"Eh, commandant!" he said to him, as he dismounted, "Here is your horse; take it back, it will serve you to reform your soldiers; for my part I require it no longer. I am going to wait for you at the rancho, where, if you still have a desire to arrest me, and have me shot, you will find me ready to receive you until eight o'clock tomorrow morning; so good-bye for the present."
He then waved his hand to him, bestrode his mule, and proceeded to the rancho, which he at once entered.
We need not add that he slept peacefully till the morning, and that the officer and soldiers so eager in his pursuit did not dare come to disturb his rest; they had gone back to Veracruz, without once looking round.
Such was the man whose unexpected apparition among the escort of the berlin had caused such great terror to the soldiers, and entirely chilled their courage.
El Rayo stood for an instant calm, cold, and frowning in the face of the soldiers grouped in front of him, and then said, in a sharp, distinct voice—
"Señores, I fancy you have forgotten that no one but myself has the right to give orders on the high roads of the republic. Señor don Felipe Neri," he added, turning to the officer, who was standing motionless a few paces from him, "you can turn back with your men; the road is perfectly free as far as Puebla—you understand me, I suppose?"
"I do understand you, caballero; still, I fancy," the colonel replied, with some hesitation, "that my duty orders me to escort—"
"Not a word more," El Rayo interrupted him violently; "weigh my words carefully, and mind you profit by them; those whom you expected to meet a few paces further on are no longer there; the corpses of several of them are serving as food for the vultures. You have lost the game for today, so take my advice, and turn back."
The officer again hesitated, and then, urging his horse forward a few yards, he said, in a voice which emotion caused to tremble—
"Señor, I know not whether you are a man or a demon thus alone to impose your will on brave men; to die is nothing for a soldier when he is struck in the chest when facing the enemy; once already I have recoiled before you, but do not wish to do so again, so kill me today, but do not dishonour me."
"I like to hear you speak thus, don Felipe," El Rayo coldly answered, "for bravery becomes a soldier; in spite of your plundering instincts and bandit habits, I see with pleasure that you do not lack courage, and I do not despair of converting you some day, if a bullet does not brutally cut your thread of life, and suddenly arrest your good intentions. Order your soldiers, who are trembling, like the poltroons they are, to fall back a dozen paces, for I am going to give you the satisfaction you desire."
"Ah, caballero!" the officer exclaimed, "Can it be possible that you consent?"
"To stake my life against yours?" El Rayo interrupted him, mockingly—"Why not? You wish for a lesson, and that lesson you are about to receive."
Without losing an instant the officer turned his horse and ordered his troopers to fall back, a manoeuvre which they performed with the most praiseworthy eagerness.
Don Andrés de la Cruz, for we will now restore him his true name, had looked on with great interest at this scene, in which he had not as yet ventured to interfere.
When he saw the turn that matters were taking, he thought it, however, his duty to hazard a few observations.
"Pardon me, caballero," he said, addressing the mysterious stranger, "while sincerely thanking you for your intervention in my favour, permit me to remark that I have been delayed in this defile for a long time already, and that I should like to continue my journey, in order to protect my daughter from danger, as soon as possible."
"No danger threatens doña Dolores, señor," El Rayo coldly answered; "this delay of only a few minutes cannot possibly have any injurious consequences for her; besides, I wish you to witness this combat, which is to some extent fought in support of your cause, hence I beg you to have patience. But stay, here is don Felipe returning; the affair will not take long. Fancy that you are betting on a cock fight, and I am convinced that you will take pleasure in what is going to happen."
"But still—" don Andrés interposed.
"You would disoblige me by insisting further, caballero," El Rayo interrupted him, drily. "You have, as I know, excellent revolvers which Devismes sent you from Paris; be kind enough to lend one of them to señor don Felipe. They are loaded, I suppose."
"Yes, sir," don Andrés replied, offering the officer one of his pistols.
The latter took it, turned it over in his hands, and then raised his head with an air of disappointment.
"I do not know how to use these weapons," he said.
"Oh, that is very easy," El Rayo courteously replied, "and you will be perfectly acquainted with their mechanism in an instant. Señor don Andrés, be kind enough to explain to this caballero the very simple management of these weapons."
The Spaniard obeyed, and the officer at once comprehended the explanation that was given him.
"Now, señor don Felipe," El Rayo resumed, still cold and impassive, "listen to me attentively. I consent to give you this satisfaction on the condition that whatever the issue of the combat may be, you agree to turn back immediately after, leaving señor don Andrés and his daughter at liberty to continue their journey if they may think proper: do you agree to this?"
"Certainly, señor."
"Very good. Now, then, this is what you and I are going to do; so soon as we have dismounted we will station ourselves twenty paces from each other: does that distance suit you?"
"Perfectly, Excellency."
"Good; then at a signal given by me, you will fire the six shots of your revolver; after that I will fire, but only once, as we are in a hurry."
"Pardon me, Excellency, but suppose I kill you with these six shots?"
"You will not kill me, señor," El Rayo answered coldly.
"Do you think so?"
"I am sure of it; to kill a man of my stamp, señor don Felipe," El Rayo said, with an accent of cutting irony, "a firm heart and a hand of iron are required: you possess neither."
Don Felipe made no reply, but devoured by a dull rage, with pale brow and frowning gesture, he resolutely went to place himself twenty paces from his adversary.
El Rayo dismounted and placed himself facing the officer, with his head thrown back, his right leg advanced, and his arms folded on his back.
"Now," he said, "pay great attention to aiming true; revolvers, good though they are, generally have the fault of carrying a little too high; do not hurry yourself. Are you ready? Well, then, fire."
Don Felipe did not let the invitation be repeated, but rapidly fired three shots.
"Too quick—much too quick," El Rayo cried to him; "I did not even hear the whistle of the bullets. Come, be calmer, and try to make good use of the three shots left you."
All eyes were fixed, all chests were panting. The officer, demoralized by the coolness of his adversary and the ill success of his firing, felt involuntarily fascinated by the black motionless statue before him, whose eyes he could see sparkling like live coals through the holes of the mask; drops of cold perspiration gathered on his hair, which stood erect with horror, and his former assurance had abandoned him.
Still, anger and pride gave him the necessary strength to conceal from the spectators the frightful agony he was suffering: by a supreme effort of the will he resumed an apparent calmness, and fired again.
"That is better," El Rayo said mockingly, "but a little too high. Try another."
Exasperated by this fire, don Felipe pulled the trigger.
The bullet struck the rock about an inch above the stranger's head.
Only one bullet was now left in the revolver.
"Advance five paces," said El Rayo; "perhaps you will not then throw away your last chance."
Without replying to this cutting sarcasm, the officer bounded like a wild beast, stopped at fifteen paces, and fired.
"It is now my turn," the stranger said, as he fell back five paces to re-establish the distance; "you forgot to take your hat off, caballero, and that is a want of courtesy which I cannot tolerate."
Then drawing one of the pistols thrust through his belt, he cocked it, stretched out his arm and fired without taking the trouble of aiming. The officer's hat was hurled from his head and rolled in the dust.
Don Felipe uttered a howl like a wild beast.
"Oh!" he exclaimed, "You are a demon!"
"No," El Rayo answered, "I am an honest man. Now, begone. I leave you your life."
"Yes, I will go; but whether you are man or fiend, I will kill you. I swear it, even if I have to pursue you to the lowest pit of hell."
El Rayo went up to him, seized him violently by the arm, drew him on one side, and lifting the veil which covered his features, showed him his face.
"You recognize me now, I suppose?" he said to him in a hollow voice; "But remember that now you have seen me face to face, our first meeting will be mortal. Begone."
Don Felipe made no reply; he remounted his horse, placed himself at the head of his terrified soldiers, and started at a gallop along the Orizaba road.
Five minutes later only the travellers and their servants remained on the plateau. El Rayo, doubtless taking advantage of the moment of surprise and disorder produced by the close of this scene, had disappeared.
Four days had passed since the events recorded in our last chapter. Count Ludovic de la Saulay and Oliver were still riding side by side, but the place of the scene had completely changed.
All around them extended an immense plain covered with a luxuriant vegetation, intersected by a few water courses, on the banks of which were huddled the humble cabins of several unimportant pueblos; numerous flocks browsed here and there, watched by mountedvaqueros, bearing the reata on the saddle, a machete at their side, and a long lance in its rest. Along a road, whose windings formed a yellow track on the green carpet of the plain, appeared like black dots, teams of mules hurrying toward the snowy mountains, which closed in the horizon in the distance; gigantic clumps of trees diversified the landscape, and a little to the right, on the top of a rather high hill, proudly rose the massive walls of an important hacienda.
The two travellers were slowly following the last windings of a narrow track that ran down with a gentle slope to the plain; the curtains of trees which masked the view suddenly falling back on the right and left, the landscape appeared suddenly to rise before them, as if it had been created by the magic wand of a mighty enchanter.
The count stopped and burst into a cry of admiration at the sight of the magnificent kaleidoscope which was displayed before them.
"Ah, ah," said Oliver, "I was aware that you were an amateur, and it was a surprise I prepared for you; how do you like it?"
"It is admirable; I never saw anything so beautiful," the young man exclaimed enthusiastically.
"Yes," the adventurer resumed with a stifled sigh, "it is very fair for a country spoilt by the hand of man. As I have told you several times, it is only in the savannahs of the great Mexican desert that it is possible to see nature as God has made it; this is only theatrical scenery in comparison; a conventional landscape which signifies nothing."
The count smiled at this sally.
"Whether conventional or not, I consider this view admirable."
"Yes, yes, I repeat, it is a very fair success. Think how lovely this landscape must have been in the early days of the world, since, in spite of all their clumsy efforts, men have not succeeded in entirely spoiling it."
The young man's laughter was redoubled at these words.
"On my faith," he said, "you are a charming companion, Mr. Oliver; and when I part from you, I shall often regret your agreeable company."
"In that case get ready to regret me, my lord," he replied with a smile, "for we have only a few minutes left to pass together."
"How so?"
"An hour at the most; but let us continue our journey. The sun is beginning to grow hot, and the shadow of the trees down there will be very agreeable to us."
They loosened their horses' bridles, and slowly went down the almost insensible incline which would lead them to the plain.
"Are you not beginning to feel the want of a rest after your fatigue, my lord?" the adventurer asked, as he carelessly rolled a cigarette.
"Really no, thanks to you; this journey has seemed to me delightful, although slightly monotonous."
"How monotonous?"
"Well, in France frightful stories are told about countries beyond the sea, where bandits are found in ambush every step you take, and you cannot go ten leagues without risking your life twenty times; hence it is with some degree of apprehension that we land on these shores. I had my head stuffed with stories to make one's hair stand on end. I was prepared for surprises, ambushes, desperate fights, and all that sort of thing. Well, after all, I have made the most prosaic journey in the world, without the slightest accident which I could narrate hereafter."
"You are not yet out of Mexico."
"That is true; but my illusions are destroyed. I no longer believe in Mexican bandits or ferocious Indians; it is not worth the while to come so far to see nothing more than is to be seen in this country. Confound travelling! Four days ago I believed that we were going to have an adventure; while you left me alone I formed tremendous plans of battle, and then at the end of two long hours of absence, you returned with a smiling face to announce to me that you were mistaken, and that you had seen nothing, and I was obliged to dismiss all my warlike intentions. This is really having ill luck."
"What would you have?" the adventurer replied, with an accent of almost imperceptible irony; "Civilization is so gaining on us, that we nowaday resemble the peoples of the old world, with the exception of a few slight shades."
"Laugh away, make fun of me, I give you full liberty to do so; but let us return to our subject, if you please."
"I wish nothing more, my lord. Did you not say among other things, while talking with me, that you intended to go to the Hacienda del Arenal, and that if you did not turn from the road instead of pushing straight on to Mexico, it was because you were afraid of losing yourself in a country which you do not know, and of not meeting persons capable of putting you on the right track again?"
"I did say so, sir."
"Oh! Since that is the case, the question is becoming extraordinarily simplified."
"How so?"
"Look before you, my lord. What do you see?"
"A magnificent building that resembles a fortress."
"Well, that building is the Hacienda del Arenal." The count uttered a cry of astonishment.
"Can it be possible? You are not deceiving me?" he asked.
"For what purpose?" the adventurer said gently.
"Why! In this way the surprise is even more charming than I at first supposed it."
"Ah! By the bye. I forgot one circumstance, which, however is of some importance to you; your servants and all your baggage have been at the hacienda for the last two days."
"But how were my servants informed?"
"I warned them."
"You have hardly left me."
"That is true, only for a few minutes, but that was sufficient."
"You are an amiable companion, Mr. Oliver, I thank you sincerely for all your attentions to me."
"Nonsense, you are joking."
"Do you know the owner of this hacienda?"
"Don Andrés de la Cruz? Very well."
"What sort of man is he?"
"Morally or physically?"
"Morally."
"A true hearted and intelligent man, he does a great deal of good, and is accessible to the poor as well as the rich."
"Hum! You are drawing a magnificent portrait."
"It is below the truth; he has a great many enemies."
"Enemies?"
"Yes, all the scoundrels in the country, and thanks to God, they swarm in this blessed country."
"And his daughter, Dolores?"
"Is a delicious girl of sixteen, even better hearted than she is beautiful, innocent and pure; her eyes reflect heaven, she is an angel whom God has allowed to descend on earth, doubtless to shame human beings."
"You will accompany me to the hacienda, sir, I suppose?" said the count.
"No, I shall not see señor don Andrés; in a few minutes I shall have the honour of taking leave of you."
"To meet again soon, I hope!"
"I dare not promise it you, my lord."
They rode on silently, side by side, for a few moments longer.
They had hurried on their horses, and were now rapidly nearing the hacienda, whose buildings now appeared in their full extent.
It was one of those magnificent residences built in the earliest times of the conquest, half palace, half fortress, such as the Spaniards erected at that day on their estates, in order to hold the Indians in check, and resist their attacks during the numerous revolts which left a bloody stain on the first years of the European invasion.
Thealmenas, or battlements that crowned the walls, testified to the nobility of the owner of the hacienda; as gentlemen alone possessed the right of placing battlements on their mansions, and were very jealous of their right.
The dome of the hacienda chapel which rose above the walls, could be seen glistening in the ardent sunbeams.
The nearer the travellers approached, the more lively the landscape appeared; at each instant they met horsemen, arrieros with their mules. Indians running with burdens hanging on their back by a thong passed round their forehead. Then came herds, driven byvaqueros, to change their pasturage, monks trotting on mules, women, children, in a word busy persons of all ranks and sexes, who were coming and going, and crossing each other in all directions.
When they reached the foot of the hill crowned by the hacienda, the adventurer stopped his horse at the moment when it was entering the path that led to the main gate of the hacienda.
"My lord," he said, turning to the young man, "we have now reached our journey's end; permit me to take my leave of you."
"Not before you have promised to see me again."
"I cannot promise that, Count, as our roads are diametrically opposite. Besides, it will perhaps be better if we never meet again."
"What do you mean?"
"Nothing insulting or personal to you; permit me to shake your hand ere we part."
"Oh, most willingly," the young man exclaimed, as he warmly offered him his hand.
"And now farewell—farewell, once again, time flies rapidly, and I ought to have been a long way from here before now."
The adventurer bent over his horse's neck, and darted with the speed of an arrow along a track in which he speedily disappeared.
The count looked after him as long as it was possible to see him; and when he was hidden by a turn in the road, the young man heaved a sigh.
"What a singular character," he muttered in a low voice. "Oh! I shall see him again, it must be."
The young man lightly gave his horse the spur, and entered the path, which would lead him in a few minutes to the top of the hill, and the principal gate of the hacienda.
The young man dismounted in the first courtyard, and handed his horse to a groom, who led it away.
At the moment when the count was walking towards a large door surmounted by a verandah, and which gave admission to the apartment, don Andrés went out, ran eagerly toward him, pressed him warmly to his heart, and embraced him several times, while saying—
"Heaven be praised! Here you are, at last! We were beginning to be in a mortal anxiety about you."
The count, thus suddenly taken by surprise, had allowed himself to be seized and embraced without exactly comprehending what was happening to him, or with whom he had to deal; but the old gentleman, perceiving the amazement he felt, and which, in spite of his efforts, he could not succeed in completely concealing, did not leave him long in embarrassment, but stated his name, adding—
"I am your near relative, my dear Count—your cousin; hence, stand on no ceremony—act here as if you were at home: this house, with all it contains, is at your disposal, and belongs to you."
The young man began protesting, but don Andrés once more interrupted him.
"I am an old fool," he said. "I am keeping you here, listening to my maundering, and forget that you have had a long ride, and must need rest. Come, I wish to have the pleasure of conducting you myself to your apartments, which have been ready for you for some days past."
"My dear cousin," the count answered; "I thank you a thousand times for your kind attention; but I think it would be only polite for you to introduce me to doña Dolores, ere I retire."
"There is no hurry for that, my dear Count: my daughter is at this moment shut up in her boudoir with her women. Let me announce you first, for I know better than you what is proper under the circumstances,—and go and rest yourself."
"Very well, my cousin; I will follow you. I will indeed confess, since you are so good as to place me so thoroughly at my ease, that I shall not be at all sorry to take a few hours' rest."
"Did I not know it?" don Andrés replied, gaily; "But all young people are the same—they doubt nothing."
The hacendero thereupon led his guest to the apartments which had been tastefully prepared and furnished under the immediate inspection of don Andrés, and were intended to serve as the count's abode during the whole of the period he might be pleased to spend at the hacienda.
The suite of rooms, though not large, was arranged in a very sensible and comfortable manner, considering the resources of the country.
It consisted of four rooms. The count's bedroom, with dressing room and bathroom attached, a study, serving as a drawing room, an antechamber, and a room for the count's valets; so that he might have them within call by day and night.
By means of a few partitions, the suite bad been separated from and rendered entirely independent of the other apartments in the hacienda. It was entered by three doors, one opening on the vestibule, the second into the common court yard, and the third leading by a flight of steps to the magnificent huerta, which, through its extent, might pass for a park.
The count, newly landed in Mexico, and who, like all foreigners, formed a false idea of a country which he did not know, was far from expecting to find at the Hacienda del Arenal a lodging so convenient, and in such conformity with his rather serious tastes and habits, hence he was really ravished by everything he saw. He warmly thanked don Andrés for the trouble he had been kind enough to take in rendering his stay in the house agreeable to him, and assured him that he was far from expecting so cordial a reception.
Don Andrés de la Cruz, highly pleased with this compliment, rubbed his hands in glee, and at length withdrew, leaving his relative at liberty to repose, if he thought proper.
When left alone with his valet, the count, after changing his dress, and assuming another more suitable to the country than the one he was wearing, questioned his servant as to the way in which he had performed the journey from Veracruz, and the reception offered him on his arrival at the hacienda.
This valet was a man of about the same age as the count, deeply attached to his master, whose foster brother he was; a powerfully-built fellow, tolerably good looking, very brave, and possessing a quality very precious in a servant—that of seeing nothing, hearing nothing, and only speaking when he received an express order to do so, and even then he did it as concisely as possible.
The count was very fond of him, and placed unbounded confidence in him. His name was Raimbaut, and was a Basque; continually particular about etiquette, and professing a profound respect for his master. He never spoke of him save in the third person, and at whatever hour of the day or night the count might call him, he never presented himself before him, unless dressed in the strict garb he had adopted, and which was composed of a black coat with a stand-up collar and gold buttons, a black waistcoat, black knee breeches, white silk stockings, buckled shoes, and white cravat. Thus dressed, with the exception of powder, which he did not wear, Raimbaut presented an amazing likeness to the steward of a great nobleman in the last century.
The count's second servant was a tall lad, twenty years of age, robust and sturdy—godson of Raimbaut, who had undertaken to train him for his duties. He did the heavy work, and wore the count's livery—blue and silver: his name was Lanca Ibarru. He was devoted to his master, and awfully afraid of his godfather, for whom he professed a profound veneration. He was active, courageous, crafty, and intelligent; but these qualities were slightly tarnished by his gluttony and pronounced taste for thedolce far niente.
Raimbaut's story was a short one. Nothing at all had happened to him, with the exception of the order which a strange man had delivered to him, as from his master, not to continue his journey to Mexico, but to have himself conducted to the Hacienda del Arenal, which order he had obeyed.
The count recognized the truth of what the adventurer had told him: he dismissed his valet, sat down on a butaca, took up a book, and very shortly after fell fast asleep.
At about four in the afternoon, just as he was waking, Raimbaut entered the room, and announced that don Andrés de la Cruz was waiting for him to sit down to table, as the hour for the evening meal had arrived.
The count cast a glance at his toilette, and, preceded by Raimbaut, who acted as his guide, proceeded to the dining room.
The dining room of the Hacienda del Arenal was a vast, long room lighted by Gothic windows lined with coloured glass. The walls, covered with oak paneling, rendered black by time, gave it the appearance of a Carthusian refectory in the fifteenth century. An immense horseshoe table, surrounded by benches, except at the upper end, occupied the entire centre of the room.
When Count de la Saulay entered the dining room, the other guests, numbering from twenty to twenty-five, were already assembled.
Don Andrés, like many of the great Mexican landowners, had kept up on his estates the custom of making his people eat at the same table with himself.
This patriarchal custom, which has long fallen into desuetude in Europe, was for all that, in our opinion, one of the best our forefathers left us. This community of life drew together the bonds which attach masters to servants, and rendered the latter, so to speak, vassals of the family whose private life they shared up to a certain point.
Don Andrés de la Cruz was standing at the end of the room, between doña Dolores, his daughter, and don Melchior, his son.
We will say nothing of doña Dolores, with whom the reader is already acquainted. Don Melchior was a young man of nearly the same age as the count. His tall stature and powerful limbs rendered him a gallant gentleman, in the common acceptance of the term. His features were manly and marked, and his beard was black and full. He had a large, well open eye, a fixed and piercing glance: his very brown complexion had a slight olive tinge; the sound of his voice was rather rough, his accent harsh, while his countenance was stern, and its expression became menacing and haughty upon the slightest emotion. His gestures were noble, and his manners distinguished; and he wore the Mexican costume in all its purity.
So soon as the introductions had been made by don Andrés, the party took their seats. The hacendero, after bidding Ludovic sit on his right hand, by his daughter's side, made a sign to the latter. She repeated theBenedicite, the guests saidAmen, and the meal commenced.
The Mexicans, like their Spanish ancestors, are extremely sober; they do not drink during meals. It is only when the dulces or sweets are brought in, that is to say, at dessert, that vessels containing water are placed on the table.
By a delicate attention, don Andrés offered wine to his French guest, who was waited on by his valet, standing behind him, to the general amazement of the company.
The meal was silent, in spite of the repeated efforts of don Andrés to animate the conversation. The count and don Melchior limited themselves to the exchange of a few conventional phrases, and then held their tongues. Doña Dolores was pale, and seemed to be unwell; she ate hardly anything, and did not utter a syllable.
At length dinner was over. They rose from table, and the servants of the hacienda dispersed to go to their work.
The count, involuntarily disturbed by the cold and measured reception which don Melchior had offered him, alleged the fatigue of the journey as a reason for wishing to retire to his apartments.
Don Andrés consented to this with much repugnance. Don Melchior and the count exchanged a ceremonious bow, and turned their backs on each other. Doña Dolores gave the young man a graceful bow, and the count withdrew, after warmly shaking the hand which his host held out to him.
It took Count de la Saulay, who was habituated to the comfortable elegance and pleasant relations of Parisian life, to become used to the sad, monotonous, and savage existence at the Hacienda del Arenal.
In spite of the cordial reception which had been given him by don Andrés de la Cruz and the attention he did not cease to offer him, the young man speedily perceived that his host was the sole person of the family who regarded him favourably.
Doña Dolores, though very polite to him and even gracious in their daily relations when chance brought them together, still seemed to be embarrassed in his presence, and to shun every occasion when he could converse with her in private: so soon as she perceived that her father or brother was leaving the room, in which she happened to be with the count, she at once broke off the begun conversation, blushingly faltered an excuse, and went away or rather flew away, light and rapid as a bird, and left Ludovic without further ceremony.
This conduct on the part of a girl to whom he had been betrothed from his childhood, for whose sake he had crossed the Atlantic almost against his will, and solely to honour the engagement made by his family in his name, naturally surprised and mortified a man like Count de la Saulay, whom his personal beauty, his wit and even his fortune had not hitherto accustomed to be treated with such strange want of ceremony and such complete contempt by the ladies.
Naturally but little inclined to the marriage which his family wished to force himself into, not feeling at all enamoured of his cousin, whom he had scarce taken the trouble to look at, and whom he was much disposed to consider a fool, on account of her want of tact towards himself, the count would easily have taken advantage of the repugnance which she seemed to feel for him—would not only have consoled but congratulated himself on the breaking off of his marriage with her, had not his self-esteem been too extensively implicated, in a way very insulting to him.
However great might be the indifference he felt for the young lady, he was offended at the slight effect his dress, manners and luxurious habits had produced on her, and the coldly contemptuous way in which she had listened to his compliments and accepted his advances.
Though sincerely desirous in his heart that this marriage, which displeased him for a thousand reasons, might not be completed, he would still have liked that the rupture, without coming absolutely from him, should not come so distinctly from the young lady, and that circumstances should permit him while retiring with all the honours of war, to feel himself regretted by the girl who was to have been his wife.
Dissatisfied with himself and the persons by whom he was surrounded, feeling himself in a false position, which could not fail to become ridiculous ere long, the count thought of getting out of it as speedily as possible. But, before provoking a frank and decisive explanation on the part of don Andrés de la Cruz, who did not seem to suspect in the slightest degree the turn affairs were taking, the count resolved to know positively what he had to depend on as regarded his affianced; for with that fatuity natural to all men spoiled by facile successes, he felt a mental conviction that it was impossible doña Dolores would not have loved him, if her heart had not already been captivated by someone else.
This resolution once formed and fully resolved in his mind, the count, who found himself very unoccupied at the hacienda, set about watching the young lady's conduct, determined, once he had acquired a certainty to retire and return as speedily as possible to France, which country he regretted every day more, and which he repented having so suddenly abandoned, in order to seek so humiliating an adventure two thousand leagues from home.
In spite of her indifference for the count, we have remarked, however, that doña Dolores felt herself obliged to be polite and attentive to the count, although not so amiable as he might have desired: an example which her brother completely dispensed himself from following towards his father's guest, whom he treated with such marked coldness, that it would have been impossible for the count not to notice it, though he disdained to let it be seen: hence he feigned to take the young man's rough and even brutal manner as natural and perfectly in accord with the manners of the country.
The Mexicans, let us hasten to state, are exquisitely polite, their language is always carefully chosen and their expressions flowery, and with the exception of the difference of dress, it is impossible to distinguish a man of the people from a person of high rank. Don Melchior de la Cruz, through a singular anomaly, doubtless emanating from his natural sternness, was perfectly different from his countrymen: always gloomy, thoughtful and reserved, he generally only opened his mouth to utter a few sharp words, with a coarse tone and in a rough voice.
From the first moment that they met, don Melchior and the count seemed equally little satisfied with each other: the Frenchman appeared too mannered and effeminate to the Mexican and,per contra, the latter repulsed the other by the coarseness of his nature and the triviality of his gestures and expressions.
But if there had been only this instinctive antipathy between the two young men, it would probably have disappeared by degrees, and friendly relations would have been established between them, when they knew each other better and could consequently appreciate one another's good qualities; but this was not the case, it was neither indifference nor jealousy that don Melchior felt for the count, but a hearty Mexican hatred.
Whence did this hatred spring? What unknown familiarity of the count had given birth to it? That was don Melchior's secret.
The young hacendero was completely wrapped up in mysteries: his actions were as gloomy as his countenance: enjoying unbounded liberty, he used and abused it as he pleased to the fullest extent by going in and out without accounting to anybody: it is true that his father and sister, doubtless accustomed to this behaviour, never asked him any questions as to where he had been, or what he had been doing, when he reappeared after an absence which was frequently prolonged for a week.
On such occasions, which were very frequent, he was usually seen returning at the breakfast hour.
He bowed silently to the company, sat down without uttering a syllable, ate, then twisted a cigarette, which he lighted, and then withdrew to his apartments without further notice of the party.
Once or twice don Andrés, who understood perfectly well how unpolite such conduct was towards his guest, tried to apologize for his son, by throwing the blame of this apparent rudeness on his very serious occupations, which completely absorbed him; but the count replied that don Melchior appeared to him a charming cavalier, that he saw nothing but what was perfectly natural in his mode of acting towards him, that the very want of ceremony he displayed was a proof of the friendship which he evidenced for him by treating him not as a stranger, but as a friend and relative, and that he would be most sorry if don Melchior, on his account, set any restraint on his habits.
Don Andrés, though not duped by his guest's apparent gentleness, had not considered it prudent to dwell on this subject, and it dropped.
Don Melchior was feared by all the people belonging to the hacienda, and, according to all appearance, even by his father.
It was evident that this gloomy young man exercised over all who surrounded him an influence, which though occult, was probably the more formidable on that account, but no one dared to complain, and the count, who alone might have ventured some observations, did not at all care about doing so for the very simple reason that regarding himself as a stranger spending a little while in Mexico, he felt no inclination to mix himself up in matters or intrigues which did not concern him and could not possibly affect him in the slightest degree.
Nearly two months had elapsed since the young man's arrival at the hacienda: he had passed the time in reading, or riding about the country, on which occasions he was nearly always accompanied by the majordomo of the hacienda, a man of about forty years of age, with a frank and open face, a short, muscular and powerfully built man, who appeared to be very intimate with his masters.
This majordomo, Leo Carral by name, had struck up a great liking for this young Frenchman, whose inexhaustible gaiety and liberality had touched his heart.
During their long rides over the plain, he took pleasure in perfecting the count in art of riding made him understand the defective principles of the French school, and applied himself to render him a realhombre de a caballoand ajineteof the first class, just like himself.
We must add that his pupil profited perfectly by his lessons, and not only became within a short time a perfect horseman, but also a first rate shot. Thanks again to the worthy majordomo.
The count, by the advice of his professor, had adopted the Mexican garb, an elegant and convenient costume, which he wore with unparalleled grace.
Don Andrés de la Cruz rubbed his hands with glee on seeing the man whom he already regarded almost as his son-in-law, assume the garb of the country—a certain proof in his eyes of the count's intention to settle in Mexico. He had even on this occasion adroitly tried to lead the conversation to the subject he had nearest his heart, that is to say, the young man's marriage, with doña Dolores. But the count who was always on his guard, avoided this awkward subject, as he had done on several previous occasions, and don Andrés withdrew, shaking his head and muttering—
"Yet we must come to an explanation."
It was at least the tenth time since the count's arrival at the hacienda that don Andrés de la Cruz promised himself to have an explanation with him, but up to then, the young man had always contrived to elude it.
One night when the count, who had retired to his apartments, was reading later than his wont, at the moment when he closed his book and prepared to go to bed, raising his eyes accidentally, he fancied he saw a shadow pass before the glass door that opened on the huerta.
The night was advanced, all the inhabitants of the hacienda were or ought to be asleep two hours before. Who was this prowler whom fancy impelled to stroll about so late?
Without accounting for the motive that urged him to act so, Ludovic resolved to find out.
He got up from the butaca in which he was seated, took from a table two revolvers, in order to be prepared for any event, and opening the door as softly as he could, he went forth into the huerta and proceeded in the direction where he had seen the suspicious shadow disappear.
The night was magnificent, the moon shed as much light as broad day, and the atmosphere was so transparent, that objects could be perfectly distinguished for a great distance.
As the count very rarely entered the huerta, and hence was ignorant of its arrangement, he hesitated to enter the walks which he saw running before him in all directions, crossing each other as to form a perfect labyrinth, for he had no inclination to stay out all night, lovely though it was.
He therefore, stopped to reflect, perhaps he was mistaken, had been the dupe of an illusion, and what he had taken for a man's shadow, might possibly be that of a branch agitated by the night breeze, and which the moon beams had caused to dazzle his eyes.
This observation was not only just, but logical, hence the young man carefully guarded himself against yielding to it; at the end of an instant an ironical smile curled his lips and instead of entering the garden, he cautiously slipped along the wall which formed on this side a wall of verdure to the hacienda.
After gliding along thus for about ten minutes, the count stopped, first to take breath and then to look about him.
"Good," he muttered after looking cautiously around, "I was not mistaken."
He then bent forward, cautiously parted the leaves and branches and looked out.
Almost immediately he drew himself back, suppressing a cry of surprise.
The spot where he was, was exactly opposite the suite of apartments occupied by doña Dolores de la Cruz.
A window in this suite was open, and doña Dolores leaning on the window ledge, was talking to a man who was standing in the garden, but exactly opposite to her, a distance of scarce two feet separated the speakers, who appeared engaged in a most interesting conversation.
It was impossible for the count to recognize the man, although he was only a few yards from him. In the first place, he had his back turned to him, and then he was wrapped up in a cloak which completely disguised him.
"Ah!" the count muttered, "I was not mistaken." In spite of the blow this discovery dealt his vanity, the count uttered these words with a mental satisfaction at having guessed correctly: this man, whoever he was, could only be a lover.
Still, though the two spoke softly, they did not lower their voices so as to render them inaudible at a short distance, and while blaming himself for the indelicate action he was committing, the count, excited by vexation and possibly by unconscious jealousy, parted the branches and bent forward again for the purpose of listening.
The young lady was speaking. "Good heaven," she said with emotion, "I tremble, my friend, when I pass several days without seeing you: my anxiety is extreme and I even fear a misfortune."
"Confound it," the count muttered, "that fellow is dearly beloved."
This aside made him lose the man's reply. The young lady continued:
"Am I condemned to remain much longer here?"
"A little patience: I trust that everything will be ended soon," the stranger answered in a low voice; "and what is he doing?"
"He is still the same, as gloomy and mysterious as ever," she replied.
"Is he here tonight?"
"Yes."
"Still as ill-tempered?"
"More so than ever."
"And the Frenchman?"
"Ah! Ah!" said the count, "Let us hear what is thought of me."
"He is a most agreeable person," the young lady murmured in a trembling voice; "for the last few days he has seemed sad."
"Is he growing weary?"
"I fear so."
"Poor girl," the count said, "she has perceived that I am growing tired; it is true that I take but little trouble to conceal the fact. But, by the way, can I be mistaken, and this man is no lover? It is very improbable, and yet who knows?" he added fatuously.
During this long aside, the two speakers had continued their conversation which had been totally unheard by the young man, when he began to listen again. Doña Dolores was concluding—
"I will do it, as you insist on it: but is it very necessary, my friend?"
"Indispensable, Dolores."
"Hang it! He is familiar," the count said.
"I will obey then," the young lady continued,
"Now we must part: I have remained here too long as it is."
The stranger pulled his hat down over his eyes, muttered the word farewell, for the last time and went off at a quick pace.
The count had remained motionless at the same spot, a prey to a profound stupefaction. The stranger passed close enough to touch him, though without seeing him: at this moment a branch knocked off his hat, a moon ray fell full on his face and the count then recognized him.
"Oliver!" he muttered, "It is he then, that she loves."
He returned to his apartments tottering like a drunken man. This last discovery had upset him.
The young man went to bed, but could not sleep: he passed the whole night in forming the most extravagant projects. However, toward morning, his agitation appeared to give way to lassitude.
Before forming any resolution, he said, "I wish to have an explanation with her, very certainly I do not love her, but for my honour's sake, it is necessary that she should be thoroughly convinced that I am not a fool and that I know everything. That is settled: tomorrow I shall request an interview with her."
Feeling calmer, after he had formed a definitive resolution, the count closed his eyes and fell asleep. On waking, he saw Raimbaut standing at his bed side, with a paper in his hand.
"What is it? What do you want?" he said to him.
"It is a letter for Monsieur le Comte," the valet answered.
"Ah!" he exclaimed; "Can it be news from France?"
"I do not think so; this letter was given to Lanca by one of the waiting women of doña Dolores de la Cruz, with a request to deliver it to M. le Comte, as soon as he woke."
"This is strange," the young man muttered, as he took the note and examined it attentively; "it is certainly addressed to me," he muttered, at length deciding on opening it.
The note was from doña Dolores de la Cruz, and only contained these few words, written in a delicate though rather tremulous hand.
"Doña Dolores de la Cruz earnestly requests señor don Ludovic de la Saulay to grant her a private interview for a very important affair at three o'clock in the afternoon of today. Doña Dolores will await the ount in her own apartments."
"This time I cannot make head or tail of it," the count exclaimed. "But stuff," he added, after a moment's reflection; "perhaps it is better that it should be so, and the proposition come from her."
The state of Puebla is composed of a plateau mountain, more than five and twenty leagues in circumference, crossed by the lofty Cordilleras of Anahuac.
The plains which surround the town are very diversified, cut up by ravines, studded with hills, and closed on the horizon by mountains covered by eternal snows.
Immense fields of aloes, the real vineyards of the country, as pulque, that beverage so dear to the Mexicans, is made from this plant, extend beyond the range of vision.
There is no sight so imposing as these commanding aloes, whose leaves, armed with formidable points, are thick, hard, lustrous, and from six to eight feet in length.
On leaving Puebla by the Mexico road, about two leagues further on, you come to the city of Cholula, formerly very important, but which, now fallen from its past splendour, only contains from twelve to fifteen thousand souls.
In the days of the Aztecs, the territory, which now forms the State of Puebla, was considered by the inhabitants a privileged Holy Land, and the sanctuary of the religion. Considerable ruins, very remarkable from an archaeological point of view, still bear witness to the truth of our statement; three principal pyramids exist in a very limited space, without mentioning the ruins on which travellers tread at every step.
Of these three pyramids, one is justly celebrated; it is the one to which the inhabitants of the country give the name ofMonte hecho a mano, the mountain built by human hands, or the great teocali of Cholula.
This pyramid, crowned with cypresses, and on the top of which now stands a chapel dedicated to "Nuestra Señora de los remedios," is entirely constructed of bricks, its height is one hundred and seventy feet, and its base, according to the calculations of Humboldt, is 1355 feet in length, or a little more than double the base of the pyramids of Cheops.
Monsieur Ampère remarks, with considerable tact and cleverness, that the imagination of the Arabs has surrounded with prodigies, the, to them, unknown cradle of the Egyptian pyramids, whose construction they refer to the deluge; and the same was the case in Mexico. On this subject he relates a tradition picked up in 1566, by Pedro del Río, about the pyramids of Cholula, and preserved in his MSS., which are now in the Vatican.
We will in our turn, make a loan from the celebrated savant, and relate here this tradition, such as he gives it in hisPromenades en Amérique.
"During the last great inundation, the country of Anahuac (the plateau of Mexico), was inhabited by giants. All those who did not perish in this disaster, were changed into fishes, except seven giants who took refuge in the caverns. When the waters began to subside, one of these giants, of the name of Xelhua, who was an architect, erected near Cholula, in memory of the mountain of Tlaloc, which had served as a refuge to him and his brothers, an artificial column of a pyramidal form. The gods, seeing with jealousy, this edifice, whose peak was intended to touch the clouds, and irritated by the audacity of Xelhua, hurled the heavenly fires against the pyramid, whence it happened, that many of the builders perished, and the work could not be completed. It was dedicated to the god of the air, 'Qualzalcoatl.'"
Might we not fancy ourselves reading the Biblical account of the building of the Tower of Babel?
There is in this narrative an error, which must not be imputed to the celebrated professor, but which we, in spite of our humble quality of romance writer, believe it useful to rectify.
Quetzalcoatl—the serpent covered with feathers, the root of which isquetzallifeathers, andcoatlserpent, and not qualzalcoatl, which means nothing, and is not even a Mexican name—is the god of the air, the god legislatorpar excellence; he was white and bearded, his black cloak was studded with red crosses, he appeared at Tula, of which place he was high priest; the men who accompanied him wore black garments, in the shape of a cassock, and like him, were white.
He was passing through Cholula, on his way to the mysterious country whence his ancestors sprang, when the Cholulans implored him to govern them and give them laws; he consented, and remained for twenty years among them. After which, considering his mission temporarily terminated, he went to the mouth of the riverHuasacoalco, when he suddenly disappeared, after solemnly promising the Cholulans that he would return one day to govern them.
Hardly a century ago the Indians, when carrying their offspring to the Chapel of the Virgin erected on the pyramid, still prayed to Quetzalcoatl, whose return among them they piously awaited, we will not venture to assert that this belief is completely extinct at the present day.
The pyramid of Cholula in no way resembles those to be seen in Egypt, covered with earth on all sides; it is a thoroughly wooded mount, the top of which can be easily reached, not only on horseback, but in a carriage.
At certain spots landslips had laid bare the sun-dried bricks employed in the construction.
A Christian chapel stands on the top of the pyramid at the very spot where the temple dedicated to Quetzalcoatl was built.
We cannot agree with certain authors who have asserted that a religion of love has been substituted for a barbarous and cruel faith; it would have been more logical to say that a true religion has followed a false one.
Never was the summit of the pyramid of Cholula stained with human blood; never was any man immolated there to the god adored in the temple, now destroyed, for the very simple reason that this temple was dedicated to Quetzalcoatl, and that the only offerings laid on the altar of this god consisted of productions of the earth, such as flowers and the first fruits of the crops, and this was done by the express order of the god legislator, an order which his priests did not dare infringe.
It was about four o'clock, a.m., the stars were beginning to disappear in the depths of the sky, the horizon was striped with large grey bands that incessantly changed their colour, and gradually assumed all the colours of the rainbow, until they at last became blended into one red mass; day was breaking, and the sun was about to rise. At this moment two horsemen issued from Puebla, and proceeded at a sharp trot along the Cholula road.
Both were carefully wrapped up in theirsarapes, and appeared well armed.
At about half a league from the town they suddenly turned to the right and entered a narrow path cut through a field of aloes.
This path, which was very badly kept up, like all the means of communication in Mexico, formed numberless turns, and was cut up by so many ravines and quagmires, that there was the greatest difficulty in riding along it, without running the risk of breaking one's neck twenty times in ten minutes. Here and there camearroyos, which had to be crossed with the water up to the horses' girths; then there were mounds to ascend and descend; lastly, after at least twenty-five minutes of this difficult riding, the two travellers reached the base of a species of pyramid clumsily made by human hands, entirely covered with wood, and rising about forty feet above the plain.
This artificial hill was crowned by avaquero's rancho, which was reached by steps cut at regular distances in the sides of the mound.
On reaching this spot the two strangers halted and dismounted.
The two men then left their horses to themselves, thrust the barrels of their guns into a crevice at the base of the hill, and pressed on them, using the butt as a leverage.
Although the pressure was not greatly exerted, an enormous stone, which seemed completely to adhere to the ground, became slowly detached, turned on invisible hinges, and unmasked the entrance of a cave which ran with a gentle incline underground.
This grotto doubtless received air and light through a great number of imperceptible fissures, for it was dry, and perfectly clear.
"Go, López," said one of the strangers.
"Are you going up above?" the other asked.
"Yes; you will join me there in an hour, unless you see me beforehand."
"Good; that is understood."
He then whistled to the horses, which trotted up, and, at a signal from López, entered the cavern without the slightest hesitation.
"Good-bye for the present," said López.
The stranger gave him an affirmative nod; the servant entered in his turn, let the stone fall behind him, and it fitted so exactly into the rock, that there was not the slightest solution of continuity, and it would have been impossible to find the entrance it concealed, even were its existence known, unless one had been acquainted beforehand with its exact position.
The stranger had remained motionless, with his eyes fixed on the surrounding plain, seeking, doubtless, to assure himself that he was really alone, and that he had nothing to fear from indiscreet glances.
When the stone had fallen into its place again, he threw his gun on his shoulder, and began slowly ascending the steps, apparently plunged in gloomy meditation.
From the top of the mound there was a vast prospect: on one side Zapotecas, Cholula, haciendas, and villages; on the other, Puebla, with its numerous painted and conical cupolas, which made it resemble an eastern city. Then the eye wandered over fields of aloes, Indian corn, and agave, in the midst of which the high road to Mexico wound, forming a yellow line.
The stranger remained for an instant pensive, with his eyes turned to the plain, which was completely deserted at this early hour, and which the first sunbeams were beginning to gild with lustrous tints: then, after breathing a suppressed sigh, he pushed the hurdle, covered with a cowhide, which served as door to the rancho, and disappeared in the interior.
The rancho externally had the wretched appearance of a hut almost falling into ruins; still, the interior was more comfortably arranged than might have been reasonably expected in a country where the exigencies of life, with the lower classes more especially, are reduced to what is most strictly necessary.
The first room—for the rancho contained several—served as parlour and sitting room, and communicated with a lean-to outside, used as a kitchen. The whitewashed walls of this room were adorned, not with pictures, but with six or eight of those coloured engravings, manufactured at Epinal, and with which that town inundates the world. They represented different episodes in the wars of the empires, and were decently framed and glazed. In a corner, about six feet from the ground, a statuette, representing Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe, the patron saint of Mexico, was placed on a mahogany console, edged with points, on which were fixed yellow wax tapers, three of which were lighted. Six equipales, four butacas, a sideboard covered with various household articles, and a large table placed in the middle of the room, completed the furniture of this apartment, which was lighted by two windows with red curtains. The floor was covered with a mat, of rather delicate workmanship.
We have omitted mention of an article of furniture very important through its rarity, and which was most unexpected in such a place: it was a Black Forest cuckoo clock, surmounted by some bird or other, which announced the hours and half-hours by singing.
This cuckoo was opposite the entrance door, and placed exactly between the two windows.
A door opened on the right into the inner room.
At the moment when the stranger entered the rancho, the room was empty.
He leaned his gun in a corner, took off his hat, which he laid on a table, opened a window, up to which he drew a butaca, then rolled a husk cigarette, which he lit and smoked as calmly and coolly as if he were at home, though not till he had cast a glance at the clock, and muttered—
"Half past five! Good! I have time: he will not arrive before."
While speaking thus to himself, the stranger threw himself back in the butaca; his eyes closed, his hand loosed its hold of the cigarette, and a few minutes later he was sleeping soundly.
His sleep had lasted about half an hour, when a door behind him was cautiously opened, and a pretty woman, twenty-three at the most, with blue eyes and light hair, came into the room stealthily, curiously stretching out her head, and fixing a kind, almost affectionate, glance on the sleeper.
The young woman's face evidenced gaiety and maliciousness, blended with extreme kindness. Her features, though not regular, formed a coquettish and graceful whole which pleased at the first glance. Her excessively white complexion distinguished her from the other rancheros' wives, who are generally copper-coloured Indians: her dress was that belonging to her class, but remarkably neat, and worn with a coquettishness that admirably became her.
She thus came up softly to the sleeper, with her head thrown back, and a finger laid on her lip, doubtless to recommend two persons who followed her—a middle-aged man and woman—to make as little noise as possible.
The woman appeared to be about fifty years of age, the man sixty; their rather ordinary features had nothing striking about them, excepting a certain expression of energetic decision spread over them.
The woman wore the garb of Mexican rancheros; as for the man, he was avaquero.
All three, on coming close to the stranger, stopped before him, and watched him sleeping.
At this moment a sunbeam entered through the open window, and fell on the stranger's face.
"Vive Dieu!" the latter exclaimed in French, as he sprang up suddenly and opened his eyes; "Why, deuce take me, I really believe I was asleep!"
"Parbleu! Mr. Oliver," the ranchero replied, in the same language; "what harm is there in that?"
"Ah! There you are, my good friends," he said, with a pleasant smile, as he offered them his hand; "it is a joyous waking for me, since I find you at my side. Good day! Louise, my girl. Good day! Mother Thérèse; and good day to you, too, my old Loïck! You have cheerful faces, which it is a pleasure to look at!"
"How sorry I am that you woke up, Mr. Oliver," the charming Louise said.
"The more so, because you were doubtless fatigued," Loïck said.
"Stuff! I have forgotten it. You did not expect to find me here, eh?"
"Pardon me, Mr. Oliver," Thérèse replied; "López informed us of your arrival."
"That confounded López cannot hold his tongue," Oliver said, gaily; "he must always be chattering."
"You will breakfast with us, I hope?" the young woman asked.
"Is that a thing to ask, girl?" thevaquerosaid; "I should like to see Mr. Oliver decline, that is all."
"Come, rough one," Oliver said, laughingly; "do not growl. I will breakfast."
"Ah! That is all right," the young woman exclaimed. And, aided by Thérèse, who was her mother, as Loïck was her father, she instantly began making preparations for the morning meal.
"But, you know," said Oliver, "nothing Mexican, I do not expect the frightful cooking of the country here."
"All right!" Louise answered, with a smile; "We will have a French breakfast."
"Bravo! The news doubles my appetite."
While the two women went backwards and forwards from the kitchen to the dining room, preparing the breakfast, and laying the table, the two men remained near the window, and were conversing together.
"Are you still satisfied?" Oliver asked his host.
"Perfectly," the other answered. "Don Andrés de la Cruz is a good master; besides, as you know, I have but few dealings with him."
"That is true. You only depend on Ño Leo Carral."
"I do not complain of him. He is a worthy man, although a majordomo. We get on famously together."
"All the better. I should have been grieved had it been otherwise. However, it was on my recommendation that you consented to take this rancho; and if there were anything—"
"I would not hesitate to inform you of it, Mr. Oliver; but in that quarter all goes well."
The adventurer looked at him fixedly.
"Then something is going wrong elsewhere?" he remarked.
"I do not say so, sir," thevaquerostammered, with embarrassment.
Oliver shook his head.
"Do you remember, Loïck," he said to him, sternly, "the conditions I imposed on you, when I granted you your pardon?"
"Oh! I do not forget them, sir."
"You have not spoken?"
"No."
"Then Dominique still believes himself—?"
"Yes, still," he replied hanging his head; "but he does not love me."
"What makes you suppose so?"
"I am only too certain of it, sir: ever since you took him on the prairies, his character has completely changed. The ten years he spent away from me have rendered him completely indifferent."
"Perhaps it is a foreboding," the adventurer remarked in a hollow voice.
"Oh, do not say that, sir," the other exclaimed with horror, "musing is a bad counsellor: I was very guilty, but if you knew how deeply I have repented of my crime—"
"I know it and that is the reason why I pardoned you. Justice will be done, some day, on the real culprit."
"Oh, sir, and I tremble, wretch that I am, at having been mixed up in this sinister history, whose denouement will be terrible."
"Yes," the adventurer said with concentrated energy—"very terrible indeed! And you will help in it, Loïck."
Thevaquerogave a sigh, which did not escape the other.
"I have not seen Dominique," he said, with a sudden change of tone; "is he still asleep?"
"Oh no, you have instructed him too well, sir; he is always the first of us to rise."
"How is it that he is not here, in that case?"
"Oh," thevaquerosaid with hesitation, "he has gone out: hang it, he is free, now that he is twenty-two years of age."
"Already!" the adventurer muttered in a gloomy voice. Then suddenly shaking his head, he said:
"Let us breakfast."
The meal commenced under rather melancholy auspices, but thanks to the efforts of the adventurer, the former gaiety soon returned, and the end of the breakfast was as merry as could be desired.
All at once López suddenly entered the rancho.
"Señor Loïck," he said, "here is your son: I do not know what he is bringing, but he is on foot and leading his horse by the bridle."
All rose and left the rancho. At about a gunshot from the rancho, they really saw a man leading a horse by the bridle: a rather heavy burden was fastened on the animal's back.
The distance prevented them from distinguishing the nature of this burden.
"It is strange," Oliver muttered in a low voice, after attentively examining the arrival for some moments, "can it be he? Oh, I must make certain without delay."
And, after making López a sign to follow him, he rushed down the steps, to the amazement of thevaqueroand the two women who soon saw him running, followed by López, across the plain to meet Dominique.
The latter had noticed the two men and had halted to await their arrival.