St. Landry democrat., 1891-07-04


"strangel" cried Elizabeth. "What
on earth could 'you-could any one
expect, higher or better than this low
or of yours7"
Nothing, surely; but believe me.
cannot marry him."
Cannot. Will not, you mean.
Have you any preference for anoth-
err"
The girls crimson bushes betrayed
her. Elizabeth ran over the names OF
those likely to have formed an at
tachment for her; and, at length, with
out thinking how nearly she was right,
she spoke the name of Carlo Farinelll.
There was deep sob, but no word,
in answer.
"Can it be-" asked the Queen, in a
severe tone. 'Can / believe that C.
man in his position-so much older
than yourself-so little calculated for
domestic life-so every way unfit for
you, can he be the possessor of your
heart? Speak, Melania, or forfeit my
friendship forever"
The face grew white rs death; but
there was firmness and heroic resolu-
ton there.
II love Signor Farinelli above all
others. honor and respect him. He
has never asked me to be his wife; but
if he did, should feel myself honored
above all women"
"Girl, girl! you are mad!'said the
Queen. "What are you thinking OF?
A public singer for the husband OF one
whom | have treated as my own
child!'
"And who praised him to me, until
| learnt from you to think HIM the
highest and nobIest of mankind?"
The Queen could not deny this. For
hours she had expatiated upon his per-
fections to Melania.
"And this is the answer | am toglve
to your suitor?"
GAS you please. I am not ashamed
of my preference, but | did not speak
of it voluntarily; and if you choose to
betray my confidence you can do so. -
Here was rebellion from quarter
least expected. .Melania had been so
gentle-so quiet, and now how
changed So the Queen thought and
believed, too, that it was her duty to
suppress it. Melania. however, would
not hear g. word of the lover she had
chosen for her; and Elizabeth sent her
| away to O. province where Melanla
herself had an estate. She departed
privately, for such WAS the Queens re-
QUESTION.
. When, day after day, Farinelli
haunted the palace and looked in vain
for the dear eyes that were his
sole attraction thither, he could
not forbear asking for her.
The answer was indefinite and
unsatisfactory; and he came to
believe that he had no share in the
heart that was literally breaking for
love of him.
A melancholy, like that of the royal
Philip, possessed her Life wore away
without energy to quit her gloomy
abode, even when the news of Eliza
beth's death had paved the way, had
she wished it, to return to lldefonso.
| One memory WAS sweet to the
gentle being who thus voluntarily
exiled herself from the world. 1t was
the memory Of that matchless voice,
as she had heard it in the halls of St.
Ildefonso. Remembrance had not
lost one of those glorious tones, and
her only pleasure was in singing the
strains she had heard him utter.
Had Farinelli forgotten his own
dream? Never. Melania was lost to
him, he sincerely believed, through
Elizabeths doing. No one could tell
whittier she had flown; after the first
ieeriny answer from Elizabeth, he
never condescended to question her
again.
His life was very beautiful, but he
missed one link that he hoped to
wear. His days were verging toward
sunset. He knew and felt that the
star he had worshipped would arise
upon hun in the world beyond the sky.
So he thought, when at the age OF
twenty-five he retired to his villa at
| Bologna.
Here he had gathered oil the gifts
that had been showered upon him
when his voice brought princes and
mobiles and crowned heads to honor
the sweetest singer on earth. Jewels,
rich and rare, sparkled there, each
with a memory of it's own. Here was
the Cross of the Knights of Calatrava;
which the royal hand of Philiph be.
slowed upon him when he sang the
demon of melancholy from it's throne
| in his heart. And here, dearer than
all the diamonds in the kings crown,
was a faded rose that he had once
| stolen from the maiden of Ildefonso,
as she stood beside her royal patron
ess, that last night on which they met,
never to meet again
| \
"a lady, Arteveldtl Did she give
you q message"
"None, signor. She wished much to
see you-called herself an old friend
and babe me ask if you would receive
her"
Certainly. But I can think of no
one who would come thus to visit an
old man who is dropping away from
life, as the leaves are dropping from
the trees yonder. Show her in, Arte
veldt."
A soft footsteps low sweet voice
as she spoke to the page, and the lady
WAS in the room. She wore mourning
as deep as a widow could wear. She
was not young, having apparently
seen at least a score of years fewer
than Farinelli.
He was charmed with the manners
and conversation of the lady, who now
owned that curious desire to see the
famous singer she had once heard in
her youth was her motive for coming
and not business, as she had led him
to believe.
Two hours passed away, and still
they talked-talked of the paste
Philip the Melancholy, of Queen Eliza,
beth, of the old-time splendors of st
Ildefonso.