Gustave Aimard
The Rebel Chief: A Tale of Guerilla Life

CHAPTER XXII
DON DIEGO

Don Melchior de la Cruz resolved to seize at any price the fortune of his father, which his sister's marriage threatened to make him hopelessly lose, had rushed headlong into politics, hoping to find amid the failures which had so long distracted his country, the occasion to satisfy his ambition and insatiable avarice by fishing largely in the troubled waters of revolutions. Endowed with an energetic character and great intelligence, a true political condottiere, passing without hesitation or remorse from one party to another, according to the advantages offered him, ever ready to serve the man who paid him best, he had contrived to render himself master of important secrets which made him feared by all, and gained him a certain degree of credit with the chiefs of parties whom he had served in turn; a well-born spy he had managed to get in everywhere, and join all the fraternities and secret societies, for he possessed in a most eminent degree the talent so envied by the most renowned diplomatists, of naturally feigning the most opposite feelings and opinions. It was thus that he became a member of the mysterious society Union and Strength, by which he was eventually condemned to death, with the predetermined resolution of selling the secrets of this formidable association whenever a favourable opportunity presented itself. Don Antonio de Cacerbas was shortly after made a member of the same association. These two men were made to understand each other at the first word, and they did so. The most intimate friendship ere long united them. When, at the beginning of their connexion, Don Antonio de Cacerbas, owing to anonymous revelations, was convicted of treachery, condemned by the mysterious association, and obliged to defend his life against one of the members, fell beneath his adversary's sword, and was left for dead on the road, where Dominique found him, as we have previously related. Don Melchior, who had been watching this sanguinary execution from a distance, resolved, were it possible, to save this man who inspired him with such warm sympathy. After the departure of his comrades, he hurried up as soon as he dared with the intention of succouring the wounded man, but did not find him; chance, by bringing Dominique to the spot, had deprived him, to his great regret, of the opportunity he desired for rendering Don Antonio his debtor. At a later date, when Don Antonio, half cured, escaped from the grotto where he was being nursed, the two men met again; more fortunate this time, Don Melchior had rendered his friend important services. The latter, in his turn, had been able on several occasions to let the young man profit by the occult influence which he had at his disposal. The only difference was, that if Don Antonio was thoroughly aware of his partner's affairs, of the object he proposed to himself, and the means he intended to employ in attaining it, the same was not the case with Don Melchior as regarded Don Antonio de Cacerbas, who remained an undecipherable mystery to him. Still the young man, though he had several times tried to make his friend speak, and lead him into confessions which would have given certain prerogatives, but never succeeded, did not for all that resign the hope of discovering one day what the other appeared to have so great an interest in hiding.

The last service which Don Antonio had rendered him, by making him so unexpectedly escape from the implacable justice of the members of the Union and Strength society, had rendered Don Melchior temporarily, at any rate, dependant on him. Don Antonio seemed to make it to some extent a point of honour not to remind Don Melchior of the immense danger from which he had saved him; he continued to serve him as he had hitherto done. The first care of the young man, on returning to Puebla, had been to proceed in all haste to the convent in which he had confined his sister after carrying her off; but, as he had a secret presentiment, he found the bird flown. Don Antonio had said but a few words to him on this subject, but they had a terrible eloquence.

"Only the dead do not escape," he had remarked.

Don Melchior bowed his head, recognising the correctness of this remark. All the young man's searches in Puebla were vain: no one could or would tell him anything; the mother superior of the convent was dumb.

"Let us go to Mexico; we shall find her there if she be not dead already," Don Antonio said to him.

They set out. What means Don Antonio employed to discover the retreat of Doña Dolores, we are unable to say, but so much is certain, that two days after his arrival in the capital, he was acquainted with the young lady's residence.

Let us leave for a short season these two men, whom we shall meet again but too soon, and describe how Doña Dolores had been liberated. The young lady was placed, by Don Melchior's orders, in a convent of Carmelite nuns. The mother superior – whom Don Melchior succeeded in winning to his interests by a large sum of money he paid her, and the promise of larger sums if she executed his orders zealously and intelligently – did not allow the young lady to receive any visitors but her brother, she was forbidden to write letters, and those that arrived for her were pitilessly intercepted. Dolores thus passed sad and monotonous days in a narrow cell, deprived of all relations with the outer world, and no longer retaining even the hope of being some day restored to liberty; her brother had made known to her his will in this respect; he insisted on her taking the veil. This was the only method Don Melchior had found to force his sister to give up her fortune to him, by renouncing the world. Still Don Melchior, though he had got himself named his sister's guardian, could not have taken her to a convent without a written order of the governor; but this had been easily obtained, and handed by Don Diego Izaguirre – private secretary to his Excellency the Governor – to the mother superior when the young lady was taken to the convent.

At about nine o'clock on the night of the day when Don Melchior had been so adroitly carried off by Don Adolfo, whom he believed his prisoner, three men wrapped in thick cloaks, and mounted on handsome and powerful Spanish genets, stopped at the gate of the convent, at which they rapped. The lay sister opened a wicket in this gate, exchanged a few words in a low voice with one of the horsemen who had dismounted, and evidently satisfied with the answers she received, she set the gate on the jar to admit this late visitor. The latter threw his horse's bridle to one of his companions; while the latter awaited him outside, he went in, and the gate was closed after him. After passing along several corridors, the porteress opened the abbess' cell, and announced Don Diego Izaguirre, private secretary to His Excellency the Governor. Don Diego, after exchanging a few compliments, drew a sealed letter from his dolman, and handed it to the superior, who opened and hastily read it.

"Very good, señor," she answered, "I am ready to obey you."

"Please, madam, carefully to bear in mind the tenour of the order I have communicated to you, and which I am compelled to request back. Everybody, you understand, madam," he said, laying a marked stress on the word, "must be ignorant how Doña Dolores has left the convent: this recommendation is of the highest importance."

"I will not forget it, señor."

"You are at liberty to say that she has escaped. Now, madam, be kind enough to warn Doña Dolores."

The superior left Don Diego in her cell, and went herself to fetch Doña Dolores. So soon as he was alone, the young man tore into impalpable fragments the order he had shown the superior, and threw them into the brasero, when the fire immediately consumed them.

"I am not at all desirous," Don Diego said as he watched them burning, "that the governor should perceive one day the perfection with which I imitate his signature, for it might cause him to feel jealous;" and he smiled with an air of mockery.

The superior was not absent more than a quarter of an hour.

"Here is Doña Dolores de la Cruz," said the abbess; "I have the honour of delivering her into your hands."

"Very good, madam; I hope soon to prove to you that his Excellency knows how, when the opportunity offers, worthily to reward those persons who obey him without hesitation."

The mother superior bowed humbly, and raised her eyes to Heaven.

"Are you ready, señorita?" Don Diego asked the young lady.

"Yes," she answered laconically.

"In that case be kind enough to follow me."

"Go on," she said, wrapping herself in her cloak, and taking no further leave of the abbess. They then left the cell, and guided by the superior, reached the convent gate. By some slight pretext the abbess had had the precaution to remove the porteress. She opened the gate herself, and then, when Don Diego and the young lady had passed through, she gave a farewell bow to the secretary, and closed the gate again, as if anxious to be delivered from the alarm that his presence caused her.

"Señorita," Don Diego said respectfully, "be kind enough to mount this horse."

"Señor," she said in a sad but firm voice, "I am a poor defenceless orphan: I obey you, because any resistance on my part would be madness; but – "

"Doña Dolores," said one of the horsemen, "we are sent by Don Jaime."

"Oh!" she exclaimed joyfully, "'Tis the voice of Don Carlos."

"Yes, señorita; re-assure yourself, then, and be good enough to mount without further delay, as we have no time to spare."

The young lady leapt lightly on Don Diego's horse.

"Now, señores," the young man said, "you no longer wait me – good bye; gallop your hardest, and I wish you a pleasant journey."

They dashed away like a whirlwind, and soon disappeared in the darkness.

"How they race!" the young man said laughingly; "I fancy Don Melchior will have some difficulty in catching them."

And wrapping himself in his cloak, he returned on foot to the palace of the government, where he resided. The two men who accompanied the young lady were Dominique and Leo Carral. They galloped the whole night. At sunrise they reached an abandoned rancho, where several persons were awaiting them. Doña Dolores joyfully recognised among them Don Adolfo and the Count. Surrounded by these devoted friends, she had nothing more to fear. She was saved. The journey was a continued maze, but her joy was immense when she arrived in Mexico, and under the escort of her brave friends entered the small house, where every preparation had been made to receive her. She fell weeping into the arms of Doña Maria and Doña Carmen. Don Adolfo and his friends discreetly retired, leaving the ladies to their confidences. The Count, in order to watch more closely over the young lady, hired a house in the same street, and offered to share it with Dominique, who eagerly accepted it. It was arranged, in order not to arouse suspicion or attract attention to the house of the three ladies, that the young men should only pay them short visits at rather lengthened intervals. As for Don Adolfo, the young lady had scarcely been installed in his house ere he recommenced his wandering life, and once more became invisible. Sometimes after nightfall he would suddenly turn up at the young men's house, of which Leo Carral had undertaken the management, declaring that as the Count was going to marry his young mistress, he was his master, and he regarded himself as his majordomo; the Count, not to grieve the worthy servant, had left him carte blanche in these rare appearances. The adventurer conversed for some time on indifferent topics with the two friends, and then left them, after recommending them to be vigilant.

Matters went on well for some days; Doña Dolores, under the beneficial impression of happiness, had resumed all her girlish gaiety and confidence; she and Carmen twittered like hummingbirds from morn till night in every corner of the house; Doña Maria herself, yielding to the influence of this frank and simple joy, seemed quite rejuvenated, and at times her earnest features were even illumined by a smile.

The Count and his friend, by their visits, which, in spite of Don Jaime's advice, became gradually more frequent and long, produced a variety in the calm monotonous existence of the three voluntary recluses, who never set foot in the street, and were in utter ignorance of what was taking place around them.

One evening when the Count was playing a game of chess with Dominique for the sake of killing time, and the two young men who took but slight interest in the game were sitting face to face, ostensibly arranging clever schemes, but in reality thinking of other things, there was a violent knocking at the street door.

"Who the deuce can come at this hour?" they both exclaimed with a start.

"It is past midnight," Dominique said.

"If it is not Oliver," the Count remarked, "I cannot think who it is."

"It is he, of course," Dominique added.

At this moment the room door was opened, and Don Jaime entered.

"Good evening, gentlemen," he said; "you did not expect me at this hour, eh?"

"We always expect you, my friend."

"Thanks: with your permission," he added, and turning to the servant who showed him a light, said, "get me some supper, if you please, Master Raimbaut."

The latter bowed and left the room.

Don Jaime threw his hat on a table, and sat down on a chair, fanning himself with his handkerchief.

"Ouf!" he said; "I am dying of hunger, my friends!"

CHAPTER XXIII
THE SUPPER

The young men examined the adventurer with a surprise that they tried in vain to conceal, and which, spite of themselves, was reflected on their faces.

Raimbaut, aided by Lanca Ibarru, brought in a ready-laid table, which he placed before Don Adolfo.

"By Jove, gentlemen!" the adventurer said gaily, "Master Raimbaut has had the charming attention to lay covers for three, evidently foreseeing that you would not refuse to keep me company; forget your thoughts for a moment, then, I beg, and come to table."

"Most willingly," they replied, as they took the seat by his side.

The meal began; Don Adolfo ate with good appetite while talking with a humour and quickness they had never noticed in him before. He was inexhaustible; it was a rolling fire of sallies, witticisms, and neatly told anecdotes that poured from his lips. The young men looked at each other, for they did not at all comprehend this singular temper; for, in spite of the gaiety of his remarks and his easiness of manner, the adventurer's brow remained thoughtful, and his face retained its habitual coldly sarcastic expression. Still, excited by this most communicative gaiety, they soon forgot all their anxieties, and allowed themselves to be won by this apparently so frank joy, ere a contest of laughter and merry remarks was mingled with the clink of glasses and the rattle of the knives and forks. The servants were dismissed, and the three friends left alone.

"Really, gentlemen," Don Adolfo said as he uncorked a bottle of champagne, "of all meals, in my opinion, supper is the best; our fathers liked it, and were right; among other good customs that are departing, this one is going, and will soon be entirely forgotten. I, for one, shall regret it sincerely." He filled his companions' glasses. "Permit me," he continued, "to drink your health in this wine, one of the most delicious productions of your country." And after hobnobbing, he emptied the glass at one draught. The bottles rapidly succeeded each other, for the glasses were no sooner filled than emptied. They soon began to grow excited. Then they lit cigars, and attacked the liqueurs – Jamaica rum, Catalaña refino, and French brandy. With their elbows on the table, and enveloped in a dense cloud of fragrant smoke, they went on talking with less reservation, and insensibly – they did not perceive it themselves – their conversation assumed a more earnest and confidential character.

"Bah!" Dominique suddenly said, throwing himself back comfortably in his chair, "Life is a good thing, and above all a beautiful one."

At this outburst, which fell into the centre of the conversation like an aërolite, the adventurer burst into a sharp, nervous laugh.

"Bravo!" he said, "That is first-class philosophy. This man, who was born, he does not know of whom or where, who has sprung up like a sturdy mushroom, never knowing any other friend save myself, who does not possess a shilling, considers life a beautiful thing and congratulates himself on enjoying it. By Jove! I should be curious to hear this fine theory developed a little."

"Nothing is easier," the young man replied, without any excitement. "I was born I know not where, that is true: but it is a blessing for me. The whole earth is my country. To whatever nation they may belong, men are my countrymen. I do not know my parents: but who knows whether this is not also a blessing for me? By their desertion they freed me from respect and gratitude for the cares they might have bestowed on me, and left me at liberty to act as I pleased, without having reason to fear their control. I never had but one friend: but how many men can flatter themselves with possessing even so much? Mine is kind, sincere, and devoted. I have always felt him near me, when I wanted him to share my joy or sorrow; to support me and attach me by his friendship to the great human family, from which I should be exiled without him. I do not possess a shilling: that is also true – but what do I care for wealth? I am strong, brave, and intelligent; ought not man to work? I accomplish my task like the rest, perhaps better, for I envy nobody and am happy with my lot. You see clearly, my dear Adolfo, that life is to me at least a good and beautiful thing, as I said just now. I defy you, the skeptic and disabused man, to prove to me the contrary."

"Perfectly answered, on my word," the adventurer said. "All these reasons, though specious and easy to refute, do not the less appear very logical, and I shall not take the trouble to discuss them. Still, I will remark, my friend, that when you treat me as a skeptic, you are mistaken; disabused, perhaps, I am, but a skeptic I shall never be."

"Oh, oh!" the two young men exclaimed simultaneously. "That demands an explanation, Don Adolfo."

"And I will give it you, if you insist upon it: but what is the good? Stay, I have a proposal to make to you, which I think will please you."

"Go on; speak."

"It is now nearly morning, in a few hours it will be day, none of us are sleepy, so let us remain as we are and continue to talk."

"Certainly; I desire nothing better for my part," the Count said.

"And I the same. But what shall we talk about?" Dominique observed.

"If you like, I will tell you an adventure or a history – give it which name you like – that I heard this very day, and whose correctness I can guarantee; for the person who told it me, I have known a long time, and he played an important part in it."

"Why not tell us your own history, Don Adolfo? It must be filled with touching events and curious incidents," the Count said meaningly.

"Well, you are mistaken, Count," Oliver answered, simply. "Nothing can be less touching than what you are pleased to call my history; it is much the same as that of all smugglers, for you know, I believe," he added, confidentially, "that I am nothing else. The existence of all of us is the same; we act cunningly to pass the goods intrusted to us, and the custom house officers do the same to prevent it and seize us. Hence arise combats, which sometimes, though rarely, thank Heaven! become blood-thirsty. Such is substantially the history you ask of me, my dear Count. You see that there is nothing essentially interesting in it."

"I do not press you, dear Don Adolfo," the Count answered with a smile. "Pass on to something else, if you please."

"In that case," Dominique said to the adventurer, "you are at liberty to begin your history whenever you please."

Oliver filled a champagne glass with Catalaña refino, emptied it at a draught, and then struck the table with the handle of his knife.

"Attention, gentlemen," he said. "I am about to begin. I must before all claim your indulgence for certain gaps, and also for some obscure points which will be found in my narrative. I must again remark that I am merely repeating what was told to me, that consequently there are many things of which I am ignorant, and that I cannot be rendered responsible for reticences, probably made purposely by the first narrator, who no doubt had motives known to himself alone, for leaving in the dark some incidents of the day, which is, however, very curious, I assure you."

"Begin, begin," they said.

"There is another difficulty in the narrative," he continued imperturbably, "it is that I am utterly ignorant in what country it occurred: but that is only of relative importance, as men are nearly the same everywhere, that is to say, agitated and governed by identical vices and passions; all that I fancy I can be certain of is, that it took place in the Old World – but you shall judge for yourselves. Well, then, there was in Germany – let us suppose, if you please, that the scene of this truthful history is laid in Germany – there was, I was saying, a rich and powerful family, whose nobility went back to the most remote period. You know, of course, that the German nobility are the oldest in the world, and that the traditions of honour have been preserved among them almost intact to the present day. Now, the Prince of Oppenheim-Schleswig, we will call him, so as the head of the family is a prince – had two sons nearly of the same age, as there were only two or three years' difference between them; both were handsome and endowed with brilliant intellects, these two young gentlemen had been educated with the utmost care, under the eyes of their father, who attentively watched their education. It is not the same in Germany as in America, for there the power of the head of the family is very extensive and most respected. There is something truly patriarchal in the way in which the internal discipline of the household is maintained. The young men profited by the lessons they received, but as they grew older their characters became more marked, and it was soon easy to recognise a great difference between them, although both were perfect gentlemen in the common acceptation of the term. Their moral qualities, however, were completely different; the first was gentle, affable, obliging, earnest, attached to his duties, and extremely attached to the honour of his name. The second displayed very different tastes, although he was very proud and punctilious; still, he did not fear to compromise the respect he owed his name in the lowest resorts and amongst the worst company; in a word, he led a most dissipated and rackety life. The prince bewailed in secret the debauchery of his younger son; he several times summoned him to his presence, and addressed severe remonstrances to him. The young man listened to his father respectfully, promised amendment, and went on the same as before. France declared war against Germany. The Prince of Oppenheim was one of the first to obey the orders of the emperor, and place himself under his banner; his sons accompanied him as aides-de-camp, and went under fire for the first time by his side. A few days' after his arrival at the camp the prince was intrusted with a reconnaissance by the general in chief; there a sharp skirmish with the enemy's foragers, and, in the height of the action, the prince fell from his horse. His friends gathered around, him, he died: but it was a strange circumstance, and one never explained, that the bullet which caused his death had entered between his shoulders – he was shot from behind."

Don Adolfo stopped.

"Give me some drink," he said to Dominique.

The latter poured him out a glass of punch; he swallowed it almost burning, and after passing his hand over his pale, dark forehead, he resumed with pretended carelessness.

"The prince's two sons were some distance away when this catastrophe occurred, they galloped up at once, but only found their father's bleeding and disfigured corpse. The sorrow of the two young men was immense, that of the elder gloomy and restrained, as it were; that of the younger, on the contrary, noisy. In spite of the most minute research, it was impossible to discover how the prince, while at the head of his troops by whom he was adored, could have been struck from behind: this always remained a mystery. The young men left the army and returned home: the elder had assumed the title of prince and had become head of the family, as in Germany the law of entail exists in all its rigour, the younger was completely dependant on his brother, but the latter would not leave him in this inferior and humiliating condition. He gave up to him his mother's fortune, which was very considerable, left him perfectly his own master, and authorised him to take the title of marquis."

"Of duke, you mean," the Count interrupted.

"That is true," Don Adolfo continued, biting his lips. "Since he was a prince – but you know that we republicans," he added, "are but little used to these pompous titles, for which we profess the most profound contempt."

"Go on," Dominique said carelessly.

Don Adolfo continued: "The duke realised his fortune, bade farewell to his brother, and started for Vienna. The prince, who remained on his estate among his vassals, did not hear from his brother for long intervals; but the news he received about him was not of a pleasing nature. The duke now set no bounds to his licentiousness, and matters attained such a point that the prince was at length compelled to interfere seriously, and give his brother an order to leave the kingdom – I mean the empire – immediately, and the latter obeyed without a murmur. Several years elapsed, during which the duke travelled over the whole of Europe. Writing but rarely to his elder brother, he, however, on each occasion, spoke of the change that had taken place in him, and the radical reformation of his conduct. Whether he believed in these protestations or not, the prince thought he could not refrain from announcing to his brother that he was on the point of marrying a noble, young, lovely, and rich heiress, that the marriage was about to take place immediately, and probably expecting that distance would prevent it, he invited his brother to be present at the nuptial ceremony. If such was his idea, he was mistaken – the duke arrived on the very eve of the marriage. His brother received him very well, and gave him apartments in his palace. On the morrow the projected union was accomplished."

"The duke's conduct was irreproachable: remaining with his brother, he seemed anxious to please him in everything, and prove to him on every possible occasion that his conversion was sincere. In short, he played his part so well, that everybody was deceived, the prince first of all, who not only restored him his friendship, but soon granted him his entire confidence. The duke had returned from his travels for some months; he seemed to regard life earnestly, and to have but one desire, that of repairing the faults of his youth. Welcomed in all families, at first with a slight coldness, but ere long with distinction, he had almost succeeded in causing the errors of his past life to be forgotten, when extraordinary rejoicings took place in the county on the occasion of some fête or anniversary. The prince naturally assumed the initiative, as was his duty; and by his brother's instigation he even resolved to take a part in them himself, in order to give them greater lustre."

"It was intended to represent a species of tournament: the first nobles of the surrounding country eagerly offered their assistance to the prince, and at length the jousting day arrived. The prince's young wife, who was in an advanced state of pregnancy, impelled by one of those presentiments which come from the heart, and never deceive, tried in vain to prevent her husband from entering the lists, confessing to himself through her tears that she apprehended a misfortune. The duke joined his sister-in-law in urging his brother to abstain from appearing at the tournament otherwise than as a spectator; but the prince, who considered his honour involved, was immoveable in his resolution, jested, treated their fears as chimerical, and mounted his horse to proceed to the scene of the tournament. An hour later he was brought back dying. By an extraordinary accident, an unheard-of fatality, the unfortunate prince had met with death at the spot where he should only have found pleasure. The duke displayed extreme sorrow at the frightful death of his brother. The prince's will was immediately opened; he appointed his brother sole heir to all his property, unless the princess, who, as I said, was in an advanced state of pregnancy, gave birth to a son, in which case this son would inherit his father's fortune and titles, and would remain till his majority under the guardianship of his uncle."

"On learning her husband's death, the princess was suddenly seized with the pangs of labour, and was delivered of a daughter. The second clause of the will being thus annulled, the Duke assumed the title of prince, and took possession of his brother's fortune. The princess, in spite of the most enticing offers her brother-in-law made her, refused to continue to reside as a stranger in a palace where she had been mistress, and returned to her family."

The adventurer made a pause.

"How do you like this history?" he asked his hearers, with an ironical smile.

"I am waiting till you give us the counterpart," the Count replied, "before I offer my opinion about it."

The adventurer gave him a clear and piercing glance.

"Then," he said, "you fancy this is not all?"

"Every history," the Count retorted, "is composed of two distinct parts."

"That is to say?"

"The true part, and the false."