She smiled again, very graciously this time, and said she could see we were honest men. Would we not come in? We would, and we did.
As we stepped inside I glanced at the place near the window where she had been looking when we first saw her. I expected to find someone sitting or lying there. But there was nobody at all. Wondering what she had been looking at, I kept my eye on that spot as I advanced. Then I saw. The thing she had been smiling at and flirting with was her own face.
On the wall hung a round mirror half as large as my head, with a handle that looked like silver. It must have cost considerable money somewhere, and it looked out of place there against that old dingy mud. Yet as I looked back at the Firefly Lady it did not seem so strange, and I did not blame her for wanting to see her own pretty face; for the rest of the room was very ugly, and there was nothing at all worth looking at. I wondered, though, that she should deck herself with fireflies and pose and sing when there was nobody to see her except that black monkey. Still, women do queer things.
In the farther wall I noticed a door standing partly open. Beyond it was darkness and silence. Nowhere was any sign of another person. She seemed all alone.
"Have you hunger, senhores?” she asked. “I have not much food, but you are welcome."
"Do not trouble yourself, senhorita,” Pedro declined. “We have eaten. It is not food we hunger for, but the sound of your voice—and the charm of your companionship."
She laughed lightly again, and her eyes spoke very kindly to my comrade.
"Tell me more of your company of Englishmen,” she said. “They are at Tabatinga? They have not been long in this country! They are rather old men?"
Pedro gave me a queer look. I bit my tongue to keep from laughing and spoke no word. After an instant of hesitation he answered easily:
"You have it partly right. They have not been here long, but they are young men, not old. They are very rich too, senhorita—three young men, handsome and wealthy."
"So? And married?"
"No. At least I do not think so. I have not seen nor heard of any wives."
She glanced at the mirror. Then she lifted her arms and floated around for a few steps, her face alight with some pleasant thought. But as she again faced the open door through which we had entered she started and fear flashed into her eyes. We whirled.
Nothing was there. Only the blackness of the night met our gaze.
"What is it?” I asked.
"There!” she whispered, pointing. “By the door! Has he—has he come back?"
We jumped through the doorway, seeking whatever might be lurking outside. We found nothing.
"Is this a joke, senhorita?” demanded Pedro, as we came in again. “There is no danger."
"No, no!” She still looked frightened. “I thought—I thought I saw the terrible face of—of Carlos Guimaraes. If he should find you here he would kill us all."
"Why?"
"Why? Because you are men and here with me. He—he keeps me here as his prisoner."
"Oh! So that is why you are here alone! Let him come,” Pedro said grimly. “Killing is a game which more than one man can play. I should much like to meet this Carlos. But he is not there now. Who is this man, and who are you, and how came you here?"
Still seeming nervous, she asked him to shut the door. He closed and barred it. Then, glancing at the other door, he asked where it led. She said it was only the door to her sleeping-room, and so there was no danger from that direction. Then she smiled again.
"It is very comforting to have two strong men here to protect me,” she said. “Now come, let us sit by the table, and I will tell you all."
She sank into a rough chair beside a small bare table, directly under the light-cages. There was one other chair, and we looked at each other but remained standing. She rose and sat on the table itself.
"Now there is a chair for each of you,” she said. “See, the table holds me easily—I am so much lighter than you big men. Sit, senhores."
"We are not 'senhores,'” said Pedro bluntly. “We are but plain men. Call us ‘friends’ or by our names, senhorita—"
He paused and looked a question.
"My name is Francisca."
He bowed, glanced swiftly around him and sat down in the chair she had used. I lifted the other and set it against the wall where I could watch her face, the window, or the door to her room, all with a mere turn of the eyes. As I sat down. I thought I heard a small sound from that other room.
"Is there a window in that room?” I asked.
She looked quickly at me, her eyes narrowing.
"Yes, surely. Why do you ask?"
"I heard something."
"It is nothing,” was her swift answer. “There is a—a sick monkey in there—a poor little baby monkey which seems hurt. I found it yesterday and have made a little bed for it, where I can feed it and no snake or other evil thing can harm it."
"That is truly kind of you, senhorita.” I told her, and said no more.
For a little time none of us spoke. No further noise came from the other room, and the only sound was the continual clicking of the cucujus in their cages as they tried to leap up and fly. We men watched the big black monkey which had guided us there, and which now had climbed up on the table and squatted beside her. A few of the fireflies still remained on him, and he picked them off one by one and put them on her.
Knowing how a pet monkey will imitate people around him, I could easily see how he had learned this trick—he had seen his mistress fasten fireflies on herself, and had caught the habit of doing the same thing and then bringing the insects to her. She laughed now as she took them from him, and I thought that she did indeed feel safe with us there.
Soon, though, she grew very serious and began to tell her story.
She was not a Brazilian girl, she said, but the daughter of a wealthy Italian. This surprised me a little; for, though I had noticed that she did not speak Portuguese in our own way, she did not seem much like the few Italian people I had seen. Still, different kinds of people may come from the same country, and the Italians I had met were rather poor, while it was easy to see that she was accustomed to the things of wealth. My eye went to that expensive mirror as I thought this, and I was all the more curious to know how she had ever come there. She soon told us.
Her father, she said, had become interested in reports of immense wealth waiting in the Amazon Valley for men who would develop it—lumber, rubber, medicinal herbs and other things—and had decided to come to Brazil and see for himself whether these stories were true. As she was his only child and anxious to see something of South America, he took her with him to Rio, where he intended to leave her with friends to enjoy the society and fashion of the capital while he made his long trip. But after staying for a time in Rio she felt that she would be lonely there during the long weeks when her father was gone; and so she coaxed him into taking her with him.
All the way up the great river, even to the headwaters, these two journeyed together. They stopped at towns along the river, saw what there was to see, and talked with men who were in business of various kinds. Then, as they were nearing the upper reaches and thinking that soon they would turn about and travel back seaward, they became acquainted with a man who had recently come on board—a Senhor Azevedo, who was developing a large rubber estate for some rich men living in Rio. This man invited them to visit his headquarters for a time and see how the work was done. They accepted.
Leaving the steamer, they traveled up into the Javary region in the private boat of Senhor Azevedo. He was a courteous host, and all his men took much interest in showing her father about.
One of these men—Guimaraes, a sort of foreman—showed much interest in Francisca also. Indeed, he was so attentive that she had to complain of it to her father, who told Senhor Azevedo. This resulted in a sharp rebuke for the man Guimaraes, and for a time after that he did not trouble her.
Then death struck her father. A snake bit him, and in an hour he was d
ead. And that very night Guimaraes managed to get into her room, struck her senseless before she could cry out, carried her silently to the river, put her into a canoe, and fled up the river in the moonlight.
He paddled hard until dawn, and for several days after that he kept on, until at last they came to this place. What place it was she did not know—it was a town without a name; a few old mud houses, totally deserted except by bats and snakes.
Since coming here she had seen nobody but the man who had stolen her; and even he deserted her at times, going away somewhere for days and leaving her with only the black monkey for a companion. He was away now, and she was alone in this wild jungle with no way of escape.
I heard this with wrath growing hot within me. I wished this Guimaraes would come back now and give me a chance at him. Pedro perhaps was thinking the same thing, for, with a hard note in his voice, he asked—
"Do you think he will return tonight?"
"I do not think so,” she said, looking at the door as if frightened by the thought. “He went only yesterday, and he usually stays away for days. Yet I never know when he will come."
"I wonder, senhorita, that you can sing when you are alone and a prisoner,” said Pedro.
"If I did not I should go mad!” she cried. “When the night comes—the blackness and the loneliness and the cries of animals killing in the jungle—oh, you do not know!"
Jumping from the table, she held out her arms to him.
"Oh, take me away!” she pleaded. “Take me out of this awful place—to Tabatinga, to any place where I can find people who will be kind and help me to get home. Your employers, the Englishmen—surely they will help a girl in distress."
Then, senhores, I felt meaner than ever before in my life. I had lied to her—there were no Englishmen, nor were we going within many miles of Tabatinga. But the thought came to me that this did not matter so much after all; for we could take her to the headquarters of our kindly coronel, who has a daughter of his own in Rio and would surely do everything possible for the poor little Firefly Lady.
Pedro spoke.
"Truly, senhorita, we shall do our best for you. We go on down the river in the morning, and you shall go with us. We will take you to someone who will gladly help you."
"Oh!” she cried joyously.
With a swift movement she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. Then, glowing, she turned toward me. I got up rather hastily.
"Will you not sing for us now, senhorita?” I asked.
She laughed, a clear, ringing laugh.
"Are you afraid to be kissed?” she teased.
"Remember that I am a cross old lady with a terrible black beard,” I grinned. “Wait until I am shaved. Pedro has had his kiss, but I can look forward to mine. Now sing—sing something in your own tongue."
Again her eyes seemed to grow narrow.
"Do you know Italian?” she asked.
"No,” I said truthfully, “I do not. But I should like to hear a song of your own land, even though I do not understand the words."
"And so you shall,” she promised.
Breathing deep, she began to sing in a foreign tongue.
As she sang she seemed to forget us, and into her eyes came a far-away look as if she were gazing across the jungle and the ocean at her homeland, to which she would soon return. What she sang I do not know; but it was gay and lively, showing the joy she felt over her coming escape from this dreary cage. Soon she began to dance also—swift whirling steps in time to the measure of her songs, which carried her around the dingy room in a flashing swirl of fireflies until she was breathless. Then she stopped, panting, her white skin flushed.
Glancing at Pedro, I was puzzled to find on his face a thoughtful frown. But as she turned to him this disappeared, and he gave her many compliments on her voice. Then he suggested:
"We start at dawn, senhorita, and it would be well for all of us to get some sleep. We will lie down on the floor beside that outer door, if you wish, and see that nothing disturbs you."
"But no, that is not necessary. You will be more comfortable at your own camp, and I shall be safe enough—Carlos will not come so late as this, and I shall bar the door. I—I would rather be alone, my friends, this last night here."
"As you will,” my partner bowed. “We shall come for you at daybreak."
We turned toward the door. She slipped in front of us.
"You will not forget? You will not go and leave me?"
"There is no danger of that,” we assured her. “Sleep well, and have no fear."
She gave us each a little white hand, and we passed out.
"Por Deos!" grumbled Pedro. “How black it is! We shall have to feel our way back to the canoe."
I said nothing. We crept back the way we had come, guiding ourselves along the wall with our fingertips. As we went we heard the door close and the bar go into place.
We found the next house, felt our way along that, and reached the corner where we should turn. There Pedro stopped. I bumped into him.
"What is it?” I whispered, thinking he must have made out something in front of him.
"I am thinking,” he whispered back.
"Then think fast. I want to sleep."
Softly he turned around and spoke in my ear.
"Lourenço, I think there is more here than we have seen. It might be well for us not to hasten away. Did you hear that thing move in the back room of her house?"
"Yes. The baby monkey."
"If it was a baby monkey it was the biggest baby I ever heard. It moved only a little, but it was heavier than even a full-grown monkey would be. And here is another thing: She said she feared that this Carlos would come and kill us, and so she had us bar the door. Then she sat down under those light-cages and had us sit beside her. All of us were in plain sight from the window. If anyone had come, could he not have shot us through the window? Certainly."
"I thought of that too, and sat where I could watch it,” I reminded him.
"I know you did. I saw how you placed your chair. But I doubt if she really fears this Carlos. Perhaps there is no Carlos at all. And do you remember her story of Azevedo, a developer of a big rubber estate in this Javary region? We are rubber-workers, and I never have heard of any big estate run by a man named Azevedo. And here is one thing more: She did not sing in Italian."
"Are you sure?"
"I am sure. Some years ago I knew a man of Italy and learned enough of his language to recognize it when I hear it. What tongue she used in those songs I do not know, but it was not Italian nor English nor Portuguese. She said she would sing in her own language, and I believe she did so. If she deceived us about one thing, why not about others?"
"But surely she stays here only because she must,” I objected. “A woman like her would never pick this forsaken place to live in, or even find it. And she is mad to get away."
"True. But—Lourenço, I want to know what is in that back room. Let us go back softly and look and listen."
Very carefully we stole back to the barred window where the light showed. Even before we reached it I knew Pedro's suspicion was well founded, for we heard a voice—not the voice of Francisca, but that of a man.
It was a low voice and seemed weak. We could not make out the words until we stopped at the window and put our eyes and ears at the openings. The room which we had just left was empty now, and the voice came from beyond the door in the farther wall.
"But you will not leave me to die!” it pleaded. “To starve and die here alone like a sick rat in a hole! You would not do such a thing to a man who has ruined his life for you!"
Then came the voice of the woman. It was so cold and cruel that we hardly knew it.
"If you die I can not help it. I did not give you the fever, and neither can I cure it. If you think I intend to throw away this chance to escape from this place you are much mistaken. These men are traveling fast and hard—they are gaunt and unshaven—and they will not wait. I shall go with them, and there is an
end of it."
"An end of me, you mean,” said the man hoarsely. “An end of the idiot who sacrificed everything to go with you to the end of the earth—who stole for you and even killed for you. I saved you by knifing that police agent who trailed us all the way up the Amazon—and this is your reward! This is the love you promised me! To leave me dying, starving, screaming at the empty blackness—"
"What else can I do?” she cut in. “You yourself say you are dying. You are as good as dead already. You can not go out. Even if you were well you could not go out. The police—"
"Yes, the police!” he cried. “I would rather die in the hands of the police than here alone. They would at least be human toward a dying man. And what do you think the police will do to you? You, the enemy of their country—you, the Austrian singer who spied during the war—you, the woman who married a Brazilian for the protection of his name and then poisoned him and fled with his money and the jewels he gave you? Your record is far blacker than mine. What do you think will happen to you?"
"I do not care!” she cried wildly. “Anything is better than staying here in this place where only snakes and monkeys live, and where the only jewels I have are fireflies! Fool! You do well to speak of jewels! You made that blunder in Rio that set the police on us and destroyed our chance of escaping to Europe.
"When that servant of my husband found you taking the jewels you only tied and gagged him instead of making him silent forever, and so he was able to talk when he was found and freed. That made the police seek both us and Azul, and they found him too—dead. And when we had fled up the Amazon you let yourself be robbed—robbed, fool, of all our fortune!"
"That is true,” he admitted. “But I could not murder that poor old servant. I was never a criminal until love for you made me one, and I am no cutthroat."
"The old story!” she jeered. “'The woman beguiled me.’ No, oh no, you are no criminal—you are not clever enough! But your stabbing of that man who trailed us makes your record black enough, Manoel meo, to send you to death."
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