CHAPTER LXXXI

NEVERTHELESS Consuelo bade good-evening to Joseph, and retired to her apartment, without giving him, as he expected, the signal for departure next morning at daybreak. She had her own reasons for not hastening, and Joseph waited patiently until she should disclose them—enchanted meanwhile to spend a few hours with her in this lovely abode, and to lead for a short time longer this canonical and comfortable life, which by no means displeased him. Consuelo slept until late next morning, and did not make her appearance till the canon's second breakfast. The worthy ecclesiastic's usual practice was to rise early, take a light pleasant repast, and stroll through his garden and inclosures (breviary in hand), to examine his plants, and afterward to take a second sleep pending the preparation of a more substantial breakfast.

"Our neighbor is getting on well this morning," said he to his young guests the moment they appeared. "I have sent André to prepare her breakfast. She expresses much gratitude for your attentions, and as she proposes (very imprudently, I admit) to set out today for Vienna, she wishes to see you before she leaves, in order to recompense you in some measure for the kind and zealous assistance you gave her. Therefore breakfast quickly, my children, and go to her; doubtless she has some handsome present for you."

"We shall breakfast as slowly as you choose, sir," replied Consuelo, "and we shall not go to see the sick woman. She has no longer occasion for our services, and we shall never accept her presents."

"Strange child!" said the astonished canon "your romantic disinterestedness, your enthusiastic generosity, gain my heart so completely that never—no never—shall I be able to part with you!"

Consuelo smiled, and they sat down to table. The repast was exquisite, and lasted fully two hours; but the desert was different from what the canon expected.

"Reverend sir," said André, appearing at the door, "here is Bertha from the cabaret, bringing you a basket from the lady."

"It is the silver things which I lent her," said the canon; "take them from her André, that is your business. The lady is positively going, then?"

"Reverend sir, she is gone."

"Already! she is mad! she will kill herself outright!"

"No, sir," said Consuelo; "she will not kill herself, and she does not wish to kill herself."

"Well, André, why do you stand there with such an air of ceremony?" said the canon to his valet.

"Reverend sir, Mother Bertha refuses to give me the basket; she says she will only give it to you, and that she has something to say to you."

"Nonsense! It is some scruple of the old woman's about trusting you with the plate; however, let her come in and let us have done with it."

The old woman was introduced, and after many courtesies laid a large covered basket on the table. Consuelo immediately glanced at the contents while the canon's head was turned toward Bertha, and then replacing the covering, she said in a low tone to Joseph:

"It is what I expected; and this is why I remained. Oh! yes, I was sure that Corilla would act thus."

Joseph, who had not had time to examine the contents of the basket, looked at his companion with astonishment.

"Well, Mother Bertha," said the canon, "so you return the little things which I lent you? Ah! very good. It is quite unnecessary to examine them—I am sure they are all correct."

"Reverend sir," replied the old woman, "my servant has brought back every thing; I gave them to your officers. Nothing is wanting, and I am quite easy on that score. But this basket the lady made me swear I would give into your own hands; the contents you know as well as I do."

"May I be hanged if I do!" said the canon, advancing his hand carelessly toward the basket.

But his hand was paralyzed as if with catalepsy, and his mouth remained half opened with surprise, when the covering, moving apparently of itself, fell aside, and disclosed to view a rosy little hand, which seemed as if endeavoring to seize the canon's finger.

"Yes, reverend sir," replied the old woman, with a confident and satisfied smile; "there it is, safe and sound, the little darling; wide awake, and likely to do well."

The amazed canon could not utter a word; the old woman continued:

"You know you requested its mother to allow you to adopt and bring it up. The poor lady indeed found it somewhat hard to part with it; but we told her her baby could not be in better hands, and she recommended it to Providence in giving it to us to bring to you. 'Tell this worthy canon—this holy man,' she exclaimed, as she got into her carriage, 'that I shall not long take advantage of his charitable zeal. I shall soon return for my daughter, and pay whatever expenses he may incur. Since he is absolutely determined to procure a good nurse, be kind enough to hand him this purse, which I request he may divide between the nurse, and the little musician, if he be still there, who took such good care of me yesterday.' As for myself, reverend sir, she has paid me well; I am quite content."

"Ah! you are content, are you?" exclaimed the canon, with a tragi-comic air. "I am delighted to hear it! But be kind enough to take this purse and this infant away with you. Spend the money—rear the child—it is no concern of mine."

"Rear the child? Oh, by no means, reverend sir! I am too old to take charge of a new-born babe; it would cry all night long, and my poor old man, although he be deaf, would not put up with that very well."

"It seems that I must put up with it, then? Many thanks. Do you imagine that is likely?"

"Since your reverence asked it from its mother!"

"I beg? Who the deuce told you so?"

"Why, since your reverence wrote this morning——"

"I write? Where is my letter, if you please? Who was the bearer of it?"

"Oh! faith, I did not see it, and even if I had, I could not have read it; but Mr. André came to her on the part of your reverence, and she told us that he had brought a letter from you. We are honest, unsuspecting people, and we believed it. Who would not?"

"It is an abominable lie! some gipsy trick. You are concerned in the plot. Come, take this infant away—give it back to its mother—keep it—arrange it as you please—I wash my hands of the transaction! If you want money, you shall have it. I never refuse charity, even to scoundrels and impostors; it is the only way to get rid of them. But to take a baby into my house—many thanks! Be off out of my sight!"

"As to taking the child," replied the old woman, in a decided tone, "I positively will not—no offense to your reverence. I did not take charge of the child on my own account. I know how all these matters end. They dazzle you with a little gold at first, and promise you marvels for the future; and then you hear no more of it—the child remains with you for good and all. But such creatures never turn out well; they are idle and proud by nature. One does not know what to do with them. If boys, they turn out robbers; if girls, it is still worse. By my faith, no; neither the old man nor myself will have any thing to do with the child. We were told your reverence wanted it, and we believed it—that is all. There is the money; and now we are quits. As to being in the plot, we know nothing of those sorts of tricks; and I ask pardon of your reverence, but you must be jesting with us when you speak of such a thing. I must now return home. We have some pilgrims stopping with us, who are returning from their vow, and thirsty souls they are! Your reverence's humble servant."

And the old woman made many curtseys and retired; then coming back:

"I forgot one thing," said she; "the child is to be called Angela, in Italian. Ah! by my faith, I forget the word."

"Angiolina, Anzoleta?" said Consuelo.

"That's it, precisely," said the old woman, and, again saluting the canon, she calmly retired.

"Well, what do you think of this trick?" said the stupified canon, turning toward his guests.

"I think it worthy of her who imagined it," replied Consuelo, taking the child, who began to be uneasy, from the basket, and gently making it swallow some spoonfuls of the milk which was left from breakfast, and which was still smoking in the canon's china ewer.

"This Corilla must be a heartless wretch, then!" resumed the canon; "do you know her?"

"Only by reputation; but now I know her thoroughly, and so do you, reverend sir."

"It is an acquaintance I could very well have dispensed with. But what shall we do with this poor little deserted one?" added he, casting a look of pity on the child.

"I will carry it," replied Consuelo, "to your gardener's wife, whom I saw yesterday nursing a fine boy five or six months old."

"Do so, then," said the canon, "or rather ring and let her be sent for to come here and receive it. She will be able to tell us of a nurse in some neighboring farm-house—not too near though—for God knows the injury that might be done to a man of the church, by the least mark of interest shown toward a child fallen thus from the clouds as it were into his house."

"In your place, sir, I would raise myself above such paltry considerations. I would neither anticipate nor fear the absurd and malicious efforts of slander—I would disregard such foolish reports as if they did not exist. I would always act as if it were impossible they could affect or harm me. Of what use would be a life of innocence and dignity, if it did not secure us calmness of conscience and the liberty of doing good? See! this child is confided to you, reverend sir. If it suffers for want of care, far from your sight—if it languishes and dies—you will reproach yourself forever."

"What do you say? this infant confided to me? Have I accepted the trust, and can the caprice or craftiness of another impose such duties upon us? You are excited, my child, and you reason falsely."

"No, my dear and reverend sir," returned Consuelo, becoming more and more animated; "I do not reason falsely. The wicked mother who abandons her infant here, has no right and has no power to impose any duties upon you. But He who has the right to command you—He who decrees the destinies of the new-born babe—He to whom you will be eternally responsible—is GOD. Yes, it is God who has had especial views of mercy toward this innocent little creature, in inspiring its mother with the bold idea of intrusting it to you. It is He who by a strange concurrence of circumstances brings it into your house, and casts it into your arms in spite of your prudence. Ah! sir, remember the example of St. Vincent de Paul, who went about collecting poor distressed orphans from the door-steps of houses, and do not reject this little one which Providence brings to your bosom. I do indeed believe that were you to do so, it would bring you misfortune; and the world, which has a kind of instinct of justice even in its wickedness, would say, with some appearance of truth, that you had good reasons for removing it from you. Instead of which, if you keep it, no motives can be supposed other than the true ones—viz. your pity and your charity."

"You do not know," said the canon—a good deal shaken, and undecided how to act—"what the world is. You are a child, severe in rectitude and virtue. You do not know, especially, what the clergy are, and Bridget—the wicked Bridget—knew well what she said yesterday, when she asserted that certain people were jealous of my position and were striving to ruin me. I hold my benefices by the protection of the late Emperor Charles, who befriended me and was the means of my obtaining them. The Empress Maria Theresa has also protected me, and permitted me to pass as jubilary before the usual age. Well! what we imagine we hold from the Church is never positively assured to us. Above us, as well as above the sovereigns who favor us, we have always a master—the Church. As she declares us capable when she pleases, even when we are not so, she also declares us incapable when it suits her, even when we have rendered her the greatest services. The ordinary, that is to say, the diocesan bishop and his council, if they are unfriendly or irritated against us, can accuse us, bring us to their bar, judge us, and deprive us of our benefices—under pretext of misconduct, of irregularity of morals or scandalous examples—in order to confer upon their new creatures the gifts which they had formerly granted us. Heaven is my witness that my life has been as pure as that of this child, born yesterday! Well! without extreme prudence in all my proceedings, my virtue would not have been sufficient to defend me from evil interpretations. I am not much of a courtier toward the prelates; my indolence, and perhaps a little pride of birth, have always prevented me. There are those in the chapter who envy me and——"

"But you have on your side Maria Theresa, who is a high-souled monarch, a noble woman, and tender mother," returned Consuelo. "If she were then to judge you, and you should say to her with that accent which truth alone possesses, 'Gracious queen, I hesitated an instant between the fear of placing weapons against me in the hands of my enemies, and the necessity of practicing the first virtue of my calling, charity—I saw on one side calumnies and intrigues, under which I might fall; on the other, a poor creature abandoned by Heaven and by men, who had no refuge but in my pity, no protection but in my care—and I chose to risk my reputation, my repose, and my fortune, to do the works of faith and mercy!' Ah! I do not doubt if you spoke thus to Maria Theresa, that mighty princess, who is all-powerful, instead of a priory would give you a palace—instead of a canon would create you a bishop. Has she not overwhelmed the Abbé Metastasio with honors and riches for having made rhymes? What would she not do for virtue, if she thus rewards talent? Come, dear and reverend sir, you will keep this poor Angiolina in your house; your gardener's wife will nurse her, and afterward you will educate her in religion and virtue. Her mother would have made her a fallen spirit fit for punishment, you will make her an angel for heaven!"

"You do with me as you please," said the canon, deeply touched, and allowing his favorite to place the child on his knees. "Well, we will baptize Angela tomorrow, and you shall be godfather. If Bridget were still here, she would be godmother with you, and her rage at being selected for the office would amuse us. Ring and let the nurse be sent for, and may God's will be done! As to the purse which Corilla left us—(ha! fifty Venetian sequins, I see!)—we will have nothing to do with it. I take upon myself the present expenses of the infant, and her future lot, if she be not claimed. Take this gold, therefore; it is indeed your due for the singular virtue and the noble spirit you have manifested in the whole affair!"

"Gold to pay for my virtue and the goodness of my heart?" cried Consuelo, rejecting the purse with disgust. "And the gold of Corilla! the price of falsehood! Ah! sir, it sullies even the sight! Distribute it among the poor; that will bring good fortune to our poor Angela."