Gustave Aimard
The Guide of the Desert

CHAPTER XVIII
SAN MIGUEL DE TUCUMÁN

San Miguel de Tucumán, the studious and calm town, whose broad streets were ordinarily almost deserted, and whose squares resembled the cloisters of an immense convent, had suddenly changed its aspect. It might have been called a vast barrack, so many soldiers of all kinds encumbered it. The quiet life of its inhabitants had been changed into feverish existence, full of noise and excitement. Men, women, children, and soldiers, mingled pell-mell at the corner of each street, and in every square, were calling out and talking in emulation of each other, gesticulating with that vivacity and animation peculiar to southern races; brandishing banners with the colours of the nation, and dragging about in all the busy streets, and close to the houses, boxes and cohetes, that supreme manifestation of joy in Spanish America.

A fête without cohetes or crackers, without fireworks, making noise and smoke, is a failure in these countries. The quantity of powder which is consumed in this way attains fabulous proportions.

We are pleased to render this justice to the Hispano-Americans – that they have no pretentiousness in their fireworks, and that they let them off artlessly, to their great contentment, as well by day under the most brilliant sun, as by night in the midst of darkness. We have even remarked that they prefer, by a refinement, no doubt, of extravagant selfish enjoyment, to let them off by daylight under the noses of the gaping crowd, that escapes half-burnt, howling and cursing at the mischievous wags, who laugh convulsively at the good turn which they have done for their admirers.

On this day, as the travellers learned on their passage, the inhabitants of San Miguel were celebrating a great victory gained by a chief of the Buenos Airean Montoneros over the Spaniards.

In the old Spanish colonies, and in general throughout America – that of the south as well as that of the north – it is not well to take too literally these bulletins of victory, which for the most part are only skirmishes of no importance, when there are neither killed nor wounded; and which even frequently conceal defeats or shameful retreats.

For some years Europeans have been informed as to the character of these dwellers beyond the sea; their boasting and throwing the hatchet have passed into a proverb. Everyone knows that the puff is of American origin; that the most magnificent flocks of canards reach us at a single flight from the other side of the Atlantic; and that, although many come from the Spanish republics, the most numerous start in countless troops from all the ports of the United States of America, which have justly acquired such a superiority for the rearing of these interesting birds, that henceforth no one will venture to dispute with them the palm of the puff, the public announcement, and the official lie.

An entire house had been placed at the disposal of M. Dubois by the new republican power. The governor of the province and the general commanding the troops camped round the town, warned of his arrival, waited for him at the door of the house, at the head of a numerous and brilliant staff.

The painter grasped the hand of his companion, allowing him to enjoy in his own way the honours which they heaped upon him; and, curious, true artist as he was, he put an album under his arm, glided through the crowd assembled in the Plaza Mayor, and wandered about, his nose in the air and his hands in his pocket, in quest of studies to paint or types to sketch; preferring to look out for novelty, than to submit to the wearisomeness of an official reception.

However, he had left his horses and his attendants with those of M. Dubois, who had only consented to his temporary departure after having made him promise not to choose any other dwelling than his own during all the time he might be pleased to stay at San Miguel.

The artist wore the complete costume of the inhabitants of the country, and had nothing which could attract attention; so it was easy for him to move about among the groups without being incommoded by the impertinent curiosity of the gaping idlers, for whom, especially at this time, a stranger – a European particularly – was an extraordinary being, who they imagined belonged to a different species to themselves, and towards whom they manifested more pity than goodwill. The greater part at the present day believe that Europeans are heretics, half men and half demons, and damned from the moment of their birth.

Nothing, in our opinion, is so agreeable as to walk about thus, without occupation of any sort, wandering through the crowd, isolated amidst the multitude; allowing oneself carelessly to follow out the caprices of the moment; mingling sometimes indirectly in the general joy, then resuming the course of one's thoughts, and again becoming alone in the midst of the crowd; only attaching oneself by an invisible chain – incessantly breaking, and again joined by chance – to events which, as an immense kaleidoscope, defile before one's eyes; at once an actor and a spectator, indifferent or interested to everything that strikes the eye, elbowing and skimming everything without being oneself mixed up in the facts which are transpiring.

The young man, happy as a scholar during the vacation at being so agreeably rid of his serious companion, thus wandered about, admiring the public monuments, the squares, the promenades; gazing at the women who passed near him, with a light and gentle tread; carelessly smoking his cigarette, walking right on without knowing where he was going, and caring very little, seeing that he was on the lookout for novelty.

He thus reached, scarcely knowing how, the Alameda or promenade of the town, a charming garden with thick foliage, adorned with clusters of pomegranate and orange trees in flower, the delicious perfume from which embalmed the atmosphere. By a singular chance the Alameda was deserted; all the population had been carried away into the centre of the town, and for one day had abandoned this delicious promenade.

The painter congratulated himself on the solitude in which he found himself, after the noise and uproar with which he had been so long mingled, and which began to oppress his temples, and to cause him to feel a kind of moral lassitude.

He cast his eye round for a bench, which he soon discovered, half-concealed in a bower of orange trees, and sat down with an unspeakable sense of pleasure.

It was about five o'clock in the evening. The breeze had risen, and was refreshing the heated atmosphere; the sun, nearly level with the ground, immeasurably lengthened the shadow of the trees; a number of birds concealed in the foliage were singing with all their might, and millions of insects with transparent wings were humming and flying around the flowers, the sweets of which they were gathering.

The sounds of the fête only came as a far-off echo, and almost inaudible to this solitude, which breathed the most complete calm.

Carried away in spite of himself by all that surrounded him, and submitting to the enervating influence of the perfume exhaled by the flowers, the young man allowed himself to fall back, crossed his arms over his chest, and, half closing his eyes, he fell into a sweet reverie, which soon absorbed his whole being, and made him completely forget reality, to be borne away into the fantastic land of dreams.

How long had he been subjected to this delicious somnolence, without name in our language? He could not have answered his own question; when suddenly he gained consciousness with a rude gesture of ill humour, listening and casting around him a look of discontent.

The sound of conversation had reached him.

However, it would have been in vain for him to try and pierce the darkness, for night had come; he could see no one. He was still alone in the bower, into the recess of which he had withdrawn.

He redoubled his attention; then he discovered that the voices that he had heard were those of two men who had stopped at a few paces behind him, and that the cluster of orange trees, in the midst of which he was alone, precluded his seeing them.

These two men, whoever they might be, appeared to wish not to be heard, for they spoke in a low voice, though with some animation. Unhappily, the Frenchman was so near them that, in spite of himself, and do what he might to prevent it, he heard all they said.

"The devil take these fellows," murmured the young man to himself; "to think of coming to talk politics here! I was so comfortable. What shall I do with myself now?"

But as he heard what his neighbours said, and even their lightest movements, the latter probably would have heard him if he had endeavoured to leave the place. Force compelled him, then, though he grumbled at it, to maintain his hiding place, and to continue to hear the conversation of the two men – a conversation by no means calculated to reassure him, and which from time to time assumed a very disquieting character for a third party, called to be, spite of himself, a confidant.

We have mentioned what horror the painter had for politics: the reader will easily understand what was his anxiety on hearing such things as those we are about to relate.

"This news is certain!" said one of the interlocutors.

"I have it from an eyewitness," answered the other.

"¡Caramba!" said the first, slightly raising his voice, "So we may soon hope to see the general in these parts!"

The painter trembled. He seemed to recognise that voice, without being able to recall where he had previously heard it.

"So the insurgents have been defeated?" continued the same speaker.

"Utterly defeated, Captain. I repeat it, at the battle of Villuma, General Pezuela pursued them more than six leagues, hard pressing them with the sword."

"Bravo! And what is he doing now?"

"Carsi! He is marching, doubling the rations, in order to arrive the quicker; unhappily, as far as we can see, he will not be able to be here for two months."

"That is very late."

"Yes; but that allows you to prepare your batteries."

"That is true; nevertheless, the mission with which the general charges me is full of difficulties. The insurgents are numerous round the town, and they keep a good guard; if it were a question of carrying away two or three, or even ten deputies, perhaps I could answer for success; but consider, my dear count, that it is nothing less than causing the disappearance of sixty or eighty persons."

"I do not understand you."

"That is natural," continued the captain; "only arrived today in the town, and not having yet gone out, except with me, you are unacquainted with what is passing."

"Entirely so," pursued the other, to whom had been given the title of count.

"Here are the circumstances in a few words. The insurgents wish to strike a decided blow. With this design they have convoked here at Tucumán a congress composed of deputies from each revolted district. This congress has for its object the proclaiming of the independence of Buenos Aires, and of all the Banda Oriental."

"¡Sangre de Dios! Are you sure of that?" cried the Count astounded.

"So sure that I know it by one of my cousins, who is himself one of these deputies, and who has no secret from us."

"¡Cuerpo de Cristo! This is dreadful! The general will be furious when I inform him of it."

"I am convinced of it; but what is to be done?"

"To prevent it by all means."

"It is impossible; means fail us completely. I can only dispose of a hundred men, with whom I can attempt nothing, so much the more as we are playing an unlucky game at this moment. The population is running frantic at the success of the chief of the Montoneros, Zeno Cabral, has gained two days ago over the royal troops, commanded by Colonel Azevedo."

"This success is somewhat apocryphal, my dear Captain. I give you my word of honour; it merely consists of an unimportant skirmish between foragers."

"I admit it; it is even certain that it is so; but no one in the town will believe it; so that the check must be considered real."

"Well, what matters? Let us leave these people in their error, and take advantage of it by acting. Now that they think themselves invincible, and that they amuse themselves by wasting their powder in fireworks, we can perhaps try a bold attack on the town."

"Your idea is not bad; I even avow that it rather pleases me; but it has to be matured. It would be necessary to adroitly remove the troops camped in the environs, and to profit by their absence to attempt a surprise."

"Then nothing would be easier than to seize upon the deputies."

"Do not let us go too fast; let us first see what are the forces we have at our disposal for this expedition, which cannot but be very perilous, and which offers – I do not deceive you – very little chance of success."

"Well, let us discuss the matter; I am quite agreeable."

The painter, becoming more and more ill at ease through these confidences, which assumed rather a grave aspect for him, and wishing at all hazards to escape from the perplexing position in which he found himself – for he instinctively understood that it was a conversation between conspirators, and that he risked his life if he were discovered – took a resolution which appeared to him to be an inspiration from Heaven. Not wishing to continue to be a third party to secrets of such importance, he resolved to discover himself. He did not conceal from himself that the first moments would be very dangerous for him to get through, when the two men knew that their conversation had been heard throughout; but he preferred rather to risk this uncertain chance of saving his life than to remain any longer in the awkward position.

Émile was foolishly bold, and scarcely ever thought of danger; on the contrary, he rushed headlong into it – the reader has already discovered this for himself; but this time, contrary to his habits, he used some little prudence before revealing his presence to the unknown speakers.

He gently cocked his pistols, which he held in his hand under his poncho, ready to make use of them if need be: then rising from the bench on which up to that moment he had remained sitting —

"¡Hola caballeros!" said he, in a voice not loud enough to be heard by any other persons than those to whom he addressed himself. "Take care! There are ears which hear you."

The two men uttered an exclamation of surprise and terror; then there was a trampling sound in the shrubbery, and they appeared in front of the young man, each holding a sabre in one hand and a pistol in the other, their countenances distorted by rage and fright.

But they suddenly stopped.

The young man stood motionless before them, his pistols in his grasp.

"Halt, and let us talk it over," said he coolly.

This scene had something strange and startling about it. In this little enclosure of orange trees in flower – in the silver rays of the moon, in the midst of a profound calm, in the bosom of that calm nature on which the imposing silence of a night impressed a stamp of majesty – these three men, thus placed face to face, measuring each other with their glances and ready for attack, formed a most striking contrast with what surrounded them.

"Talk over the matter!" said the count. "Of what use would that be?"

"To prevent killing one another like brutes without knowing why," answered the painter.

"A traitor merits death."

"I agree with you; but I am not a traitor, since I make myself known to you, when it would have been easy to remain silent until I had discovered all your secrets."

This observation – very reasonable for that matter – appeared to produce a certain impression on the two men.

"Then, why these arms?" continued the count, in a tone evidently mollified.

"To avoid what would have happened had I not taken the precaution to furnish myself with them."

"You are not a spy upon us, then?"

"By no means; in fact, I was here a good while before you. The sound of your conversation awakened me from a light slumber into which I had fallen, and not caring to be, against your will, a confidant in your secrets, I have decided to warn you."

"Who can prove it?" sternly pursued the count.

"I presume, caballero," answered the young man, "that you allow yourself to doubt my words?"

"Who, then, are you, Señor, that you ought to be thus believed at the first words?"

"I!" said the young man, laughing; "Not much compared with you – a poor French painter, but honest, thank God, to the fingers' ends."

"Ah! I know him," cried the second stranger, who till that moment had remained silent. "I know him now. Put up your sabre and drop your pistol, my dear count. Arms are not wanted here."

"I will do so willingly, if that is your advice, Captain," answered the count, with hesitation. "However, it appears to me that in so serious a position – "

"Down with your arms! I tell you," interrupted the captain, who had already put aside his own. "I will answer, body for body, as to this cavalier."

"Be it so," said the count; "but prudence – "

"What? Since this caballero gives you his word, and this word is corroborated by my own, that is sufficient, it appears to me," pursued the captain.

The young man, seeing that his adversaries had apparently no longer any hostile intentions, quietly uncocked his pistols, and, replacing them in his girdle, he turned towards him who had so unexpectedly come to his aid —

"I thank you, Señor," said he, "for the good opinion that you have of me. Although your voice is not unknown to me, I shall be, nevertheless, happy if you will be good enough to refresh my memory, by informing me, if you can, where I have had the honour of meeting you before."

"Vive Dios, Señor. Don Émile," he resumed in a tone of good humour, "you have a short memory."

"How do you know my name?"

"And you know mine, unless you have forgotten it – which would not astonish me after what I see!"

"I am really astonished, Señor; but I cannot the least in the world recall where we have already seen one another."

"Come, since it is absolutely necessary that I tell you my name once more, I will do so. I am Don Lucio Ortega."

"The Spanish captain!" cried he.

"And whom you so dexterously disarmed. The very same, caballero."

"Oh! How could I forget that meeting, which has left me so charming a souvenir?" he said, holding out his hand.

"So this gentleman is a friend of yours?" pursued the count.

"Yes, my dear count; and one of the most intimate."

"Pardon me for saying it, but you know what would be the consequences of indiscretion."

"They would be terrible. Continue."

"And you think yourself still in a position to answer for the discretion of this caballero?"

"As much as for my own, I repeat."

"Good; act in your own way, then," he continued.

"Listen," said the captain; "I can understand how you, who do not know this gentleman, may entertain secret anxiety; we are not engaged in child's play at this moment, we are risking our lives in a desperate undertaking; each of us has a right to demand of his companion a strict account of his conduct."

"Just so; it appears to me it ought to be so."

"Very well. This account I am going to give you. In spite of himself, and without having wished to do so, Don Émile has discovered secrets of the greatest importance. These secrets, I am convinced, he will keep at the bottom of his heart; but the certainty that I have you do not share: this is your right, and I have nothing to object to in it; but, with the design of merely reassuring you, I will take all the precautions, with respect to my friend, that you can demand. Of course, these precautions will have in them nothing to wound the honour or self-respect of Don Émile, whom I hold above all as my friend."

"I will act with the captain," briskly answered the young man; "and I place myself completely at your disposal as to anything you are pleased to exact from me. I humbly confess that politics cause me a shudder, and that I most sincerely regret to be so unfortunately discovered here, when it would have been so easy for me to have been elsewhere, where, without doubt, I should have been much better off."

The gravity of the Count was not proof against this speech, uttered with such despairing artlessness. He burst into laughter.

"You are a charming companion," said he; "and, although our connection has commenced under such hostile auspices, I hope it will be lasting: that soon you will become one of our friends, and I shall be one of yours."

"That will be a great honour for me, Monsieur le Comte," he answered, bowing.

"Now that you have placed one foot on our secrets, it is necessary that you enter into them entirely."

"Is it, then, absolutely necessary?"

"Decidedly so."

"It is curious how for the last few days fate has been pleased to pursue me and obstinately to make me a man of politics, when I should be so happy merely to paint pictures – I, who have only come to America for that purpose. It has been a splendid idea, certainly, and I have well chosen my time."

"In the first place, it is necessary for you to make your decision."

"I know it well, and that is just the reason why I am enraged; but as soon as I shall be able to act otherwise, I shall not hesitate a moment, I promise you."

"Until a new order, it is indispensable that you remain with us – that you be in some sort our prisoner; but, reassure yourself, your captivity shall not be hard; we will make it, or at least we will try to make it, as agreeable to you as possible."

"So you are going to deprive me of my freewill?" said the painter with a tragi-comic air.

"It must be so for the present."

"Hum! Well, I consent to it – the devil take politics! What occasion had I to come to San Miguel to accompany that old Dubois?"

The two men started at that name.

"You know the Duc de Mantone?" they exclaimed.

"Ah, ha! You know whom I mean, it appears?"

"The Duc de Mantone, formerly a member of the Convention, a senator under the Emperor Napoleon, who has come to America under the name of Louis Dubois?" said the count.

"That is he. Why, then, did he urge me so strongly not to give him his title?"

"Because he hoped not to be recognised. He comes here, hunted by the Bourbons for having voted the death of Louis XVI., to seek a refuge in this country, and to lend the insurgents the aid of his experience in conducting the revolution."

"The fact is that he ought to know a great deal about this affair," said the painter, laughing.

"But what were you saying about him? Was he really at San Miguel?"

"I myself aided him to enter the town today."

"You?"

"Parbleu! He is a fellow countryman: and, look you, Captain, we were together when I had the honour of meeting you."

"What! That tall old man with such a haughty look and such imposing features, who sat so firmly on horseback near you?"

"The very same."

"Oh, if I had known it!" cried the captain.

"What would you have done, then?"

"I should have captured him, ¡vive Dios!"

"Then it is fortunate that you did not know him, for probably there would have been a skirmish."

The captain took no notice of this remark.

"Come," said he.

"Where shall you conduct me?"

"To Cabildo."

"To Cabildo! What for?"

"The governor gives a grand ball there today; we shall spend some little time there."

"I fear that this conceals some political manoeuvre."

"Perhaps."

"Provided that I do not find myself further mixed up in it, spite of myself – "

"I will try to leave you ignorant of what may transpire."

"I shall be very grateful to you for it. Well, à la grâce de Dieu!"

The three men, quite reconciled, left the little inclosure, set out from Alameda, and took the road to Cabildo, conversing in a friendly way.

The streets were illuminated, and the population were diverting themselves more than ever in letting off fireworks.