Don Fernando became restless; his forehead clouded over with thought; he remained some time in profound meditation. At last he raised his hat and replied:
"I have often asked myself the question you have propounded without ever coming to a satisfactory conclusion. Nevertheless, I am almost certain he is not my father; I cannot be his son. His conduct towards me, the cruel care with which he inspired me with thoughts of evil, and developed in me all the bad instincts of nature, – prove to me that, if any relationship exists between us, it can only be a distant one. It is not to be imagined that a father could take absolute pleasure in thus perverting his own son. Nature revolts so utterly against such a proposition, that the mind cannot accept it. On the other hand, I have always felt for this man a secret repulsion and invincible dislike approaching to hatred. This repulsion increased instead of diminishing with time, a rapture became daily more imminent, and only a pretext was wanting to bring it about. This pretext has been unconsciously found by the Tigercat; and now I am hugging myself with joy at finding my freedom restored, and myself eased of the heavy burden of subjection which weighed me down so long."
"I am quite of your opinion; the man cannot be your father. We shall shortly find that we are right in our conviction; and this moral certainty will allow us to take any measures we please to counteract and foil his machinations."
"In what way do you intend to introduce me to Doña Hermosa, my friend?"
"I will tell you directly. But first I must relate a long and mournful tale, requisite for you to know in all its details, lest, in your intercourse with Don Pedro, you should unwittingly touch upon a wound still secretly bleeding in his heart. This dark and mysterious affair happened long ago. I was hardly born at the time of its occurrence; yet my mother has so often told me the details, that they present themselves to my memory as if I had been an actor in the terrible drama. Listen attentively, my good friend. Who knows whether God, who has inspired me with the wish to tell you the tale, may not have reserved for you the elucidation of its mysteries."
"Does this tale relate to Doña Hermosa?"
"Indirectly it does. Doña Hermosa was not born at the time, and her father did not inhabit the hacienda, which he purchased subsequently. At that time the family lived in retirement at a town in the Banda Oriental; for you must know that Don Pedro de Luna is not a Mexican, and the name by which you know him is not his; at least he has only adopted it, the name belonging to the original branch of his family in Mexico. He did not assume it till after the occurrence of the events I am about to relate, when he came to settle here, having bought Las Norias de San Antonio from his relations, who, established for many years in Mexico, only occasionally, and at long intervals, paid a visit of a few days to this distant hacienda. The people at San Lucar, and the other inhabitants of the province, knowing Don Pedro de Luna under no other name, imagined it was really that person who had chosen to retire to his estate. My master, when he came here, cared the less to disabuse them, as, when he bought the hacienda, he had stipulated with his relations for the right to bear their name. The latter naturally found nothing extraordinary in this; and now that, after a lapse of twenty years, Don Pedro, by the death of his relations, has become the head of the family, this borrowed name has become effectually his own, and none can dispute his right to bear it."
"You excite my curiosity to the utmost; and I wait with impatience for the beginning of your tale."
The two men seated themselves as comfortably as they could in the rancho; and Don Estevan Diaz, without farther digression, commenced his long-deferred story. He spoke the whole day long, and when night fell was still speaking.
Don Fernando, his eyes eagerly fixed on the narrator, his heart palpitating, and his eyebrows compressed, listened with liveliest interest to the tale, the strange events of which, as they were unrolled before him, made him shudder with emotions of mingled rage and horror.
Taking Don Estevan's place, we will ourselves recount to the reader this mournful history.
CHAPTER XV
DON GUZMAN DE RIBERA
In the year 1515 Juan Diaz de Solis discovered the Rio de la Plata, – a discovery which cost him his life.
According to Herrera, this river to which Solis had first given his own name, took the one it now bears from the fact that the first silver brought from America was shipped at this point for Spain.
In 1535 Don Pedro de Mendoza, appointed adelantado, or governor general, of the country between the Rio de la Plata and the Straits of Magellan, founded on the right bank of the river, opposite the mouth of the Uruguay, a town called at first Nuestra Señora de Buenos Aires; later, La Trinidad de Buenos Aires; and finally, Buenos Aires, – a name it has since retained.
The history of this town would be a curious study, full of interesting particulars, as from its earliest days it seems stamped with the seal of fatality.
One should read, in the narrative of Ulrich Schmidel, a German adventurer, and one of the original founders of Buenos Aires, to what depths of misery the wretched conquerors of the country were reduced: how they were constrained by famine to devour the dead bodies of their companions, who had been killed by the Corendian Indians, whom their exactions and cruelties had driven to exasperation; and who, believing the white men who had landed amongst them in such an extraordinary way to be evil genii, had sworn their extermination.
The destiny of this town is a singular one, condemned, as it has been, to an unceasing strife, sometimes with enemies from without, at others, with more formidable foes from within; and which, in spite of these ceaseless struggles, is still one of the richest and most flourishing cities of Spanish America.
Like all the towns founded by the Castilian adventurers in the New World, Buenos Aires is placed in a lovely situation. Its streets are broad, laid out by rule and line; the houses are well built, with a garden to each, thus affording a pleasant prospect. It contains many public buildings, among which we may name the Bazaar de la Recoba. At intervals vast squares occur, well furnished with magnificent shops, which give it an appearance of life and prosperity unhappily too rare in this unfortunate country, so long distracted by civil wars.
Taking an immense leap backwards, we will now introduce our readers to Buenos Aires at a time about twenty years previous to the period to which our story belongs. It is ten o'clock in the night of one of the last; days of September 1839, i. e. at the time the tyranny of that extraordinary man who, for twenty years, subjected the Argentine provinces to a yoke of iron, had reached its climax.
Nobody in these days could imagine the hideous tyranny which the Government of Rosas inflicted on this beautiful country, nor the frightful system of terrorism organized by the Dictator from one extremity to the other of the Banda Oriental.
Although it was only ten o'clock, as we said above, a deathlike silence hovered over the town. All the shops were shut, all the streets dark and deserted, save when, at long intervals, they were traversed by strong patrols, whose heavy footsteps resounded on the pavement; or by a few solitary serenos (watchmen), who, in fear and trembling, shambled through their duty as guardians of the night.
The inhabitants, shut up in their dwellings, had timidly extinguished their lights, for fear of exciting the suspicions of a police ever ready to take offence, and had sought a temporary refuge in slumber from the evils of the day.
On this particular night Buenos Aires was more desolate-looking than usual. The wind had blown, in a storm from the Pampas during the whole of the day, and filled the atmosphere with an icy chill. Large vivid clouds, laden with electricity, were moving heavily through the sky; and the hoarse rumbling of distant thunder, and the nearer and nearer approaching flashes of lightning, gave warning that a fearful storm was on the point of breaking over the city.
Nearly in the centre of the Calle Santa Trinidad, one of the finest streets in the city, which it traverses almost from end to end, a feeble light, placed behind the muslin curtain of a window on the ground floor, twinkled, like a star in a dark sky, through the tufted branches of some trees planted in front of a noble mansion.
This light seemed to be a blot upon the universal obscurity; for every patrol that passed, every sereno whom chance brought to the spot, could not refrain from pausing, and observing it with an expression of anger and ill-dissembled fear: after which they would resume their march, the soldiers growling, in a tone of ill humour boding no good:
"There is that traitor, Don Guzman de Ribera, hatching some new conspiracy against his Excellency the Dictator."
The others saying, in a tone of subdued pity:
"Don Guzman will go on till he gets himself arrested some day."
It is into this house, and into the room itself where the light is shining, which gave rise to so many surmises, that we will introduce our readers.
After having crossed the garden and cleared the zaguán, we find on our right hand a massive door of walnut, fastened simply by a latch, on lifting which we enter a large room, well lighted by three windows opening on the street.
The furniture of this apartment was of the greatest simplicity. The whitewashed walls were decorated with a few of those abominable coloured prints which the trade of Paris has exported into all regions of the globe, and which are supposed to represent the death of Poniatowski, the seasons, &c. The inevitable Soufleto's piano – which in all Spanish-American houses one sees thrust forward into the most conspicuous place, but which is happily beginning to be replaced by the Alexandre harmonium – a dozen chairs, a round table covered with a green cloth, two armchairs, and a clock with alabaster columns, on a pier table, completed the inventory.
In this room a man, dressed in a travelling costume, with poncho (cloak) and polenas (boots), was striding up and down, casting impatient and restless looks at the clock every time he passed the table.
Sometimes he paused, lifted the curtain of a window, and tried to pierce the obscurity of night and see into the street; but in vain; the darkness was too great for him to distinguish objects. Sometimes he listened attentively, as if amongst the noises of the town the breeze had brought him the distant echo of a sound significant to him; then he resumed, with a gesture of ill humour and increasing agitation, the walk he had so often interrupted.
This man was Don Guzman de Ribera.
Belonging to one of the best families in the country, and descending in a direct line from the first conquerors, Don Guzman, when still very young, had served a rude apprenticeship in arms under his father. During the war of independence, as aide-de-camp to San Martin, he had followed that general when he crossed the Cordilleras at the head of his army, and revolutionised Chili and Peru.
Since that period he had served continually, sometimes under one chief, sometimes under another; always striving, to the best of his ability, to avoid ranging himself under a flag hostile to the true interests of his country – a difficult task amidst those perpetual convulsions caused by the petty ambition of men without real importance, who were contending for power amongst themselves. Nevertheless, thanks to his dexterity, and still more to the uprightness of his character, Don Guzman had managed to keep himself stainless: yet two years previously, suspected by Rosas, to whom his ideas of true liberality were odious, he had retired from the service, and settled himself at home.
Don Guzman, a true soldier in the most honourable acceptation of the word, although never ostensibly meddling with politics, was greatly dreaded by the Dictator, on account of the influence his loyal and resolute character gave him over his countrymen, who felt for him a sympathy so profound, and a devotedness so complete, that more than once General Rosas, a man of few scruples, had been forced to relinquish the idea of ridding himself, by exile or worse means, of a man whose seclusion and noble pride seemed to cast a shadow over the actions of the Dictator.
At the moment we bring him before our readers, Don Guzman had just reached his fortieth year; but notwithstanding the countless fatigues he had undergone, and which had only hardened him, age seemed to have taken no hold of his vigorous organism.
His tall and muscular figure was as upright, the expression of his face as full of calm intelligence, his eye as brilliant as ever. A few silver threads among his hair, and one or two wrinkles, written on his forehead more by thought than by time, were the only signs that he had already attained middle age.
The clock had struck half past ten some minutes ago, when several rude blows were struck on the door, making Don Guzman tremble.
He stopped and listened.
A lively altercation appeared to be taking place under the zaguán of the house. Unfortunately, the room being too far from the porch, Don Guzman could only hear a confused uproar, without being able to distinguish the sounds. But in a short time the noise ceased, the door of the room was opened, and a domestic entered. We must suppose him to be a confidential servant, judging by the manner in which his master spoke to him.
"Well, Diego, what is it? What is the meaning of all this noise at such an hour?"
The servant approached his master before he answered, and bowing, whispered in his ear: "Don Diego Pedrosa."
"He!" said the master, frowning. "Is he alone?"
"I do not think he has more than two or three soldiers with him."
"Which means," said Don Guzman, looking more and more gloomy —
"That he has another score or two concealed close at hand."
"What does the man want with me? It is hardly the hour for a visit. Don Bernardo is scarcely so intimate with me," he added, with a bitter smile, "that he would act with so little ceremony towards me without an urgent reason."
"Exactly what I did myself the honour to remark to him, your Excellency."
"And he persists?"
"Yes, Excellency. He tells me he has business of the utmost importance to communicate."
Don Guzman strode up and down with a pensive air.
"Listen, Diego," said he, at last; "see that the servants arm themselves quietly, and be ready at the first signal; but act prudently, so as to avoid suspicion."
"Trust me, Excellency," said the old servitor, with a smile of intelligence.
For thirty years Diego had been in the service of the Ribera family; many a time had he given his master proof of his boundless attachment.
"Ah, well," replied Don Guzman good humouredly; "I know pretty well what you can do."
"And the horses?" continued the servant.
"Let them stay where they are."
"Even if we are to be off directly?" said Diego, in amazement.
"We shall be off so much the sooner, muchacho," said the don, whispering to his servant, "if they do not think we have seen their trap and are about to throw dust in their eyes."
Diego nodded.
"And Don Bernardo?" he asked.
"Admit him. I had rather know the worst at once."
"Is it quite prudent for your Excellency to see this man alone?"
"No fear, Diego; he is not so terrible as you think. Are my pistols in my poncho?"
The old servant, probably tranquillised by these words, left the room without replying; but returned almost immediately, showing in a man of about thirty, dressed in the uniform of a staff officer of the Argentine army.
At sight of the stranger, Don Guzman smiled pleasantly, and advancing a few steps towards him, said:
"You are welcome, Colonel Pedrosa" – he made a sign to Diego to retire – "although the hour is rather late for a visit. I am delighted to see you. Pray be seated."
"Your Excellency will excuse me, on account of the business which brings me here," replied the colonel, with a polished bow.
Here Diego, obeying the reiterated signs of his master, left the room, although much against his will.
The two men, seated face to face, looked at each other much like two duellists about to cross their blades.
Don Diego was a handsome man, of slender and upright figure, all whose movements betrayed his noble birth, and were marked by the most consummate elegance.
His face, a perfect oval, was embellished by two large black and sparkling eyes, from which, when he grew excited, fire seemed to flash, possessing an electric power so potent, that few could support their dazzling effulgence. His straight nose, with its open and flexible nostrils; his well-formed mouth, with its astute and sarcastic outline, and its set of brilliant teeth, surmounted by an ebon and well-trimmed moustache; his open forehead, and his complexion slightly tanned by exposure to the sun, – gave to his face, which was encircled by long silky curls of magnificent black hair, – a haughty and commanding expression, inspiring an instinctive repulsion by its frigid energy.
His bands, ensconced in admirably fitting gloves, and his varnished boots, were of wonderfully small size, – in fact, his whole person was a type of his race.
Such was the personage who, at eleven o'clock at night, knocked at Don Guzman's door, and insisted on admittance, under the pretext of important business. As for his moral qualities, the progress of our story will exhibit them so perfectly, that it would be useless to enter into the details at present.
However, as the silence between these two personages threatened to prolong itself indefinitely, Don Guzman, in his quality of host, thought it incumbent on him to put an end to a situation which began to be embarrassing to both; so he broke it.
Bowing with courtesy, he said:
"Caballero, I am waiting for what you may please to communicate to me. It grows late."
"Aha! You wish to get rid of me," said the colonel, with a sardonic smile. "Is that what you wish me to understand?"
"It is always my aim to make my speech so clear and open, colonel, that there may be no possibility of my words bearing a double interpretation."
Don Bernardo's cheeks, which had flushed up when Don Guzman spoke, resumed their natural colour, and assuming a tone of pleasantry, he said:
"Look you, Don Guzman; we will put away all idea of sparring with each other. I have a great desire to serve you."
"Me!" said Don Guzman, with a look of ironical amazement; "Are you quite sure of that?"
"If we continue in this strain, caballero, we shall only envenom our discussion, without coming to an understanding."
"Alas, colonel, we live in an era (and you know it better than most men) in which the most innocent actions are so often made to look like guilt, that no one dares to take a step or hazard a word without dreading to excite the suspicions of a power that broods darkly over us all. How can I put faith in the words you have just spoken, when your whole conduct towards me has hitherto been that of an inveterate enemy?"
"Allow me to waive for the present the discussion of the question whether I have acted for or in opposition to your interests. The day will come, caballero– at least I hope so – when you will judge me according to my deserts. My present hope is, that you will lay aside all prejudice as regards the step I am now taking."
"If that be the case, have the goodness to explain your intentions, that I may act accordingly."
"Certainly, caballero. I have just left Palermo."
"Palermo, indeed!" said Don Guzman, shuddering imperceptibly.
"I have; and do you know what they are doing at Palermo tonight?"
"By my faith, I confess I trouble myself very little about the Dictator, especially when he is busy at his quinta (country house). They are dancing, or otherwise amusing themselves there, I suppose?"
"Quite right: they are dancing and amusing themselves."
"By heavens!" said the other, "I did not think I was so good a diviner."
"Well, you have guessed a part of their occupation, but not the whole."
"The devil! You puzzle one," replied Don Guzman laughing sardonically. "I do not see too clearly what his Excellency can have to do beyond dancing, unless he amuses himself with signing warrants against the suspected. His Excellency is endowed with great capabilities for business."
"This time you have divined the whole, caballero," said the colonel, without appearing to notice the ironical tone of the speaker.
"And amongst these warrants there is, I dare say, one which concerns me more particularly."
"Precisely so," replied the colonel, with a bland smile.
"Very good. What follows is quite simple: you are charged to put it in execution."
"Just so," said the colonel coolly.
"I would have laid a hundred to one on it! And this warrants enjoins you – "
"To put you under arrest, caballero."
No sooner had the colonel uttered these words with the most charming indifference, than Don Guzman was standing before him, a pistol in each hand.
"By heavens!" said he resolutely, "Such an order is easier given than executed when the person to be arrested is Don Guzman de Ribera!"
The colonel had not stirred; he had remained lounging in his armchair, in the attitude of a man quite at home with his host. He made a sign to the caballero to be seated again.
"You are quite mistaken," said he coolly. "Nothing would have been easier for me than to execute the warrant, if I had any intention to carry it out, especially as you yourself have furnished me with the means."
"I!" said Don Guzman.
"Yourself: you are a resolute man; you would have resisted it, as you have just proved. Now, what would have happened? I should have killed you. General Rosas, in spite of the interest he feels for you, has not absolutely ordered me to take you alive."
The reasoning was brutal, but perfectly logical. Don Guzman bowed his head: he felt he was in this man's power.
"Nevertheless, you are my foe," he said.
"¿Quién sabe?" (who can tell?) "Señor, in times such as we live in, no one can say who is friend or who is foe."
"But finally, what are your intentions?" exclaimed Don Guzman, in a state of nervous excitement, increased by the necessity of dissembling the fury that was raging in his mind.
"I will tell you; but I beg you will not interrupt me. We have already lost much time – which is valuable just now, more especially to yourself, as you ought to know. At the very moment when I came to disturb you, you were giving orders to your confidential servant Diego to get ready your horses."
"Indeed!" said Don Guzman.
"It is the fact. You were only deferring your flight till the arrival of a certain guacho" (Mexican inhabitant of the prairies) "to guide you through the Pampas."
"Do you know that too?"
"We know everything. As for the rest, judge for yourself. Your brother, Don Leoncio de Ribera, a refugee with his family for many years in Chili, is to arrive this very night within a few leagues of Buenos Aires. You have been advised of his coming for some days. It was your intention to repair to the Hacienda del Pico, where he was to expect you; then to introduce him surreptitiously into the city, where you have prepared what you fancied would be a safe hiding place for him. Is this the whole, or have I forgotten any minor particulars?"
Don Guzman covered his face with his hands, discouraged, thunderstricken by what he had just heard.
A horrible gulf yawned before his eyes. If Rosas was master of his secret – and that he was, the revelations of the colonel left no room to doubt – his death and that of his brother had been sworn by the ruthless Dictator. Hope would have been a folly.
"Good God!" cried he; "My brother – my poor brother!"
The colonel seemed to enjoy for a moment the effect produced by his words; then he resumed, in a quiet and insinuating manner:
"Calm yourself, Don Guzman; all is not yet lost. The details I have mentioned, and which you thought such a profound secret, are known to me alone. The order for your arrest does not come into execution before sunrise tomorrow. The stop I have taken should prove to you that I have no wish to make an unfair use of the advantage chance has placed in my hands."
"But again I say, What is your intention? In the name of the devil, what are you?"
"What am I? – Your enemy. My intention? – To save you."
Don Guzman did not reply. A prey to the most violent emotion, his whole body trembled with agitation. The colonel shrugged his shoulders impatiently.
"Let us understand each other," said he. "You wait in vain for the guacho on whom you reckoned: he is dead."
"Dead!" cried Don Guzman, struck with astonishment.
"The man," continued Don Bernardo, "was a traitor. He had hardly entered Buenos Aires, before he attempted to make money by the sale of the secret confided to him by your brother. Chance would have it that he should apply to me, in preference to anyone else, on account of the hatred I seemed to entertain for your family."
"That you seemed to entertain!" bitterly repeated Don Guzman.
"Yes, that I seemed to entertain," Don Bernardo went on, laying great stress upon the words. "In short, this man revealed everything. I paid him well, and let him go."
"What an imprudence!" exclaimed Don Guzman, highly interested.
"Was it not?" said the colonel quickly. "But what could I do? For the first moment I was so thunderstruck by the news, that I did not think of detaining the fellow. I was on the point of sending in search of him, when I heard an uproar in the street. I inquired the cause; I confess I was not quite satisfied with what was told me. It appears that the fool had hardly put foot in the street before he began to quarrel with another pícaro of his own kind; that the latter, in a fit of impatience, had given him a navaja" (a cut with the knife) "across his belly, and, luckily for you, killed him outright. It is miraculous, is it not?"
The colonel had related this strange tale with the same negligent indifference he had exhibited during the whole meeting, and which he had not dropped for an instant. Don Guzman cast a penetrating glance at him, which he bore with the greatest unconcern. Then all irresolution seemed to vanish. He raised himself to his full height, and made a courteous inclination to Don Bernardo.
"Excuse me, colonel," said he fervently, "for having mistaken your character; but up to this day everything seemed to justify my conduct; only, in the name of Heaven, if you are my foe – if you have a hate to satisfy – take your revenge on me – on me alone – and spare my brother, against whom you can have no cause for animosity."
Don Bernardo frowned, but replied quickly:
"Caballero, order your servants to bring round your horses; I myself will escort you out of the city. You could not possibly quit it without me; you are so thoroughly surrounded by spies. You have nothing to fear from the men who are with me; they are trusty and faithful, and I chose them on purpose. Besides, they shall leave us a few paces hence."
Don Guzman hesitated for a while. He watched Don Bernardo with anxious eyes. At last he seemed to have formed his resolve; for he rose, and said, looking the colonel full in the face:
"No; whatever may happen, I will not take your advice."
The colonel suppressed his feeling of dissatisfaction.
"Are you mad?" said he; "Remember – "
Don Guzman interrupted him:
"My decision is made," said he dryly. "I will not leave this room without a perfect knowledge of the reason of this strange conduct on your part. I have tried to overcome it, but a secret presentiment assures me that you are still my foe; and if you now utter a feigned wish to serve me, colonel, it is only with the purpose of carrying out some diabolical plan against me and mine."
"Beware, caballero! When I came here, my purpose was friendly. Your obstinacy will compel me to break off a colloquy which we can never resume. I have but one thing to add: whatever the reason for my actions may be, I have only one wish – to save you. This is the sole explanation I have the right to give."
"But that will not suffice, caballero."
"And why, if it please you?" said the colonel haughtily.
"Because matters have occurred between you and a certain member of my family which give me a right to look upon any intentions of yours as hostile."
The colonel trembled; a livid pallor stole over his countenance.
"Indeed!" said he hoarsely. "So you know that, Señor Don Guzman?"
"I will answer you in the exact words in which you replied to me a few minutes ago; I know all!"
Don Bernardo cast down his eyes, and clenched his hands in concentrated rage.
There was silence for a time.
Just at this moment a sereno passed through the street, paused close to the walls of the house, and cried, in a cracked and drunken voice, the hour of the night:
"¡Ave, María purísima! Las doce han dado y sereno!" ("Hail, purest Mary! Twelve o'clock, and a fine night!")
Then his heavy step was heard as he went on his rounds, until it gradually died away in the distance.
The two men shuddered, thus suddenly aroused from their preoccupation.
"Midnight already!" muttered Ribera in a tone of mingled regret and anxiety.
"Let us end this," resolutely exclaimed Don Bernardo. "Since nothing will convince you of the honesty of my intentions; since you exact from me revelations which concern myself alone – "
"And one other person," supplied Don Guzman.
"I will admit it," continued the colonel impatiently.
"Well, are you satisfied now? It is solely because I know I shall meet this person at the Hacienda del Pico, that I wish to accompany you. I must have an interview. Do you understand me now?"
"Yes; I understand you perfectly."
"Then what are your objections?"
"You are deceiving yourself, caballero," answered Don Guzman coolly.
"Oh! This time I swear you are mistaken."
"Then I shall go alone! – That is all."