Gustave Aimard
The Rebel Chief: A Tale of Guerilla Life

CHAPTER XXVII
AN HONEST MAN

It was about two in the afternoon. There was not a breath of air, the country seemed to have fallen asleep under the weight of a leaden sun, whose burning beams fell from heaven with the colour of burnished copper on the gaping earth, and made the pebbles flash like so many diamonds on a wide and tortuous road which wound with infinite curves across an arid plain covered with greyish white rocks, on whose sides a blending light formed a cascade of fire. The perfectly transparent atmosphere, such as always exists in countries deprived of humidity, allowed the diversities of the country to be plainly distinguished as far as the horizon, with a crudity of forms, and details which, owing to the want of aërial perspective, gave them something harsh which saddened the eye. At a spot where this road separated into several branches, and formed a species of square, stood a small house with white walls and Italian roof, whose door was ornamented by a portello of coarsely planed tree trunks, supporting a balcony of trellis work which enclosed it like a cage. This cottage was a venta. Several horses tied by the bridle to the portello, with sadly hanging heads, heaving sides, and running down with perspiration, seemed to be as much exhausted by the heat as by fatigue. Here and there several men, rolled up in their zarapés, with their heads in the shade and their feet in the sun, were sleeping, according to the Spanish expression, a picrua sculta.

These men were guerilleros: a sentry half asleep, leaning on his lance, and with his back against the wall, was supposed to be watching the arms of the cuadrilla, which was filed. Under the portello, a man seated in a hammock, was desperately strumming a jarana, while singing in a ropy voice the languishingly amorous words of a triste. A fat little man, with grey eyes full of motion, and a mocking countenance, came out of the venta and approached the hammock.

"Señor don Felipe," he said with a respectful bow to the improvised musician; "will you not dine?"

"Señor ventero," the officer answered roughly "when you speak to me, you might, I think, be more respectful toward me, and give me the title to which I have a right – that is to say, call me Colonel."

"Excuse me, Excellency," the host replied with a deeper bow than the first; "I am a ventero, and very little acquainted with military ranks."

"That will do – you are excused! I will not dine yet, for I am expecting someone who has not yet arrived, but will be here shortly."

"That is certainly very unfortunate, Señor Colonel Don Felipe," the ventero remarked; "a dinner that I have prepared with so much care, will be entirely spoiled."

"That would be a misfortune; but what is to be done? Well, lay the table, I have waited long enough, and have too formidable an appetite to delay any longer."

The landlord bowed, and at once retired. In the meanwhile the guerillero had made up his mind to leave his hammock, and lay aside his jarana for the present. After rolling and lighting a husk cigarette, he carelessly walked a few paces towards the end of the portello, and with his arms crossed on his back, and cigarette in his mouth, surveyed the country. A horseman, enfolded in a dense cloud of dust raised by his rapid pace, was coming toward him. Don Felipe uttered a cry of joy, for he was certain that the horseman coming toward him was the person he had so long been expecting.

"Ouf!" the traveller said, stopping his horse short before the portello and leaping off; "I could not stand it any longer, válgame Dios; what a horrible heat!"

At a sign from the Colonel, a soldier took the horse and led it to the corral.

"Ah, Señor Don Diego, you are welcome," said the Colonel, as he offered his hand; "I have almost despaired of seeing you. Dinner is waiting for us: after such a ride, you must be almost dead of hunger."

The ventero introduced them into a retired cuarto. The two guests sat down to table and vigorously attacked the dishes placed before them. During the first part of the dinner, being fully occupied with satisfying the claims of an appetite sharpened by a long abstinence, they only interchanged a few words; but ere long their ardour was calmed, they threw themselves back on their butacas with an "ah" of satisfaction, lit their cigarettes and began smoking them, while sipping some excellent Catalaña refino which the host had brought as the wind up of the dinner.

"There," Don Diego said, "now that we have fed well – thanks be to Heaven and Saint Julian, the patron saint of travellers – suppose we talk a little, my dear Colonel."

"I am quite ready," the other answered with a crafty smile.

"Well," Don Diego continued, "I will tell that I spoke yesterday to the General about an affair which I intended to propose to you, and what do you think his answer was? Do not do, my dear Don Diego; in spite of his great talents, Don Felipe is an ass imbued with the most absurd prejudices, he would not understand the great patriotic purpose of the affair you proposed to him, he would only see the money and refuse with a laugh in your face, although certainly twenty-five thousand piastres are a very handsome sum; and he added in conclusion – well, since you have made an appointment with him, go and see him; if only for the singularity of the fact, you had better see. Now, if you think proper to mention the affair to him, he will shut your mouth and send you and your twenty-five thousand piastres to the deuce."

"Hum!" said the Colonel, to whom the amount caused serious reflection.

Don Diego examined him with a corner of his eye.

"Well," he continued, as he threw away his cigarette, "after due consideration, I am of the General's opinion, and will not talk to you about the matter."

"Ah!" the Colonel said again.

"It annoys me, I confess, but I must make up my mind to it; I will go and find Cuellar, perhaps he will not be so difficult to deal with."

"Cuellar is a scoundrel," Don Felipe exclaimed violently.

"I am well aware of it," Don Diego replied gently; "but what do I care for that? By giving him ten thousand piastres beforehand, I am certain that he will accept my proposition, which has the additional advantage of being very honourable."

The Colonel filled the glasses: he seemed absorbed in thought. "Confound it," he said, "that is a tidy sum you offer."

"Well, you understand, my dear sir, that I am not the man to ask any friend of mine to undertake such a job gratuitously."

"But Cuellar is no friend of yours."

"It is true, and that is why I feel sorry about applying to him."

"But what is the matter to be done?"

"It is a secret."

"Am I not your friend? Be assured that I will be as dumb as the grave."

Don Diego appeared to reflect.

"You promise me silence?"

"I swear it on my honour."

"Well, in that case, nothing prevents me from speaking. This is simply the matter: I shall tell you nothing new, Colonel, when I mention that numerous spies, seeing both causes at once, sell without scruple to Miramón the secrets of our military operations, just as they make us pay largely for the information they supply us about those of the enemy. Now, the Government of his Excellency, Don Benito Juárez, has, at this moment, his eyes open upon the machinations of two men, who are strongly suspected of playing a double part; but the individuals in question are gifted with such a remarkable talent, their measures are so well taken, that, in spite of the moral certainty existing against them, it has hitherto been impossible to obtain the slightest proof of the truth. These two men must be unmasked by seizing their papers, on the delivery of which fifteen thousand piastres will be immediately paid, in addition to the ten thousand advanced. Once that the General Governor has these proofs in his hands, he will not hesitate to bring them before a court martial. You see that this affair is honourable to the person who is willing to undertake it."

"Indeed, it is a meritorious act of patriotism to acquire this certainty: and who are the two men, pray?"

"Did I not mention their names?"

"That is the only thing you have forgotten."

"Oh! These are no ordinary persons – quite the contrary: the first has just been appointed private secretary to General Ortego, while the second, I believe, has very recently raised a cuadrilla at his own expense."

"But their names – their names?"

"You know them well, or, at least, I suppose so; the first is Don Antonio Cacerbas, and the second – "

"Don Melchior de la Cruz!" Don Felipe interrupted, eagerly.

"You know it!" Don Diego exclaimed, with perfectly well-acted surprise.

"The sudden elevation of these two men, the almost unlimited credit which they enjoy with the President, has also caused me to reflect, for no one understands this so sudden favour."

"Hence, certain persons consider it necessary to elucidate the question by assuring themselves in a positive manner about what these two men are."

"Well," Don Felipe exclaimed, "I will know it! I promise you, and will give you the proofs you require."

"You will do that?"

"Yes, I swear it! The more so because I consider it the duty of an honest man to take these rogues with their hand in the bag; and," he added, with a singular smile, "no one possesses the means to obtain the result better than I."

"I trust you may not be mistaken, Colonel, for, if this were to happen, I think I may assure you that the gratitude of the Government toward you will not be limited to the sum of which I am going to hand you a portion."

Don Felipe smiled proudly at this transparent allusion to the new rank of which he was ambitious.

Don Diego, without appearing to remark the smile, took from a large pocketbook a sheet of paper, and handed it to the guerillero, who seized it with a gesture of delight, and an expression of satisfied rapacity, which imparted something vile and contemptible to his features, which were generally handsome and rather regular. This paper was a draft for ten thousand piastres, payable at sight on a large English banking house in Veracruz. Don Diego rose.

"Are you going?" the Colonel asked him.

"Yes; I am sorry to be compelled to leave you."

"We shall meet again soon, Señor Don Diego."

The young man remounted his horse, and went off at a rapid pace.

"Ah!" he muttered, while galloping, "I think that this time the mousetrap is well set, and that the villains will be caught in it."

The Colonel had reseated himself in his hammock, and had begun to strum the jarana again, with more power than accuracy.

CHAPTER XXVIII
LOVE

Dolores and Carmen were alone in the garden. Hidden like two timid turtle doves, in an arbour of orange, lemon, and flowering pomegranate trees, and were eagerly conversing. Doña Maria kept her room, through a slight indisposition – such, at least, was the excuse she made to the young ladies for not keeping them company in the garden, but, in reality, she had shut herself up to read an important letter which Don Jaime had sent her by a safe man.

The girls, free from all surveillance, were rejoicing their hearts by confiding to each other their simple and sweet secrets; a few words had sufficed to render any explanation between them unnecessary; hence there were no concealments or subterfuges, but an entire and unbounded confidence, a tacitly concluded union to help each other, and compel their swains to break a too lengthened silence, and let them read in their hearts the name of her whom each of them preferred. It is on this serious and interesting subject that the conversation of the young ladies turned at this moment. Although they had confessed to each other their mutual love, by a feeling of delicacy inseparable from every real passion, they hesitated and recoiled with a blush before the thought of urging the young men to declare themselves.

Doña Carmen and Doña Dolores were really simple and innocent girls, ignorant of all the coquettish tricks of which, among us, the so-called civilized people, women make such cruel, and, at times, implacable sport. By one of those strange accidents, which real life so frequently creates, the conversation of the young ladies was, with but a few slight differences, the same as the one that had previously taken place between the Count and his friend on the same subject.

"Dolores," Doña Carmen said, in a caressing voice, "you are braver than I. You know Don Ludovic better than I do; and, besides, he is your relation; why this reserve with him?"

"Alas! My darling," Doña Dolores replied, "this reserve which surprises you is forced upon me by my position. Count Ludovic is now my sole relation, as I am deserted by all the others; for many years past we have been betrothed to each other."

"How is it possible," the girl exclaimed, nobly, "that parents thus dare to enchain their children without consulting, and condemn them beforehand to a future of misery?"

"These arrangements are frequently made in Europe, dearest, I understand; moreover, does not our natural weakness render us women slaves of men, who have retained the supreme power in their hands? and although this intolerable tyranny makes us groan, we must humbly bow the head and obey."

"Yes, that is only too true; still, I fancy that if we were to resist – "

"We should be branded, pointed at, and ruin our reputation."

"Well, do you, in spite of your heart, conclude this odious marriage?"

"What shall I answer you, darling? The mere thought that this marriage might be accomplished renders me wild with grief, and yet I can see no way of escaping it: the Count left France and came here with the sole object of marrying me; my father, on his dying bed, made him promise not to leave me without a protector, and to conclude this marriage. You see that there are several and very serious reasons why it seems to me impossible to escape from the fate that menaces me."

"But, my darling," Doña Carmen exclaimed, warmly, "why do you not have a clear explanation with the Count? Perhaps this explanation would smooth all difficulties."

"That is possible; but this explanation cannot come from me; the Count has rendered me immense services since my unfortunate father's death, and it would be giving him a very bad reward to answer by a refusal to a request which ought to honour me in every respect."

"Oh, you love him, Dolores!" she exclaimed, passionately.

"No, I do not love him," she answered, with dignity, "but perhaps he loves me; nothing proves the contrary."

"I am certain that it is I whom he loves!" Carmen exclaimed.

"My angel," she said, with a smile, "a woman can never be certain of such things, even when she holds the most solemn oaths, much less than when he has not a word, or a gesture, or a look to certify that she is not mistaken. I will go on then: one of two things is certain – the Count either loves me, or does not love me, and supposes that I am in love with him; in either case my conduct is laid down for me. I must wait without provoking an explanation, which cannot fail to take place between us, and which, I feel convinced, will not be long delayed. In that case, Carmen, I swear to you to be to the Count just what I ought to be, that is to say, frank and loyal; and if, after this explanation, any doubts remain in the Count's mind, it will be because he was determined to retain them, and nothing will be left me but to bow my head sadly, and yield to my fate. That is all I can possibly promise you, my love; anything else I could not dare do, for my dignity as a woman, and the respect I owe myself, have traced for me a line of conduct which I believe my honour commands me not to stray from."

"My dear Dolores, though I am greatly grieved by your resolution, still I am forced to allow that it is the only one which, under present circumstances, it is proper for you to adopt; hence, do not feel vexed by my ill temper, for I am suffering so greatly."

"And I? Do you believe, darling, that I am happy? Oh! Undeceive yourself if you have that thought; perhaps I am even more unhappy than you."

At this moment footsteps were heard on the gravel walk.

"Here is somebody," said Doña Dolores.

"It is the Count," Carmen at once replied.

"How do you know, dear?"

The girl blushed.

"I guess it by the beating of my heart," she said gently.

"He is alone, I think?"

"Yes."

"Oh, Heaven! Can anything new have happened?"

"Oh! Pray do not think that."

The Count appeared at the entrance of the arbour. He was really alone. He bowed to the young ladies, and waited for their permission to join them. Doña Dolores offered him her hand with a smile, while her companion bowed to hide her blushes.

"You are welcome, cousin," said Doña Dolores. "You arrive late today."

"I am pleased, cousin," he replied, "that you have noticed this involuntary delay. My friend, Don Domingo, who was obliged to go this morning early two leagues from the city, intrusted me with a commission, which I was compelled to execute before I could have the felicity of paying my respects to you."

"A very fair excuse, cousin, and Carmen and I absolve you. Now, sit down between us and let us talk."

"With the greatest pleasure, cousin."

He entered the arbour, and sat down between the two young ladies.

"Permit me, Doña Carmen," he continued, as he bent down courteously to the young lady, "to offer you my respectful homage, and inquire after your health."

"I thank you for this attention, caballero," she answered. "Thank Heaven, my health is very good; but I should wish that my mother's were the same."

"Is Doña Maria ill?" he eagerly asked.

"I hope not; still she is so indisposed as to keep her room."

The Count made a movement to rise.

"Perhaps, my presence might appear improper under the circumstances," he said, "and I will – "

"Not at all. Stay, caballero, you are no stranger to us. Your title of cousin, and betrothed of my dear Dolores," she said significantly, "sufficiently authorises your presence."

"It is authorised much more, cousin, by the numerous services you have rendered us, and which give you a claim to our gratitude."

"Hence, whatever may happen, you and your friend Don Domingo will always be welcome to us, caballero," Doña Carmen said with a smile.

"You overwhelm me, señoritas."

"Shall we not have the pleasure of seeing your friend today?"

"Within an hour he will be here, señorita. But you are rising: do you purpose leaving us, Doña Carmen?"

"I ask your permission to leave you for only a few minutes, caballero; Doña Dolores will keep you company, while I go and see whether my mother is better."

"Do so, señorita; and be kind enough to inform her of the lively interest I feel in her, and my grief at finding her indisposed."

The young lady bowed and went away, light as a bird. The Count and Doña Dolores remained alone. Their situation was singular and most embarrassing, for they thus unexpectedly found themselves in a position to have that explanation, from which they both hung back, while recognising its urgent necessity. If it is difficult for a woman to confess to a man who is wooing her that she does not love him, this confession is far more difficult, and painful, too, when it must come from the gentleman. Some minutes elapsed during which the two young people did not utter a word, and contented themselves with taking shy glances at each other. At length, as time was slipping away, and the Count was afraid if he allowed this favourable opportunity to pass, that it might not occur again for some time, he resolved to speak.

"Well, cousin," he said, with the easiest air he could affect, "are you beginning to grow used to this secluded life, which the unhappy circumstances in which you found yourself have brought upon you?"

"I am perfectly accustomed to this calm and tranquil existence, cousin," she answered, "and if it were not for the sad recollections which assail me every moment, I confess that I should be very happy."

"I congratulate you, cousin."

"In truth, what do I want for here? Doña Maria and her daughter love me. They lavish kindness and attention, and I have a small circle of devoted friends – can I desire anything else in this world, where real happiness cannot exist?"

"I envy your philosophy, cousin. Still my duty as a relation – and a friend," he added, hesitatingly, "oblige me to remind you that this situation – happy though it is – can only be precarious. You cannot hope to pass your life in the bosom of this charming family. A thousand unforeseen events may happen at any moment to cause a violent separation."

"That is true, cousin," she murmured in a low and trembling voice.

"You know," he continued, "how little it is permitted in this unhappy country to reckon on the future. A young lady of your age, and especially of your beauty, cousin, is fatally exposed to a thousand dangers, from which it is almost impossible for her to escape. I am your relative, if not your nearest, certainly the most devoted to you. You do not doubt this, I hope?"

"Oh, Heaven forbid, cousin! Believe, on the contrary, that my heart retains a profound gratitude for the numberless services you have rendered me."

"Only gratitude?" he said significantly. "The word is rather vague, cousin."

She raised her charming limpid eyes to him. "What other word would you have me employ?" she asked.

"I am wrong, forgive me," he continued. "The fact is, the situation in which we stand to each other at this moment is so singular, cousin, that I really do not know how to express myself when addressing you. I am afraid of displeasing you."

"No, cousin; you have nothing of the sort to fear," she answered, with a smile. "You are my friend, and from that title you have the same right to say anything to me, as I have to hear it."

"You give me the title of friend," he said gently. "Your father desired – "

"Yes," she interrupted him with some degree of vivacity, "I know to what you allude, cousin; my father had future plans for me, which death prevented him from realising."

"Those projects, cousin, it depends on you alone to realise."

She seemed to hesitate for an instant or two, but then went on in a trembling voice, and with a slight pallor. "My father's wishes are commands to me, cousin. On the day when it pleases you to ask my hand, I will give it to you."

"Cousin, cousin," he exclaimed hotly, "I do not mean that. I swore to your father not only to watch over you, but to secure your happiness by all the means in my power. The hand which you are ready to give me, in obedience to your father, I will not accept unless it is at the same time accompanied by the gift of your heart: whatever may be the feelings I entertain toward you, I will never force you to contract marriage which would render you unhappy."

"Thanks, cousin," she murmured, and cast her eyes down; "you are noble and good."

The young man softly took her hand.

"Dolores," he said to her, "permit me to call you by that name, cousin, for I am your friend."

"Oh yes," she replied, feebly.

"But," he added, with hesitation, "only your friend."

"Alas!" she sighed.

"That is enough," he said, "it is unnecessary to press you further: cousin you are free."

"What do you mean?" she exclaimed, anxiously.

"I mean, Dolores, that I give you back your promise. I renounce the honour of marrying you, though, with your permission, I still claim the right of watching over your happiness."

"Cousin!"

"Dolores, you do not love me; your heart is given to another; a marriage between us would cause the misery of both, poor girl. You have already been sufficiently tried by adversity, at an age when life should only be strewn with flowers, be happy with the man you love: it will not be my fault if your fate is not, ere long, united with his. I will justify the precious title of friend which you have given me by overthrowing the obstacles which possibly prevent the accomplishment of your dearest desires."

"Ah!" she exclaimed, with eyes bathed with tears, as she pressed the hand that held hers, "Why is it not you I love? You so worthy to inspire tender feelings."

"The heart has these anomalies, my cousin. Who knows, perhaps it is better that it is so? Now dry your tears, my querida Dolores; only see in me a devoted friend, a sure confidant to whom you could without fear, intrust all your charming love secrets, if I did not know them already."

"What?" she said, looking at him with surprise, "You know – "

"I know all, cousin, so reassure yourself; besides, he has not been so discreet as you; he has confessed everything to me."

"He loves me!" she exclaimed, drawing herself up to her full height; "Can it be possible?"

At this time the sound of hurried footsteps was heard outside.

"He is coming to tell you so himself," the Count remarked.

At the same instant Dominique entered the arbour.

"Ah!" she said, trembling and falling back on the bench she had left.

"Good God!" Dominique cried, turning pale, "What is going on here?"

"Nothing that need alarm you, my friend," the Count answered, with a smile, "Doña Dolores permits you to offer her your homage."

"Can it be true?" he exclaimed, as he rushed towards her, and fell on his knees.

"Oh, cousin!" the young lady said, in a tone of gentle reproach, "Why have you taken this unfair advantage of a secret?"

"Which you did not confide to me, but I guessed," he answered.

"Traitor!" the young lady said, suddenly rising, and threatening her cousin with her finger, "If you have read my secret, I have surprised yours."

And she disappeared, flying light as a bird, and leaving the two men face to face. Dominique, amazed at this unexpected flight, for which he could not attribute a motive, made a movement to dart after her, but the Count stopped him.

"Stay," he said to him, "the heart of a girl contains mysteries which must not be unveiled. What more do you want, now you are sure of her love?"

"Oh! My friend," he exclaimed, throwing himself into his arms, "I am the happiest of men."

"Egotist!" the Count said gently to him, "You only think of yourself, when my heart is perhaps hopelessly suffering."

Doña Dolores had only fled so fast from the arbour in order to restore a little order to her thoughts, and to recover from the excessive emotion she was suffering.

As she entered the house Carmen was leaving it. Dolores threw herself into her arms, and burst into tears. Carmen, terrified at the state in which she saw her friend, led her gently to her bedroom, and she obeyed mechanically, without offering the slightest resistance. It took Doña Dolores some time ere she was able to inform her friend of what had taken place in the arbour, and how the unexpected arrival of Dominique had forced from her, as it were, an avowal of love. Doña Carmen, who was far from expecting so quick, and so happy a conclusion, was overjoyed.

Henceforth no constraint, no misunderstanding; they could indulge in their sweet dreams of the future without any cause of alarm. What had they to fear, now they were sure of the love of the two young men? What obstacle could prevent their speedy union?

Thus Doña Carmen reasoned, to reassure the modesty of her friend, which had been rather startled by the confession which had involuntarily escaped her and filled her with shame. Girls are so: they are willing that the man whom they love should divine their love, but they consider it an unpardonable weakness to confess it in his presence.

Carmen, who was some years older than Dolores, and consequently better able to conquer her own emotions, gently teased her friend about her weakness, and gradually led her to agree with her, that since the confession of her love was made, she did not regret it.

They then quitted their room, and composing their faces to efface all traces of emotion, proceeded to the garden. It was deserted.