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Updated: June 11, 2025
Leaving her child in the simple modest house of the merchant where the burgher virtues reigned, where religion and sacred sentiments and honor filled the air, the poor prostitute, the disinherited mother was enabled to bear her trial by visions of Juana, virgin, wife, and mother, a mother throughout her life. On the threshold of that house Marana left a tear such as the angels garner up.
La Marana was so resolved not to soil her daughter with any stain other than that of birth, that she sought to invest her with social virtues; she even obliged the young father to settle a handsome patrimony upon the child and to give her his name. Thus the girl was not know as Juana Marana, but as Juana di Mancini.
She freed herself from her mother and sat down once more in her arm-chair. "Who are you, monsieur?" repeated the Marana, addressing Diard. "Madame, I am at present only the quartermaster of the 6th of the line. But for such a wife I have the heart to make myself a marshal of France. My name is Pierre-Francois Diard. My father was provost of merchants. I am not "
Then, after seven years of joy, and kisses, and intoxicating happiness, the time came when the poor Marana deprived herself of her idol.
An ingenious physician, she continues, 'with the assistance of several others, continued the work until the eighth volume. Mrs. Manley's History of her own Life and Times, p. 15 a gross, worthless book. Swift satirised her in Corinna, a Ballad. Swift's Works , x. 94. The real authour was I. P. Marana, a Genoese, who died at Paris in 1693. John Dunton in his Life says, that Mr.
You might be shot by the French. Have nothing to do with this; it is my affair, mine only. Between my daughter and me there is none but God. As for the man, he belongs to me. The whole earth could not tear him from my grasp. Go, go! I forgive you. I see plainly that the girl is a Marana. You, your religion, your virtue, were too weak to fight against my blood."
One day, a day of opulence or of penury I know not which, for this event was a secret between herself and God, but assuredly it was in a moment of repentance and melancholy, this Marana of the nineteenth century stood with her feet in the slime and her head raised to heaven.
"But, at least, you are an honest man, are you not?" cried the Marana, interrupting him. "If you please the Signorina Juana di Mancini, you can marry her and be happy together. Juana," she continued in a grave tone, "in becoming the wife of a brave and worthy man remember that you will also be a mother. "I have sworn that you shall live a virtuous life; expect, therefore, many troubles.
At that answer, the Marana seized the calloused hand of the old man, and kissed it, wetting it with the tears that flowed from her eyes she who never wept! those tears were all she had most precious under heaven. "My good Perez!" she said at last. "But have you had no soldiers quartered in your house?" "Only one," replied the Spaniard.
He was cold and calm. The life of Montefiore was in his hands; he would wash away his remorse in the blood of that Italian. "Out, out, out! out, all of you!" cried the Marana, springing like a tigress on the dagger, which she wrenched from the hand of the astonished Perez. "Out, Perez," she continued more calmly, "out, you and your wife and servants! There will be murder here.
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