Читать книгу The Insurgent Chief - Gustave Aimard - Страница 5

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The painter had taken refuge in his apartments, a prey to extreme agitation.

Having reached his bedroom, he doubly locked the door; then, certain that for a time no one would come to thrust him out of this last asylum, he allowed himself to fall heavily on a butaca, threw his body backward, leaned his head forward, crossed his arms over his chest, and—an extraordinary thing for an organisation like his—he gave himself up to sad and profound reflections.

At first he called to mind—tormented as he was by the saddest presentiments—all the events which had happened to him since his arrival in America.

The list was long, and by no means pleasant.

At the end of half an hour, the artist arrived at this miserable conclusion—that, from the first moment that he had placed his foot on the New World, Fate had taken a malicious pleasure in falling furiously upon him, and in making him the sport of the most disastrous combinations, spite of the efforts that he had made to remain constantly free from politics, and to live as a true artist, without occupying himself with what was passing around him.

"Pardieu!" he cried, angrily striking with his hand the arm of his chair, "it must be confessed that I have no chance! In conditions like these, life becomes literally impossible. Better a hundred times would it have been for me to remain in France, where at least I should have been allowed to live quietly, and in my own fashion! A pretty situation is this of mine—placed here, without knowing why, between the gun and the gallows! Why, it is absurd, it is unheard-of! The devil take these Americans and Spaniards! As if they could not quarrel with one another without bringing into the dispute a poor painter, who has nothing to do with it, and who is travelling as an amateur in their country! They have, indeed, a singular manner of rendering hospitality, these pretty fellows! I compliment them sincerely upon it. And I, who was persuaded, on the faith of travellers, that America was, par excellence, the land of hospitality—the country of simple and patriarchal manners. Trust to narratives of travel—those who take such pleasure in leading the public into error, ought to be burnt alive! What is to be done? What is to become of me? I have eight days before me, says that old lynx of a diplomatist, to whom, however, I shall preserve eternal gratitude for his proceedings in my behalf. What a charming compatriot I have met there. How fortunate I have been with him. Well, no matter, I must make up my mind what to do. But what? I see nothing but flight! Hum! flight—that's not easy; I shall be closely watched. Unhappily, I have no choice; come, let me study a plan of escape. Away with the wretched fate which obstinately makes of my life a melodrama, when I employ all my powers to make it a vaudeville!"

Upon this the young man, whose gaiety of disposition gained the victory over the anxiety which agitated him, set himself—half laughing, half seriously—to reflect anew.

He remained thus for more than an hour, without stirring from his butaca, and without making the least movement.

It cannot be denied that at the end of that time he was as far advanced as before; that is to say, that he had hit upon nothing.

"Well, I give it up for the present," he cried, rising suddenly; "my imagination absolutely refuses me its aid! It is always so. Well, I, who wanted sensation, cannot complain; it is to be hoped that for some time past I have had enough of it, and of the most poignant sensation too!"

Then he began to stride about his room, to stretch his legs, mechanically rolled up a cigarette, and felt in his pocket for his mechero to light it.

In the movement which he made in searching for it, he felt in his waistcoat pocket something which he did not remember to have placed there; he looked at it.

"Pardieu!" said he, striking his forehead, "I had completely forgotten my mysterious unknown; but that's accounted for by my vexation! If this lasts only for eight days, I am convinced I shall completely go out of my mind. Let me see what it is that she has so adroitly dropped on my hat."

While he soliloquised, the painter had drawn from his pocket the little roll of paper, and attentively considered it.

"It is extraordinary," continued he, "the influence which women exert, perhaps unknown to ourselves, on the organisation of us men, and how the most trivial thing which comes to us from one of them, who is utterly unknown, immediately interests us."

He remained several moments turning about the paper in his hand, without coming to the resolution to break the silk, which alone prevented him from satisfying his curiosity, all the while continuing in petto his speculations on the probable contents of the packet.

At last, with a sudden resolution, he put an end to his hesitation, and broke with his teeth the delicate silk thread, and then unrolled the paper carefully. This paper, which—as the young man had conjectured—served for an envelope, contained another, folded carefully, and covered on every page with fine close writing.

Spite of himself, the young man felt a nervous trembling as he unfolded this paper, in which a ring was enclosed.

This ring was but a simple gold ring, in which was set a Balas ruby, of great value.

"What does this mean?" murmured the young man, admiring the ring, and trying it mechanically on all his fingers.

But although the artist had a very beautiful hand—thing of which, in parenthesis, he was very proud—this ring was so small, that it was only on the little finger that he could succeed in putting it on, and this with some difficulty.

"This person is evidently deceived," pursued the painter; "I cannot keep this ring; I will return it, come what may. But to do that I must know the individual, and I have no other means of obtaining this information except by reading her letter. I'll read it, then."

The artist was at this moment in the singular position of a man who feels himself gliding down a rapid decline, at the foot of which is a precipice, and who, perceiving that he has not the power successfully to resist the impulse which controls him, endeavours to prove to himself that he does right to abandon himself to it.

But before opening the paper, which he apparently held with such a careless hand, and on which he looked so disdainfully—so much, say what we may, is man (that being said to be made in the image of his Maker) always a comedian, even to himself, when no one can see him, because even then he tries to impose upon his self-love—the artist went to try the lock, to see if the door was firmly fastened, and that no one could surprise him; then he slowly returned, sat himself on the butaca, and unfolded the paper.

It was, indeed, a letter, written in a fine close hand, but nervous and agitated, which convinced him in a moment that it was a woman's writing.

The young man at first cursorily read it, and feigning to take but moderate interest in it; but soon, spite of himself, he felt himself influenced by what he learned. As he proceeded in his reading, he found his interest increase; and when he had reached the last word, he remained with his eyes fixed on the thin paper which was being crushed in his convulsive fingers; and a considerable time elapsed before he could succeed in conquering the strong emotion that this strange letter had excited.

The following are the contents of this letter, the original of which has for a long time remained in our hands, and which we translate without comment:—

"As an important preliminary, let me, Señor, claim, from your courtesy a formal promise—a promise in which you will not fail, I am convinced, if, as I have the presentiment, you are a true caballero. I demand that you read this letter without interruption from beginning to end, before passing any judgment whatever on her who addresses it to you."

"You have sworn, have you not? Well, I thank you for the proof of confidence, and I begin without further preamble."

"You are, Señor—if, as I believe, I am not deceived in my observation—a Frenchman from Europe: that is to say, the son of a country where gallantry and devotion to women reign supreme, and are so far traditional, that these characteristics form the most salient feature in the men."

"I also am—not a French woman, but born in Europe; that is to say, although unknown to you, your friend, almost your sister on that far-off land; and as such, I have a right to your protection, and I now boldly claim it from your honour."

"As I do not wish that you should at once take me for an adventuress, from the mode, somewhat beyond the rules of society, in which I enter on relations with you, I must first tell you, in a few words, not my history—that would cause you unreasonably to lose precious time—but who I am, and by what motives I am compelled for a time to put aside that timid modesty which never abandons women worthy of the name; and then I will tell you what is the service I ask of you."

"My husband, the Marquis de Castelmelhor, commands a division of the Brazilian army, which, they say, has some days since entered Buenos Airean territory."

"Coming from Peru with my daughter and some servants, with the intention of joining my husband in Brazil—for I knew nothing of the events which had just previously occurred—I have been surprised, carried away, and declared a prisoner of war, by a Buenos Airean Montonero; and I and my daughter are now imprisoned in the house which you pass twice a day."

"If it were but a question of a detention more or less protracted, I would resign myself to submit to it, confiding myself to the power and goodness of God."

"But, unhappily, a terrible fate threatens me—a frightful danger hangs not only over my own head, but over that of my daughter—my innocent and pure Eva."

"An implacable enemy has sworn our ruin; he has boldly accused us of being spies, and in a few days—perhaps tomorrow, for this man is thought very highly of by the members of his Government—we shall be brought before a tribunal assembled to judge us, and the verdict of which cannot be doubtful—the death of traitors, dishonour! The Marchioness of Castelmelhor cannot submit to such infamy."

"God, who never abandons the innocent who trust in Him in their distress, has inspired me with the thought of addressing you, Señor, for you alone can save me."

"Will you do it? I believe you will."

"A stranger in this country—sharing neither the prejudices, the narrow ideas, nor the hatred of its inhabitants against Europeans—you ought to make common cause with us, and try to save us, even if it be at the peril of your life."

"I have long hesitated before writing this letter. Although your manners were those of a respectable man—although the frank expression of your countenance, and even your youth, prepossessed me in your favour—I feared to trust myself to you; but when I learned that you were a Frenchman, my fears vanished, to give place to entire confidence."

"Tomorrow, between ten and eleven o'clock in the morning, present yourself boldly at the door of the Black House, and knock. When the door is opened, say that you have heard that a professor of the piano is wanted in the convent, and that you have come to offer your services."

"But be very careful. We are watched with the greatest care. Perhaps it would be better if you were to disguise yourself, to avoid being recognised, in case your proceedings are watched."

"Remember that you are the only hope of two innocent women, who, if you refuse them your help, will die cursing you; for their safety depends on you."

"Tomorrow, between ten and eleven in the morning."

"The most unfortunate of women,"

"Marquise LEONA DE CASTELMELHOR."

No pen could describe the expression of astonishment, mingled with fright, which was painted on the countenance of the young man, when he had finished the reading of this singular letter, which had reached him in so extraordinary a way.

As we have said, he remained a long time with his eyes fixed on the paper, probably without seeing the characters which were written there, his body leaning forward, his hands clenched, a prey to reflections which could not be at all pleasant.

To say nothing of the check to his self-love—a check always disagreeable to a man who for several hours had given his imagination free play in the pleasant land of chimeras, and who had thought himself the object of a sudden and irresistible passion, caused by his good looks and his Don Juan-like appearance—the service which the unknown lady demanded of him could not but considerably embarrass him, especially in the exceptional position in which he found himself at the time.

"Decidedly," murmured he, in a low voice, dashing his hand on the chair with rage, "Fate too furiously pursues me. This is absurd! Here am I asked to be a protector—I, who so much want protection myself! Heaven is not just to permit, without rhyme or reason, a good fellow, who only sighs for quiet, to be thus tormented in every possible circumstance."

He rose, and began to stride about his room.

"However," added he, after a pause, "these ladies are in a frightful position; I cannot abandon them thus, without trying to come to their aid; my honour is engaged in it; a Frenchman, spite of himself, represents France in a foreign country. But what is to be done?"

He sat down again, and appeared to be lost in a deep reverie. At last, in about a quarter of an hour, he again rose.

"That is it," said he; "I see no other means that. If I do not succeed, I shall have nothing to reproach myself with, for I shall have done even more than my actual position, and especially prudence, should permit me to attempt."

Emile had evidently made a resolve.

He opened the door, and went down into the patio.

It was almost night; the attendants, freed from their labours, more or less properly accomplished, were resting themselves, reclining on palm-mats, smoking, laughing, and chatting together.

The painter had not long to search for his domestics in the midst of the twenty or five-and-twenty individuals grouped pell-mell on the ground.

He made a sign to one of them to come to him, and he immediately went up again into his room.

The Indian, at the call of his master, immediately rose, in order to obey him.

He Was an Indian Guaraní, still very young; he appeared to be at the most twenty-four or twenty-five, With fine, bold, and intelligent features, a tall figure, of a robust appearance, and with free and unconstrained manners.

He wore the costume of the gauchos of the Pampa, and was named Tyro.

At the call of his master he had thrown away his cigarette, picked up his hat, gathered his poncho round him, and had darted towards the staircase with an alacrity which spoke well for him.

The painter much liked this young man, who, although of rather a taciturn disposition, like all his people, appeared, nevertheless, to entertain some affection for him.

Having reached the sleeping room, he did not pass the door, but, stopping on the threshold, he respectfully bowed, and waited till his master might be pleased to address him.

"Enter, and close the door behind you," said the painter to him, in a friendly tone; "we have some important things to talk about."

"Secrets, master?" asked the Indian.

"Yes."

"Then, with your permission, master, I will leave the door open."

"What is that caprice for?"

"It is not a caprice, master; all these places are rendered noiseless by the mats which cover the ground; a spy can, without being heard, come and put his ear to the door and hear all that we may say, so much the more easily as we, absorbed in our own conversation, should not be aware of his presence; whereas, if all the doors remain open, no one will enter without our seeing him, and we shall not risk being watched."

"What you remark is very sensible, my good Tyro; leave the doors open, then. The precaution cannot do any harm, although I do not believe in spies."

"Does not the master believe in the night?" answered the Indian, with an emphatic gesture. "The spy is like the night; he likes to glide about in the darkness."

"Be it so; I will not discuss the matter with you. Let us come to the reason for which I have called you."

"I am listening, master."

"Tyro, first answer me, frankly, the question which I am about to ask you."

"Let the master speak."

"Bear in mind, that I wish you to speak candidly; but pay particular attention to the form of my question, so as to answer, fully understanding it. Are you towards me only a good domestic, strictly performing your duties; or a devoted servant, on whom I have the right to reckon at all times."

"A devoted servant, master—a brother, a son, a friend. You cured my mother of a disease which appeared incurable. When you bought the rancho, instead of sending her and me away, you preserved to the old woman her cuarto, her garden, and her flock. As to me, you have treated me as a man, never commanding me with rudeness, and never obliging me to do shameful or dishonourable things, though I am an Indian. You have always considered me an intelligent being, and not an animal possessed of instinct merely. I repeat, master, I am devoted to you in everything, and forever."

"Thank you, Tyro," answered the painter, with slight emotion; "I half thought what you have just told me, but I was resolved to make you confirm it; for I have need of your services."

"I am ready; but what is to be done?"

Notwithstanding the candour of this avowal, the French painter—little acquainted yet with the character of these primitive races—by no means intended to put the Indian completely in the confidence of his secrets.

Too much civilisation renders us mistrustful.

The Guaraní readily perceived the hesitation of the artist, who, unaccustomed to dissimulation, allowed his countenance to reflect his emotions, as in a mirror.

"The master has nothing to teach Tyro," said he, with a smile; "the Indian knows all."

"What!" cried the young man, with a start of surprise; "You know all!"

"Yes," he merely said.

"Pardieu!" pursued the artist; "For the curiosity of the thing, I would not be sorry if you were to inform me how far extends that 'all' of which you so confidently speak."

"That is easy; let the master listen."

Then, to the extreme astonishment of the young man, Tyro related to him, without omitting the least detail, all that he had done since his arrival at San Miguel de Tucuman.

However, by degrees Emile, by a great effort, succeeded in regaining his coolness, reflecting with inward satisfaction that this recital, so complete in other respects, had one omission—an important omission for him; it stopped at that very morning. Tyro knew nothing of the adventure of the Callejón de las Cruces.

But fearing that this omission merely arose from forgetfulness, he resolved to assure himself of it.

"Well," said he, "all that you relate is correct, but you forget to speak about my walks through the town."

"Oh, as to that," answered the Indian, with a smile, "it is useless to occupy myself with that. The master passes all his time in a reverie, looking up at the sky and gesticulating as he walks. At the end of two days it was found that it was not worthwhile to follow him."

"The devil! I have been followed then! I did not know I had friends who took such an interest in me."

An equivocal smile played on the expressive lips of the Indian, but he did not answer.

"You, no doubt, know the person who has thus played the spy?"

"Yes, I know him, master."

"You will tell me his name, then?"

"I will tell you, when the time arrives to do so; but he is but an instrument; besides, if this person spies you at the command of another, I watch him, master, for your sake; and what he has been able to discover is of little importance. I alone possess your secrets, so you may be easy."

"What! You know my secrets!" cried the painter, again provoked at the moment when he least expected it; "What secrets?"

"The white rose and the letter of the Callejón de las Cruces; but I repeat that I alone know it."

"This is too much!" murmured the young man.

"A devoted servant," seriously remarked the Indian, who had heard the "aside" of the painter, "ought to know all, so that when the time comes that his assistance may be necessary, he may be in a position to come to his master's aid."

The artist then decided on doing what most men would have decided on doing, under similar circumstances. Seeing that there was no means of doing otherwise, he determined on giving his entire confidence to the Indian, and he avowed all with the greatest candour—a candour which the Guaraní would have little valued had he known the true reason for it. Though he did not fully admit it to himself, the painter only acted under the pressure of necessity, and, feeling the uselessness of concealing the least thing from so far-seeing a servant, he preferred freely placing himself entirely in the Indian's hands, hoping that this mode of acting would engage him not to betray him. For a moment, the thought crossed his mind to blow the man's brains out; but, reflecting what a ticklish thing this would be, especially in his position, he preferred trying a milder course and a feigned open-heartedness.

Happily for him, the painter had to do with an honest and really devoted man, who with any other person would probably have ruined him, rather than have saved him.

Tyro had for a long time led the life of the gauchos, hunted the Pampa, and explored the desert in all directions. He was thoroughly acquainted with all the Indian schemes. Nothing would have been easier for him than to have acted as a guide to his master, and have conducted him either to Peru, Buenos Aires, Chili, or even to Brazil.

When confidence was thoroughly established between the two men, though the Frenchman had at first acted with but feigned candour, he was not long in displaying all the artless honesty of his character, happy in meeting in a country, where everybody was hostile to him, a man who manifested sympathy with him, even if this sympathy were more apparent than real. He at once seriously asked the advice of his servant.

"This is what must be done," said the latter. "In this house everything is suspicious; it is filled with spies. Pretend to put yourself in a rage with me, and dismiss me. Tomorrow, at the time of your usual walk, I will meet you, and we will settle everything. Our conversation has lasted too long already, master. Suspicions are awakened. I will go down as if I had been scolded by you. Follow me to the door of the room, speaking in a loud tone, and finding fault with me; then, in a little while, you will come down and dismiss me before everybody. Above all, master," added he, laying stress on these last words, "say nothing till tomorrow to the occupants of the house; do not let them suspect our arrangement: if you do, believe me, you are lost."

Having so said, the Indian withdrew, his finger on his lips.

All was done as had been arranged between master and servant.

Tyro was immediately sent from the house, which he left grumbling, and Emile again went up to his apartment, leaving all the attendants astounded at a scene which they never expected from a man whom they were accustomed to see ordinarily so gentle and tolerant.

The next day, at the same hour as usual, the painter went out for his accustomed walk, taking care, while he feigned the utmost indifference, to return every now and then, to assure himself that he was not followed. But this precaution was needless; no one cared to watch his promenade, so inoffensive was it known to be.

Arrived on the bank of the river, at about a hundred paces from the town, a man, concealed behind a rock, suddenly presented himself to him.

The young man smothered a cry of surprise. He recognised Tyro, the Guaraní servant dismissed by him the previous evening, according to mutual arrangement.