Kitabı oku: «The Guide of the Desert», sayfa 14

CHAPTER XX
THE SOIRÉE

The cabildo of San Miguel de Tucumán was gay with excitement, and brilliantly lighted up. The people collected on the Plaza Mayor saw through the open windows the crowd of guests, men and women, in their most magnificent costumes, and their most brilliant toilets.

The governor was giving a tertulia a gala (soirée) to celebrate, in official style, the brilliant victory gained by the celebrated and valorous partisan chief, don Zeno Cabral, over the troops of the King of Spain.

Joy burst forth and overflowed all parts of the cabildo on to the square, and from the square into the streets, where the people, picking up the crumbs which fell from the official fête, amused themselves in their own way, laughing, singing, dancing, and here and there exchanging – so great was their delight – a few blows of the knife.

The soirée had acquired new lustre from the arrival of M. Dubois, who – although everybody knew his title of Duc de Mantone – preferred to preserve the modest name which he had adopted on his arrival in America; saying with charming good humour, to those who reproached him with this obstinate incognito, which deceived no one, that the name of Dubois reminded him of the best years of his youth, when he fought on the benches of the National Convention to conquer for his country the republic and liberal institutions; and that he thought it well to resume this name now, when, in the decline of life, he came to another hemisphere, to maintain, with all the influence that his experience could give, the same principles.

At this the questioners could find nothing to answer, and withdrew, charmed with the spirit and manners of the old member of Convention, and – let us hasten to state – secretly flattered at possessing in their ranks one of those Titans of the National French Convention who, from their curule chairs, had made the world tremble, and whom the storm had been powerless to annihilate.

About half past nine, at the moment when the fête was at its height, Captain Don Louis Ortega, the painter, Émile Gagnepain, and the Count de Mendoza entered the cabildo, and made their appearance in the saloons.

Thanks to the captain, the French artist had changed his costume of a gaucho, rubbed and worn in use, for a splendid Buenos Airean chacrero, which almost rendered him unrecognisable.

The presence of the newcomers was little remarked in the whirlwind of the fête, and they could, without attracting attention, mingle in the crowd of guests which literally encumbered the reception rooms.

The French painter had a few minutes' happiness in contemplating the fête, the entire appearance and arrangements of which so little resembled what, under similar circumstances, we are accustomed to see in Europe.

The cabildo, the former palace of the governor of the province, had, in fact, vast and well-ventilated rooms, but the furniture of which formed a striking contrast to the magnificent toilets of the guests.

The whitewashed walls were entirely bare; two rows of benches were all the furniture of the saloons, which were lighted by means of wax candles and garlands of coloured lamps, hidden as far as possible in the midst of bouquets of artificial flowers. On a stage placed in the centre of the principal saloon was an orchestra composed of some fifteen musicians, who, playing almost ad libitum, made the most odious uproar with their instruments that could be imagined.

But joy and enthusiasm lit up every face. The guests appeared very little to care whether the music was good or bad, provided it enabled them to dance, of which they acquitted themselves in a thoroughly joyous manner, bounding and gambolling in emulation of each other with every manifestation of pleasure.

In the midst of the crowd the general commanding and the governor were promenading, followed by a number of their staff, glittering with ornaments, and returning with a patronising air the salutes which were addressed to them.

Near them was M. Dubois, upright and formal, in his black coat in the French style, and his short breeches, forming the most singular contrast to those who surrounded him.

The painter could scarcely repress a burst of laughter on perceiving him, and tried to hide himself in the middle of the crowd; but it was labour lost: M. Dubois perceived him, and came right to him.

The painter was obliged to wait for him.

"My young friend," said M. Dubois, passing his arm under his arm, and drawing him towards the seat of a window, which was unoccupied at the moment, "I am happy to have the opportunity of meeting you; I have something important to say to you."

"Important!" said the artist, with a gesture of annoyance, "The devil take it."

"Yes," replied he, smiling; "you shall see."

"I am scarcely serious enough in my nature," pursued he; "I am an artist, you know – a painter, a passionate lover of art; and it is just to escape the exigencies of serious life that I have abandoned France to come to America."

"Then you have decidedly fallen," said M. Dubois with a dash of irony.

"I begin to believe that I am wrong."

"It is possible, but let us return to business."

"What, it is a question of business, then?"

"Pardieu! Is not everything business in this world?"

"Hum!" said the artist, not at all convinced.

M. Dubois assumed a paternal air, and, seizing a button of his companion's coat, without doubt, to prevent him from escaping —

"Listen to me with attention," said he; "the few days that I have had the advantage of passing in your company enabled me to study your character, and to appreciate it at its just value; you are an intelligent, wise, and modest young man; you please me."

"You are very good," mechanically murmured Émile by way of answer.

"I wish to do something for you."

"That is a good idea; have you any influence?"

"Yes, much more than you doubtless think."

"Then render me a service."

"What? Speak. I shall be glad to acquit myself of what I owe you."

"Bah! That is nothing; do not let us speak of it."

"On the contrary, let us talk about it."

"No, no, I beg you; rather render me the service which I ask of you."

"What?"

"Then procure me, this very evening, a respectable escort, so that I may without danger reach Buenos Aires."

"What do you wish to do at Buenos Aires?"

"To embark by the first ship which sets sail, in order to fly as soon as possible from this frightful country, where they only talk politics, and where life has so many tragic elements that it becomes insupportable to any man who, like me, lives only for art."

"Have you finished?" asked the diplomatist.

"Nearly; it only remains for me to add, that if you render me this immense service, you will make me the happiest of men, and I shall be eternally grateful to you. What I ask is easy, it appears to me."

"Yes, it is easy enough."

"Then I may count on your kindness?"

"I do not say that."

"What, you refuse me?"

"For your good; in your interest I ought to do so."

"Parbleu! That is good!" cried the artist, quite disappointed.

"I know better than yourself what is good for you; let me explain myself."

"Speak, but I warn you beforehand, that you will not succeed in convincing me."

"Perhaps. I was saying, then, when you interrupted me," resumed he, imperturbably, "that you please me. Called by the confidence of the enlightened men who play the foremost parts in the glorious revolution of this noble country to occupy a high place in their counsels, I want near me an honest intelligent man, in whom I can trust, who understands Spanish – which I do not – and which I am told to learn; in a word, who will be devoted to me, and who will be rather a friend than a secretary. This man, after mature reflection, I have chosen – it is you."

"I?"

"Yes, my friend."

"Thank you for the preference."

"Then you accept."

"I! I refuse – I refuse with all my might."

"Come, you are not serious."

"My dear Monsieur Dubois, I do not joke about such things – they are too serious."

"Bah! Bah! You will reflect."

"My reflections are made, my resolution immovable; I repeat that I refuse. Why, there seems to be an epidemic! Everybody is obstinately trying to make me against my will a man of politics; it's enough, upon my honour, to drive me mad."

The diplomatist slightly shrugged his shoulders, and, tapping the painter on the arm in a friendly way —

"Sleep upon it," said he; "tomorrow you will answer me." And he turned away to leave him.

"But I swear to you – " said Émile.

"I will listen to nothing," interrupted he; "dance, amuse yourself; tomorrow you will talk."

And he left him.

"They are all demented!" cried the young man, stamping with rage. "What a singular mania to wish to make me by force a serious man. He will be very clever who will catch me tomorrow at Tucumán. I will leave tonight. I will escape, come what may. This life is awful, and I can bear it no longer; but the advice that M. Dubois has given me is not bad; I will take advantage of the few hours of liberty that remain to divert myself, if that is possible."

After this "aside," during which the greater of his anger evaporated, the painter re-entered the ballroom.

The fête continued, more excited and disorderly than when his countryman had drawn him aside; people were dancing in all parts of the saloons – not the cold and insipid French quadrilles, where it is good taste to walk stiffly and with constraint, but the graceful samba juecas, the jotas – in fact, all the delicious Spanish dances, so full of freedom, of movement, and abandon, where liberty never passes certain bounds, but which, nevertheless, allow the women to display all the voluptuous graces which they possess without shocking the eye of the most austere moralist.

The painter, unknown to all who surrounded him, and speaking Spanish with too much difficulty – although he understood it very well – to hold any conversation whatever with his neighbours, leant his shoulder against the wall, and with his arms folded across his breast, he watched with increasing interest the dances which passed before him like a whirlwind; when suddenly the music ceased, the dancing stopped, and a move was made by the crowd.

Loud cries – joyful cries, let us hasten to state – were heard in the square; then the crowd in the cabildo fell back, and separated briskly into two parts, leaving a large open space in the middle of the rooms.

The governor, the general, and some twenty officers, then advanced up this passage, which had been left open for them, at the head of the newly arrived guests, who had not been expected, but whom, nevertheless, they prepared to receive most cordially.

At the appearance of the newcomers in the saloons, applause burst forth with unwonted force, and hats and handkerchiefs were waved with enthusiasm.

Those that entered were the true heroes of the fête.

Don Zeno Cabral, who, it was thought, had camped at about ten leagues from San Miguel de Tucumán, entered the cabildo with all the staff of his Montonera.

At the sight of those bold partisans, who a few days before had gained a signal advantage over the Spaniards, joy became delirium. Everybody rushed towards them to see them and congratulate them, and in the first movement of enthusiasm they really ran some danger of being suffocated by their admirers.

However, by degrees the demonstrations, without ceasing to be hearty, became calmer, and there was again room to move in the saloons, which, during a short time, the people of the square had nearly invaded.

The fête recommenced.

But the guests, whose curiosity had been excited to the highest point, and who could not satiate themselves by looking at these men, whom they considered as almost their saviours, no longer entered into the amusements with the same spirit as before.

The painter, wearied with the secondary part which he was playing in the midst of people whose aspirations it was impossible for him to understand, and whose enthusiasm he could not share, had left the corner of the room where he had so long remained alone, admiring in silence the scene of excitement which passed before him; and he sought to open up a passage through the crowd, and reach the square incognito – hoping easily to escape during the tumult caused by the arrival of the Montoneros – when he felt himself touched lightly on the shoulder.

He turned round, and could with difficulty repress an exclamation of ill humour on recognising his two companions of the Alameda – those who had assisted him to an introduction to the cabildo – in a word, the Spanish captain and the Count de Mendoza.

Both were disguised, and had put on a costume similar to that which the young Frenchman wore.

"Where are you going to this way?" asked the count, with a sneer.

We must render this justice to the painter – that if he had not completely forgotten the two men whose prisoner on parole he was, at least, in his inmost heart he hoped to escape their vigilance, reckoning on chance for the opportunity.

"I?" asked he, surprised unawares.

"Certainly, you," said the count.

"Mon Dieu," said he, with the most indifferent air that he could affect, "it is suffocating in these rooms, and I was going out on the square, in quest of a little breathable air."

"Is that all?"

"Certainly."

"Do not distress yourself, then; as we want a little air, like yourself, we will accompany you," pursued the count.

"Be it so; I am quite agreeable," said he.

They took some steps towards the door. But the young man, suddenly altering his mind, stopped, and turning briskly towards his two bodyguards, who followed him step for step —

"Parbleu!" said he to them, resolutely, "I have changed my mind, and since the opportunity for an explanation between us presents itself, I will profit by it."

"What is that he says?" asked the count, haughtily.

"Let the caballero speak," said the captain; "I am certain that he has something interesting to say."

"Yes, Señor, very interesting indeed, for me!"

"Ah, ah!" murmured the count; "Let us hear – it must be curious."

"You think so?"

"I am convinced of it."

"But, pardon," pursued the count; "are you not, like us, my dear sir, of opinion that it is not well to put the public in the confidence of things which concern us alone?"

"I can understand that you have an interest in seeking mystery; such is not my view. I wish, on the contrary, that the greatest publicity should be given to this conversation."

"That is a great pity."

"Why so?"

"Because," coldly remarked the count, drawing from under his poncho a pistol loaded and cocked, "if you say one word more – if you do not follow us on the instant – I will blow your brains out."

The painter burst out laughing.

"You would not be stupid enough to do that!" said he.

"And why?"

"Because you would be immediately arrested; because important reasons oblige you to remain unknown; and because my death would not be sufficiently advantageous to you for you thus to risk your personal safety for the pleasure of killing me."

"¡Cuerpo de Cristo!" cried the captain, laughing; "Well answered, on my word. You are beaten, my dear count."

"All is not finished between us," said the count, gnashing his teeth, but putting aside his weapon.

"I am astonished, Señor," coolly resumed the young man, "that you – an hidalgo, a gentleman of the old stamp – that you should every now and then manifest such bad taste."

"Take care, Monsieur," cried the count, "do not play thus with my anger; if you push me to extremities, I can forget everything."

"Come," said Émile, shrugging his shoulders with disdain, "do you take me for a timid child that is frightened by threats? You forget who I am, and who you are. Take my advice, let us live together in the bonds of courtesy; any uproar would ruin you, and make you ridiculous."

"Let us make an end of it," said the captain, interposing; "it has already lasted too long. Do not let us attract attention towards us for a foolish affair like this. You wish, Señor, to regain your liberty by our giving you up your parole, do you not?"

"Just so; that is what I ask, Señor; am I wrong?"

"Upon my word, no; in acting thus, you do but obey the instinct that God has placed in the hearts of all men; I cannot blame you."

"What are you doing, Captain?" cried the count, with violence.

"Eh, mon Dieu! My dear count, I am doing what I must do. It must be one of two things – either this stranger is an honest man, in whom we ought to have confidence, or he is a rogue who will deceive us at the first opportunity. In one case, as in the other, we ought to trust his word. If he is honest, he will keep it; if not, he will succeed in escaping."

"Perfectly reasoned, Señor," answered the artist. "The word that I have given you, believe me, binds me more strongly towards you than the best forged chain."

"I am convinced of it, Señor. To terminate this contest, I declare to you here that you are free to act as you like, without our imposing any obstacle, certain that you will not betray men against whom you have no motive of hatred, and to whom you have promised secrecy."

"You have well judged, Señor; I thank you for that opinion, which is true."

"You wish it," exclaimed the count, with suppressed rage; "let it be so; but you will repent this foolish confidence in a man whom you do not know, and who, moreover, is a foreigner."

"Come, my dear count, you are pushing your mistrust too far. There are honest men everywhere, even in that France that you hate, and this cavalier is of the number. Your hand, Señor, and au revoir. Perhaps we shall meet again in more favourable circumstances; then I hope you will accord me your friendship, as I have already offered you mine."

"With all my heart, sir," said the painter, warmly pressing the hand which was held out to him, and only answering the words of the Count by a smile of disdain.

"Now, thank God, this grave discussion has terminated," pursued the captain, laughing, "I believe that all our affairs here are finished for the night, my dear count, and that it is time to retire."

"We have only stayed too long here; like you, I think we ought to leave as soon as possible," answered the count, with a morose air.

"If you will permit me, I will accompany you as far as the square, Señores; seductive as this fête may be, it has no charms for me. I feel the need of repose."

"Come, then," said the captain.

They then quitted the saloon, and made towards the exit.

"On my word," thought the painter, "I am happy to be rid of them at this price, to find myself at last free. As to that dear Monsieur Dubois, I wish him much joy, and especially that he may quickly find another secretary, for he was perfectly wrong in reckoning on me."

And the young man joyfully rubbed his hands.

Unhappily for him, the series of his troubles had not yet come to an end, as he had rather prematurely flattered himself.

At the moment when the three men reached the outer door, and were about to descend the few steps which led into the court of the cabildo:

"There they are!" said a voice.

Immediately the two sentinels placed at the door crossed their guns and barred the passage.

"Come, what now?" murmured the painter, with vexation.

"What does this mean?" demanded the count, haughtily.

"It means," answered a man, stepping forward, who had been hitherto in the darkness, "that I arrest you in the name of the country, and that you are my prisoners."

He who had just spoken this was Captain Quiroga.

"We prisoners!" exclaimed the three men.

"Yes, you," coldly resumed the captain, "you, Don Jaime de Zúñiga, Count de Mendoza, and you, Captain Don Lucio Ortega, accused of high treason."

"Well, and me; what have I to do with all this?"

"You, my dear sir, we arrest you as a presumed accomplice of these caballeros, in company of whom you have introduced yourself to the cabildo, and with whom you have been talking a long time."

"Ah! That is madness!" exclaimed the painter, at the height of astonishment; "But I am not at all a friend of these caballeros."

"Enough!" coldly answered the captain; "Now, gentlemen, give up the arms that you probably conceal in your clothing if you do not wish to be searched."

The two Spaniards exchanged a look; then, by a movement rapid as thought, they rushed with an invincible force upon the sentinels who were barring their passage, overthrew them, and bounded into the court.

But here they found themselves in the presence of some twenty soldiers, hidden beforehand, who precipitated themselves upon them, and in the twinkling of an eye they were searched and disarmed.

"Well, we give ourselves up," said the count; "you need not lay hands on us anymore, and treat us like bandits."

The soldiers immediately moved a little on one side, and allowed the prisoners, ruffled by their fall, to put their clothing a little in order.

This struggle, short as it was, had, nevertheless, attracted a great number of people.

"Come," said Captain Quiroga, rudely seizing the arm of the painter, to make him descend the steps.

"Why, this is horrible," exclaimed the latter, arguing with fury; "you violate the right of nations. I am a Frenchman, I am a foreigner; let me go, I tell you."

The contest would probably have terminated to the disadvantage of the young man, alone, among so many enemies, if suddenly the governor had not advanced, and addressing the captain —

"Let that caballero go," said he; "there is a mistake. He is an honest man; he is the secretary to the Duc de Mantone."

[In our next volume, "The Insurgent Chief," the adventures of the personages mentioned in this description of Life in the Pampas will be continued.]