Volume 4 — THE BROTHERS.

One fine spring day in 1831, I was walking, accompanied by a physician, in the gardens belonging to the celebrated Lunatic Asylum near Paris, conducted by Dr. B——. At the turn of an alley I suddenly found myself close to an old man, on whose arm leaned a youth, apparently about twenty years of age. The countenance of the first wore an expression of profound sadness, while the young man’s eye gleamed with the wild strange fire of madness.

The aged man saluted me with silent courtesy, but the younger ran to me, seized my hand, and exclaimed, “A glorious day, monsieur; the scaffold is ready on the Plaza Bemposta! Do you see the crowds assembled? And look! chained on yonder cart, that woman with the pale and savage face; that is Queen Carlotta, the wife of Juan VI., the mother of Don Miguel. ’Tis now thy turn to die, tigress! thy turn to bow beneath the ax, and redden the scaffold with thy blood! But adieu,” he added, addressing me, “they are waiting for me—they call me! I am the queen’s executioner!”

I turned toward the old man, but he only shook his head and sighed; then I questioned the physician who accompanied me.

“That young man,” he said, “is one of the most interesting cases we have; his history is a strange one.”

My curiosity was now excited, and I begged of my companion to satisfy it.

“May I, without indiscretion, listen also?” asked a tall man, with a sad and gloomy countenance, who now approached us, and who, as I learned afterward, was under Dr. B——’s care for a serious affection of the heart.

“You may, certainly,” replied my friend, bowing, and then began: “In the year 1823, one of the first families in Portugal inhabited an old castle not far from Coimbra. The Marquis de San Payo, the head of this house had played an important part in the revolution which, for a short time, removed from the throne Juan VI. and his imperious queen, Carlotta. The attempt, however, having been finally frustrated, the men who had made it fell victims to their temerity, and the marquis, disgraced and distrusted by the reigning powers, was forced to live in his castle, as it were in exile. His wife and his two sons accompanied him thither; the eldest of these, named Manoel, was fifteen years of age, and of an ardent, excitable temperament; his brother, Jacinto, two years younger, was of a tender, melancholy, dreamy disposition. The minds of both were fully nurtured in the political views which had ruined their father’s fortunes, both by his conversation and the instructions imparted to them at the college of Coimbra. That city had become the centre of the Cortes’ revolutionary operations, and the University had not escaped the contagious excitement of the times. The students organized the plan of a new insurrection, and at their head was Manoel; the contest, however, proved an unequal one—a charge of cavalry, a few volleys of shot and shell, two hundred corpses on the field, and all was over. Manoel was taken, and thrown into the prison of Oporto. The rebels were divided into three classes; the first, and least guilty, were condemned to perpetual confinement, the second to transportation, and the third to death; among the latter was Manoel. No allowance was made for his youth and inexperience, for among his judges was the Duca d’Arenas, a former rival of the marquis, first in love and then in ambition, whose cowardly malicious spirit sought to strike the father through the son.”

Here the stranger, who was listening attentively, gave a visible start.

“Imagine,” resumed the doctor, “what must have been the anguish of the poor parents, and of Jacinto. The boy’s energies were roused by his mighty grief; he hastened to the palace of Bemposta, and went straight to the hall, where the queen was giving audience to her favorite d’Arenas. When Jacinto crossed the threshold, he paused; a woman was before him—a cold and haughty woman. No trace of pity or of softness lingered on her features, or beamed in her piercing eyes; no, her heart was ice, her face iron.

“‘Pardon, madam!’ cried the boy, falling on his knees.

“‘Child, we know of naught but justice; who art thou—what dost thou want?’

“‘I am the son of the Marquis de San Payo, and I come to ask pardon for my brother.’

“The Duke d’Arenas looked up, and exchanged glances with the queen. ‘Madam,’ said he, ‘the best clemency in political affairs is shown by the sword of the executioner!’

“‘Manoel is but sixteen years old!’ cried Jacinto, in a voice of agony.

“‘So much the better,’ replied Carlotta; ‘he will go the more surely and speedily to heaven!’[4]

“Next morning the condemned cart left the prison of Oporto; it contained the two brothers, for Donna Carlotta, with an incredible refinement of cruelty, had ordered that Jacinto should be present at the execution. I shall not try to describe the last scene of this fearful drama; when Manoel bowed his head, Jacinto started upright; and when the fatal blow had fallen, he crouched down on the scaffold; a smile parted his lips—he was struck with madness! Concealed among the crowd, the marquis had witnessed all, but no external emotion betrayed his inward agony; his tearless eyes were fixed on the ax which had hewn down the noblest branch of his house. As to the marchioness, her woe was also silent: eight days afterward, she was found dead, with her eyes fixed on Manoel’s portrait. The marquis, after a time, went to England with Jacinto, where he was during a year and a half under medical treatment, but without benefit. Afterward, they went to Germany, and there, finding science equally powerless, the marquis at length resolved to place his son under the care of Dr. B——; he is now in a fair way to recover.”

“Are you sure of that!” asked the stranger eagerly.

“I have every reason to believe it.”

We walked toward the house, and again saw Jacinto; he was seated on a grass-plat, leaning forward, with his face buried in his hands. His father was near him, grave, silent, and anxious-looking as before. The stranger followed us, and, as he came near, the eyes of Jacinto were raised, and fixed on him with a wild bright look. Suddenly the youth started up, and shrieked, “the Duke d’Arenas!” Then he fell senseless on the ground.

At the unwonted sound the old man thought that intellect and memory had returned to his child, and, forgetting that his enemy, the murderer of his eldest son, stood before him, he exclaimed, “Oh! thank God he is saved!”

“He is lost,” said the doctor, sadly.

A few moments of awful silence followed; all eyes were fixed on Jacinto, whose mouth was open, and whose eyes were fixed on vacancy. The sudden shock had rendered him a hopeless idiot.

The Duke d’Arenas looked at the marquis with an earnest supplicating expression; and then, falling on his knees before him, exclaimed, “Pardon me, I have suffered!”

“I curse thee! Duke d’Arenas.”

“Behold me at thy feet, Marquis de San Payo!”

“Begone!” cried the old man, sternly; “there are between us the corpses of my wife and of my eldest son, besides this other ruin, whose destruction you have just achieved; I am now childless!”

The Duke d’Arenas fixed on the marquis a look so filled with sorrow and despair, that it might have sufficed to satisfy his vengeance.

“And I,” he said, bending his head, “can never again know repose, except in the grave!”