# Adventures of Susan Hopley/Volume 1/Chapter 9

CHAPTER IX.
LOVE AND MURDER.
In an old château on the banks of the Garonne in the neighbourhood of Cadillac, and about fifteen miles from Bourdeaux, dwelt an antique cavalier, called Don Querubin de la Rosa y Saveta. As his name implies, he was a Spaniard by birth; and was, in fact, a native of Upper Navarre; but a rather premature explosion of gallantry having brought him into perilous collision with a powerful and vindictive family of Arragon, his parents despatched him across the Pyrenees, to the care of Monsieur Râoul, a worthy exporter of claret, and an old acquaintance.
Although Don Querubin could show some quarters of nobility, he was the youngest son ​of a very indigent family; and after residing some months in the house of Monsieur Râoul, he began to discover that there was better fare to be met with at the table of an opulent Bourdeaux merchant, than una de vaca, caldo de cebollas, tripas y pan, or unsavoury ollas; and that it was more agreeable to relish his fricandeaux and salmis with a good glass of Château Margaux, than with the poor produce of the paternal vineyard. Overlooking the degradation, therefore, he consented to defile his pure blood by connecting himself with commerce; and in process of time became a partner in the house of Râoul, Bonstetten, and Company; of which firm he was still a member, although being now advanced in years, an inactive one.
His Spanish pride, which although subdued to his interest, was by no means eradicated. caused him to prefer inhabiting in solitary state the old château we have mentioned, which he had christened the Château de la Rosa, to residing in the more gay and bustling city, although he sacrificed a great deal of comfort and society to his dignity. But in Bourdeaux he was simply called Monsieur Rosa de la Maison Râoul, whilst in the neighbourhood of his château he ​was styled Monsieur le Marquis; a variation of nomenclature that made an incalculable difference in the old gentleman's happiness and self-complacency; and fully compensated for all the advantages he was content to forego to enjoy it. Besides, after the vengeance of his enemy was supposed to have relaxed, he frequently revisited the place of his nativity; and he found it more agreeable to his haughty relations to be invited to the Château de la Rosa, where his remnant of nobility still adhered to him, than to busy Bourdeaux, where it was neither esteemed nor acknowledged.
Now, it happened that Monsieur le Marquis had the misfortune to be fitted by nature with some rather incongruous attributes; he was very ugly, very vain, and, withal, an inordinate admirer of beauty—of beauty of all shades and countries, but more especially of English beauty. He had been in love all his life; but he had been one of the most unsuccessful of lovers, particularly amongst the goddesses of his peculiar worship the fair Englishwomen; not one of whom had he ever been able to persuade to listen to his vows. Nevertheless, he did not despair; he loved on as sanguine people live on, through a thousand disappointments; reviving ​again after each overthrow, ready to enter with fresh vigour on a new pursuit; and willing to attribute his failure to any cause in the world but his own want of merit; although with an extremely tall, spare figure, a sallow complexion, high aquiline nose, and long, yellow teeth, he certainly made but an ill representation of Cupid; especially as these charms were usually attired in a black velvet skull cap, called a calotte; a crimson damask dressing gown, and yellow slippers. But he found his consolation and his encouragement in his favourite song, which, with a cracked voice, he daily and hourly carolled out of tune:
"Que amor sus glorias venda Caras, es gran razon, y es trato justo, Pues no hay mas rica prenda, Que la que se quilata por eu gusto; Y es casa manifiesta, Que no es de estima lo que poco cuesta."
Which may be thus rendered:
That Love his triumphs dear should sell, Is sure most just and fair, Since none but he rewards so well, With joys beyond compare. Besides, 'tis clear the urchin's wise, For what is cheap we never prize.
"Here is a letter for Monsieur le Marquis," ​said his servant, entering his dressing-room, one morning, where he was shaving, and singing—
"Que amor sus glorias venda."
"Voyons, Criquet," said the Marquis; "where does it come from, mon garçon, eh?"
"It comes from England," said Criquet, holding it up to the light, and compressing the sides, that he might get a peep into it.
"Give it me," said Don Querubin, laying down his razor, though but half shaved.
"Tenez," said Criquet, still endeavouring to penetrate the contents of the letter, "I see the words, 'beautiful girl.'"
"Comment? you see that?" said the Marquis, turning briskly round on his chair.
"'Beautiful girl,'" repeated Criquet slowly, "'her eyes are'—ah! I can't make out the colour of her eyes."
"Blue, Criquet!" cried Don Querubin, smacking his lips. "Blue, by my marquisate For doubtless she's an Englishwoman. But let us see; give me the letter, that we may ascertain what it's about."
"It's about a pretty girl," said Criquet; "that's clear."
"Nothing better, Criquet," said the ​marquis with a knowing wink, whist he broke the seal. "A-h!" continued he, drawing a long breath as he threw himself back in his chair, and stretched out his legs, that he might the better relish a communication on so interesting a topic—"or, voyons," and he commenced reading aloud as follows:
"'Dear Sir,
"Didn't I say so," said Criquet.
"'Her eyes,'" continued Don Querubin.
​"Ah! ça, voyons les yeux!" said Criquet, rubbing his hands.
"'Her eyes are of a heavenly blue—' By the blood of my ancestors!" exclaimed the Marquis, "I was sure of it. 'Her hair is perfectly black, and her complexion positively transparent.' Heavens! what incomparable charms!" cried the Marquis, dropping the letter, as if paralysed by the force of the description.
"Let us see the rest," said Criquet, picking it up, and proceeding to decipher it's contents. "'Her teeth are like pearls;' (c'est bon, ça,) 'her figure graceful, and her hands and feet models for a sculptor.' Cien milagros!" "Why she's an angel Criquet," exclaimed the Marquis. "I like the hands and feet," said Criquet. "But stay, there's more to come. 'This young person,'" continued he, "is remarkably prudent, and entertains a peculiar preference for individuals of a certain age.'" "The very thing we want," said Criquet. "I admire her taste," said the Marquis. "Mais allez toujours, mon enfant."
"'But,'" continued Criquet, ("ah! voilà ce vilain mot qui se fourre partout,) 'but I will not conceal from you, that this lovely creature is ambitious.'"
​"Et pourquoi pas?" said the Marquis.
"'Ambitious,'" repeated Criquet; "and desirous of raising herself to an elevated rank,'"
"She shall be a marchioness, Criquet," said Don Querubin. "I hope that will content her. De la Rosa y Saveta, eh?"
"'Nevertheless,'" continued Criquet reading, "'being very young, for she is but seventeen.'"
"Le tendre agneau!" exclaimed the Marquis.
"'Knowing little of the world, and being entirely ignorant of all foreign languages and customs—'"
"I'll teach her the language of love," said the Marquis, sentimentally.
"'Or customs,'" reiterated Criquet, "'some slight ceremony, and a few unmeaning words read from a missal by our friend Criquet, who will make a capital priest,' ("the devil I shall!" said Criquet;) 'will be all that is necessary on the occasion.'
"Voilà une péroraison qui gâte la première partie du discours!" said Criquet, nodding his head significantly.
"Mais c'est déloyal, ça!" said the Marquis, in an indignant tone.
"And pray who does the letter come from?"
​"It's signed, Walter Gaveston," answered Criquet. "Here's a postscript too."
"Lisez, mon enfant," said Qeurubin.
"I have addressed the young lady, whose name is Mademoiselle Amabel Jones, to the house of Monsieur Râoul and Co., Bourdeaux; where I expect she will arrive, escorted by a particular friend of mine, shortly after this reaches you.'"
"Voilà tout," said Criquet, as he closed the letter, with a strong expression of contempt on his countenance.
"We shall marry her in reality," said the Marquis.
"To be sure we shall," replied Criquet. "What do they take us for? wretches without principle, without honour, to deceive a young creature that puts her trust in us! The very idea shocks me."
"You are an honest fellow, Criquet," said the Marquis. "Vous avez de l'honneur, vous."
"I hope so," said Criquet. "As for that coquin, Gaveston, he was never much to my taste. I'd never much opinion of him."
"Nor I," replied the Marquis. "C'est un homme dur; sans cœur, sans sentiments."
"And it is said some awkward misunderstandings arose at the card table when he was ​last here," said Criquet. "I know some gentlemen refused to play with him."
"A man that will deceive women will deceive men when he hopes to do it with impunity," said the Marquis.
"I have always remarked it," replied Criquet.
"L'honneur, mon enfant," continued the Marquis, "est pour tous les jours; pour tous tems, et tous lieux. Celui qui l'a ne s'en défait pas à son gré."
"C'est vrai," said Criquet. "He was not a man to employ on so delicate a mission."
"It was rather a jest than any thing else," returned the Marquis. "I have never thought of it since."
"But since she is coming," said Criquet, "we must make up our minds what we are to do."
"Marry her, of course," replied Querubin.
"C'est bien," responded Criquet, "provided always—"
"Provided what?" said the Marquis.
"Why, there are certain points to be considered," said Criquet. "Suppose, for example, she was not exactly—hem!" and he shrugged his shoulders significantly.
"What do you mean, mon garçon?" asked ​the Marquis. "Isn't she as beautiful as an angel?"
"There's no denying that," replied Criquet, "at least, if she answers the description; but what's to become of us if she should not happen to be as virtuous as one?"
"But he particularly mentions her prudence," observed the Marquis.
"C'est vrai," replied Criquet; "mais, aussi c'est lui qui le dit."
"Fi donc! mon ami," said Querubin. "We must not suspect the lovely creature."
"But, unfortunately, lovely creatures are not always as irreproachable as they should be," said Criquet.
"Je les ai toujours trouvé d'une vertu impregnable!" said the Marquis.
"Je crois que cela dépend," said Criquet. "Mais passe pour cela; there's another question. What are we to do with Ma'm'selle Dorothée?"
"But if she does not love me?" replied Don Querubin. "Have I not persevered for three years without a shadow of success? I am satisfied she has some other attachment, or the thing would be impossible."
"That may be," answered Criquet. "I don't ​dispute it; but there are certain little emoluments that the young lady has touched occasionally, which she may, perhaps, be less willing to dispense with, than with the vows that accompanied them. Besides, if I mistake not, it was only yesterday that I found you at her feet."
"I can't deny it," replied Querubin. "And moreover, I promised her a new shawl which I was to give her this morning."
"And here she comes to claim it," said Criquet. "I hear the pattering of her feet in the corridor."
"Open the door, mon ami, open the door, and we'll confess the whole affair to her with honour and candour," said the Marquis.
"Entrez donc, Ma'm'selle Dorothée," said Criquet, as he threw open the door, and admitted a pretty, arch-looking, black-eyed grisette, who walked into the room with all the consciousness of power in her step.
"Bon jour, Monsieur le Marquis," said Dorothée. "Comment cela va-t-il?"
"À ravir, mon amour—hem! that is Ma'm'selle Dorothée, I mean."
"Ha! ha!" thought Dorothée. "He's angry because I wouldn't let him have a kiss ​yesterday. Il faut le cajoler un peu. Dieu! que vous avez l'air bien portant aujourd'hui! Tenez, que je mette votre calotte un peu plus à coté—comme ça. Voilà, que vous avez l'air de trente ans, tout au plus; et vous savez que je ne vous flatte jamais."
"Not often, certainly, Dorothée," replied the Marquis. "But the good news I have just received has cheered me, I confess."
"From Spain, perhaps?"
"Au contraire, it's from England," replied the Marquis. "It announces the approaching arrival of a young lady—"
"A young lady!" said Dorothée, raising her eyebrows.
"As beautiful, Dorothée, as yourself."
"And I hope a little more amiable," thought Criquet.
"It's to try me," thought Dorothée. "And pray what is she coming for?"
"For the sole purpose of honouring me with her hand and her affections," replied Don Querubin.
"Bah!" said Dorothée. "Before she has seen you?'
"Pourtant, c'est vrai," replied the Marquis, "Cette jeune personne est douée d'une sagesse ​extraordinaire, and entertains a decided preference for gentlemen of a certain age."
"Et vous vous laissez attraper comme cela?" said Dorothée.
"Besides," said the Marquis, "she is ambitious, and aspires to a distinguished alliance."
"For that part of the story, it's likely enough," said Dorothée. "And what do you mean to do with her when she arrives?"
"Marry her, assuredly," said the Marquis, in as firm a voice as he could assume, for he felt rather awed by the thunder-cloud he saw gathering on Ma'm'selle Dorothée's fair brow; there was something very like truth in the Marquis's manner, and she did not quite admire the aspect affairs were taking.
"You're telling me this to put me in a passion; I'm sure you are," said Dorothée, as the angry blood suffused her cheeks.
"By the blood of my ancestors, no!" answered Querubin. "Here is the letter—let Criquet read it to you. You will there learn her qualifications, and the favourable disposition she entertains towards me."
Not too much delighted at the office, however, Criquet undertook it; since the art of reading formed no part of Ma'm'selle Dorothée's ​accomplishments. She waited quietly till he reached the end of the epistle, (a certain passage of which, regarding the false marriage, he had the precaution to omit,) and then settling herself firmly on her feet, putting her two hands in the pockets of her apron, and fixing her bright black eyes on the Marquis, she said, "Or, écoutez, if this woman comes here, I'll poison her!"
"Bah!" said the Marquis. "You're joking."
"Vous croyez?" said Dorothée. "You had better not put me to the proof. For three long years you have been courting me—it was but last night you entreated me to accept your hand—"
"And you refused it," said the Marquis.
"No matter," answered she, "I mightn't always have refused it. Perhaps, I came here this morning with certain intentions—I shall not say what, now—Ou n'avoue pas toujours ses sentimens; et puisque vous me traitez ainsi, vous ne les saurez jamais!" And passion here supplied the fountains that grief would have left dry.
"Mais, belle Dorothée !" said Querubin, who was at a loss to find an argument against the tears, "Señora de mi alma!"
​"I am not belle Dorothée in your eyes," sobbed she. "You never loved me; I see it plainly, now's that it's too late."
"Valame Dios! but I did, and do," said Querubin, quite overcome.
"Then you won't marry her?" said Dorothée.
"But if she come to me all the way from England on purpose ?" said the Marquis. "What can I do, as a man of honour, but marry her?"
"Fort bien," said Dorothée. "Let her come; that's all. Je ne demande pas mieux. But mark me, for what I say I'll do. If she comes here, I tell you again, I'll poison her!" and so saying she quitted the room.
"Gran Dios!" exclaimed Don Querubin, throwing himself back in his chair, and dropping his arms—"la pauvre enfant! Elle m'aime épendument! She loves me to distraction!"
"It's to be regretted she never mentioned it before," said Criquet.
* ↑ Cowheel
* ↑ Onion broth.
* ↑ Tripe and bread.
* ↑ Stews.