While he thus spoke, the Indian had taken from the basket, and spread on the table, after having lit the lamp, provisions for the supper, of which the painter, who had fasted since he left the convent, began to feel the necessity.
"Now, master, I am going up into the rancho, to put everything in order, and to remove all traces of our movements. Good-bye, for the present, and keep up your spirits."
"Thank you, Tyro; but, in the name of Heaven, remember that I trust entirely to you; do not leave me too long a prisoner."
"Depend on me, master. Ah! I forgot to tell you that when I return, it will be by the gallery to the right I shall imitate the cry of the owl three times before entering."
"Well, I will remember. Will you not keep company with me, and have supper?"
"Thank you, master, that is impossible; I must be at San Miguel in an hour."
"Well, do as you wish," answered the painter, suppressing a sigh; "I will not detain you anymore."
"Au revoir, master; patience for a short time."
"À bientôt, Tyro; as to the patience you recommend, I will try and exercise it."
The Indian remounted the ladder, disappeared through the opening, and, after having again bidden adieu to his master, he re-closed the trapdoor.
Emile found himself alone.
He remained a short time motionless, buried in sad reflections; but soon, shaking his head several times, he seated himself on the couch, and proceeded to attack the provisions placed before him on the table.
"Supper!" said he; "That will pass away an hour, especially as I feel a formidable appetite. Positively," added he, after a pause, with his mouth full, "when, on my return to France, I relate my adventures in America, no one will believe me!"
And, pleased with this reflection, he carefully proceeded with his supper.
[1]Sheepskins dyed and prepared.
[1]Sheepskins dyed and prepared.
[2]A pot of tallow.
[2]A pot of tallow.
The same day on which transpired the various events which we have related in our preceding chapters, about nine o'clock in the evening, two persons were seated in the room of the Duke de Montone, and were talking in French with animation. These two persons were the Duke de Montone himself; or M. Dubois, as he wished to be called, and the other, General Don Eusebio Moratin, governor, for the Buenos-Airean patriots, of the town of San Miguel, and of the province Tucuman.
General Moratin was then about forty-five; he was short but stout, and well built. His features would have been handsome, had it not been for the expression of cold calculation in his black and deeply sunken eyes.
This officer, whose memory is justly execrated in the Argentine provinces, and who, if Rosas had not come after him, would have remained the most complete type of the villains which the revolutionary foam, from the commencement of the century, threw to the surface of society, to tyrannise over the people, and dishonour the great human family, played at this time an important part in his country, and enjoyed immense influence.
We shall give his history in a few words. Born in 1760, of a distinguished family of Montevideo, this man had early manifested the most wicked tendencies. The nomadic life of the gauchos, their savage independence, everything about them, even their ferocity, had led away this unruly spirit. For several years he shared their life, and then he got together a band of contrabandists and assassins, of whom he soon became the most active, the most cruel, and the most enterprising member.
The ascendancy gained by this man over his companions in rapine, made them choose him as their chief.
From that time his excesses knew no bounds, and acquired a celebrity at once brilliant and execrable.
He ravaged without pity the Banda Oriental, Entrekios, and Paraguay, destroying the crops, carrying away the women, murdering the men, pillaging the churches, and throwing more than 20,000 families into mourning.
Affairs came to such a pass that the governor of Buenos Aires was obliged to form a corps of volunteers, specially charged to pursue the band of Moratin; but this means was insufficient, and the Spanish Government was obliged to treat with this brigand as between two powers.
His own father served as mediator. The bandits were amnestied, incorporated in the army, and their chief, besides a large sum of money, received the commission of lieutenant, which soon was worth more to him than that of a captain.
But at the first cry of independence raised in the Argentine provinces, Moratin deserted, went over to the insurgents, followed by his old companions, formed a powerfulMontonero, resolutely attacked the Spaniards, and defeated them in several encounters—notably, in 1811, onlas Piedras.
We will not dwell further on the daring deeds of this ferociouscondottiere, whom—notwithstanding the care we have taken to conceal his name—those of his compatriots into whose hands this book may fall will immediately recognise. We will merely add that, after acts of revolting ferocity, mingled with brilliant deeds—for he was endowed with high intelligence—at the moment when we place him on the stage, he had the rank of general, was governor of Tucuman, and probably did not intend merely to remain that.
The picture that the insurgent provinces presented was the most sad and afflicting that could be imagined.
The men in power endeavoured to destroy one another, to the detriment of public tranquillity.
The soldiers had broken all the bonds of subordination, and it was by caprice that they agreed or refused to obey their officers, who themselves generally assumed their rank on their own authority.
The Portuguese made war for the aggrandisement of Brazil, the Montevideans for their own security, and the Buenos Aireans to maintain the union proclaimed, from the commencement of hostilities between the Spaniards.
In this strange conflict of every human passion, the last sentiments of patriotism had been drowned in blood, and each one no longer took his part in the contest, except according to his own avarice or ambition.
In a word, demoralisation was everywhere—good faith nowhere.
Don Eusebio Moratin, although as a Creole he had a sovereign contempt for everything foreign, and especially European, spoke English and French very well—not from a liking to these languages, but from necessity, and in order to facilitate, by an apparent love of liberty, and the support of the great European powers, the ambitious views that he concealed in his heart.
We shall now resume our narrative at the point at which we left it; that is to say, we shall make the reader present at the conclusion of the conversation of of the two politicians whom we have introduced in commencing this chapter.
The general, who had for some minutes been striding about the room, turned suddenly, and facing the duke—
"Bah! Bah!" said he, in a sharp voice, throwing back his head, and smacking his fingers—a gesture which was habitual to him—"I repeat, Monsieur le Duc, that your Zeno Cabral, good soldier as he may be, is but an arrant simpleton."
"Allow me, general—" objected the Frenchman.
"Come," he resumed, with violence, "be a politician! One must be mad to think so. A Montonero chief, who thinks of falling in love—of becoming sentimental! Is it thus that he acts? Eh!Mon Dieu!If the girl pleases him, let him take her! That's as simple as 'good day,' and does not require much diplomacy. I have experience in these matters myself. Every woman wishes to be a little forced—that's a preliminary. Instead of that he puts on sorrowful airs, rolls his eyes, sighs, and almost goes the length of composing madrigals. Upon my word, it would be enough to make one burst out into laughter, if it did not make one shrug his shoulders with pity. Mother and daughter only mock him, and they are right. He is a thorough simpleton. You will see that they will finish by slipping through his fingers, like two snakes as they are, and they will do it well! I shall heartily rejoice at such a splendid result of a platonic attachment, seasoned with hereditary vengeance. Do not speak to me any more of this man; there is nothing to be done with him."
The duke had listened to this impassioned outburst with coolness, which was perpetually stereotyped on his impassable countenance.
When the general had finished, he looked at him for a time, with a slightly mocking air, and then taking up the conversation—
"All that is very well, general," said he, "but this is, after all, only your individual opinion, is it not?"
"Certainly," said Don Eusebio.
"You would be very little pleased, I imagine,", resumed he, smiling, "if the words you have just muttered were repeated to Don Zeno Cabral."
A flash of ferocity darted from the eye of the general; but immediately recovering himself—
"I admit," said he, "that I should be annoyed at it."
"Then," resumed the duke, "of what use is it to say things which one day or other you might regret. With me it is of no consequence; I know too well by what slight threads the deepest political combinations are often held, ever to abuse confidence; but in a hasty moment you might permit yourself to speak thus before a third party, of whom you could not be so sure as you are of me; and then the consequences might be serious."
"You are right, my dear duke," said the general, laughing; "consider that I have said nothing."
"That is right, general—especially as at this moment you have the most pressing need of Don Zeno Cabral and his squadron."
"That is true; unhappily, I cannot do without him."
"A charming way of inspiring his confidence, to treat him as a simpleton!"
"Oh, forget that, and let us come, if you please, to business. Don Zeno will not be long before he comes here. I should like that everything was decided upon between us before he comes."
The Frenchman looked at the clock.
"We have still twenty minutes," said he; "that is more than is necessary to decide upon everything. Now, what is your project?"
"To have me declared president of the republic!" he exclaimed, with violence.
"I know it, but that is not of what I am speaking."
"Of what are you speaking, then?"
"Of the means you intend to employ to reach the end you are ambitious to arrive at."
"Ah, that is just where the shoe pinches. I do not know what to do; we are now wading in such a muddy pool—"
"That's an additional consideration," interrupted the duke; "the best fish are always found in troubled water."
"To say that to me!" said the general, with a burst of laughter; "I have never fished in any other but troubled water."
"Well, if you have succeeded up to the present time, you must continue."
"I should like to do so, but how?"
The duke appeared to reflect seriously for some minutes, while the general looked at him anxiously.
"See how unjust you are, my dear general," at last resumed the duke; "it is just this love of Don Zeno for the daughter of the Marchioness de Castelmelhor—a love that you have spoken of so bitterly—that will furnish you with those means you have been unsuccessfully seeking."
"I do not understand the least in the world what relation there can be between—"
"Patience!" interrupted the diplomatist. "What do you wish first?—the immediate removal of Don Zeno Cabral, who, loved and respected by all as he is, resume his presence, influence the votes of the deputies uttered witted at this moment in the town to proclaim, independence, and perhaps elect a president; is it not that?"
"Just so; but Don Zeno will not consent, under any pretence, to go away."
The diplomatist slightly sneered, casting a look of pity on his companion.
"General," said he, "have you ever been in love in your life?"
"I!" cried Don Eusebio, with a start of surprise. "Ah, you are jesting with me, my dear duke."
"Not the least in the world," answered he, calmly.
"To the devil with such a silly question, when we are dealing with a serious affair!"
"Not so silly as you suppose, general. I am not at all wandering from our business. So I beg you do me the pleasure of answering me plainly. Have you, or have you not, been in love?"
"Since you insist on it—well, I have never been what you call in love; is that clear?"
"Perfectly; well, that's just the difference between you and Don Zeno Cabral, that he is in love."
"Pardieu!The good and important news that you tell me, my dear duke!—after an hour, I am waiting for it."
"Agreed; but wait the conclusion."
"Let us have the conclusion, then."
"Here it is. It has been said, a century ago, by a fabulist of our nation, in a charming way, in a fable that I will someday read to you—"
"But the conclusion!" cried the general, stamping with impatience.
"Hum! How lively you are, my dear general," replied the duke, imperturbably, amused by the exasperation of his companion. "Listen; it is not long, but it is in verse. Calm yourself; there are but two lines:"
"'Amour, amour! Quand tu nous tiens,On peut bien dire: Adieu, prudence.'"[1]
"So you understand?"
"Pretty well," answered the general, who really did not understand at all, but who did not like to confess it; "however, I do not see—"
"It is, however, very simple, my dear general; it is just by his love that we hold him."
"That is to say—"
"That is to say, that in knowing how to excite this love, we shall succeed in the result we wish to obtain."
"For once, I do not understand you, Monsieur le Duc; this love has no need of being excited, I should think."
"Not love, perhaps," answered the Frenchman, laughing; "but jealousy, at all events; as to that, let me act; I have taken it into my head that you shall succeed, and it shall be so."
"I thank you, my dear duke, for the aid you are pleased to give me; but would it not be well that you should make me acquainted with your projects, so that I can, in case of need, come to your assistance; whereas, if I remain in ignorance, as at present, perhaps it will happen that, without knowing it, I shall run contrary to you."
"You are right, general; moreover, I have no reason to hide from you the means I intend to employ, since it is you alone that all this concerns."
"Just so; I shall, then, be much obliged to you to explain, my dear duke."
"Very well."
At that moment the door was opened wide, and a servant, dressed in a splendid livery, announced—
"His Excellency General Don Zeno Cabral."
The two men exchanged a rapid look of intelligence, and rose to salute the general.
"I am disturbing you, gentlemen?" said the latter, as he entered.
"Not the least in the world, Señor Don Zeno," replied the Frenchman; "on the contrary, we have been waiting for you with the greatest impatience."
"Pardon me for coming a few minutes earlier than the time you deigned to mention for our interview, Monsieur le Duc; but as I knew I should find his Excellency the governor here, I hastened to come, having an important communication to make to him."
"Then you are doubly welcome, dear general," answered Don Eusebio.
The servant brought forward a chair, and withdrew. The conversation, begun in French on account of the difficulty that the duke felt in expressing himself in Spanish, was continued in the same language, which—we will say, in a parenthesis—Don Zeno spoke with remarkable purity.
"You were saying, then, dear Don Zeno," pursued Don Eusebio, when they were seated, "that you have an important communication to make to me?"
"Yes, Monsieur le Gouverneur."
"Then be so good, I beg you, as to explain yourself freely. The duke knows all our secrets; moreover, it is not fair to our friends that we should make what interests us a mystery to them."
"Here is the affair in a few words," answered Don Zeno Cabral, with a bow. "The two prisoners, who were to have been tried tomorrow as spies by the council of war—Don Louis Ortego and the Count de Mendoza—that I myself arrested at the Cabildo on the night of thefête—"
"Well?" interrupted General Moratin.
"Well, they have escaped."
"Escaped!" cried the governor, with surprise.
"This very day, at sunrise, disguised as Franciscan monks. Accomplices held their horses, all prepared, at the gates of the town."
"Oh! Oh! That seems to me decided treason!" cried the general, knitting his eyebrows "I will—"
"Do nothing," interrupted Don Zeno; "any step would now be useless; they have fourteen hours in advance, and people travel quickly when it is to save their lives."
"When did you hear of this escape, of which no one has informed me?"
"You were hunting, general."
"That is true; I am to blame."
"By no means, for in your absence I took upon myself to give orders."
"I thank you, dear Don Zeno."
"In leaving the house of the Marchioness de Castelmelhor, where I had gone this morning, one of your aides-de-camp, general, who was looking for you, and wished to mount horse to join you, gave me the news of this flight; I immediately dispatched detachments in all directions in pursuit of the fugitives."
"Very good."
"These detachments have returned, except one, without learning any news of the prisoners."
"This is a serious affair, and which cannot but further complicate the difficult position in which we find ourselves just now."
"I did not stop there, Monsieur le Gouverneur," answered Don Zeno; "I went to the prison to ask the director about the particulars of the escape; moreover, I dispersed through the town some intelligent persons, whom I charged to converse about the matter, and to report to me what they heard."
"You could not have been more prudent or better advised, my dear Don Zeno; I congratulate you with all my heart."
"You give too much importance to so simple a thing."
"And what have you learnt?"
"Upon my word," replied Don Zeno, half turning towards the French diplomatist, "I have learnt one thing that will much astonish you, Monsieur le Duc, and that I do not yet dare to believe."
"What?" said the duke, smiling; "Have I, without knowing it, aided the flight of your prisoners?"
"Well," said Don Zeno, laughing, "it is something of that sort."
"Ah! Upon my word!" cried the duke; "You are going to explain, are you not, general?"
"I am quite willing, Monsieur le Duc; but, reassure yourself; you are not concerned in all this—only one of your friends."
"One ofmyfriends! But I am a foreigner; there is no one except you that I know in the town, where I have come, for the first time, only a few days ago."
"Just so," said Don Zeno, laughing; "it is one of your compatriots."
"One of my compatriots!"
"Yes, a certain Emile Gagnepain. It would appear that he has—understand that I am only the echo of anon dit, general—"
"Continue—he has—"
"He has entertained relations with the prisoners, whom he has known for a long time; and, in a word, that he has finished by enabling them to escape."
A slight and scarcely perceptible smile played on the thin lips of the diplomatist at this revelation; but immediately regaining his coolness—
"As to that, gentlemen," answered he, "I can immediately prove to you the falsity of this accusation brought against my unhappy compatriot."
"I should like nothing better, for my part," said Don Zeno.
"How will you do that?" demanded Don Eusebio.
"You shall see; my compatriot, or rather, my friend, lives in this very house; I will have him called."
"Very good," observed the governor; "by his answers we shall soon know what he is."
"Observe, Monsieur le Duc, that I affirm nothing," pursued Don Zeno—"that I in no way attack the honour of thiscaballero."
"It is of no consequence, gentlemen," cried the duke, with an expression of indignation; "if he were really guilty—which I declare impossible—I should be the first to abandon him to your justice."
The two men bowed without answering. The duke struck a bell.
A servant appeared.
"Inform Don Emile," said the duke, "that I wish to speak to him immediately."
"Señor Don Emile is not in his apartment, your lordship," answered the servant, bowing respectfully.
"Ah!" said the diplomatist, with astonishment; "Still out at this hour! Well, when he returns—for he cannot be long—beg him to come here."
The servant bowed without moving.
"Have you not understood me?" resumed the diplomatist; "Why do you not withdraw?"
"Your lordship," respectfully answered the servant, "Don Emile will not return."
"Don Emile will not return! What do you know about it?"
"He has this morning had all his baggage taken away by a man, who said that he was going immediately to leave the town."
The duke made a sign for the servant to withdraw.
"This is strange!" murmured he, when the door had closed upon the valet; "What does this departure mean?"
The two Creoles looked at each other with astonishment.
"No," pursued the duke, decidedly, "I cannot yet believe him guilty; there is evidently something in this affair of which we are ignorant."
The door at this moment again opened.
"Señor Captain Don Sylvio Quiroga," announced the servant.
"Let him come in," said Don Zeno.
And turning towards the duke—
"Pardon me, sir; Captain Quiroga is the last officer dispatched by me in pursuit of the fugitives. He is an old traveller. I am much deceived if he does not bring us news."
"He will be very welcome, then," said Don Eusebio.
"Yes, we will welcome him," added the duke, "for I hope that the information which he will give us will dissipate the doubts which have been raised as to the honour of my unfortunate countryman."
"God grant it!" said Don Zeno.
Captain Don Sylvio Quiroga appeared. After having respectfully bowed to the persons who were in the room, he drew himself up, and waited till they should address him.
"Well!" asked Don Zeno, "Have you found any trace of the fugitives, captain?"
"I have, general," he answered.
"Have you brought them back?"
"No."
"You have not overtaken them?"
"Yes, general."
"Then, how is it that you return without these two men?"
"First, they are no longer two, general; it appears that they have secured a companion on their journey. I saw three of them myself."
There was a momentary silence, during which the Frenchman and the two Creoles exchanged looks.
"It is little matter whether they are two or three," resumed Don Zeno. "How is it, captain, that having overtaken them, you allowed them to escape?"
"General, here is the fact in a few words. At the moment when I was preparing to take them by the collar—for I was scarcely more than a pistol shot from them—two or three hundred horsemen unawares darted out of a little wood, and charged us with fury. As I had with me only eight men, I thought it prudent not to wait the attack of these enemies, that I was far from expecting so near me, and I immediately retreated with my companions."
"Oh! Oh! What do you say?" cried Don Zeno, "You were afraid perhaps, captain?"
"Upon my word, yes, general; I was afraid, and very much so," frankly answered the officer, "especially when I saw with what sort of people I had to do."
"Were they, then, so terrible?"
"I returned immediately, at all speed, to inform you, general; for, as I was escaping, I had plenty of time to thoroughly observe them."
"And they are?" demanded the governor, impatiently.
"They are Pincheyras, your Excellency," coolly answered the old soldier.
This revelation came like a thunderbolt on those to whom he spoke. Don Zeno especially, and Don Eusebio appeared extraordinarily agitated.
"Pincheyras!" repeated they.
"Yes, and we shall soon know what they want. I have placed two men in ambush on their route, with orders to watch their movements."
"Well," cried the governor, rising quickly, "we cannot take too many precautions with such demons. Excuse me, Monsieur le Duc, for quitting you so abruptly; but the news brought by this brave officer is of the utmost importance. I must, without delay, prepare for the safety of the town. Tomorrow, if you will permit me, we will resume this interview."
"When you please, gentlemen," answered the diplomatist; "you know that I am at your orders."
"A thousands thanks—tomorrow then. Are you coming with me, Señor Cabral?"
"Certainly, I am with you," answered the latter. "We cannot employ too much prudence in so grave a position."
The two generals immediately took leave of the duke, and went out, followed by the captain.
When the door was closed, and the old diplomatist found himself alone, he rubbed his hands, and darting an ironical look towards the place where his visitors had disappeared—
"I think," murmured he, with a smile of raillery, "there is already a pretty trap prepared! Eh! Eh! My dear friend Emile will do well if he escape. I like him too much not to make his fortune, in spite of himself. I at least owe him that for the service he has rendered me."
[1]O love, love, when thou takest possession of us, we may well say, Prudence, adieu!
[1]O love, love, when thou takest possession of us, we may well say, Prudence, adieu!
It is difficult to form an idea of the rapidity with which, bad news spreads—of the way in which it is disfigured in passing from mouth to mouth, constantly increasing, and finishing, in a very short time, by returning to the author of it, so surcharged with statements, and embellished with details, that he cannot recognise it.
We might almost suppose that there exist in the atmosphere electric currents, which become charged, so as to transmit to the greatest distance, with the rapidity of lightning, that bad news that the chiefs in power only confide to the ear, and under the express condition of the utmost secrecy.
Captain Don Sylvio Quiroga had not, since his return to San Miguel, communicated with any other person but Don Eusebio Moratin and Don Zeno Cabral. His soldiers had, like himself, kept perfectly silent on what had passed during their short expedition in search of the fugitives; and yet, by an inexplicable fatality, scarcely had the two generals, on leaving the Duc de Montone, reached the gates of the Plaza Mayor, than on all sides they perceived frightened people, and heard voices, saddened by fear, murmuring the dreaded name of the Pincheyras.
The news had already made much way. It was no longer 300 men who had shown themselves in the environs of the town, but a formidable Spanish army, coming from Peru—pillaging, burning, devastating everything on its route—and of which the ferocious squadron of the Pincheyras formed the advance guard. They had arrived by forced marches; and soon—the next day, perhaps—they would encamp before the town. What was to be done? what was to be resolved on? Where were the people to hide, or to fly? It was all over with San Miguel; the Spaniards, to avenge their defeats, would not leave there one stone upon another.
Those who had seen them—for, as usual, there were people who asserted that they had seen this fantastic Spanish army, which existed only in their imaginations—were certain that they had heard the enemy utter the most terrible oaths of vengeance against the unfortunate insurgents.
People, furnished with torches, coming from no one knew where, traversed the town in all directions, crying—
"To arms! To arms!"
At these cries, at these lurid flames, which cast ill-omened reflections on the walls, the citizens came in all haste from their houses; the women and children wept and lamented—in a word, the panic had become in a few minutes so general, that the two officers, who, nevertheless, knew the truth, were themselves frightened, and asked themselves if the danger was not, in fact, greater than they had supposed it.
They mounted their horses, that their assistants were holding for them at the door of the duke's house, and set out at full gallop towards the Cabildo.
Notwithstanding the advanced hour—it was beyond midnight—the Cabildo, at the moment when the governor and the Montonero entered it, was invaded by the crowd, and offered a spectacle of disorder and of fear, not less animated and not less noisy than that which they had just seen in crossing the Plaza Mayor.
The two officers were received with cries of joy and protestations of devotion that fear alone could inspire in the greater part of the people present.
The governor had considerable difficulty in re-establishing a little order, and in making himself heard by these people, rendered almost insensible by terror.
But it was in vain that he tried to reassure them in relating simply what had passed; they did not wish to believe him, and he did not succeed in convincing anyone that the danger which they so much feared did not exist.
The tocsin sounded from all the churches; barricades were constructed at the corners of all the streets, which were constantly traversed by armed patrols of the citizens, whilst others bivouacked on the place.
The town at this time offered the aspect of a vast camp. It was useless to try and resist the torrent—the governor understood that. Despairing to re-establish security by ordinary methods, he pretended to give way to the views of the persons who surrounded him, and tried to organise the panic in giving orders for the defence of the city, and in dispatching aides-de-camp in all directions.
Don Zeno, after having exchanged a few words in a low voice with the governor, instead of going up into the Cabildo, had started off rapidly, followed by Captain Quiroga.
But his absence was not long. Soon a gallop of horses was heard, and Don Zeno reappeared at the head of hisMontonero, which immediately installed its bivouac on the Plaza Mayor.
The sight of the partisans, in whose courage the inhabitants of San Miguel had full confidence, began by degrees to reassure the population.
So much the more as theMontoneros, after having attached their horses to the pickets, and placed their sentinels, mingled with the crowd, and began gently—talking with one and the other, at first pretending to enter into the prevailing ideas—to re-establish the facts so strangely disfigured, by relating the affair just as it really was.
The influence of these recitals, carried from one to the other, and continually recommenced by the soldiers, was soon felt in the crowd; the reaction soon manifested itself, and the less cowardly felt their courage returning a little.
However, at last it was found that the danger, though less than it was supposed, nevertheless existed, and that the nearness of the royalist Montoneros could not but be very disquieting for the common safety. General Moratin skilfully took advantage of the excitement of the population, by taking the most efficacious measures he could think of to resist an attack till reinforcements arrived, in case the enemy might suddenly try and take the town by surprise—which was not without precedent in the history of the Buenos Airean revolution.
Devoted officers superintended the construction of the barricades; on the terraced roofs of the houses stones were carried to crush the assailants; depôts of arms and munitions were established in various places; and barriers were closed and defended by numerous soldiers.
Meanwhile, Don Zeno Cabral, at the head of forty resolute Montoneros, had set out on a journey of discovery, starting off madly into the open country.
All the deputies were assembled in the Cabildo, in the Hall of Assembly, and were declareden permanence.
The governor, wishing by his presence to assure the population, had mounted horse, and, followed by a numerous staff, had traversed the town in all directions, encouraging some, reprimanding others, and exciting the inhabitants to do their duty, and to fight the enemy bravely, if he dared to show himself.
The whole night passed thus. At sunrise, calmness was somewhat re-established, although everyone preserved his arms, and remained at his post.
Don Zeno Cabral, who had left more than four hours to reconnoitre, had not returned. Don Eusebio did not know what to think of this long absence, which began seriously to disquiet him.
Several aides-de-camp, dispatched by him to seek for the Montoneros, had returned without bringing news either of him or his detachment.
In the meanwhile, an officer entered, leant towards the ear of the governor, and murmured some words which he alone heard.
Don Eusebio started and turned rather pale, but immediately recovering himself:
"Captain," said he, to the officer, "sound the order to saddle, and let all the squadron of Don Zeno Cabral mount horse. We will go and make a reconnaissance out of the town, in order to reassure the population by proving that danger no longer exists."
The order was immediately executed; the Montonero left the town at a trot.
General Don Eusebio Moratin, mounted on a magnificent black horse, and dressed in a uniform covered with gold embroidery, rode at its head.
The crowd, scattered through all the streets, saluted the partisans as they passed with hearty exclamations.
The Montonero appeared rather to execute a military promenade, than to be setting out to make a reconnaissance.
When the troop was in the open country, and some rising ground had hidden it from the gaze of the inhabitants, the general had a halt sounded, stationed the sentinels, and ordered the officers to come to him on a hillock, on the summit of which he had stopped, at about a hundred paces in advance of the squadron.
The latter immediately obeyed with an impatience mingled with curiosity; for, although no one had informed them, they vaguely suspected that this sudden sortie from the town concealed some motive graver than that of a promenade.
When all the officers had arrived, and had dismounted, they ranged themselves in a circle round the general. The latter began:
"Caballeros," said he to them, firmly, "the time for dissimulation has passed; it is my duty frankly to explain to you the situation, especially as I have great need of your assistance."
"Speak, general," answered the officers; "we are ready to obey you as if you were really our chief, whatever may be the order you may give us in the interest of the country."
"I thank you, Caballeros, and I count upon your promise. Here is what has happened: your chief, Don Zeno Cabral, deceived by a traitor, a spy, or an imbecile—we do not yet know which—has been, with a few men who accompanied him, surprised by a party of royal scouts. Everything leads to the belief that this party belongs to the formidable band of the Pincheyras. Don Zeno, after prodigies of valour, has been constrained to surrender, to prevent bloodshed. Happily, one of his companions has succeeded in escaping almost by a miracle. It is he who has informed us of what has happened We can therefore depend on the news."
The officers, at these words, uttered exclamations of rage.
"The enemies are near," continued the general, commanding silence by a gesture. "Not knowing of the flight of one of their prisoners, and feeling perfectly sure that their boldcoup de mainis still unknown to us, they have only withdrawn gently, and almost without order. The opportunity is, therefore, favourable to take our revenge, and to deliver our chief and your friends. Will you?"
"Yes, yes!" cried the officers, brandishing their arms. "At them! At them!"
"Very well," answered the general; "before an hour we shall have overtaken them; we shall attack them unawares, and then each will do his duty. Remember that the men that attack us are bandits, with neither good faith nor law, placed by their crimes under the ban of society. At them, then, and no quarter!"
The officers responded by cries and oaths of vengeance, placed themselves at the head of their respective platoons, and the squadron set out at a gallop, almost hidden by the cloud of dust that they raised on their passage.
What General Moratin had announced to the officers of the squadron was true, or, at least—somewhat misinformed by the fugitive—he thought it so; but affairs had not transpired exactly as had been stated.
Don Zeno Cabral left, as we have said, about two o'clock in the morning, at the head of a rather weak detachment, with the intention of making a reconnaissance in the environs of the town. After having scoured the country for two or three hours, without discovering anything suspicious, and without noticing any trace of the passage of an armed troop, he wished, before reentering the town, to explore the borders of the river, which—escarped by reason of the numerous masses of rock which lined it, and, moreover, covered with thick clusters of trees and shrubbery—might conceal an ambuscade of marauders. He had therefore made a turn, and, advancing with the greatest caution, in order not to be surprised, had commenced his exploration.
For a long time the Montoneros marched thus, beating the thickets and the underwood with the point of their lances, without discovering anything; and their chief, convinced that the enemy—if by chance he had ventured so near the town—had judged it prudent not to remain there any longer, gave the order to retreat; when all of a sudden, at the moment when it was least expected, a hundred men rose on all sides from the midst of the thicket, surrounded his troop, and vigorously attacked it.
Although surprised and harassed by an enemy of whose number they were ignorant, but whom they supposed, with reason to be much superior to themselves, the Montoneros were not the men to lay down their arms at the first blow, without trying to sell their life dearly, especially with such a man to command them.
There was, at first, terrible disorder—a terrible collision, hand-to-hand—in the midst of which Don Zeno Cabral was unhorsed, and thrown to the ground.
For a time his companions thought him dead.
It was then that one of them slipped unperceived into the midst of the trees and rocks, and galloped hard to San Miguel to carry the news of the defeat of the Montoneros.
They were, however, far from being conquered. Don Zeno Cabral had almost immediately risen, and had reappeared at the head of his men, who, discouraged for a time by his fall, had, on seeing him again on horseback, regained their confidence.
However, the assailants were too numerous—the place of ambuscade too well chosen—for the Montoneros to have the hope—not of conquering them, they had no thought of that—but of escaping from the scrape into which they had fallen.
Don Zeno Cabral perceived at a glance the difficulties of the ground on which it was necessary to fight, and where it was impossible for the men to manoeuvre their horses.
All his efforts were then directed to enlarge the field of battle. The Montoneros, grouped firmly around him, boldly charged the enemy several times without succeeding in breaking through them; the position was well attacked and well defended; they fought Montoneros against Montoneros, bandits against bandits.
The chief of the patriots knew with what enemies he had to contend: their red ponchos—a uniform adopted by the Pincheyras—had caused them to be recognised as soon as daylight had come.
For during the desperate combat that the two troops had been waging, the sun had risen.
Unhappily the light of day, in revealing the small number of the patriots, rendered their defeat more probable.
The Pincheyras, furious at having been so long held in check by so feeble a detachment, redoubled their efforts to completely defeat them.
But the latter were not discouraged; led a last time to the charge by their intrepid chief, they rushed with fury on their enemies, who vainly tried to bar their passage.
The Montoneros had succeeded in overturning the human barrier raised before them, and had gained the plain.
But at the price of what sacrifices!
Twenty of their men were lying lifeless on the rocks,—the survivors to the number of about fifteen at the most, were, for the most part, wounded and weighed down by the fatigue of the unequal combat they had so long to sustain.
All was not finished however; for the patriots to find themselves in open country was not to be saved. However, they did not deceive themselves as to their fate, but, knowing that they had no quarter to expect from their ferocious enemies, they preferred to be killed rather than to fall alive into the hands of their enemies, and be condemned to suffer horrible tortures.
Nevertheless, though still very bad, their situation was decidedly ameliorated, by reason that they now had space around them, and that their safety would depend on the swiftness of their horses.
The Pincheyras, to surprise their enemies, had been obliged to dismount, and to hide their horses some paces from them.
When the Montoneros had succeeded in opening a passage, the Pincheyras precipitated themselves immediately towards the spot where they had left their horses, in order to pursue them.
There was then compulsorily a pause, by which Don Zeno Cabral and his companions profited, to increase the distance which separated them from their enemies.
The chief of the Pincheyras, a man of tall figure, with energetic and marked features, and a harsh and cruel expression—still young, and who, during the combat, had performed prodigies of valour, and had furiously pressed Don Zeno Cabral himself, whom he had at the commencement of the action overthrown from his horse—soon appeared almost lying on his horse, furiously brandishing his lance, and exciting with loud cries the twenty horsemen by whom he was followed.
The other Pincheyras were not long in overtaking him, emerging successively from the midst of the rocks and the clusters of trees.
Then the pursuit began—rapid, disordered, desperate—on all sides.
The Montoneros, to give less chance to their enemies, had dispersed over a large space. They stretched themselves over their horses, hanging on one side by the stirrup, and holding the bridle with one hand, to avoid thebolasand thelagos,that their enemies, while rapidly galloping, flourished round their heads.
This manhunt, thanks to the skill of these practised horsemen, presented a most stirring spectacle, full of strange incidents.
The Pincheyras, however, notwithstanding the efforts of the Montoneros—owing to the fresh horses they rode—approached them rapidly. A few minutes more and they would arrive within reach of those whom they pursued, when, on a sudden, the earth resounded under the rapid gallop of a considerable troop of horsemen, and a thick cloud of dust appeared on the horizon.
This cloud soon separated, and General Don Eusebio Moratin, followed by the whole squadron of Don Zeno Cabral, charged furiously upon the royalists.
The latter, surprised in their turn, when they already thought themselves conquerors, uttered cries of rage, and immediately turning their bridles, they endeavoured to escape in all directions, closely pressed by the Montoneros, who, on recognising their chief, had redoubled their ardour. Don Zeno, burning to draw a brilliant vengeance from what he considered an affront, affectionately grasped the hand of the general; and, although overcome by fatigue, and wounded in two or three places, put himself at the head of his squadron, and dashed with it upon the Pincheyras.
Speedily thebolasand thelagosflew on all sides, and the horsemen, hurled from their saddles, rolled on the ground with cries of rage and anguish.
The strife was short, but terrible. Surrounded by the squadron, the Pincheyras, despite a desperate resistance, were defeated, and were obliged to surrender.
Scarcely twenty-five survived; the others, strangled by thelagos, wounded by the lances, or their skulls broken by the terriblebolas, lay stretched upon the field.
One man only had escaped, by what miracle it was impossible to say.
It was the chief of the Pincheyras.
Hemmed in by the Montoneros, trapped like a wild beast, he had penetrated into a thick cluster of mastic trees, and trees of Peru, whither the patriots had almost immediately followed him.
The Pincheyra had coolly faced his pursuers; with the last shot from his carbine he had killed one of those who most closely pressed him, and then, with a laugh of disdain, he had buried himself in the midst of a thicket, where he had suddenly disappeared.
Vainly the Montoneros, exasperated by the desperate resistance of this man, and the last death he had caused, started after him to capture him. For more than an hour they searched the ground foot by foot, inch by inch; separated the branches in the wood, and struck the ground with their lances; they could not succeed in discovering any traces of their bold adversary. He had become invisible. All search was vain—they could not find him again, and the Montoneros felt compelled to give up the pursuit.
The general had the order to depart sounded, though much against his liking. It annoyed him much not to be able to bring that man to San Miguel—so much the more as one of the prisoners had avowed that he whom they sought was no less than Don Santiago Pincheyra himself.
The reputation of Don Santiago was too well established for the general not to be vexed at not having succeeded in capturing him.
However, he was obliged to return to the town. The prisoners were tied to the tails of the horses, and the squadron set out at a gallop for San Miguel.
"Señor general," said Don Zeno Cabral to the governor, taking his hand with emotion, "you have saved my life—more than that, you have saved my honour. Whatever happens, I am yours, at whatever time—I give you my word."
"Thank you, Don Zeno," replied the general, a slight smile answering to the warm grasp of the hand; "I accept your word, and will remember it in case of need."
"In everything, and for everything, depend on me."
An hour later the squadron re-entered San Miguel, received by the joyful cries of the inhabitants, at the sight of the unhappy Pincheyras led prisoners at the tails of the horses.
The passage of the Montoneros through the streets of the town was a complete triumph.
We must now return to the French painter that we have left buried, so to say, at the bottom of a cavern, philosophically making up his mind to this voluntary seclusion, which, however, circumstances rendered indispensable, and vigorously attacking the provisions placed before him.
Obliged to remain alone during a considerable time, and not knowing how to employ himself, the young man prolonged his meal as much as possible; and then—when, despite all his efforts, he felt the natural impossibility of taking another mouthful—he lit a cigar, and began to smoke with the beatific resignation of a Mahometan, or a drinker ofhatckich.After this cigar he smoked another, then another, and then another, followed immediately by a fourth; so that midnight came almost without his perceiving it, and he laid himself upon his hammock without being wearied.
However, Emile had too nervous an organisation to content himself long with this kind of life. It was with a sigh of regret that he closed his eyes and slept; for he could not foresee the termination of his imprisonment, and the prospect of remaining several days thus alone frightened him.
How long had he remained plunged in sleep, he could not tell. Suddenly he jumped up, sat up in his hammock, with his forehead pale, and his features contracted, casting around him a look of fright.
In the midst of his sleep—while he was cradled in those sweet dreams that tobacco sometimes procures for those who abuse it when they are not accustomed to smoke it to excess—he suddenly thought he heard cries, and the trampling of horses, mingled with deadened sounds. For some time these sounds were mingled and incorporated with the events of his dream.
But soon these cries and trampling acquired such an intensity—appeared so near the young man—that they suddenly awakened him from his sleep.
At first he took no account of what he heard, believing that it was but a sound existing only in his imagination—the last echo, in fact, of his interrupted dream.
But when, by degrees, he succeeded in recovering his ideas, and when he felt that he was completely awake, he acquired the certainty, not only that this noise was real—that he was not the dupe of an illusion of his senses—but that it every moment increased, and had become very loud.
One would have thought that a desperate combat was even being fought in the cavern itself.
However, all was calm around the young man; the lamp—the wick of which he had lowered when he lay down, so that its too brilliant light might not hinder his sleeping—shed a gentle and uncertain light, but strong enough to enable him to assure himself at a glance that all was in the state in which he had left it on retiring to bed, and that he was still alone.
He rose, a prey to extraordinary agitation.
The first thought that occurred to him was that his retreat was discovered, and that they wished to arrest him; but he soon admitted the absurdity of this supposition, and reassured himself; the people charged to secure him would simply have entered the cavern, and would have had no combat to sustain; they would have made him a prisoner even before he had had time to open his eyes.
But what could be the cause of this frightful tumult which still continued quite near to him?
This extremely puzzled the young man, and awakened his curiosity to the highest pitch.
He looked at his watch. It was half past five in the morning.
Outside, then, it was daylight. It could not be a gathering of wild beasts, the sun making them retire into their caves; moreover, these animals would not dare to venture so near the town.
What was it, then?
A battle, perhaps! But a battle in the middle of the night, almost at the gates of San Miguel, the capital of the province of Tucuman, where, on account of the congress, considerable forces were now united; this supposition was not admissible.
For a moment the young man thought of knocking at the trapdoor, to get it opened, and to ask information of the rancheros.
But he reflected that these good people were supposed to be ignorant of his presence among them—that this inconsiderate proceeding would displease them, and cause them to fear afterwards getting into trouble about him.
And then, if this uproar was really that of a fight, it was probable that the poor Indians at the commencement of the fight had abandoned their rancho, half dead with fright, and had flown across the country, in order to conceal themselves in some retreat known to themselves alone, to escape the fury of one or other of the two parties; so that it would be pure loss of time for him to call them and ask them to open the door.
These various considerations were strong enough to restrain him from committing an imprudence in revealing his retreat, if, by chance, the rancho had been temporarily occupied by his enemies.
But as—as we have said—his curiosity was excited to the highest degree, and as, in the precarious situation he was in it was important for him—at least, he gave himself this reason to justify in his own eyes the step he wished to take—to know what was passing around him, in order to know how to act; he resolved to act without further delay, and learn the causes of this extraordinary uproar, which had so suddenly troubled his repose.
HE therefore rose, took a sabre, passed a pair of pistols in his girdle, seized a carbine, and thus armed, and ready for any event, he lit a lantern, and proceeded towards the passage on the right—the side from whence the sound appeared to come.
This passage, or rather this gallery of the cavern, was large enough for two persons to walk abreast; its walls were high and dry, and the ground was covered with a fine yellow sand, which completely stifled the sound of steps. The gallery had several turnings.
After a short time the young man reached a room which at the moment served for a stable for his three horses.
The animals appeared frightened; they were drooping their ears, and violently snorting, as they tried to break the cords which bound them to the manger, furnished with a copious supply of provender.
The painter patted them with his hand, caressed them, and tried to reassure them, and then continued his investigations.
The further he advanced into the gallery, the more the noise became intense. It was no longer cries and trampling that he heard, but the sound of firearms, and the clashing of sabres.
Doubt was no longer possible; a furious combat was being fought a few steps from the entry of the cavern.
This certainty, far from stopping the young man, increased his desire to know positively what was passing; he almost ran to reach the end of the gallery.
There he was obliged to stop; an enormous stone hermetically sealed the entrance of the cavern.
The young man, nevertheless, was not discouraged by this apparently insurmountable obstacle.
This stone could evidently be moved; but what means could he employ to obtain that result? He knew not.
Then, with the help of his lantern, he proceeded to examine the stone above, below, and on the sides, seeking how he might succeed in removing it.
For nearly half an hour he gave himself up to an inspection as careful as it was useless, and he began to despair of discovering the secret which evidently existed, when suddenly he thought he saw the stone slightly move.
He looked more attentively. Yes, the stone was gently moved, and was, by degrees, coming out of its cell.
Emile was a bold fellow, endowed with a large share of coolness and energy. His mind was made up in a moment, and mentally thanking the individual, whoever he was, who was sparing him the long and fatiguing labour which he did not know how to bring to a successful termination, he quickly placed himself in concealment in a corner of the gallery, placed his lantern on the ground near him, taking care to cover it with his hat, so that its light might not be perceived. Seizing a pistol in each hand, to be ready for anything, he waited with his eyes fixed on the stone, which, owing to the numerous fissures in the walls of the gallery, he could easily distinguish—a prey to a strange emotion, which caused his heart to beat violently, and his blood to rush to his brain.
His watching was not long. Scarcely had he concealed himself before the stone was detached and rolled on the ground, and a man, holding in his hand a carbine, the barrel of which was still smoking, quickly entered the cavern.
The man leant forward towards the aperture, appeared to listen for a few seconds, and then stood up, murmuring loud enough for the young man to hear him.
"They come, but too late; the tiger has now escaped."
And skilfully aiding himself with the barrel of the carbine, as with a lever, he rapidly replaced the stone in its previous position.
"Search, search,perros malditos," said the unknown, with an ironical sneer, "I do not fear you now."
And with the greatest coolness he proceeded to reload his gun; but the painter did not give him time to do so. Rushing from his concealment, and removing the hat which covered his lantern, he stood face to face with the unknown, and, presenting his pistols:
"Who are you? What do you want?" he demanded. The unknown made a movement of surprise and flight, stepped back apace, and letting fall his gun:
"Eh! What is this?" cried he; "Am I, then, betrayed?"
"Betrayed!" repeated the Frenchman, prudently placing his foot on the carbine; "The expression seems to me rather strange from your mouth, Señor; especially after the manner in which you have introduced yourself here."
But it was only the work of a minute for the unknown to regain his coolness, and become completely master of himself.
"Replace your pistols in your girdle, Señor," said he; "they are not wanted here; you have nothing to fear from me."
"I am pleased to hear it," answered the painter; "but what guarantee do you give me?"
"My word as a gentleman," he replied, with dignity.
Although the painter had been but a few months in America, he had been often enough in a position to study the character of the inhabitants of the country, to know what reliance he might place on this word so proudly given. So, after having affirmatively nodded his head:
"I accept it," said he, uncocking his pistols, and placing them in his girdle.
The unknown picked up his gun.
Without, the noise still continued, but its character had changed; it was no longer a combat which was heard, but the sound of iron striking the ground, and loud cries; they were seeking the fugitive.
"Come, follow me," pursued the young man; "you must not remain any longer here."
The unknown smiled with an air of raillery.
"They will not find me," said he; "let them search."
"As you please; come, let us talk."
"Talk—be it so."
"Who are you?"
"You see—aproscrit."
"Just so; but there are various kinds ofproscrits."
"I am of the worst kind," said the other, smiling.
"Hum!" cried the young man, "What do you mean?"
"What I say—nothing else. At the end of a desperate combat, fought by me against my enemies, as I had fallen into an ambuscade, I have been conquered just at the moment when I thought I had gained the victory. After seeing all my companions fall around me, I have been obliged to fly."
"That is the fortune of war," said the young man, philosophically; "you know this retreat, then?"
"Apparently, since you see I have taken refuge in it."
"True; you do not fear that you will be discovered?"
"Impossible; nobody knows of the existence of the place."
"I, however—I know it."
"Yes, you; but you are aproscrit, like myself."
"How do you know that?"
"I suppose so; otherwise you would not be here."
"Possibly; but as I know it, others may know it—especially as I did not discover it myself."
"Yes, but he who has told you, and who has brought you here, wishes, no doubt, to place you in a position where you will not run the risk of falling into the hands of those who seek you. He must be master of his secret."
"Well, I give up any more discussion with you, for you answer everything with a knock-down logic. In my turn, I give you my word of honour as a Frenchman, that you have nothing to fear from me, and that I will serve you in all I can."
"Thank you," laconically answered the unknown, holding out his hand; "I expected nothing less from you."
"The tumult appears to go farther off; your pursuers, no doubt, give up seeking for you any longer. Follow me; I am, I believe, in a position to offer you better hospitality than you think."
"At the present moment, I want two things."
"What?"
"Food, and two hours sleep."
"And then—?"
"Then—unhappily that does not depend upon you."
"What is it, then?"
"A good horse to carry me as quick as possible to rejoin my companions, that I have left twenty leagues from here."
"Very well You shall first eat; then you shall sleep; then, when you have reposed long enough, you shall choose which of my horses suits you best, and you shall set out."
"Will you do that, indeed?" cried the unknown, with a thrill of joy.
"Why should I not do it, since I promise it?"
"You are right. Pardon me; I did not know what I was saying."
"Come then, proceed."
"Well, let us go."
They quitted the extremity of the gallery, and proceeded to the room.
"There are the horses," said the young man, as he passed through the stable.
"Good!" simply said the other.
When they were in the cavern, the unknown looked around him with wonder.
"What does this mean?" said he; "Do you really live here, then?"
"For a time, yes. Have you not guessed that I, like yourself, am proscribed?"
"How? you—a Frenchman!"
"Nationality has nothing to do with the matter," said the young man, laughing; "sit down and eat." And after having brought forward a chair, he placed provisions on the table.
"And you—will you not also eat?" asked the unknown.
"Pardon—I intend to keep you company."
The two took their places, and began the meal.
"Look you," said the unknown, after a pause, "I wish to give you a decided proof of the entire confidence I have in you."
"You do me honour."
"Would you like to gain 15,000 piastres?"
"Pooh!" said the young man, with a pout.
"You do not care for money?" said the unknown, with astonishment.
"Upon my word, no! It is not worth the trouble you have to get it."
"But it is easy for you, without the least trouble, to gain this money."
"That is another affair. Let me see your plan."
"It is very simple."
"So much the better."
"Have you heard of four Pincheyra brothers?"
"Often."
"Favourably or not?"
"Good and bad, but especially bad."
"Good! There are so many tongues of scandal."
"That is true. Go on."
"You know that a price is put on their heads?"
"Ah! Ah! Ah!"
"You did not know it?"
"How should I know it? It does not concern me, I suppose."
"More than you think: I am a Pincheyra," said he, looking at him fixedly.
"Bah!" cried the young man, turning round upon his chair so as to examine his guest more at his ease; "It is a strange meeting."
"Is it not? I am Don Santiago Pincheyra, the second of the four brothers."
"Very good, I am delighted at having made your acquaintance."
"My head is worth 15,000 piastres."
"That is a pretty sum. I doubt whether mine, which I value very much, is worth so great an amount."
"You do not understand what I mean."
"Upon my word, no; not the least in the world."
"Give me up; they will give you the money, and, more than that, they will pardon you."
The Frenchman knitted his eyebrows; his eyes flashed, and a livid paleness covered his face.
"Vive Dieu!" cried he, striking the table with his fist, "Do you know that you insult me,caballero?"
Don Santiago remained motionless and smiling; he held out his hand to the young man, and, inviting him to resume his seat he had so suddenly quitted: