[1]kind of tent made of branches.
[1]kind of tent made of branches.
The night was tranquil. The Brazilians passed it in sleep. Diogo alone watched over the common safety.
About two hours before sunrise the scout who had been dispatched by the marquis returned to the camp.
He was the bearer of strange news. The Indians had disappeared.
Diogo listened attentively to the report brought by the man. Then turning towards the marquis, who had also passed the night without closing his eyes—
"Well?" asked he.
"It appears to me—" answered the marquis.
"Wait!" interrupted Diogo; "My friend," said he, addressing the scout, "go and lie down; you must want to recruit your strength."
The Brazilian bowed, and immediately withdrew.
"It is not advisable," pursued Diogo, "that this man should hear what we have to say."
"I think that if this news is true, it is excellent."
"Understand well, your Excellency, and be assured that I possess too thorough a knowledge of the Indians and their manners to deceive myself."
"I admit it, my friend. Speak, then, I beg."
"I should think, your Excellency, that I failed in my duty if at the crisis at which we are arrived I did not speak to you with the greatest freedom. The Guaycurus have honourably warned you to withdraw from them—they have given you liberty to do so; wrong or right, you have scorned their warning, I do not dispute with you, understand, your Excellency, the wisdom of this decision."
"Continue, my friend."
"They have so little intention of withdrawing, that they have dispatched me to ask the aid of their allies, the Payagoas. Then they have attacked you with fury, not with the design of seizing on your camp—they knew beforehand that they would not succeed—but to reduce you to your present position; that is to say, to the last gasp."
"Conclude, conclude!" interrupted the marquis.
"The conclusion is easy enough," pursued the captain; "the Guaycurus have pretended to withdraw in order to bring you out into the plain, and to overcome you the more easily."
"Are you then afraid, Diogo?"
"Certainly, my lord: very much afraid."
"You!"
"Pardon; this needs an explanation. I am afraid—not to die, for from the moment you announced to me your formal intention, I reckoned on the sacrifice of my life."
"Then, what is it you mean?"
"I mean, my lord, that I do not fear to die, but that I am dreadfully afraid of being killed like a beast."
Notwithstanding the gravity of the situation, the marquis burst out laughing.
"Bah, bah!" said he; "Things, I am convinced, will turn out better than you suppose."
"I wish so, without hoping it, your Excellency."
"Let us see; you believe you are in a position to guide us to the spot where the Paulistas are at this moment."
"Nothing is more easy than to proceed on the journey, my lord, but I cannot guarantee it."
"How is that?"
"Why, because we shall all be massacred before reaching it."
"Hum, Diogo; you become monotonous, my friend."
"The end will prove me right, my lord."
"Be silent, prophet of bad omen. At what distance do you think we are from the Paulistas?"
"Thirty leagues at the most."
"What! Thirty leagues; no more? Come, you are becoming foolish, with your puerile fears."
"You will see, your Excellency, you will see."
"Well, let it be so; the die is cast, I will try, whatever happens. At break of day we will leave."
"With your permission, my lord, I think that as you absolutely are determined on a foolish thing, would it not be more suitable to do it in a logical way?"
"Which means—"
"That tomorrow will be too late."
"So, in your opinion, it would be necessary—"
"To leave immediately, my lord."
"Well, let it be so; let us set out."
In this circumstance, as in all the preceding, Diogo did not neglect any precaution.
Four of his soldiers, tried and experienced men, were at first dispatched by him in advance.
In the preceding assault the waggons and the baggage had been burnt, and the greater part of the mules had been killed, so that the caravan, relieved of its load, was in a position to accelerate its march.
Diogo caused the horses' feet to be covered with bags of sheepskin, filled with sand, in order to stifle the sound of their steps, and ordered the mouth of each animal to be fastened with a lasso.
"Companions," said he, when each man was in his saddle, "not a cry, not a sound! We are attempting; at the present moment an expedition on which safety depends; if we are discovered we shall be lost."
"One word, Diogo," said the marquis to him. "Why have you insisted on our leaving so suddenly?"
"Because the Indian bravos, your Excellency, ordinarily guard themselves very badly, and pass the night in sleeping instead of watching."
"Thank you; now let us set out."
"One moment, my lord;" and then addressing all the soldiers:—
"I am about to march first," said he; "you will follow me one by one, holding your horses by the bridle to prevent them from stumbling; and thus arousing the attention of the enemy. You will try to march in my steps, in order to leave as narrow a track as possible. Now, pay attention and remember this:—The cry of the alligator will warn you to halt; the same cry twice raised will mean that you are to mount; the cry of the owl will order you to gallop. You thoroughly understand me, do you not?"
The descent commenced. It was a strange spectacle, that offered by this long line of black spectres, which glided silently in the night, and appeared to climb the flanks of the hill.
The noise of a branch broken off by the wind; the falling of a leaf, the unexpected flight of a nocturnal bird—everything was the object of fear; the bravest man felt, in spite of himself, the blood run cold in his veins, for behind each trunk of a tree, each angle of a rock, he feared he should see dart out suddenly the enemy whom he was trying to avoid.
The descent was long; they could but march slowly. Diogo, who appeared to see at night as well as by day, chose his ground with the greatest care, and did not advance except when he was sure that the earth on which he placed his foot was firm.
Sometimes they stopped for a few minutes, and then a shudder of alarm ran like an electric current through the whole line.
At last, at the end of an hour, they reached the plain.
The cry of an alligator which was raised in the silence warned them that they were to halt.
Two minutes later the same cry raised twice caused them to throw themselves in the saddle, and then at last, at the cry of the owl, they darted off at a gallop, doubled in pace by the instinctive fear that they experienced of terrible danger.
The marquis had ordered doña Laura to mount on horseback. The young girl obeyed passively, without uttering a word, and had placed herself, as well as her slave, in the middle of the line of horsemen.
The marquis had wished this because this position appeared to him least dangerous.
During all the night the Brazilians, leaning on the necks of their horses, galloped on.
At sunrise they had made eighteen or nineteen leagues, which was enormous, but the poor horses were spent.
At a league before them the fugitives perceived a broad stream.
It was the Pilcomayo, one of the most considerable affluents of the Rio Paraguai.
The marquis approached the captain.
"We have done wonders, Diogo," said he to him; "thanks to your admirable arrangements, we are saved."
"Do not thank me yet, my lord," answered the Indian, with a mocking smile "all is not yet finished."
"Oho! We have now an advance of our enemies which puts us out of their reach."
"We have gained no advance on the Guaycurus, my lord; our only chance of safety is to reach the river, and to cross it."
"Well! What prevents us from doing so?"
"Look at the horses; before we have got half the distance which separates us from the Pilcomayo, the enemy will be upon us."
"You are thoroughly obstinate to the end; you see yourself that the plain is perfectly clear."
"You think so, my lord?"
"Why, I have looked in vain in every direction."
"That is because you are not used to the prairie, that is all. Look," added he, stretching his arm in the direction of the northeast. "Notice that convulsive undulation of the high grass."
"Just so; but what does that prove?"
"Do you see again," continued the impassable captain, "those companies of nandus and of seriemas who run madly in all directions. Those flights of guaros and of kamichis?"
"Yes, yes, I see all that; well?"
"Well! Well, your Excellency, the undulation of the grass without apparent cause, since there is not a breath of air stirring, the mad course of the nandus and the seriemas, and the frightened flight of the guaros and the kamichis, simply mean that the Guaycurus are on our track."
"But in an hour we shall have crossed the river."
"With our horses that is impossible; it is with difficulty that they can put one foot before the other."
"That is true," murmured the marquis, "but then what is to be done?"
"Prepare ourselves to die."
"Oh, that is not true that you say, Diogo."
"In an hour not one of us will exist," coolly answered the captain.
"But we shall not allow ourselves to be assassinated without defending ourselves?"
"That is another question, my lord. Will you fight to the last gasp?"
"Certainly."
"Very well. We shall be killed, I am certain, but the victory will cost our enemies dearly."
Without losing a moment, the captain made his arrangements for the combat.
The Brazilians jumped to the ground, cut the throats of their horses, and with the bodies of the unhappy animals they formed a circle.
The marquis, occupied at this time in speaking with animation to doña Laura, did not perceive this butchery, till it was too late to oppose it.
"What are you doing?" cried he.
"Entrenchments," impassively answered Diogo. "Behind these bodies we shall shelter ourselves."
"But how, then, shall we fly after the combat?"
The Indian burst into a nervous and discordant laugh.
"We shall not fly, inasmuch as we shall be dead."
The marquis could find nothing to answer.
Doña Laura had thrown herself on the ground, a prey to profound despair. Her horse was the only one that had not been killed.
"You are about to die," said Don Roque.
"I hope so," answered she, with a low and broken voice.
"You thoroughly hate me, then?"
"There is not in my heart place for hatred; I despise you."
"Doña Laura," he pursued, "there is yet time. Reveal to me your secret."
"Why should I do so?" she said.
"Curses!" cried he, stamping with rage. "This woman is a demon. Will nothing, then, convince you? Of what use to you now would be the possession of that secret?"
"And to you?" she coldly asked.
"Tell me, tell me, and I swear to you I will save you, even if to do so I should have to walk in blood up to the knees. Tell me, Doña Laura, I entreat you."
"No! I prefer to die, than to be saved by you."
"Die, then, and be cursed!" cried the marquis, seizing a pistol from his girdle.
A hand arrested his arm.
He turned round, darting a fierce look at him who had dared to touch him.
"Excuse me, your Excellency," said Diogo to him, still impassable, "if I interrupt your interesting conversation with the señorita."
Doña Laura had not made a movement to escape death. Death for her would have been a deliverance.
"What do you want with me?" cried the marquis.
"To announce to you, my lord, that the moment is near. Look!"
The marquis looked.
"Why, wretch!" cried he, after a moment, "If you are not a traitor, you are grossly deceived."
"As you please, my lord."
"It is a manada of wild horses."
"Exactly so, my lord," answered the captain, with a smile of disdain; "you have not the least experience of the style in which the Guaycurus fight, nor of life in the desert. This is probably the last thing I shall teach you, but it is well you should know it. The Guaycurus are the best horsemen in the world. This is the ruse they employ to surprise the enemy. They send in advance a troop of wild horses, in order to conceal their number; then in the rear they follow, lying on their sides on their horses, the left hand on the mane, and the right foot supported by the stirrup."
We have said that all the Brazilians were lying behind the bodies of their horses, ready to fire at the word of command.
About them the vultures and the urubus, attracted by the smell of blood, were wheeling in large circles, uttering harsh and discordant cries.
At a half league off, on the plain, a herd of horses was running with extreme rapidity.
The Brazilians were sorrowful and silent; they believed themselves lost.
"Boys," cried Diogo, "spare your munitions; do not fire but when you are sure. You know that we have no more powder."
All of a sudden the wild horses came down like a thunderbolt on the entrenchments, and notwithstanding a murderous discharge close to their breasts, leaped them with an irresistible spring.
The Guaycurus warriors leaped to their saddles, uttering frightful cries, and the massacre commenced.
In the first rank, near Tarou Niom, was Malco Diaz.
The eyes of the half-caste flashed with excitement. He dashed with extraordinary fury into the thickest of themêlée.
By a movement—rather from instinct than by calculation—the Brazilians, after their entrenchments had been carried, had grouped themselves round Laura.
The young girl, kneeling on the ground, her hands clasped, was praying with fervour.
Poor Phoebe, her breast pierced by a lance, was writhing at her feet, in the last convulsions of agony.
There was something really grand in the spectacle offered by some twenty men or so, motionless, silent, keeping close together, and struggling desperately against a multitude of enemies; having made the sacrifice of their lives, but resolved to fight to the last gasp, and only to fall when dead.
Diogo and the marquis achieved prodigies of valour—the Indian with a supreme contempt of death, the white man with the rage of despair.
"Now, your Excellency," said the captain, mockingly, "do you still believe we shall be saved?"
Meanwhile the ranks of the Brazilians were being thinned more and more.
On a sudden Malco Diaz bounded in advance, overturned the marquis, and seizing doña Laura by the hair, he lifted her up, threw her on the neck of his horse, and darted off across the desert.
The young girl uttered a terrible cry, and fainted.
This cry Diogo had heard. The captain leaped over the body of the marquis, and overturning everything before him, rushed off in pursuit.
But what can a man on foot do against a horseman riding at full speed?
Malco Diaz stopped, a flash of fury darted from his eyes, and he shouldered his gun.
"It is my last charge," murmured Diogo; "it shall be for her." And he fired.
Malco Diaz immediately staggered, his arms were thrown up convulsively, and he rolled on the ground, dragging the young girl in his fall.
He was dead.
Diogo darted towards him, but suddenly he made a bound on one side, and taking his gun by the barrel, he raised it above his head. An Indian was coming down upon him, but the former, immediately changing his position, bounded like a jaguar, clasped in his powerful arms the Indian who pursued him, overthrew him, and at the same moment put himself in the saddle in the Indian's place.
This prodigy of skill and agility accomplished, he flew to the aid of the young girl.
Scarcely had he raised her in his arms to put her on the horse, which he had so miraculously appropriated, than the Guaycurus warriors surrounded him.
Diogo cast a sorrowful look at the young girl, whom he placed on the ground, and drawing from his girdle his pistols, the only arms he had left—
"Poor child," murmured he; "I have done what I could. Fate is against me. I will certainly kill two more of them before dying," he said, coolly loading his pistols.
Suddenly the ranks of the warriors opened. Tarou Niom appeared.
"Let no one touch that man and woman," he said.
"Come, that will be for another time," said the captain, replacing his pistols in his girdle.
"You are brave; I love you," resumed Tarou Niom; "take that jni-maak (feather); it will serve you for a safeguard. Remain here until I return."
Diogo took the feather, and sat down sadly near the young girl.
An hour later the captain and doña Laura were accompanying the Guaycurus warriors, who were returning to their village.
The young girl was still in a fainting condition, and did not yet know the full extent of the new misfortune which had fallen upon her.
Diogo carried her on the neck of his horse, and carefully upheld her. The brave captain appeared already if not resigned, completely consoled for his defeat, and talked amicably with the captain, Tarou Niom, who manifested so much regard for him.
Diogo and the young girl alone had survived by a miracle, which had excited a feeling of pity in the ferocious heart of the Guaycurus chief.
As to the Marquis de Castelmelhor, no one knew what had become of him. Notwithstanding the most active search, it had been impossible to find his body.
Was he dead? Was be living? And had he, against all probability, succeeded in escaping?
On the 23rd December, 1815, between two and three o'clock in the afternoon, that is to say, at the hottest time of the day, two travellers—coming respectively from the north and south—met face to face on the banks of a little river, an affluent of the Río Dulce, at the ford of the Licol, situated at an equal distance from Santiago and San Miguel de Tucumán.
On arriving on the bank of the stream, as by one accord, the two travellers drew bridle, and looked about them attentively for some time.
The river that both were preparing to cross in a contrary direction, swollen by the rains from recent storms, was pretty broad at this time, which fact hindered the two travellers from severally reconnoitring each other sufficiently to form a decided opinion of one another.
Every stranger that one meets in the desert is, if not an enemy, at least without information, an individual whom prudence warns the traveller to mistrust.
After a short but decidedly perceptible hesitation, each traveller took his fusil in his hand, from his shoulder belt, loaded it, making the trigger snap with a sharp noise, and appearing to take a decided resolution, lightly touched the flanks of his horse with a spur, and entered the river.
The ford was broad and not deep, the water reached scarcely to the belly of the horses, which permitted the horsemen to go their own way.
However, they advanced towards each other, continuing to watch each other attentively, and ready to fire at the least suspected movement.
Suddenly they raised a joyful exclamation, and stopped, bursting out into hearty laughter.
Several times they tried to speak, but laughter was stronger than their will.
Meanwhile, they had suddenly dropped their fusils, which immediately resumed their unoffensive position in the shoulder belt.
At last one of them succeeded in gaining sufficient coolness to give expression to his thoughts.
"Pardieu!" cried he in French, stretching out his right hand to his companion, who was still laughing; "The encounter is strange. I do not yet dare to believe my eyes. Are you a man or a phantom? Is it yourself, my dear sir—you whom I saw scarcely two years ago in Paris, dancing attendance on the government for some employment or other—that I now find in the depths of the desert, wearing poncho and sombrero?"
"Yes," answered the other, casting a look of satisfaction at himself; "the costume suits me very well; but," added he, between two bursts of laughter, "I have a right, it appears to me, to put the same question to you."
"Hush!" interrupted the first speaker; "Nothing is stable in this world, you know, M. Gagnepain."
"Alas! Who more than I has been in a position to learn that?" sadly said the first traveller.
"You sigh. Have you become the sport of fortune?"
"Fortune and I are too little acquainted just at present," said he, with a smile, "for her to have treated me in one fashion or the other. In fact. I only complain about her indifference towards me. As to you, Monsieur, I should think that the recent events of which our unhappy country has been the theatre cannot but have favourably influenced your fortune."
The second traveller smiled bitterly.
"Ingratitude and proscription are current money in courts," said he; "it is in vain that man thinks himself skilful and acute in this world."
"Without reckoning the passions which influence him," interrupted the first speaker, with a slight accent of raillery. "Where are you going, then, in this manner?"
"To San Miguel de Tucumán; then to Chili."
"Alone?"
"Oh no; my people are coming after me. And you?"
"Oh, as to me it is different; I am nearly on my estate here."
"Indeed?"
"Ma foi, yes; only, you must understand, I do not intend to live forever in this country; if you like, I shall be happy to invite you to my house, from, which we are only about twenty miles distant."
"What! Your house? You have a house here?"
"Mon Dieu! Yes; it is necessary to come here to America to accomplish that miracle of becoming landowner. That is a good joke, is it not?" said he, laughing. "What do you say to my proposition? Does it please you?"
The other hesitated a moment.
"Decide, sir; chance, or, if you prefer it, Providence, which has brought us together so strangely, has perhaps some unknown plans concerning us. Do not let us oppose it."
"Why joke on this subject. M. Gagnepain?" asked the other; "Although you are an artist, and consequently a man of strong mind, what you say is more true than you doubtless wish to avow."
"Pardon; I had forgotten that you were an Oratorian. Well, will you retrace your route?"
"I am not in a hurry; I shall arrive soon enough whither I am going. I shall have great pleasure in passing a few hours in your company."
"Come, then, we will stretch ourselves on the grass in the shade of those magnificent palm trees, and, while our horses rest themselves, we will pass the great heat of the day in talking and waiting for your people."
"Your offer is so cordial that I cannot refuse it."
"Well spoken, my dear duke."
"Silence," briskly interrupted he to whom this title was given; "my name is Dubois, and I am a naturalist; remember that, I beg."
"Ah!" said the other, with slight astonishment; "As you like. Pass as Dubois; that name is as good as another."
"Better for me at this time."
The two travellers then regained the bank of the river, where, according to the plan they had agreed on, they unloosed the bridle of the horses, taking care to tie them by a strap of leather, for fear they should wander; and after having beaten the bushes with the barrels of their guns to frighten the reptiles, they stretched themselves on the fresh and tufted grass, under the protecting shade of a gigantic palm tree, giving a sigh of agreeable relief.
The country, in the centre of which our travellers had met, was, according to all reports, far from meriting the epithet which one of the two had conferred on it; it was on the contrary, a beautiful country; the grand landscapes of it have always given rise, to the admiration of explorers—very rare, by the way—whom the love of science has induced to visit them under all their aspects.
The Tucumán, where are passing at the present time the events of our history, is one of the most happily situated countries in South America.
Situated at the north of the province of Catamarca, this country, crossed by a branch of the Andes, enjoys a climate temperate in summer, and scarcely cold in winter; a great part of this territory is composed of immense plateaux or llanos, covered with luxuriant vegetation, intersected by numerous streams and considerable rivers, which, not finding any outlet by reason of the want of undulation in the ground, form numerous lakes, without any tide.
It is at the present time one of the most vast, the most thickly populated, and the richest of the Buenos Airean confederation.
From the spot where the travellers had stopped they enjoyed an enchanting view, and saw spread out before them a most charming landscape. At their feet a large and deep river wound like a silver ribbon through the plains, covered with high grass of an emerald green, in the midst of which bounded every moment stags and sheep, playing in troops; wild bulls raised their large heads, armed with formidable horns, and casting about them half timid looks; flights of pigeons and partridges were wheeling in every direction, uttering their sharp or gentle notes, whilst magnificent black swans were playing on the river, and allowed themselves to be carelessly carried along by the current, defiling before the herons that were occupied in searching for fish in the river. Immense forests spread on the background of the landscape, and rose step by step on the far-off slopes of the Cordilleras, whose rugged summits, covered with eternal snow, were mingled with the clouds.
The sun spread profusely its dazzling rays over this primitive scene, and caused the incessantly moistened sand of the shores of the river to sparkle like millions of diamonds.
A profound calm reigned in this desert, so full of animal life, nevertheless, and from the bosom of which rose like a solemn hymn the songs of the innumerable birds perched under the foliage.
Before proceeding farther, and reporting the conversation of our travellers, we will make the reader more intimately acquainted with them, by sketching their portraits in a few lines.
The first—he who did not wish to be known by the title of duke, and who pretended to be a naturalist, calling himself Dubois—was a man about fifty-two years of age, but who appeared more than sixty. His body, long and lean, was slightly bent; his slender limbs were lost, so to say, in the ample folds of his clothing; his features, fatigued by watching and intellectual labour, without doubt, must have been at one time handsome. His forehead was large, but furrowed by deep wrinkles; his black and full eye, surmounted by thick eyebrows, had a fixed and penetrating look, which, when he became animated, it was impossible to support. His nose was straight, his mouth rather large, but furnished with magnificent teeth; his lips, somewhat slender, on which a cold and mocking smile appeared stereotyped. His square chin, with total absence of beard, completed an imposing physiognomy—a little hard, perhaps, but which, when he pleased, he could render extremely prepossessing.
All his person manifested that aristocratic, unctuous, and somewhat sleek grace which distinguishes diplomats and the high dignitaries of the Church. It formed, with the nobility of his gesture, a complete contrast, not only to the costume he had thought proper to adopt, but also with the plebeian manners which he affected, and which, like a part badly learned, he every now and then forgot.
The other traveller was named Émile Gagnepain; he was about thirty or thirty-two years of age, his figure was ordinary, but well and strongly made; his shoulders were large his chest prominent; health characterised his whole person; his arms, on which large muscles stood out like cords, hard as iron, manifested uncommon bodily strength. His countenance indicated frankness and good humour; his regular features, his brown eyes full of intelligence, his laughing mouth, his hair—tawny blonde in colour—curled like that of a Negro, his moustache, oiled with care and coquettishly turned up; his chin shaved, and his bushy whiskers, which reached nearly the corner of his mouth, formed a physiognomy full of frankness and energy, which, at the first glance, attracted sympathy. The rather rude liberty of his movements, his rapid and decided conversation, caused him to be easily set down as one of those privileged beings, as some say—but unfortunate as we say—whom people call artists. In a word, he was a painter. For the rest—a peculiarity that we have forgotten to mention—he had firmly attached to the croup of his horse a box of colours, a large umbrella, an easel, and a maulstick, an apparatus indispensable to all painters, and which, in a country less savage than that in which he was, would have immediately pronounced his profession, notwithstanding his costume of a gaucho.
It was he who first began the conversation. Scarcely had he stretched himself on the grass than, getting up abruptly, and tracing a circle in space with his right arm stretched out before him—
"What an admirable thing is Nature," he cried, "and how culpable are men in spoiling it, as they incessantly do, under pretext of amelioration, as though Providence were not more skilful than they!"
"Bravo!" answered the other—to whom we will give, for the present, the name of Dubois under which he made himself known to us—"Bravo! Monsieur Émile; I see that you are still as enthusiastic as even at the time when I had the pleasure of first meeting you."
"Eh, Monseigneur—Monsieur, I should say—pardon this involuntary slip—do not envy us enthusiasm, we poor devils of artists; enthusiasm is faith, is youth, is hope, perhaps."
"God preserve me from such a thought. I admire you, on the contrary—I who, at my time of life, can drink nothing but absinthe."
"Bah!" gaily said the painter, "Tomorrow does not exist; it is a myth; let us be merry today. Look, what a brilliant sun; what a magnificent landscape! Will all that not make you more contented with humanity?"
"How happy is youth!" said monsieur Dubois; "Everything strikes upon it. Even in the desert, where it runs the imminent risk of dying with hunger."
"Allowing that, Monsieur, the man who has lived in Paris on nothing ought not to fear any desert."
"That leads us to a question that I wish to ask," answered the other, laughing at the artist's jest.
"Let us have the question," said the artist.
"Be so good, then, not to attribute to an indiscretion unworthy of me, but only to the lively interest I take in you, the question I propose to ask you."
"As to indiscretion with me, sir, you are jesting, no doubt; come, do not fear to ask me. Whatever it may be, I will do my best to answer it satisfactorily."
"Since our first rencontre, I have racked my brains to discover the motive which induced you to emigrate here."
"Emigrate! Bah, Monsieur; villainous word! To travel, you wish to say, no doubt?"
"To travel, let it be, my young friend; I will not quibble with you on an expression that you have a right to regard as 'villainous.'"
"Why not tell me frankly that you wish to know my history, Monsieur le Duc?"
"Hush; do forget that title!"
"To the devil with it; I shall always forget."
"I hope not, when I shall have informed you that it is of the last importance that this unlucky title should be ignored by everyone in this country."
"That is sufficient; I will not forget myself."
"I thank you; now, if I do not abuse your good nature, relate to me the history I so much want to learn; for at Paris we met one another under circumstances of too trivial a character for me even to inform myself of your antecedents, which I do not know why, now interest me more than I can explain to you."
"That is easy to understand, Monsieur; the distances which separate us from each other, the insurmountable barriers which in Paris are raised between us, exist no longer here. We are two men, face to face in the desert, one as important as the other, and, I hasten to add, two fellow countrymen, that is to say, two friends. Naturally, we ought to make common cause in everything, to interest ourselves in each other, and love one another, as a protest of dislike of the strangers in the midst of whom fate has cast us, and who are, and ought to be, our natural enemies."
"Perhaps you are right; but I shall be happy, if you please, to hear your history."
"This history is very simple, Monsieur; in a few words I will relate it to you; only I much doubt whether it will interest you."
"Tell it me, my young friend."
"Well, then, my name, you know, is Émile Gagnepain—a plebeian name it is, is it not?"
"The name is of little consequence."
"Without doubt. In 1792, when the country was in danger, my father, a poor devil of a first clerk to a procureur, who had been married but a few years, abandoned his wife and child—the latter aged seven or eight years—to engage himself as a volunteer, and fly to the defence of the Republic. When my father announced to his wife the determination he had taken, she answered him with quite a Spartan brevity—"
"'Go and defend your country; it ought to rank before your family,' said my mother."
"My father left; our poor hearth, already very miserable, became still more so; happily, I had the good fortune of being recommended to David, in whose studio I entered. My mother could thus, by dint of economy, wait for better times. However, years passed away, my father did not return; we seldom received news of him; we learnt that he had been nominated a captain in the Twenty-fifth demi-brigade."
"Sometimes, though rarely, a little aid in money reached my mother. At the camp of Boulogne my father refused the cross of the Legion of Honour, under pretext that the Republic had no distinctions to give to those of her children who were doing their duty."
"Some months later he fell, pierced by the ball of Austerlitz, in the midst of an Austrian square that he had penetrated at the head of his company, crying, 'Vive la République!'"
"The emperor did not entertain any rancour against a soldier of '92. He gave a pension of eight hundred francs to his widow; that was very well, but not enough to live upon. Happily, I had grown up, and was now in a position to do something in aid of my mother. Thanks to the all-powerful protection of my master, although still very young, I gained enough money, not only to support myself comfortably, but also to give my mother a little of that comfort of which she had so much need."
"It was then, I don't know for what reason, that I was seized with a desire to travel in America, in order to study that scenery of which, as people say, we have only counterfeits, more or less successful."
"You are severe, Monsieur," interrupted his companion.
"No, I am just. Nature does not exist amongst us; art alone struts in her place; no European landscape will ever sustain a comparison with a stage scene."
"But I resume: I then redoubled my efforts. I wished to leave, but not before assuring my mother a position which would place her forever, whatever might happen during my absence, above want. By dint of work and perseverance, I succeeded in solving this almost unsolvable problem; the efforts it was necessary to make I will not tell you, sir: they surpass all belief; but my determination was taken."
"I wished to see that America of which travellers give us such magnificent descriptions. At last, after ten years of incessant struggle, I succeeded in acquiring a sum of thirty-five thousand francs—that was very little, was it not? However, that was sufficient for me; I kept five thousand francs for myself, and placed the rest in my mother's name."
"I left; it is now eight months since I landed in America. I am as happy as on the first day. Everything looks smiling to me; the future is mine; I live like the birds, without care for the morrow. I have purchased for the comparatively large sum of two hundred and fifty francs, a rancho of some poor Indian Guaranis, who, frightened by the war of the colonies against the metropolis, have taken a refuge in the grand chaco, among their own people. That is how I have become a landowner."
"Continually journeying hither and thither, I study the country, and I choose the landscape that, at a later period, I shall paint. That will last as long as it may: the future is with God; it is useless for me to concern myself with it beforehand."
"There is my history, Monsieur; you see it is simple."
"Yes," answered his companion, with a pensive air; "too simple, in fact. Complete happiness does not exist in the world in which we are. Why not think a little of the adversity which may surprise you?"
"Why," said the artist, laughing, "it is because, more unhappy and poorer than Polycrates, the tyrant of Samos, I have not even a ring to throw into the sea. Moreover, you know the end of the history; some fish or other would bring it back to me. I prefer to wait."
"This philosophy is good; I see no fault in it. Happy are those who can practise it; unhappily I am not of the number," said he, repressing a sigh.
"If I did not fear to displease you, I would, in my turn, address you a question," pursued the painter.
"I know what you wish to ask. You do not understand—is it not so?—how it is that I, whose elevated position would seem to place me under shelter from tempests, find myself near you today in the desert."
"Pardon me, Monsieur; if what I ask you will the least in the world annoy you, do not tell me a word."
The old man smiled with bitterness—
"No," pursued he; "it is good sometimes to pour off the fulness of one's heart into a pure and indulgent soul. I will only tell you a few words which will acquaint you with all."
"Elevated summits fatally attract lightning; that is an axiom generally acknowledged. Notwithstanding the support I gave the Bourbons, my devotion would not convince them of my fidelity."
"Under the rule of Louis XVIII., they regained the same spirit which had formerly voted the death of Louis XVI. Friends warned me, condemning myself to exile, to avoid the death suspended, without doubt, over my head."
"I abandoned all—parents, friends, fortune, even a name without stain, and honoured up to that time—to go into another hemisphere, to conceal my proscribed head."
"While you, young and careless, arrived by one side in America, I arrived by another side—old, with all my illusions dispelled, cursing the blow which struck me."
"Believe me, whatever may be their name, dynasties are all ungrateful, because they feel themselves powerless. The people alone is just, because it knows that it is strong."
"I pity you in a double sense," answered the young man, holding out his hand: "first, because your proscription is iniquitous, then because you arrive in a country in full revolution."
"I know it," answered he, smiling; "it is on this revolution that I reckon: perhaps it will save me."
"I hope so, for your sake, although your words are so obscure to me that I cannot understand them. It is true that up to the present time I have never thought of politics."
"Who knows if they will not soon absorb all your thoughts?"
"God forbid, Monsieur," cried he with a sort of indignation; "I am a painter."
"Here are my people," said M. Dubois.
"Where?"
"Why here, before us!"
"The devil! Then what are these horsemen who are coming towards us on this side?" said the painter, indicating with his finger, diametrically opposite to that at which appeared a group composed of some fifteen individuals.
"Hum!" said his companion, with a shade of uneasiness; "Who can these people be?"
"Bah!" said the young man; "We shall soon know."
"Too soon, perhaps," answered the old man, pensively shaking his head.
Two troops, in fact, were galloping down towards the river.
They were at about an equal distance from the travellers.
Let us say, in a few words, what was the political situation of the ancient viceroyalty of Buenos Aires at the moment when our history commences.
Notwithstanding the royal decree of Jan. 22, 1809, declaring the provinces of Spanish America an integral part of the monarchy, with equal rights to those of the other provinces of the metropolis, Don Baltazar de Cisneros, named viceroy, arrived with the title of Count of Buenos Aires, and with the authority to receive an annual payment of 100,000 reals.
Indignation, for a long time subdued, at last burst out.
A commission, at the head of which figured two devoted patriots, named don Juan José Castelli and don Manuel Belgrano, was instituted.
On the 14th of May, 1810, a deputation, composed of nearly 600 notables of Buenos Aires, waited on the viceroy to invite him to abandon an authority henceforth ridiculous and illegal, since it emanated from a power which no longer existed in Europe.
A Junta was formed which, after having proclaimed the abolition of the Cour des Comptes, the impost on tobacco, and all dealings with the viceroy, sent an imposing force to Córdoba against General Liniers, French in origin, but devoted to the Spanish monarchy, which for a long time he had served with éclat in America.
Liniers had succeeded in collecting a considerable army, supported by a little squadron which, starting from Monte Video, had come to blockade Buenos Aires.
Unhappily, this event, which was to save the royal cause, compromised it in the most serious way.
The army of Liniers was disbanded; the greater part of the soldiers fell into the hands of the independent party. Moreno, Concha, and Liniers himself, met with the same fate.
The Junta, on learning this unlooked-for result of a campaign from which so much was expected, resolved to strike a decisive blow, in order to intimidate the partisans of the royal cause.
General Liniers was much loved by the people, for he had rendered them many great services. They could have been saved and freed by him. It was necessary to avoid this misfortune.
Don Juan José Castelli consequently received the orders to go in advance of the captives; he obeyed, and they met in the neighbourhood of Mont Pappagallo.
Then there transpired a horrible scene, that history has justly branded with disgrace. Without form of trial, in cold blood, all the prisoners' throats were cut; the bishop of Córdoba alone was spared—not out of respect for his sacred office, but merely to flatter the popular prejudices.
Thus died, cowardly assassinated, General Liniers, a man to whom France justly boasts of having given birth, who rendered such great services to his adopted country, and whose name will everlastingly live on American shores, by reason of his noble and splendid qualities.
A new storm burst over the independent party.
The viceroy of Peru sent, under the command of Colonel Córdoba, a corps d'armée against the Buenos Aireans.
On the 7th November, the two parties met at Hupacha. After a sanguinary fight, the royalists were conquered, and the greater part made prisoners.
Castelli, who, we have seen, massacred Liniers and his companions, had followed the royalist troops in their march. He did not wish to leave his work incomplete: the prisoners were all shot on the field of battle.
The viceroy of Peru, dismayed by this disaster, asked a truce, which the Junta consented to accord to him.
But the struggle was far from ended. Spain was by no means disposed to abandon, without being constrained to do so by force of arms, the magnificent countries where, during a long time, her flag had peaceably floated, and from whence she derived immense riches; and, at the moment when our history recommences, the independence of the Buenos Airean provinces, far from being assured, was again seriously imperilled.
The subjects of the new power had not been long in entering into battle with each other, and in sacrificing to their own miserably ambitious views the most sacred interests of their country, in inaugurating that era of fratricidal war which is not yet finished, and which is leading these beautiful and rich territories to an inevitable ruin.
At the moment when we resume our recital, the Spanish party, for a time subdued, had raised their head again; the colonists, scarcely emancipated, had never found themselves in so great danger of perishing.
The Spanish general, Pezuela, at the head of his experienced troops, made great progress in Peru. On the 25th November he gained a signal victory at Viluma, had retaken Chuguisaca, Potosí, and Tunca; his guards reached Cinti, and some squadrons of volunteer guerillas, partisans of Spain, ravaged almost with impunity the frontier of the province of Tucumán.
The situation was then most critical. The war had lost nothing of its original ferocity; each party appeared to be composed of brigands thirsting for blood and pillage, rather than of brave soldiers or loyal patriots. The road was infested by people without abode, who turned coats according to circumstances, and made war on the two parties according to the exigencies of the moment. The Indians, profiting by these disorders, fished in troubled waters, and chased the whites—royalists or insurgents.
Then, to put the finishing touch to so many misfortunes, a Brazilian army, ten thousand strong, commanded by General Lesort, had invaded the province of Monte Video, which had been for a long time coveted by Brazil, and on which it hoped, favoured by the intestine dissensions of the Buenos Aireans, to seize almost without striking a blow.
It will be easily understood how precarious was the situation of European travellers, necessarily isolated in this country, not knowing either the language or the manners of the people into whose midst they found themselves thrown, and thus cast unawares into the midst of this revolutionary whirlwind, which, like an African simoom, was pitilessly devouring all with which it came in contact.
We shall now return to the two Frenchmen, whom we left carelessly stretched on the grass on the shore of the river, discoursing of various matters.
The view of the second troop, discovered by the painter, had excited to the highest degree the curiosity of his companion. Let us hasten to state that this uneasiness was more than justified by the excessively suspicious appearance of the horsemen.
They were about fifty in number, well mounted, and armed to the teeth with long lances, sabres, poignards, and blunderbusses. These horsemen were evidently Spaniards. Their features, bronzed by the sun and the air of the desert, indicated intelligence and bravery; there was in them something of the haughty and determined bearing of the first Spanish conquerors, from whom they descended in a direct line, without degenerating. Still masters of a great part of the American territory, they did not admit that they could ever be chased from it by the independent party, notwithstanding the victories gained by the latter.
Although riding at a gallop, they advanced in good order; their chests covered with a cuirass of buffalo skin, intended to shield them from the Indian arrows, the lance fixed in the stirrup, the blunderbuss in the bow, the turned sabre in the scabbard, knocking against the spur with a metallic sound.
At ten paces in advance of the troop came a young man of haughty mien, of proud and noble features, with a full black eye, a sarcastic mouth, shaded by a fine black moustache, coquettishly oiled and turned up at the ends.
This young man bore the insignia of a captain, and commanded the troop which followed him. He was about twenty-five years of age; while galloping, he played, with a charming air, with his horse, a magnificent specimen of the untamed coursers of the pampa, who, while spoken to and handled with the nervous delicacy of a woman, curvetted, leaped on one side, and sometimes brought a frown and an ill-humoured grimace to the bronzed and battered countenance of an old sergeant, who was galloping in the rear of the right of the company.
Meanwhile, the distance between the two troops rapidly diminished, and the travellers found themselves, so to speak, the common centre of them.
The two Frenchmen, without saying a word, but as by common consent, had put themselves in the saddle, and in the middle of the track waited, calm and dignified, but their hands on their weapons, and doubtless inwardly uneasy, although they did not wish to appear so.
The second troop, of which we have not yet spoken, was composed of some thirty horsemen at the most, all wearing the characteristic and picturesque costume of the gauchos of the pampa. In the midst they led a dozen mules, loaded with baggage.
Arrived at fifteen paces from the travellers, the two troops halted, appearing to measure one another with their eyes, and mutually preparing for the combat.
To an indifferent spectator, certainly it would have been a strange spectacle offered by these three groups of men, thus boldly camped in the midst of the desert plain, looking defiantly at each other, and, nevertheless, stationary, and appearing to hesitate to charge.
Some minutes passed by.
The young officer, no doubt wishing to bring affairs to a crisis, and wearied with a hesitation he did not appear to share, advanced, making his horse to caracole, and carelessly twirling his moustache.
Arrived at some five or six paces from the travellers:
"Hola, good people," said he, in a sardonic voice, "what do you do there? With a frightened air like nandus in a covey altogether. You do not intend, I suppose, to bar our passage?"
"We have no pretensions of the kind, Señor Captain," answered M. Dubois, in the best Castilian he could manage—Castilian which, notwithstanding his efforts, was deplorable; "we are peaceable travellers."
"¡Caray!" cried the officer, turning round and laughing; "Whom have we here; English, I suppose?"
"No, Señor; Frenchmen," said M. Dubois, with a somewhat nettled look.
"Bah! English or French, what matters?" pursued the officer, with raillery "They are all heretics."
At this manifestation of ignorance, the two travellers shrugged their shoulders with contempt.
"What does that mean?" said the officer.
"Parbleu," answered the painter, "it means that you are deceiving yourself grossly, that is all. We are as good Catholics as you are, if not better."
"Aye, rye, you crow very loud, my young cock."
"Young," said the artist, with a sneer, "you are deceived there again; I am at least two years older than you; as to crowing, it is very easy to swagger and act the 'eater up of little children,' when you are fifty to two."
"Those people down there," pursued the officer, "are they not with you?"
"Yes, they are with us; but what matters that? In the first place, they are inferior to you in number, and next, they are not soldiers."
"Agreed," answered the captain, twirling his moustache with a mocking smile, "I grant you that; what do you wish to conclude from it?"
"Only this, Captain; that we Frenchmen bear insults with great difficulty, no matter where they come from; and that if we were only equal in numbers, this would not have happened."
"Aha, you are brave!"
"Pardieu; revenge is sweet."
"That is swagger also, it appears to me."
"It is an honourable boast."
"Listen," said the captain, after a moment, with exquisite politeness. "I fear I have been deceived with regard to you, and I sincerely ask your pardon for it. I agree to give you free passage, and to those who accompany you, but on one condition."
"Let us have it!"
"You told me a little while ago that I should not speak as I did, had I not believed I should be supported."
"I told you so, because I thought so."
"And you think so still, no doubt?"
"Pardieu!"
"Well, here is what I propose; we are both armed. Let us alight, draw our sabres, and he who shall conquer the other shall be free to act as he thinks proper—that is to say, if it is you, you can pass on your road without fear of being molested, and if it is me, well, a general battle. Does that suit you?"
"Perfectly well," answered the painter, laughing.
"What are you going to do, Monsieur Émile?" cried the old man, briskly. "Do you mean to expose yourself to great danger for a cause which in truth is indifferent to you, and only concerns me?"
"Come," said he, shrugging his shoulders, "are we not fellow countrymen? Your cause is mine. Let me give a lesson to that Spanish braggart, who imagines that Frenchmen are poltroons."
And, without wishing to hear more, he disengaged his foot from the stirrup, leaped to the ground, drew his sabre, and struck its point in the earth, waiting the good pleasure of his adversary.
"But, at least, do you know how to fight?" cried M. Dubois, a prey to the greatest anxiety.
"You are joking," said he, laughing. "Of what use would be the five-and-twenty years' war that France has had, if her sons had not learnt to fight? But make yourself easy," added he, seriously, "I have had eighteen months' instruction in sword exercise, and learned to wield the sabre like a hussar; moreover, we artists know this sort of thing by instinct."
Meanwhile, the captain had also alighted, after having ordered his troop to remain spectators of the combat. The horsemen had shaken their heads; they had, however, not made any remark, but the old sergeant, of whom we have spoken, and who, without doubt, enjoyed certain liberties with his chief, took a few steps in advance, and thought proper to hazard a respectful protest.
The captain, without answering him, made him a mute gesture of a character so decided and imperious, that the worthy soldier stepped back quite snubbed, and resumed his former position without daring to risk a second remonstrance.
"Never mind," he grumbled, between his teeth, twirling his moustache with a furious air; "if this heretic gets the best of it, whatever Don Lucio may say, I know well what I shall do."
The young captain briskly alighted, and advanced towards his adversary, whom he saluted politely.
"I am fortunate," said he, graciously, "in the opportunity which presents itself of receiving from a Frenchman a lesson in fencing, for you have the reputation of being a complete master in arms."
"Eh! Perhaps what you say is more true than you think, Señor," answered the painter, with a smile of raillery; "but if service fails us sometimes, goodwill never forsakes us."
"I am convinced of it, Monsieur."
"Whenever you please to commence, Captain, I am at your orders."
"And I at yours, Señor."
The two adversaries saluted one another with the sabre, and put themselves on guard at the same moment, with perfect grace.
The sabre is, in our opinion, an arm too much disdained, and which ought, on the contrary, to have the preference over the sword in duels, as it has in battles.
The sabre is the true weapon of the military man—officer or soldier. The sword is, on the contrary, only an arm for a gentleman on parade, and is now assumed by persons who, for the most part, carry it at their sides without knowing how to use it.
The sword is a serpent, its bite is mortal. It makes one liable, in using it for a futile cause in a duel, to kill a brave man. The sabre, on the contrary, only makes large wounds which it is easy to heal, and which nearly always it is possible to graduate according to the gravity of the offence received, without risking the life of one's adversary.
The two men, as we have said, had put themselves on their guard. After another bow, the combat commenced, and they exchanged a few passes, mutually feeling their way, as it were, and only using their weapons with extreme prudence.
The Spanish officer was what may be called a good duellist. With a somewhat effeminate appearance, he had a wrist of iron and muscles of steel. His style of fencing was broad and elegant; he appeared to handle his weapon, which was rather heavy, as if he had had a mere reed in his hand.
The style of the French painter was more compact, more nervous, his blows, more unforeseen, and certainly more rapid.
However, the combat did not last long, before it was easy to see with whom would rest the victory. On a sudden, the sabre of the captain leaped into the air, carried away as if by a sling, and fell at a great distance off.
The Frenchman darted off immediately, picked up his adversary's weapon, and presenting it to him:
"Pardon me, Señor," he said, "and be so good, I beg you, to resume a weapon which you use so well. I have only taken it from you by surprise, and I remain at your orders."
"Señor," answered the captain, putting his sabre in the scabbard, "I have merited the lesson that you have given me. Ten times you have had my life in your hands without wishing to take advantage of it. Our combat is finished. I acknowledge myself vanquished, more even by your courtesy than by your skill in the management of arms."
"I do not admit, caballero," pursued the painter, "that any but trifling credit is due to me for the advantage that chance alone has given me over you."
"Go in peace, wherever it may appear good to you, as well as your companions, Señor. You have no insult to fear from us; only I do not consider myself quit of you. My name is Don Lucio Ortega, remember that name. In any circumstances in which you may find yourself, if you have need of me, be it twenty years hence, boldly ask your old adversary and friend."
"I really do not know how to thank you, Señor. I am but a poor French painter, named Émile Gagnepain; but if the opportunity ever presents itself, I shall be happy to prove how much I value the sentiments of goodwill that you manifest towards me."
After this mutual exchange of courtesy, the two men mounted on horseback.
The Spaniards remained motionless at the place where they first stopped, and they allowed to defile before them, without making the least hostile movement, the little troop, at the head of which walked side by side the two Frenchmen. When they passed before him, the captain exchanged a courteous salute with them, and then he gave his troop the order to depart. It darted off at a gallop, and before long had disappeared in the meandering of the track.
"You have been more fortunate than wise," said M. Dubois, to his young companion, when they had crossed the river, and had made the distance between them and the Spaniards rather considerable.
"Why so?" asked the painter, with surprise.
"Why, because you have risked being killed."
"My dear sir, in the country where we now are, we continually run the risk of being killed. In leaving France, I have made a complete abnegation of my life, persuaded that I shall never again see my country. I therefore consider every moment which passes without bringing me misfortune as a favour done me by Providence; so that, my mind being made up, I do not attach the least value to an existence which at any moment can be taken from me under the first pretext that turns up, and even, if need be, under the very slightest provocation."
"You have a rather strange philosophy."
"What can you expect? With the patriots, the royalists, the bandits, the Indians, and the wild animals that infest this country—blessed by Heaven as it is—it would be, in my opinion, folly to reckon on more than four-and-twenty hours of existence, and to form projects for the future."
M. Dubois burst out laughing.
"Nevertheless," said he, "it is necessary for us to think a little of the future just now, if it be but to choose the place where we shall camp for the night."
"Do not let that disquiet you. Have I not said that I would conduct you to my house."
"You have proposed it to me, it is true, but I do not know if I ought to accept your hospitality."
"It will be modest, for I am not rich—far from it; but you may depend it will be cordial."
"But the embarrassment that so great a number of guests will occasion you—"
"You are jesting, Monsieur, or you know very little of Spanish customs. Your people will not cause me any embarrassment."
"Since it is so, then, I accept without further ceremony, so as to pass a few hours more in your charming company."
"Bravo; that is agreed," gaily said the young man; "now, if you will permit me, I will be your guide; for without my assistance, it would be very difficult to find my habitation."
The painter then, in fact, assumed the superintendence of the caravan, and, turning it to the left, he led it by the tracks of wild animals, scarcely perceptible in the grass, to the summit of a gently rising hill, which commanded a view of the plain to a great distance. It was crowned by several buildings, the extent and importance of which the darkness prevented the travellers from deciding.
M. Dubois had only been joined at an hour considerably advanced by his assistants and his escort. The quarrel that had so suddenly been raised by the Spanish captain had caused a rather considerable loss of time, so that the day was far advanced when the travellers could at last resume their journey, and the night had closed in upon them when they ultimately reached the habitation of the young Frenchman.
They had arrived at the foot of the hill, when they saw several lights moving rapidly, and two or three men furnished with torches running before them.
These men were the Indian servants of the painter, who had been a long time watching for the arrival of their master, and who, at the sound of the horses, came to offer him their services.
The installation of the travellers was neither long nor difficult. The mules unloaded, and the baggage placed under a shed, the animals were unsaddled and tied up. The servants gave them provender; then they lighted large fires to cook their supper, and gaily prepared themselves to pass the night in the open air.
M. Dubois and his young companion alone had entered the house, or rather the rancho—for this modest dwelling, built of reeds and clay, and covered with leaves, gave access on all sides to wind and rain, and scarcely merited the name of a cottage.
The interior, however, was neat, and carefully arranged, and supplied with simple but good furniture.
"Here is the salon and the dining room, which we shall later in the evening transform into a sleeping room," said the artist, laughing; "for the present, we will put it to use as a dining room, and will proceed to supper, if you please."
"Nothing will suit me better," answered M. Dubois, pleasantly; "I even promise you that I shall do honour to the supper. I have a tremendous appetite."
"So much the better, then, for the quantity of the repast will make you overlook its quality."
The young man clapped his hands. Almost immediately an Indian woman appeared, and prepared the table, which, in a very brief time was covered with simple dishes, hastily prepared. M. Dubois had opened his bottle case, and had taken from it several bottles, which produced an excellent effect in the primitive receptacle on the middle of the table.
On the invitation of his host, the old man seated himself, and the repast commenced.
After a long day of travelling in the desert, exposed to the heat of the sun and to the dust, people are not very particular as to the quality of the provisions. Appetite makes one consider that to be good which, at another time, would not be touched with the end of the finger. Thus, the aristocratic guest of the painter, making the best of his position, resolutely commenced the attack on what was placed before him; and, contrary to his presentiments, everything was found, if not excellent, at all events eatable.
When supper was over, and the wine vessel taken away, the painter, after a few minutes' conversation, wished his guest a cordial good night, and withdrew.
The latter, as soon as he was alone, changed his mantle into a mattress—that is to say, he stretched it on the table, laid himself down on it, enveloped himself carefully in it, and slept.