CHAPTER XIX.
LA MONTONERA.
Montonero, the feminine of which is montonera, is essentially anAmerican word, although its root is undoubtedly Spanish. It signifies,literally, a heap, a mass, a collection. Taken in the bad acceptationof the word, a montonera means a gathering of men of the sack andcord--of bandits without faith or law--of highway robbers.
But this is not the meaning which was at first given to the word. Theyunderstood by montonera, a cuadrilla--a guerilla composed of banishedpoliticians--of insurgents who made war as partisans at their own riskand peril, but who were brave and honest.
The Spaniards, at the commencement of the insurrection of the coloniesagainst the government, imposed this name on them in order to lowerthem in public opinion--a name in which the Montoneros themselvesboasted, and which they considered it an honour to bear.
But when the civil war degenerated into a fratricidal struggle amongcitizens--when the Spaniards were conquered and constrained to abandonthe new world--the Montoneros degenerated, and suspicious men of allparties came to shelter themselves under their banners, and to seekthere an impunity for their crimes. They were then nothing more than alot of sinister bandits, resembling those bands of robbers and vagrantsof the middle ages which so long desolated Europe, and the successivegovernments were, during more than two centuries, powerless to destroy,or even to repress them.
Appearing to have received the traditions of their progenitors ofthe old World, the Montoneros commenced to ravage the country, topillage the haciendas, to put to ransom the towns too weak to opposean energetic resistance to them; and serving any cause for pay, theyadopted all parties in turn, remorselessly betraying one after theother, and only seeing in civil war one end--pillage.
At the epoch in which our history transpires, although the Montoneroshad already degenerated from their original loyalty, and a numberof people without any occupation had succeeded in getting intotheir ranks, they nevertheless preserved, at least in appearance,the principles of chivalrous patriotism which had governed theirformation, and their name did not inspire, as it afterwards did, terrorto the honest folk and peaceable citizens whom it was the mission ofthe Montoneros to protect and defend.
In a fertile valley, at the foot of a wooded hill of moderate height,on the bank of the Rio Tucuman, at about fifteen leagues from the townof San Miguel, a troop of horsemen, whose number might be about threehundred, had camped in a delicious position.
The soldiers, all clothed in the costume of the gauchos of thepampa--their features expressive of energy, and their faces bronzed inthe sun, but with a fierce look--were for the most part armed, not onlywith sabres and guns, but also with a long and strong lance, the bladeof which was garnished with a bright red streamer.
Lying or sitting at the foot of the fig and orange trees, they hadplanted their lances in the ground, and were playing, talking, orsleeping, while their horses were freely wandering about, feeding onthe green grass of the plain.
Some sentinels, scattered on the somewhat distant heights--motionlessas statues of Florentine bronze, of which they had the warm and copperytint--were watching over the common safety.
These men, whose reputation for bravery was celebrated in all the BandaOriental, composed the Montonera of the celebrated Zeno Cabral--thesame who had had, they said, some days before, a quarrel with the royaltroops, and whose victory the town of San Miguel was celebrating withshouts and fireworks.
This wild and primitive encampment, which more resembled a halt ofbandits than anything else, had a most picturesque appearance, andwould have been the admiration of a painter of the Salvator Rosa school.
Nearly in the centre of the encampment, at the summit of a little hillof a scarcely perceptible slope, several men, whose arms and clothingwere in a better position, and their appearance less fierce than thoseof their companions, were seated on the grass smoking their cigarettes.
These men were the officers. In the midst of them was their chief, orthe general, as they called him.
This chief was a very young man, appearing, at the most, twenty-two,with fine and delicate features, and gentle and graceful manners,which, in the eyes of an indifferent spectator, would have appearedlittle calculated to command men like those who had voluntarily rangedthemselves under his banner; but an observer would not have beendeceived by the energetic expression on his calm and handsome face,by the uncommon height of his clear and well-chiselled forehead, andby the eagle glance which escaped from his full black eyes. A sadmelancholy seemed settled on his features, and it was with extremedifficulty that his companions--for the most part young men of his ownage, and belonging to the first families of the country--could succeedat long intervals in bringing a sad smile upon his lips.
His head supported on his right hand, thoughtlessly twirling with hisleft hand his long and silky black moustache, he carelessly gazed,without any apparent object, on the immense and magnificent panoramawhich was spread before him, only answering by monosyllables to thequestions which were addressed to him, and appearing absorbed in somesecret thought.
His officers, seeing all their advances repulsed by their chief, haddecided to leave him to his reflections, whatever they were, since heappeared to wish to indulge them, and began to chat and laugh amongthemselves, when all of a sudden some forty horsemen appeared on thehorizon, coming at full speed towards the spot where the Montonera wasencamped.
"Eh?" said one of the officers, placing his hand as a shade over hiseyes, "Who can these horsemen be?"
"They are our people, since the sentinels have allowed them to pass,"answered another officer.
"Have we, then, scouts in the environs?"
"I could not be certain of it; but as the general had spoken ofdetailing Captain Quiroga, with some twenty soldiers, to watch thedefiles of the Sierra, and as I do not see him among us, it is probablethat the general has given effect to the project."
"It would be his troop, then, that is coming up?"
"I think so; for that matter, we shall not be long in knowing the realstate of affairs."
The horsemen still rode towards them; they were soon sufficiently nearto be recognised.
"You were not deceived, Don Juan Armero," resumed the first officer:"it is, in fact, Captain Quiroga. I can distinguish from here his longlean body, which appears to sway about in his clothes, and his angularand morose face, which makes him appear like a bird of night."
"The fact is," answered don Juan, "that the worthy captain is easy torecognise; but you should be more careful, Don Estevan; you know thatthe general likes him much, and perhaps it would displease him to hearhim thus spoken of."
"To the devil! As if I said any ill of him! Captain Quiroga is a braveand worthy soldier, whom I love and appreciate very highly myself, butthat is no reason why he should have the figure of Adonis."
"A matter about which he cares very little, without doubt, gentlemen,"said Zeno Cabral, mingling in the conversation; "he contents himselfwith being one of our bravest and most experienced officers."
"iCaramba! General; and we also all love him--the brave old man whomight be our father, and who tells us during the nights of bivouac suchpleasant tales of old times."
The chief of the party smiled, without answering.
"But what is he bringing us here?" suddenly cried don Estevan Albino,the officer who had first spoken. "Why, I can see the folds of a robeand a mantilla fluttering in the wind!"
"Two robes and two mantillas, if you please, Don Estevan; and evenmore, if I am not deceived," sententiously remarked Don Juan Armero.
"iValgame Dios!" said the young officer, laughing; "The old boy isbringing us a bevy of petticoats."
The officers rose; some opened their lorgnettes, and began to examineattentively the troops which were arriving, freely commenting on theprize made by the old officer, and which he was bringing with him.
Zeno Cabral had fallen again into his reverie, apparently indifferentto what was passing around him; but the feverish flush which
suffusedhis face, and the knitting of his eyebrows, belied the affected calm,and showed that he was inwardly a prey to strong emotion.
Meanwhile, the horsemen rapidly traversed the plain, and approachednearer and nearer, coming towards the group of officers, recognisableby the Buenos Airean flag, the staff of which was fixed in the ground,and which floated in long folds to the breeze.
On the arrival of the horsemen the Montoneros rose, looked at themcuriously, and then followed them, laughing and sneering amongthemselves, so much that, when they reached the foot of the littlehill where the officers were waiting for them, they found themselvesliterally enveloped by a compact crowd that Captain Quiroga was obligedto separate with a blow or two from a piece of lancewood, of which heacquitted himself with imperturbable coolness.
The officers had not calumniated the worthy captain. The difference ofcostume apart, he resembled, trait for trait, Don Quixote, at the timeof his second sortie.
There was the same long and meagre body, the same lean and angularcountenance, with a depressed forehead, sunken eyes, hooked nose likethe beak of a bird, large jaws furnished with a few worn-out teeth,long grey moustaches, and high reddish cheekbones.
And yet this eccentric appearance--as they would nowadays have calledit--had nothing ridiculous in it. This singular physiognomy was setoff by such an expression of bravery, candour, and goodness, that atfirst sight one felt oneself attracted towards the old officer--for hewas at least fifty--and quite disposed to love him.
The soldiers laughed convulsively on receiving the blows that thecaptain generously distributed to them, and it was with greatdifficulty that he could rid himself of them.
"Devil take these fellows!" said the captain; "They will not let meapproach the general."
And, followed by a part of his soldiers, who, like himself, hadalighted, he walked up the hill where the officers were gathered.
The soldiers led several prisoners in their midst; among theseprisoners were some women, of whom two appeared, by their costume andmanners, to belong to high society.
The Montoneros, notwithstanding the indiscreet curiosity whichanimated them, had not dared, out of respect for their chief, to passthe natural limit traced by the foot of the little hill. Grouped indisorder round some soldiers who were guarding the horses, they gazedanxiously on their officers.
The latter were ranged right and left of Zeno Cabral, and had givenfree passage to Captain Quiroga and to those whom he brought with him.Zeno Cabral had slowly risen, and, his hand supported by the handleof his sabre, his countenance cold and impassive, and his eyebrowsknitted, he waited for his subordinate to speak.
The captain, having with a gesture ordered those who followed him tostop, took some steps in advance, and, after a military salute, heremained motionless without uttering a word. Amongst all his qualities,the captain did not reckon that of being an orator; his silence hadbecome proverbial in the company.
Don Zeno knew that if he did not interrogate the captain, the latterwould never make up his mind to speak first. He therefore made aneffort, and affecting an indifference which was doubtless very far fromhis real feeling--
"You have returned, then, Captain Quiroga?" said he.
"Yes, General," laconically answered the officer.
"Have you fulfilled the mission that I confided to you?"
"I believe so, General."
"You have surprised the enemies of the country?"
"Those or others, General. I seized the people you designated when theydebouched from the ravine; whether they are enemies of the country ornot I do not know--that does not concern me."
"That is right," said don Zeno Cabral, who was evidently draggingout the conversation, and hesitated to attack the point of it reallyinteresting to him.
The captain was again silent.
Don Zeno resumed, after a short pause, fidgeting his sabre knot withsuppressed ill temper.
"But, in a word, what have you done?"
At this moment one of the prisoners motioned the captain on one sidewith a sudden gesture, and taking a step in advance--
"Do you not know, Don Zeno Cabral?" she said, in a haughty voice,throwing on her shoulders, with a gesture full of nobility, the rebozoof black lace which veiled her face.
The officers stifled a cry of admiration at the sight of the sovereignbeauty of this woman.
Don Zeno Cabral took a step backward, biting his lips with vexation,while his countenance became covered with a mortal paleness.
"Madame," said he, with closed teeth, "you are a prisoner, and mustonly speak--do not forget that--when you are questioned."
A smile of contempt curled the lips of the lady. She slightly shruggedher shoulders, and fixed on the general a look with such an expressionthat, in spite of himself, he turned away his eyes.
This lady, in all the force and pride of her beauty, appeared to beabout twenty-seven or twenty-eight years of age, although in realityshe was about thirty-three. Her features, with extreme regularity ofoutline, realised the ideal of Roman beauty; her black eyes, full offire and passion, her delicate forehead, her pretty mouth, her fineand velvet skin, her complexion very slightly bronzed by the sun,and, above all, the haughty and mockingly cruel expression of hercountenance, excited a repulsion for her for which it was impossible atfirst to account. Her majestic figure, her noble gestures--everythingabout this woman, by an inexplicable contrast, repelled instead ofattracting. One would have looked for the roar of a wild beast in theharmonious modulations of her voice, and the claws of a tiger under herrosy nails.
"Beware what you do, caballero," she resumed; "I am a foreigner; I amtravelling peaceably; no one has a right to stop me, or even to impedemy course."
"I repeat, Madame," coldly answered the general, "when I interrogateyou, then, and then alone, I will permit you to answer me."
"Have I then fallen into the hands of bandits, without faith or law?"pursued she, with contempt. "Am I in the power of robbers of thedesert? For that matter, the manner in which, up to the present time, Ihave been treated, and the sight of the man before whom I am conducted,would make me suppose so."
A murmur of anger, immediately repressed by a gesture from don ZenoCabral, arose among the officers at this imprudent outburst.
"Where is the guide that we suspected of treason?" said the general,turning towards the captain.
"I have seized him," answered the latter.
"Have you acquired proofs of his treason?"
"Undoubted proofs, General."
"Have him brought in."
There was a movement among the soldiers. Some of them separatedfrom the group which surrounded the prisoners, and led--treatinghim roughly--before their chief a half-caste of pitiful mien, withsquinting eyes and thickset limbs, who, for more safety, no doubt, theyhad firmly bound round the neck with a lasso.
Don Zeno Cabral looked for a moment at this man--who stood humble andtrembling before him--with a singular mixture of pity and disgust.
"You are convicted of treason," said he to him at last. "I have theright to hang you. I give you five minutes to commend your soul to God."
"I am innocent, noble General," murmured the wretch, falling on hisknees, and hanging down his head with fear.
The general shrugged his shoulders, and turned towards the officers,with whom he began to talk in a low voice, without appearing to hearthe prayers that the prisoner continued to address to him in a cryingtone.
Three or four minutes passed. A funereal silence characterised theattentive crowd of the Montoneros.
It is always a serious matter, that condemnation to death, pronouncedcoldly, resolutely, and without appeal, even for men habituated tostake their lives on the hazard of a die, like those who were assistingat this scene; thus, in spite of themselves, they felt themselvesseized with a secret fright, increased by the doleful sounds of thevoice of the wretch who was writhing with fear in their midst, andimploring with sobs the pity of their chief.
The latter turned round, and making
a sign to Captain Quiroga--
"It is time," said he.
"iCaray!" said the captain; "The picaro has been long enough seekingthe gallows; he will not have cheated it, that will be at least asatisfaction for him in his last moments."
This singular speech on the part of a man who spoke so little as arule, astonished everybody, and suddenly changing the course of ideasamong the company, caused them to burst out into mocking laughter andjests directed to the condemned, who from that time lost all hope.
A soldier had mounted a tree a few paces off, and had attached hislasso to the principal branch. The captain ordered that the spy shouldbe led under the tree, and a running knot was cast around his neck.
"Stop!" cried the lady prisoner, suddenly interposing; "That man ismine; take care what you are about to do."
There was a moment of hesitation. The wretch drew breath again; hethought he was saved.
"Take care yourself, Senora," harshly answered Zeno Cabral; "I alonecommand here."
"I am the Marchioness de Castelmelhor," she resumed, "the wife ofGeneral Castelmelhor; each drop of blood of that man shall cost thelives of thousands of your countrymen."
"You are a foreigner, Madame--the wife--you have said so yourself--of aPortuguese general, who has only entered our territory a few days sinceto ravage it. Think of yourself, and do not intercede anymore for thatwretch."
"But," said she, with bitter irony, "are you not a Portuguese yourself,Senor--a Portuguese by descent at least?"
"Enough, Madame; from respect to yourself, do not insist any more. Thisman is guilty; he is condemned; he ought to die; he shall die."
At this moment a second woman, who, up to this time, had remainedunnoticed among the other prisoners, darted quickly forward, andseizing with a nervous gesture the arm of the general, while tears randown her face, pale with emotion--
"And mine, Don Zeno," she cried, "and mine! If I asked pardon for thatman, would you refuse me?"
"Oh!" cried the general, with despair; "You here--you, Dona Eva!"
"Yes, I--I, Don Zeno, who supplicate you by all you hold most dear, topardon him."
The general looked at her for some moments with an expression of love,of anger, and of grief, impossible to describe; whilst the young woman,panting, desolate, her eyes filled with tears, and her hands clasped,almost kneeling before him, addressed him a mute prayer. Then, suddenlymaking a last effort over himself, and resuming his cold and impassiveappearance, he regained his composure, and crossing his arms on hisbreast--
"It is impossible," said he; "obey, Captain."
The latter did not allow the order to be repeated. The miserable spy,seized by hands of iron, was raised into the air, and launched intoeternity before even having a clear perception of this unforeseendenouement.
The young girl--for the person who had vainly endeavoured to interposebetween the justice and the clemency of the general was a young girl,almost a child, scarcely fifteen years of age--seized with fright atthe sight of this hideous spectacle, terrified by the cries of brutaljoy raised by the soldiers, quite gave way; her arms hanging down, herhead falling on her breast, half fainting, her beautiful and gentlecountenance was suffused with a mortal paleness; her long tresses fellin disorder on her shoulders, and her eyes, so mild and tender, theazure of which appeared to reflect the blue of the sky, were veiled anddimmed by grief, whilst a nervous movement agitated her whole body.
The marchioness approached her, lifted her up calmly, and directing thegeneral's attention to her with a look of sovereign contempt--
"Stand up, my daughter," said she; "this posture only befits suppliantsor criminals, and you are, thank God, neither. Did I not forewarn youthat this man had a tiger's heart?"
"Oh! My mother! My mother!" cried she, hiding her face in her bosom,"How much I suffer!"
At these words, uttered with an agonising expression, the general madea sudden movement, as if to start towards the young girl.
But the marchioness, standing erect with a leonine boldness, fixed himto his place with a scornful look.
"Back, Senor," said she; "neither my daughter nor I know you. Weare your prisoners. If you dare, kill us also, as you have almostthreatened."
At this speech, the cruel accent of which recalled him suddenly tohimself, the general resumed his coolness, and answered, with a cuttingtone--
"Not you, Madame; we do not kill women; but your accomplices will beshot within an hour."
"What matters it to me?" she answered.
And supporting her daughter in her arms, she went with a firm step tomingle again with the prisoners.
This strange scene, incomprehensible to all that witnessed it, hadplunged the officers and soldiers into profound astonishment.
Up to that time they had known their chief, brave--even rash--hardtowards others as towards himself--of extreme severity in mattersof discipline, but just, humane, and never in cold blood commandingthe death of the unhappy prisoners whom the chances of war placed inhis power. Thus, this sudden change in the humour of their chief,this cruelty which he had exhibited, astonished them, and filledthem, unknown to themselves, with secret terror. They instinctivelyunderstood that this man, ordinarily so cold and impassive, must havevery powerful motives to act as he did, and thus to give a completedenial to the mildness of character which, up to that time, he hadalways manifested; so, though this cruelty appeared revolting, no onedared to blame him, and those of his officers who felt disposed toaccuse him could not decide to do so.
Meanwhile, don Zeno Cabral, without appearing to remark the emotionproduced by this scene, strode about the place where he was, his armsbehind his back, and his head leaning on his breast, seemingly a preyto great agitation.
The officers stood apart, watching him by stealth, waiting with visibleanxiety the determination which doubtless he would not be long intaking--a determination on which depended the life or death of theunhappy prisoners.
Captain Quiroga at last approached him, and respectfully barred hispassage at the moment when, after having terminated his promenade inone direction, he was turning to continue it in the other.
Don Zeno raised his head.
"What do you want?" said he.
"The order, General."
"What order?"
"The confirmation of that you have given me."
"I!" said he, with astonishment.
"Yes, General; I wish to know if it is necessary to shoot immediatelythe twelve Brazilian prisoners there."
The general started as if a serpent had stung him; he stealthily darteda look towards the beautiful young girl. She was weeping, her facehidden in her mother's bosom.
"What are these men?" said he.
"Nothing much--poor devils of servants, I believe."
"Ah! Not soldiers?"
"Not one."
"However, they defended themselves."
"Well, General, that is their right."
The general fixed his piercing eye upon the impassive face of the oldsoldier.
"Ah!" said he; "How many of your men have they killed?"
"Two, and wounded five, but honourably."
"I find you very tenderhearted today, Captain Quiroga," said he, in atone of sarcasm.
"I am just, as usual, General," he answered.
The general turned pale at this hard remark, but immediately recoveringhimself--
"Thank you, my old friend," pursued he, holding out his hand; "thankyou, for having reminded me what I owe to myself. Let them sound thesignal to saddle; we leave for San Miguel, gentlemen. Captain, Ileave the prisoners under your special care; let them be treated withkindness."
"Good Zeno, I am grateful to you," answered the old soldier, with a lowbut firm voice, taking the hand that his chief held out, and kissingit; "good, my friend."
"Come, gentlemen, to horse!" cried the general, turning aside toconceal his emotion.
CHAPTER XX.
THE SOIREE.
The cabildo of San Miguel de Tucuman was gay with excit
ement, andbrilliantly lighted up. The people collected on the Plaza Mayor sawthrough the open windows the crowd of guests, men and women, in theirmost magnificent costumes, and their most brilliant toilets.
The governor was giving a tertulia a gala (soiree) to celebrate, inofficial style, the brilliant victory gained by the celebrated andvalorous partisan chief, don Zeno Cabral, over the troops of the Kingof Spain.
Joy burst forth and overflowed all parts of the cabildo on to thesquare, and from the square into the streets, where the people, pickingup the crumbs which fell from the official fete, amused themselvesin their own way, laughing, singing, dancing, and here and thereexchanging--so great was their delight--a few blows of the knife.
The soiree had acquired new lustre from the arrival of M. Dubois,who--although everybody knew his title of Duc de Mantone--preferredto preserve the modest name which he had adopted on his arrival inAmerica; saying with charming good humour, to those who reproached himwith this obstinate incognito, which deceived no one, that the nameof Dubois reminded him of the best years of his youth, when he foughton the benches of the National Convention to conquer for his countrythe republic and liberal institutions; and that he thought it well toresume this name now, when, in the decline of life, he came to anotherhemisphere, to maintain, with all the influence that his experiencecould give, the same principles.
At this the questioners could find nothing to answer, and withdrew,charmed with the spirit and manners of the old member of Convention,and--let us hasten to state--secretly flattered at possessing in theirranks one of those Titans of the National French Convention who, fromtheir curule chairs, had made the world tremble, and whom the storm hadbeen powerless to annihilate.
About half past nine, at the moment when the fete was at its height,Captain Don Louis Ortega, the painter, Emile Gagnepain, and the Countde Mendoza entered the cabildo, and made their appearance in thesaloons.
Thanks to the captain, the French artist had changed his costume of agaucho, rubbed and worn in use, for a splendid Buenos Airean chacrero,which almost rendered him unrecognisable.
The presence of the newcomers was little remarked in the whirlwind ofthe fete, and they could, without attracting attention, mingle in thecrowd of guests which literally encumbered the reception rooms.
The French painter had a few minutes' happiness in contemplatingthe fete, the entire appearance and arrangements of which so littleresembled what, under similar circumstances, we are accustomed to seein Europe.
The cabildo, the former palace of the governor of the province, had, infact, vast and well-ventilated rooms, but the furniture of which formeda striking contrast to the magnificent toilets of the guests.
The whitewashed walls were entirely bare; two rows of benches wereall the furniture of the saloons, which were lighted by means of waxcandles and garlands of coloured lamps, hidden as far as possible inthe midst of bouquets of artificial flowers. On a stage placed inthe centre of the principal saloon was an orchestra composed of somefifteen musicians, who, playing almost ad libitum, made the most odiousuproar with their instruments that could be imagined.
But joy and enthusiasm lit up every face. The guests appeared verylittle to care whether the music was good or bad, provided it enabledthem to dance, of which they acquitted themselves in a thoroughlyjoyous manner, bounding and gambolling in emulation of each other withevery manifestation of pleasure.
In the midst of the crowd the general commanding and the governor werepromenading, followed by a number of their staff, glittering withornaments, and returning with a patronising air the salutes which wereaddressed to them.
Near them was M. Dubois, upright and formal, in his black coat inthe French style, and his short breeches, forming the most singularcontrast to those who surrounded him.
The painter could scarcely repress a burst of laughter on perceivinghim, and tried to hide himself in the middle of the crowd; but it waslabour lost: M. Dubois perceived him, and came right to him.
The painter was obliged to wait for him.
"My young friend," said M. Dubois, passing his arm under his arm, anddrawing him towards the seat of a window, which was unoccupied at themoment, "I am happy to have the opportunity of meeting you; I havesomething important to say to you."
"Important!" said the artist, with a gesture of annoyance, "The deviltake it."
"Yes," replied he, smiling; "you shall see."
"I am scarcely serious enough in my nature," pursued he; "I am anartist, you know--a painter, a passionate lover of art; and it is justto escape the exigencies of serious life that I have abandoned Franceto come to America."
"Then you have decidedly fallen," said M. Dubois with a dash of irony.
"I begin to believe that I am wrong."
"It is possible, but let us return to business."
"What, it is a question of business, then?"
"Pardieu! Is not everything business in this world?"
"Hum!" said the artist, not at all convinced.
M. Dubois assumed a paternal air, and, seizing a button of hiscompanion's coat, without doubt, to prevent him from escaping--
"Listen to me with attention," said he; "the few days that I havehad the advantage of passing in your company enabled me to studyyour character, and to appreciate it at its just value; you are anintelligent, wise, and modest young man; you please me."
"You are very good," mechanically murmured Emile by way of answer.
"I wish to do something for you."
"That is a good idea; have you any influence?"
"Yes, much more than you doubtless think."
"Then render me a service."
"What? Speak. I shall be glad to acquit myself of what I owe you."
"Bah! That is nothing; do not let us speak of it."
"On the contrary, let us talk about it."
"No, no, I beg you; rather render me the service which I ask of you."
"What?"
"Then procure me, this very evening, a respectable escort, so that Imay without danger reach Buenos Aires."
"What do you wish to do at Buenos Aires?"
"To embark by the first ship which sets sail, in order to fly assoon as possible from this frightful country, where they only talkpolitics, and where life has so many tragic elements that it becomesinsupportable to any man who, like me, lives only for art."
"Have you finished?" asked the diplomatist.
"Nearly; it only remains for me to add, that if you render me thisimmense service, you will make me the happiest of men, and I shall beeternally grateful to you. What I ask is easy, it appears to me."
"Yes, it is easy enough."
"Then I may count on your kindness?"
"I do not say that."
"What, you refuse me?"
"For your good; in your interest I ought to do so."
"Parbleu! That is good!" cried the artist, quite disappointed.
"I know better than yourself what is good for you; let me explainmyself."
"Speak, but I warn you beforehand, that you will not succeed inconvincing me."
"Perhaps. I was saying, then, when you interrupted me," resumed he,imperturbably, "that you please me. Called by the confidence of theenlightened men who play the foremost parts in the glorious revolutionof this noble country to occupy a high place in their counsels, I wantnear me an honest intelligent man, in whom I can trust, who understandsSpanish--which I do not--and which I am told to learn; in a word,who will be devoted to me, and who will be rather a friend than asecretary. This man, after mature reflection, I have chosen--it is you."
"I?"
"Yes, my friend."
"Thank you for the preference."
"Then you accept."
"I! I refuse--I refuse with all my might."
"Come, you are not serious."
"My dear Monsieur Dubois, I do not joke about such things--they are tooserious."
"Bah! Bah! You will reflect."
"My reflections are made, my resolution immovable; I repeat th
at Irefuse. Why, there seems to be an epidemic! Everybody is obstinatelytrying to make me against my will a man of politics; it's enough, uponmy honour, to drive me mad."
The diplomatist slightly shrugged his shoulders, and, tapping thepainter on the arm in a friendly way--
"Sleep upon it," said he; "tomorrow you will answer me." And he turnedaway to leave him.
"But I swear to you--" said Emile.
"I will listen to nothing," interrupted he; "dance, amuse yourself;tomorrow you will talk."
And he left him.
"They are all demented!" cried the young man, stamping with rage. "Whata singular mania to wish to make me by force a serious man. He willbe very clever who will catch me tomorrow at Tucuman. I will leavetonight. I will escape, come what may. This life is awful, and I canbear it no longer; but the advice that M. Dubois has given me is notbad; I will take advantage of the few hours of liberty that remain todivert myself, if that is possible."
After this "aside," during which the greater of his anger evaporated,the painter re-entered the ballroom.
The fete continued, more excited and disorderly than when hiscountryman had drawn him aside; people were dancing in all parts ofthe saloons--not the cold and insipid French quadrilles, where itis good taste to walk stiffly and with constraint, but the gracefulsamba juecas, the jotas--in fact, all the delicious Spanish dances, sofull of freedom, of movement, and abandon, where liberty never passescertain bounds, but which, nevertheless, allow the women to display allthe voluptuous graces which they possess without shocking the eye ofthe most austere moralist.
The painter, unknown to all who surrounded him, and speaking Spanishwith too much difficulty--although he understood it very well--to holdany conversation whatever with his neighbours, leant his shoulderagainst the wall, and with his arms folded across his breast, hewatched with increasing interest the dances which passed before himlike a whirlwind; when suddenly the music ceased, the dancing stopped,and a move was made by the crowd.
Loud cries--joyful cries, let us hasten to state--were heard in thesquare; then the crowd in the cabildo fell back, and separated brisklyinto two parts, leaving a large open space in the middle of the rooms.
The governor, the general, and some twenty officers, then advancedup this passage, which had been left open for them, at the headof the newly arrived guests, who had not been expected, but whom,nevertheless, they prepared to receive most cordially.
At the appearance of the newcomers in the saloons, applause burstforth with unwonted force, and hats and handkerchiefs were waved withenthusiasm.
Those that entered were the true heroes of the fete.
Don Zeno Cabral, who, it was thought, had camped at about ten leaguesfrom San Miguel de Tucuman, entered the cabildo with all the staff ofhis Montonera.
At the sight of those bold partisans, who a few days before had gaineda signal advantage over the Spaniards, joy became delirium. Everybodyrushed towards them to see them and congratulate them, and in the firstmovement of enthusiasm they really ran some danger of being suffocatedby their admirers.
However, by degrees the demonstrations, without ceasing to be hearty,became calmer, and there was again room to move in the saloons, which,during a short time, the people of the square had nearly invaded.
The fete recommenced.
But the guests, whose curiosity had been excited to the highest point,and who could not satiate themselves by looking at these men, whomthey considered as almost their saviours, no longer entered into theamusements with the same spirit as before.
The painter, wearied with the secondary part which he was playing inthe midst of people whose aspirations it was impossible for him tounderstand, and whose enthusiasm he could not share, had left thecorner of the room where he had so long remained alone, admiringin silence the scene of excitement which passed before him; and hesought to open up a passage through the crowd, and reach the squareincognito--hoping easily to escape during the tumult caused by thearrival of the Montoneros--when he felt himself touched lightly on theshoulder.
He turned round, and could with difficulty repress an exclamation ofill humour on recognising his two companions of the Alameda--those whohad assisted him to an introduction to the cabildo--in a word, theSpanish captain and the Count de Mendoza.
Both were disguised, and had put on a costume similar to that which theyoung Frenchman wore.
"Where are you going to this way?" asked the count, with a sneer.
We must render this justice to the painter--that if he had notcompletely forgotten the two men whose prisoner on parole he was,at least, in his inmost heart he hoped to escape their vigilance,reckoning on chance for the opportunity.
"I?" asked he, surprised unawares.
"Certainly, you," said the count.
"Mon Dieu," said he, with the most indifferent air that he couldaffect, "it is suffocating in these rooms, and I was going out on thesquare, in quest of a little breathable air."
"Is that all?"
"Certainly."
"Do not distress yourself, then; as we want a little air, likeyourself, we will accompany you," pursued the count.
"Be it so; I am quite agreeable," said he.
They took some steps towards the door. But the young man, suddenlyaltering his mind, stopped, and turning briskly towards his twobodyguards, who followed him step for step--
"Parbleu!" said he to them, resolutely, "I have changed my mind, andsince the opportunity for an explanation between us presents itself, Iwill profit by it."
"What is that he says?" asked the count, haughtily.
"Let the caballero speak," said the captain; "I am certain that he hassomething interesting to say."
"Yes, Senor, very interesting indeed, for me!"
"Ah, ah!" murmured the count; "Let us hear--it must be curious."
"You think so?"
"I am convinced of it."
"But, pardon," pursued the count; "are you not, like us, my dear sir,of opinion that it is not well to put the public in the confidence ofthings which concern us alone?"
"I can understand that you have an interest in seeking mystery; suchis not my view. I wish, on the contrary, that the greatest publicityshould be given to this conversation."
"That is a great pity."
"Why so?"
"Because," coldly remarked the count, drawing from under his ponchoa pistol loaded and cocked, "if you say one word more--if you do notfollow us on the instant--I will blow your brains out."
The painter burst out laughing.
"You would not be stupid enough to do that!" said he.
"And why?"
"Because you would be immediately arrested; because important reasonsoblige you to remain unknown; and because my death would not besufficiently advantageous to you for you thus to risk your personalsafety for the pleasure of killing me."
"iCuerpo de Cristo!" cried the captain, laughing; "Well answered, on myword. You are beaten, my dear count."
"All is not finished between us," said the count, gnashing his teeth,but putting aside his weapon.
"I am astonished, Senor," coolly resumed the young man, "that you--anhidalgo, a gentleman of the old stamp--that you should every now andthen manifest such bad taste."
"Take care, Monsieur," cried the count, "do not play thus with myanger; if you push me to extremities, I can forget everything."
"Come," said Emile, shrugging his shoulders with disdain, "do you takeme for a timid child that is frightened by threats? You forget who Iam, and who you are. Take my advice, let us live together in the bondsof courtesy; any uproar would ruin you, and make you ridiculous."
"Let us make an end of it," said the captain, interposing; "it hasalready lasted too long. Do not let us attract attention towards us fora foolish affair like this. You wish, Senor, to regain your liberty byour giving you up your parole, do you not?"
"Just so; that is what I ask, Senor; am I wrong?"
"Upon my word, no; in acting thus, you do but obey the instinct thatGod h
as placed in the hearts of all men; I cannot blame you."
"What are you doing, Captain?" cried the count, with violence.
"Eh, mon Dieu! My dear count, I am doing what I must do. It must be oneof two things--either this stranger is an honest man, in whom we oughtto have confidence, or he is a rogue who will deceive us at the firstopportunity. In one case, as in the other, we ought to trust his word.If he is honest, he will keep it; if not, he will succeed in escaping."
"Perfectly reasoned, Senor," answered the artist. "The word that I havegiven you, believe me, binds me more strongly towards you than the bestforged chain."
"I am convinced of it, Senor. To terminate this contest, I declare toyou here that you are free to act as you like, without our imposing anyobstacle, certain that you will not betray men against whom you have nomotive of hatred, and to whom you have promised secrecy."
"You have well judged, Senor; I thank you for that opinion, which istrue."
"You wish it," exclaimed the count, with suppressed rage; "let it beso; but you will repent this foolish confidence in a man whom you donot know, and who, moreover, is a foreigner."
"Come, my dear count, you are pushing your mistrust too far. There arehonest men everywhere, even in that France that you hate, and thiscavalier is of the number. Your hand, Senor, and au revoir. Perhaps weshall meet again in more favourable circumstances; then I hope you willaccord me your friendship, as I have already offered you mine."
"With all my heart, sir," said the painter, warmly pressing the handwhich was held out to him, and only answering the words of the Count bya smile of disdain.
"Now, thank God, this grave discussion has terminated," pursued thecaptain, laughing, "I believe that all our affairs here are finishedfor the night, my dear count, and that it is time to retire."
"We have only stayed too long here; like you, I think we ought to leaveas soon as possible," answered the count, with a morose air.
"If you will permit me, I will accompany you as far as the square,Senores; seductive as this fete may be, it has no charms for me. I feelthe need of repose."
"Come, then," said the captain.
They then quitted the saloon, and made towards the exit.
"On my word," thought the painter, "I am happy to be rid of them atthis price, to find myself at last free. As to that dear MonsieurDubois, I wish him much joy, and especially that he may quickly findanother secretary, for he was perfectly wrong in reckoning on me."
And the young man joyfully rubbed his hands.
Unhappily for him, the series of his troubles had not yet come to anend, as he had rather prematurely flattered himself.
At the moment when the three men reached the outer door, and were aboutto descend the few steps which led into the court of the cabildo:
"There they are!" said a voice.
Immediately the two sentinels placed at the door crossed their guns andbarred the passage.
"Come, what now?" murmured the painter, with vexation.
"What does this mean?" demanded the count, haughtily.
"It means," answered a man, stepping forward, who had been hitherto inthe darkness, "that I arrest you in the name of the country, and thatyou are my prisoners."
He who had just spoken this was Captain Quiroga.
"We prisoners!" exclaimed the three men.
"Yes, you," coldly resumed the captain, "you, Don Jaime de Zuniga,Count de Mendoza, and you, Captain Don Lucio Ortega, accused of hightreason."
"Well, and me; what have I to do with all this?"
"You, my dear sir, we arrest you as a presumed accomplice of thesecaballeros, in company of whom you have introduced yourself to thecabildo, and with whom you have been talking a long time."
"Ah! That is madness!" exclaimed the painter, at the height ofastonishment; "But I am not at all a friend of these caballeros."
"Enough!" coldly answered the captain; "Now, gentlemen, give up thearms that you probably conceal in your clothing if you do not wish tobe searched."
The two Spaniards exchanged a look; then, by a movement rapid asthought, they rushed with an invincible force upon the sentinels whowere barring their passage, overthrew them, and bounded into the court.
But here they found themselves in the presence of some twenty soldiers,hidden beforehand, who precipitated themselves upon them, and in thetwinkling of an eye they were searched and disarmed.
"Well, we give ourselves up," said the count; "you need not lay handson us anymore, and treat us like bandits."
The soldiers immediately moved a little on one side, and allowed theprisoners, ruffled by their fall, to put their clothing a little inorder.
This struggle, short as it was, had, nevertheless, attracted a greatnumber of people.
"Come," said Captain Quiroga, rudely seizing the arm of the painter, tomake him descend the steps.
"Why, this is horrible," exclaimed the latter, arguing with fury; "youviolate the right of nations. I am a Frenchman, I am a foreigner; letme go, I tell you."
The contest would probably have terminated to the disadvantage of theyoung man, alone, among so many enemies, if suddenly the governor hadnot advanced, and addressing the captain--
"Let that caballero go," said he; "there is a mistake. He is an honestman; he is the secretary to the Duc de Mantone."
[In our next volume, "The Insurgent Chief," the adventures of thepersonages mentioned in this description of Life in the Pampas will becontinued.]
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