[1]See "The Tiger Slayer." Same publishers.
[1]See "The Tiger Slayer." Same publishers.
Several days elapsed ere the two friends resumed their interrupted conversation.
They had continued their journey toward San Francisco without any incident worth noticing, owing to the skill of Valentine and Curumilla. Although this was the first time they had advanced so far from the regions they were accustomed to traverse, their sagacity made up so well for their want of knowledge that they avoided, with extreme good fortune, the dangers that menaced the success of their journey, and foresaw obstacles still remote, but which their knowledge of the desert caused them to guess, as it were, intuitively.
The two old friends observed, we may say studied, each other. After so long a separation they required to restore a community of ideas. That communion of thoughts and feelings which had existed so long between them might be eternally broken through the different media into which they had been thrown, and the circumstances that had modified their characters. Each of them rendered greater by events—having acquired the consciousness of his personal value and his intellectual power—had possibly the right no longer to admit, without previous discussion, certain theories which were formerly recognised without a contest.
Still the friendship between the two men was so lively, the confidence so entire, and the devotion so true, that, after a fortnight's travelling side by side—a fortnight during which they touched on the most varying subjects without once introducing the one they had so much interest in thoroughly discussing—they convinced themselves that they stood to each other precisely in the same position as before their separation.
Either through lassitude or deference, or perhaps the tacit recognition of his foster brother's superiority over him, during this fortnight, Don Louis, happy, perhaps, at having found once more the man who had been wont to think and act for him, had not once attempted to assume an independent position, but insensibly fell back under that moral guardianship which Valentine had so long exercised over him.
The two other persons lived on a perfectly good understanding—Don Cornelio through carelessness, perhaps, Curumilla through pride.
The Spaniard—a dear lover of liberty, happy at living in the open air without troubles or annoyances of any description—goaded his novillos, strummed his jarana, and sang the interminableRomancero del Rey Rodrigo,which he began again imperturbably so soon as he had finished, in spite of Valentine's repeated remarks about the silence that must be maintained in the desert, in order to avoid the ambuscades which the Indians constantly place like so many spiders' webs in the path of incautious travellers. The Spaniard listened docilely, and with a contrite air, to the hunter's remonstrances; but, so soon as they were ended, he twanged a tune, and recommenced his romancero—a philosophy which the trail-seeker, while blaming, could not refrain from admiring.
Curumilla was always the man we have seen him—prudent, foresighted, and silent—but with a double dose of each quality. With eyes ever opened and ears alert, the Araucanian chief rode from one end of the file to the other, watching so carefully over its safety that no accident occurred up to the day when we resume our narrative.
They thus descended the woody slopes of the Sierra Nevada, and entered the naked and sandy plains that stretch down to the sea, and on which, with the exception of San José and Monterey (two towns in the last throes of existence), the traveller only sees stunted trees and thorny shrubs scattered at a great distance apart.
Three days before reaching San José—a miserablepueblo, which serves as a gathering place for hunters and arrieros who frequent these parts; but where the population, decimated by fevers and misery, can do but little for theforasteros(strangers)—the caravan encamped on the banks of a stream, beneath the shelter of a few trees that had grown there by accident, and which the sea breeze shook incessantly, and covered with that fine sand which enters the eyes, nose, ears, and nothing can keep out.
The sun was plunging into the sea under the form of a huge fire-ball; there was a fresh breeze; in the distance appeared a few white sails, which, like light kingfishers fearing a tempest, were hastening to reach San Francisco; the coyotes were beginning to bark furiously on the plain; and the few birds nestled on the branches tucked their heads under their wings, and prepared to go to sleep.
The fires were lighted, the animals penned, and after supper each hastened to repair, by a few hours' sleep, the fatigue of a long day's journey beneath a burning sky.
"Sleep!" Louis said. "I will keep the first watch—the idler's watch," he added with a smile.
"I will take the second, then," Valentine said.
"No, I will take that," Curumilla objected. "An Indian's eyes see clearly in the night."
"Hum!" the hunter remarked; "and yet I fancy my eyes are not so bad either."
Curumilla, without further reply, placed his finger on his lips.
"Good!" the hunter said; "as you wish it, keep watch in my place, chief. When you are tired, however, be sure and wake me."
The Indian bowed. The three men wrapped themselves in their zarapés, and lay on the ground, Don Louis alone remaining awake.
It was a magnificent night: the sky, of a deep azure, was studded with an infinity of stars that sparkled like diamonds; the moon poured forth its tremulous and pallid beams; the atmosphere, wondrously pure and transparent, allowed the country to be surveyed for an enormous distance; the evening breeze had risen, and deliciously refreshed the air; the earth exhaled acrid and balmy perfumes; the waves died away amorously, and with mysterious murmurs, on the beach; and in the distance might be indistinctly traced the outlines of the coyotes which prowled about, howling mournfully, for they scented the novillos.
Louis, seduced by this splendid evening, and yielding to that prairie languor which conquers the strongest minds, was indulging in a gentle reverie. He had attained that stage of mental somnolency which is not waking, and yet not sleeping. He was enjoying the magic pictures his fancy conjured up, when he was suddenly roused from this charming sensation by a hand pressing heavily on his shoulder, while a voice muttered in his ear the single word,—
"Prudence."
Louis, suddenly recalled to a consciousness of the present, opened his half-closed eyes, and turned sharply round. Curumilla was leaning over him, and repeated his warning, with a sign of terrible meaning. The count seized his rifle, which rested near him.
"What is the matter?" he asked in a low voice.
"Come, but keep in the shade," Curumilla replied in the same tone.
Louis obeyed the hint, whose importance he recognised. Lying down on the ground, he glided gently in the direction indicated by the Indian.
He soon found himself sheltered behind a thicket, where he saw Don Cornelio and Valentine in ambush, with their bodies bent forward, and looking anxiously into the darkness.
"Good heavens, friends!" the count said, "what is the meaning of this? The profoundest silence prevails around us. All appears tranquil. Why this alarm?"
"Curumilla noticed this evening, before our halt, traces of Yaqui Indians. You know, brother, that these demons are the most daring robbers in the world. It is plain that they are after our beasts."
"But what makes you suppose that? These traces, whose existence I do not deny, may belong to travellers as well as to vagabonds. Nothing up to the present makes us suppose that these fellows intend attacking us, and we have not even seen them."
A sinister smile contracted the chief's thin lips, and, touching the count's arm with his finger, while at the same time lifting his own robe, he showed him a bleeding scalp hanging from his belt.
"Oh, oh!" Don Louis said, "have those demons ventured so near us, then?"
"Yes; and had it not been for Curumilla, whose eye is never closed, and mind ever on the watch, our animals would probably have been carried off more than an hour ago."
"Thanks for his vigilance, then," the count said with an expression of annoyance, which he could not entirely conceal; "but you know the Indians, comrades: so soon as they find they are detected, they are no longer to be feared. I believe that, after the lesson they have received, we are now in safety, and we need not trouble ourselves about them more."
"No, brother, you are mistaken. Look at your novillos; they are restless. At each instant they raise their heads, and do not eat their food in comfort. God has given animals an instinct of self-preservation which never deceives them. Believe me, they fear a danger, and scent enemies not far from them."
"It is possible, indeed. Let us watch, then."
The four men remained thus silent and attentive. An hour almost passed away, and nothing happened to confirm their suspicions. Still the bulls pressed more closely together. They had left off eating, and their restlessness increased instead of diminishing.
Suddenly Curumilla stretched out his arm in a north-eastern direction, and after laconically whispering, "Do not stir," he gave Valentine his rifle to hold, and before his friends had time to guess the direction he had taken, he disappeared in the gloom. The three hunters exchanged a silent glance, and cocked their rifles, so as to be ready for any event.
There cannot be a more painful position than that of the brave man who, in a strange country and on a dark night, is obliged to stand on guard against a danger whose extent he cannot calculate. Affected by the silent majesty of solitude, he creates phantasms a hundredfold more terrible than the actual danger, and feels his courage fly away piecemeal beneath the harsh pressure of waiting for something unseen.
Such was the situation in which our three friends now were; and yet they were three lion hearts, accustomed for many years to Indian warfare, and whom no peril, however great it might have been, would have been able to affect beneath the warm beams of the sun; but, during the darkness, imagination creates such horrible phantoms, that, if we may be allowed to employ a trivial comparison, we might say that people are not so much afraid of the danger itself as of the fear of that danger.
The three men had remained in this awkward situation for some time; when suddenly a fearful yell rose in the air, followed by the fall of a body to the ground, and the flight of several men, whose black outlines stood out on the horizon. The adventurers fired at random, and rushed rapidly in the direction where they heard the struggle, which seemed still going on.
At the moment they arrived, Curumilla, whom they recognised, had his right knee pressed into the chest of a man he held down under him, while his left hand compressed his throat, and reduced him to the most perfect state of powerlessness.
"Wah!" the Araucanian said, turning to his comrades with a look of inexpressible ferocity, "a chief!"
"Good prize," Valentine said. "Thrust your knife into the scoundrel's chest, and there's an end of him."
Curumilla raised his knife, whose blade sent forth a bluish flash.
"A moment," Don Louis exclaimed. "Let us see first who he is; we shall still be able to kill him if we think fit."
Valentine shrugged his shoulders.
"Let the chief settle that business," he said; "he understands it better than we do. When you have one of those vipers under your heel you must crush him, lest he may sting you presently."
"No," the count remarked resolutely, "I will never consent to see a man murdered before me. That poor wretch has acted in accordance with his nature; let us act in accordance with ours, then. Curumilla, I implore you, allow your prisoner to rise, but watch him, so that he cannot escape."
"You are wrong, brother," the implacable hunter replied; "you do not know these demons so well as I do. Still act as you please; but you will eventually see that you have committed a folly."
The count made no reply, but only gave Curumilla another sign to do as he ordered. The Araucanian obeyed with repugnance. Still he helped his half-strangled prisoner to rise, and while carefully watching him, led him to the fire, where the hunters had already preceded him.
The count took a rapid glance at the Indian. He was a man of Herculean stature, powerfully built, and still young, with haughty, gloomy, and cruel features; in a word, though he was a handsome rather than an ugly man in appearance, there was an expression of roguery, baseness, and ferocity about him, which in no way pleaded in his favour. He wore a species of hunting shirt, without sleeves, of striped calico, drawn in round the waist by a large girdle of untanned deer hide; breeches of the same stuff as the shirt hung down to his knees; and the lower part of his legs was protected from stings by leather gaiters fastened to the knee and ankle. He wore on his feet moccasins artistically worked, and adorned behind by several wolf tails—a mark of distinction only allowed to renowned warriors. His plaited hair was raised on either side his head, while behind it fell to his waist, and was decorated with plumes of every possible colour. Round his neck hung several medals, among which was one rather larger than the rest, representing General Jackson, ex-President of the American Union. His face was painted with four different colours—blue, black, white, and red.
So soon as he found himself in the presence of the hunters seated round the fire, he crossed his arms on his chest, raised his head haughtily, and waited stoically till they thought proper to address him.
"Who are you?" Don Louis asked him in Spanish.
"Mixcoatzin (the Serpent of the Cloud)."
"Hum!" Valentine muttered to himself, "the scoundrel is well named. I never saw such a hangdog face as his before."
"What did Mixcoatzin want in my camp?"
"Does not theYoriknow?" the Indian said imperturbably. "Mixcoatzin is a chief among the Yaquis."
"You wished to steal my cattle, I suppose?"
"The Yaquis are not robbers; all that is on their land belongs to them. The palefaces need only return to their home on the other side of the great salt lake."
"If I condemn you to death what will you say?"
"Nothing; it is the law of war. The paleface will see how a Yaqui chief endures pain."
"You allow, then, that you deserve death?"
"No; the paleface is the stronger—he is the master."
"If I let you go what will you think?"
The Indian shrugged his shoulders.
"The paleface is not a fool," he said.
"But suppose I do act in that way?"
"I shall say that the paleface is afraid."
"Afraid of what?"
"Of the vengeance of the warriors of my nation."
It was Don Louis' turn to shrug his shoulders.
"Then," he proceeded, "if I restored you your liberty you would feel no gratitude?"
"Why should I be grateful? A warrior should kill his enemy when he holds him. If he does not do so he is a coward."
The hunters could not refrain from a start of surprise at the enunciation of this singular theory. Don Louis rose.
"Listen," he said. "I do not fear you, and I will give you a proof of it."
And, with a movement quick as thought, he seized the long tail that hung down the chiefs back, and cut it off with his knife.
"Now," he added, buffeting him with the tress he had cut off, "be off, villain: you are free. I despise you too much to inflict on you any other punishment than that you have undergone. Return to your tribe, and tell your friends how the whites avenge themselves on enemies so contemptible as yourself, and those that resemble you."
At the deadly insult he received the Indian's face became hideous; he suffered a momentary stupor caused by shame and anger; but by a supernatural effort he suddenly overcame his feelings, seized Don Louis' arm, and thrusting his face into the Frenchman's,—
"Mixcoatzin is a powerful chief," he hissed. "Let the Yori remember his name, for he will meet him again."
And, bounding like a tiger, he dashed into the plain, where he at once disappeared.
"Stop!" Don Louis shouted to his friends, who were rushing in pursuit; "Let him escape. What do I care for such a wretch's hatred? He can do nothing to me."
The hunters reluctantly took their seats again by the fire.
"Hum!" Louis added, "I have perhaps committed a folly."
Valentine looked at him.
"Worse than a folly, brother," he said; "a sad mistake. Take care of that man: one day or other he will revenge himself on you."
"Possibly," the count said carelessly; "but when did you begin to fear the Indians so greatly, brother?"
"From the day I first learned to know them," the hunter said coldly. "You have offered that man an insult which demands blood; be assured that he will make you repent of it."
"I care little."
After these few words the hunters resumed their interrupted sleep, and the rest of the night passed without any fresh incident.
At sunrise the adventurers continued their journey; and by night, after a day of incredible fatigue through the burning sands of the savannah, they at length reached thepuebloorlugarof San José, where the inhabitants received them with shouts of joy, persuaded as they were that the strangers would not leave without supplying them with a few of those objects of primary necessity which they have themselves no means of procuring.
San José is the last caravan halt before reaching San Francisco. The travellers had made a journey of more than one hundred and eighty leagues in less than three weeks, through difficulties and dangers without end—a speed hitherto unexampled.
The hunters placed their animals in a vast corral; then they sought a shelter for themselves in a mesón, the landlord of which, a perfect likeness of the worthy Knight of La Mancha, received them to the best of his ability. After the rough journey they had made, it was a great delight to the adventurers to rest their heads once again beneath a roof, and be, for a few hours at least, lodged in a manner almost civilised.
Don Louis and Valentine occupied the same cuarto, while Curumilla and Don Cornelio selected that exactly facing theirs. So soon as these provisional arrangements were made, and supper enjoyed in common, all retired to rest.
Before lying down on thecuadro, covered with an oxhide, intended for his bed, Don Louis walked up to Valentine, who, lying back in abutaca(easy chair), was smoking a cigarette, and idly watching the blue smoke ascend in spirals.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked him, as he leant familiarly on the back of the butaca.
"About you," Valentine replied, turning to him with a smile.
"About me?"
"Yes. What other anxiety can I have at present, save to see you happy?"
The count looked down on the ground and sighed.
"It is impossible," he said.
Valentine looked at him.
"Impossible!" he repeated. "Oh, oh! Have we reached that point? Come, let us have an explanation, once for all."
"You are right; the hour has arrived: let us have a hearty explanation."
The count drew up a butaca, sat down opposite Valentine, took a cigar from the case his foster brother handed him, and lit it. The hunter followed all his movements attentively. When he saw him comfortably installed, he said,—
"Speak."
"Alas! My life has nothing very interesting in it; it has resembled that of all adventurers. At one time rich, at another poor, I have wandered about, traversing Mexico in every direction, dragging after me the memory of my lost happiness, like the galley slaves cannon ball. For a moment I imagined that a future might still exist for me, and that I might at least regain my rank in the world, if I did not secure again a position like that I had lost I started for San Francisco, that weird Eldorado, whose marvels the hundred-mouthed rumour was narrating. There I found myself mixed up with a crowd of greedy and unbridled adventurers, whose life was one continued orgy, and whose sole passion was gold. I saw there, within a few months, the most prodigious metamorphoses. I saw the most scandalous fortunes spring up and collapse again, and plunging resolutely into this gulf, I demanded from chance my share of feverish joys and intoxicating emotions; but I lacked faith, and nothing succeeded with me. I tried every profession, ever pursued by that implacable fatality which was determined to crush me. I had great difficulty in saving myself from a death by hunger. In turn hunter, porter, Heaven knows what, my efforts availed nothing in that Babel, where the condemned of civilisation jostled each other, who, all marked with the indelible seal of Dante's reprobates, piled ruin on ruin to form themselves a pedestal of ingots, which was immediately overthrown by another. Disgusted with this mingled life of blood, filth, rags, and gold, I set off, resolved to become a drover. A noble profession, is it not, for a Count de Prébois, whose ancestors made three crusades?" he added, with a bitter laugh. "But I knew generals ostlers, marquises waiters; hence I, who had never been anything, could, without any great degradation, become a trader in cattle. And then I had another object in the choice of my profession. Ever since my arrival in North America I have been looking for you: I hoped to find you again some day. For the first time fortune has smiled on me, you see, as I have succeeded in meeting with you. That is all I had to say to you. Now you know as much about my life as I do; so ask me no more."
After these words, uttered in a sharp voice, the count threw himself back on his butaca, relit his cigar, crossed his arms on his chest, and seemed determined not to add a word. Valentine looked at him for a long time with the most concentrated attention, at times tossing his head, and frowning with evident dissatisfaction. At length he resolved to renew the conversation.
"Hum!" he said, "I now know your whole life, I grant it. There is nothing very extraordinary about it in a country like that where we are. It in no way departs from the common law. You would do very wrong to complain."
"I do not complain," the count exclaimed quickly; "I merely assert a fact."
"Of course," Valentine said; "and yet, in all you have told me, one point remains obscure to me."
"Which?"
"You told me all you wished to do—that is well; but leaving out of the question the fraternal friendship that attaches us, and which, however powerful it may be, cannot to my mind account for your settled determination to find me again, you have not told me for what purpose you sought me so obstinately."
The count sprang up, and his eye flashed.
"Have you not guessed it, Valentine?"
"No!"
The count let his head fall, and for a few moments the conversation was again interrupted.
"You are right, Valentine: better finish at once, and never return to the subject again; besides, you know as well as I what I wish to say," the count replied, with the accent of a man whose mind is made up.
"Perhaps so," the hunter said laconically.
"Come, come, I am not an ass; and on the morning of that day when you asked a shelter at my bivouac, you understood me at the first word I let fall."
"It is possible," Valentine said imperturbably; "still, as I have no pretence to the art of divination, be good enough to explain yourself clearly and categorically."
"You insist on it?"
The hunter bowed his assent.
"Well, be it so," the count went on; "you are still the same man you were fifteen years ago."
"Are we not referring to that very period now?" Valentine said with a smile.
"Ah!" the count exclaimed, striking the arm of his butaca, "you see that you understood me."
"Did I say the contrary?"
"Why, then, do you demand——?"
"Because it must be so," the hunter said dryly.
"Be at rest, for I will repeat your own words."
"I am listening."
"You remember, I suppose, a cold winter night, in the bedroom of my house at Paris?"
"December 31st, 1834, at eleven in the evening," Valentine remarked.
"Yes; the rain lashed the window panes, the wind whistled in the long passages. I was awaiting your coming. You arrived. Then, as now, I was face to face with ruin. I wished to die: you prevented me."
"It is true. Did I do wrong?"
"Perhaps," the count said in a hollow voice; "but these are the words you made use of."
"Allow me to repeat them myself; for, in spite of the fifteen years that have elapsed, Louis, that scene is as present to my mind as if it took place yesterday. After proving to you that you did wrong to despair," Valentine said in a solemn voice, "that all was not lost, I replied to a final objection you raised, 'Be easy, Louis, be easy. If I have not fulfilled my promise in two years, I will hand you the pistols myself, and then—' 'Then?' you asked. 'Then,' I added, 'you shall not kill yourself alone.' 'I accept,' you answered. Those were the words that passed between us on that night, which decided your future and made a man of you. Is it not so? Have I forgotten the slightest detail? Answer."
"No, you have forgotten nothing, Valentine."
"Well?"
"Well, now that I have faithfully fulfilled the promise I made you, I come to claim of you the complete execution of our compact."
"I do not comprehend you."
"What! You do not comprehend me?" the count said, bounding from his butaca.
"No," Valentine answered coldly. "Did I not keep my promise? Ah, Louis, since you insist on it, by heavens!" he added, growing animated in his turn, "let us reckon up accounts. I ask nothing better. What do you mean by talking to me of fulfilling an agreement? Have I not fulfilled my engagements? Did I not find for you that woman you despaired of ever seeing again? Did you not marry her? Did you not enjoy with her ten years of perfect happiness? By what right do you complain of the fatality that pursues you? By what right do you curse your destiny, ungrateful man! Whose happiness lasted ten years—ten ages in this earth? Look around you. Show me a man who, throughout his whole life, can reckon one year of that happiness you rail at, and then I will pity you, will weep with you, and, if it must be, help you to die. Oh! All men are the same—weak in the presence of joy as in grief, forgetting, in a few hours of adversity, years of happiness. And so, after fifteen years, you have returned to the same point. Insensate! Do you know, you who speak in that way, what it is to pass a whole existence of suffering and horrible agony: to feel hour by hour, minute by minute, your heart lacerated, and that without hope, and yet smile and seem gay—in a word, live? Have you for a single day endured that atrocious suffering, you who speak so deliberately about dying?"
Gradually, while speaking, Valentine had grown animated, his features were contracted, and his eyes flashed flames. Louis gazed on his friend without comprehending him, but startled at the state of exaltation in which he saw him.
"Valentine," he exclaimed, "Valentine, in heaven's name, calm yourself!"
"Ah!" the hunter continued, with a ghastly laugh, "you suffer, you say—you are unhappy; and yet listen. That woman you loved, whom I found for you again, whom I enabled you to marry—well, it was not love I felt for her, but idolatry. To be able to tell her so I would joyfully have parted with my blood drop by drop; and yet I, to whom you have just told your grief, I placed you in each other's arms. I smiled—do you understand me?—smiled on your love, and without a murmur, a word, to reveal that passion which gnawed my heart, I fled into the desert, alone with my love. Face to face with it I suffered for fifteen years. Oh, my God, my God! The wound is as painful now as on the first day. Tell me, Louis, now that you know all—for we are frank with each other—what are your sufferings compared with mine? By what right would you die?"
"Oh, pardon me, pardon me, Valentine!" Louis exclaimed, as he rushed into his arms. "Oh! You are right; I am very ungrateful to you."
"No," Valentine answered sadly, as he returned his embrace; "no, Louis, you are a man; you have followed the common law. I cannot and ought not to be angry with you. Pardon me, on the contrary, for allowing myself to be carried away so far as to reveal to you the secret which I had sworn to bury eternally in my heart. Alas! We have all our cross to bear in this world, and mine has been rude. God doubtlessly decreed it so, because I am strong," he added, with an attempt at a smile. "But, to return to yourself, it is true that youth has fled far from us, with its gay perspective and smiling illusions; life has no longer anything to offer us, save the painful trials of a ripe age. I am as wearied of existence as yourself; it weighs equally on me as on you. You see, my friend, I am fully of your opinion. I will not only not prevent you from dying, but I wish to accomplish my promise fully by accompanying you into the tomb."
"You, Valentine! O no! It is impossible."
"Why so? Is not our position the same? Have we not both suffered equally? An implacable creditor, you have asked me to honour my signature. Very good; but on one condition."
Louis was too well acquainted with his foster brother's firm and resolute character to try and combat his will.
"What is it?" he asked simply.
"I shall choose the mode of death."
"Be it so."
"Oh, pardon me, Louis! I shall not propose an ordinary suicide, so I must have your word of honour before I explain myself more fully."
"I give it you."
"Good! There are two difficult things for a man to do in this world—arranging his life, and arranging his death. The man who kills himself coldly by blowing out his brains in his room, after writing to his friends to announce his suicide, is either a coward or a madman. That is not the sort of suicide I wish; it means nothing, it proves nothing, and is of no service. But there is a manner of suicide which I have ever dreamed of, because it is noble and great: it is that of the man who, unable or unwilling to do more with a life he despises, sacrifices it for his fellow men, with no other object than that of being useful to them, and falls after accomplishing his task."
"I believe I understand you, Valentine."
"Perhaps so; but let me finish. We are in the country best prepared for such a design. Already several attempts—all unsuccessful, however—have been made, especially by the Count de Lhorailles in his colony of Guetzalli. Sonora, which is the richest country in the world, is in the last throes, under the brutalising and unintelligent system of the Mexican government. Well, let us restore life to this country; let us galvanise it, summon to our aid the French emigrants in California, and come here to give liberty to a people whose energetic character will comprehend us. What do we risk in the event of non-success? Death! Why, that is exactly what we desire. At any rate, when we have fallen, we shall sleep in a shroud of glory as martyrs, bearing with us the regrets and sympathies of all. Instead of killing ourselves like cowards, we shall have died in the breach like heroes. Is not that martyrdom the noblest, the most sublime of all?
"Yes, Valentine, you are right—always right Oh, men like ourselves can only die in that fashion!"
"Good!" Valentine exclaimed; "you have understood me."
"Not only have I understood you, brother, but I guessed your meaning before."
"How so?"
"When I met the Count de Lhorailles for the last time in the desert, I was returning with Belhumeur and an Indian chief from visiting a placer of incalculable value which that Indian had discovered, and the ownership of which he gave to Belhumeur, who, in his turn, handed it over to me. On my return, I proceeded to Mexico, where I entered into negotiations with several notable persons; among others, the Frenchchargé d'affaires. You of course know how slow everything is to succeed in this unhappy country. Still, owing to the rich samples I had the precaution to bring with me, and, above all, the powerful protection of certain persons, I succeeded in founding a company, of which I was appointed chief, with the right of levying a French company, armed and disciplined, in order to take possession of the placer, and work it on behalf of the company."
"What then?"
"Well, I returned to San Francisco, and made a few arrangements; but I needed two things—first, patience, and next, money to enlist my men and purchase the necessary stores; and—shall I confess it to you?—what I most needed was the desire to succeed. But you, Valentine, have caused that desire to spring up in me; your presence has restored all my energy, and though I know not how I shall remove all the obstacles that oppose the execution of my plan, I shall do so, I swear it to you."
"What were you doing in Sonora, then?"
"I can hardly explain it to you. My speculation in cattle was more a flight than anything else. I was disgusted with everything, and tried to make an end of it, no matter how."
"Now it is my turn. Tomorrow, at sunrise, you will start. You will proceed at full speed to San Francisco. Your excursion in Sonora was only an exploring tour. You will employ any pretext you like, in a word, and set to work earnestly forming your company. During that time I will sell your herd, and arrange so as to procure you the funds you require. Trouble yourself about nothing, but push ahead boldly."
"But how will you manage it? The sum I need is large."
"That does not concern you: let me arrange matters in my way; At the appointed hour I will furnish you with more than you want, so it is settled. You will start at sunrise?"
"I will do so; but when and where shall I see you again?"
"Ah! That is true. On the twenty-fifth day from this, at sunset, I will enter your room."
"But I do not know myself yet where I shall lodge."
"Do not let that trouble you; I shall find out."
"So, then, at sunset of the twenty-fifth day?"
"Yes, I will arrive with the treasure ships," Valentine replied with a laugh.
"Thanks, brother; you are my good genius. If my life has had a few blemishes, you are preparing me a glorious death to expiate them."
"Pity yourself, pray! I am going to make of you a Francisco Pizarro and an Almagro."
The two men shook hands affectionately, while exchanging a sorrowful smile. After a few more unimportant remarks, they threw themselves on their beds, where they soon fell asleep, overpowered as they were by fatigue.
During the conversation between the foster brothers, certain events we must describe to the reader occurred in the cuarto to which Curumilla and Don Cornelio had retired.
On entering the room, Curumilla, instead of lying down on the cuadro intended for him, laid his zarapé on the tiled flooring, stretched himself out upon it, and immediately closed his eyes. Don Cornelio, on the contrary, after hanging the lamp to a nail in the wall, trimmed up the smoking wick with the point of his knife, sat down on the side of the bed, with his legs hanging down, and then began in a sonorous voice the romance of King Rodrigo.
At this slightly unseasonable music Curumilla half opened one eye, though without protesting in any other way against this unwonted disturbance of his rest. Don Cornelio may or may not have noticed the Indian's silent protest; but in either case he took no heed of it, but went on singing, raising his voice to the highest compass of which it was capable.
"Wah!" the chief said, raising his bead.
"I was certain," Don Cornelio remarked with a friendly smile, "that the music would please you."
And he redoubled his flourishes.
The Araucanian rose, went up to the singer, and touched him gently on the shoulder.
"We must sleep," he said in his guttural voice, and with an ill-tempered grimace.
"Bah, chief! Music makes a man forget sleep. Just listen.
"'Oh, si yo naciera ciego!Oh, tú sin beldad nacieras!Maldito sea el punto—'"[1]
The Indian seemed to listen with sustained attention, his body bent well forward, and his eyes obstinately fixed on the singer. Don Cornelio felicitated himself internally on the effect he fancied he had produced on this primitive native, when suddenly Curumilla, seizing him by the hips, squeezed him in his nervous hands at in iron pincers, and lifting him with as much ease as if he had been but a child, carried him, spite of his resistance, into the patio, and seated him on the side of the wall.
"Wah!" he said, "music is good here."
And, without adding another word, he turned his back on the Spaniard, walked into his cuarto, laid himself on his zarapé, and went to sleep immediately.
At first Don Cornelio was quite confounded by this sudden attack, and knew not if he ought to laugh or feel vexed at the simple way in which his companion had got rid of his company; but Don Cornelio was a philosopher, gifted with an admirable character. What had happened to him seemed so droll that he burst into an Homeric laugh, which lasted several minutes.
"No matter," he said, when he had at length regained his seriousness, "the adventure is curious, and I shall laugh at it for many a long day. After all, the fellow was not entirely in the wrong. I am famously situated here to sing and play my jarana as long as I think proper; at any rate I shall run no risk of disturbing the sleepers, as I am quite alone."
And after this consolation, which he administered to himself to satisfy his somewhat offended pride, he prepared to continue his serenade.
The night was clear and serene; the sky was studded with a profusion of stars, in the midst of which sparkled the dazzling southern cross; a slight breeze, laden with the perfumes of the desert, gently refreshed the air; the deepest silence brooded over San José; for, in the retired Mexican pueblos, everybody returns home at an early hour. Everybody appeared asleep, too, in the mesón, although at a few windows the weak and dying light of the candles gleamed behind the cotton curtains.
Thus Don Cornelio, unconsciously yielding to the influences of this magnificent evening, omitted the first four verses of the romancero, and after a skilful prelude, struck up the sublime description of night:—
"A l'escaso resplendor,De cualque luciente estrella,Que en el medroso silencio,Tristamente centellea."[2]
And he continued thus with eyes uplifted to heaven, and brow glowing with enthusiasm to the end of the romance; that is to say, until he had sung the ninety-six verses of which this touching piece of poetry is composed.
The Mexicans, children of the Andalusians, the musicians and dancerspar excellence, have not degenerated in this respect from their forefathers; on the contrary, they have, if that be possible, exaggerated these two passions, to which they sacrifice everything.
When Don Cornelio began singing, the patio, as we have, already remarked, was completely deserted; but gradually, as the musician became more animated, doors opened in every corner of the yard, men and women appeared, advanced gently to the singer, and formed a circle round him; so that after the final strophe he found himself surrounded by a group of enthusiastic hearers, who applauded him frenziedly.
Don Cornelio rose from the wall on which he was seated, lifted his hat, and saluted his audience gracefully.
"Come," he said to himself, "this will be something for that Indian, who appreciates music so slightly, to reflect upon."
"Capa de Dios!" an arriero said, "that is what I call singing."
"Poor Señor Don Rodrigo, how he must have suffered!" a young criada exclaimed in short petticoats, and with a flashing eye.
"And that perfidiouspicaroof a Count Julian, who introduced the Moors into a Catholic country!" the landlord said with an angry gesture.
"God be praised!" the audience said in chorus; "Let us hope that he is roasting in the lowest pit."
Don Cornelio was at the pinnacle of jubilation. Never before had he obtained such a success. All his hearers thanked him for the pleasure he had caused them, with those noisy demonstrations and cries of joy which distinguish southern races. The Spaniard did not know whom to listen to, or on which side to turn. The shouts assumed such a character of enthusiasm, that the singer began to fear that he would be unable to get rid of his frenzied audience the whole long night.
Fortunately for him, at the moment when, half willingly, half perforce, he was preparing, on the general request, to recommence his romance, there was a movement in the crowd; it parted to the right and left, and left a passage for a tall and pretty girl, who, with a well-turned leg confined in silk stockings with gold clocks, herrebozocoquettishly drawn over her head, and her hair buried beneath a profusion of jasmine flowers, placed herself resolutely before the singer, and said with a graceful smile, which allowed her double row of pearly teeth to be seen,—
"Are you not, caballero, a noble hidalgo of Spain, of the name of Don Cornelio?"
We must do Don Cornelio the justice to allow that he was so dazzled by this delicious apparition that he remained for some seconds with gaping mouth, unable to find a word.
The girl stamped her foot impatiently.
"Have you been suddenly turned into stone?" she asked, with a slightly mocking accent.
"Heaven forbid, señorita!" he at length stammered.
"Then be good enough to answer the question I asked you."
"Nothing easier, señorita. I am indeed Don Cornelio Mendoza de Arrizabal, and have the honour to be a Spanish gentleman."
"That is what I call plain speaking," she said, with a slight pout. "If it be so, caballero, I must ask you to follow me."
"To the end of the world," the young man exclaimed impetuously. "I should never travel in pleasanter company."
"I thank you for the compliment, caballero, but I do not intend to take you so far. I only wish to conduct you to my mistress, who desires to see you and speak with you for an instant."
"Rayo del cielo!If the mistress be only as pretty as the maid, I shall not regret the trip if it last a week."
The girl smiled again.
"My mistress is staying in this inn, only a few steps off."
"All the worse, all the worse! I should have preferred a journey of several leagues before meeting her."
"A truce to gallantry. Are you willing to follow me?"
"At once, señorita."
And throwing his jarana on his back, and bowing for the last time to the audience, who opened a passage for him respectfully,—
"I am at your orders," he said.
"Come, then."
The girl turned away and hurried off rapidly, the Spaniard following close at her heels.
Don Cornelio, like all the adventurers whom a hazardous life in Europe had cast on the American shores, nourished in his heart a secret hope of re-establishing, by a rich marriage, his fortunes, which were more than compromised. Several instances, though rare, we allow, of marriages contracted in this romantic fashion, had imbedded this idea deeply in the Spaniard's somewhat windy brain.
He was young, noble, handsome—at least he thought so; hence he possessed all needed for success. It is true that, until this moment, fortune had never deigned to smile on him; no young girl seemed to care for his assassinating glances, or respond to his interested advances. But this ill success had in no way rebuffed him, and what happened at this moment seemed to justify his schemes, by offering him, at the moment he least expected it, that occasion he had so long awaited.
Only one thing saddened his brow, and clouded the internal joy he experienced, and that was the seedy condition of his attire, sadly ill-treated by the brambles, and torn by the sharp points of the rocks, during his long journey in Sonora. But with that characteristic fatuity innate in the Spaniards, he consoled himself by the reflection that his personal advantages would amply compensate for the seedy condition of his dress, and that the lady who had sent for him, if she felt any tender interest in him, would attach but slight value to a new cloak or a faded cloak. It was with these conquering feelings that Don Cornelio arrived behind thecamaristaat the door of a cuarto, before which she stopped.
"It is here," she said, turning round to him.
"Very good," he said, drawing himself up. "We will enter whenever you please."
She smiled cunningly with a twinkle of her black eyes, and turned the key in the lock. The door opened.
"Señorita," the waiting-maid said, "I have brought you the gentleman."
"Let him come in, Violanta," a sweet voice answered.
The girl stepped aside to make room for Don Cornelio, who walked in, twisting his moustache with a conquering air.
The room in which he found himself was small, and rather better furnished than the other cuartos in the hostelry, probably owing to the indispensable articles the temporary occupier of the room had the precaution to bring with her. Several pink candles burned in silver chandeliers, and on a sofa lay a lovely young girl of sixteen to seventeen years of age, buried in muslin, like a hummingbird in a nest of roses, who bent on the Spanish gentleman two large black eyes sparkling with humour, maliciousness, and curiosity.
In spite of the immense dose of self-love with which he was cuirassed, and the intimate conviction he had of his own merits, Don Cornelio stopped in considerable embarrassment on the threshold, and bowed profoundly, without daring to advance into the interior of this cuarto, which appeared to him a sanctuary.
By a charming sign the young woman invited him to draw nearer, and pointed out a butaca, about two paces from the sofa on which she was reclining. The young man hesitated; but the camarista, laughing like a madcap, pushed him by the shoulders and compelled him to sit down.
Still the position of our two actors, opposite each other, was rather singular. Don Cornelio, a prey to the most powerful embarrassment he ever experienced, twisted the brim of his beaver in his hands, as he cast investigating glances cautiously around; while the girl, no less confused, timidly looked down, and seemed at present almost to regret the inconsiderate step she had let herself be led to take.
Still, as in all difficult circumstances of life, women possess a will of initiative greater than that of men, because they make a strength of their weakness, and know at once how to approach the most awkward questions, it was the lady who first regained her coolness and commenced the conversation.
"Do you recognise me, Don Cornelio?" she asked him in a deliberate tone, which made the Spaniard quiver.
"Alas, señorita!" he replied, trying to gain time, "where could I have had the happiness of ever seeing you? I have only lived up to the present in aninferno."
"Let us speak seriously," she said with an almost imperceptible frown. "Look me well in the face, caballero, and answer me frankly: do you recognise me—yes or no?"
Don Cornelio timidly raised his eyes, obeyed the order he had received in so peremptory a fashion, and after a few seconds,—
"No, señorita," he said with a suppressed sigh, "I do not recognise you; I do not believe that I ever had the happiness of meeting you before today."
"You are mistaken," she replied.
"I! O no! It is impossible."
"Do not swear, Don Cornelio; I will prove to you the truth of what I assert."
The young man shook his head incredulously.
"When a man has had once the happiness of seeing you—" he murmured.
She interrupted him sharply.
"You do not know what you say, and your gallantry is misplaced. Before contradicting me you would do better by listening to what I have to say to you."
Don Cornelio protested.
"I repeat," she said distinctly, "that you are mad. For two days you travelled in the company of my father and myself."
"I!"
"Yes, you."
"Oh!"
"It is just three years ago. At that period I was only a child, scarce fourteen: there is, consequently, nothing extraordinary in your having forgotten me. At that period you sang your inevitable romance of Don Rodrigo, of which I will say no harm, however," she added, with an enchanting smile, "because I recognised you by that song. My father, now governor and political chief of Sonora, was at that time only a colonel."
The Spaniard struck his forehead.
"I remember," he exclaimed. "You were going from Guadalajara to Tepic, when I had the pleasure of meeting you in the middle of the night."
"Yes."
"That is it. Let me see, your father's name is Don Sebastian Guerrero, and yours—"
"Well, and mine?" she said, with a pretty challenging pout.
"Yours, señorita," he said gallantly, "is Doña Angela. What other name could you bear?"
"Come," she said, clapping her dainty hands together with a ringing laugh, "I am glad to see that you have a better memory than I believed."
"Oh!" he muttered reproachfully.
"We had a rather disagreeable adventure, if I remember right, with certain bandits?" she continued.
"Extremely disagreeable, for I was half killed."
"That is true; I remember something of the sort. Were you not rescued by a hunter, a wood ranger? I can hardly remember."
"A noble gentleman, señorita," Don Cornelio replied with fire, "to whom I owe my life."
"Ah!" she said carelessly, "that is possible. The man helped you, nursed you, and then you parted?"
"Not exactly."
"What!" she said, with some agitation, "you continued to live together?"
"Yes."
"Always?"
"Yes."
"But now?" she said, with a certain hesitation in her voice.
"I repeat to you, señorita, that we have not separated."
"Indeed! Is he here?"
"Yes."
"In this hostelry?"
"On the other side of the yard."
"Ah!" she murmured, letting her head fall on her breast.
"What's the matter now?" the Spaniard asked himself.
And not interrupting the sudden reverie into which the young lady had fallen, he waited respectfully until it pleased her to renew the conversation.