Chapter I: Preface (1)

French literature is perhaps more abundant than any other in those short works of imagination that are called in France _contes_ or _nouvelles_, in order to contrast them with those extended narratives for which the name of _romans_ is reserved. As far back as the Middle Ages, during the period of the interminable _chansons de geste_, then of the romances of chivalry, not less diffuse, which succeeded them, the French took pleasure in telling short stories, of which some, such as _Aucassin and Nicolette_, still retain, for those whom their antiquated language does not repel, much interest and charm. In like manner, when the Renaissance ends, in the period of the ample burlesque epic of Rabelais, the Queen of Navarre, in the tales of her _Heptameron_, vies with the _novellieri_ of Italy. In the following century, during which Spanish influence prevailed, we hardly find any more short stories appearing in separate form, but novelists, in the manner of Cervantes in his _Don Quixote_, interpolate some here and there in the plot of their main works of fiction, as halts and resting-places for the mind of the reader: like D’Urfé in his _Astrea_, or Madame De La Fayette in _Zaïde_; like, again, Le Sage in his _Gil Blas_ at the beginning of the eighteenth century. Later on, the eighteenth century will come to restore the _genre_ to its sway, and Voltaire will be a master in it; nevertheless he will hardly cultivate it without making it serve philosophical purposes. Along with him, more than one minor story-teller of merit, such as the Chevalier De Boufflers, could be named, but not without regret that their wit and elegance should be employed in the service of a somewhat libertine morality.

From the rapid sketch which precedes, the reasons, whether of substance or of form, which prevent us from including in our selection any of the short stories which were written before the nineteenth century, will easily be deduced. Besides, it is only then that the _genre_ flourishes in all directions, and that the writers who cultivate it produce the most numerous, finished and varied _nouvelles_ and _contes_. The names of the twelve authors selected were obviously all imposed upon us; but our embarrassment commenced when it was necessary to choose one single tale from their works. It is certain, for instance, that we might have preferred, in the case of Alphonse Daudet, a page in which his trembling sensibility was expressed, and not one of those into which he has rather put his witty Provençal gaiety; and some people may regret that Guy de Maupassant is represented here by a sentimental tale rather than one of those stories into which he has poured his bitter realism and his black pessimism. To those who might be inclined to reproach us, we would answer that we have been guided, not only by the wish to present always the most characteristic work of each author, but by that of giving to our selection the greatest variety of tone among the narratives thus placed in juxtaposition, and also by the desire never to lose sight of any moral proprieties. We have only imposed upon ourselves one absolute rule: only to offer here perfect, indisputable masterpieces. We hope that no one will question our success in this.

A. D.

CONTENTS

PAGE

THE ADVENTURES OF THE LAST OF THE ABENCERRAGES (1806)
_Viscount Chateaubriand_ 9

THE PRISONERS OF THE CAUCASUS (1815) _Count Xavier de Maistre_ 57

EL VERDUGO (1830) _Honoré de Balzac_ 90

LAURETTE, OR, THE RED SEAL (1836) _Count Alfred de Vigny_ 103

THE VENUS OF ILLE (1837) _Prosper Mérimée_ 134

THE STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD (1842) _Alfred de Musset_ 168

[1]VANINA VANINI (1855) “_Stendhal_” 198

THE CHILD WITH THE BREAD SHOES (1863) _Théophile Gautier_ 228

THE REVEREND FATHER GAUCHER’S ELIXIR (1869) _Alphonse Daudet_ 237

THE LEGEND OF SAINT JULIAN HOSPITATOR (1877) _Gustave Flaubert_ 248

THE GATE-KEEPER (1883) _François Coppée_ 279

MADEMOISELLE PERLE (1886) _Guy de Maupassant_ 288

_PUBLISHERS’ NOTE_

_The third, fifth to seventh, and ninth to twelfth inclusive, of these stories have been translated by Mr. William Metcalfe; the second and fourth by Miss Measham; the eighth by Miss Lyons; while for the first an anonymous translation has been used, which was originally published in 1826, but has been considerably revised for this volume by Mr. Adam L. Gowans._

_It should be remembered that M. Dorchain’s selection was restricted by the plan of the series to the works of authors no longer living and to stories not exceeding 15,000 words in length. It should also be borne in mind that the notes in the present volume are, without exception, those of the original authors, the translators having done nothing more than translate carefully without omission or addition._

THE TWELVE BEST SHORT STORIES
IN THE FRENCH LANGUAGE

THE ADVENTURES OF THE LAST OF
THE ABENCERRAGES

VISCOUNT CHATEAUBRIAND

_ADVERTISEMENT_

_The Adventures of the last of the Abencerrages_ were written
nearly twenty years ago; the portrait which I have sketched of
the Spaniards explains sufficiently why this story could not
be printed under the Imperial government. The resistance of
the Spaniards to Buonaparte, of a defenceless nation to the
conqueror, who had vanquished the best soldiers of Europe,
excited at that time the enthusiasm of every heart susceptible
of being affected by great devotedness and noble sacrifices.
The ruins of Saragossa were still smoking, and the censorship
would not have suffered the publication of eulogiums, in which
it would have discovered, rightly enough, a concealed interest
for the victims. Pictures of the ancient manners of Europe,
recollections of the glory of former times, and those of the
court of one of our most distinguished monarchs, would not have
been more agreeable to the censorship, which besides began
to repent having so often allowed me to speak of the ancient
monarchy, and of the religion of our fathers: these departed
subjects, which I was incessantly recalling, excited too
powerfully the thoughts of the living.

It is a frequent practice, in pictures, to place some unseemly
personage for the purpose of bringing out more the beauty of
others: in this story, my idea has been to paint three men of
equally elevated character, but not out of the usual course of
nature, and retaining, along with the passions, the manners
and even the prejudices of their country. The character of the
female is also drawn in the same proportions. The world of
imagination, when we transport ourselves thither, should at
least make us amends for the world of reality.

It will readily be seen that this story is the composition
of a man who has felt the pangs of exile, and whose heart is
entirely wrapt up in his country.

The views, so to speak, which I have given of Granada, of the
Alhambra, and of the ruined mosque transformed into a church,
were taken upon the spot. The latter is nothing else than the
cathedral of Cordova. These descriptions are therefore a kind
of addition to the following passage of the _Itinerary_. “From
Cadiz, I repaired to Cordova; I admired the mosque which is now
the cathedral of that city. I traversed the ancient Betica,
described by the poets as the abode of happiness. I ascended as
far as Andujar, and retraced my steps in order to see Granada.
The Alhambra appeared to me well worthy of being looked at,
even after the temples of Greece. The valley of Granada is
delightful, and reminds one very much of that of Sparta; that
the Moors should have regretted such a country may be easily
conceived.”--(_Itinerary_, part VII. and last).

There are frequent allusions in this story to the history of
the Zegris and the Abencerrages; this history is so well known,
that I have thought it superfluous to give any sketch of it
in this advertisement. Besides, the story itself contains
sufficient details to make the text easily understood.

When Boabdil, the last king of Granada, was compelled to abandon the kingdom of his forefathers, he halted on the top of Mount Padul. That elevated spot commanded a view of the sea, on which the unfortunate monarch was about to embark for Africa; from it also could be discovered Granada, the Vega, and the Xenil, on the banks of which were erected the tents of Ferdinand and Isabella. At the sight of this beautiful country, and of the cypresses which still marked here and there the tombs of the Mussulmans, Boabdil began to shed tears. The sultana Ayxa, his mother, who accompanied him in his exile, along with the grandees who formerly composed his court, said to him: “Weep now like a woman, for the loss of a kingdom, which thou hast been unable to defend like a man.” They descended from the mountain, and Granada disappeared from their eyes for ever.

The Moors of Spain, who shared the fate of their sovereign, dispersed themselves throughout Africa; the tribes of the Zegris and the Gomeres settled in the kingdom of Fez, which was their aboriginal country; the Vanegas and the Alabeses took up their abode upon the coast, from Oran to Algiers; finally the Abencerrages established themselves in the environs of Tunis; they formed, within sight of the ruins of Carthage, a colony, which, even in our own times, is distinguished from the Moors of Africa, by its elegant manners, and the mildness of its laws.

These families carried into their new country the remembrance of their old one. The _Paradise of Granada_ lived constantly in their memory, the mothers repeated its name to their children at the breast. They lulled them to sleep with the romances of the Zegris and the Abencerrages. Prayers were repeated in the mosque every five days, with the face turned towards Granada; and Allah was implored to restore to his chosen people that land of delights. In vain did the country of the Lotos-eaters present to the exiles its fruits, its waters, its verdure, and its glorious sun; far from the _Vermilion Towers_,[2] there were neither pleasant fruits, limpid springs, fresh verdure, nor sun worthy to be looked at. If any one shewed the plains of Bagrada to an exile, the latter only shook his head, and exclaimed with a sigh: “Granada!”

The Abencerrages, particularly, preserved the most tender and faithful remembrance of their country. They had quitted, with the most poignant anguish, the theatre of their glory, and the banks which they had made so often ring with the war-cry of “Honour and love.” Being no longer able to lift the lance in the deserts, or to wear the helmet in a colony of farmers, they had devoted themselves to the study of simples, a profession in equal estimation among the Arabs with that of arms. Thus did that race of warriors, which formerly inflicted wounds, now make its occupation that of healing them. In this particular, it retained something of its original genius, for the knights themselves frequently dressed the wounds of the enemies they had overthrown.

The cottage of that family, which formerly possessed palaces, was not placed in the hamlet of the other exiles, at the foot of Mount Mamelife; it was built amidst the very ruins of Carthage, on the sea-shore, in the place where St. Louis expired on the ashes, and where a Mahometan hermitage is now to be seen. Along the walls of the cottage were hung bucklers made of lions’ skins, bearing, impressed upon a field of azure, two figures of savages breaking down a town with a club; round the device was this motto: “It is but little!” the coat of arms and device of the Abencerrages. Lances adorned with white and blue pennons, burnouses, and cassocks of slashed satin, were ranged by the side of the bucklers, and figured in the midst of scimitars and poniards. Here and there also were suspended gauntlets, bits ornamented with precious stones, large silver stirrups, long swords, whose sheaths had been embroidered by the hands of princesses, and golden spurs, with which the Iseults, the Guineveres and Orianas were wont of old to invest gallant knights.

Beneath these trophies of glory, were placed upon tables the trophies of a life of peace. These were plants culled on the summits of Mount Atlas, and in the desert of Sahara; many of them had even been brought from the plain of Granada. Some were intended to relieve the ailments of the body; others were supposed to mitigate the severity of mental suffering. The Abencerrages regarded as most valuable those which were useful in calming vain regrets, in dissipating foolish illusions, and the ever-reviving, ever-deceived, hopes of happiness. Unfortunately these simples possessed qualities of an opposite nature, and the sweet odour of a flower of their own country frequently acted as a sort of poison to the illustrious exiles.

Twenty-four years had passed away since the taking of Granada. In that short space of time, fourteen Abencerrages had perished, by the effects of a new climate, the accidents of a wandering life, and principally through grief, which imperceptibly undermines the strength of man. One single descendant was the sole hope of that illustrious family. Aben-Hamet bore the name of that Abencerrage, who was accused by the Zegris of having seduced the sultana Alfayma. In him were united the beauty, the valour, the courtesy and the generosity of his ancestors, with that mild lustre and slight tinge of melancholy which adversity, nobly supported, inspires. He was only twenty-two years of age when he lost his father; he then determined to make a pilgrimage to the land of his ancestors, in order to gratify the secret longing of his heart, and to execute a plan which he carefully concealed from his mother.

He embarked at the port of Tunis; a favourable wind carried him to Carthagena, where he landed, and immediately proceeded on the road to Granada. He gave himself out for an Arabian physician, who had come to collect plants amid the rocks of the Sierra Nevada. A quiet mule bore him slowly along in the country where formerly the Abencerrages were carried with the swiftness of the wind on warlike coursers; a guide walked before, leading two other mules ornamented with bells and parti-coloured woollen tufts. Aben-Hamet crossed the large heaths and woods of palm-trees of the kingdom of Murcia; from the great age of these trees, he conjectured that they must have been planted by his ancestors, and his heart was pierced by regret. There rose a tower in which the sentinel, in former times, kept watch, during the wars of the Moors and Christians; here appeared a ruined building whose architecture proved its Moorish origin; a fresh subject of grief to Aben-Hamet! He dismounted from his mule, and, on pretence of seeking for plants, hid himself for a few moments, in the ruins, in order to give free vent to his tears. He then proceeded on his road, in a state of reverie, which was encouraged by the noise of the mule-bells, and the monotonous song of his guide. The latter only interrupted his long-winded ditty, in order to quicken the pace of his mules by giving them the names of _beautiful_ and _brave_, or to scold them by the epithets of _lazy_ and _obstinate_.

Flocks of sheep, directed by a shepherd like an army, in sere and barren plains, and occasionally a solitary traveller, far from diffusing an appearance of life upon the road, only served, in a manner, to make it more gloomy and desert. These travellers all wore a sword attached to the waist; they were wrapped up in a mantle, and a large slouched hat half covered their faces. As they passed, they saluted Aben-Hamet, who could only make out, in their noble salutation, the names of God, of Señor and of Knight. At the close of day, the Abencerrage took his place in the midst of strangers at the inn, without being troubled by their indiscreet curiosity. No one spoke to him, no one questioned him; his turban, his robe, and his arms, excited no surprise. As it had been the will of Allah, that the Moors of Spain should lose their beautiful country, Aben-Hamet could not help entertaining a feeling of esteem for its grave conquerors.

Emotions still more vivid awaited the Abencerrage at the end of his journey. Granada is built at the foot of the Sierra Nevada, on two high hills, separated by a deep valley. The houses, built on the declivities in the hollow of the valley, give this city the shape and appearance of a grenado half open, from which resemblance it derives its name. Two rivers, the Xenil and the Darro, the sands of the first of which contain gold, and the other silver, wash the feet of the hills, form a junction, and afterwards take a serpentine course in the midst of a charming valley, called the Vega. This plain, which is overlooked by Granada, is covered with vines, with pomegranate, fig, mulberry and orange-trees; it is surrounded by mountains of singularly beautiful form and colour. An enchanting sky, a pure and delicious air, affect the soul with a secret languor, from which even the passing traveller finds it difficult to preserve himself. Every one feels that, in this country, the tender passions would have very soon stifled the heroic ones, if true love did not always feel the wish to have glory as its companion.

As soon as Aben-Hamet discovered the tops of the first buildings of Granada, his heart beat so violently, that he was obliged to stop his mule. Crossing his arms over his breast, and fixing his eyes on the holy city, he remained speechless and immovable. The guide halted in his turn; and, as elevated sentiments are easily understood by a Spaniard, he appeared affected, and conjectured that the Moor’s feelings were excited by the sight of his former country. The Abencerrage at last broke silence.

“Guide!” said he, “be happy! hide not the truth from me, for the waves were calm, and the moon entered into her crescent, on the day of thy nativity. What are these towers which shine like stars over a green forest?”

“That is the Alhambra,” answered the guide.

“And the other castle upon the opposite hill?” said Aben-Hamet.

“It is the Generalife,” replied the Spaniard. “In that castle there is a garden planted with myrtles, where it is said the Abencerrage was surprised with the sultana Alfayma; farther off, you see the Albaycin, and nearer to us the Vermilion Towers.”

Every word which the guide uttered pierced the heart of Aben-Hamet. How cruel it is to be obliged to have recourse to strangers for information respecting the monuments of our ancestors, and to have the history of our family and friends related to us by indifferent persons! The guide, putting an end to the reflections of Aben-Hamet, exclaimed: “Let us proceed, Sir Moor; it is the will of God! Do not be downcast. Is not Francis I., even now, a prisoner in our Madrid? It is the will of God!” He took off his hat, crossed himself with great fervour, and drove on his mules. The Abencerrage, spurring on his, exclaimed in his turn: “It was thus written;” [3] and they descended towards Granada.

They passed close to the great ash-tree, memorable as the scene of the battle between Musa and the grand-master of Calatrava, in the time of the last king of Granada. They made the circuit of the Alameda walk, and entered the city by the gate of Elvira. They reascended the Rambla, and arrived shortly after at a square, surrounded on all sides by buildings of Moorish architecture. A khan was opened in this square for the Moors of Africa, whom the trade in silks of the Vega attracted in crowds to Granada. Thither the guide conducted Aben-Hamet.

The Abencerrage was too agitated to enjoy much rest in his new habitation; the idea of his country tormented him. Unable any longer to master the feelings which preyed upon his heart, he stole out, in the middle of the night, to wander about the streets of Granada. He attempted to recognize, with his eyes or with his hands, some of the monuments which the elders of his tribe had so frequently described to him. Perhaps the lofty edifice, whose walls he could only half distinguish through the darkness, was formerly the residence of the Abencerrages; perhaps it was in this solitary square that those splendid carousals were given, which raised the glory of Granada to the skies. There it was that the troops of horsemen, superbly dressed in brocade, marched in procession; there advanced the galleys loaded with arms and with flowers, the dragons darting out fire, and carrying illustrious warriors concealed in their sides; ingenious inventions of pleasure and gallantry.

But alas! in place of the sound of _anafins_, of the noise of trumpets, and of songs of love, the deepest silence reigned around Aben-Hamet. This mute city had changed its inhabitants, and the victors reposed on the couches of the vanquished. “They sleep then, these proud Spaniards,” exclaimed the young Moor with indignation, “under the roofs from which they have banished my ancestors! And I, an Abencerrage, I wake, unknown, solitary and forsaken, at the gate of my fathers’ palace.”

Aben-Hamet then reflected upon the destinies of man, on the vicissitudes of fortune, on the fall of empires, lastly on Granada itself surprised by its enemies in the midst of pleasures, and exchanging all at once its garlands of flowers for chains; he pictured to himself its citizens forsaking their homes in gala dresses, like guests, who, in the disorder of their attire, are suddenly driven from the chambers of festivity by a conflagration.

All these images, all these ideas, crowded on one another in the soul of Aben-Hamet; full of grief and anguish, his thoughts were principally turned to the execution of the project which had brought him to Granada. Day surprised him in his reverie; the Abencerrage had lost his way: he found himself far from the khan, in a remote suburb of the city. All was yet asleep: no noise disturbed the silence of the streets; the doors and windows of the houses were still shut; the clarion of the cock alone proclaimed, in the habitation of the poor, the return of labour and of hardship.

After wandering about for a long time, without being able to find his way, Aben-Hamet heard a door open. He saw a young female come out, dressed nearly like the Gothic queens which we see sculptured on the monuments of our ancient abbeys; her black corset trimmed with jet tightened her elegant waist. Her short petticoat, narrow and without folds, discovered a beautiful leg and charming foot; a mantilla, also black, was thrown over her head; with her left hand she held this mantilla crossed and drawn up close like a stomacher under her chin, in such a manner that nothing was seen of her face but her large eyes and rosy mouth. A duenna walked by her side; a page preceded her, carrying a prayer-book; two footmen in livery followed at some distance the beautiful unknown; she was repairing to morning prayers, which were announced by the ringing of a bell in a neighbouring monastery.

Aben-Hamet fancied he saw the angel Israfel, or the youngest of the houris. The Spanish maiden, not less surprised, looked at the Abencerrage, whose turban, robe and arms set off to still greater advantage his noble countenance. Recovering from her first astonishment, she beckoned to the stranger to approach, with the grace and freedom peculiar to the women of that country. “Sir Moor,” said she to him, “you appear to have recently arrived at Granada; have you lost your way?”

“Sultana of flowers,” replied Aben-Hamet, “delight of men’s eyes, Christian slave more beautiful than the virgins of Georgia, thou hast rightly guessed! I am a stranger in this city: having lost myself amidst its palaces, I was unable to find my way back to the khan of the Moors. May Mahomet touch thy heart, and reward thee for thy hospitality!”

“The Moors are renowned for their gallantry,” replied the lady with the sweetest smile; “but I am neither sultana of flowers, nor a slave, nor desirous of being recommended to Mahomet. Follow me, Sir knight, I will lead you back to the khan of the Moors.”

She walked lightly before the Abencerrage, led him to the door of the khan, to which she pointed with her hand, then passed on to the back of a palace, and disappeared.

To what then is the repose of life attached? His country no longer occupies solely and exclusively the mind of Aben-Hamet; Granada is no longer in his eyes deserted, forsaken, widowed and solitary; she is dearer than ever to his heart, but it is a new glamour which embellishes her ruins; with the recollection of his ancestors is now mingled another charm. Aben-Hamet has discovered the burial-place where the ashes of the Abencerrages repose; but while he prays, throws himself on the ground, and sheds a flood of filial tears, he fancies that the young Spanish maiden has sometimes passed over these tombs, and he no longer considers his ancestors as so unfortunate.

In vain does he wish to occupy himself with nothing but his pilgrimage to the land of his fathers; in vain does he scour the hills of the Darro and the Xenil to gather plants from them at the morning-dawn; the young Christian lady is the flower which he is now in search of. What fruitless efforts he has already made to discover the palace of his enchantress! How many times has he attempted to retrace the ground over which his divine guide conducted him! How many times has he fancied that he has recognized the same bell, and the same cock-crow, which he had heard near the house of the Spanish lady! Deceived by similar sounds, he runs immediately to the side from which they proceed; but the magic palace nowhere presents itself to his eyes! Frequently also the uniformity of the female dress at Granada gave him a moment of hope: at a distance every Christian female resembled the mistress of his heart; when close to him, not one possessed her beauty or her grace. Finally, Aben-Hamet had made the round of the churches, in order to discover the stranger; he had even penetrated to the tomb of Ferdinand and Isabella, but this was the greatest sacrifice which he had yet made to love.

One day he was herborizing in the valley of the Darro. The flowery declivity of the southern hill supported the walls of the Alhambra, and the gardens of the Generalife; the northern hill was adorned with the Albaycin, with smiling orchards, and with grottoes, inhabited by a numerous population. At the western extremity of the valley, were descried the spires of Granada, which rose in groups from the midst of holm-oaks and cypresses. At the other extremity, towards the east, the eye rested upon points of rocks, convents and hermitages, some of the ruins of the ancient Illiberia, and in the distance the heights of the Sierra Nevada. The waters of the Darro rolled along in the middle of the vale, and presented on the margin of its course newly erected mills, noisy waterfalls, the broken arches of a Roman aqueduct, and the remains of a bridge of the time of the Moors.

Aben-Hamet was neither miserable enough, nor happy enough, to enjoy properly the charms of solitude; he roamed over these beautiful banks with absence and indifference. In the course of his random walk, he struck into an alley of trees which wound round the declivity of the hill of the Albaycin. A country-house, surrounded by a grove of orange-trees, soon presented itself to his view; as he approached the grove, he heard the sounds of a voice and a guitar. Between the voice, the features and looks of a woman there are relations which never deceive a man whom love possesses. “It is my houri!” said Aben-Hamet, and he listened with a beating heart; at the name of the Abencerrages several times repeated, his heart beat still quicker. The fair unknown was singing a Spanish romance retracing the history of the Abencerrages and the Zegris. Aben-Hamet was no longer able to resist his emotion; he darted through a hedge of myrtle, and found himself in the midst of a party of young ladies, who were alarmed at his appearance, and, with loud screams, fled in all directions. The Spanish lady who had been singing, and who still held the guitar, exclaimed: “It is the Moorish gentleman!” and called back her companions. “Favourite of the genii,” said the Abencerrage, “I sought thee as an Arab searches for a spring at the heat of noon. I heard the sound of thy guitar; thou wert singing the heroes of my country. I discovered thee by the beauty of thy accents, and I come to lay at thy feet the heart of Aben-Hamet.”

“And it was with thoughts of you,” replied Donna Blanca, “that I was repeating the romance of the Abencerrages: ever since I saw you, I have fancied that these Moorish knights resembled you.”

The colour mounted slightly to Blanca’s forehead as she pronounced these words. Aben-Hamet felt as if he could have thrown himself at the feet of the young Christian, and declared to her that he was himself the last Abencerrage; but a remnant of prudence restrained him: he was afraid lest his name, too celebrated at Granada, should give uneasiness to the governor. The war with the Moriscoes was scarcely terminated, and the presence of an Abencerrage at that moment might give the Spaniards just cause of apprehension. It was not that Aben-Hamet was alarmed at the prospect of danger; but he trembled at the idea of being obliged to remove himself for ever from the daughter of Don Rodrigo.

Donna Blanca was descended from a family which derived its origin from the Cid de Bivar, and from Ximena, the daughter of Count Gormez de Gormas. The posterity of the conqueror of Valencia the Beautiful, owing to the ingratitude of the court of Castille, was reduced to a state of extreme poverty; it was even believed, for several centuries, to be extinct, such was the obscurity into which it had fallen. But, about the time of the conquest of Granada, a last descendant of the race of the Bivars, the grandfather of Blanca, made himself distinguished, less by his pedigree than by his signal valour. After the expulsion of the infidels, Ferdinand rewarded this descendant of the Cid with the estates of several Moorish families, and created him Duke of Santa Fé. The newly created Duke fixed his residence at Granada, and died while still young, leaving an only son already married, Don Rodrigo, father of Blanca.

Donna Teresa de Xeres, the wife of Don Rodrigo, gave birth to a son, who received, at his birth, the name of Rodrigo, like all his ancestors, but was called Don Carlos, to distinguish him from his father. The great events of which Don Carlos was a witness from his earliest years, the dangers to which he was exposed while yet in his nonage, contributed to render still more grave and severe a character naturally disposed to austerity. Don Carlos was scarcely fourteen years of age, when he followed Cortez to Mexico: he supported all the dangers, and was a witness of all the horrors, of that astonishing adventure; and he was present at the overthrow of the last king of a world until then unknown. Three years after that catastrophe, Don Carlos had returned to Europe, and was present at the battle of Pavia, as if he had come to witness kingly honour and valour sinking under the strokes of fortune. The aspect of a new world, long voyages on seas which had never before been navigated, and the spectacle of the revolutions and vicissitudes of fate, had made a deep impression on the religious and melancholy imagination of Don Carlos. He entered into the knightly order of Calatrava; and, renouncing marriage in spite of Don Rodrigo’s prayers, destined his whole fortune to his sister.

Blanca de Bivar, the only sister of Don Carlos, and much younger than he, was the idol of her father. She had lost her mother, and had just entered into her eighteenth year, when Aben-Hamet made his appearance at Granada. Everything about this enchanting woman was fascination itself; her voice was ravishing and her dancing lighter than the zephyr. Sometimes she delighted in directing a chariot, like Armida; at other times she flew upon the back of the swiftest barb of Andalusia, like those charming fairies who appeared to Tristan and to Galaor in the forests. Athens would have taken her for Aspasia, and Paris for Diana of Poitiers, who was then beginning to shine at the court. But, with the charms of a Frenchwoman, she had all the passions of a Spaniard, and her natural coquetry in no degree diminished the fixity, the constancy, the strength and elevation of the feelings of her heart.

At the noise of the screams, which the young ladies sent forth, when Aben-Hamet rushed into the midst of the grove, Don Rodrigo came running up. “My father,” said Blanca, “this is the Moorish gentleman of whom I spoke to you. He heard me singing, and recognized me; he entered the garden to thank me for having put him in his right road.”

The Duke of Santa Fé received the Abencerrage with the grave and yet unaffected politeness of the Spaniards. One remarks in this nation none of those servile airs, none of those circumlocutory phrases, which reveal the abjectness of ideas, and the degradation of the soul. The language of the first nobleman and of the peasant is the same, the salutation the same, the compliments, habits and customs are the same. In proportion as the confidence and generosity of this people to strangers is unbounded, in the same proportion is its vengeance terrible when betrayed. Of heroic courage, of patience inexhaustible, incapable of yielding to bad fortune, it must either vanquish or be crushed. It has little of what is called wit, but exalted passions are with it a substitute for that light which is derived from the refinement and abundance of ideas. A Spaniard, who passes the day without speaking, who has seen nothing, and cares not for seeing anything, who has read nothing, studied nothing, compared nothing, will yet discover, in the greatness of his resolutions, the necessary resources at the moment of adversity.

It was Don Rodrigo’s birthday, and Blanca was giving her father a _tertulia_, or little entertainment, in this delightful solitude. The Duke invited Aben-Hamet to seat himself amidst the young ladies, who were amused at the turban and robe of the stranger. Some velvet cushions were brought, and Aben-Hamet reclined himself on these cushions in the Moorish fashion. He was questioned respecting his country, and his adventures; he replied to these enquiries with spirit and vivacity. He spoke the purest Castilian; one could have taken him for a Spaniard, if he had not almost constantly said _thou_ instead of _you_. This word had something so sweet about it in his mouth, that Blanca could not help feeling a secret annoyance when he addressed it to one of her companions.

A numerous retinue of servants appeared, and were the bearers of chocolate, of fruit cakes, and little sweet cakes from Malaga, white as snow, porous and light as sponges. After the _refresco_, Blanca was entreated to execute one of those national dances, in which she excelled the most accomplished Gitanas. She was obliged to accede to the wishes of her friends. Aben-Hamet was silent, but his supplicating looks spoke as eloquently as his mouth would have done. Blanca chose a _zambra_, an expressive dance which the Spaniards have borrowed from the Moors.

One of the young ladies began to play upon the guitar the air of this foreign dance. The daughter of Don Rodrigo took off her veil, and fastened a pair of ebony castanets round her white hands. Her black hair falls in ringlets on her alabaster neck; her mouth and her eyes smile in concert; her colour is animated by the action of her heart. All at once she makes the noisy ebony re-echo, beats time three times, commences the song of the _zambra_, and, mingling her voice with the sounds of the guitar, darts off like lightning.

What variety in her steps! What elegance in her attitudes! Now she raises her arms with vivacity, then she lets them fall with languor. Sometimes she springs forward as if intoxicated with pleasure, and then retires as if overwhelmed with sorrow. She turns her head, seems to call to her some invisible person, modestly holds out her rosy cheek to receive the kiss of a newly married husband, flies back ashamed, returns delighted and consoled, marches with a noble and almost warlike step, afterwards skims afresh the verdant mead. The harmony between her dancing, her singing, and the music of the guitar was perfect. The voice of Blanca, slightly husky, had that species of accent which stirs the passions to the very bottom of the soul. The Spanish music, composed of sighs, of lively movements, of melancholy repetitions, of airs suddenly stopped, presents a singular mixture of gaiety and melancholy. This music and this dancing settled the destiny of the last Abencerrage irrecoverably; they would have been sufficient to trouble a heart less susceptible than his.

In the evening they returned to Granada by the valley of the Darro. Don Rodrigo was so delighted with the noble and polished manners of Aben-Hamet, that he would not let him depart without receiving his promise to come frequently and amuse Blanca with the wonderful stories of the East. The Moor, at the height of his wishes, accepted the invitation of the Duke of Santa Fé; and, beginning with the following day, he was regular in his visits to the palace where she breathed whom he loved more than the light of day.

Blanca found her heart very soon engaged in a deep passion, from the very impossibility she had fancied that ever she should feel that passion. That any one should love an infidel, a Moor, an unknown stranger, appeared to her so extraordinary, that she took no precaution against the malady which began to insinuate itself into her veins. But no sooner did she become sensible of its inroads, than she accepted this malady like a true Spaniard. The dangers and troubles, which she foresaw, neither made her draw back when on the brink of the precipice, nor deliberate long with her heart. She said to herself: “Let Aben-Hamet become a Christian, let him love me, and I will follow him to the extremity of the earth.”

On his part, the Abencerrage also felt the full power of an irresistible passion: he no longer lived but for Blanca; he no longer occupied himself with the plans which had brought him to Granada. It was easy for him to obtain the information which he came expressly in pursuit of: but every other interest, except that of his love, had vanished from his eyes. He even dreaded the knowledge which might produce a change in his mode of existence. He asked for nothing; he wished not to know anything. He said to himself: “Let Blanca become a Mahometan, let her love me, and I will serve her to my last sigh.”

Thus determined in their resolutions, Aben-Hamet and Blanca only waited for a favourable moment to discover their mutual sentiments to each other. It was then the best time of the year. “You have not yet seen the Alhambra,” said the daughter of the Duke of Santa Fé to the Abencerrage. “If I can guess, by some words which have dropped from you, your family is originally from Granada. You will perhaps be pleased to visit the palace of your ancient kings? I will myself, this evening, be your guide thither.”

Aben-Hamet swore, by the prophet, that no excursion could ever be more agreeable to him.

When the hour appointed for this pilgrimage to the Alhambra arrived, the daughter of Don Rodrigo mounted a white hackney, accustomed to climb the rocks like a deer. Aben-Hamet accompanied the brilliant Spaniard on an Andalusian horse, equipped in the Turkish manner. In the rapid course of the young Moor, his purple robe swelled out behind him, his crooked sabre echoed on the elevated saddle, and the wind shook the plume with which his turban was surmounted. The common people, charmed by his graceful carriage, said as they saw him pass: “It is an infidel prince whom Donna Blanca is going to convert.”

They first went up a long street which still bore the name of an illustrious Moorish family. This street bordered on the exterior inclosure of the Alhambra. They then crossed a wood of young elm-trees, arrived at a fountain, and shortly found themselves in front of the interior inclosure of the palace of Boabdil. In a wall flanked with towers and surmounted by battlements, was a gate called the Gate of Judgement. They passed through this first gate, and proceeded along a narrow road which led them in a serpentine course between high walls and half-ruined hovels. This road brought them to the square of the Algibes, close to which Charles V. was then erecting a palace. From thence, turning northward, they halted in a deserted court, at the foot of an unornamented wall, out of repair from the effects of time. Aben-Hamet, springing lightly to the ground, presented his hand to Blanca, and assisted her in alighting from her mule. The servants knocked at a deserted door, the threshold of which was concealed by the grass; the door opened, and all at once disclosed to view the secret recesses of the Alhambra.

All the charms of, and regrets for, his country, mingled with the glamour of love, seized the heart of Aben-Hamet. Silent and immovable, his wondering looks dived into this habitation of the genii. He fancied himself transported to the entrance of one of those palaces the account of which one reads in the Arabian tales. Light galleries, canals of white marble bordered with lemon and orange-trees in full bloom, fountains, and solitary courts, presented themselves in all directions to the eyes of Aben-Hamet; and through the lengthened vaults of the porticoes he perceived other labyrinths and fresh enchantments. The azure of the most beautiful sky appeared between the columns, which supported a chain of Gothic arches. The walls were covered with arabesques, which seemed to the eye like imitations of those stuffs of the East, which, in the ennui of the harem, are embroidered by the caprice of a female slave. An air of voluptuousness, of religion, and of war, seemed to breathe in this magic edifice; it was a species of lovers’ cloister, a mysterious retreat, where the Moorish sovereigns tasted all the pleasures, and forgot all the duties of life.

After some minutes of surprise and silence, the two lovers entered into this residence of fallen greatness and past felicities. They first made the round of the hall of Mexuar, in the midst of the perfume of flowers and the freshness of waters. They then penetrated into the Court of Lions. The agitation of Aben-Hamet increased at every step. “Didst thou not fill my soul with delight,” said he to Blanca, “with what pain should I find myself obliged to ask of thee, a Spaniard, the history of this palace! Ah! these places are made to serve as a retreat for happiness, and I!...”

Aben-Hamet perceived the name of Boabdil enchased in the mosaics: “O my king!” exclaimed he, “what is become of thee? where shall I find thee in thy deserted Alhambra?” And tears of fidelity, of loyalty, and of honour suffused the eyes of the young Moor. “Your old masters,” said Blanca, “or rather the kings of your fathers, were ungrateful.”--”What matter!” returned the Abencerrage, “they were unfortunate!”

As he pronounced these words, Blanca conducted him into an apartment which seemed to be the very sanctuary of the temple of love. The elegance of this asylum could not be surpassed; the entire ceiling, painted blue and gold, and composed of arabesques of filagree work, allowed the light to appear as if through a tissue of flowers. A fountain spouted in the midst of the building, the waters of which, falling again in a shower of dew, were received in an alabaster shell. “Aben-Hamet,” said the daughter of the Duke of Santa Fé “look well at this fountain; it received the disfigured heads of the Abencerrages. You can still see, on the marble, the stain of the blood of the unhappy men who were sacrificed to Boabdil’s suspicions. It is thus that, in your country, men who seduce credulous women are treated.”

Aben-Hamet had ceased to listen to Blanca; he had prostrated himself, and kissed respectfully the mark of the blood of his ancestors. Then rising he exclaimed: “O Blanca! I swear, by the blood of these knights, to love thee with the constancy, the fidelity and the ardour of an Abencerrage!”

“You love me then?” returned Blanca, clasping her beautiful hands, and raising her eyes to heaven; “but do you forget that you are an infidel, a Moor, an enemy, and that I am a Christian and a Spaniard?”

“O holy prophet!” said Aben-Hamet, “be thou witness of my oaths!...” Blanca interrupted him. “And what reliance think you can I place on the oaths of a persecutor of my God? Do you know whether I love you? Who has given you the assurance to use such language to me?”

Aben-Hamet in consternation replied: “True, lady, I am only thy slave; thou hast not chosen me to be thy knight.”

“Moor,” said Blanca, “lay artifice aside. Thou hast seen, by my looks, that I loved thee; my passion for thee exceeds all bounds: be a Christian, and nothing shall prevent me from being thine. But, if the daughter of the Duke of Santa Fé venture to speak to thee thus frankly, thou mayest judge, from that very circumstance, that she will know how to conquer herself, and that no enemy of the Christians shall ever possess any claim on her.”

Aben-Hamet, in a transport of passion, seized the hands of Blanca, and placed them first on his turban, and then on his heart: “Allah is powerful,” he cried, “and Aben-Hamet is happy! O Mahomet, let this Christian acknowledge thy law, and nothing can....”--”Thou art a blasphemer,” said Blanca, “let us depart hence.”

Leaning on the arm of the Moor, she proceeded to the fountain of the Twelve Lions, which gives its name to one of the courts of the Alhambra. “Stranger,” said the artless Spanish maiden, “when I look at thy robe, thy turban, and thy arms, and think of our loves, I fancy I see the shade of the handsome Abencerrage walking in this forsaken retreat with the unfortunate Alfayma. Explain to me the Arabic inscription which is engraved on the marble of this fountain.”

Aben-Hamet read these words:

_The beautiful princess who walks, covered with pearls, in her garden, adds to the beauty of it so prodigiously...._[4] The rest of the inscription was effaced.

“It is for thee that this inscription was made,” said Aben-Hamet. “Beloved Sultana, these palaces have never been so beautiful in their youth, as they now are in their ruins. Listen to the murmur of the fountains, the waters of which have been turned from their course by the moss: look at the gardens, which we see through these half-ruined arcades; contemplate the star of day, which is setting beyond all these porticoes; how sweet it is to wander with thee in these abodes! Thy words embalm these retreats like the roses of Hymen. With what delight do I discover, in thy speech, some of the accents of the language of my fathers! The mere rustling of thy dress on these marbles makes me thrill. The air is only perfumed because it has touched thy tresses. Beautiful art thou as the genius of my country in the midst of these ruins! But can Aben-Hamet hope to fix thy heart? What is he, when compared to thee! He has roamed over the mountains with his father; he knows the plants of the desert.... Alas! there is not one of them that can heal the wound which thou hast given him!... He carries arms, but he is not a knight.

“I said to myself formerly: ‛The water of the sea, which sleeps under shelter in the hollow of the rock, is tranquil and silent, while quite near the open sea is noisy and agitated: Aben-Hamet! such will be thy life, silent, peaceful and unheard of, in an unknown corner of the earth, while the court of the Sultan is overturned by storms!’ I said so to myself, young Christian, and thou hast proved to me that the tempest may also disturb the drop of water in the hollow of the rock.”

Blanca listened with delight to a language which was so new to her, and the oriental turn of which seemed so much in harmony with this fairy abode, which she rambled over with her lover. Love penetrated her heart in all directions: she felt her knees sink under her, and was obliged to lean more heavily on the arm of her companion. Aben-Hamet supported the sweet burden, and repeated as he walked along: “Ah! why am I not an illustrious Abencerrage!”

“Thou wouldst please me less,” said Blanca, “for I should be more unhappy; remain in obscurity and live for me. A brave knight often forgets love for glory.”

“Thou wouldst not have that danger to apprehend,” replied Aben-Hamet with quickness.

“And how wouldst thou love me then, if thou wert an Abencerrage?” demanded the descendant of Ximena.

“I would love thee more than glory, and less than honour!” was the answer of the Moor.

The sun had sunk beneath the horizon during the promenade of the two lovers; they had traversed the whole of the Alhambra. What recollections were presented by it to the mind of Aben-Hamet! Here the Sultana received, by means of air-holes, the smoke of the perfumes which were burnt under her; there, in that secluded retreat, she adorned herself with the glorious attire of the East. And it was Blanca, it was a beloved woman, who related all these details to the handsome youth whom she idolized.

The rising moon diffused her doubtful light in the forsaken sanctuaries and in the deserted courts of the Alhambra; her silver rays outlined, upon the green turf of the gardens, and upon the walls of the apartments, the lace-work of an aerial architecture, the arches of the cloisters, the flitting shadows of the spouting waters, and those of the shrubs agitated by the zephyr. The nightingale sang in a cypress which pierced the domes of a ruined mosque, and the echoes repeated her plaintive strains. By the light of the moon, Aben-Hamet wrote the name of Blanca on the marble of the Hall of the Two Sisters; he traced it in Arabic characters, in order that the traveller might find an additional mystery for the exercise of his conjectures in this palace of mysteries.

“Moor,” said Blanca, “these amusements are cruel; let us quit this spot. The destiny of my life is fixed for ever. Bear well in mind those words: ‛Mussulman, I am thy mistress without hope; Christian, I am thy fortunate wife.’”

Aben-Hamet answered: “Christian, I am thy despairing slave; Mussulman, I am thy proud husband.”

And these noble lovers departed from this dangerous palace.

The passion of Blanca increased every day, and that of Aben-Hamet became equally violent. He was so transported at the idea of being loved for his own sake, and of owing the sentiments which he had inspired to no foreign cause, that he did not disclose the secret of his birth to the daughter of the Duke of Santa Fé: he pictured to himself a delicate pleasure in giving her the information that he bore an illustrious name, on the very day when she consented to give him her hand. But he was suddenly recalled to Tunis. His mother had been attacked by an incurable disease, and wished to embrace and bless her son before her death. Aben-Hamet presented himself at the palace of Blanca. “Sultana,” said he to her, “my mother is at the point of death. She has sent for me to close her eyes. Wilt thou continue to love me?”

“Thou leavest me then,” replied Blanca, turning pale; “shall I never see thee more?”

“Come with me,” said Aben-Hamet; “I wish to exact an oath of thee, and to give thee one in return, which death alone can break. Follow me.”

They go out; they reach a cemetery which was formerly that of the Moors. Here and there were still to be seen little funeral columns round which the sculptor had formerly figured a turban; but which the Christians had subsequently replaced by a cross. Aben-Hamet led Blanca to the foot of these columns.