What was the history of this son, or of Fonseca himself, I never
learned, for like an Indian he hid his trail as step by step he wandered
down the path of life. He never spoke of his past, and in all the books
and documents that he left behind him there is no allusion to it. Once,
some years ago, I read through the cipher volumes of records that I have
spoken of, and of which he gave me the key before he died. They stand
before me on the shelf as I write, and in them are many histories of
shame, sorrow, and evil, of faith deluded and innocence betrayed, of
the cruelty of priests, of avarice triumphant over love, and of love
triumphant over death--enough, indeed, to furnish half a hundred of
true romances. But among these chronicles of a generation now past and
forgotten, there is no mention of Fonseca's own name and no hint of his
own story. It is lost for ever, and perhaps this is well. So died my
benefactor and best friend.
When he was made ready for burial I went in to see him and he looked
calm and beautiful in his death sleep. Then it was that she who had
arrayed him for the grave handed to me two portraits most delicately
painted on ivory and set in gold, which had been found about his neck.
I have them yet. One is of the head of a lady with a sweet and wistful
countenance, and the other the face of a dead youth also beautiful, but
very sad.
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