"I too."
The confession was made; they now understood one another, and had nothing further to conceal.
"How long have you loved him?" doña Carmen continued.
"I do not know, but I fancy that I have always loved him."
"It is the same with me."
Nothing is so sweet and pure as a girl's simple love. It is the soul scarce awake to human sensations, which seeks its lovely angelic wings to fly toward the unknown regions of the ideal.
"And does he love you?" Carmen asked softly.
"Yes, since I love him."
"That is true," she replied, quite convinced.
Love has this adorable thing about it, that it is essentially illogical; were it not so, it would not be love. Suddenly the young ladies rose, and laid their hands on their heart.
"Here he is," said Dolores.
"He is coming," Carmen remarked.
How did they know? The deepest silence prevailed outside. Then, quitting the dining room, they fled to the garden like startled doves. Almost immediately there was a knock at the door. The old servant doubtless recognized the knock, for he at once opened. The count and his friend entered.
"The ladies?" the count asked.
"In thehuerta, Excellency," the servant answered, as he closed the door after them.
The ladies were seated in an arbour; doña María was embroidering, the young ladies were attentively reading—so attentively, indeed, that, though they suddenly blushed, they did not hear the sound of their visitors' footsteps on the gravel walks, and were greatly surprised on perceiving them.
The gentlemen took off their hats on entering the arbour, and bowed respectfully to the ladies.
"Here you are at last, gentlemen," doña María remarked with a smile; "do you know that we felt very anxious?"
"Oh!" said doña Carmen with a pout.
"Not so very," doña Dolores murmured, "these gentlemen have doubtless found an opportunity to amuse themselves elsewhere and took advantage of it."
The count and Dominique gazed at the young ladies in surprise, for they did not understand.
"Come, come, little mad caps," doña María said gently: "do not torment the poor young men so, you render them quite confused: it is probable that they did not come sooner because they were prevented."
"Oh! These gentlemen are perfectly at liberty to come when they please:" doña Dolores said disdainfully.
"We should be sorry to feel angry with them for such a trifle," Carmen added with the same tone.
This was the death shot for the young men, and they completely lost countenance. The teasing girls looked at them for a second, and then burst into such a frank and sudden laugh, that the count and Dominique turned pale with annoyance.
"¡Viva Dios!" thevaqueroexclaimed, stamping his foot angrily, "It is too unkind to punish us thus for a fault we have not committed."
"Don Adolfo detained us against our will!" the count said.
"You have seen don Jaime?" doña María asked.
"Yes, madam, he paid us a visit at eleven o'clock last night."
The young men then took chairs, and a pleasant conversation was carried on. Doña Carmen and Dolores continued to tease them: they were happy at having made them so utterly disconcerted, though in their hearts they felt a grudge because their lovers had not comprehended the feeling that dictated their reproaches. As for the count and Dominique, they felt happy in being by the side of these lovely and simple girls, they intoxicated themselves with the fire of their glances, listened with ravishment to the sweet music of their voice, without thinking of anything but enjoying as long as possible the easy happiness which they thus procured. The entire afternoon passed in this way with the rapidity of a dream. At nine o'clock they took leave and returned home without exchanging a word.
"Do you feel inclined to sleep?" the count asked his friend, as soon as they reached their apartments.
"Really, no," the latter answered; "why?"
"Because I should like to talk with you."
"Well, that is capital, for I too want to talk to you."
"Ah," said the count: "well, if you like, we will talk over a cigar and a glass of punch."
"That will be excellent."
The young men sat down opposite each other and lit their cigars.
"What a charming day we have spent!" the count said.
"How could it be otherwise," Dominique asked, "with such amiable persons?"
And as if by common accord the young men sighed. The count suddenly seemed to form a determination.
"Come," he said to his friend, "will you be frank?"
"With you I shall always be so, as you are well aware," Dominique answered.
"Well, listen to me: you are aware that I have only been a few months in Mexico, but what you know only vaguely is the motive that brought me to this country."
"I fancy I was told you had come here with the intention of marrying your cousin, doña Dolores de la Cruz."
"That is true: but what you do not know is the way in which this marriage was arranged, and the motives that prevent me from breaking it off."
"Ah!" said Dominique.
"I will be brief: know then that while still a child, by the conditions of a family compact I was betrothed to my cousin doña Dolores, of whose existence even I was ignorant. When I became a man, my parents called on me to fulfil this engagement, which they had made in my name without consulting me. In spite of the very natural repugnance I felt for this strange union with a woman whom I did not know, I was compelled to obey. I quitted with regret the happy careless life I was leading in Paris among my friends, and embarked for Mexico. Don Andrés de la Cruz received me on my arrival with the liveliest joy, overwhelmed me with the most delicate attentions, and introduced me to his daughter, my betrothed. Doña Dolores received me coldly, even more than coldly: evidently she was no more satisfied than myself with the union she was forced to contract with a stranger, and felt hurt at the right her father had thus arrogated of disposing of her hand without consulting her, or even warning her; for doña Dolores, as I learned afterwards, was perfectly ignorant of the compact concluded between the two branches of our family. As for myself, delighted at the cool reception which I received from the woman I was destined to marry, I hoped that possibly this union might not be completed. Doña, Dolores is very beautiful, as you are aware."
"Ah, yes," Dominique muttered.
"Her character is charming, her mind cultivated—in a word, she combines all the graces and seductive attractions which make an accomplished woman."
"Oh, yes," Dominique repeated; "all that you are saying is perfectly true."
"Well, I cannot love her, the feeling is stronger than I am; and yet duty—duty forces me to marry her, for doña Dolores has suddenly become an orphan. She is almost ruined, and surrendered defenselessly to her brother's hatred: betrothed to her against my will, it is true, but very really betrothed, honour orders me to carry out this union, the last wish of her dying father; and yet I love—"
"What do you say?" Dominique exclaimed in a panting voice.
"Forgive me, Dominique; I love doña Carmen."
"Oh, thanks, Great Heaven!"
"What do you mean?"
"I love too," said Dominique; "you render me very happy, for the woman I love is doña Dolores!"
The count offered his hand to Dominique, but the latter threw himself into his arms. They held each other closely embraced for some time, but at last the count gently liberated himself.
"Let us hope!" he said; and this one word contained the feelings which were boiling in his heart.
It was about two in the afternoon. There was not a breath of air, the country seemed to have fallen asleep under the weight of a leaden sun, whose burning beams fell from heaven with the colour of burnished copper on the gaping earth, and made the pebbles flash like so many diamonds on a wide and tortuous road which wound with infinite curves across an arid plain covered with greyish white rocks, on whose sides a blending light formed a cascade of fire. The perfectly transparent atmosphere, such as always exists in countries deprived of humidity, allowed the diversities of the country to be plainly distinguished as far as the horizon, with a crudity of forms, and details which, owing to the want of aerial perspective, gave them something harsh which saddened the eye. At a spot where this road separated into several branches, and formed a species of square, stood a small house with white walls and Italian roof, whose door was ornamented by a portello of coarsely planed tree trunks, supporting a balcony of trellis work which enclosed it like a cage. This cottage was a venta. Several horses tied by the bridle to the portello, with sadly hanging heads, heaving sides, and running down with perspiration, seemed to be as much exhausted by the heat as by fatigue. Here and there several men, rolled up in theirsarapes, with their heads in the shade and their feet in the sun, were sleeping, according to the Spanish expression,a pierna suelta.
These men were guerilleros: a sentry half asleep, leaning on his lance, and with his back against the wall, was supposed to be watching the arms of the cuadrilla, arranged in a file. Under the portello, a man seated in a hammock, was desperately strumming a jarana, while singing in a ropy voice the languishingly amorous words of atriste. A fat little man, with grey eyes full of motion, and a mocking countenance, came out of the venta and approached the hammock.
"Señor don Felipe," he said with a respectful bow to the improvised musician; "will you not dine?"
"Señor ventero," the officer answered roughly "when you speak to me, you might, I think, be more respectful toward me, and give me the title to which I have a right—that is to say, call me Colonel."
"Excuse me, Excellency," the host replied with a deeper bow than the first; "I am a ventero, and very little acquainted with military ranks."
"That will do—you are excused! I will not dine yet, for I am expecting someone who has not yet arrived, but will be here shortly."
"That is certainly very unfortunate, señor coronel don Felipe," the ventero remarked; "a dinner that I have prepared with so much care, will be entirely spoiled."
"That would be a misfortune; but what is to be done? Well, lay the table, I have waited long enough, and have too formidable an appetite to delay any longer."
The landlord bowed, and at once retired. In the meanwhile the guerillero had made up his mind to leave his hammock, and lay aside his jarana for the present. After rolling and lighting a husk cigarette, he carelessly walked a few paces towards the end of the portello, and with his arms crossed on his back, and cigarette in his mouth, surveyed the country. A horseman, enfolded in a dense cloud of dust raised by his rapid pace, was coming toward him. Don Felipe uttered a cry of joy, for he was certain that the horseman coming toward him was the person he had so long been expecting.
"Ouf!" the traveller said, stopping his horse short before the portello and leaping off; "I could not stand it any longer, válgame Dios; what a horrible heat!"
At a sign from the colonel, a soldier took the horse and led it to the corral.
"Ah, señor don Diego, you are welcome," said the colonel, as he offered his hand; "I have almost despaired of seeing you. Dinner is waiting for us: after such a ride, you must be almost dead of hunger."
The ventero introduced them into a retired cuarto. The two guests sat down to table and vigorously attacked the dishes placed before them. During the first part of the dinner, being fully occupied with satisfying the claims of an appetite sharpened by a long abstinence, they only interchanged a few words; but ere long their ardour was calmed, they threw themselves back on theirbutacaswith an "ah" of satisfaction, lit their cigarettes and began smoking them, while sipping some excellent Cataluña refino which the host had brought as the wind up of the dinner.
"There," don Diego said, "now that we have fed well—thanks be to Heaven and Saint Julian, the patron saint of travellers—suppose we talk a little, my dear Colonel."
"I am quite ready," the other answered with a crafty smile.
"Well," don Diego continued, "I will tell that I spoke yesterday to the general about an affair which I intended to propose to you, and what do you think his answer was? Do not do, my dear don Diego; in spite of his great talents, don Felipe is an ass imbued with the most absurd prejudices, he would not understand the great patriotic purpose of the affair you proposed to him, he would only see the money and refuse with a laugh in your face, although certainly twenty-five thousand piastres are a very handsome sum; and he added in conclusion—well, since you have made an appointment with him, go and see him; if only for the singularity of the fact, you had better see. Now, if you think proper to mention the affair to him, he will shut your mouth and send you and your twenty-five thousand piastres to the deuce."
"Hum!" said the colonel, to whom the amount caused serious reflection.
Don Diego examined him with a corner of his eye.
"Well," he continued, as he threw away his cigarette, "after due consideration, I am of the general's opinion, and will not talk to you about the matter."
"Ah!" the colonel said again.
"It annoys me, I confess, but I must make up my mind to it; I will go and find Cuéllar, perhaps he will not be so difficult to deal with."
"Cuéllar is a scoundrel," don Felipe exclaimed violently.
"I am well aware of it," don Diego replied gently; "but what do I care for that? By giving him ten thousand piastres beforehand, I am certain that he will accept my proposition, which has the additional advantage of being very honourable."
The colonel filled the glasses: he seemed absorbed in thought. "Confound it," he said, "that is a tidy sum you offer."
"Well, you understand, my dear sir, that I am not the man to ask any friend of mine to undertake such a job gratuitously."
"But Cuéllar is no friend of yours."
"It is true, and that is why I feel sorry about applying to him."
"But what is the matter to be done?"
"It is a secret."
"Am I not your friend? Be assured that I will be as dumb as the grave."
Don Diego appeared to reflect.
"You promise me silence?"
"I swear it on my honour."
"Well, in that case, nothing prevents me from speaking. This is simply the matter: I shall tell you nothing new, Colonel, when I mention that numerous spies, seeing both causes at once, sell without scruple to Miramón the secrets of our military operations, just as they make us pay largely for the information they supply us about those of the enemy. Now, the government of his Excellency, don Benito Juárez, has, at this moment, his eyes open upon the machinations of two men, who are strongly suspected of playing a double part; but the individuals in question are gifted with such a remarkable talent, their measures are so well taken, that, in spite of the moral certainty existing against them, it has hitherto been impossible to obtain the slightest proof of the truth. These two men must be unmasked by seizing their papers, on the delivery of which fifteen thousand piastres will be immediately paid, in addition to the ten thousand advanced. Once that the general governor has these proofs in his hands, he will not hesitate to bring them before a court-martial. You see that this affair is honourable to the person who is willing to undertake it."
"Indeed, it is a meritorious act of patriotism to acquire this certainty: and who are the two men, pray?"
"Did I not mention their names?"
"That is the only thing you have forgotten."
"Oh! These are no ordinary persons—quite the contrary: the first has just been appointed private secretary to General Ortega, while the second, I believe, has very recently raised a cuadrilla at his own expense."
"But their names—their names?"
"You know them well, or, at least, I suppose so; the first is don Antonio Cacerbar, and the second—"
"Don Melchior de la Cruz!" don Felipe interrupted, eagerly.
"You know it!" don Diego exclaimed, with perfectly well-acted surprise.
"The sudden elevation of these two men, the almost unlimited credit which they enjoy with the President, has also caused me to reflect, for no one understands this so sudden favour."
"Hence, certain persons consider it necessary to elucidate the question by assuring themselves in a positive manner about what these two men are."
"Well," don Felipe exclaimed, "I will know it! I promise you, and will give you the proofs you require."
"You will do that?"
"Yes, I swear it! The more so because I consider it the duty of an honest man to take these rogues with their hand in the bag; and," he added, with a singular smile, "no one possesses the means to obtain the result better than I."
"I trust you may not be mistaken, Colonel, for, if this were to happen, I think I may assure you that the gratitude of the government toward you will not be limited to the sum of which I am going to hand you a portion."
Don Felipe smiled proudly at this transparent allusion to the new rank of which he was ambitious.
Don Diego, without appearing to remark the smile, took from a large pocketbook a sheet of paper, and handed it to the guerillero, who seized it with a gesture of delight, and an expression of satisfied rapacity, which imparted something vile and contemptible to his features, which were generally handsome and rather regular. This paper was a draft for ten thousand piastres, payable at sight on a large English banking house in Veracruz. Don Diego rose.
"Are you going?" the colonel asked him.
"Yes; I am sorry to be compelled to leave you."
"We shall meet again soon, señor don Diego."
The young man remounted his horse, and went off at a rapid pace.
"Ah!" he muttered, while galloping, "I think that this time the mousetrap is well set, and that the villains will be caught in it."
The colonel had reseated himself in his hammock, and had begun to strum the jarana again, with more power than accuracy.
Dolores and Carmen were alone in the garden. Hidden like two timid turtle doves, in an arbour of orange, lemon, and flowering pomegranate trees, and were eagerly conversing. Doña María kept her room, through a slight indisposition—such, at least, was the excuse she made to the young ladies for not keeping them company in the garden, but, in reality, she had shut herself up to read an important letter which don Jaime had sent her by a safe man.
The girls, free from all surveillance, were rejoicing their hearts by confiding to each other their simple and sweet secrets; a few words had sufficed to render any explanation between them unnecessary; hence there were no concealments or subterfuges, but an entire and unbounded confidence, a tacitly concluded union to help each other, and compel their swains to break a too lengthened silence, and let them read in their hearts the name of her whom each of them preferred. It is on this serious and interesting subject that the conversation of the young ladies turned at this moment. Although they had confessed to each other their mutual love, by a feeling of delicacy inseparable from every real passion, they hesitated and recoiled with a blush before the thought of urging the young men to declare themselves.
Doña Carmen and doña Dolores were really simple and innocent girls, ignorant of all the coquettish tricks of which, among us, the so-called civilized people, women make such cruel, and, at times, implacable sport. By one of those strange accidents, which real life so frequently creates, the conversation of the young ladies was, with but a few slight differences, the same as the one that had previously taken place between the count and his friend on the same subject.
"Dolores," doña Carmen said, in a caressing voice, "you are braver than I. You know don Ludovic better than I do; and, besides, he is your relation; why this reserve with him?"
"Alas! My darling," doña Dolores replied, "this reserve which surprises you is forced upon me by my position. Count Ludovic is now my sole relation, as I am deserted by all the others; for many years past we have been betrothed to each other."
"How is it possible," the girl exclaimed, nobly, "that parents thus dare to enchain their children without consulting, and condemn them beforehand to a future of misery?"
"These arrangements are frequently made in Europe, dearest, I understand; moreover, does not our natural weakness render us women slaves of men, who have retained the supreme power in their hands? and although this intolerable tyranny makes us groan, we must humbly bow the head and obey."
"Yes, that is only too true; still, I fancy that if we were to resist—"
"We should be branded, pointed at, and ruin our reputation."
"Well, do you, in spite of your heart, conclude this odious marriage?"
"What shall I answer you, darling? The mere thought that this marriage might be accomplished renders me wild with grief, and yet I can see no way of escaping it: the count left France and came here with the sole object of marrying me; my father, on his dying bed, made him promise not to leave me without a protector, and to conclude this marriage. You see that there are several and very serious reasons why it seems to me impossible to escape from the fate that menaces me."
"But, my darling," doña Carmen exclaimed, warmly, "why do you not have a clear explanation with the count? Perhaps this explanation would smooth all difficulties."
"That is possible; but this explanation cannot come from me; the count has rendered me immense services since my unfortunate father's death, and it would be giving him a very bad reward to answer by a refusal to a request which ought to honour me in every respect."
"Oh, you love him, Dolores!" she exclaimed, passionately.
"No, I do not love him," she answered, with dignity, "but perhaps he loves me; nothing proves the contrary."
"I am certain that it is I whom he loves!" Carmen exclaimed.
"My angel," she said, with a smile, "a woman can never be certain of such things, even when she holds the most solemn oaths, much less than when he has not a word, or a gesture, or a look to certify that she is not mistaken. I will go on then: one of two things is certain—the count either loves me, or does not love me, and supposes that I am in love with him; in either case my conduct is laid down for me. I must wait without provoking an explanation, which cannot fail to take place between us, and which, I feel convinced, will not be long delayed. In that case, Carmen, I swear to you to be to the count just what I ought to be, that is to say, frank and loyal; and if, after this explanation, any doubts remain in the count's mind, it will be because he was determined to retain them, and nothing will be left me but to bow my head sadly, and yield to my fate. That is all I can possibly promise you, my love; anything else I could not dare do, for my dignity as a woman, and the respect I owe myself, have traced for me a line of conduct which I believe my honour commands me not to stray from."
"My dear Dolores, though I am greatly grieved by your resolution, still I am forced to allow that it is the only one which, under present circumstances, it is proper for you to adopt; hence, do not feel vexed by my ill temper, for I am suffering so greatly."
"And I? Do you believe, darling, that I am happy? Oh! Undeceive yourself if you have that thought; perhaps I am even more unhappy than you."
At this moment footsteps were heard on the gravel walk.
"Here is somebody," said doña Dolores.
"It is the count," Carmen at once replied.
"How do you know, dear?"
The girl blushed.
"I guess it by the beating of my heart," she said gently.
"He is alone, I think?"
"Yes."
"Oh, Heaven! Can anything new have happened?"
"Oh! Pray do not think that."
The count appeared at the entrance of the arbour. He was really alone. He bowed to the young ladies, and waited for their permission to join them. Doña Dolores offered him her hand with a smile, while her companion bowed to hide her blushes.
"You are welcome, cousin," said doña Dolores. "You arrive late today."
"I am pleased, cousin," he replied, "that you have noticed this involuntary delay. My friend, don Domingo, who was obliged to go this morning early two leagues from the city, intrusted me with a commission, which I was compelled to execute before I could have the felicity of paying my respects to you."
"A very fair excuse, cousin, and Carmen and I absolve you. Now, sit down between us and let us talk."
"With the greatest pleasure, cousin."
He entered the arbour, and sat down between the two young ladies.
"Permit me, doña Carmen," he continued, as he bent down courteously to the young lady, "to offer you my respectful homage, and inquire after your health."
"I thank you for this attention, caballero," she answered. "Thank Heaven, my health is very good; but I should wish that my mother's were the same."
"Is doña María ill?" he eagerly asked.
"I hope not; still she is so indisposed as to keep her room."
The count made a movement to rise.
"Perhaps, my presence might appear improper under the circumstances," he said, "and I will—"
"Not at all. Stay, caballero, you are no stranger to us. Your title of cousin, and betrothed of my dear Dolores," she said significantly, "sufficiently authorizes your presence."
"It is authorized much more, cousin, by the numerous services you have rendered us, and which give you a claim to our gratitude."
"Hence, whatever may happen, you and your friend don Domingo will always be welcome to us, caballero," doña Carmen said with a smile.
"You overwhelm me, señoritas."
"Shall we not have the pleasure of seeing your friend today?"
"Within an hour he will be here, señorita. But you are rising: do you purpose leaving us, doña Carmen?"
"I ask your permission to leave you for only a few minutes, caballero; doña Dolores will keep you company, while I go and see whether my mother is better."
"Do so, señorita; and be kind enough to inform her of the lively interest I feel in her, and my grief at finding her indisposed."
The young lady bowed and went away, light as a bird. The count and doña Dolores remained alone. Their situation was singular and most embarrassing, for they thus unexpectedly found themselves in a position to have that explanation, from which they both hung back, while recognising its urgent necessity. If it is difficult for a woman to confess to a man who is wooing her that she does not love him, this confession is far more difficult, and painful, too, when it must come from the gentleman. Some minutes elapsed during which the two young people did not utter a word, and contented themselves with taking shy glances at each other. At length, as time was slipping away, and the count was afraid if he allowed this favourable opportunity to pass, that it might not occur again for some time, he resolved to speak.
"Well, cousin," he said, with the easiest air he could affect, "are you beginning to grow used to this secluded life, which the unhappy circumstances in which you found yourself have brought upon you?"
"I am perfectly accustomed to this calm and tranquil existence, cousin," she answered, "and if it were not for the sad recollections which assail me every moment, I confess that I should be very happy."
"I congratulate you, cousin."
"In truth, what do I want for here? Doña María and her daughter love me. They lavish kindness and attention, and I have a small circle of devoted friends—can I desire anything else in this world, where real happiness cannot exist?"
"I envy your philosophy, cousin. Still my duty as a relation—and a friend," he added, hesitatingly, "oblige me to remind you that this situation—happy though it is—can only be precarious. You cannot hope to pass your life in the bosom of this charming family. A thousand unforeseen events may happen at any moment to cause a violent separation."
"That is true, cousin," she murmured in a low and trembling voice.
"You know," he continued, "how little it is permitted in this unhappy country to reckon on the future. A young lady of your age, and especially of your beauty, cousin, is fatally exposed to a thousand dangers, from which it is almost impossible for her to escape. I am your relative, if not your nearest, certainly the most devoted to you. You do not doubt this, I hope?"
"Oh, Heaven forbid, cousin! Believe, on the contrary, that my heart retains a profound gratitude for the numberless services you have rendered me."
"Only gratitude?" he said significantly. "The word is rather vague, cousin."
She raised her charming limpid eyes to him. "What other word would you have me employ?" she asked.
"I am wrong, forgive me," he continued. "The fact is, the situation in which we stand to each other at this moment is so singular, cousin, that I really do not know how to express myself when addressing you. I am afraid of displeasing you."
"No, cousin; you have nothing of the sort to fear," she answered, with a smile. "You are my friend, and from that title you have the same right to say anything to me, as I have to hear it."
"You give me the title of friend," he said gently. "Your father desired—"
"Yes," she interrupted him with some degree of vivacity, "I know to what you allude, cousin; my father had future plans for me, which death prevented him from realizing."
"Those projects, cousin, it depends on you alone to realize."
She seemed to hesitate for an instant or two, but then went on in a trembling voice, and with a slight pallor. "My father's wishes are commands to me, cousin. On the day when it pleases you to ask my hand, I will give it to you."
"Cousin, cousin," he exclaimed hotly, "I do not mean that. I swore to your father not only to watch over you, but to secure your happiness by all the means in my power. The hand which you are ready to give me, in obedience to your father, I will not accept unless it is at the same time accompanied by the gift of your heart: whatever may be the feelings I entertain toward you, I will never force you to contract marriage which would render you unhappy."
"Thanks, cousin," she murmured, and cast her eyes down; "you are noble and good."
The young man softly took her hand.
"Dolores," he said to her, "permit me to call you by that name, cousin, for I am your friend."
"Oh yes," she replied, feebly.
"But," he added, with hesitation, "only your friend."
"Alas!" she sighed.
"That is enough," he said, "it is unnecessary to press you further: cousin you are free."
"What do you mean?" she exclaimed, anxiously.
"I mean, Dolores, that I give you back your promise. I renounce the honour of marrying you, though, with your permission, I still claim the right of watching over your happiness."
"Cousin!"
"Dolores, you do not love me; your heart is given to another; a marriage between us would cause the misery of both, poor girl. You have already been sufficiently tried by adversity, at an age when life should only be strewn with flowers, be happy with the man you love: it will not be my fault if your fate is not, ere long, united with his. I will justify the precious title of friend which you have given me by overthrowing the obstacles which possibly prevent the accomplishment of your dearest desires."
"Ah!" she exclaimed, with eyes bathed with tears, as she pressed the hand that held hers, "Why is it not you I love? You so worthy to inspire tender feelings."
"The heart has these anomalies, my cousin. Who knows, perhaps it is better that it is so? Now dry your tears, my querida Dolores; only see in me a devoted friend, a sure confidant to whom you could without fear, intrust all your charming love secrets, if I did not know them already."
"What?" she said, looking at him with surprise, "You know—"
"I know all, cousin, so reassure yourself; besides, he has not been so discreet as you; he has confessed everything to me."
"He loves me!" she exclaimed, drawing herself up to her full height; "Can it be possible?"
At this time the sound of hurried footsteps was heard outside.
"He is coming to tell you so himself," the count remarked.
At the same instant Dominique entered the arbour.
"Ah!" she said, trembling and falling back on the bench she had left.
"Good God!" Dominique cried, turning pale, "What is going on here?"
"Nothing that need alarm you, my friend," the count answered, with a smile, "doña Dolores permits you to offer her your homage."
"Can it be true?" he exclaimed, as he rushed towards her, and fell on his knees.
"Oh, cousin!" the young lady said, in a tone of gentle reproach, "Why have you taken this unfair advantage of a secret?"
"Which you did not confide to me, but I guessed," he answered.
"Traitor!" the young lady said, suddenly rising, and threatening her cousin with her finger, "If you have read my secret, I have surprised yours."
And she disappeared, flying light as a bird, and leaving the two men face to face. Dominique, amazed at this unexpected flight, for which he could not attribute a motive, made a movement to dart after her, but the count stopped him.
"Stay," he said to him, "the heart of a girl contains mysteries which must not be unveiled. What more do you want, now you are sure of her love?"
"Oh! My friend," he exclaimed, throwing himself into his arms, "I am the happiest of men."
"Egotist!" the count said gently to him, "You only think of yourself, when my heart is perhaps hopelessly suffering."
Doña Dolores had only fled so fast from the arbour in order to restore a little order to her thoughts, and to recover from the excessive emotion she was suffering.
As she entered the house Carmen was leaving it. Dolores threw herself into her arms, and burst into tears. Carmen, terrified at the state in which she saw her friend, led her gently to her bedroom, and she obeyed mechanically, without offering the slightest resistance. It took doña Dolores some time ere she was able to inform her friend of what had taken place in the arbour, and how the unexpected arrival of Dominique had forced from her, as it were, an avowal of love. Doña Carmen, who was far from expecting so quick, and so happy a conclusion, was overjoyed.
Henceforth no constraint, no misunderstanding; they could indulge in their sweet dreams of the future without any cause of alarm. What had they to fear, now they were sure of the love of the two young men? What obstacle could prevent their speedy union? Thus doña Carmen reasoned, to reassure the modesty of her friend, which had been rather startled by the confession which had involuntarily escaped her and filled her with shame, girls are so: they are willing that the man whom they love should divine their love, but they consider it an unpardonable weakness to confess it in his presence.
Carmen, who was some years older than Dolores, and consequently better able to conquer her own emotions, gently teased her friend about her weakness, and gradually led her to agree with her, that since the confession of her love was made, she did not regret it.
They then quitted their room, and composing their faces to efface all traces of emotion, proceeded to the garden. It was deserted.
Going back a little distance, we will relate what had occurred from the day when Miramón so freely disposed of the money of the Convention bonds deposited in the English consulate, to that which our story has reached; for the political events precipitated the termination of the narrative we have undertaken to write.
As don Jaime had predicted to him, the rather brutal manner in which General Márquez executed his orders, and the most illegal act of seizing the money, cast a fatal slur on the character of the young President, which up to this time had been pure from any violence or spoliation.
On learning this news, the members of the diplomatic body, among others the ambassador of Spain, and the Chargé d'Affaires of France, who were better disposed to Miramón than to Juárez, owing to the nobility of his character, and the loftiness of his views, had from this moment considered the cause of the moderate party represented by Miramón as hopelessly lost, unless one of those miracles, so frequent in revolutions, but of which no possibility could be seen, occurred. Besides, the comparatively large sum of the Convention bonds, joined to that which don Jaime remitted to the President, had not been sufficient to cover the deficit, which was enormous, and had not even sensibly diminished it.
The greater part of the money was employed in paying the soldiers, who not having received a farthing for three months, were beginning to raise seditious cries, and threatening to desert in a body.
The army paid, or nearly so, Miramón began recruiting for the purpose of increasing it, so that he might, for the last time, try the fortune of war, resolved to defend, inch by inch, the power which had been freely entrusted to him by the representatives of the nation. Still, in spite of the confidence he affected, the young and adventurous general did not deceive himself as to the deplorable state of his position, when opposed to the far more considerable, and really imposing forces of thePuros, as the partizans of Juárez called themselves. Hence, before playing the last stake, he determined to try the last resources in his power, that is to say, a diplomatic mediation.
The Spanish ambassador, on arriving in Mexico, recognized Miramón's government; it was therefore to this diplomatist that the President in his desperate circumstances applied, with the object of obtaining a mediation of the resident ministers, to try and effect the re-establishment of peace by conciliation. He proposed to submit to certain conditions of which the following were the most important:—
Firstly.—The delegates chosen by the two belligerent parties, conferring with the European ministers and the representative of the United States, would agree as to the way of re-establishing peace.
Secondly.—These delegates would nominate the person who was to hold the government of the whole Republic, while a general assembly resolved the questions that divided the Mexicans.
Thirdly and lastly.—The manner of convoking Congress would also be determined.
This despatch, addressed, on October 3rd, 1860, to the Minister of Spain, terminated with these significant words, which fully displayed Miramón's lassitude, and his desire for a settlement.
"Heaven grant that this convention, confidentially attempted, may obtain a better result than those which have been proposed up to this day."
As was generally supposed, this final attempt at reconciliation failed. The motive was simple and easy to be understood, even by persons the least versed in politics. Juárez, master of the larger portion of the territory of the republic, felt himself in his government of Veracruz too strong, through his adversary's exhaustion, not to prove intractable, he would not share the position by reciprocal conditions, but triumph fully.
Still Miramón, like a brave lion at bay before the hunters, had faith in his valiant sword which had so often been victorious, he did not despair yet, or perhaps would not despair. In order to keep together the scattered strength of his last defenders, he addressed to them a supreme appeal on November 17th, in which he strove to rekindle the dying sparks of his ruined cause, by trying to impart to those who still surrounded him, the courage which himself retained intact. Unhappily, faith had fled, these words fell on ears closed by personal interest and fear; no one would comprehend this supreme death cry of a great and sincere patriot. Still, he must form some resolution, either give up the struggle and lay down the power, or attempt again the fate of arms, and resist to the last extremity. The latter resolution was adopted by the general after ample reflection.
Night was drawing to its close; bluish gleams filtered through the curtains and paled the candles burning in the cabinet, to which we have once before led the reader to hear the conversation between the General President, and the adventurer. This time again, the same couple were face to face in the cabinet. The candles almost entirely burnt down, proved that the conference had been long, the two men bending over an immense map, seemed to be studying it with the most serious attention, while conversing together with some degree of animation. All at once the general rose with an angry movement, and fell back into an armchair.
"Bah!" he muttered between his teeth, "What is the use of obstinately opposing ill fortune?"
"To conquer it, General," the adventurer answered.
"It is impossible."
"Doyoudespair?" he asked significantly.
"I do not, far from that, I am resolved to fall if necessary, sooner than yield to the law, which would be imposed on me by that villain Juárez, a hateful and vindictive Indian, picked up through pity on the side of a road by a Spaniard, and who only employs the learning he has gained, and the education he has received by accident, to distract his country, and plunge it into an abyss of misfortunes."
"What would you have, General?" the adventurer answered sarcastically. "Who knows whether the Spaniard to whom you allude did not educate this Indian for the purpose of accomplishing a vengeance, and with a prevision of what is taking place today?"
"Everything would lead to the belief, on my soul! Never did man follow with more catlike patience, the darkest schemes, or accomplish more odious actions, with such impudent cynicism."
"Is he not the chief of the Puros?" the adventurer said laughingly.
"Curses on the man!" the general exclaimed, with an outburst of generous indignation, which he could not overcome. "He wishes the ruin of our unhappy country."
"Why do you refuse to follow my advice?"
The general shrugged his shoulders impatiently.
"Good Heavens!" he said, "Because the plan you have submitted to me is impracticable."
"Is that really the sole motive that prevents you from adopting it?" he asked cleverly.
"And then again," the general said with a slight embarrassment, "since you compel me to say it, I consider it unworthy of me."
"Oh, General, permit me to remark that you have not understood me."
"Monsieur, you are joking, my friend, I have so thoroughly understood you, on the contrary, that if you wish it, I will repeat to you word for word, the plan you have conceived, and," he added with a laugh, "which, with an author's self love, you are so anxious to see me carry out."
"Ah!" said the adventurer, with an air of doubt.
"Well, the plan is as follows: to quit the city suddenly, take no artillery with me, so as to march more quickly across country roads, surprise the enemy, attack him—"
"And beat him," the adventurer added meaningly.
"Oh, beat him," he said dubiously.
"It is infallible; consider, General, that your enemies rightly consider you shut up in the city, engaged in fortifying yourself there in the provision of the siege, with which they menace you; that since the defeat of General Márquez, they know that none of your partizans keep the field, and that consequently they have no attack to fear, and march with the most perfect security."
"That is true," the general muttered. "Hence, nothing will be more easy than to rout them; a guerilla war is not only the sole one you can carry on at the present day, but it offers you almost certain chances of success, by unnecessarily harassing your enemies, and beating them in detail; you have the hope of seizing once more the fortune which is abandoning you, and of delivering yourself from your odious rival. Only gain the victory in three or four encounters with his troops, and your partizans who are deserting you because they believe you ruined, will return in crowds, and Juárez's formidable army will melt away like snow before the sun."
"Yes, yes, I understand the boldness of this plan."
"Besides, it offers you a final chance."
"What?"
"This, if you are defeated, of ennobling your overthrow, by falling weapons in hand upon a field of battle, instead of letting yourself be smoked out like a fox from its earth, by an enemy whom you despise, and of seeing yourself in a few days constrained to accept a shameful capitulation, in order to spare the capital of the Republic the horrors of a siege."
The general rose, and began walking up and down the cabinet with long strides; presently he stopped in front of the adventurer.
"Thanks, don Jaime," he said to him, in an affectionate voice; "your rough frankness has done me good, it has proved to me that I have at least one faithful friend left in misfortune; well, be it so, I accept your plan, and will put it into execution this very day; what o'clock is it?"
"Not quite four, General."
"At five, I shall have left Mexico."
The adventurer rose.
"Are you leaving me, my friend?" the general said to him.
"My presence is no longer necessary here, General, permit me to retire."
"We shall meet again."
"Yes, at the moment of action, General. Where do you intend to attack the enemy?"
"There," said the general, placing his finger on a point of the map, "at Toluca, where his vanguard will not arrive before two in the afternoon: by making haste I can reach it before noon, and thus have the necessary time to make all my preparations for the action."
"The spot is well chosen, and I predict you a victory, General."
"May heaven hear you! I do not believe in it."
"Again your discouragement."
"No, my friend, you are mistaken: it is not discouragement on my part, but conviction."
And he affectionately offered his hand to the adventurer, who took leave and withdrew. A few minutes later don Jaime had left Mexico, and bending over his horse's neck, was galloping madly across country.
As Miramón had stated to the adventurer, at five o'clock, a.m. precisely, he left Mexico at the head of his troops. His forces were not numerous, they only consisted of three thousand five hundred men, infantry and cavalry, without artillery, on account of the execrable roads along which he was obliged to march. Every cavalryman carried an infantry soldier behind him, in order to render the march more rapid. It was really acoup de mainthat the President was about to attempt, a most hazardous one, but for that very reason it had numerous chances of success. General Miramón rode at the head of the army, in the midst of his staff with whom he gaily conversed; on seeing him thus calm and smiling it might have been fancied that no anxiety disturbed his mind; he seemed on leaving Mexico to have resumed that happy carelessness of manner which the anxieties of power had made him so rapidly forget. The morning, though rather fresh, promised a beautiful day, a transparent mist rose from the ground as the sunbeams became more ardent. A few herds could be seen scattered over the plain; somerecuasof mules led byarrierosand proceeding to Mexico incessantly crossed the line of march; the well cultivated ground offered no trace of war, and, the country, on the contrary, seemed to enjoy a profound calm.
Some Indians were running along the roads, driving oxen to the city, others were carrying their fruit and vegetables, all were in a hurry and carelessly singing, in order to dispel the weariness and length of the road. On passing the President, whom they knew well, they stopped in amazement, took off their hats and bowed to him with an affectionate respect. Ere long, by Miramón's orders, the troops entered almost insurmountable paths, on which the horses only advanced with great difficulty. The country became more abrupt and diversified: the march became more rapid, and silence was re-established in the ranks of the troops: they were approaching the enemy.
At about ten o'clock the President ordered a halt to rest the horses and give the soldiers time to breakfast. Usually no sight is so curious as a Mexican army. Every soldier is accompanied by his wife, who carries the provisions and prepares his meals. These wretched women, exposed to all the frightful consequences of war, camp at some distance from the troops when they halt, which give the Mexican armies the appearance of an emigration of barbarians. When a battle is being fought, they remain impassive spectators of the contest, knowing beforehand that they will become the prey of the victor, but accepting, or rather yielding with philosophic indifference to this hard necessity. This time it was not so; the President had expressly prohibited any woman from following the army, the soldiers therefore carried their provisions ready cooked in thealforjashanging behind the saddle; a precaution which, while avoiding a considerable loss of time, had the additional advantage of rendering fires unnecessary.
At eleven boot and saddle was sounded, and the troops at once fell into their ranks. They were approaching Toluca, the spot where the President resolved to await the enemy. The road, cut up by deep ravines, which could only be crossed with great difficulty, became almost impracticable; still, the soldiers were not discouraged; they were theéliteof Miramón's troops, his most faithful partizans, who had accompanied him since the beginning of the war. They had redoubled their ardour in the presence of obstacles which they surmounted laughingly, encouraged by the example of their young general, who marched bravely at their head, and thus gave them a sample of patience and self-denial.
General Cobos had been detached to reconnoitre at the head of twenty resolute men, in order to watch the enemy's march, and warn the general as soon as he caught sight of them, by falling back unseen on the main body. Suddenly Miramón perceived three horsemen galloping toward him, supposing, correctly, that they were the bearers of important news. He spurred his horse, and hastened to meet them. He soon joined them. Of these three men, two were soldiers; the third, who was well mounted and armed to the teeth, appeared to be a peasant.
"Who is this man?" the President asked of one of the soldiers.
"Excellency," he replied, "this man presented himself to the general, asking to be led to you, for he says he is the bearer of a letter which must be handed to you personally."
"Who sent you to me?" the President asked the stranger, who stood motionless before him.
"I pray your Excellency first to read this letter," he answered, as he drew a sealed note from his dolman, and respectfully handed it to the general. Miramón opened it and rapidly read it.
"Ah! Ah!" he said, examining him attentively; "What is your name, my good fellow?"
"López, General."
"Good. So he is near here?"
"Yes, General; in ambush with three hundred horsemen."
"And he places you at my disposal?"
"Yes, General, for as long as you may want me."
"Tell me, López, do you know this country?"
"I was born in it, Excellency."
"Then you are capable of guiding us?"
"Wherever you please."
"Do you know the enemy's position?"
"Perfectly, Excellency; the heads of Generals Berriozábal and Degollados' columns are not more than a league from Toluca, where they intend to make a long halt."
"At what distance are we from Toluca?"
"Following this road, about three leagues, Excellency."
"That is a long way: is there no shorter road?"
"There is one that shortens the distance by more than two-thirds."
"¡Caray!" the general exclaimed, "We must take it."
"Yes, but it is narrow, dangerous, and impracticable for artillery; even cavalry will not pass it without great difficulty."
"I have no artillery."
"In that case the thing is possible, General."
"I ask no more."
"Still, with your Excellency's permission, I will offer a bit of advice which I think good."
"Speak."
"The road is rough; it would be better to dismount the cavalry, send the infantry on ahead, and let the cavalry follow, leading their horses by the bridle."
"That will delay us a long time."
"On the contrary, General; we shall go faster on foot."
"Very well: how long before we reach Toluca?"
"Three-quarters of an hour. Is that too long, General?"
"No; if you keep your promise, I will give you ten ounces."
"Although it is not interest that directs me," López said with a laugh, "I am so certain of not making any mistake, that I regard the money as gained."
"Well, if that is the case, take it at once," the general said, giving him his purse.
"Thanks, Excellency; now we will set out when you like: but order your soldiers to maintain the deepest silence, so that we may come upon the enemy unawares, and attack him before he has time to look about him."
Miramón sent a soldier to General Cobos with orders for him to fall back as quickly as possible; then he made his soldiers dismount, placed the infantry in front, four abreast, the greatest width possible, and the dismounted cavalry formed the rearguard. General Cobos soon returned, and Miramón told him in a few words what was going on. The President placed himself at the head of the troops, having his own horse and the guide's led behind him, in spite of the entreaties of his friends.
"No," he replied to their solicitations, "I am your chief; as such, the greater part of the danger falls on me. My place is here, and I remain."
They were compelled to let him act as he pleased.
"Shall we start?" Miramón asked López.
"I am ready, General."
They set out: all their movements had been performed in the deepest silence, with admirable rapidity and precision. López had made no mistake; the path along which he led the troops was so rocky and difficult, that they advanced much more rapidly on foot.
"Does this path run any long distance?" the President asked the guide.
"Within half a gunshot of Toluca, General," he answered, "at that point it ascends until it commands Toluca, and then it is easy for cavalry to descend to the town at a gallop."
"Hum! There is both good and bad in what you say."
"I do not understand your Excellency."
"Hang it! It is clear enough, I fancy: suppose the Puros have placed a line of sentries on the heights, our project will be thwarted, and our expedition rendered fruitless. You did not reflect on what you were doing when you led us here."
"Pardon me, Excellency; the Puros know that no corps keep the field; they believe themselves certain of having no attack to apprehend, hence they do not take precautions, which they consider useless; moreover, the heights to which you refer are too remote from the spot where they will camp, and much too high for them to dream of crowning them."
"Well," the general muttered; "I must place my trust in Heaven! Now that I am here, I will not recoil."
They continued their advance with redoubled precautions. They had been for about five and twenty minutes on the path, when López, after looking searchingly around, suddenly halted.
"What are you doing?" the general asked.
"As you see, Excellency, I am stopping. On the other side of that bend before us the path begins to ascend, and we are not more than a musket shot from Toluca. With your permission, I will go on ahead, to make sure that the heights are not watched, and that you have a free passage."
The general looked at him attentively. "Go," he at length said; "we will await your return before we push on. I trust to you."
López took off his weapons and hat, which were not only useless to him, but might betray him; and lying down on the ground, he began crawling in the Indian fashion, and soon disappeared among the bushes that bordered the path. At a signal from the President, the word to halt ran rapidly along the ranks, and the army stopped almost instantaneously. Several minutes elapsed. The generals had drawn nearer, and surrounded the general. The guide did not return, and the anxiety was great.
"That man is a traitor," General Cobos said.
"I do not believe it," Miramón at once replied: "I am sure of the person who sent him to me."
At this moment the bushes were parted, and a man appeared. It was López, the guide. His face was calm, his eye bright, his step confident. He approached the President, stopped at two paces from him, saluted, and waited till he was spoken to.
"Well?" Miramón asked.
"I have advanced to the very crest of the heights, Excellency," he replied. "I have distinctly seen the bivouac of the Puros. They do not suspect your presence, and I believe that you can act."
"Then they have not posted a line of sentries on the heights?"
"No, General."
"Good! Lead me to the entrance of the path, for I must examine the ground before I arrange my plan of attack."
López picked up his gun and hat.
"I am ready," he said.
They advanced. Behind them, at a short distance, came the army. Everything was deserted, as the guide had announced. Miramón examined the ground with the most serious attention.
"Good!" he muttered; "I know now what remains for me to do." and, addressing the guide, he said, "So, your master is in ambush to attack the enemy in the rear?"
"Yes, Excellency."
"But, how to warn him, so that his attack may coincide with ours?"
"Nothing is easier, Excellency. You see that tree which stands alone on the top of the heights?"
"Yes, I see it; what then?"
"I have orders to cut off the head of that tree at the precise moment when you commence the attack. The disappearance of the crown of the tree will be the signal for him to charge."
"By heavens!" he exclaimed; "That man was born a general: nothing escapes him. Go to the tree, climb up it, and hold yourself in readiness. When you see me raise my sword in the air, you will lop off the crown with one blow of your machete. You have understood me?"
"Perfectly, Excellency; but after that, what shall I do?"
"Whatever you like."
"In that case, I shall rejoin my master."
He took his horse from the asistente who was holding it, and calmly proceeded toward the tree. Miramón divided his infantry into three corps, and placed his cavalry in reserve. All these arrangements made, the troops began to ascend the heights. When they reached the top—"Forward! Forward!" Miramón shouted, waving his sword, and rushing down the slope. The whole army rolled after him like an avalanche.
On seeing the President raise his sword, López deftly lopped off the crown of the tree, on the top of which he was; then, when this exploit was accomplished, he stepped down, leaped on his horse, and galloped after the army. The sudden appearance of Miramón's troops caused a frightful disorder in the bivouac of the Puros, who were far from expecting so sharp and vigorous an attack, as their spies had assured them that no corps kept the field. The soldiers ran to their arms, and the officers tried to organize a resistance: but even before the ranks could be formed, the President's troops were upon them, and charged them furiously to the shouts of—
"Long live Mexico! Miramón! Miramón!"
The generals who commanded the Puros, brave and intelligent officers, strove a tremendous resistance. At the head of those troops who had succeeded in forming their ranks, they kept up a murderous fire, while the guns placed in battery decimated the President's infantry. The affair was becoming serious. The Juaristas had the advantage of numbers. Having recovered from the panic they at first felt, there was reason to fear that, if the combat was prolonged, they might assume the offensive. At this moment loud shouts were heard in their rear, and a large body of cavalry rushed upon them with couched lances. Taken between two enemies, the Juaristas believed themselves betrayed. They lost their heads, and began to disband. Miramón's cavalry appeared at this moment, and vigorously charged the enemy. The combat then degenerated into a massacre: it was no longer a fight, but a butchery. The Juaristas, attacked in front, on the flank, and in the rear, broke and fled. The retreat began, and was soon changed into a rout. General Berriozábal, General Degollado, his sons, two colonels, all the officers composing their staff, fourteen guns, a large quantity of ammunition and arms, and nearly two thousand prisoners, fell into Miramón's hands. The President had seven men killed, and eleven slightly wounded. The battle had only lasted twenty-five minutes. The victory was complete. Capricious fortune granted a last smile to the man whose ruin she had resolved on.
This unforeseen victory, so brilliant and, complete, gained by Miramón over veteran troops commanded by renowned officers, restored courage and hope to the terrified partizans of the President of the Republic. The temper of the troops changed to such an extent, that they no longer doubted the triumph of their cause, and in a few minutes grew to regard it as definitively gained. Amid the general joy, Miramón alone entertained no illusions as to the value of the victory he had gained. For him this new lustre cast on his armies, which had so long been victorious, was only the last and brilliant flicker of an expiring torch. He was too thoroughly acquainted with the precarious position to which he was reduced, to entertain for a single moment delusive hopes. Still in his heart he thanked fortune for the last smile she had deigned to grant him, and which would prevent him from falling from power like a common man. When the cavalry sent in pursuit of the fugitives, to prevent them from rallying, at length rejoined the main body, which had remained on the field of battle, Miramón, after granting his troops two hours' rest, gave orders to return to Mexico.
The return of the expeditionary force was not nearly so rapid as its preceding march. The tired horses only advanced with difficulty. The infantry had dismounted to escort the prisoners, and thus the cannons and numerous baggage waggons, which had been captured and now followed the army, could only pass along a wide and beaten road, which compelled Miramón to follow the high road and occasioned him a delay of several hours. It was about ten at night when the vanguard of the expeditionary force reached the garitas of Mexico. It was quite dark, and yet the city appeared in the darkness, flashing with an innumerable quantity of lights.
Good news, like bad, is propagated with extraordinary rapidity. Let anyone who can solve the almost insoluble problem, but it is certain that the battle was scarce terminated at Toluca, ere its issue was known in Mexico. The rumour of the brilliant success gained by the President immediately ran from mouth to mouth, though no one could tell whence he obtained it. At the news of this unhoped-for victory, the joy was universal, enthusiasm raised to its utmost pitch, and at nightfall the citizens spontaneously illuminated. The ayuntamiento awaited the President at the entrance of the city to offer him their congratulations. The troops marched between two compact lines of people, uttering frenzied shouts, waving handkerchiefs and hats, and letting off any quantity of squibs, in sign of rejoicing. The bells, in spite of the late hour, rang a full peal, and the numerous shovel hats of the clergy mingled with the crowd, proved that the priests and monks, so cold on the previous day for the man who had ever supported them, had suddenly felt their slumbering enthusiasm aroused at the news of his victory.
Miramón passed through the crowds, cold and impassive, returning with an imperceptible expression of irony the salutations incessantly made to him on both sides of the road. He dismounted at the palace; a little in front of the gate a man was standing motionless and smiling. This man was the adventurer. On seeing him, Miramón could not restrain a movement of joy.
"Ah, come, come, my friend," he exclaimed walking toward him.
And, to the general stupefaction, he passed his arm through his and led him into the interior of the palace. When the President reached the private cabinet, in which he usually worked, he threw himself into an easy chair, and wiping with a handkerchief his damp face, he exclaimed with an ill-tempered tone: "Ouf! I am half dead! This stupid recantation, at which I was forced to be present against my will has, on my honour, wearied me more than all the other events of this day, futile though it was in extraordinary incidents."
"Good," the adventurer replied affectionately. "I am glad to hear you speak thus, General. I was afraid lest you might be intoxicated by your success."
The general shrugged his shoulders disdainfully.
"What do you take me for, my friend?" he answered. "What a wretched opinion you must have of me, if you suppose that I am a man to let myself be thus blinded by a success which, brilliant though it may appear, is in reality only one victory more to register, while its results will be null for the welfare of the cause I support?"
"What you say is only too true, General."