[1]See "Tiger Slayer." Same publishers.
[1]See "Tiger Slayer." Same publishers.
Mexico, as we have already stated, was, after the conquest, completely rebuilt on the original plan, so that, at the present day, it offers nearly the same sight as struck Cortez when he entered it for the first time. The Plaza Mayor, especially, some years back, before the French innovations, more or less good, were introduced, offered towards evening a most picturesque scene.
This immense square is bounded on one side by the Portales de Mercaderes; heavy arches supported on one side by immense stones, and on the other by pilasters, at the foot of which are the alacenas or shops.
The ayuntamiento, the president's palace, the cathedral, the sagrario, the portal de las flores, an immense bazaar for merchandize, and the Parian, also a bazaar, complete, or rather completed, at the period when our history takes place, the fourth side of the square, for recently great changes have taken place, and the Parian, among other buildings, has disappeared. The handsomest streets, such as the Tacuba, Mint, Monterilla, Santo Domingo, etc., debouche on the great square.
The cathedral stands exactly on the site of the ancient great Mexican Teocali, all the buildings of which it has absorbed; unfortunately this building, which is externally splendid, does not come up internally to the idea formed of it, for its ornaments are in bad taste, poor and paltry.
Between five and six in the evening, or a few minutes before Oración, the appearance of the Plaza Mayor becomes really fairy-like. The crowd of strollers—a strange crowd were there ever one—flocks up from all sides at once, composed of horsemen, pedestrians, officers, priests, soldiers, campesinos, leperos, Indian women in red petticoats, ladies of fashion in their sayas, and all the people come, go, cross and jostle each other, mingling their conversation with the cries of children, the vociferations of the leperos, who torment purchasers with their impetuosity, and the shrill appeals of the sellers of tamales and queratero, crouching in the shade of the porticos.
A few minutes before the Oración, a Franciscan monk, recognizable by his blue gown, and silken cord round his waist, and whose large white felt hat, pulled down over the eyes, almost completely concealed his face, came from the Calle Monterilla, and entered the Plaza Mayor.
This man, who was tall and apparently powerfully built, walked slowly, with hanging head and arms crossed on his chest, as if plunged in serious reflection. Instead of entering the thronged Portales, he crossed the square and proceeded towards the Parian, which was very lively at the moment, for the Parian was a bazaar, resembling the Temple of Paris, and was visited at this period by persons, the leanness of whose purses only allowed them to purchase here their jewellery and smart clothing, which, in any other part of the city would have been much too expensive for them.
Not attending to the noise or movement around him, the Franciscan leant his shoulder against the stall of an evangelista, or public writer, and looked absently and wearily across the square. He did not remain long in this position, however, for just after he had reached the Parian, the Oración began. At the first peal of the cathedral bells, all the noises ceased in the square; the crowd stopped, heads were uncovered, and each muttered a short prayer in a low voice.
At the last stroke of the Oración, a hand was laid on the Franciscan's shoulder, while a voice whispered in his ear—
"You are exact to the rendezvous, Señor Padre."
"I am performing my duty, my son," the monk at once answered, turning round.
In the person who addressed him he doubtless recognized a friend, for he offered him his hand by a spontaneous movement.
"Are you still resolved to attempt the adventure?" the first speaker continued.
"More than ever, señor."
"Bear in mind that you must not mention my name; we do not know each other; you are a monk from the San Franciscan monastery, whom I fetched to confess a young novice at the Convent of the Bernardines. It is understood that you do not know who I am?"
"My brother, we poor monks are at the service of the afflicted; our duty orders us to help them when they claim our support; as we have no name for society, we are forbidden to ask that of those who summon us."
"Excellently spoken," the other replied, repressing a smile. "You are a monk according to my own heart. I see that I am not deceived with respect to you; come then, my father, we must not keep the person waiting who is expecting us."
The Franciscan bowed his assent, placed himself in the right of his singular friend, and both went away from the Parian, where the noise had become louder than ever, after the angelos had ceased ringing. The two men passed unnoticed through the crowd, and walked in the direction of the Convent of the Bernardines, going along silently, side by side.
We have said that at the convent gate they passed Don Serapio de la Ronda, that is to say, Valentine Guillois, and that the three men exchanged a side glance full of meaning. The sister porter made no objection to admitting the Franciscan; and his guide, so soon as he saw him inside the convent, took leave of him after exchanging a few commonplace compliments with the sister. The latter respectfully led the monk into a parlour, and after begging him to wait a moment, went away to inform the Mother Superior of the arrival of the confessor whom the young novice had requested to see.
We will leave the Franciscan for a little while to his meditations, and return to the two young ladies whom we left in the garden. So soon as the abbess had withdrawn, they drew closer together, Doña Helena taking the seat on the bench previously occupied by the abbess.
"My dear Anita," she said, "let me profit by the few minutes we are left alone to impart to you the contents of a letter I received this morning; I feared that I should be unable to do so, and yet it seems to me that what I have to tell you is most important."
"What do you mean, my dear Helena? Does the letter to which you refer interest me?"
"I cannot positively explain to you, but it will be sufficient for you to know that my brothers are very intimate with a countryman of ours who takes the greatest interest in you, and what I have to tell you relates to this Frenchman."
"That is strange," said Doña Anita, pausing. "I never knew but one Frenchman, and I have told you the sad story which was the cause of all the misfortunes that overwhelmed me. But the Frenchman whom my father wished me to marry died under frightful circumstances; then who can this gentleman be who takes so lively an interest in me—do you know him?"
"Very slightly," the young lady answered with a blush, "but sufficiently to be able to assure you that he possesses a noble heart. He does not know you personally; but," she added, as she drew a letter from her bosom, and opened it, "this is the passage in my brother's letter which refers to you and him. Shall I read it to you?"
"Pray read it, my dear Helena, for I know the friendship you and your family entertain for me; hence, it is with the greatest pleasure I receive news of your brothers."
"Listen then," the young lady continued, and she read, after seeking for the passage—
"'Valentine begs me, dear sister, to ask you to tell your friend'—that is you," she said, breaking off.
"Go on," Doña Anita answered, whose curiosity had been aroused by the name Helena had pronounced, though it was impossible for her to know who that person was.
"'To tell your friend,' Doña Helena continued, 'that the confessor she asked for will come to the convent this very day after the Oración. Doña Anita must arm herself with courage, which is as necessary to endure joy as grief, for she will learn today some news possessing immense importance for the future.' That is underlined," the young lady added, as she bent over to her friend, and pointed to the sentence with the tip of her rosy finger.
"That is strange," Doña Anita murmured. "Alas! what news can I learn?"
"Who knows?" said her young companion, and then continued—"'Before all, Doña Anita must be prudent; and however extraordinary what she hears may appear to her, she must be careful to conceal the effect produced by this revelation, for she must not forget that if she have devoted friends, she is closely watched by all-powerful enemies, and the slightest imprudence would hopelessly neutralize all the efforts that we are making to save her. You cannot, my dear sister, lay sufficient stress on this recommendation.' The rest," the maiden added, with a smile, "only relates to myself, and it is, therefore, unnecessary for me to read it to you."
And she refolded the letter, which disappeared in her dress again.
"And now, my darling, you are warned," she said; "so be prudent."
"Good heaven! I do not understand the letter at all, nor do I know the Valentine to whom it alludes. It was by your advice that I asked for a confessor."
"That is to say, by my brother's advice, who, as you know, Anita, placed me here, not merely because I love you as a sister, but also to support and encourage you."
"And I am grateful both to you and him for it, dear Helena; if I had not you near me, in spite of the friendship our worthy and kind mother condescends to grant me, I should long ago have succumbed to my grief."
"The question is not about me at this moment, my darling, but solely about yourself. However obscure and mysterious my brother's recommendation may be, I know him to be too earnest and too truly kind for me to neglect it. Hence I cannot find language strong enough to urge you to prudence."
"I seek in vain to guess what the news is to which he refers; and I acknowledge that I feel a secret repugnance to see the confessor he announces to me. Alas! I have everything to fear, and nothing to hope now."
"Silence," Doña Helena said, quietly. "I hear the sound of footsteps in the walk leading to this arbour. Someone is coming. So we must not let ourselves be surprised."
"In fact, almost at the same moment the lay sister, who had already informed the Mother Superior of the arrival of Don Serapio de la Ronda, appeared at the entrance of the arbour.
"Señorita," she said, addressing Doña Helena, "our holy mother abbess wishes to speak to you as well as to Doña Anita without delay. She is waiting for you in her private cell in the company of a holy Franciscan monk."
The maidens exchanged a glance, and a transient flush appeared on Doña Anita's pale cheeks.
"We will follow you, sister," Doña Helena replied. The maidens rose; Doña Helena passed her arm through her companion's, and stooping down, whispered in her ear—
"Courage, Querida."
They followed the lay sister, who led them to the Mother Superior's cell, and discreetly withdrew on reaching the door. The abbess appeared to be talking rather excitedly with the Franciscan monk; but, on seeing the two girls, she ceased speaking, and rose.
"Come, my child," she said, as she held out her arms to Doña Anita, "come and thank God who in his infinite goodness has deigned to perform a miracle on your behalf."
The maiden stopped through involuntary emotion, and looked wildly around her. At a sign from the abbess the monk rose, and throwing back his hood at the same time as he fell on his knees before the maiden, he said to her in a voice faltering with emotion—
"Anita, do you recognize me?"
At the sound of this voice, whose sympathetic notes made all the fibres of her heart vibrate, the maiden suddenly drew herself back, tottered and fell into the arms of Doña Helena, as she shrieked with an accent impossible to describe—
"Martial! oh, Martial!"
A sob burst from her overcharged bosom, and she burst into tears. She was saved, since the immense joy she so suddenly experienced had not killed her. The Tigrero, as weak as the woman he loved, could only find tears to express all his feelings.
For some minutes the abbess and Doña Helena trembled lest these two beings, already so tried by misfortune, would not find within themselves the necessary strength to resist so terrible an emotion; but a powerful reaction suddenly took place in the tiger-slayer's mind; he sprang up at one leap, and seized in his arms the maiden, who, on her side, was making efforts to rush to him—
"Anita, dear Anita," he cried, "I have found you again at last; oh, now no human power will be able to separate us!"
"Never, never!" she murmured, as she let her head fall on the young man's shoulder; "Martial, my beloved Martial, protect me, save me!"
"Oh, yes, I will save you; angel of my life," he exclaimed, looking up defiantly to heaven; "we will be united, I swear it to you."
"Is that the prudence you promised me?" the abbess said, interposing; "remember the perils of every description that surround you, and the implacable foes who have sworn your destruction; lock up in your heart these feelings which, if revealed before one of the countless spies who watch you, would cause your death and that, perhaps, of the poor girl you love."
"Thank you, madam," the Tigrero replied; "thank you for having reminded me of the part I must play for a few days longer. If I forgot it for a few seconds, subdued by the passion that devours my heart, I will henceforth adhere to it carefully. Do not fear lest I should imperil the happiness that is preparing for me; no, I will restrain my feelings, and let myself be guided by the counsel of the sincere friends to whom I owe the moments of ineffable happiness I am now enjoying."
"Oh! I now understand," Doña Anita exclaimed, "the mysterious hints given me. Alas! misfortune made me suspicious; so forgive me, heaven, forgive me, holy mother, and you too, Helena, my kind and faithful friend. I did not dare hope, and feared a snare."
"I forgive you, my poor child," the abbess answered; "who could blame you?"
Doña Helena pressed her friend to her heart without saying a word.
"Oh, now our misfortunes are at an end, Anita," the Tigrero exclaimed passionately; "we have friends who will not abandon us in the supreme struggle we are engaging in with our common enemy. God, who has hitherto done everything for us, will not leave his work incomplete; have faith in Him, my beloved."
"Martial," the maiden replied, with a firmness that astonished her hearers, "I was weak because I was alone, but now that I know you live, and are near me to support me, oh! if I were to fall dead at the feet of my persecutor, I would not be false to the oath I took to be yours alone. Believing you dead, I remained faithful to your memory; but now, if persecution assailed me, I should find the strength to endure it."
This scene would have been prolonged, but prudence urged that the abbess should break it off as soon as possible. Doña Anita, rendered strong merely by the nervous excitement which possessed her, soon felt faint; she could scarcely stand, and Don Martial himself felt his energy abandoning him.
The separation was painful between these two beings so miraculously re-united when they never expected to see each other again; but it was soothed by the hope of soon meeting again under the protection of the Mother Superior, who had done so much for them, and whose inexhaustible kindness they had entirely gained for their cause.
For the first time since she had entered the convent, Doña Anita smiled through her tears, as she offered up to heaven her nightly prayers. Don Martial went off rapidly to tell Valentine of what had taken place at this interview, which he had so long desired. Doña Helena, however, retired pensively to her cell; the maiden was dreaming—of what?
No one could have said, and probably she herself was ignorant; but, for some days past, an obtrusive thought unnecessarily occupied her mind, and constantly troubled the calm mirror in which her virgin thoughts were reflected.
Ambition is the most terrible and deceptious of all human passions, in the sense that it completely dries up the heart, and can never be satisfied.
General Don Sebastian Guerrero was not one of those coldly cruel men, solely governed by the instinct of art, or whom the smell of blood intoxicates; but, with the implacable logic of ambitious persons, he went direct to his object, overthrowing, without regret or remorse, all the obstacles that barred his way to the object he had sworn to reach, even if he were compelled to wade in blood up to his knees, and trample on a pile of corpses. He only regarded men as pawns in the great game of chess he was playing, and strove to justify himself, and stifle the warnings of his terrified conscience, by the barbarous axiom employed by the ambitious in all ages and all countries, that the end justifies the means.
His secret ambition, which, on a day of pretended frankness, he had partly revealed in an interview with the Count de Prébois Crancé at Hermosillo, was not to render himself independent, but simply to be elected, by means of a well-arranged pronunciamiento, President of the Mexican Republic.
It was not through hatred that General Guerrero was so obstinately bent on destroying the count. Ambitious men, who are ever ready to sacrifice their feelings to the interests of their gloomy machinations, know neither hatred nor friendship. Hence we must seek elsewhere the cause of the judicial murder of the count which was so implacably carried out. The general feared the count, as an adversary who would constantly thwart him in Sonora, where the first meshes of the net he wished to throw over Mexico were spun—an adversary ready to oppose the execution of his plans by claiming the due performance of the articles of partnership—a performance which, in the probable event of an insurrection excited by the general, would have become impossible, by plunging the country for a lengthened period into a state of crisis and general suspension of trade, which would have been most hostile to the success of the lofty conceptions of the noble French adventurer.[1]
But the count had scarce fallen on the beach of Guaymas ere the general recognized the falseness of his calculations, and the fault he had committed in sacrificing him. In fact, leaving out of the question the death of his daughter, the only being for whom he retained in some corner of his heart a little of that fire which heaven illumes in all parents for their children, he found that he had exchanged a loyal and cautious adversary for an obstinate enemy—the more formidable because, caring for nothing, and having no personal ambition, he would sacrifice everything without hesitation or calculation in behalf of the vengeance which he had solemnly vowed to obtain by any means, over the still quivering body of his friend.
This implacable enemy, whom neither seduction nor intimidation could arrest or even draw back, was Valentine Guillois.
Under these circumstances, the general committed a graver fault than his first one—a fault which was fated to have incalculable consequences for him. Being very imperfectly acquainted with Valentine Guillois, unaware of his inflexible energy of will, and ranking him in his mind with those wood rangers, the Pariahs of civilization, who have only courage to fire, in a moment of despair, a shot from behind a tree, but whose influence was after all insignificant, he despised him.
Valentine was careful not to dissipate, by any imprudent step, his enemy's mistake, or even arouse his suspicions.
At the time of the Count de Prébois Crancé's first expedition, when all seemed to smile on him, and his followers already saw the complete success of their bold undertaking close at hand, Valentine had been entrusted by his friend with various important operations and difficult missions to the rich rancheros and hacenderos of the province. Valentine had performed the duties his friend confided to him with his usual loyalty and uprightness of mind, and had been so thoroughly appreciated by the persons with whom chance had brought him into connection, that all had remained on friendly terms with him and given him unequivocal proofs of the sincerest friendship, especially upon the death of the count.
It only depended on the hunter's will to be rich, since he knew an almost inexhaustible placer; and what the wood ranger would never have consented to for himself, for the sake of paltry gain, he did not hesitate to attempt in order to avenge his friend. Followed by Curumilla, Belhumeur, and Black Elk, and leading arecuaof ten mules, he did what two hundred and fifty men could not have succeeded in doing. He went through Apacheria, crossed the fearful desert of sand in which the bones of the hapless companions of the Marquis de Lhorailles were bleaching, and, after enduring superhuman fatigue and braving terrible dangers, he at length reached the placer. But this time he did not come to take an insignificant sum; he wanted to collect a fortune at one stroke.
The hunter returned with his ten mules laden with gold. He knew that he was beginning a struggle with a man who was enormously rich, and wished to conquer him with his own weapons. In the new world, as in the old, money is the real sinew of war, and Valentine would not imperil the success of his vengeance.
On returning to Guaymas, he realized his fortune, and found himself, in a single day, not one of the richest, buttherichest private person in Mexico, although it is a country in which fortunes attain to a considerable amount. Thus the gold of the placer, which, at an earlier period, had served to organize the count's expedition, and make him believe for a moment in the realization of his dreams, was about to serve in avenging him, after having indirectly caused his death.
Then began between the general and the hunter a secret and unceasing struggle, the more terrible through its hidden nature; and the general, struck without knowing whence the blows dealt his ambition came, struggled vainly, like a lion caught in a snare, while it was impossible for him to discover the obstinate enemy who hunted him down.
This man, who had hitherto succeeded in everything—who, during the course of his long and stormy political career, had surmounted the greatest obstacles and forced his very detractors to admire the luck that constantly accompanied his wildest and rashest conceptions— suddenly saw Fortune turn her back on him with such rapidity—we may even say brutality—that, scarce six weeks after the execution of the count, he was obliged to resign his office of Military Governor, and quit, almost like a fugitive, the province of Sonora, where he had so long reigned as a master, and on which his iron yoke had pressed so heavily.
This first blow, dealt the general in the midst of his ambitious aspirations, when he had only just begun to recover from the grief his daughter's death had caused him, was the more terrible because he did not know to whom he should attribute his downfall.
Still, he did not long remain in doubt. An hour before his departure from Hermosillo he received a letter in which he was informed, in the minutest details, of the oath of vengeance taken against him, and of the steps taken to obtain his recall. This letter was signed "Valentine Guillois." The hunter, despising darkness and mystery, tore down the veil that covered him, and openly challenged his foe by manfully telling him to be on his guard.
On receiving this threatening declaration of war, the general fell into an extraordinary passion, the more terrible because it was impotent, and then, when his mind became calm again, and he began reflecting, he felt frightened. In truth, the man who stood so boldly before him as an enemy, must be very powerful and certain of success thus to dare and defy him.
His departure from Sonora was a disgraceful flight, in which he tried, by craft and caution, to throw out his enemy; but the meeting at the Fort of the Chichimèques, a meeting long prepared by the hunter, proved to him that he was unmasked once again, and conquered by his enemy.
The contemptuous manner in which Valentine dismissed him after his stormy explanation with him, had internally filled the general with terror. What sinister projects could the man be meditating, what private vengeance was he arranging, that, when he held him quivering in his grasp, he allowed his foe to escape, and refused to kill him, when that would have been so easy? What torture more terrible than death did he intend to inflict on him?
The remainder of his journey across the Rocky Mountains, as far as Mexico, was one protracted agony, during which, suffering from constant apprehension, and extreme nervous excitement, his diseased imagination inflicted on him moral torture in the stead of which any physical pain would have been welcome.
The loss of his daughter's corpse, and above all, the death of his father's old comrade in arms, the only man in whom he put faith, and who possessed his entire confidence, destroyed his energy, and for several days he was so overwhelmed by this double misfortune, that he longed for death.
His punishment was beginning. But General Guerrero was one of those powerful athletes who do not allow themselves to be overcome so easily; they may totter in the struggle, and roll on the sand of the arena, but they always rise again more terrible and menacing than before. His revolted pride restored his expiring courage; and since an implacable warfare was declared against him, he swore that he would fight to the end, whatever the consequences for him might be.
Moreover, two months had elapsed since his arrival in Mexico, and his enemy had not revealed his presence by one of those terrible blows which burst like a clap of thunder above his head. The general gradually began supposing that the hunter had only wished to force him to abandon Sonora, and that, in despair of carrying out his plans advantageously in a city like Mexico, he was prudently keeping aloof, and if he had not completely renounced his vengeance, circumstances at any rate, independent of his will, compelled him to defer it.
The general, so soon as he was settled in the capital of Mexico, organized a large band of highly-paid spies, who had orders to be constantly on the watch, and inform him of Valentine's arrival in the city. Thus reassured by the reports of his agents, he continued with feverish ardour the execution of his dark designs, for he felt convinced that if he succeeded in attaining his coveted object, the hatred of the man who pursued him would no longer be dangerous. This was the more probable, because, so soon as he held the power in his own hands, he would easily succeed in getting rid of an enemy, whom his position as a foreigner isolated, and rendered an object of dislike to the populace.
The general lived in a large house in the Calle de Tacuba; it was built by one of his ancestors, and considered one of the handsomest in the capital. We will describe in a few words the architecture of Mexico, for, as all the houses are built on the same pattern, or nearly so, by knowing one it is easy to form an idea of what the others must be.
The Mexican architecture greatly resembles the Arabic, and as for the mode of arranging the rooms, it is still entirely in its infancy; but, since the Proclamation of the Independence, foreign architects have succeeded, in most of the great towns, in opening side doors in the suites of rooms, which formerly only communicated with one another, and hence compelled you to go through a bedroom to enter a dining room, or pass through a kitchen to reach the drawing room.
The general's house was composed of four buildings, two stories in height, and with terraced roofs. Two courts separated these buildings, and an awning stretched over the four sides of the first yard, enabling visitors to reach the wide stone steps dry footed. At the top of this flight, a handsome covered gallery, adorned with vases of flowers and exotic shrubs, led to a vast anteroom, which opened into a splendid reception hall; after this came a considerable number of apartments, splendidly furnished in the European style.
The general only inhabited the first floor of his mansion. Although most of the streets are paved at the present day, and the canals have entirely disappeared, except in the lower districts of the city, water is still found a few inches beneath the surface, which produces such damp, that the ground floor, rendered uninhabitable, is given up to stores and shops in nearly all the houses. The ground floor of the main building, looking on the Calle de Tacuba, was, therefore, occupied by brilliant shops, which rendered the façade of the general's house even more striking.
The paintings and the ornaments carved on the walls, after the Spanish fashion, gave it a peculiar, but not unpleasant appearance, which was completed by the profusion of shrubs that lined the terrace, and converted it into a hanging garden, like those of Babylon, some sixty feet above the ground. By-the-bye, these gardens, from which the cupolas of the churches seem to emerge, give a really fairy-like aspect to the city, when you survey it in a glowing sunset, from the cathedral towers.
Seven or eight days had elapsed since the events we recorded in our last chapter. General Guerrero, after a long conversation with Colonel Don Jaime Lupo, Don Sirven, and two or three others of his most faithful partizans—a conversation in which the final arrangements were made for the pronunciamiento which was to be attempted immediately—gave audience to two of his spies, who assured him that the person, whose movements they were ordered to watch, had not yet arrived in Mexico.
When the hour for going to the theatre arrived, the general, temporarily freed from alarm, prepared to be present at an extraordinary performance to be given, that same night, at the Santa Anna theatre; but at the moment when he was about to give orders for his carriage to be brought up, the door of the room, in which he was sitting, opened, and a footman appeared on the threshold, with a respectful bow.
"What do you want?" the general asked, turning round at the sound.
"Excellency," the valet replied, "a caballero desires a few minutes' conversation with your excellency."
"At this hour?" the general said, looking at a clock, "it is impossible;" but, suddenly reflecting, he asked, "anyone you know, Isidro?"
"No, excellency; it is a caballero whom I have not yet had the honour of seeing in the house."
"Hum," said the general, shaking his head thoughtfully, "is he a gentleman?"
"That I can assure your excellency; and he told me that he had a most important communication to make to you."
In the general's present position, as head of a conspiracy on the point of breaking out, no detail must be neglected, no communication despised, so, after reflecting a little, he continued—
"You ought to have told the gentleman that I could not receive him so late, and that he had better call again tomorrow."
"I told him so, excellency."
"And he insisted?"
"Several times, excellency."
"Well, do you know his name, at least?"
"When I asked the caballero for it, he said it was useless, as you would not know it; but if you wished to learn it, he would himself tell it to your excellency."
"What a strange person," the general muttered to himself; "very good," he then added aloud, "lead the gentleman to the small mirror room, and I will be with him immediately."
The footman bowed respectfully.
"Who can the man be, and what is the important matter he has to tell me?" the general muttered, as he was alone. "Hum, probably some poor devil mixed up in our conspiracy, who wants a little money. Well, he had better be careful, for I am not the man to be plundered with impunity, and so he will find out, if his communication is not serious."
And, throwing on to a chair the plumed hat he held in his hand, he proceeded to the mirror room.
[1]See "Goldseekers." Same publishers.
[1]See "Goldseekers." Same publishers.
The mirror room was an immense apartment, only separated from the covered gallery by two anterooms. It was furnished with princely luxury, and it was here that the general gave those sumptuoustertulias,which are still talked about in the highest Mexican circles, although so many years have elapsed.
This room, merely lighted by two lamps, standing on a console, was at this moment plunged into a semi-obscurity, when compared with the other apartments in the mansion, which were full of light.
A gentleman, dressed in full black, and with the red ribbon of the Legion of Honour carelessly knotted in a buttonhole of his coat, was leaning his elbow on the console where the lamps stood, and seemed so lost in thought, that, when the general entered the room, the sound of his steps, half subdued by the petates, did not reach the visitor's ears, and he did not turn to receive him.
Don Sebastian, after closing the door behind him, walked towards his visitor, attempting to recognize him, which, however, the stranger's position rendered temporarily impossible. It was not till he came almost near enough to touch him that the stranger, at length warned of the general's presence, raised his head; in spite of all the command Don Sebastian had over himself, he started and fell back a couple of yards on recognizing him.
"Don Valentine!" he said, in a stifled voice, "you here?"
"Myself, general," he replied, with an almost imperceptible smile and a profound bow; "did you not expect a visit from me?"
The Trail-hunter, according to his habit, at once assumed his position before his adversary. A bitter smile played round the general's pale lips, and mastering his emotion, he replied, sarcastically—
"Certainly, caballero, I hoped to receive a visit from you; but not here, and under such conditions, I did not venture, I confess, to anticipate such an honour."
"I am delighted," he replied, with another bow, "that I have thus anticipated your wishes."
"I will prove to you, señor," the general said, with set teeth, "the value I attach to the visit you have been pleased to pay me."
While saying this, he stretched out his arm towards a bell.
"I beg your pardon, general," the Frenchman said, with imperturbable coolness, "but I believe that you intend to summon some of your people?"
"And supposing that was my intention, señor?" the general said, haughtily.
"If it were so," he replied, with icy politeness, "I think it would be better for you to do nothing of the sort."
"Oh, indeed, and for what reason, may I ask?"
"For the simple reason, general, that as I have the honour to know you thoroughly, I was not such a fool as to place myself in your power. My carriage is waiting at this moment in front of your door; in that carriage are two of my friends, and, in all probability, if they do not see me come down the steps again in half an hour, they will not hesitate to ask you what has taken place between us, and what has become of me."
The general bit his lips.
"You are mistaken as to my intentions, señor," he said. "I fear you no more than you appear to do me. I am a gentleman, and were you ten times more my enemy than you are, I would never attempt to free myself from you by an assassination."
"Be it so, general; I should be glad to be mistaken, and in that case I beg you to accept my apologies; moreover, in coming thus to see you, I give you, I believe, a proof of confidence."
"For which I thank you, señor; but as I suppose that reasons of the highest gravity alone induced you to present yourself here, and the interview you ask of me must be long, I wished to give my people orders to take out the horses, and take care that we are not interrupted."
Valentine bowed without replying, but with an imperceptible smile, and leaning again on the console, he twisted his long, fair, light moustache while the general rang the bell. A servant came in.
"Have the horses taken out," the general said, "and I am not at home to anybody."
The servant bowed, and prepared to leave the room.
"Ah!" said the general, suddenly stopping him, "on the part of this caballero ask the gentlemen in his carriage to do me the honour of coming up to my apartments, where they can await more comfortably the end of a conversation which will probably be rather prolonged. You will serve refreshments to these gentlemen in the blue room," he added, looking fixedly at the Frenchman, "the one that follows this room."
The servant retired.
"If you still apprehend a trap, señor," he continued, turning to the Frenchman, "your friends will be at hand, if necessary, to come to your help."
"I knew that you were brave to rashness, general," the Frenchman answered politely, "and I am happy to see that you are no less honourable."
"And now, señor, be kind enough to sit down," Don Sebastian said, pointing to a chair. "May I venture to offer you any refreshments?"
"General," Valentine answered, as he seated himself, "permit me, for the present, to decline them. In my youth I served in Africa, and in that country people are only wont to break their fast with friends. As we are, temporarily at least, enemies, I must ask you to let me retain my present position toward you."
"The custom to which you allude, señor, is also met with on our prairies," the general replied; "still people sometimes depart from it. However, act as you think proper. I wait till it may please you to explain the purpose of this visit, at which I have a right to feel surprised."
"I will not abuse your patience any longer, general," he replied with a bow. "I have merely come to propose a bargain."
"A bargain?" Don Sebastian exclaimed with surprise, "I do not understand you."
"I will have the honour of explaining myself, señor."
The general bowed and said, "I await your pleasure."
"You are a diplomatist, general," Valentine continued, "and in that capacity are, doubtless, aware that a bad treaty is better than a good war."
"In certain cases I allow it is so; but I will take the liberty of remarking that, under present circumstances, señor, I must await your propositions, instead of offering any of mine, as the war, to employ your own expression, was not begun by me, but by you."
"I think it will be better not to discuss that point, in which we should find it difficult to agree; still, in order to remove any ambiguity, and lay down the point at issue distinctly, I will remind you in a few words of the motives which produced the hatred that divides us."
"Those motives, señor, you have already explained to me most fully at the Fort of the Chichimèques. Without discussing their validity with you, I will content myself with saying that hatred, like friendship, being a matter of sympathy, and not the result of reason, it is better to confess frankly that we hate or love each other, without trying to account for either of these feelings, which I consider completely beyond the will."
"You are at liberty to think so, señor, and though I do not agree with you, I will not discuss the point; it is, however, certain that the hatred we bear each other is implacable, and cannot possibly be extinguished."
"Still you spoke only a minute back of a bargain."
"Certainly; but bargaining is not forgetting. I can, for certain reasons, abstain from that hatred without renouncing it; and though I may cease to injure you, I do not, on that account, contract the slightest friendship with you."
"I admit that in principle, señor; let us, therefore, come to facts without further delay; be good enough to explain to me the nature of the bargain which you think proper to propose to me today."
"Allow me, in the first place, according to my notions of honour, to explain to you what our position to each other is."
"Since the beginning of this interview, señor, I must confess that you have been talking enigmas inexplicable to me."
"I will try to be clear, señor, and if I tell you what your plans are, and the means you have employed for their realization, you will understand, I have no doubt, that I have succeeded in countermining them sufficiently to prevent a favourable issue."
"Go on, señor," the general remarked, with a smile.
"In two words, this is your position. In the first, you wish, by a pronunciamiento, to overthrow General R——, and have yourself proclaimed President of the Republic in his place."
"Ah, ah," said the general, with a forced laugh; "you must know, señor, that in our blessed country this ambition is constantly attributed to all officers who, either on account of their fortune or personal merit, hold a public position. This accusation, therefore, is not very serious."
"It would not be so, if you limited yourself to mere wishes, possibly legitimate in the present state of the country; but, unfortunately, it is not so."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, general, that you are the head of a conspiracy; that this conspiracy, several times already a failure in Sonora, you have renewed in Mexico, under almost infallible conditions of success, and which, in my opinion, would succeed, had I not resolved on causing them to fail. I mean that, only a few days ago, your conspirators assembled in a velorio kept by a certain Ño Lusacho. Through the agency of Don Jaime Lupo, you divided among them two bags of gold, brought by you for them, and emptied in your presence. I mean that, after this distribution, the final arrangements were made, and the day was almost fixed for the pronunciamiento. Am I deceived, general, or do you now see that I am well informed, and that my spies are quite equal to yours, who were not even able to inform you of my arrival at the Ciudad, where I have been for more than a week, and you have not known a word about it?"
"While Valentine was speaking thus, in his mocking way, with his elbow carelessly laid on the arm of his chair, and his body slightly bent forward, the general was in a state of passion which he tried in vain to repress, his pale face assumed a cadaverous hue, his eyebrows met, and his clenched teeth found difficulty in keeping the words back which tried each moment to burst forth. When the Frenchman ceased speaking he made a violent effort to check his rage which was on the point of breaking out, and he answered in a hollow voice which emotion caused involuntary to tremble—
"I will imitate your frankness, señor. Of what use would it be to dissimulate with an enemy so well informed as you pretend to be? What you have said about a conspiracy is perfectly correct. Yes, I intend to make a pronunciamiento, and that shortly. You see that I do not attempt to conceal anything from you."
"I presume, because you consider it useless," Valentine answered sarcastically.
"Perhaps so, señor. Although you are so well informed, you do not know everything."
"Do you think so?"
"I am sure of it."
"What is the thing I am ignorant of?"
"That you will not leave this house again, and that I am going to blow out your brains," the general exclaimed, as he started up and cocked a pistol.
The Frenchman did not make the slightest movement to prevent the execution of the general's threat; he contented himself with looking firmly at him, and saying, coldly—
"I defy you."
Don Sebastian remained motionless, with haggard eye, pale brow, and trembling hand; then, in a few seconds, he uncocked the pistol, and fell back utterly crushed in his chair.
"You have gone too far or not far enough, caballero," Valentine went on with perfect calmness. "Every threat should be executed at all risks so soon as it is made. You have reflected, so let us say no more about it, but resume our conversation."
In a discussion of this nature, all the advantage is on the side of the adversary who retains his coolness. The general, ashamed of the passionate impulse to which he had yielded, and crushed by his enemy's sarcastically contemptuous answer, remained dumb; he at length understood that, with a man like the one before him, any contest must turn to his disadvantage, unless he employed treachery, which his pride forbade.
"Let us, for the present," Valentine went on, still calmly and coldly, "leave this conspiracy, to which we will revert presently, and pass to a no less interesting subject. If I am correctly informed, Señor Don Sebastian, you have a ward of the name of Doña Anita de Torrés?"
The general started, but remained silent.
"Now," continued Valentine, "in consequence of a frightful catastrophe, this young lady became insane. But that does not prevent you from insisting on marrying her, in contempt of all law, divine and human, for the simple reason that she is enormously rich and you require her fortune for the execution of your ambitious plans. It is true that the young lady does not love you, and never did love you; it is also true that her father intended her for another, and that other you insist on declaring to be dead, although he is alive; but what do you care for that? Unfortunately, one of my intimate friends, of whom you probably never heard, Señor Don Serapio de la Ronda, has heard this affair alluded to. I will tell you confidentially that Don Serapio is greatly respected by certain parties, and has very considerable power. Don Serapio, I know not why, takes an interest in Doña Anita, and has made up his mind, whether you like it or not, to marry her to the man she loves, and for whom her father intended her."
"The villain is dead," the general exclaimed, furiously.
"You are perfectly well aware of the contrary," Señor Valentine answered, "and to remove any doubts you may still happen to have, I will give you the proof. Don Martial," he said aloud, "come in, pray, and tell General Guerrero yourself that you are not dead."
"Oh!" the general muttered furiously, "this man is a demon."
At this moment the door opened, and a new personage entered the room.
The man who now entered the hall of mirrors was dressed like the riders who promenade at the Bucareli, and gallop at carriage doors—that is to say, in trousers with silk stripes down the sides, and a broad-brimmed hat decorated with a double gold string and tassels.
He walked gracefully up to Don Sebastian, still holding his hat in his right hand, bowed to him with that exquisite grace of which the Mexicans alone seem to have the privilege, and thrusting his hand into his side, he said, with an accent of cutting sarcasm, and in a harsh, metallic voice—
"Do you recognize me, Don Sebastian, and do you believe that I am really alive, and that it is not the ghost of Martial the Tigrero which has come from the grave to address you?"
At the same moment Belhumeur's clever, knowing face could be seen peering through the doorway. With his eyes obstinately fixed on the general, he seemed to be impatiently expecting an answer, which the latter, struggling with several different feelings, evidently hesitated to give. Still, he was compelled to form a resolution, so he rose and looked the Tigrero boldly in the face.
"Who are you, señor?" he said, in a firm voice, "and by what right do you question me?"
"Well played," said Valentine, with a laugh; "by heaven, caballero, it is a pleasure to contend with you, for, on my soul, you are a rude adversary."
"Do you think so?" Don Sebastian asked, with a hoarse laugh.
"Certainly," the hunter continued, "and I am delighted to bear my testimony to the fact; hence you had better yield at once, for you are in a dilemma from which you cannot escape, not even by a master stroke."
There was a silence, lasting some minutes. At length the general seemed to make up his mind, for he turned to Belhumeur, who was still listening, and bowed to him with ironical politeness.
"Why stand half hidden by that door?" he said to him; "pray enter, caballero, for your presence here will be most agreeable to the whole company."
The Canadian at once entered, and after giving the general a respectful bow he leant over the back of Valentine's chair. The latter eagerly followed all the incidents of the strange scene that was being played before him, and in which he appeared to be a disinterested spectator rather than an actor.
"You see, señores," the general said, haughtily, "that I imitate your example, and, like you, play fairly. I believe that you entered my house in order to propose a bargain to me, Don Valentine? You, señor," he said, turning to the Tigrero, "whom I told that I did not recognize, and whom I have the honour of receiving at my house for the first time, have doubtless come as witness for these caballeros, who are your friends. Well, gentlemen, you shall all three be satisfied. I am awaiting your proposal, Don Valentine. I allow, señor, that you, whose miraculous resuscitation I have hitherto denied, are alive, and are really Don Martial the ex-lover of Doña Anita de Torrés. As for you, señor, whom I do not know, I authorize you to declare before any one you like the truth of the words I utter. Are you all three satisfied, gentlemen? Is there anything else I can do to afford you pleasure?—if so, speak, and I am ready to satisfy you."
"A man could not yield to what is inevitable with better grace," Valentine replied, bowing ironically.
"Thanks for your approval, caballero, and be kind enough to let me know, without further delay, the conditions on which you are willing to leave off pursuing me with that terrible hatred with which you incessantly threaten me, and whose result is rather long in coming, according to my judgment."
These words were uttered with a mixture of pride and contempt impossible to express, and which for a moment rendered Valentine dumb, so extraordinary did the sudden change in his adversary's humour appear to him.
"I am waiting," the general added, as he fell back in his chair, with an air of weariness.
"We will bring matters to an end," Valentine said, drawing himself up with an air of resolution.
"That is what I wish," the general interrupted him, as he lit a cigarette, which he began smoking with the most profound coolness.
"These are my conditions," the hunter said distinctly and harshly, for he was annoyed by this frigid indifference. "You will at once leave Mexico, and give up Doña Anita, to whom you will not only restore her liberty, but also the right of giving her hand and fortune to whomsoever she pleases. You will sell your estates, and retire to the United States, promising on oath never to return to Mexico. On my side, I pledge myself to restore you your daughter's body, and never attempt to injure you in any way."
"Have you anything more to add?" the general asked, as he coolly watched the blue smoke of his cigarette as it rose in circles to the ceiling.
"Nothing; but take care, señor, I too have taken an oath, and from what I have told you, you must have seen how far I have detected your secrets. Accept or refuse, but come to a decision; for this is the last time we shall meet face to face under the like conditions. The game we are playing is a terrible one, and must end in the death of one of us; and I shall show you no pity, as, doubtless, you will show me none. Reflect seriously before answering yes or no, and I give you half an hour to decide."
The general burst into a sharp and nervous laugh. "Viva Dios, caballero!" he exclaimed, with a contemptuous toss of his head, "I have listened to you with extreme surprise. You dispose of my will with an incomparable facility. I do not know who gives you the right to speak and act as you are doing; but, by heaven, hatred, however active it may be, can in no case possess this privilege. You fancy yourself much more powerful than you really are, I fancy; but, at any rate, whatever may happen, bear this carefully in mind—I will not retreat an inch before you. Accepting your impudent and ridiculous conditions would be to cover myself with shame and my utter ruin. Were you the genius of Evil clothed in mortal form, I would not the less persist in the track I have laid down for myself, and in which I will persevere at my own risk and peril; however terrible may be the obstacles you raise, I will overthrow them or succumb bravely, buried beneath the ruins of my abortive plans and my destroyed fortunes. Hence consider yourself warned, Don Valentine; that I despise your menaces, and they will not stop me. And you, Don Martial, since such is your name, that I shall marry my ward, in spite of the efforts you may make to prevent me, and shall do so because I wish it, and because no man in the world has ever attempted to resist my will without being at once mercilessly crushed. And now, señores, as we have said all we have to say to each other, and I think there is no more, and we can have no doubt as to our mutual intentions, permit me to take leave of you, for I wish to go to the Santa Anna theatre, and it is already very late."
He rang the bell, and a footman came in.
"Order the carriage," he said to him.
"Then," Valentine said as he rose, "it is war to the death between us."
"War to the death! be it so."
"We shall only meet once again, general," the hunter remarked; "and that will be on the eve of your death, when you are in Capilla."
"I accept the meeting, and will bow uncomplainingly before you if you are powerful enough to obtain that result; but, believe me, I am not there yet."
"You are nearer your fall than you perhaps suppose."
"That is possible; but enough of this; any further conversation will be useless. Light these gentlemen down," he said to the servant, who at this moment entered the room.
The three men rose, exchanged dumb bows with the general, and, accompanied by him to the door of the room, they followed the footman, who preceded them with candles. Two carriages were waiting at the foot of the stairs; Valentine and his friends got into one of them, the general took his seat in the other, and they heard him give the order in a firm voice to drive to the Santa Anna theatre. The coachmen flogged their horses, which started at a gallop, and the two carriages left the house, the gates of which were closed after them.
The Santa Anna theatre was built in 1844 by the Spanish architect, Hidalgo. This building has externally nothing remarkable about it, either in regard to frontage or position; but we are glad to state that the interior is convenient, elegant, and even grand.
After passing through the external portico, you enter a yard covered with a glass dome, next come wide stairs with low steps, large and lofty lobbies, a double row of galleries looking on the front yard, and airy crush-rooms for the promenaders.
The house is well built, well decorated, and spacious; it has three rows of boxes, with a lower circle representing the pit boxes, and another above the third circle for the lower classes. In the pit, it is worth mentioning that each visitor has his stall, which he reaches easily and comfortably by passages formed down the centre and round the theatre. The boxes nearly all contain ten persons, and are separated from each other by light colonnades and partitions. To each box is attached a room, to which people withdraw between the acts, and, instead of the balconies which in our theatres conceal a great part of the ladies' toilets, the boxes have only a ledge a few inches in height, which allows the splendid dresses of the audience to be fully admired.
We have dwelt, perhaps with a little complacency, on this description of the Santa Anna theatre, for we thought that, at the moment when it is intended to rebuild the Opera and other Parisian theatres, there can be no harm in displaying the difference that exists between the frightful dens in which the spectators are thrust together pell-mell every night in a city like Paris, which claims to be the first, not only in Europe, but in the whole world, and the spacious airy theatres of a country like Mexico, which in so many respects is inferior to us as regards ideas of civilization and comfort. It would, however, be very easy, we fancy, to obtain in Paris the advantageous results the Mexicans have enjoyed for twenty years, and that at a slight expense. Unfortunately, whatever may be said, the French are the most thorough routine nation in the world, and we greatly fear that, in spite of incessant protests, things will remain for a long time in the same state as they are today.
When the general entered his box, which was in the first circle, and almost facing the stage, the house presented a truly fairy-like appearance. The extraordinary performance had brought an immense throng of spectators and ladies, whose magnificent dresses were covered with diamonds, which glittered and flashed beneath the light that played on them.
Don Sebastian, after bending forward for a moment to exchange bows with his numerous acquaintances, and prove his presence, withdrew to the back of the box, opened his glasses, and began looking carelessly about him. But though, through a powerful effort of the will, his face was cold, calm, and unmoved, a terrible storm was raging in the general's heart.
The scene that had taken place a few minutes previously at his mansion, had filled him with anxiety and gloomy forebodings, for he understood that his adversaries must either believe or feel themselves very strong thus to dare and defy him to the face, and audaciously enter his very house. In vain he tortured his mind to find means to get rid of his obstinate enemy; but time pressed, his situation became at each moment more critical, and unless some bold and desperate stroke proved successful, he felt instinctively that he was lost without chance of salvation.
The president's box was occupied by the first magistrate of the Republic, and some of his aide-de-camps. Several times, Don Sebastian fancied that the president's eyes were fixed on him with a strange expression, after which he bent over and whispered some remarks to the gentlemen who accompanied him. Perhaps, this was not real, and the general's pricked conscience suggested to him suspicions far from the thoughts of those against whom he had so many reasons to be on his guard; but whether real or not, these suspicions tortured his heart and proved to him the necessity of coming to an end at all risks.
Still the performance went on; the curtain had just fallen before the last act, and the general, devoured by anxiety, and persuaded that he had remained long enough in the theatre to testify his presence, was preparing to retire, when the door of his box opened, and Colonel Lupo walked in.
"Ah, is it you, colonel?" Don Sebastian said to him as he offered his hand and gave him a forced smile. "You are welcome; I did not hope any longer to have the pleasure of seeing you, and I was just going away."
"Pray do not let me stop you, general, I have only a few words to say to you."
"Our business?"
"Goes on famously."
"No suspicion?"
"Not the shadow."
The general breathed like a man from whose chest a crushing weight has been just removed.
"Can I be of any service to you?" he said, absently.
"For the present, I have only come for your sake."
"How so?"
"I was accosted today by a lepero, a villain of the worst sort, who says that he wishes to avenge himself on a certain Frenchman, whom he declares you know, and he desires to place himself under your protection, in the event of the blade of his navaja accidentally slipping into his enemy's body."
"Hum! that is serious," the general said with an imperceptible start. "I do not know how far I dare go in being bail for such a scoundrel."
"He declares that you have known him a long time, and that while doing his own business, he will be doing yours."
"You know that I am no admirer of navajadas, for an assassination always injures the character of a politician."
"That is true; but you cannot be rendered responsible for the crimes any villain may think proper to commit."
"Did this worthy gentleman tell you his name, my dear colonel?"
"Yes; but I believe that it would be better to mention it in the open air, rather than in this place."
"One word more; have you cleverly deceived him, and do you think that he really intends to be useful to us?"
"Useful to you, you mean."
"As you please."
"I could almost assert it."
"Well, we will be off; have you weapons about you?"
"I should think so; it would be madness to go about Mexico unarmed."
"I have pistols in my pocket, so I will dismiss my carriage, and we will walk home to my house; does that suit you, my dear colonel?"
"Excellently, general, the more so because if you evince any desire to see the scoundrel in question, nothing will be easier than for me to take you to the den he occupies, without attracting attention."
The general looked at his accomplice fixedly. "You have not told me all, colonel?" he said.
"I have not, general, but I am convinced that you understand the motive, which at this moment keeps my mouth shut."
"In that case, let us be off."
He wrapped himself in his cloak and left the box, followed by the colonel. A footman was waiting under the portico for his orders to bring up the carriage.
"Return to the house," the general said; "it is a fine night, and I feel inclined for a walk."
The footman retired.
"Come, colonel," Don Sebastian went on.
They left the theatre and proceeded slowly toward the Portales de Mercaderes, which were entirely deserted at this advanced hour of the night.
The night was clear, mild and starry, a profound calm prevailed in the deserted streets, and it was in fact one of those delicious Mexican nights, so filled with soft emanations, and which dispose the mind to delicious reveries.
The two gentlemen, carefully wrapped in their cloaks, walked side by side, along the middle of the street, in fear of an ambuscade, examining with practised eyes the doorways and the dark corners of side streets. When they were far enough from the theatre no longer to fear indiscreet eyes or ears, the general at length broke the silence.
"Now, Señor Don Jaime," he said, "let us speak frankly, if you please."
"I wish for nothing better," the colonel replied, with a bow.
"And to begin," Don Sebastian continued, "tell me who the man is from whom you hinted that I could derive some benefit."
"Nothing is easier, excellency. This man is a villain of the worst sort, as I already had the honour of telling you; his antecedents are, I suppose, rather dark, and that is all I have been able to discover. This man, who, I believe, belongs to no country, but who, in consequence of his adventurous life, has visited them all and speaks all languages, was at San Francisco when the Count de Prébois Crancé organized the cuadrilla of bandits, at the head of which he undertook to dismember our lovely country, and in which, between ourselves, he would probably have succeeded had it not been for your skill and courage."
"We will pass over that, my dear colonel," the general quickly interrupted him; "I did my duty in that affair, as I shall always do it when the interest of my country is at stake."
The colonel bowed.
"Well," he continued, "the villain I am speaking of could not let such a magnificent opportunity slip; he enlisted in the count's cuadrilla. I believe he was starving at San Francisco, and, for certain reasons best known to himself, was not sorry to leave that city—but perhaps I weary you by giving you all these details."
"On the contrary, my dear colonel, I wish to be thoroughly acquainted with this pícaro, in order to judge what reliance may be placed in his protestations."
"On arriving at Guaymas, our man became almost directly the secret agent of that unhappy Colonel Fleury, who, as you well remember, was so brutally assassinated by the Frenchmen."
"Alas, yes!" the general said with a sardonic smile.
"Señor Pavo also employed him several times," Don Jaime continued, "but, unfortunately for our individual, Don Valentine, the count's friend, was watching; he discovered, I knew not how, all his little tricks, and insisted on his dismissal from the company, after a quarrel he had with one of the French officers."
"I think I can remember the affair being talked about at the time. Was not this villain known by the sobriquet of the Zaragate?"
"He was, general; furious at what happened to him, and attributing it to Don Valentine, he took an oath to kill him whenever he met him, so soon as the opportunity offered itself."
"Well?"
"It seems that, despite all his goodwill and his eager desire to get rid of his enemy, the opportunity has not yet offered, as he has not killed him."
"That is true; but how did you come across this scoundrel, colonel?"
"Well, general," he answered with some hesitation, "you know that I have been compelled during the last few days, for the sake of our affair, to keep rather bad company. This scoundrel came to offer his services. I cross-questioned him, and knowing your enmity to that Frenchman, I resolved to inform you of this acquisition. If I have done wrong, forgive me, and we will say no more about it."
"On the contrary, colonel," the general said eagerly. "The deuce! not only have I nothing to forgive, but I feel very grateful to you, for your confession has come at a most fortunate time. You shall judge, however, for I wish to be frank with you, the more so because, apart from the high esteem I feel for your character, our common welfare is at stake at this moment."
"You frighten me, general."
"You will be more frightened directly; know that this Valentine, this Frenchman, this demon, has I know not by what means, discovered our conspiracy, holds all the threads of it, and, more than that, is acquainted with all the members, beginning with myself."
"Voto a brios!" the colonel exclaimed, with a start of surprise, and turning pale with terror, "in that case we are lost."
"Well, I confess that our chances of success are considerably diminished."
"Pardon me for asking, general," he continued in great agitation, "but in circumstances like the present——"
"Go on, go on, my dear colonel, do not be embarrassed."
"Are you sure, general, perfectly certain as to the statement you have just made to me?"
"You shall judge. About an hour before the opening of the theatre, Don Valentine himself—you understand me?—came to my house with two friends, doubtless cutthroats in his pay, and revealed all to me; what do you say to that?"
"I say that if this man does not die we are hopelessly lost."
"That is my opinion too," the general remarked coldly.
"How came it that, in spite of this terrible revelations, you ventured to show yourself at the theatre?"
Don Sebastian smiled and shrugged his shoulders disdainfully.
"Ought I to let even indifferent persons see the anxiety that devoured me? Undeceive yourself, colonel, boldness alone can save us; do not forget that we are risking our heads at this moment."
"I am not likely to forget it."
"As for this man, the Zaragate, I must not and will not see him; but do you deal with him as you think proper. You understand that it is of the utmost importance that I should be ignorant of the arrangements you may make with him, and be able to prove, if necessary, that I had no knowledge of this. Moreover, as you are aware, I am not one for extreme measures; the sight of such a villain would be repulsive to me, for I have such a horror of bloodshed. Alas!" he added, with a sigh, "I have been forced to shed only too much in the course of my life."