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Updated: June 24, 2025
Now, at the time when the whole countryside Nevers and Sancerre, Le Morvan and Le Berry was priding itself on Madame de la Baudraye, and lauding her under the name of Jan Diaz, "little La Baudraye" felt her glory a mortal blow. He alone knew the secret source of Paquita la Sevillane. When this terrible work was spoken of, everybody said of Dinah "Poor woman! Poor soul!"
"I swear to you, Paquita," I replied, "that you shall see this aunt of yours to-morrow before set of sun; and I am positive, sweetest, that she will be delighted to receive so near and lovely a relation. How glad she will be of an opportunity of relating that ancient quarrel with her sister and ventilating her mouldy grievances! I know these old dames they are all alike."
And then there stood between them, under an oak, a priest whose aspect in the morning sun was so commanding that the foes at his bidding heard Mass as he performed it under the oak, and at the words of the Gospel they made friends." The oak is still shown in the forest of Faye. This poem, immeasurably superior to Paquita la Sevillane, was far less admired.
A cloud came over her bright, expressive face, while she glanced anxiously at Paquita; then, bending towards me, she whispered, "Ah, my friend, he is implacable! I am so sorry, for Paquita's sake." And then, with a smile of irrepressible coquetry, she added, "And for yours."
He wrote the following letter, to which he gave all the appearances of a letter sent from London: "MY DEAR PAQUITA, I shall not try to paint to you in words the passion with which you have inspired me. If, to my happiness, you reciprocate it, understand that I have found a means of corresponding with you. My name is Adolphe de Gouges, and I live at No. 54 Rue de l'Universite.
Perhaps he counted, moreover, on his power and his capacity of a man used to adventures, to dominate this girl a few hours later and learn all her secrets. "Well," said she, "let me arrange you as I would like." Paquita went joyously and took from one of the two chests a robe of red velvet, in which she dressed De Marsay, then adorned his head with a woman's bonnet and wrapped a shawl round him.
He was tender, kind, and confidential. He affected Paquita almost to madness. "Why should we not go to Sorrento, to Nice, to Chiavari, and pass all our life so? Will you?" he asked of Paquita, in a penetrating voice. "Was there need to say to me: 'Will you'?" she cried. "Have I a will? I am nothing apart from you, except in so far as I am a pleasure for you.
Probably she knew that this letter would really lead to nothing, and gave it merely to get me away into the interior of the country, so as to keep Paquita for an indefinite time to herself, for she had become extremely attached to her beautiful niece. The estancia was on the borders of the Paysandu department, and not less than two hundred miles from Montevideo.
The admiration of De Marsay became a secret fury, and he unveiled her completely, throwing a glance at her which the Spaniard understood as though she had been used to receive such. "If you are not to be mine, mine only, I will kill you!" he cried. Hearing this speech, Paquita covered her face in her hands, and cried naively: "Holy Virgin! What have I brought upon myself?"
The prints of Paquita's hands were on the cushions. Here she had clung to her life, here she had defended herself, here she had been struck. Long strips of the tapestry had been torn down by her bleeding hands, which, without a doubt, had struggled long. Paquita must have tried to reach the window; her bare feet had left their imprints on the edge of the divan, along which she must have run.
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