AFTER THE BATTLE.
Cuéllar was carelessly smoking his cigarette, his left hand was laid on
his long sabre, the end of the scabbard resting on the floor: there was
a charming ease in the way in which he stood at the door of the room,
letting his eyes wander around with a feline gentleness, and emitting
through his mouth and nostrils, with the blessed sensuality of a real
enjoyer, thick clouds of bluish smoke.
"Pardon, señores," he said, "before going further, it is necessary to
have a thorough understanding, I think, so permit me to make a slight
observation."
"Do so, señor," the count answered.
"I am perfectly willing to treat: I am a very easy man to deal with
as you see, but do not ask of me extravagant things which I should
be forced to refuse you, for I need not tell you that, if you are
determined, I am no less so, and while desiring a bargain equally
advantageous for both sides, still if you are too exorbitant, I should
prefer to blow up with you, the more so because I have a presentiment
that I shall in that way some day or other, and should not be sorry to
go to the deuce in such excellent company."
Although these words were uttered with a smiling air, the count was
not deceived as to the resolute purpose of the man with whom he was
dealing.
"Oh señor," he said, "you know us very badly, if you suppose us capable
of asking impossibilities of you, still as our position is good, we
wish to take advantage of it."
"And I think you perfectly right, caballero; but as you are a Frenchman
and your countrymen never doubt anything, I thought it my duty to make
this observation to you."
"Be convinced señor," the count answered, while affecting the same
tranquillity as the other, "that we shall only demand reasonable
conditions."
"You demand," Cuéllar repeated, laying a stress on these two words.
"Yes: hence we will not oblige you to leave the hacienda, because
we know that if you went out today, you would recommence the attack
tomorrow."
"You are full of penetration, señor: so pray come to the facts."
"In the first place you will give up the poor peons who have escaped
the massacre."
"I see no difficulty in that."
"With their arms, horses and the little they possess."
"Agreed, go on."
"Don Andrés de la Cruz, his daughter, my friend, myself and Leo Carral,
the majordomo, and all the women and children sheltered in this room,
will be at liberty to retire whenever we please without fear of being
disturbed."
Cuéllar made a grimace. "What next?" he said.
"Pardon me, is that settled?"
"Yes, it is settled; what next?"
"My friend and I are strangers, Frenchmen, and Mexico is not at war,
as far as I am aware, with our country."
"It might happen," Cuéllar said maliciously.
"Perhaps so, but in the meanwhile we are at peace, and have a claim to
your protection."
"Have you not fought against us?"
"That is true, but we had a right to defend ourselves: we were attacked
and were compelled to fight."
"Good, good, enough of that."
"We therefore request the right to take away with us on mules,
everything that belongs to us."
"Is that all?"
"Nearly so; do you accept these conditions?"
"I do."
"Good, now there only remains a slight formality to fulfil."
"A formality, what is it?"
"That of the hostages."
"Hostages! Have you not my word?"
"Of course."
"Well, what more do you want?"
"As I told you, hostages: you can perfectly understand, señor, that I
would not confide my life and that of my companions, I will not say to
you, for I hold your word and believe it good, but to your soldiers,
who, like the worthy guerilleros they are, would have not the slightest
scruple, if we had the madness to place ourselves in their power, about
plundering us and perhaps worse: you do not command regular troops,
señor, and however strict may be the discipline you maintain in your
cuadrilla, I doubt whether it goes so far as to make your prisoners
respected, when you are not there to protect them by your presence."
Cuéllar, flattered in his heart by the count's remarks, gave him a
gracious smile.
"Hum," he said, "what you say may be true up to a certain point. Well,
who are the hostages you desire, and how many are they?"
"Only one, señor, you see that it is very trifling."
"Very trifling, indeed; but who is this hostage?"
"Yourself," the count answered distinctly.
"Canarios!" Cuéllar said with a grin, "You are a cool hand: that one
would in truth be sufficient."
"For that reason we will have no other."
"That is very unfortunate."
"Why so?"
"Because I refuse, caray! And who would be security for me, if you
please?"
"The word of a French gentleman, caballero," the count hastily replied,
"a word which has never been pledged in vain."
"On my word," Cuéllar continued with that bonhomie of which he
possesses so large a share and which, where it suits him, causes him to
be taken for the best fellow in the world: "I accept, caballero, let
what may happen, for I am curious to try that word of honour of which
Europeans are so proud: it is settled then that I act as your hostage:
now, how long am I to remain with you? It is very important for me to
settle that point."
"We will ask no more of you than to accompany us within sight of
Puebla: once there you shall be at liberty, and you can even, if you
think proper, take with you an escort of ten men to secure your return."
"Come, that is speaking; I am yours, caballero. Don Melchior, you will
remain here during my absence and watch that everything goes on right."
"Yes," don Melchior replied hoarsely.
The count, after whispering a few words to the majordomo, again
addressed Cuéllar.
"Señor," he said to him, "be kind enough to give orders for the peons
to be brought here: then, while you remain with us, Ño Leo Carral will
go and make all the preparations for our departure."
"Good," said Cuéllar, "the majordomo can go about his business: you
hear, my men," he added, turning to the guerilleros who still stood
motionless, "this man is free, bring the peons here."
Some fifteen poor wretches, with their clothes in rags, covered
with blood, but armed as had been agreed, then entered the drawing
room: these fifteen men were all that remained of the defenders of
the hacienda. Cuéllar then entered the room in the doorway of which
he had been hitherto standing, and without being invited to do it,
posted himself behind the barricade. Don Melchior, feeling the false
position in which he was placed, now that he remained alone, facing the
besieged, turned away to retire; but at this moment don Andrés rose,
and addressed him in a loud and imperious voice.
"Stay, Melchior," he said to him, "we cannot separate thus: now, that
we shall never meet again in this world, a final explanation between us
is necessary--even indispensable."
Don Melchior started at the sound of this voice: he turned pale, and
made a movement as if he wished to fly, but then suddenly halted and
haughtily raising his head, said--
"What do you want with me? Speak, I am listening to you."
For a very considerable period, the old man stood with his eyes fixed
on his son with a strangely blended expression of love, anger, grief
and contempt, and at length making a violent effort on himself, he
spoke as follows:
"Why wish to withdraw, is it because the crime you have committed
horrifies you, or are you really flying with fury in your heart at
seeing your parricide foiled and your father saved in spite of all your
efforts to rob him of life? God has not permitted the complete success
of your sinister projects: He chastens me for my weakness for you and
the place you have usurped in my heart: I pay very dearly for a moment
of error, but at length the veil that covered my eyes has fallen. Go,
wretch, marked on the brow by an indelible stigma, be accursed! And may
this curse which I pronounce on you, weigh eternally on your heart! Go,
parricide, I no longer know you."
Don Melchior, in spite of all his audacity, could not sustain the
flashing glance which his father implacably fixed on him: a livid
pallor spread over his face, a convulsive trembling agitated his limbs,
his head was bowed beneath the weight of the anathema, and he recoiled
slowly without turning round, as if dragged away by a force superior to
his will, and at length disappeared in the midst of the guerilleros,
who left a passage for him with a movement of horror.
A funereal silence pervaded the room; all these men, though so little
impressionable, felt the influence of the terrible malediction
pronounced by a father on a guilty son. Cuéllar was the first to
recover his coolness.
"You were wrong," he said to don Andrés, with a shake of his head, "to
offer your son this crushing insult in the presence of all."
"Yes, yes," the old gentleman answered sadly, "he will avenge himself;
but what do I care? Is not my life henceforth crushed?"
And bowing his head on his chest, the old man sank into a deep and
gloomy meditation.
"Watch over him," Cuéllar said to the count, "I know don Melchior, he
is a thorough Indian."
In the meanwhile, doña Dolores, who up to this moment had remained,
timidly concealed among her women behind the barricade, rose, removed
some articles of furniture, glided softly through the opening she had
effected, and sat down by the side of don Andrés. The latter did not
stir; he had neither seen her come nor heard her place herself by his
side. She bent down to him, seized his hand, which she pressed in
her own; kissed him softly on the forehead, and said to him in her
melodious voice, with an accent of tenderness, impossible to describe--
"My father, dear father, have you not a child left who loves and
respects you? Do not let yourself be thus prostrated by grief; look at
me, papa, in Heaven's name! I am your daughter, do you not love me, who
feel so great a love for you?"
Don Andrés raised his face, which was bathed in tears, and opened his
arms to the girl, who rushed into them with a cry of joy. "Oh! I was
ungrateful," he exclaimed, with ineffable tenderness; "I doubted the
infinite goodness of God; my daughter is left to me! I am no longer
alone in the world, I can be happy still!"
"Yes, papa, God has wished to try us, but He will not abandon us in
our misfortune; be brave, forget your ungrateful son; when he repents,
remove the terrible malediction you uttered against him; let him return
penitent to your knees; he has only been led astray, I feel sure; how
could he help loving you, my noble father, you are ever so great and
good?"
"Never speak to me about your brother, child," the old man replied with
savage energy, "that man no longer exists for me; you have no brother,
you never had one! Pardon me for deceiving you, by letting you believe
that this villain formed part of our family; no, this monster is not my
son, I was abused myself in supposing that the same blood flowed in his
veins and mine."
"Calm yourself, in Heaven's name, papa, I implore you."
"Come, my poor child," he continued as he pressed her in his arms,
"do not leave me, I want to feel you are here near me, that I may not
believe myself alone in the world, and that I may have the strength to
overcome my despair. Oh, say to me once more, that you love me, you
cannot understand what balm the words are to my heart, and what relief
they offer to my sorrow!"
The guerilleros had dispersed over all parts of the hacienda,
plundering and devastating, breaking the furniture, and forcing locks
with a dexterity that evidenced lengthened practice. Still, according
to the agreement made, the count's apartments were respected. Raimbaut
and Ibarru, relieved from their long watch by Leo Carral, were busily
engaged in loading on mules, the portemanteaux of the count and
Dominique; the guerilleros watched them for a while with knowing looks,
laughing to each other at the clumsy way in which the two servants
loaded their mules, and then offered their services to Raimbaut, which
he bravely accepted; then, the same men, who without the slightest
scruple, would have plundered all these articles, which possessed great
value for them, were actively engaged in removing and loading them
with the greatest care, without thinking for a moment of stealing the
smallest article.
Thanks to their intelligent aid, the luggage of the two young men was
in a very short time loaded on three mules, and Leo Carral had only to
see that the horses required for the journey were saddled, which were
effected in a moment, such eagerness and good will did the guerilleros
display in fetching the horses from the corral, and bringing them into
the yard. Leo Carral then returned to the drawing room, and announced
that everything was in readiness for departure.
"Gentlemen, we will go when you please," the count said.
"At once then."
They left the drawing room, surrounded by the guerilleros, who walked
by their side, uttering loud cries, but still without daring to draw
too near, restrained, according to all appearance, by the respect they
bore their chief.
When all those who were to leave the hacienda were mounted, as well as
ten guerilleros, commanded by a non-commissioned officer, whose duty
it was to serve as escort on their colonel's release, the guerillero
addressed his soldiers, recommending them to obey in all points don
Melchior de la Cruz, during his absence, and then gave the signal for
departure. Beckoning the women and children, the little caravan was
composed of about sixty persons, all that were left of the two hundred
servants of the hacienda.
Cuéllar rode at the head, by the side of the count; behind him was doña
Dolores, between her father and Dominique; next came the peons, leading
the bat mules, under the direction of Leo Carral and the count's two
servants; the guerilleros formed the rearguard.
They descended the hill at a slow pace, and ere long found themselves
in the plain; the night was dark, it was about two hours after
midnight; the cold was severe, and the sorrowful travellers shivered
under their _sarapes_. They took the high road to Puebla, which they
reached at the expiration of about twenty minutes, and then broke into
a more rapid pace; the town was only five or six leagues distant, and
they hoped to arrive there at sunrise, or, at any rate, at a very early
hour.
Suddenly a great light tinged the sky with reddish hues, and lit up the
country for a long distance. The hacienda was on fire. At this sight,
don Andrés cast a sad glance behind him, and gave vent to a deep sigh,
but he did not utter a word. Cuéllar was the only person that spoke; he
tried to prove to the count, that war had painful necessities, that for
a long time past, don Andrés had been denounced as an avowed partisan
of Miramón, and that the capture and destruction of the hacienda were
only the results of his dislike of President Juárez. All matters to
which the count, understanding the inutility of a discussion on such a
subject with such a man, did not even take the trouble to reply. They
rode on then for about three hours, without any incident occurring to
disturb the monotony of their journey.
The sun rose, and by the first beams of dawn the domes and lofty
steeples, of Puebla appeared in the distance, with their black and
still indistinct outlines standing out against the dark blue sky.
The count ordered the party to halt.
"Señor," he said to Cuéllar, "you have loyally fulfilled the conditions
stipulated between us; receive my thanks, and those of my unfortunate
companions here; we are not more than two leagues from Puebla, it is
daylight, and it is, therefore, unnecessary for you to accompany us
further."
"In truth, señor, I believe that you can now do without me, and as
you permit it, I will leave you, repeating my regret for what has
occurred, but unfortunately I am not the master, and--"
"No more of this, pray," the count interrupted, "what is done is
irreparable, for the present at least: so it is useless to dwell on the
subject any longer."
Cuéllar bowed. "One word, señor Conde," he said, in a low voice.
The young man went up to him.
"Let me," the guerillero continued, "give you a piece of advice ere we
part."
"Pray go on, señor."
"You are still far from Puebla, where you will not arrive for two
hours: be on your guard, and carefully watch the country around you."
"What do you mean, señor?"
"It is impossible to know what may happen: I repeat to you, watch."
"Farewell, señor," the young man replied mechanically as he returned
his salute.
After thus courteously taking leave of the party, the guerillero placed
himself at the head of his men and galloped off, though not without
once more recommending the young man to be prudent by a significant
gesture. The count watched him depart with a pensive air.
"What is the matter, friend?" Dominique asked him.
Ludovic told him what Cuéllar had said to him on taking leave.
The _vaquero_ frowned. "There is something in the background," he said;
"in any case the advice is good and we should do wrong to neglect it."