[1]Oh, if I had been born blind, or if you had been born ugly! Accursed be the day and hour—
[1]Oh, if I had been born blind, or if you had been born ugly! Accursed be the day and hour—
[2]By the feeble light of some clear star, which, in the midst of the gloomy silence, mournfully twinkles.
[2]By the feeble light of some clear star, which, in the midst of the gloomy silence, mournfully twinkles.
The position of our two characters toward each other was somewhat singular. Both appeared to be watching each other, and trying to discover the flaw in the armour; but in this struggle of a man against a woman, the latter must inevitably prove the conqueror.
Don Cornelio had possibly a rather exaggerated opinion of himself. This was what ruined him, and delivered him bound hand and foot over to his dangerous adversary.
Doña Angela, resting coquettishly on her elbow, with her chin on the palm of her dainty hand, fixed on him two eyes sparkling with maliciousness, so that the Spaniard, as it were, fascinated by the brilliancy of this irresistible glance, had not even the will to turn his head, and liberate himself from the deceptive charm that fascinated him.
"Violanta," the girl said, in a voice soft and pure as the song of thecentzontle, the American nightingale, "have you no refreshments to offer this caballero?"
"Oh, certainly," said the crafty camarista, with a look sufficient to tempt St. Anthony; and she rose quickly to obey her mistress's directions.
Don Cornelio, flattered in his heart by this politeness, which he was far from expecting, thought it necessary to break out in excuses; but Doña Angela cut him short by herself saying,—
"You will forgive me, caballero, for receiving you so poorly, but I did not expect to have the honour of your visit in this wretched pueblo."
Naturally enough, Don Cornelio, infatuated with the advantages he fancied he possessed, regarded this remark as a compliment.
Angela maliciously bit her rosy lips, and continued, with a bow,—
"But now that I have been so fortunate as to meet again with an old friend, for I hope you will permit me to give you that appellation——"
"Oh, señorita!" the young man said with a movement of joy.
"I flatter myself that I shall have the pleasure of enjoying your company more frequently."
"Señorita, believe me that I shall be too happy."
"I know your gallantry, Don Cornelio," she interrupted him with a smile. "I am aware that you will seize every opportunity to offer me your homage."
"Heaven is my witness, señorita. Unfortunately, adverse fate will possibly ordain differently."
"Why so?"
"You are only passing through this wretched town."
"Yes. My father is proceeding to Tepic, where his new position as governor of the province demands his residence."
"That is true. You see, then, madam, that it is almost impossible for us ever to meet again."
"Do you think so?" she asked.
"Alas! I am atrociously afraid of it."
"Why so?" she said, bending her body forward in curiosity.
"Because, according to every probability, tomorrow, at sunrise, we shall take diametrically opposite routes, señorita."
"Oh, that is not possible!"
"Unfortunately it is too true."
"Explain this enigma to me."
"I would it were one; but a child can read it."
"I do not at all understand you?"
"I will explain myself more clearly."
"Go on."
"When you and your father, madam, start tomorrow for Tepic, my friends and myself will set out for San Francisco."
"San Francisco!"
"Alas! Yes."
"What need have you to go there?"
"I! None."
"Well, then?"
Don Cornelio behaved like most men when in a state of embarrassment; that is to say, he scratched his head. At length he said,—
"I cannot leave my friends."
"What friends?"
"Those in whose company I am."
"Then they want to go to San Francisco?"
"Yes."
"What to do?"
"Ah! That is it," the Spaniard replied, more and more embarrassed by the obligation of confessing the trade in which he was engaged, and which he fancied must lower him to an extraordinary degree in the eyes of the young lady whose heart he fancied he had touched.
"I am waiting," she said with a slight frown of her arched brows.
Don Cornelio, driven into his last retrenchments, determined to make a clean breast of it.
"You must know," he said in a honeyed voice, "that my friends are hunters."
"Ah!" she remarked.
"Yes."
"Well, what then?"
"Why, then, why, they hunt, I suppose," he continued, discountenanced by the lady's singular tone.
"That is probable," she said, with a little silvery laugh. "And what do they hunt?"
"Well, pretty nearly all sorts of animals."
"Specify."
"Wild bulls, for instance."
"Very good; we will say, then, that they hunt wild bulls?"
"Yes."
"Why those animals more than others?"
"I will tell you."
"I shall feel delighted."
Don Cornelio bowed.
"You must know that at San Francisco—"
"San Francisco again?"
"Alas! Yes."
"Very good: proceed."
"Oxen, bullocks, and generally all animals that serve for food, are extremely dear."
"Ah!"
"O dear, yes! You understand that people in that country pay great attention to finding gold, and very little to seeking food."
"Quite correct."
"So my friend reasoned thus."
"Which friend?"
"The hunter, Don Louis."
"Don Louis?"
"Yes, the man who three years back, when the bandits attacked you, arrived so opportunely, and whom I have never quitted since."
Doña Angela experienced such a startling emotion that her face suddenly turned pale. Don Cornelio, busied with his story, did not perceive the effect the accidental mention of that name produced, but continued,—
"'Very good, then,' he said to himself. 'Bulls obtain fabulous prices in California; in Mexico they may be had for almost nothing. Let us go and buy or lasso them in Mexico.'"
"So then?"
"Well, we set out."
"You were in California at that time?"
"At San Francisco, with Don Louis."
"And now?"
"We have a magnificent herd of novillos, which we have driven a long distance, and which we hope to dispose of at a large profit at San Francisco."
"I hope so."
"Thank you, madam; the more so as we had an enormous difficulty in procuring them."
"But all that does not teach me why you cannot separate from your friends."
"At any rate not until we have sold the bullocks. You understand, señorita, that acting otherwise would be ungentlemanly."
"That is true; but why insist on selling your bulls nowhere save at San Francisco?"
"We do not at all insist on that."
"Then, supposing you found a good price here, you would dispose of them?"
"I see nothing to prevent it."
Doña Angela gave a start of joy, which Don Cornelio naturally interpreted to his own advantage.
"That might be arranged," she said.
"You think so?"
"Yes, if you are not too craving."
"You need not apprehend that, señorita."
"My father possesses a hacienda a few leagues from this town. I know that he intends to re-form hisganado, and he stopped here today in order to have an interview with hismayordomo."
"Oh! That is a providential chance."
"Is it not?"
"It is really. Has the mayordomo arrived?"
"Not yet: we do not expect him till tomorrow. I fancy that a day's delay will do you no injury."
"Not the slightest."
"Well, then, if you consent, we will settle this affair while we are together; that is to say," she added, "you will tell me the prices, that I may inform my father."
"Ah!" he said, with a certain hesitation, "I can, unfortunately, say nothing on that head."
"Why so? Are you not the owner of the herd?"
"Pardon me."
"Well, what then?" she interrupted, looking at him with fixed attention.
"That is to say, I am not sole owner."
"You have partners?"
"Yes, I have one."
"And that partner——?"
"Stay, madam, I prefer being frank with you, and telling you clearly how matters stand."
"I am listening, caballero."
"I am owner without being so."
"I do not understand you at all."
"It is very simple, however, as you will see."
"I am all anxiety."
"Just imagine that Don Louis, after curing me of my wounds, felt that loyal and open friendship for me which has no counterpart in town life. Not only would he not consent to my leaving him, but aware that, owing to reverses too long to repeat to you, I was almost penniless, he insisted on my becoming a sharer in all the enterprises he thought proper to undertake; so that, without the outlay of a penny, I hold one half the property. Hence, as you will see, I can do nothing until I have first taken his instructions."
"That is only just, it seems to me."
"And to me too, madam; and that is the reason why, in spite of the lively desire I entertain to settle the business with you at once, I find it impossible to do so."
Doña Angela seemed to reflect for a moment, then went on with a palpitation of the heart and a tremor in her voice, which she could not conceal, in spite of all her efforts:—
"After all, the matter is perfectly simple, and may be arranged very easily."
"I ask nothing better; still I confess, to my shame, that I do not see what means I should employ."
"It is a trifle, tomorrow, before the mayordomo's arrival, I will speak with my father: he will, I doubt not, be delighted to render a service to the man who saved our lives. You will tell your friend, he will come to an arrangement with my father, and all will be settled."
"Indeed, madam, I did not think of that. All can be arranged in that way."
"Unless your friend—Don Louis, I think you called him——?"
"Yes, madam, Don Louis. He is a gentleman belonging to one of the noblest and oldest families in France."
"Ah! All the better. Unless, I say, he should not consent to deal with my father."
"And why should he not, señorita?"
"Oh! I do not know; but on our first meeting, after saving my father's life and mine, that caballero behaved so singularly toward us that I fear——"
"You are wrong, madam, to suppose that Don Louis could refuse an offer so advantageous as that you make him; besides, I will talk with him, and am certain to bring him over to my views."
"O dear me!" she said negligently, "I have but a very slight interest in all this. I should not like the proposal to cause you the slightest annoyance with your partner. I am only looking after your interests in the affair, Don Cornelio."
"I am convinced of it, madam, and thank you humbly," he replied, with a low bow.
"I only know you. Your partner, though he rendered me a great service, is but a stranger to me, especially after the peremptory manner in which he declined my father's advances and offers of service."
"You are perfectly right, señorita. Believe me that I attach full value to the delicacy of your conduct."
"Still," she continued, in an insinuating and slightly malicious voice, "I confess to you that I should not be sorry to find myself once more face to face with that strange man, were it only to convince myself that the opinion I formed of him was wrong."
"Don Louis, madam," the Spaniard answered complacently, "is a true caballero, kind, noble, and generous, ever ready to help with purse or sword those who claim his assistance. Since I have had the honour of living in his society I have had many opportunities of appreciating the greatness of his character."
"I am happy to hear what you tell me, señor, for I confess that this caballero left a very bad impression on me, doubtlessly through the rough manner in which he parted from us."
"That bad impression was unjust, madam. As for the roughness with which you reproach him alas! It is only melancholy."
"What!" she exclaimed quickly, while a rosy tinge suddenly invaded her forehead, "melancholy, do you say? Is the gentleman unhappy?"
"Who is not so?" Don Cornelio asked with a sigh.
"Perhaps, though, you are mistaken."
"Alas! No, madam. Don Louis has been the victim of frightful disasters: judge for yourself. He had a wife he adored, who had presented him with several charming children. One night the Indians surprised his hacienda, fired it, massacred his wife, his children, his whole family, in a word, and himself only escaped by a miracle."
"Oh, that is horrible!" she exclaimed, as she buried her face in her hands. "Poor man! Now I heartily pardon what appeared singularity in his manners. Alas! The society of his fellow men must weigh upon him."
"Yes, madam, it doubtlessly does so; for the grief he endures is of that nature which cannot be consoled. And yet, when he knows of a misfortune to alleviate, or any good deed to do, he forgets himself only to think of those he wishes to aid."
"Yes, you are right, caballero; that man has a noble heart."
"Alas, madam! I should ever remain below the truth in what I might tell you of him. You must live his life, be constantly by his side, in order to understand and appreciate him at his full value."
There were a few moments of silence. The night was drawing on; the candles were beginning to dim; the camarista, who had but a very slight interest in this conversation, had laid her head against the back of her butaca; her eyes were closed, and she was enjoying that catlike sleep peculiar to women and the feline race, and which does not prevent them being constantly on the watch.
"Tell me, Don Cornelio," Doña Angela continued with a smile, "have you never spoken with Don Louis about our meeting during the long period that has since elapsed?"
"Never, madam."
"Ah!"
"Once, and only once, I remember that I tried to bring the conversation round to that subject by some rather direct allusions."
"Well?"
"Don Louis, who, till then, had seemed to listen kindly to my observations, suddenly requested me, in very distinct language, never to return to that subject, remarking that he had only acted in accordance with his duty; that he would do the same again; and that it was not worth while talking about, the less so as chance would, in all probability, never again bring him into contact with the persons to whom he had been so fortunate as to render this slight service."
The young lady frowned.
"I thank you," she said in a slightly affected voice, "I thank you, Don Cornelio, for the kindness with which you have treated the whims of a woman you did not know."
"Oh, madam!" he exclaimed in protest; "for a long time I have been your most humble slave."
"I know your gallantry, but will not abuse it longer. Be assured that I shall keep our long conversation in pleasant memory. Be kind enough not to forget the proposals I wish to make to Don Louis."
"Tomorrow, madam, at the hour you think most suitable, my friend and myself will have the honour to present ourselves to the general."
"Do not derange yourselves, caballero; a criado will warn you when my father is ready to receive you. Farewell!"
"Farewell!" he replied, bowing respectfully to the young lady, who dismissed him with a gracious smile.
The Spaniard went out with joy in his heart.
"Oh!" Doña Angela murmured, so soon as she was alone, "I love him!"
Whom was she speaking of?
Before carrying our story further we must give the reader certain details about the family and antecedents of Don Sebastian Guerrero, who is destined to play a great part in our narrative.
The family of Don Sebastian was rich; he descended in a straight line from one of the early kings of Mexico, and pure Aztec blood flowed in his veins. Like several other great Mexican families, his ancestors had not been dispossessed by the conquerors, to whom they rendered important services; but they were obliged to add a Spanish name to the Mexican one, which sounded harshly in Castilian ears.
Still the Guerrero family boasted loudly of its Aztec origin, and if it seemed ostensibly devoted to Spain, it secretly maintained the hope of seeing Mexico one day regain her liberty.
Thus, when the heroic Hidalgo, the humble curate of the little village of Dolores, suddenly raised the standard of revolt against the oppressors of his country, Don Eustaquio Guerrero, though married but a short time previously to a woman he adored, and father of a son hardly six years of age, was one of the first to respond to the appeal of the insurgents, and join Hidalgo at the head of four hundred resolute men raised on his own enormous estates.
The Mexican revolution was a singular one; for nearly all the promoters and heroes were priests—the only country in the world where the clergy have openly taken the initiative in progress, and thus displayed profound sympathy for the liberty of the people.
Don Eustaquio Guerrero was in turn companion of those modest heroes whom disdainful history has almost forgotten, and whose names were, Hidalgo, Morelos, Hermenegildo Galeana, Allende, Abasolo, Aldama, Valerio Trujano, Torres, Rayon, Sotomayor, Manuel Mier-y-Teran, and many others whose names have escaped me; and who, after fighting gloriously for the liberty of their country, now repose in their bloody tombs, protected by that glorious nimbus which Heaven places round the brow of martyrs, whatever be the cause they have defended, so long as that cause is just.
More fortunate than the majority of his brave comrades in arms, who were destined to fall one after the other, some as victims to Spanish barbarity, others conquered by treachery, Don Eustaquio escaped as if by a miracle from the innumerable dangers of this war, which lasted ten years, and at length witnessed the complete expulsion of the Spaniards and the proclamation of independence.
The brave soldier, prematurely aged, covered with wounds, and disgusted by the ingratitude of his fellow countrymen, who, scarce free, began attacking each other, and inaugurated that fatal era ofpronunciamientos,the list of which is already so long, and will only be closed by the ruin of the country, and the loss of its nationality, retired, gloomy and sad, to his Hacienda del Palmar, situated in the province of Valladolid, and sought, in the company of his wife and son, to recover some sparks of that happiness he had formerly enjoyed when he was but an obscure citizen.
But this supreme consolation was denied him; his wife died in his arms scarce two years after their reunion, attacked by an unknown disease, which dragged her to the grave in a few weeks.
After the death of the woman he loved with all the strength of his soul, Don Eustaquio, crushed by sorrow, only dragged on a wretched existence, which terminated exactly one year after his wife's death. Her name was the last word that wandered on his pallid lips as he drew his parting breath.
Don Sebastian, who was scarce twenty years of age, was left an orphan. Alone, without relatives or friends, the young man shut himself up in his hacienda, where he silently bewailed the two beings he had lost, and on whom he had concentrated all his affections.
Don Sebastian would probably have remained for many years in retirement, without seeing the world, or caring how it went on—leading the careless, idle, and brutalising life of those great land-holders whom no idea of progress or amelioration impels to trouble themselves about their estates, timid and fearful, like all men who live alone, spending his days in hunting and sleeping—had not chance, or rather his lucky star, brought to Palmar an old partisan chief who had long fought by the side of Don Eustaquio, and who, happening to pass a few leagues from the place, felt old reminiscences aroused in him, and determined to press the hand of his old comrade, whose death he was not aware of.
The name of this man was Don Isidro Vargas. He was of lofty stature, his shoulders were wide, his limbs athletic, and his features imprinted with an uncommon energy; in a word, he presented in his person the type of that powerful and devoted race which is daily dying out in Mexico, and of which, ere long, not a specimen will be left.
The unexpected arrival of this guest, whose heavy spurs and long steel-scabbarded sabre re-echoed noisily on the tiled floors of the hacienda, brought life into the mansion which had been so long devoted to silence and the gloomy tranquillity of the cloister.
Like all old soldiers, Captain Don Isidro had a rough voice and sharp way of speaking; his manners were brusque, but his character was gay, and gifted with a rare equanimity of temper.
When he entered the house Don Sebastian was out hunting, and the hacienda seemed uninhabited. The captain at first found enormous difficulty in meeting with anyone to address. At length, by careful search, he detected a peon half asleep under a verandah, who gave some sort of answer to the questions asked him. By great patience and questions made with that craft peculiar to the Mexicans, the captain succeeded in obtaining some valuable information.
The death of Don Eustaquio only astonished the worthysoldadoslightly; he expected it, indeed, from the moment he learnt the death of the señora, for whom he knew his old comrade professed so deep a love; but on learning the idle life Don Sebastian had led since his father's death, the captain burst out in a furious passion, and swore by all the saints in the Spanish calendar (and they are tolerably numerous), that this state of things should not last much longer.
The captain had known the young man when he was but a child. Many times he had dandled him on his knee, and thus, with his ideas of honour and generosity, he thought himself obliged, as an old friend of his father, to remove the son from the slothful existence he led.
Consequently the old soldier installed himself authoritatively in the hacienda, and firmly awaited the return of the man he had been accustomed to regard for a long time almost in the light of a son.
The day passed peacefully. The Indian peons, long accustomed to profess the greatest respect for embroidered hats and jingling sabres, left him free to act as he pleased—a liberty the old soldier did not at all abuse, for he contented himself with ordering an immense vase full of an infusion of tamarinds, which he placed on a table, up to which he drew a butaca, and amused himself with smoking an enormous quantity of husk cigarettes, which he made as he wanted them, with that dexterity alone possessed by the Spanish race.
At aboutoracióntime, or six in the evening, the captain, who had fallen quietly asleep, was aroused by a great noise, mingled with shouts, barking, and the neighing of horses, which he heard outside.
"Ah, ah!" he said, turning up his moustache, "I fancy themuchachohas at last arrived."
It was, indeed, Don Sebastian returning from the chase.
The old partisan, who was sitting opposite a window, was enabled to examine his friend's son at his ease, without being perceived in his turn. He could not repress a smile of satisfaction at the sight of the vigorous young man, with his haughty features bearing the imprint of boldness, wildness, and timidity, and his well-built limbs.
"What a pity," he muttered to himself, "if such a fine fellow were to be expended here without profit to himself or to others! It will not be my fault if I do not succeed in rousing the boy from the state of lethargy into which he is plunged. I owe that to the memory of his poor father."
While making these reflections, as he heard the clanking of spurs in the room before that in which he was, he fell back on his butaca, and put on again his usual look of indifference. Don Sebastian entered. He had not seen the captain for several years. The greeting he gave him, though slightly awkward and embarrassed, was, however, affectionate. After the first compliments they sat down face to face.
"Well, muchacho," the captain said, suddenly plungingin medias res, "you did not expect a visit from me, I fancy?"
"I confess, captain, that I was far from supposing that you would come. To what fortunate accident do I owe your presence in my house?"
"I will tell you presently, muchacho. For the present we will talk about other matters, if you have no objection."
"At your ease, captain; I do not wish to displease you in any way."
"We will see that presently,cuerpo de Dios!And in the first place, to speak frankly, I will tell you that I did not come to see you, but your worthy father, my brave general.Voto a brios!The news of his death quite upset me, and I am not myself again yet."
"I am very grateful, captain, for the kindly memory in which you hold my father."
"Capa de Cristo!" the captain said, who, among other habits more or less excellent, possessed to an eminent degree that of seasoning each of his phrases with an oath, at times somewhat unorthodox, "of course I hold in kind memory the man by whose side I fought for ten years, and to whom I owe it that I am what I am. Yes, I do remember him, and I hope soon,canarios!To prove it to his son."
"I thank you, captain, though I do not perceive in what way you can give me this proof."
"Good, good!" he said, gnawing his moustache. "I know how to do it, and that is enough. Everything will come at its right season."
"As you please, my old friend. At any rate, you will be kind enough to remember that you are at home here, and that the longer you stay the greater pleasure you will afford me."
"Good, muchacho! I expected that from you. I will avail myself of the hospitality so gracefully offered, but will not abuse it."
"An old comrade in arms of my father's cannot do that in his house, captain, and you less than anyone else. But," he added, seeing a peon enter, "here is a servant come to announce that the dinner is served. I confess to you that, as I have been hunting all day, I am now dying of hunger: if you will follow me we will sit down to the table and renew our acquaintance glass in hand."
"I ask nothing better,rayo de Dios!" the captain said as he rose. "Though I have not been hunting, I think I shall do honour to the repast."
And without further talking they passed into a dining room, where a sumptuously and abundantly-served table awaited them.
According to a patriarchal custom, which, unfortunately, like all good things, is beginning to die out, at Palmar the master and servants took their meals together. This custom, which had existed in the family since the conquest, Don Sebastian kept up—in the first place, through respect for his father's memory, and secondly, because the servants at the hacienda were devoted to their master, and to some extent supplied the place of a family.
The evening passed away, without any incident worthy of remark, in chatting about war and the chase. Captain Don Isidro Vargas was an old soldier, as cunning as a monk. Too clever to assail the young man's ideas straightforwardly, he resolved to study him for some time, in order to discover the weak points of his character, and see how he must attack him in order to drag him out of that slothful and purposeless life he led in this forgotten province. Thus several days were passed in hunting and other amusements, and the captain never once alluded to the subject he had at heart. At times he might make a covert allusion to the active life of the capital, the opportunities of securing a fine position which a man of Don Sebastian's age could not fail to find at Mexico, if he would take the trouble to go there, and many other insinuations of the same nature; but the young man let them pass without making the slightest observation, or even appearing to understand them.
"Patience!" the captain muttered. "I shall eventually find the flaw in his cuirass; and if I do not succeed, I must be preciously clumsy."
And he recommenced his covert attacks, not allowing the young man's impassive indifference to rebuff him.
Don Sebastian performed his duties as master of the house with thoroughly Mexican grace, amenity, and sumptuousness; that is, he invented every sort of amusement which he thought would be most suited to the worthy captain's tastes. The latter let him do so with the utmost coolness, and conscientiously enjoyed the pleasures the young man procured him, charmed in his heart by the activity he displayed in pleasing him, and more and more persuaded that, if he succeeded in arousing in him the feelings which he supposed were slumbering in his mind, it would be easy to convert him to his own ideas, and make him abandon the absorbing life of acampesino.
More than once, during the few days they spent in hunting in the magnificent plains that surrounded the hacienda, accident enabled the captain to admire the skill with which the young man managed his steed, and his superiority in all those exercises which demand strength, activity, and, above all, skill.
On one occasion especially, at the moment the hunters galloped in pursuit of a magnificent stag they had put up, they found themselves suddenly face to face with a cougouar, which threatened to dispute their progress. The cougouar is the American lion. It has no mane. Like all the other carnivora of the New World it cares little about attacking a man, and it is only when reduced to the last extremity that it turns upon him; but then it fights with a courage and energy that frequently render its approach extremely dangerous.
On the occasion to which we allude the cougouar seemed resolved to await its enemies boldly. The captain, but little accustomed to find himself face to face with such enemies, experienced that internal tremor which assails the bravest man when he finds himself exposed to a serious danger. Still, as the old soldier was notoriously brave, he soon recovered from this involuntary emotion, and cocked his gun, while watching the crouching animal, which fixed its glaring eyes on him.
"Do not fire, captain," Don Sebastian said with a perfectly calm voice; "you are not used to this chase, and, without wishing it, might injure the skin, which you see is magnificent, and that would be a pity."
Don Sebastian thereupon let his gun fall, took a pistol from his holster, and spurring his horse at the same time that he checked it, made it rear. The animal rose, and stood almost on its hind legs; the cougouar suddenly bounded forward with a terrible roar; the young man dug his knees into his horse, which bounded on one side, while Don Sebastian pulled the trigger. The monster rolled on the ground in convulsive agony.
"Cuerpo de Cristo!" the captain shouted; "why, you've killed it on the spot! No matter, muchacho; you played for a heavy stake."
"Bah!" the other said as he dismounted; "it is not so difficult as you fancy; it only requires practice."
"Hum! It must require practice to shoot such an animal on the wing. The ball has entered its eye."
"Yes, we generally shoot them there, so as not to spoil the skin."
"Ah, very good! To tell you the truth, though, I, who am by no means a bad shot, should not like to try the experiment."
"You are calumniating yourself."
"Very possibly."
"Poor Pepe, my tigrero, will lose by that a reward of ten piastres—all the worse for him. Shall we return to the hacienda, and send someone to bring the brute in?"
"With all my heart."
They went back.
"Hum!" the captain said to himself as they galloped on, "I must have a definitive explanation with him this very evening."
The Hispano-Americans usually drink nothing with their meals: it is only when thedulces, or cakes and sweetmeats, have been eaten, and each guest has swallowed the glass of water intended to facilitate digestion, that the liquors are put on the table, and the Catalonianrefinobegins to circulate; then thepurosandpajillosare lighted, and the conversation, always rather stiff during the meal, becomes more intimate and friendly, owing to the absence of the inferior guests, who then retire, leaving the master of the house and his guests at perfect liberty.
The captain had judiciously chosen this moment to commence his attack. Not that he hoped to have a better chance with the young man at the termination of the meal—for the sobriety of the Southern Americans is proverbial—but because at that moment Don Sebastian, being freed from all cares, must more easily yield to the influence the captain fancied he could exercise over him.
The captain poured some refino into a large glass, which he filled with water, lit a puro, leant his elbows on the table, and looked fixedly at the young man.
"Muchacho," he said to him abruptly, "does the life you lead in the desert possess a great charm for you?"
Surprised at this question, which he was far from expecting, Don Sebastian hesitated ere he replied.
"Yes," the captain said, emptying his glass, "do you amuse yourself greatly here? Answer me frankly."
"On my word, captain, as I never knew any other existence than that I am leading at this moment, I cannot answer your question thoroughly: it is certain that I feel myself hipped at times."
The captain struck his tongue against his palate with evident satisfaction.
"Ah, ah!" he said, "I am glad to hear you speak so."
"Why?"
"Because I hope you will easily accept the proposition I am about to make to you."
"You!"
"Who else, then, if not I?"
"Speak!" the young man said with a careless air; "I am listening."
The captain threw away his cigar, gave vent to two or three sonoroushums, and at length said in a sharp voice,—
"Sebastian, my dear fellow! Do you think that, if your worthy father could return to this world, he would be well pleased to see you thus idly wasting the precious hours of your youth?"
"I do not at all understand your meaning, captain."
"That is possible. I never pretended to be a great orator, and today less than at any other period of my long career. I will, however, try to explain myself so clearly that, if you do not understand me,caray!It is because you will not."
"Go on; I am listening."
"Your father, muchacho, whose history you probably do not know, was at once a brave soldier and a good officer. He was one of the founders of our liberty, and his name is a symbol of loyalty and devotion to every Mexican. For ten years your father fought the enemies of his country on every battlefield, enduring, though rich and a gentleman, hunger and thirst, heat and cold, gaily and without complaining; and yet, had he wished it, he might have led a luxurious and thoroughly easy life. You loved your father?"
"Alas, captain! Can I ever be consoled for his loss?"
"You will be consoled. You have many things to learn yet, and that among others. Poor boy! There is nothing eternal in the world—neither joy, nor sorrow, nor pleasure. But let us return to what I was saying. Were your father permitted to quit the abode of the just, where he is doubtlessly sojourning, and return for a few moments to earth, he would speak to you as I am now doing; he would ask an account of the useless indolence in which you spend your youth, thinking no more of your country, which you can and ought to serve, than if you lived in the heart of a desert. Did your father endure so many sacrifices in order to create such an existence—tell me, muchacho?"
The worthy captain, who had probably never preached so much in his life, stopped, awaiting a reply to the question he had asked; but this reply did not come. The young man, with his arms crossed on his chest, his body thrown back, and his eyes obstinately fixed on the ground, seemed plunged in deep thought. The captain continued after a lengthened delay,—
"We," he said, "demolished; you young men must rebuild. No one at the present day has the right to deprive the Republic of his services. Each must, under penalty of being considered a bad citizen, carry his stone to the social edifice, and you more than anyone else, muchacho—you, the son of one of the most celebrated heroes of the War of Independence. Your country calls you—it claims you: you can no longer remain deaf to its voice. What are you doing here among your dogs and horses, wasting ingloriously your courage, dissipating your energy without profit to anyone, and growing daily more brutalised in a disgraceful solitude?Cuerpo de Cristo!I can understand that a man may love his father, and even weep for him—for that is the duty of a good son, and your father certainly deserves the sacred recollection you give him—but to make of that grief a pretext to caress and satisfy your egotism, that is worse than a bad action—it is cowardice!"
At this word the young man's tawny eye flashed lightning.
"Captain!" he shouted, as he struck the table with his clenched fist.
"Rayo de Dios!" the old soldier continued boldly, "the word is spoken, and I will not withdraw it: your father, if he hear me, must approve me. Now, muchacho, I have emptied my heart; I have spoken frankly and loyally, as it was my duty to do. I owed it to myself to fulfil this painful duty. If you do not understand the feeling that dictated the rough words I uttered, all the worse for you; it is because your heart is dead to every generous impulse, and you are incapable of feeling how much I must have loved you to find the courage to speak to you in that way. Now do as you think proper; I shall not have to reproach myself for having hidden the truth from you. It is late. Good night, muchacho. I will go to bed, for I start early tomorrow. Reflect on what I have said to you. The night is a good counsellor, if you will listen in good faith to the voices that chatter round your pillow in the darkness."
And the captain emptied his glass and rose. Don Sebastian imitated him, took a step toward him, and laid his hand on his shoulder.
"One moment," he said to him.
"What do you want?"
"Listen to me in your turn," the young man said in a gloomy voice. "You have been harsh with me, captain. Those truths you have told me you might perhaps have expressed in milder language, in consideration of my age, and the solitude and isolation in which I have hitherto lived. Still I am not angry at your rude frankness; on the contrary, I am grateful to you for it, for I know that you love me, and the interest you take in me alone urged you to be so severe. You say that you depart tomorrow?"
"Yes."
"Where do you intend going?"
"To Mexico."
"Very good, captain; you will not go alone. I shall accompany you."
The old soldier looked at the young man for a moment tenderly; then pressing with feverish energy the hand held out to him,—
"It is well, muchacho," he said to him with great emotion. "I was not mistaken in you; you are a brave lad, and,caray!I am satisfied with you."
The two men left Palmar together the next morning, and rode toward Mexico, which city they reached after a ten days' journey. But during those ten days, spenttête-à-têtewith the captain, the young man's ideas were completely modified, and a perfect change came over his aspirations.
General Guerrero's son belonged unconsciously to that numerous class of men who are utterly ignorant of themselves, and pass their lives in indolence until the moment when, an object being suddenly offered them, their imagination is inflamed, their ambition is aroused, and they become as eager in the chase as they had been previously negligent and indifferent as to their future.
Captain Don Isidro Vargas heartily praised the intelligence with which the young man he emphatically called his pupil understood the lessons he gave him as to his behaviour in the world.
Don Sebastian experienced no difficulty—thanks to his name, and the reputation his father so justly enjoyed—in obtaining his grade as lieutenant in the army. This step was, for the young man, the first rung of the ladder, which he prepared to climb as rapidly as possible.
It was fine work at that day, in Mexico, for an intelligent man to fish in troubled waters; and, unfortunately, we are obliged to confess that, in spite of the long years that have passed since the proclamation of its independence, nothing is as yet changed in that unhappy country, where anarchy has been systematised.
If ever a country could do without an army, it was Mexico after the recognition of her liberty and the entire expulsion of the Spaniards, owing to her isolation in the midst of peaceful nations, and the security of her frontiers, which no enemy menaced. Unhappily, the war of independence had lasted ten years. During that long period the peaceful and gentle population of that country, held in guardianship by its oppressors, had become transformed. A warlike ardour had seized on all classes of society, and a species of martial fever had aroused in every brain a love of arms.
Hence that naturally came about which all sensible people expected; that is to say, when the army had no longer enemies before it to combat, the troops turned their arms against their fellow citizens, vexing and tyrannising over them at their pleasure.
The government, instead of disbanding this turbulent army, or at any rate reducing it to aminimumby only keeping up the depôts of the various corps, considered it far more advantageous to lean on it, and organise a military oligarchy, which pressed heavily on the country. This deplorable system has plunged this unhappy country into disastrous complications, against which it struggles in vain, and has dug the abyss in which its nationality will sooner or later be swallowed up.
The army, then, after the war, assumed an influence which it has ever since retained, and which increased in proportion as the men placed at the head of the government more fully understood that it alone could maintain them in power or overthrow them at its good pleasure. The army, therefore, made revolutions that its leaders might become powerful. From the lowestalférezup to the general of division, all the officers look to troubles for promotion—the alférez to become lieutenant, the colonel to exchange his red scarf for the green one of the brigadier general, and the general of division to become President of the Republic.
Hence pronunciamientos are continual; for every officer wearied of a subaltern grade, and who aspires to a higher rank, pronounces himself; that is to say, aided by a nucleus of malcontents like himself, which is never wanting, he revolts by refusing obedience to the government, and that the more easily because, whether conqueror or conquered, the rank he has thus appropriated always remains his.
The military career is, therefore, a perfect steeplechase. We know a certain general, whose name we could write here in full if we wished, who attained the presidency by stepping from pronunciamiento to pronunciamiento without ever having smelt fire, or knowing the first movement of platoon drill—an ignorance which is not at all extraordinary in a country where one of our sergeant conductors would be superior to the most renowned generals.
Don Sebastian judged his position with the infallible eye of an ambitious man; and suddenly attacked by a fever of immense activity, he resolved to profit cleverly by the general anarchy to gain a position. He clambered up the first steps at full speed and became a full colonel with startling rapidity. On reaching that position he married, in order to secure himself, and to give him that solidity he desired for the great game he intended to play, and which, in his mind, only ended with the presidential chair.
Already very rich, his marriage increased his fortune, which he sought to augment, however, by every possible scheme; for he was aware what the cost of a successful pronunciamiento was, and he did not mean to suffer a defeat.
As if everything was destined to favour this man in all he undertook, his wife, a dear and charming woman, whose love and devotion he never comprehended, died after a short illness, and left him father of a girl as charming and amiable as herself—that lovely Angela whom we have already met several times in the course of our narrative.
Don Sebastian could have married again if he liked; but by his first marriage he had obtained what he wanted, and preferred to remain free. At the period we have now reached he had attained general's rank, and secured the appointment of political governor of the state of Sonora, the first stepping-stone for his ambitious projects.
Colossally rich, he was interested in all the great industrial enterprises, and a shareholder in most of the mining operations. It was for the object of watching these operations more closely, that he had asked for the government of Sonora, a new country, almost unknown, where he hoped to fish more easily in troubled waters, owing to its distance from the capital, and the slight surveillance he had to fear from the government, in which he had, moreover, all-powerful influences.
In a word, General Guerrero was one of those gloomy personages who, under a most fascinating exterior, the most affable manners, and most seductive smiles, conceal the most perverse instincts, the coldest ferocity, and the most rotten soul.
Still this man had in his heart one feeling which, by its intensity, expiated many faults.
He loved his daughter.
He loved her passionately, without calculation or afterthought; yet this paternal love had something terrible about it: he loved his daughter as the jaguar or the panther loves its cubs, with fury and jealousy.
Doña Angela, though she had never tried to sound her father's impenetrable heart, had still divined the uncontrolled power she exercised over this haughty nature which crushed everything, but became suddenly weak and almost timid in her presence. The charming maid employed her power despotically, but ever with the intention of doing a good deed, as, for instance, to commute the sentence of a prisoner or succour the unfortunate; in a word, to render lighter the yoke of iron under which the general, with his feline manners, crushed his subordinates.
Thus the girl was as much adored by all those who approached her as the general was feared and hated. God had doubtlessly wished, in His ineffable goodness, to place an angel by the side of a demon, so that the wounds inflicted by the latter might be cured by the former.
Now that we have described these two persons to the best of our ability, whose characters will be more fully developed in the course of our story, we will resume our narrative at the point where we interrupted it.
The sky was just beginning to be tinted with shades of opal—a few stars still shone feebly here and there in the gloomy depths of the sky. It was about half past three in the morning.
Within thelocandamen and animals were sleeping that calm sleep which precedes sunrise. Not a sound, save at intervals the barking of a dog baying at the moon, broke the silence that brooded over the pueblo of San José.
The door of the cuarto in which the foster brothers rested was cautiously opened, a thin thread of light found its way through the orifice, and Valentine and the count came out. Don Louis had no reason for departing unseen; he had no motives for hiding himself. If he took so many precautions, it was only through a fear of disturbing the sleep of the other lodgers, who had not such good reasons as himself for rising so early, and whom, consequently, it was unnecessary to arouse.
On arriving in the patio Don Louis prepared his horse's trappings, while Valentine led the animal from the corral, carefully rubbed it down, and gave it water. When all was in order Valentine opened the gate, the two men shook hands for the last time, and Don Louis entered the gloom of the only street of the pueblo, where he soon disappeared, amid the barking of the masterless dogs aroused by his passing, and who rushed after him howling furiously, and snapping at his horse's legs.
Valentino remained for a moment motionless and thoughtful, listening mechanically to the decreasing sound of the hoofs on the hardened ground.
"Perhaps I ought not to have put him on that path," he muttered. "Who knows what awaits him at the other end?" A stifled sigh broke from his bosom. "Bah!" he added a moment after, "all roads do not lead to the same point—death! Why let such foolish forebodings have any effect over me? Live and learn."
The worthy hunter, somewhat comforted by these philosophic reflections, re-entered the patio, and set to work shutting the outer door, before throwing himself for an hour or two on his cuadro. While engaged in this occupation, he heard the sound of approaching footsteps behind him: he turned his head, and recognised Don Cornelio.
"Ah, ah, my dear friend!" he said gaily, offering him his hand, which the other pressed affectionately; "You are up very early."
"Eh?" the Spaniard answered with a laugh. "I think it a good joke for you to make that remark to me."
"Why so?"
"Because, if I have risen so early, it appears as if you had not been to bed at all."
Valentine began laughing.
"By Jove! You are right. The fact is that, with the exception of yourself and myself, it is certain that everybody is asleep in the pueblo; and now that this door is closed again, with your permission, I will go and do the same for an hour or two."
"What! You are going to bed again?"
"Certainly."
"What to do?"
"Why, to sleep, I suppose."
"Pardon me, but I did not mean that."
"I suppose not."
"And you know what I wish to say to you?"
"I! Not the least in the world. But, as you are a man far too intelligent to spend in walking about the time you might pass far more agreeably in sleeping, I presume that you have certain weighty reasons for being here now."
"That is true, on my word."
"You see!"
"Yes; but I did not wish exactly to speak with you."
"Whom with, then?"
"With Don Louis."
"Hum! And you cannot tell it to me?"
"O yes, I can; but I think it would be better to speak with him myself."
"Confuse the thing!"
Don Cornelio gave that shrug of the shoulders which in all countries and languages signifies the same thing; that is, that the shrugger declines all responsibility.
"And," Valentine continued, "what you have to communicate to Don Louis is probably very important?"
"Very."
"Hang it all, that is annoying; for it is impossible for you to speak with him."
"Bah! How so?"
"Because there is an obstacle."
"For me?"
"For you and for everybody else."
"Oh, oh! And what is that obstacle, Don Valentine, if you please?"
"Oh, I do not want to make any mystery of it; I am more vexed than yourself at what has happened; but the obstacle is very simply that Don Louis has gone away."
"Gone! Don Louis!" the other said in amazement.
"Yes."
"How was that—without speaking to anybody? Gone off at a venture?"
"Not exactly. There were urgent reasons to speed his departure; and see, I was engaged in shutting the gate after him when you arrived. A moment earlier and you would have met him."
"How unlucky!"
"It is; but what would you do? After all, the misfortune is not so great as it may seem to you at the first blush. We shall see him again in a few days."
"You are sure of it?"
"Quite; for it is arranged between us. So soon as I have succeeded in selling the herd, we shall go and join our friend again. So take patience, Don Cornelio; the separation will not be long. Console yourself with that thought, and good night."
Valentine turned and walked a few steps, but the Spaniard stopped him.
"What do you want now?"
"Only one word."
"Make haste, for I am dropping with sleep."
"Pardon me, but you made a remark this moment which struck me greatly."
"Ah! What was it?"
"You said that Don Louis had commissioned you to sell the herd."
"Yes, I did. What then?"
"That was the very subject I wished to speak with him about."
"Bah!"
"Yes, I have found a purchaser."
"What! For the whole herd?"
"Yes, in a lump."
"Stay, stay!" Valentine said, fixing his piercing eyes upon him; "that would singularly simplify matters."
"Would it not?"
"Where on earth have you dug up this strange purchaser since last night?"
"There is nothing at all strange about him, I assure you. I found him here."
"Here, in this locanda?"
"On my word, yes."
"I really beg your pardon," Valentine said. "I am too well acquainted with the gravity of your character to suppose that you have any intention of deceiving me—"
"Oh!"
"But all this is so extraordinary—"
"I am as much astonished as yourself at it."
"Really!"
"The more so because I did not know that Don Louis wished to sell the herd here, and consequently the proposition does not emanate from me."
"That is true. So you have been offered—"
"To take the whole herd off my hands this very day—yes."
"That is strange. Tell me all about it, my dear friend. What a pity that Don Louis has started!"
"Is it not?"
"Well, you said, then—"
"Permit me, if you have no objection, we will proceed to your cuarto, where we can converse much more agreeably than here."
"You are right, especially as people are beginning to get up in the house."
In fact, the servants of the hostelry and the muleteers were already stirring, and walking round our two friends, whom they examined curiously, while attending to their own business. Valentine and Don Cornelio left the patio, and proceeded to the hunter's cuarto. So soon as they had installed themselves Valentine said,—
"Now I am all attention. Speak, my good fellow. I confess I am anxious to hear the solution of this riddle."
Don Cornelio was aware of the friendship existing between Don Louis and Valentine; hence he had not the slightest difficulty in telling the hunter what had happened to him that night in the minutest details.
"Is that all?" Valentine said, who had listened with the greatest attention.
"Yes; and now what do you think of it?"
"Hum!" the hunter said thoughtfully, "if I must give you my opinion, it appears to me rather less clear now than an hour ago."
"Nonsense!"
"That is my opinion. Still we must not neglect this opportunity which presents itself so famously to get rid of our cattle advantageously."
"That is what I think."
"Very good; then do not stir. Above all, do not say a syllable about Don Louis' departure."
"Do you think so?"
"That is important."
"As you please."
"Then supposing you are summoned?"
"I will go."
"No, we will both go; that will be more proper. Is that understood?"
"Perfectly."
"Then good night; I am going to sleep a little. If there is anything new wake me up."
"All right."
And Don Cornelio withdrew.
Valentine was not at all inclined to sleep; but he wished to be alone, that he might reflect on what he had just heard. He perfectly understood that the young lady had been playing with the Spaniard like a cat with a mouse, feigning an interest in him which she did not at all feel. But what was her object in all this? Did she love Don Louis? Had the maiden retained in her heart the remembrance of what had happened to the child? Had gratitude unconsciously changed in her into love with growing years?
This was what the hunter could not fathom. Valentine had never been very expert in the matter of women; their hearts were to him as a dead letter, an unknown tongue, in which he could not read a word. The life he had constantly led in the desert, ever contending either with Indians or with wild beasts, had not been at all favourable to the study of the feminine heart; and besides, the deep love of his early youth—a love the memory of which still palpitated in his heart—had prevented him paying the slightest attention to the few women chance had at times thrown in his way, and who had only appeared to him weak, defenceless creatures, whom it was his duty to defend.
Thus the worthy hunter was now considerably bothered, and knew not what to do in order to read the young lady's intentions. It was evident to him that Doña Angela had a secret object she desired to gain, and that the purchase of the novillos was only a pretext to draw nearer to Don Louis. But what was that object? Why did she wish to see his friend? That was what he vainly sought, and was unable to discover.
"After all," he muttered to himself, while going over the chaos of thoughts that jostled each other in his brain, "it is perhaps better that she should not see Louis. Who knows what might be the result of such an interview? The lady's father is governor of Sonora, and we must be most careful not to get into any trouble with him. Who knows whether we may not need him hereafter? It is strange, I do not know where I have heard his name before; but I am certain I do not hear it today for the first time. Guerrero—Don Sebastian Guerrero. Under what circumstances can that name have been pronounced in my presence?"
The hunter had reached this point in his monologue when the door opened gently, and a man entered. It was Curumilla. Valentine started with joy on seeing him.
"You are welcome, chief," he said.
The Araucanian pressed his hand, and sat down silently by his side.
"Well, chief," Valentine continued, "you are awake. Have you been taking a turn in the pueblo?"
The Indian smiled disdainfully.
"No," he said.
An idea crossed the hunter's mind.
"My brother should go down into the patio," he said. "It seems there are other travellers beside us: he should see them."
"Curumilla has seen them."
"Ah!"
"He knows them."
Valentine made a sign of astonishment.
"What! You know them?" he exclaimed.
"Only the man. Curumilla is a chief: his memory is long."
"Ah, ah!" the hunter went on. "Is it possible that I shall obtain in this way the information I have been racking my brains to find?"
The Indian smiled and shook his head.
"Who is the man, chief? Is he a friend?"
"He is an enemy."
"An enemy, by Jupiter! I was certain I had heard his name before."
"Let my brother listen," the chief went on. "Curumilla has seen the paleface: he will kill him."
"Hum! Do not go to work so fast, chief. In the first place tell me who he is; then we shall see what we have to do. Unfortunately we are not here on the prairies: the death of that individual, whoever he may be, might cost us dear."
"The palefaces are women," the Indian replied disdainfully.
"That is possible, chief; but prudent. Tomorrow is not passed, as you gentlemen say, and every man gains his point who knows how to wait. For the present let us be shy; we are not the stronger."
Curumilla shrugged his shoulders. It was plain that the worthy Indian was not a friend to temporising measures; still he did not raise the slightest objection.
"Come, chief, tell me who he is, and under what circumstances we had a quarrel with him."
The Indian rose and stood right in front of Valentine.
"Does not my brother remember?" he asked.
"No."
"Wah! The conspiracy of the Paso del Norte, when Curumilla killed Dog-face."
"Oh!" Valentine exclaimed, striking his forehead, "I have it; it is the general who commanded the Mexican troops, and to whom Don Miguel de Zarate surrendered."
"Yes."
"Well, he was a brave and honest soldier in those days; he kept his word to our friend nobly. I cannot be angry with him."
"He is a traitor."
"From your point of view, chief, possibly so, but not from mine. It is true; I perfectly remember him now. Poor General Ibañez often spoke to me about him: he was not fond of him either. It is a strange coincidence. Good! Fear nothing, chief; I will watch. Whether friend or foe, this man has never seen me—he knows not who I am; hence I have a great advantage over him. Thanks, chief!"
"Is my brother satisfied?"
"You have rendered me an immense service, chief; so you can judge whether I am satisfied."
Curumilla smiled.
"Wah!" he said, "all the better."
"Yes, chief, all the better, and let us breakfast. I feel a ferocious appetite ever since, thanks to you, I have been able to see my way a little more clearly."
Curumilla and Don Cornelio had prepared their frugal meal in their cuarto, consisting of red haricot beans with pepper, a fewvarasof dried meat, and maize tortillas, the whole washed down with aloe pulque of the first quality, and a fewtragosof excellent Catalonian refino.
The three friends ate with good appetite, and were preparing to light their cigars, the obligato termination of every American meal, when they heard a discreet tap at the door, which was only leaned to.
"Come in," Valentine said.
A criado appeared, and after bowing courteously to all present, said,—
"My master, his Excellency General Don Sebastian Guerrero, presents his civilities to the caballeros here assembled, and desires that Señor Don Cornelio and Señor Don Louis will favour him with a moment's interview, if their occupations will permit of it."
"Tell his Excellency," Valentine answered, "that we shall have the honour of obeying his orders."
The servant bowed and retired.
"Why, you know, señor," Don Cornelio then said, "that Don Louis is absent."
"No matter: am I not here?"
"That is true, but—"
"Leave me alone," the hunter quickly interrupted him; "I will answer for everything."
"Very good; do as you think proper."
"Trust to me. How can it concern this man whether he deals with Don Louis or anyone else, so long as the ganado is young, vigorous, and cheap?"
"That is true; it must be a matter of indifference to him."
"Come on: you will see that I shall settle this affair satisfactorily."
And he went out, followed by Don Cornelio, who, however, did not seem completely satisfied.