It was two lay sisters, who brought sweets and refreshments, as the abbess had desired.
They placed the whole on a table, and then withdrew with a respectful bow.
The curtain was immediately dropped behind them.
"Do you now believe, my dear marchioness," said the superior, "that I was right in mistrusting our sister, the portress?"
"Oh yes, Madame; this woman, sold to our enemies, is wicked, and I dread for you the consequences of the rude lesson, although merited, that you have given her."
A brilliant flash darted from the black eyes of the young woman.
"It is for her to tremble, Madame," said she, "now that I have in my hand the proofs of her treason; but do not let us care for that," said she, resuming her cheerful countenance; "time presses, let us take our places at the table; and you, Señor, taste our preserves. I doubt whether, in the convents of your country, the nuns make such good ones."
The marchioness, remarking the embarrassed position and the piteous air of the stranger, quickly approached him, and said with a gracious smile—
"It is useless to keep up any further disguise," said she to him; "it is I, Señor, who have written to you; speak, then, without fear before Madame, she is my best friend, and my only protectress."
The painter breathed heavily.
"Madame," answered he, "you remove an immense weight from my breast. I humbly confess that I did not know what countenance to assume in seeing myself recognised so unawares. God be praised, who permits that this may come to a better termination than I feared a little while ago."
"You are an admirable actor, Señor," pursued the abbess; "your hair does not at all come out from under your peruke; I only wished to tease you a little, that is all. Now, drink, eat, and do not worry yourself about anything."
The collation was then attacked by the four persons, between whom the ice was now broken, and who talked gaily to each other. The abbess especially, young and merry, was charmed at this trick she was playing on the revolutionary authorities of Tucuman, in trying to carry away from them two persons to whom they seemed to attach so much importance.
"Now," said she, when the repast was finished, "let us talk seriously."
"Talk seriously—I should like nothing better," pursued the painter; "aproposof that, I shall permit myself to recall the phrase that you have yourself uttered—time presses."
"That is true; you are no doubt astonished to see me—the superior of a house which is almost a convent onto whom has been confided the care of two prisoners of importance—enter into a plot, the design of which is to permit them to escape."
"Indeed," murmured the painter, bowing; "that does appear rather strange to me."
"I have several motives for it, and your astonishment will cease when you know that I am a Spaniard, and have no sympathy with the revolution made by the inhabitants of this country, to drive my fellow countrymen out of it, to whom it belongs by every divine and human law."
"That appears to me logical enough."
"Moreover, in my opinion, a convent is not—and cannot, under any pretext, be metamorphosed into a prison. Again, women ought to be always placed out of the region of politics, and be left free to act in their own fashion. In fact, to sum up, the Marchioness de Castelmelhor is an old friend of my family; I love her daughter as a sister, and I wish to save them at all hazards, even if my life is paid for theirs."
The two ladies threw themselves into the arms of the abbess, loading her with caresses and thanks.
"Good, good," pursued she, gently motioning them aside, "let me continue; I have sworn to save you, and I will save you, come what may, my dear creatures. It would be marvellous, indeed," added she, smiling, "if three women, aided by a Frenchman, could not be clever enough to deceive these yellow men, who have made this disastrous revolution, and who believe themselves eagles of intelligence, and the thunderbolts of war."
"The more I reflect on this enterprise, the more I fear the consequences of it for you; I tremble, for these men are without pity," sadly murmured the marchioness.
"Poltroon!" gaily cried the superior; "Have we not thecaballerowith us?"
"With you, ladies, until the last gasp!" cried he, carried away by emotion.
The truth is, that the beauty of Doña Eva, joined to the romance of the situation, had completely subjugated the artist. He had forgotten everything, and only experienced one desire—that of sacrificing himself for the safety of these women, so beautiful and so unfortunate.
"I knew well that I could not be deceived!" cried the abbess, holding out to him her hand, which the painter respectfully raised to his lips.
"Yes, ladies," pursued he, "God is my witness, that all that is humanly possible to do to assure your flight, I will attempt; but, doubtless you have not addressed yourselves to me without concerting a plan. This plan it is indispensable that you make me acquainted with."
"Mon dieu, Sir!" answered the marchioness, "This plan is very simple, one such as women alone are capable of concocting."
"I am all attention, Madame."
"We have no acquaintance in this town, where we are strangers, and where, without our knowing why, it appears we have many enemies, without reckoning one single friend."
"That is pretty well my position also," said the young man, shaking his head.
"Yours, Sir!" said she, with surprise.
"Yes, yes, mine, Madame; but continue, I beg."
"Our good superior can do but one single thing for us, but that is immense—it is to open for us the gates of the convent."
"That is much, indeed!"
"Unhappily, on the other side of this gate her power ceases completely, and she is constrained to leave us to ourselves."
"Alas! Yes," said the superior.
"Hum!" murmured the painter, like an echo.
"You understand how critical would be our position, wandering alone at hazard in a town which is completely unknown to us."
"Then you thought of me!"
"Yes, Sir," she simply answered.
"And you have done well, Madame," answered the painter, with animation. "I am, perhaps, the only man incapable of betraying you in the whole town."
"Thank you for my mother and myself, Sir," gently said the young girl, who, up to that moment, had kept silence.
The painter was half dazed; the sweet and plaintive accents of that harmonious voice had made his heart beat rapidly.
"Unhappily, I am very weak myself to protect you, ladies," he resumed; "I am alone, a foreigner, suspected—more than suspected even, since I am threatened with being shortly placed on my trial."
"Oh!" said they, joining their hands in their grief, "We are lost then."
"Mon dieu!" cried the abbess, "We have placed all our hope in you."
"Wait," pursued he; "all is perhaps not so desperate as we suppose. As for me, I am preparing a plan of escape; I can only offer you one thing."
"What?" cried they, eagerly.
"To share my flight."
"Oh, willingly!" cried the young girl, clapping her hands with joy.
Then, ashamed at having allowed herself to give way to a thoughtless movement, she lowered her eyes, and concealed in the bosom of her mother her charming face, suffused with tears.
"My daughter has answered you for herself and for me, Sir," said the marchioness, proudly.
"I thank you for this confidence, of which I shall try to prove myself worthy, Madame; only I want a few days to prepare everything. I have only with me one man on whom I can rely, and I must act with the greatest prudence."
"That is right, Sir; but what do you mean by a few days?"
"Three at the least—four at the most."
"Well, we will wait. Now, can you explain to us what is the plan you have adopted?"
"I do not know it myself, Madame. I find myself in a country which is totally unknown to me, and in which I naturally want the commonest experience. I must trust to the direction of the servant of whom I have had the honour to speak to you."
"Are you quite sure of this man, Sir? Pardon me for saying this, but you know one word might ruin us."
"I am as sure of the person in question as one man can be of another. It is he who has furnished me with the means of appearing before you without awakening suspicion. I rely not only on his devotion, but also on his skill, on his courage, and especially on his experience."
"Is he a Spaniard, a foreigner, or a half-caste?"
"He does not come in any of the categories you have mentioned, Madame; he is simply an Indian Guaraní, to whom I have been fortunate enough to render some slight services, and who has vowed an eternal gratitude."
"You are right, Sir; you can no doubt reckon on this man. The Indians are brave and faithful; when they are devoted, it is to the death. Pardon me all these questions, which, without doubt, must appear very extraordinary on my part; but you know this affair does not only concern myself—it concerns also my daughter, my poor dear child."
"I think it is very natural, Madame, that you should desire to be completely informed as to my plans for our common safety. Be thoroughly persuaded that when I shall positively know what must be done, I will hasten to inform you of it, in order that if the plan formed by my servant and myself should appear to you to be defective, I may modify it according to your advice."
"Thank you, Sir; will you permit me to ask you one question more?"
"Speak, Madame. In coming here, I place myself entirely at your orders."
"Are you rich?"
The painter blushed; his eyebrows knitted.
The marchioness perceived it.
"Oh, you do not understand me, Sir," she eagerly cried; "far from me be the thought of offering you a reward. The service that you consent to render us is one of those that no treasure could pay for, and the heart alone can requite."
"Madame—" he murmured.
"Permit me to finish. We are associates now," said she, with a charming smile. "Now, in an association each one ought to take a share of the common expenses. A project like ours must be conducted with skill and celerity; a miserable question of money might mar its success or retard its execution. It is in that sense that I have spoken to you, and in which I repeat my words—are you rich?"
"In any other position but that in which fate has temporarily placed me, I should answer you—yes, Madame, for I am an artist—my tastes are simple, and I live almost on nothing, only finding joys and happiness in the ever-fresh surprises that the art which I cultivate procures me, and which I madly love. But at this moment, in the perilous position in which you and I find ourselves—when it is necessary to undertake a desperate struggle against a whole population—I must be frank with you, and admit that money, the sinews of war, almost wholly fails me. I must assure you, in a word, that I am poor."
"So much the better!" cried the marchioness, with a movement of joy.
"Upon my word," pursued he, gaily, "I never complain; it is only now that I begin to regret those riches for which I have always so little cared, for they would have facilitated the means of being useful to you; but we must try and do without them."
"Do not distress yourself about that, Sir. In this affair you bring courage and devotion; leave me to bring that money which you have not."
"On my word, Madame," answered the artist, "since you so frankly put the question, I do not see why I should give way, in refusing you, to a ridiculous susceptibility perfectly out of place, since it is your interests that are at stake in this matter. I accept, then, the money that you shall consider fitting to place at my disposal; but, of course, I shall render you an account of it."
"Pardon, Sir; it is not a loan that I offer to make you; it is my part in the association that I bring—that is all."
"I understand it so, Madame; only if I spend your money, will it not be necessary that you should know in what way?"
"Well and good!" exclaimed the marchioness, going to a piece of furniture, of which she opened a drawer, from whence she took a rather long purse, through the meshes of which glittered a considerable quantity ofonces.
After having carefully closed the drawer, she presented the purse to the young man.
"There are there two hundred and fiftyonces[1]in gold," said she; "I hope that that sum will suffice; but if it is insufficient, let me know, and I will immediately place a larger sum at your disposal."
"Oh, oh! Madame, I hope not only that it will suffice, but that I shall have to give you back a part of this sum," answered he, respectfully taking the purse, and placing it carefully in his girdle. "I have now a restitution to make you."
"To me, Sir?"
"Yes, Madame," said he, drawing off the ring that he had placed on his little finger, "this ring."
"It is mine, that I wrapped up in the letter," eagerly exclaimed the young girl, with a charming heedlessness.
The young man bowed, quite confounded.
"Keep that ring, Sir," answered the marchioness, smiling, "my daughter would be vexed if you were to return it."
"I will keep it, then," said he, with secret joy, and suddenly changing the conversation; "I will only come once more, ladies," said he, "in order not to arouse suspicion; that will be to tell you when all is ready; only every day, at my usual hour, I will pass before this house. When, in the evening, on my return towards home, you shall see me holding asúchilflower or a white rose in my hand, that will be a sign that our business proceeds well; if; on the contrary, I remove my hat and wipe my forehead, then pray to God, ladies, because new embarrassments will have risen before me. In the last place, if you see me pulling asunder the flower that I hold in my hand, you must hasten your preparations for departure; the very day of my visit we shall quit the town. You will remember all these recommendations?"
"We are too much interested in remembering them," said the marchioness; "never fear, we shall forget nothing."
"Now, not another word on this subject, and give your music lesson," said the abbess, opening an instruction book, and handing it to the young man.
The painter seated himself at a table between the two ladies, and began to explain to them as well as he could the mysteries of black, of white, of crotchets, and of minims.
When, some minutes afterwards, the portress entered, her serpent-like look gliding from under her half closed eyelids, perceived three persons apparently very seriously occupied in estimating the value of notes, and the difference between the key of F and the key of G.
"My holy mother," hypocritically said the portress, "a horseman, saying that he is sent by the governor of the town, asks the favour of an interview with you."
"Very good, my sister. When you have reconducted this gentleman, you will introduce thiscaballeroto me. Beg him to wait a few minutes."
The painter rose, bowed respectfully to the ladies, and followed the portress. The door of the room closed behind him.
Without uttering a word, the portress guided him through the corridors that he had already traversed, as far as the gate of the convent, before which several horsemen, enveloped in long mantles, had stopped, to the general astonishment of the neighbours, who could scarcely believe their eyes, and who had come out to their doors, the better to see them.
The painter, thanks to his looking like an old man, his little dry cough, and his trembling walk, passed in the midst of them without attracting their attention, and went away in the direction of the river.
The portress made a sign to one of the horsemen, that she was ready to conduct him to the superior.
Just at that moment, the painter, who had gone some little distance, turned to give a last look at the convent.
He suppressed a gesture of fright on recognising the horseman of whom we are speaking.
"Zeno Cabral!" murmured he. "What does this man do in the convent?"
[1]£850 sterling.
[1]£850 sterling.
The French painter was not deceived. It was indeed Zeno Cabral, the Montonero chief, whom he had seen enter the convent.
The portress walked with a hasty step, without turning her head, before the young man, who appeared plunged in sorrowful and painful reflections.
They proceeded thus for a considerable time through the corridors, without exchanging a word; but at the moment when they had reached the entry of the first cloister, the chief stopped, and lightly touching the arm of his conductress—
"Well?" said he, in a low voice.
The latter turned briskly, threw an enquiring look around her, and then, reassured, no doubt, by the solitude in the midst of which she was, she answered, in the same low and stifled tone, the single word—
"Nothing."
"How nothing?" cried Don Zeno, with suppressed impatience, "You have not, then, watched as I desired you, and as was agreed between us."
"I have watched," answered she, eagerly; "watched from evening to morning, and from morning to evening."
"And you have discovered nothing?"
"Nothing."
"So much the worse," said the Montonero, coldly; "so much the worse for you, my sister; for if you are so little clear-sighted, it is not just yet that you will quit your post of portress for a superior employment in the convent, or one better still, in that of the Bernardines."
The portress trembled; her little grey eyes gave a sinister look.
"I have discovered nothing, it is true," said she, with a dry and nervous laugh, like the cry of a hyena; "but I suspect, and soon I shall discover; only I am watched, and opportunity fails me."
"Ah! And what shall you discover?" asked he, with ill-concealed interest.
"I shall discover," she pursued, laying an affected stress on each syllable, "all that you wish to know, and more, too. My measures are now taken."
"Ah, ah!" said he, "And when will that be, if you please?"
"Before two days."
"You promise me?"
"As I hope for heaven."
"I rely on your word."
"Rely on it; but as to yourself?"
"I?"
"Yes."
"I will keep the promise I have made you."
"All?"
"All."
"Well, do not distress yourself about anything; but—giving, giving?"
"That's agreed."
"Now, come; they expect you. This long stay may excite suspicion; more than ever, prudence is necessary."
They proceeded. At the moment when they entered the first cloister, a black figure came away from an obscure corner, which, until that moment, it had remained shrouded in darkness; and after having made a threatening gesture to the portress, it appeared to vanish like a fantastic apparition, so rapidly did it glide through the corridors.
Arrived at the door of the superior's room, the portress knocked gently twice without receiving any answer; she waited a moment, and then knocked again.
"Adelante," was then answered from within.
She opened the door, and announced the stranger.
"Beg the gentleman to enter; he is welcome," answered the abbess.
The portress disappeared, and the general entered; then, on a sign from the superior, the portress withdrew, closing the door behind her.
The superior was alone, sitting on her great abbess's chair; she held open a Book of Hours, which she appeared to be reading.
At the entry of the young man she slightly inclined her head, and, with a gesture, directed him to a seat.
"Pardon me, Madame," said he, bowing respectfully, "in thus coming so inopportunely to disturb your pious meditations."
"You are, you say, Señorcaballero, sent to me by the governor of the town. In that capacity my duty is to receive you at any hour that you please to come," pursued she, in a tone of cold politeness. "You have no apologies to make me, but only to explain the reason for this visit."
"I am about to have the honour of explaining myself; as you so graciously request it, Madame," answered he, with a constrained smile, taking the seat which she had pointed out.
The conversation had commenced in a tone of frigid politeness, which completely expressed the relation which the two speakers wished to hold towards each other during the whole interview.
There was a silence of two or three minutes.
The Montonero turned and returned his hat in his hands with a vexed air; while the abbess, who pretended to read attentively the book which she had not abandoned, stealthily cast a mocking look at the officer.
It was he who, feeling how strange his silence would appear, recommenced the conversation with an ease which was too marked to be natural.
"Señora, I do not know what causes the displeasure that you appear to have in seeing me; will you acquaint me with the reason, and accept, meanwhile, my humble and respectful apologies for the annoyances that, to my great regret, my presence occasions you?"
"You are in error,caballero," answered she, "as the meaning I attach to my words. I do not feel any annoyance, believe me, at your presence; only I am vexed at being obliged, at the good pleasure of the persons who govern us, to receive, without being prepared for it beforehand, the visits of envoys—very respectable, no doubt—but whose place should be anywhere else than in the room of the superior of a convent of women."
"That observation is perfectly just, Madame. It is not my fault that this has occurred. Unhappily it is, for the present, a necessity to which you must submit."
"So," resumed she, with some sharpness, "you see that I submit to it."
"You submit to it—yes, Madame," he pursued, in an insinuating tone, "but complaining at it, because you confound your friends with your enemies."
"I, Señor! You make a mistake, no doubt," said she, with compunction; "you do not reflect on who I am. What friends or what enemies can I have—I, a poor woman retired from the world, and devoted to the service of God?"
"You deceive yourself, or, which is more probable—excuse me, I beg, Madame—you do not wish to understand me."
"Perhaps, also, it is a little your fault, Señor," she resumed, with a slight tinge of irony, "owing to the obscurity in which your words are enveloped, unknown to yourself, no doubt."
Don Zeno repressed a gesture of impatience.
"Come, Madame," said he, after a pause, "let us be candid, shall we?"
"I wish nothing better for my part, Señor."
"You have here two prisoners?"
"I have two ladies that I have only received into this house on the express injunction of the governor of the town. Is it of these two ladies that you speak, Señor?"
"Yes, Señora, the same."
"Very well, they are here; I have, indeed, very strict orders with respect to them."
"I know it."
"These ladies have nothing, that I can see, to do with this conversation."
"On the contrary, Madame; it is them alone that it concerns; it is on their account alone that I have come here."
"Very well, Señor, continue; I am listening."
"These ladies have been made prisoners by me, and by me also conducted into this town."
"You could even add—into this convent, Señor; but continue."
"You are wrong in supposing, Madame, that I am the enemy of these unfortunate women; no one, on the contrary, interests himself more than I do in their fate."
"Ah!" said she, with irony.
"You do not believe me, Madame; indeed, appearances condemn me."
"Meanwhile, you condemn these unhappy ladies; is it not so,caballero?"
"Señora," he cried, with violence, but immediately controlling himself, "pardon me this outburst, Madame; but if you consent to understand me—"
"Is not that what I am doing at this moment, Señor?"
"Yes; you listen to me, it is true, Madame; but with your mind made up, beforehand, not to put faith in my words, however true they may be."
The abbess slightly shrugged her shoulders, and resumed: "It is, Señor, that you now tell me things which are so incredible. How can you expect, when you yourself have just admitted that you arrested these ladies, when it would have been so easy to allow them to continue their journey; that it is you who brought them into this town; that it is you who also brought them to this convent, in order to deprive them of all hope of flight—how can you expect that I should credit the professions of devotion of which you are now pleased to make a parade before me? It would be more than artlessness on my part, you must admit, and you Would have a right to believe me to be what I am not—that is to say, to speak frankly, a fool."
"Oh, Madame, there are many things which you do not know."
"Certainly, there are many things which people do not know in such cases; but come, let us come to the fact, since you yourself have proposed candour: prove to me that you really intend to speak the truth—tell me the things of which I am ignorant."
"I am quite willing to do so, Madame."
"Only I warn you that I perhaps know many of these things, and that if you wander from the right path I will pitilessly put you in it again. Does that course suit you?"
"Nothing better can be done, Madame."
"Well, speak; I promise not to interrupt you."
"You overwhelm me, Señora; but to acquaint you with the whole truth, I shall be obliged to enter into some details touching my family which, doubtless, will have little interest for you."
"I beg your pardon; I wish to be impartial, so I ought to know all."
And as she said these words, she looked stealthily towards the door of the adjoining room.
This look was not observed by the Montonero, who at this moment, his head sunk upon his breast, appeared to be collecting his thoughts.
At last, after a few minutes, he began—
"My family, as my name indicates, Madame, is of Portuguese origin; one of my ancestors was that Alvarez Cabral, to whom Portugal owes so many magnificent discoveries. Settled in Brazil from the period of the occupation, my ancestors established themselves in the province of São Paulo, and led, one after the other, by the example of their neighbours and friends, they made long and perilous expeditions into the interior of unknown lands, and several of them were reckoned among the most celebrated and the most bold Paulistas of the province. Pardon me these details, Madame, but they are indispensable; for the rest, I will abridge them as much as possible. My ancestor, as the result of a very lively discussion with the Viceroy of Brazil, Don Vasco Fernandez Cesar de Menezes, about 1723—a discussion, the topics of which he never wished to reveal—saw his property placed under sequestration. He himself was obliged to take flight with all his family. A little patience, I beg you, Madame."
"You are unjust, Señor; these details, of which I was ignorant, interest me in the highest degree."
"My great-grandfather, with the wreck which he had succeeded in saving from his fortune—of considerable value, I hasten to say; for he was enormously rich—took refuge in the vice-royalty of Buenos Aires, in order to go back the more easily to Brazil, if fortune ceased to be adverse to him. But his hope was frustrated; he was to die in exile; his family was condemned never again to see their country. However, on various occasions propositions were made to him to enter into relations with the Portuguese Government, but he always haughtily rejected them, protesting that, never having committed any crime, he would not be absolved, and that especially—pay particular attention to this, Madame —the Government which had taken away his property had no claim to what remained to him; that he would never consent to pay for a pardon that they had no right to sell him. Subsequently, when my great-grandfather was on the point of death, and my grandfather and father were round his bed, although then very young, my father thought he understood the propositions made by the Portuguese Government, and which the old man had always obstinately repulsed."
"Ah!" said the abbess, beginning to take an interest in the recital, which was made with an air of truth which could not be questioned.
"Judge of the matter yourself, Madame," resumed the Montonero; "my great-grandfather, as I have said, feeling that he was about to die, had called my grandfather and my father round his bed; then, after making them swear on the Cross and on the Gospel never to reveal what he was about to tell them, he confided to them a secret of great importance for the future of our family; in a word, he stated to them that some time before his exile, in the last expedition that he had made, according to his custom, he had discovered diamond mines and deposits of gold of incalculable value. He entered into the minutest details as to the route that was to be followed to discover the country where these unknown riches were hidden; gave to my grandfather a map traced by himself on the very spot, and added, for fear that my grandfather should forget any important detail, a bundle of manuscripts, in which the history of his expedition and of his discovery, as well as the itinerary life that he had followed, going and returning, were related as a diary, almost hour by hour; then, certain that this fortune which he had left them would not be lost to them, he gave his children his blessing, and died almost immediately, weakened by the efforts that he had been obliged to make to give them complete information; but before closing his eyes for ever, he made them, for the last time, swear inviolable secrecy."
"I do not yet see, Sir, what relation there is between this history—very interesting, certainly—that you are relating, and these two unfortunate ladies," interrupted the abbess, shaking her head.
"A few minutes more complaisance, Madame; you will not be long in being satisfied."
"Be it so, Sir; continue then, I beg."
Don Zeno resumed:
"Some years passed; my grandfather was at the head of the vastchacraoccupied by our family, my father was beginning to aid him in his labours. He had a sister beautiful as the angels, and pure as they. She was named Laura; her father and brother loved her to adoration; she was their joy, their pride, their happiness—"
Don Zeno stopped; tears that he did not try to restrain slowly flowed down his cheeks.
"This souvenir affects you, Señor," said the abbess, gently.
The young man proudly nerved himself.
"I have promised to tell you the truth, Madame, and although the task that I impose on myself is painful, I will not give way. My grandfather had deposited in a place, known to him and his daughter only, the manuscript and the map that had been left them by my great-grandfather on his deathbed, and then neither of them had cared much more about the matter, not supposing that a time would arrive when it would be possible to take possession of this fortune, which, nevertheless, belonged to them by incontestable title. One day, a foreigner presented himself at thechacra, and asked hospitality, which was never refused to anyone. The stranger was young, handsome, and rich—at least, he appeared so—and for our family he had the great advantage of being our fellow countryman; he belonged to one of the most noble families of Portugal. He was then more than a friend—almost a relation. My grandfather received him with open arms; he lived several months in ourchacra;he might have lived there altogether had he wished it; everyone in the house liked him. Pardon me, Madame, for passing rapidly over these details. Although too young to have personally assisted in that infamous treason, my heart is broken. One day the stranger disappeared, carrying away Doña Laura. That is how that man repaid our hospitality."
"Oh! that is horrible!" cried the abbess, carried away by the indignation she felt.
"Every search was fruitless; it was impossible to discover his traces. But what was more serious in this affair, Madame, was, that this man had coldly and basely followed out a plan previously laid."
"It is not possible!" said the abbess, with horror.
"This man had—I do not know how—discovered something in Europe about the secret that my great-grandfather had so well guarded. The stranger's design, in introducing himself into our house, was to discover the complete secret, in order to rob us of our fortune. During the time that he lived at thechacra, he several times tried, by artful questions, to learn the details of which he was ignorant—questions addressed sometimes to my grandfather, sometimes to my father, then a young man. The odious violence that he committed did not proceed from love, pushed almost to distraction, as you might suppose; he might have demanded of my grandfather the hand of his daughter, which the latter would have given him; no, he did not love Doña Laura.
"Then," interrupted the abbess, "why did he carry her off?"
"Why, you say?"
"Yes."
"Because he believed that she possessed the secret that he wished to discover; that, Madame, was the only motive for the crime."
"What you tell me is infamous, Señor," cried the abbess; "this man was a demon."
"No, Madame, he was a wretch devoured by the thirst for riches, and who, at any price, determined to possess them, even if to do so he had to bring dishonour and shame into a family, or to walk over a heap of corpses."
"Oh!" she gasped, hiding her head in her hands.
"Now, Madame, do you wish to know the name of this man?" he pursued, with bitterness; "But it is needless, is it not? For you have already guessed, no doubt."
The abbess nodded her head affirmatively, without answering.
There was rather a long silence.
"But why render the innocent," at last said the abbess, "responsible for the crimes committed by others?"
"Because, Madame—an inheritor of the paternal hatred for twenty years—it is only a fortnight ago that I have again found a trace that I thought was lost forever; that the name of our enemy has, like a thunderclap, suddenly burst on my ear, and that I have demanded of this man a reckoning in blood for the honour of my family."
"So to satisfy a vengeance which might be just, were it brought to bear on the guilty, you would be cruel enough—"
"I do not yet know what I shall do, Madame. My head is on fire; fury carries me away," interrupted he, with violence. "This man has stolen our happiness; I wish to take away his; but I shall not be a coward, as he has been; he shall know from whence comes the blow which strikes him; it is between us a war of wild beasts."
At this moment the door of the adjoining room opened suddenly, and the marchioness appeared calm and imposing.
"A war of wild beasts let it be,caballero;I accept it."
The young man rose abruptly, and darting a look of crushing scorn at the superior:
"Ah! I have been listened to," said he, with irony; "well, so much the better, I prefer it to be so. This unworthy treachery precludes any further explanation; you know, Madame, the cause of the hatred that I bear towards your husband; I have nothing more to tell you."
"My husband is a noblecaballero, who, if he were present, would wither, by his denial—as I do myself—the odious tissue of lies by which you have not scrupled to accuse him before a person," added she, directing a look of sorrowful pity to the superior, "who would not, perhaps, have believed this frightful tale, the falsity of which is too easy to prove for it to be necessary to refute it."
"Be it so, Madame; this insult, coming from you, cannot affect me; you are naturally the last person to whom your husband would have confided this horrible secret; but whatever happens, a time will come—and it is near, I hope—when the truth will be declared, and when the criminal will be unmasked before you."
"There are men, Señor, whom calumny, however skilfully concocted, cannot reach," answered she, with scorn.
"Let us cease this, Madame; all discussion between us would only serve the more to embitter us against each other. I repeat that I am not your enemy."
"But what are you then, and for what reason have you related this horrible story?"
"If you had had the patience to listen to me a few minutes more, Madame, you would have learned."
"What prevents you telling me, now that we are face to face?"
"I will tell you if you desire it, Madame," replied, he, coldly. "I should have preferred, however, that some other person, who might have more sympathy for you than I have, should perform this task."
"No, no, Sir; I am myself a Portuguese also, and when the honour of my name is concerned, my principle is to act for myself."
"As you please, Madame; I was about to make a proposition to you."
"A proposition—to me!" said she, haughtily.
"Yes, Madame."
"What is it? Be brief, if you please."
"I was about to ask you to give me your word not to quit this town without my authority, and not to try and communicate with your husband."
"Ah! And if I had made this promise?"
"Then, Madame, I should, in return, have freed you from the accusation which weighs upon you, and should immediately have obtained your liberty."
"Liberty to be a prisoner in a town, instead of in a convent," said she, with irony; "you are generous, Señor. But you would not have had to appear before a counsel of war."
"That is true; I forgot that you and yours make war on women—especially on women—you are so brave, you revolutionary gentlemen." The young man was unmoved by this bitter insult; he bowed respectfully.
"I wait your answer, Madame," said he.
"What answer?" she replied, with disdain.
"That which you will be pleased to make to the proposition which I have the honour to make."
The marchioness remained a moment silent; then, raising her head, and taking a step in advance—
"Caballero," she resumed, in a haughty voice, "to accept the proposition you make me, would be to admit the possibility of the truth of the odious accusation that you dare to bring against my husband. Now, that possibility I do not allow. The honour of my husband is mine; it is my duty to defend it."
"I expected that answer, Madame, although it afflicts me more than you can suppose. You have, no doubt, well reflected on all the consequences of this refusal?"
"On all—yes, Señor."
"They may be terrible."
"I know it, and I shall submit."
"You are not alone, Madame; you have a daughter."
"Sir," she answered, with an accent of supreme hauteur, "my daughter knows too well what she owes to the honour of her house to hesitate in making for it, if need be, the sacrifice of her life."
"Oh, Madame!"
"Do not try to frighten me, Señor; you will not succeed. My determination is taken, and I should not change it, even if I saw the scaffold before me. Men deceive themselves, if they think they alone possess the privilege of courage. It is good, from time to time, for a woman to show them that they also know how to die for their convictions. A truce, then, I beg you, to any more entreaties, Señor; they would be useless."
TheMontonerobowed silently, made a few steps towards the door, stopped, and half turned as if he wished to speak; but, altering his mind, he bowed a last time and went out.
The marchioness remained an instant motionless; then, turning towards the abbess, and extending her arms to her—
"And now, my friend," said she to her, with a sorrowful voice, "do you believe that the Marquis de Castelmelhor is guilty of the frightful crimes of which that man accuses him?"
"Oh, no, no, my friend," cried the superior, melting into tears, and falling into the arms which opened to receive her.
The painter's rencontre, on his leaving the convent, had struck him with a sad presentiment as to hisprotégés.
Without being able quite clearly to account for the sentiments he entertained for them, however unfortunate himself, he felt himself constrained to aid and succour by all means in his power, the women who, without knowing him, had so frankly claimed his protection.
His self-love—first as a man, and then as a Frenchman—was flattered at the part which he thus found himself called on to play unawares in this sombre and mysterious affair, the whole of which, notwithstanding the confidence of the marchioness, he much doubted whether they had revealed to him.
But what mattered that?
Placed by chance—or rather by bad fortune—which so furiously pursued him, in an almost desperate situation, the risks that he had to run in succouring these two ladies, did not much aggravate that situation; whereas, if he succeeded in enabling them to escape the fate which threatened them, while he saved himself, he would bring to bear on his persecutors a little warlike strategy in showing himself more keen than they, and would once for all avenge the continual apprehensions they had caused him since his arrival at San Miguel.
These reflections, in bringing back calmness to the young man's mind, gave him back also his careless gaiety, and it was with a quick and deliberate step that he rejoined Tyro at the spot which the latter had assigned as a permanent rendezvous.
The place was well chosen; it was a natural grotto, not very deep, situated at two pistol shots or so from the town, so well concealed from curious eyes by the chaos of rocks, and of thickets of parasitic plants, that, unless the exact position of this grotto were known, it was impossible to discover it—so much the more, as its mouth opened onto the river, and that to enter it, it was necessary to go into the water up to the knees. Tyro, half lying on a mass of dry leaves, covered with two or three Araucanianpellones[1]and ponchos, was carelessly smoking a cigarette of maize straw, while he waited for his master.
The latter, after being assured that no one was watching him, removed his shoes, tucked up his trousers, went into the water, and entered the grotto—not, however, without having whistled two separate times, in order to warn the Indian of his arrival.
"Ouf!" said he, as he entered the grotto, "A singular fashion this of coming into one's house. Here am I returned, Tyro."
"I see, master," gravely answered the Indian, without changing his position.
"Now," pursued the young man, "let me resume my clothes, and then we can talk. I have much to tell you."
"And I also, master."
"Ah!" said he, looking at him.
"Yes; but first change your clothes."
"That's right," resumed the young man.
He immediately proceeded to abandon his disguise, and soon he had recovered his ordinary appearance.
"There—that's done," said he, sitting near the Indian, and lighting a cigarette. "I can tell you that this disgusting costume annoys me horribly, and I shall be happy when I shall be able to get rid of it altogether."
"That will be soon, I hope, master."
"And I also, my friend. God grant that we have not deceived ourselves! Now, what have you to tell me? Speak, I am listening."
"But you—have you not told me you have news?"
"That is true; but I am anxious to know what you have to tell me. I believe it is more important than what I have to tell you. So, speak first; my communication will come soon enough."
"As you please, master," answered the Indian, settling himself, and throwing away his cigarette, which began to burn his fingers; then, half turning his head towards the young man, and looking him full in the face—
"Are you brave?" he asked.
This question, put so suddenly unawares, caused such a profound surprise to the painter, that he hesitated an instant.
"Well," he at last answered, "I believe so then, collecting himself by degrees," he added, with a slight smile. "Besides, my good Tyro, bravery is in France so common a virtue, that there is no conceit on my part in asserting that I possess it."
"Good!" murmured the Indian, who caught his idea, "You are brave, master; and so am I, I believe; I have seen you in several circumstances conduct yourself very well."
"Then why ask me this question?" said the painter, with some slight annoyance.
"Do not be angry, master," quickly replied the Indian, "my intentions are good. When a serious expedition is commenced, and when we wish to bring it to a good conclusion, it is necessary to calculate all the chances. You are a Frenchman—that is to say, a foreigner, not long in this country, of the customs of which you are completely ignorant."
"I admit that," interrupted the young man.
"You find yourself on an unknown territory, which, at every moment must be a mystery to you. In asking you, then, if you are brave, I do not doubt your courage I have seen you act courageously—only I wish to know if this courage is white or red; if it shines as much in darkness and solitude as in broad daylight, and before the crowd—that's all."
"Thus put, I understand the question, but I do not know how to answer it, not having ever found myself in a situation where it was necessary for me to employ the kind of courage of which you speak. I can simply, and in all confidence, assure you of this—that day or night, alone or in company, in default of bravery, pride would always prevent me from retreating, and would constrain me to front my adversaries, whoever they might be, if they stood before me to oppose my will, when I had formed a resolution."
"I thank you for that assurance, master, for our task will be arduous, and I shall be happy to know that you will not abandon me in the great danger in which I shall be placed, and my devotion to you."
"You can count on my word, Tyro," answered the painter; "so, banish all afterthoughts, and boldly march ahead."
"That I will do, master, you may depend. Now, let us leave that, and come to the news that I had to tell you."
"Just so," said the painter; "what is this news—good or bad?"
"That depends, master, on how you estimate it."
"Good; let me know first."
"Do you know that the Spanish officers, whom they were going to try tomorrow, or the day after, have escaped?"
"Escaped!" cried, the painter, with astonishment, "When was that?"
"This very morning; they passed near here scarcely two hours ago, mounted on horses of the Pampas, and galloping furiously in the direction of the Cordilleras."
"Upon my word, so much the better for them—I am delighted at it, for, as matters go in this country, they would have been shot."
"They would have been shot certainly," said the Indian, nodding his head.
"That would have been a pity," said the young man. "Although I know very little about them, and they have placed me, by their fault, in a rather difficult position, I should have been sorry if any misfortune had happened to them. So you are certain that they have really escaped?"
"Master, I have seen them."
"Then,bon voyage!God grant that they may not be retaken."
"Do you not fear that this flight may be prejudicial?"
"To me! Why?" cried he, with surprise.
"Have you not been indirectly implicated in their affairs?"
"That is true, but I believe I have nothing to fear now, and that the suspicions which had been excited against me have been completely dissipated."
"So much the better, master; however, if I may give you advice—believe me, be prudent."
"Come, talk candidly. I see behind your Indian circumlocutions a serious thought which possesses you, and which you wish me to share. Respect, or some fear that I cannot understand, alone prevents you from explaining yourself."
"Since you demand it, master, I will explain myself, especially as time presses. The flight of the two Spanish officers has awakened suspicions which were but suppressed; and now they accuse you of having encouraged them in their project of flight, and of having procured them the means of accomplishing it."
"I! Why, that is impossible! I have not once seen them since their arrest."
"I know it, master; however, it is as I say; I am well informed."
"Then my position becomes extremely delicate; I do not know what to do."
"I have thought of that for you, master; we Indians form a population apart in the town. Disliked by the Spaniards, scorned by the Creoles, we sustain one another, in order to be in a position, in case of need, to resist the injustice they may design to do us. Since I have occupied myself with preparations for your journey, I have communicated with several men of my tribe, engaged in the families of certain persons in the town, in order to be informed of all that passes, and to warn you against treachery. I knew yesterday evening that the Spanish officers were going to escape today at the rising of the sun. For several days, aided by their friends, they have planned their flight."
"I do not yet see," interrupted the painter, "what relation there is between this flight and anything which concerns me personally."
"Wait, master," pursued the Indian, "I am coming to that. This morning, after having aided you to disguise yourself, I followed you and entered the town. The news of the flight of the officers was already known —everybody was talking of it. I mixed myself in several groups, where this flight was commented on in a hundred different ways. Your name was in every mouth."
"But I knew nothing of this flight."
"I know it well, master; but you are a stranger—that is enough for them to accuse you—so much the more as you have an enemy determined on your ruin who has spread abroad this report, and given it consistency."
"An enemy!—I!" said the young man, astounded; "It is impossible!"
The Indian smiled, sarcastically.
"Soon you will know it, master," said he; "but it is useless to occupy ourselves with him at this moment; it is you we must think of—you that we must save."
The young man shook his head sadly.
"No," said he, with a sad voice; "I see that I am really lost this time; all that I might do would but hasten my destruction; better resign myself to my fate."
The Indian looked at him for some moments with an astonishment that he did not seek to dissimulate.
"Was I not right, master," he resumed at last, "to ask you at the commencement of this conversation, if you had courage?"
"What do you mean?" cried the young man, suddenly collecting himself, and darting a look at the Indian.
Tyro did not lower his eyes; his countenance remained impassive, and it was with the same calm voice, with the same careless accent, that he continued:
"In this country, master, courage does not resemble in anything what you possess. Every man is brave with the sabre or the gun in hand—especially here, where, without reckoning men, we are constantly obliged to struggle against all kinds of animals of the most destructive and ferocious character; but what signifies that?"
"I do not understand you," answered the young man.
"Pardon me, master, for teaching you things of which you are ignorant. There is a courage that you must acquire—it is that which consists in appearing to give in when the strife is unequal—reserving yourself, while you feign flight, to take your revenge later. Your enemies have an immense advantage over you; they know you; they therefore act against you with certainty, while you do not know them. You are liable at the first movement you make to fall into the snare spread under your feet, and thus to give yourself up without hope of vengeance."
"What you say is full of sense, Tyro; only you speak to me in enigmas. Who are these enemies whom I do not know, and who appear so determined on my destruction?"
"I cannot yet tell you their names, master; but have patience—a day will come when you will know them."
"Have patience!—It's very well to say that. Unhappily, I am up to my neck in a trap, out of which I do not know how to escape."
"Leave it to me, master; I will answer for all. You will escape more easily than you think."
"Hum! That appears to me very difficult."
The Indian smiled, as he slightly shrugged his shoulders.
"All the whites are like this," murmured he, as if he were speaking to himself; "in appearance their conformation is the same as our own, and, nevertheless, they are completely incapable of doing the least thing by themselves."
"It is possible," answered the young man, nettled at this uncomplimentary remark; "that involves a number of considerations too long to explain to you, and which, moreover, you would not understand; let us return to what ought solely to occupy us just now. I repeat, that I find my position desperate, and that I do not know, even with the aid of your devotion, in what way I shall escape."
There was a short interval of silence between the two men, and then the Indian resumed, but this time with a clear and decided voice, like that of a man who desires to be understood at once, without being obliged to lose precious time in explanations.
"Master," said he, "as soon as I was informed of what had passed, convinced that I should not be unsupported by you, I laid my plan, and put myself in a position to ward off the new blow which threatens you. My first care was to go to your house. They know me; the greater part of the attendants are my friends; they took no heed of me. I was free to go and come as I liked, without attracting attention. I then took advantage of a time when the house was almost deserted on account of thesiestawhich closed the eyes of masters and servants, and, aided by some of my friends, I hastily carried away all that belongs to you, even to your horses, which I loaded with your baggage, and your boxes full of papers and linen."
"Well," interrupted the young man, with a satisfaction clouded by slight anxiety; "but what will my countryman think of this proceeding?"
"Do not let that distress you, master," answered the Guaraní, with a singularly expressive smile.
"Be it so; you no doubt found a plausible pretext to account for this strange proceeding."
"That is just it," said he, with a chuckle.
"Very well; but now tell me, Tyro; what have you done with this baggage? I should by no means like to lose it—it contains the best part of my fortune. I cannot camp out in the open air, more especially as that would avail me nothing, and that those who have an interest in seeking me would soon discover me; on the other hand, I can scarcely see in what house I can lodge, without running the risk of being soon arrested."
The Indian laughed.
"Eh! Eh!" gaily said the young man. "As you laugh, it is, perhaps, because my affairs go on well, and that you are nearly certain of having found a safe shelter."
"You are wrong, master. I am immediately going to seek some spot where you will be safe and completely hidden from pursuit."
"The devil! That is not so easy to find in the town."
"But it is not in the town that I look for it."
"Oh, oh! Where then? I scarcely see that there is any place in the country where it is possible for me to hide."
"That is because you do not, like we Indians, understand the desert. At about two miles from here, in a rancho of the Guaraní Indians, I have found an asylum where I defy them to come and look for you, or, in case of a visit, to find you."
"You strangely pique my curiosity. Is everything prepared to receive me?"
"Yes, master."
"Why do we then remain here, instead of going there?"
"Because, master, the sun has not yet set, and it is too light to venture into the country."
"You are right, my brave Tyro; I thank you for this new service."
"I have only done my duty, master."
"Hum! Well, since you wish it, I consent. Only, believe that I am not ungrateful. So that is agreed. I am unhoused. My dear compatriot will be much astonished when he finds that I have left without taking leave of him."
The Indian laughed, without answering.
"Unhappily, my friend," continued the young man, "this position is very precarious; it cannot last for long."
"Depend upon me for that, master; before three days we shall have set out. All my measures are taken accordingly. My preparations would have been finished already, if I had had at my disposal a sufficient sum to purchase some indispensable things."
"Do not let that disturb you," cried the young man, quickly putting his hand into his pocket, and drawing from it the purse which the marchioness had given him; "there is the money."
"Oh!" said the Indian, with joy, "There is much more than we want."
But suddenly the painter became sad, and took the purse again from the hands of the Guaraní.
"I am mad," said he. "We cannot use that money, it is not ours; we have no right to make use of it."
Tyro looked at him with surprise.
"Yes," continued he, gently shaking his head, "this sum has been given to me by the person whom I have promised to save, in order to prepare everything for her flight."
"Well?" said the Indian.
"Why, now," resumed the young man, "the affair appears to me to be quite altered; I should have a right, I think, to save myself alone."
"Your situation is just the same, master; you can keep the word that you have given; in fact, perhaps you are in a better position today than you were yesterday, to organise, not only your flight, but that of these persons. I have foreseen all."
"Come, explain yourself; for I begin no longer to understand you at all."
"How is that, master?"
"Why, you appear to know my affairs better than I do."
"Do not let that distress you. I only know as much about your affairs as I ought to know, to be useful to you in case of need, and to be in a position to prove to you what is my devotion for you. Moreover, if you wish it, I will appear to know nothing."
"That is a good joke!" exclaimed the young man, laughing. "Come, since it is not even possible to keep my secrets to myself, act as you like—sorcerer that you are. I shall complain no more; now, continue."
"Only give me this gold, master, and leave me to act."
"Well, I think that is the best; take it then," added he, putting the purse in his hand; "only, make haste, for you ought to know better than I do, that we have no time to lose."
"Oh! Just now nothing presses. They believe you have gone; they are searching for you far away; they thus give you every facility to do here all that you wish."
"That is true. If it only concerned myself, upon my word I have so great a confidence in my own skill, that I should not hurry myself at all, I assure you; but—"
"Yes," he interrupted, "I know what you wish to say, master, it concerns these ladies. They are anxious to be off, and they are right; but they have nothing to fear before three days. I only ask two, is that too much?"
"No, certainly; only I confess there is one thing which much embarrasses me at present."
"What is it, master?"
"It is how I shall introduce myself into the convent to warn them."
"That is very simple; you will go in the convent in the same disguise that you assumed yesterday."
"Hum! You think that is not risking too much?"
"Not the least in the world, master. Who will care to concern himself about a poor old man?"
"Well, I will try; if I fail, I shall have done my duty as a gallant man; my conscience will reproach me in nothing."
They continued to talk thus for several hours, making their final arrangements, and trying to foresee all the chances which might, at the last moment, occur to mar the success of their projects.
The more the young Frenchman became intimately acquainted with the Guaraní, the more he discovered intelligence in this poor Indian, so simple and so artless in appearance, and the more he congratulated himself on having accepted his offers of service, and trusting to him.
It should be added that if the painter had not thus, at this critical period, met this devoted servant, he would have been in a most critical situation, and it would have been almost impossible for him to escape from the terrible danger suspended over his head. He frankly owned this, and, putting aside the prejudices of race, he wisely left his servant to act for himself, contenting himself with following his counsels without trying to have his own way—which showed that the young man, notwithstanding his apparent frivolity of character, had good common sense, and a rather uncommon rectitude of judgment.
About half an hour after sunset, the two men quitted the grotto, in the recesses of which they had remained hidden more than four hours.
The Indian, who, notwithstanding the darkness, appeared to see as if it were broad daylight, guided his master through the intricate paths, apparently inextricable, but through which he proceeded with a certainty which indicated a complete knowledge of the places which he traversed. The painter, unaccustomed to these night journeys, followed him as well as he could, stumbling at nearly every step, but not being discouraged, and cheerfully taking his part in this new adventure.
The journey from the grotto to the place where they were to stay was short—it did not last longer than three-quarters of an hour.
Tyro stopped before a rancho of a sufficiently miserable aspect, built on the summit of a hill. He opened, without otherwise announcing his presence, a door formed of an ox hide stretched over a hurdle of willow.
The rancho was, or rather appeared, deserted.
The Indian struck a light with his flint and steel, and lit asebo.[2]
The interior of the rancho resembled the exterior, and was very miserable.
"Eh?" said Emile, casting a scrutinising look round him, "This rancho is abandoned, then."
"By no means, master," answered Tyro; "but the occupants have withdrawn into the other room, so as not to see us."
"Oh! Oh! And for why?"
"Simply because, if they should come to look for us here, they could with a good conscience affirm that that they do not know you, and that they have not seen you."
"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the young man, "That is very good of them, good people that they are! Well, I see with pleasure that the Jesuits make good pupils as well in America as in Europe. The plan is very ingenious."
Tyro did not answer. He was in the act of removing with a pickaxe a slight layer of earth, under which soon appeared a trapdoor. The Indian lifted it up.
"Come, master," said he.
"The devil!" murmured the young man, with some hesitation, "Am I going to be buried alive?"
The Indian had already disappeared in the opening left gaping by the removal of the trapdoor.
"Come," said the young man, "there is no time to hesitate."
He leant over the hole, perceived the first steps of a ladder, and boldly descended into the cave, where Tyro awaited him, thesebobeing held towards him, to give him light, and prevent a false step.
This cavern was rather large and high, and completely furnished with palm mats to absorb the moisture. All the baggage of the young man had been brought here, and was ranged with care.
A washing stand, a couch, a table, and a hammock, hung in a corner, completed the simple furniture of the place.
Several candles and a lamp were placed on the table.
At each end of the cavern, the form of which was nearly oval, were galleries.
"Here is our temporary apartment, master," said the Guaraní; "each of these galleries is carried, after a few turns, a good way into the country. In case of alarm, you have a safe retreat; your horses have been placed by me in the gallery to the left; they have all they want. In this basket you will find provisions for three days. I do not pledge you as to going out before you have seen me; only I warn you that I shall not return till all is ready for your flight; you will be here completely in safety. You have only to be patient."