Gustave Aimard
The Insurgent Chief
CHAPTER XI
THE CAPTIVES
As soon as the reception had terminated, Don Pablo had offered to the Spanish envoys and to the Portuguese officer – that is to say, to Don Zeno Cabral, whom he was far from suspecting was a guest in his camp – a collation that the latter had accepted.
Although camped in one of the most inaccessible parts of the Cordilleras, the Pincheyras – thanks to their continual excursions, to the robberies and pillage they committed in the chacras, the towns and even the cities situated on the two sides of the mountains – were well provisioned; their retreat was filled with the rarest and most delicate things.
By the care of the sister of Don Pablo, charged by her brother with the domestic management, a table had been prepared and covered with a profusion of provisions of all sorts – with sweets, fruits, and liqueurs, and even with the wines of Spain and France, that certainly one would have been far from expecting in such a place.
The Spaniards and the Hispano-American Creoles are generally sober; however, when the occasion presents itself, they by no means scorn the pleasures of a well-furnished table. On this occasion they feasted in emulation of each other on the good cheer provided for them – either on account of the long privations that they had previously endured, or because all was in reality exquisite, and served with much taste. The meal was thus prolonged a considerable time; it was more than three hours after dinner when the guests at last rose from the table.
Don Pablo then took on one side Zeno Cabral, whom he had placed near him at table, and for whom he had a strong liking.
"Señor Don Sebastiao," said he, in a somewhat trembling voice; for notwithstanding, or perhaps on account of, his habitual sobriety, the few glasses of generous wine that the partisan had been obliged to drink while entertaining his guests, had given him a slight touch of drunkenness – "I find you, ¡vive Dios! a charming companion. I should like to do something which will be agreeable to you."
"You do me honour, caballero," answered Zeno Cabral, with some reserve.
"Yes, ¡Dios me ampare! It is so. I confess that this morning I was somewhat thwarted in giving you up the two ladies."
"Why?"
"¡Diablo! I ought to have had a good ransom for them."
"Do not let that distress you, caballero; I am quite ready – "
"No, no," he quickly replied, "do not let us speak of that; I shall gain with others what I have lost with them. I wish now to tell you that I am delighted with what has happened. Bah! you please me – much better that it is so. Besides, these women weary me; they weep continually – it is insupportable."
"Just so; you were saying, then? – "
"Well, I was saying that if I could be agreeable to you in anything, I should be happy if you would allow me to show the esteem I have for you."
"You flatter me, caballero, in speaking, thus; I do not deserve this kindness on your part."
"Well, as you will have it so, I will be frank with you, Señor; there is, indeed, one thing in which you could be useful to me."
"Well and good – what is it?"
"Oh! Mon Dieu! a very simple affair. Leave these ladies, I beg you, in ignorance of their deliverance; you know that joy, like grief is to be feared when it comes suddenly without any preparation. I am afraid of the revulsion that the announcement of this sudden departure will cause these ladies, as they are so far from expecting it."
"What you ask me is very easy of course; however, I must tell them tomorrow, or this evening."
"Don't worry about that; it's easily managed. Tell them that they must be ready to mount horse tomorrow at sunrise, without telling them of the cause or the destination of the journey. I shall be careful to keep out of their sight till I find an opportunity of presenting myself to them without too much exciting them."
The Pincheyra, a man naturally very unsentimental, did not appreciate what the Montonero said to him. But, by reason of that species of innate vanity in all men, which leads them to attribute qualities to themselves which they do not possess – attracted, moreover, towards his own acquaintance by an inexplicable sympathy – he made no difficulty in agreeing to what Don Zeno Cabral asked him, and consented to let him act quite in his own way, inwardly flattered by the good opinion that the latter appeared to have of him, and anxious to prove to him that he was not deceived in him.
Matters thus arranged, Don Pablo requested – without entering into any details – his brother, Don Antonio, to inform the ladies of their approaching departure, and, going out with Don Zeno, he took him to visit the camp of Casa-Frama.
José Antonio, the third brother of Pincheyra, was a man of about twenty, of a melancholy disposition and limited intelligence, who accepted with bad grace the commission which had been given him; but he proceeded to acquit himself of it as quickly as possible.
He went, therefore, to the toldo inhabited by the two ladies.
They were alone, talking to each other, when the Pincheyra presented himself.
At sight of him they could not repress a movement of surprise – almost of fright, but they immediately recovered themselves, and returned the abrupt salute which he had given them without speaking to them, which led the marchioness to ask what was the reason of his visit.
"Señora," he replied, "my brother the colonel, Don Pablo Pincheyra, has requested me to give you notice to be ready to leave the camp tomorrow at sunrise."
"I thank you for this good news, caballero," coldly answered the marchioness.
"I do not know if the news is good or bad, and it's all one to me. I am ordered to tell you, and I do it – that is all. Now that my commission is done, adieu – I withdraw."
And, without further remark, he made a move to go away.
"Pardon, caballero," said the marchioness to him making an effort to continue the conversation, in the hope of seeing a favourable light burst upon the chaos which surrounded her; "one word, if you please."
"One word let it be," answered he, stopping, "but no more."
"Do you know why we are to quit the camp?"
"Upon my word, no; what is it to me whether you leave or not?"
"That is true – it must be quite indifferent to you; but you are, I believe, one of your brother's principal officers?"
"I am a captain," he answered, holding himself up proudly.
"In that capacity you must be in the confidence of your brother's projects, so as to know what are his intentions."
"I! What for? My brother does not render account to me, and I do not ask any."
The marchioness bit her lips with vexation; but she continued, abruptly changing the conversation —
"If I am so soon to leave the camp, permit me, caballero, to offer you, before leaving, this slight mark of remembrance;" and taking from her breast a delicate reliquary in gold, curiously chased, she presented it to him with a gracious smile.
The eye of the bandit flashed with covetousness.
"Ah!" said he, holding out his hand, "What is that?"
"This medallion," replied the marchioness, "contains relics."
"Relics!" he exclaimed; "Real?"
"Certainly, it contains a splinter of the true cross, and a tooth of Santa Rosa de Lima."
"Ah! And they are of use, are they not? Father Gomez, my brother's chaplain, says that the relics of saints are the best arms that a Christian can carry with him."
"He is right; these are infallible against wounds and sickness."
The bandit's eye dilated; an indescribable expression of joy overspread his countenance.
"And you will give them to me?" he quickly exclaimed.
"I give them to you, but on one condition."
"Without condition!" he resumed, knitting his eyebrows, and casting a sinister look at the marchioness.
The only active sentiment in the heart of this man – his superstition – had been aroused. Perhaps to seize these relics that he coveted he would not have recoiled from a crime.
The marchioness immediately perceived the thought, indistinct as it was, that agitated his obtuse mind. She exhibited no emotion, and continued:
"These relics would immediately lose their virtue if they were taken by violence from the person who possesses them."
"Ah!" murmured he, with a sullen and husky voice, "They must be freely given?"
"They must," coldly answered the marchioness.
Doña Eva had felt a shudder of fear run through her limbs at the concealed threat of the bandit; but his exclamation reassured her; she saw that the wild beast was tamed.
"What is this condition?" pursued he.
"I wish to know if some strangers arrived in the camp yesterday."
"They arrived this morning."
"Spaniards?"
"Yes."
"Was there a Portuguese among them?"
"I believe there was one."
"Are you sure of it?"
"Yes, it is he who is to take you away; he offers a large ransom for you. I remember, because my brother has refused the ransom while consenting to part with you – which I cannot at all understand on his part."
"Ah!" she murmured, with a dreamy air.
"Have you anything else to ask me?"
"One question more."
"Be quick," he answered, his eyes greedily fixed on the reliquary, which he never lost sight of.
"Do you know Don Emile?"
"The Frenchman?"
"Yes, the same."
"I know him."
"I should like to speak with him."
"It is impossible."
"Why so?"
"Because he left the camp an hour ago, in company with my brother Don Santiago."
"Do you know when he will return?"
"Never; I repeat that he has gone away."
A sigh of relief escaped the breast of the marchioness. If the young man had gone away, it was with the intention of being of service to them. All hope was not then lost to them, since a devoted friend was still watching over their safety.
"I thank you," she replied, "for what you have consented to tell me; there is the reliquary."
The Pincheyra bounded on it like a wild beast on his prey, and hid it under his poncho.
"You swear to me that these relics are true?" he asked, in a suspicious tone.
"I swear it."
"No matter," murmured he, shaking his head; "I will have them blessed by Father Gomez; that can do no harm. Adieu, Madame."
And without further salutation he turned on his heel, left the toldo as abruptly as he had entered it, keeping his right hand firmly on his breast, no doubt to assure himself that the precious reliquary was still in the place where he had hidden it.
There was a long silence between the two ladies after the departure of the Pincheyra.
The marchioness at last raised her eyes, and fixed a long look on her daughter, who, her head reclined on her breast, seemed lost in bitter reflections.
"Eva!" said she, in a gentle voice.
The young girl started, and, holding up her beautiful face, paled with grief:
"Do you speak, mother?" she answered.
"Yes, my girl," replied the marchioness; "you were thinking, no doubt, of our unhappy situation?"
"Alas!" exclaimed she.
"A situation," continued the marchioness, "that every moment renders more dreadful; for, do not deceive yourself, my child, this liberty that the bandit accords us, whose prisoners we are – this liberty is but a snare."
"Oh! Do you think so, mother? What makes you suppose that?"
"I know nothing; and yet I am convinced that the man who says he is sent by your father to take us back to him, and who obstinately keeps out of the way, instead of presenting himself to us as he ought to do – I am convinced that this man is our enemy, more to be feared, perhaps, than he from whom he takes us away, and who – a bandit without faith or law – has only kept us in the hope of a rich ransom, entertaining towards us neither hatred nor anger."
"Pardon me, mother, for not being of your opinion in this matter. In a country so far from our own – where, except Don Emile, we know no one – strangers in the midst of the people who surround us – what enemy can we have to fear?"
The marchioness smiled sadly.
"Your memory is short," she said, "my dear Eva; careless, like all children of your age, the past is nothing more to you than a dream, and without dwelling on the present, you look only to the future. Have you, then, forgotten the partisan chief who, two months ago, made us his prisoners, and from whom Don Emile's devotion saved us?"
"Oh, no! Mother," cried she, with a nervous start; "no, I have not forgotten him, for this man seems to be our evil genius. But, God be praised! Here, at least, we have nothing to fear from him."
"You deceive yourself, my daughter; it is he, on the contrary, who now pursues us."
"It cannot be, mother; this man, you know, is attached to the opposite party to that of the bandit, in whose hands we are."
"Poor child! The wicked always unite when there is any evil to be done. I repeat, this man is here."
"Mother," said the young girl, whose voice trembled with emotion, but in a resolute tone, "you have long known this man?"
"Yes," she simply answered.
"As that is the case, you no doubt know the motives, true or false, of this implacable hatred?"
"Yes, I know them, my girl."
"And," said she, with some hesitation, "why do you not acquaint me with them?"
"No, that is impossible."
"Permit me to ask you a question, mother."
"Speak, my girl; if I can answer I will."
"Do the reasons for this hatred affect you personally?"
"No, I am, in every way, innocent of the deeds with which we are reproached."
"Why we, mother?"
"Because, dear child, all the members of a family are so intimately connected, you know."
"I know it, mother."
"It is an unquestionable consequence of this that a deed laid at the door of one member of a family must be for all, and that if this action is shameful or guilty, all must submit to the shame of it, and bear its responsibility."
"That is true; thank you, mother, I understand you; now there only remains one point on which I am not well informed."
"To what do you allude?"
"To this – that at Santiago de Chile, and afterwards at Salto, Señor Don Zeno Cabral – that is his name, I think?"
"Yes, that is his name; well?"
"When he came to our house, did you then know this hatred that he bears us?"
"I knew it, my girl," briefly answered the marchioness.
"You knew it, mother!" cried Doña Eva, with surprise.
"Yes, I knew it, I repeat."
"But then, mother, if that were the case, why receive him on the footing of intimacy, when it would have been so easy for you to have closed the door to him!"
"Do you think that would have been possible for me?"
"Forgive this persistence, mother; but I cannot explain to myself such conduct on your part. You, endowed as you are with such exquisite tact, and so deep a knowledge of the world!"
The marchioness slightly shrugged her shoulders, while a smile of an indefinable expression played round her mouth.
"You reason foolishly, my dear Eva," she answered lightly impressing her pale lips on the forehead of the young girl. "I did not personally know Don Zeno Cabral. He was ignorant then, and probably is ignorant still, that I was mistress of the secret of his hatred – a secret of which, in fact (with a disposition less candidly honourable than that of your father), I should not have had (on account of certain particulars hurtful to me as a woman) – I should not have had, I say, to share the heavy burden. My design, in entertaining our enemy, and even in introducing him into our private intimacy, was to put him on the wrong scene – to make him believe that I was in complete ignorance; and thus excite his confidence, and so succeed, if not in making him renounce his projects against us, at least in making him modify them, or obtain the avowal of them from him. The apparent weakness of Don Zeno – his effeminate manners, his pretended gentleness, his beardless face, which makes him appear much younger than he is – everything made me suppose that I should easily succeed in overreaching him. Unhappily it has not been so. This man is of granite; nothing moves him, nothing affects him. Availing himself of irony – so much the more dangerous, as it is difficult coolly to combat it – he always knew how to meet my stratagem and repulse my attacks. Tired of this, and galled one day by the tone of biting raillery which never left him in our private interviews, I allowed myself to be carried away by anger; I grievously offended him by a bitter word that I threw in his face, and which I wished immediately to retract. But it was too late; the imprudence was irreparable. In wishing to unmask my adversary, I had allowed him to read my heart. From that moment all was over between us – or rather all commenced. After having coldly bowed to me, he withdrew, ironically warning me to be more on my guard for the future. I saw him no more till the moment when he caused us to fall into the ambuscade which puts us in his power."
While the marchioness was speaking, the countenance of Doña Eva by turns expressed contrary feelings. The young girl, a prey to an emotion she vainly tried to conquer, pressed her panting bosom, and secretly wiped her eyes, which every moment filled with tears. At last this emotion was so apparent that the marchioness could not but perceive it. She abruptly stopped, and fixing on her daughter a hard and imperious look, whilst her eyebrows knitted, and her voice assumed a tone of menace:
"What is the matter with you, niña?" asked she; "Why these tears that I see you are shedding?"
The young girl blushed and lowered her head with embarrassment.
"Answer," severely resumed the marchioness; "answer, I desire."
"Mother," stammered she, in a feeble and trembling voice, "is not what you tell me sufficient to cause the grief which you see I am suffering? I do not at all deserve the unjust anger that you display to me."
The marchioness shook her head, continuing to fix her eye upon her daughter, who, blushing and paling by turns, more and more lost countenance.
"Well," said she, "I am willing to believe what you say, but take care that someday I do not discover that you have spoken falsely – that a feeling, if not of the existence, at least of the power of which you are ignorant, and which you vainly try to conceal from me, has taken possession of your heart."
"What do you mean, mother? In the name of Heaven, I do not understand you."
"Heaven grant that I may be deceived," she replied, mournfully; "but let us quit this subject – we are getting too melancholy about it; I have warned you, and I will watch – the future will decide."
"Mother, when we are so unhappy already, why increase my sorrow by unjust reproaches?"
The marchioness darted a look, in which there was a flash of anger, but immediately recovering herself —
"You have, then, understood me?" she cried, with a calculating coolness.
The young girl shivered, fell trembling on the bosom of her mother, murmuring an answer interrupted by grief, and fainted.
The marchioness lifted her gently and laid her on a hammock. For a long time she contemplated her with an expression of anger, love, and sadness impossible to express.
"Poor, poor child!" murmured she, and falling on her knees near the hammock, she clasped her hands and addressed a fervent prayer to Heaven.
She prayed a long time thus. Suddenly she felt a burning tear fall upon her forehead. She quickly raised her head.
Her daughter, half raised upon the hammock, and leaning over her, was looking at her as she prayed.
"Mother! mother!" she cried, drawing her gently towards her.
The marchioness rose without answering, approached her daughter, and the two women fell into each other's arms, mingling their tears in an impassioned embrace.
