remain in my room every night, to watch and do penance. I have found that when coupled with my seasonable exhortations, it has produced an excellent effect. Of course I allude not to sage and devout women like you; I refer to those who in their folly and their flow of youthful passions, have not yet humbled themselves sufficiently by abstinence and mortification. Who would you propose to watch here this night?”
The old beldame, who I had perceived by the violence of her manner had a dislike to Marie, immediately mentioned her as one to whom severe penance would be of especial benefit. I conversed with her for another half-hour; then, wishing her good night, prepared for bed, and requested that Marie might be summoned to attend.
Marie entered with her book of Prières in her hand, and, bowing humbly to me as she passed, sat down near to the lamp which was lighted before an image of the Virgin, at the farther end of the room, and commenced her task of watching and of prayer.
“Marie,” said I, as I stood by the bed: she uttered a faint scream as she heard my voice for the first time, and throwing herself down upon her knees before the image of the Virgin, covered her face with her hands, and appeared to be in silent but earnest supplication.
“Marie,” again said I, “come here.” She rose, and came trembling to the foot of the bed. “To you, and to you alone, do I intrust a secret which, if discovered, would subject me to a painful and ignominious death. You were not deceived, when you started at the face beneath the nun’s attire! and you must now be certain, from the voice which you have heard, that I am indeed François. How I became the lady abbess of this convent you have yet to learn.” I then narrated what I have already done to your highness. “By what means,” continued I, “I am to deliver myself from this dangerous situation, I know not; I have, however, one consolation, in finding myself once more in company with the object of my love. Come hither, Marie; it is indeed your own François.”
Marie remained at the foot of the bed, but advanced not; and I perceived that the tears fell fast, as she cast her eyes to heaven.
“Speak to me, Marie, if ever you loved me.”
“That I loved you, François, you know full well: not even your unkind desertion could affect that love, which was unchangeable. I dared all for your sake; my brothers, my father, could not extort the secret from me, and their suspicions although directed towards you, could never be confirmed. I bore the offspring of my guilt in solitary anguish, afterwards loaded with reproaches when I needed comfort and consolation, and stunned with imprecations when I required soothing and repose. I buried it with shame and sorrow and contumely. You had abandoned me, and I felt that all ties to this world were over. I took the veil; and never was the world quitted by so willing a votary as myself. I have since been peaceful, if not happy.”
“And now, Marie, you shall be happy,” cried I, stretching out my arms to her. “Come to me, I will explain my motives for leaving Marseilles, and what my future intentions were, if they had not been frustrated by unforeseen events. All shall yet be well.”
“François, all is well. I have taken a solemn vow—it is registered in Heaven. You have by fraud and imposition entered into a holy place, and assumed a holy character. Add not to your crime by even harbouring the idea of impropriety, and add not to my humiliation by supposing for a moment that I am capable of being a participator.
“Holy Virgin,” cried she, falling on her knees, “I demand thy powerful aid in this conflict of worldly passions and holy wishes. Oh! make me dead to all but thee, and to the spouse whom I have accepted at thy hands.”
She then rose, and continued—“How you will be able to leave this convent, François, I know not; but your secret is safe with me, provided that you do not again request my presence, as you have this night. My prayers shall ever be for you; but we must meet no more!” and Marie waved her hand mournfully, and quitted the apartment.
Although I had always a great contempt for the Catholic religion, of which I at that period was a member, I was awed by the beauty of virtue as it appeared in Marie, and I passed the night in melancholy reflections. I felt more love for her than ever, and determined upon persuading her to quit the convent and become my wife. The next morning I sent for her.
“Marie, you gave yourself to heaven, when you imagined that you had no tie upon earth. You were deceived; there was one whom you still loved, and who still adored you. Vows made in delusion are not registered. Leave this convent with me, become my wife, and you will do your duty better towards heaven than by pining between these walls, which contain nothing but envy, hatred, and remorse.”
“François, you have had my answer. What has been done, cannot be undone. Save yourself, and leave me to my unhappy fate,” answered Marie: then bursting into tears, “O François, why, why did you leave me without one word? Had you but pointed out your danger to me, I should have been the first to have insisted upon your absence, and all, all would have been borne with patience, if not with pleasure, for your sake. If what you now say is truth, all would have been well; but now I have nought to cheer me in my lonely pilgrimage, and nought to wish but that it soon may come unto its close. I forgive you, François; but pity me, for I deserve your pity.”
“Once more, Marie, I intreat you to consent to my proposal.”
“Never, François; I will not be less faithful to my God than I was to you: he will not desert me; and if I suffer now, will reward me for it hereafter.” And Marie again quitted my apartment.
My situation in the nunnery now became insupportable, and I determined to escape. I pleaded ill-health, and kept my bed. The physician of a neighbouring convent, who had a great reputation, was sent for against my wishes. When I heard of his arrival, I dressed to receive him for I was fearful of some scrutiny. He inquired what ailed me: I answered that I had no pain, but that I was convinced I should soon depart. He felt my pulse, and, not being able to discover symptoms of disease, took his leave.
To the elder sisters who visited me, I spoke in enigmas, and told them that I had a summons, that they must expect soon to find me gone: and the sanctity of my reputation made them receive my innuendoes as inspired remarks. One night, I complained of being much worse, and requested their early retiring: they would have sent for the physician, but I forbad it, telling them I was beyond a physician’s cure: kissing them all, and pronouncing over them a solemn blessing, I dismissed them. As soon as it was dark, I threw off my nun’s attire, leaving it in my bed, as if I had slipped out of it; and as the windows of my apartment, which looked into the convent garden, were not barred, unclothed as I was I dropped down, and reached the ground in safety. I took the precaution, when I was outside, to shut the window, that my having escaped should not enter their ideas, and climbing a tree which overhung the wall of the garden, dropped from a bough on the other side, and found myself at liberty. As I knew that the farther I was from the nunnery, the less chance I had of being supposed an impostor, I gained the high road, and ran as fast as I could in the direction from Marseilles to Toulouse.
I had proceeded several miles without encountering any body at that still hour of the night, occasionally alarmed at the barking of some snarling cur, as I passed through the small villages in my route,—when, worn out with fatigue and cold, I sat down under a hedge to screen myself from the cold “mistral” which blew. As the wind lulled, I heard sounds of voices in lamentation, which appeared to proceed from the road at a short distance. I rose, and continued my route, when I stumbled over the body of a man. I examined him by the faint light that was emitted from the stars. He was quite dead; and it immediately occurred to me that a robbery had been committed, and the lamentations which I had heard proceeded from those who had escaped with their lives. The cloak of the dead man was lying underneath him; it was a capote, such as are worn by officers. I unclasped it from his neck, round which it was fastened with two bear’s-paws chased in silver, and, wrapping it round my benumbed limbs, proceeded further on to where I now occasionally heard voices much plainer than before. I again fell in with two more prostrate bodies, and, as the day had now begun to break, perceived that they were clothed like people of low condition. Passing my hand over their faces, I felt that they were quite dead and stiff. Afraid that if found close to the spot, and unable to give any account of myself, I should be accused of murder, I thought of immediate flight; but the plaintive voice of a woman met my ears, and it was an appeal that I could not resist. I proceeded a few yards further, and perceived a carriage, the horses of which lay dead in their traces, with the driver beside them. To the hind wheels were secured with ropes an elderly man and a young woman.
“God be praised, my dear father, help is at hand!” said the young woman, as I approached; and as I came close to them, she cried out, “Oh, I know him by his cloak; it’s the gentleman who defended us so gallantly, and whom we supposed to have been killed. Are you much hurt, sir?”
Aware that I had better be any body than myself; with my usual invention and presence of mind I replied, “Not much, madam, thanks be to Heaven! I was stunned, and they left me for dead: I am happy that I am still alive, to be of service to you:” and I immediately proceeded to cast loose the ropes by which the father and daughter (as by their conversation they appeared to be) had been confined to the wheels. The robbers had stripped them both nearly to the skin, and they were so numbed with the cold that they could scarcely stand when they were unbound,—the poor girl especially, who shivered as if suffering under a tertian ague. I proposed that they should enter the carriage as the best shelter they could receive from the bitter keen wind which blew, and they agreed to the prudence of my suggestion.
“If I am not requesting too great a favour, sir,” said the old gentleman, “I wish you would lend my poor daughter that cloak, for she is perishing with the cold.”
“I will with pleasure, sir, as soon as you are both in the carriage,” replied I; for I had made up my mind how to proceed. I assisted them in, and, shutting the door, slipped off the cloak and put it in at the window, saying, “Believe me, madam, I should have offered it to you before, but the fact is, the rascals served me, as I lay stunned, in the same manner as they have you; and I must now go in search of something to cover myself.” I then went off at a quick pace, hearing the young woman exclaim, “Oh, my father, he has stripped himself to cover me.” I immediately returned to the body of the gentleman whose cloak I had borrowed, and for whom I had no doubt that I had been mistaken. I stripped off all the clothes from his rigid limbs, and put them on: they fitted me exactly, and, what was more fortunate, were not stained with blood, as he had received his death-wound from a bullet in the brain. I then dragged the body to the other side of the hedge, where I threw it into a ditch, and covered it with long grass, that it might not be discovered. Daylight had made its appearance before I had completed my toilet; and when I came back to the carriage, the old gentleman was loud in his thanks. I told him that in returning to strip one of the other bodies I had found my own clothes in a bundle, which the robbers had left in their haste to escape from pursuit.
The young lady said nothing, but sat shrouded up in the cloak, in one corner of the carriage. I now entered into conversation with the old gentleman, who explained to me how the attack began, before I had come to their assistance: and from the information I received from him, I was enabled to form a very good idea of the story that I was to tell. I found that I had been on horseback with my servant, when I rode to their assistance; that we had been both supposed to be killed, and that we were about five miles from any post town.
By this time it was broad daylight, and I made another discovery, which was, that I was wearing an officer’s undress. Anxious to gratify my curiosity by a sight of the young lady, I turned to her as she lay muffled up in the cloak, and expressed a hope that she did not feel cold. She put her head out, and answered in the negative with such a sweet smile, upon such a sweet face as I never had before witnessed. I looked at her as if transfixed, and did not take my eyes off until she blushed, and again sank back as before.
This brought me to my recollection; I offered to go for assistance, and my services were thankfully accepted. I passed by the men who had been killed, as I went on my mission: one was habited in a livery similar to the coach-man who lay dead by his horses; the other was in that of a groom, and I took it for granted that he had been my servant. I searched in his pockets for information; and, collecting the contents, commenced reading them as I walked along.
By his memoranda I found out that I had come from Aix. By letters and papers in my own pockets I ascertained who I was, who my father was, to what regiment I belonged, that I was on leave of absence, and that I had a brother, whose affectionate letter I read carefully for further information. I had not time to count a considerable sum of money, which was in my purse, before I fell in with a countryman, who was leading his horses to the plough. Briefly narrating the circumstances, I offered him a handsome remuneration, if he would mount one of his horses, and procure immediate assistance. Having seen him off in a hand-gallop, I returned to the carriage to try if it were possible to have one more view of that face which had so enchanted me. I stated the good fortune I had met with, and my hopes of a speedy deliverance from their trouble. I answered the old gentleman’s inquiry of the name and condition of the person to whom he and his daughter had been so much indebted; talked of my father the Comte de Rouillé, of my regiment; and then requested a similar confidence.
He was le Marquis de Tonseca, and the young lady was his daughter; they were proceeding to their château about seven miles distant, where he hoped I would accompany them, and allow him an opportunity of showing his gratitude.
I hesitated, talked of engagements—not that I intended to refuse the invitation, but because the young lady had not joined in the request. My plan had the desired effect; again the lovely face appeared from under the cloak, and the sweetest voice in the world expressed a wish that I would not refuse her father’s invitation. I blushed, and stammered consent. Pleased at her victory, she smiled, and again was folded up in the cloak, which I could have torn to pieces for its envious concealment.
Assistance had now arrived; a crowd of people, headed by an officer to take the procés verbal, and two pair of post-horses came up; the deposition of the marquis and myself were briefly taken; his, as to what he had seen, and mine “to the best of my knowledge and belief.” The papers were signed, the dead bodies were carried off, the horses put to; and, at the request of the marquis, I took my seat in the carriage between him and his daughter, and we proceeded to the château.
In two hours we arrived at a magnificent pile, which bespoke the wealth and ancestry of the owner; and I had the pleasure of carrying in my arms, up the long flight of steps by which we ascended to the entrance, the beautiful girl, muffled up as she was in the cloak. As soon as I had laid her down upon a sofa, I left her to the care of the females who were in attendance, and quitted the room. The marquis had retired to his own apartment, to supply the deficiencies in his attire, and for a short time I was left alone to my own reflections. What is to be the result of all this? thought I. Is there to be no end of my assumption of the clothes and titles of other people,—this continual transmigration before death? Yet how much more has it depended upon circumstances than upon myself!
After much reflection, I determined upon letting things take their own course, trusting to my own ready invention and good fortune for the issue. I felt it to be impossible to tear myself from the sweet creature whose personal charms had already fascinated me, and I vowed that there was no risk, no danger, that I would not brave to obtain her love.
In an hour we met at the breakfast-table, and I was more than ever enchanted;—but I will not detain your highness by dwelling too long upon the subject.
“No, don’t, yaha bibi, my friend,” said the pacha, yawning, “your story gets very dry already. We’ll suppose the cypress waist, the stag’s eyes, and full moon of her face. We Musselmen don’t talk so much about women; but I suppose as you were a Frenchman, and very young then, you knew no better. Why you talk of women as if they had souls!” The renegade did not think it advisable to express his opinion in contradiction to that of his highness, and the assertions of the Prophet. “It cannot be said that I behaved to them as if they had,” replied he; “and before I changed my religion, I was often smitten with remorse for my selfish and unfeeling conduct towards Marie; but all that is passed, I am now a Turk;” and the renegade passed his hand over his brow; for some long, smothered feelings of virtue had been conjured up by remorse, as he was reminded of the career of guilt which he had run through, and which he had climaxed by the denial of his Redeemer. After a short pause he continued—
For a week I remained in the society of the marquis and his daughter, daily ingratiating myself more and more with both. I had not declared my passion to his daughter, for there was something that irresistibly prevented me; yet I knew that I was not viewed with indifference. Our party was then increased by the appearance of the Bishop of Toulouse, the brother of the marquis, who came to congratulate him and his niece upon their fortunate escape. I was presented as the gentleman who had so materially assisted. The bishop stared at me with surprise.
“It is strange,” observed he, “that a body has been found in a ditch, near to where the robbery occurred, and has been recognised to be that of the very young officer to whom you now introduce me. How can this be?”
The marquis and his daughter appeared astonished at the intelligence (and in truth so was I), but it was only for a second. “How say you, sir,” exclaimed I, with trepidation, “a body recognised as the son of the Comte de Rouillé? My poor, poor brother! my dear Victor have you then perished? what injustice have I done you!”
Throwing myself on the fauteuil, I covered my face with my handkerchief, as if overpowered with grief; but, in reality, I was reflecting what I should say next.
“Your brother!” exclaimed the marquis in surprise.
“Yes, marquis, my brother. I will now state the circumstances which induced me to conceal from you that he was in my company at the time of the attack. When I galloped to your assistance, I was followed by my brother, who was riding with me to Marseilles, and of whom you recollect I have spoken; but after the first discharge of fire-arms I found that he was not at my side, and I imagined that he had deserted me from fear. I could not bear that such a disgrace upon the family should be known, and I therefore made no mention of him when I came back. Little did I think, that while I was accusing him in my heart of cowardice, he was dead, and his heart’s blood had been poured out in my defence. Victor, my dear Victor!” continued I, “how great has been my injustice, and what can repay me for your loss?” and I threw myself down on the sofa, as if frantic with grief.
“Huckaback,” observed the pacha, “it appears to me that in your younger days you were a great scoundrel.”
“I acknowledge it,” replied the renegade; “but, in extenuation, your highness must call to mind that at that time I was a Christian.”
“By the beard of the Prophet, that is well said, and very true!” replied the pacha.
The marquis and his brother were shocked at having so unintentionally plunged me into affliction. They offered consolation; but finding their endeavours fruitless, quitted the room, thinking it advisable to leave me to myself. Cerise, for that was the name of the daughter, remained, and after a short pause came to me, and in her silvery voice, as she laid her hand upon my shoulder, addressed me:—
“Console yourself, my dear Felix;” but I made no answer. “How unhappy I am!” said she: “it was in my defence that he lost his life: it was to your courage that I am indebted for my preservation:– he is dead, and you are miserable. Can nothing repay you for the loss of your brother?—Nothing, Felix?”
I raised my head; her eyes were swimming with tears, and beaming with love. As I resumed my seat upon the sofa, I drew her gently towards me. She offered no resistance, and in a moment she had sunk down by my side, as my arms entwined her beauteous form.
“Yes,” murmured I, “Cerise, I am repaid.” Smiling through her blushes, she disengaged herself, and rose to depart. Returning once more at my request, I imprinted a kiss upon her brow: she waved her hand, and hastened out of the room.
“That was a very nice girl, by your description,” interrupted the pacha: “pray what might you pay for such a girl in your country?”
“She was beyond all price,” replied the renegade, with an absent air, as if communing with times past. “Love is not to be bought. The Moslem purchases the slave and blind submission to his will, but he makes not love.”
“No, he buys it ready made,” replied the pacha; “and I must say I wish you had done the same; for, with all this love-making, you get on but slowly with your story. Proceed.”
I remained another week, when the bishop, who had not yet taken his departure, one morning drove over to Marseilles, and returned to dinner. “I was sent for,” observed he, as we sat down to table, “to consult as to the propriety of requesting from the Pope the canonisation of the Soeur Eustasie, of whom you have heard so much, and whose disappearance has been attributed to miraculous agency: but during our consultation, a piece of information was sent in, which has very much changed the opinion of parties as to her reputed sanctity. It appears that near the spot where the vessel was wrecked they have discovered the body of a woman dressed in man’s clothes; and it is now supposed that some miscreant has personified her at the convent, and has subsequently escaped. The officers of justice are making the strictest search; and if the individual is found, he will be sent to Rome to be disposed of by the Inquisition.”
As your highness may imagine, this was not very agreeable news: I almost started from my chair when I heard it; but I had sufficient mastery over myself to conceal my feelings, although every morsel that I put into my mouth nearly choked me.
But before dinner was over the plot thickened; a letter was brought to the marquis from my adopted father, the Comte de Rouillé, stating that such contradictory reports had been received, that he could not ascertain the truth. From one he heard that his eldest son was alive, and at the château; from others that he had been murdered; others congratulated him in their letters upon the escape of one of his sons. He requested the marquis to inform him of the real state of affairs, and to let him know by the bearer whether his eldest son was with him, or whether he had met with the unfortunate death that was reported; and as his youngest son was at home, and had been there for some months, he could not but imagine, as both of them were mentioned in the reports, that there might be some imposture in the business.
