THE LETTER.
The painter had taken refuge in his apartments, a prey to extreme
agitation.
Having reached his bedroom, he doubly locked the door; then, certain
that for a time no one would come to thrust him out of this last
asylum, he allowed himself to fall heavily on a _butaca_, threw his
body backward, leaned his head forward, crossed his arms over his
chest, and--an extraordinary thing for an organisation like his--he
gave himself up to sad and profound reflections.
At first he called to mind--tormented as he was by the saddest
presentiments--all the events which had happened to him since his
arrival in America.
The list was long, and by no means pleasant.
At the end of half an hour, the artist arrived at this miserable
conclusion--that, from the first moment that he had placed his foot
on the New World, Fate had taken a malicious pleasure in falling
furiously upon him, and in making him the sport of the most disastrous
combinations, spite of the efforts that he had made to remain
constantly free from politics, and to live as a true artist, without
occupying himself with what was passing around him.
"_Pardieu!_" he cried, angrily striking with his hand the arm of his
chair, "it must be confessed that I have no chance! In conditions like
these, life becomes literally impossible. Better a hundred times would
it have been for me to remain in France, where at least I should have
been allowed to live quietly, and in my own fashion! A pretty situation
is this of mine--placed here, without knowing why, between the gun and
the gallows! Why, it is absurd, it is unheard-of! The devil take these
Americans and Spaniards! As if they could not quarrel with one another
without bringing into the dispute a poor painter, who has nothing to
do with it, and who is travelling as an amateur in their country! They
have, indeed, a singular manner of rendering hospitality, these pretty
fellows! I compliment them sincerely upon it. And I, who was persuaded,
on the faith of travellers, that America was, _par excellence_, the
land of hospitality--the country of simple and patriarchal manners.
Trust to narratives of travel--those who take such pleasure in leading
the public into error, ought to be burnt alive! What is to be done?
What is to become of me? I have eight days before me, says that old
lynx of a diplomatist, to whom, however, I shall preserve eternal
gratitude for his proceedings in my behalf. What a charming compatriot
I have met there. How fortunate I have been with him. Well, no matter,
I must make up my mind what to do. But what? I see nothing but flight!
Hum! flight--that's not easy; I shall be closely watched. Unhappily,
I have no choice; come, let me study a plan of escape. Away with the
wretched fate which obstinately makes of my life a melodrama, when I
employ all my powers to make it a vaudeville!"
Upon this the young man, whose gaiety of disposition gained the victory
over the anxiety which agitated him, set himself--half laughing, half
seriously--to reflect anew.
He remained thus for more than an hour, without stirring from his
_butaca_, and without making the least movement.
It cannot be denied that at the end of that time he was as far advanced
as before; that is to say, that he had hit upon nothing.
"Well, I give it up for the present," he cried, rising suddenly; "my
imagination absolutely refuses me its aid! It is always so. Well, I,
who wanted sensation, cannot complain; it is to be hoped that for some
time past I have had enough of it, and of the most poignant sensation
too!"
Then he began to stride about his room, to stretch his legs,
mechanically rolled up a cigarette, and felt in his pocket for his
_mechero_ to light it.
In the movement which he made in searching for it, he felt in his
waistcoat pocket something which he did not remember to have placed
there; he looked at it.
"_Pardieu!_" said he, striking his forehead, "I had completely
forgotten my mysterious unknown; but that's accounted for by my
vexation! If this lasts only for eight days, I am convinced I shall
completely go out of my mind. Let me see what it is that she has so
adroitly dropped on my hat."
While he soliloquised, the painter had drawn from his pocket the little
roll of paper, and attentively considered it.
"It is extraordinary," continued he, "the influence which women exert,
perhaps unknown to ourselves, on the organisation of us men, and how
the most trivial thing which comes to us from one of them, who is
utterly unknown, immediately interests us."
He remained several moments turning about the paper in his hand,
without coming to the resolution to break the silk, which alone
prevented him from satisfying his curiosity, all the while continuing
in _petto_ his speculations on the probable contents of the packet.
At last, with a sudden resolution, he put an end to his hesitation, and
broke with his teeth the delicate silk thread, and then unrolled the
paper carefully. This paper, which--as the young man had conjectured
--served for an envelope, contained another, folded carefully, and
covered on every page with fine close writing.
Spite of himself, the young man felt a nervous trembling as he unfolded
this paper, in which a ring was enclosed.
This ring was but a simple gold ring, in which was set a Balas ruby, of
great value.
"What does this mean?" murmured the young man, admiring the ring, and
trying it mechanically on all his fingers.
But although the artist had a very beautiful hand--thing of which, in
parenthesis, he was very proud--this ring was so small, that it was
only on the little finger that he could succeed in putting it on, and
this with some difficulty.
"This person is evidently deceived," pursued the painter; "I cannot
keep this ring; I will return it, come what may. But to do that I
must know the individual, and I have no other means of obtaining this
information except by reading her letter. I'll read it, then."
The artist was at this moment in the singular position of a man who
feels himself gliding down a rapid decline, at the foot of which is a
precipice, and who, perceiving that he has not the power successfully
to resist the impulse which controls him, endeavours to prove to
himself that he does right to abandon himself to it.
But before opening the paper, which he apparently held with such a
careless hand, and on which he looked so disdainfully--so much, say
what we may, is man (that being said to be made in the image of his
Maker) always a comedian, even to himself, when no one can see him,
because even then he tries to impose upon his self-love--the artist
went to try the lock, to see if the door was firmly fastened, and that
no one could surprise him; then he slowly returned, sat himself on the
_butaca_, and unfolded the paper.
It was, indeed, a letter, written in a fine close hand, but nervous and
agitated, which convinced him in a moment that it was a woman's writing.
The young man at first cursorily read it, and feigning to take but
moderate interest in it; but soon, spite of himself, he felt himself
influenced by what he learned. As he proceeded in his reading, he
found his interest increase; and when he had reached the last word, he
remained with his eyes fixed on the thin paper which was being crushed
in his convulsive fingers; and a considerable time elapsed before he
could succeed in conquering the strong emotion that this strange letter
had excited.
The following are the contents of this letter, the original of which
has for a long time remained in our hands, and which we translate
without comment:--
"As an important preliminary, let me, Señor, claim,
from your courtesy a formal promise--a promise in
which you will not fail, I am convinced, if, as I
have the presentiment, you are a true _caballero_. I
demand that you read this letter without interruption
from beginning to end, before passing any judgment
whatever on her who addresses it to you."
"You have sworn, have you not? Well, I thank you for
the proof of confidence, and I begin without further
preamble."
"You are, Señor--if, as I believe, I am not deceived
in my observation--a Frenchman from Europe: that is
to say, the son of a country where gallantry and
devotion to women reign supreme, and are so far
traditional, that these characteristics form the most
salient feature in the men."
"I also am--not a French woman, but born in Europe;
that is to say, although unknown to you, your friend,
almost your sister on that far-off land; and as such,
I have a right to your protection, and I now boldly
claim it from your honour."
"As I do not wish that you should at once take me for
an adventuress, from the mode, somewhat beyond the
rules of society, in which I enter on relations with
you, I must first tell you, in a few words, not my
history--that would cause you unreasonably to lose
precious time--but who I am, and by what motives I am
compelled for a time to put aside that timid modesty
which never abandons women worthy of the name; and
then I will tell you what is the service I ask of
you."
"My husband, the Marquis de Castelmelhor, commands a
division of the Brazilian army, which, they say, has
some days since entered Buenos Airean territory."
"Coming from Peru with my daughter and some
servants, with the intention of joining my husband
in Brazil--for I knew nothing of the events which
had just previously occurred--I have been surprised,
carried away, and declared a prisoner of war, by a
Buenos Airean _Montonero;_ and I and my daughter are
now imprisoned in the house which you pass twice a
day."
"If it were but a question of a detention more or
less protracted, I would resign myself to submit to
it, confiding myself to the power and goodness of
God."
"But, unhappily, a terrible fate threatens me--a
frightful danger hangs not only over my own head, but
over that of my daughter--my innocent and pure Eva."
"An implacable enemy has sworn our ruin; he has
boldly accused us of being spies, and in a few
days--perhaps tomorrow, for this man is thought very
highly of by the members of his Government--we shall
be brought before a tribunal assembled to judge us,
and the verdict of which cannot be doubtful--the
death of traitors, dishonour! The Marchioness of
Castelmelhor cannot submit to such infamy."
"God, who never abandons the innocent who trust in
Him in their distress, has inspired me with the
thought of addressing you, Señor, for you alone can
save me."
"Will you do it? I believe you will."
"A stranger in this country--sharing neither the
prejudices, the narrow ideas, nor the hatred of its
inhabitants against Europeans--you ought to make
common cause with us, and try to save us, even if it
be at the peril of your life."
"I have long hesitated before writing this letter.
Although your manners were those of a respectable
man--although the frank expression of your
countenance, and even your youth, prepossessed me in
your favour--I feared to trust myself to you; but
when I learned that you were a Frenchman, my fears
vanished, to give place to entire confidence."
"Tomorrow, between ten and eleven o'clock in the
morning, present yourself boldly at the door of the
Black House, and knock. When the door is opened, say
that you have heard that a professor of the piano
is wanted in the convent, and that you have come to
offer your services."
"But be very careful. We are watched with the
greatest care. Perhaps it would be better if you were
to disguise yourself, to avoid being recognised, in
case your proceedings are watched."
"Remember that you are the only hope of two innocent
women, who, if you refuse them your help, will die
cursing you; for their safety depends on you."
"Tomorrow, between ten and eleven in the morning."
"The most unfortunate of women,"
"Marquise LEONA DE CASTELMELHOR."
No pen could describe the expression of astonishment, mingled with
fright, which was painted on the countenance of the young man, when he
had finished the reading of this singular letter, which had reached him
in so extraordinary a way.
As we have said, he remained a long time with his eyes fixed on the
paper, probably without seeing the characters which were written there,
his body leaning forward, his hands clenched, a prey to reflections
which could not be at all pleasant.
To say nothing of the check to his self-love--a check always
disagreeable to a man who for several hours had given his imagination
free play in the pleasant land of chimeras, and who had thought
himself the object of a sudden and irresistible passion, caused by his
good looks and his Don Juan-like appearance--the service which the
unknown lady demanded of him could not but considerably embarrass him,
especially in the exceptional position in which he found himself at the
time.
"Decidedly," murmured he, in a low voice, dashing his hand on the chair
with rage, "Fate too furiously pursues me. This is absurd! Here am I
asked to be a protector--I, who so much want protection myself! Heaven
is not just to permit, without rhyme or reason, a good fellow, who only
sighs for quiet, to be thus tormented in every possible circumstance."
He rose, and began to stride about his room.
"However," added he, after a pause, "these ladies are in a frightful
position; I cannot abandon them thus, without trying to come to their
aid; my honour is engaged in it; a Frenchman, spite of himself,
represents France in a foreign country. But what is to be done?"
He sat down again, and appeared to be lost in a deep reverie. At last,
in about a quarter of an hour, he again rose.
"That is it," said he; "I see no other means that. If I do not succeed,
I shall have nothing to reproach myself with, for I shall have done
even more than my actual position, and especially prudence, should
permit me to attempt."
Emile had evidently made a resolve.
He opened the door, and went down into the _patio_.
It was almost night; the attendants, freed from their labours, more
or less properly accomplished, were resting themselves, reclining on
palm-mats, smoking, laughing, and chatting together.
The painter had not long to search for his domestics in the midst of
the twenty or five-and-twenty individuals grouped pell-mell on the
ground.
He made a sign to one of them to come to him, and he immediately went
up again into his room.
The Indian, at the call of his master, immediately rose, in order to
obey him.
He Was an Indian Guaraní, still very young; he appeared to be at the
most twenty-four or twenty-five, With fine, bold, and intelligent
features, a tall figure, of a robust appearance, and with free and
unconstrained manners.
He wore the costume of the gauchos of the Pampa, and was named Tyro.
At the call of his master he had thrown away his cigarette, picked up
his hat, gathered his poncho round him, and had darted towards the
staircase with an alacrity which spoke well for him.
The painter much liked this young man, who, although of rather a
taciturn disposition, like all his people, appeared, nevertheless, to
entertain some affection for him.
Having reached the sleeping room, he did not pass the door, but,
stopping on the threshold, he respectfully bowed, and waited till his
master might be pleased to address him.
"Enter, and close the door behind you," said the painter to him, in a
friendly tone; "we have some important things to talk about."
"Secrets, master?" asked the Indian.
"Yes."
"Then, with your permission, master, I will leave the door open."
"What is that caprice for?"
"It is not a caprice, master; all these places are rendered noiseless
by the mats which cover the ground; a spy can, without being heard,
come and put his ear to the door and hear all that we may say, so much
the more easily as we, absorbed in our own conversation, should not be
aware of his presence; whereas, if all the doors remain open, no one
will enter without our seeing him, and we shall not risk being watched."
"What you remark is very sensible, my good Tyro; leave the doors open,
then. The precaution cannot do any harm, although I do not believe in
spies."
"Does not the master believe in the night?" answered the Indian, with
an emphatic gesture. "The spy is like the night; he likes to glide
about in the darkness."
"Be it so; I will not discuss the matter with you. Let us come to the
reason for which I have called you."
"I am listening, master."
"Tyro, first answer me, frankly, the question which I am about to ask
you."
"Let the master speak."
"Bear in mind, that I wish you to speak candidly; but pay particular
attention to the form of my question, so as to answer, fully
understanding it. Are you towards me only a good domestic, strictly
performing your duties; or a devoted servant, on whom I have the right
to reckon at all times."
"A devoted servant, master--a brother, a son, a friend. You cured my
mother of a disease which appeared incurable. When you bought the
rancho, instead of sending her and me away, you preserved to the old
woman her _cuarto_, her garden, and her flock. As to me, you have
treated me as a man, never commanding me with rudeness, and never
obliging me to do shameful or dishonourable things, though I am an
Indian. You have always considered me an intelligent being, and not an
animal possessed of instinct merely. I repeat, master, I am devoted to
you in everything, and forever."
"Thank you, Tyro," answered the painter, with slight emotion; "I half
thought what you have just told me, but I was resolved to make you
confirm it; for I have need of your services."
"I am ready; but what is to be done?"
Notwithstanding the candour of this avowal, the French painter--little
acquainted yet with the character of these primitive races--by no means
intended to put the Indian completely in the confidence of his secrets.
Too much civilisation renders us mistrustful.
The Guaraní readily perceived the hesitation of the artist, who,
unaccustomed to dissimulation, allowed his countenance to reflect his
emotions, as in a mirror.
"The master has nothing to teach Tyro," said he, with a smile; "the
Indian knows all."
"What!" cried the young man, with a start of surprise; "You know all!"
"Yes," he merely said.
"_Pardieu!_" pursued the artist; "For the curiosity of the thing, I
would not be sorry if you were to inform me how far extends that 'all'
of which you so confidently speak."
"That is easy; let the master listen."
Then, to the extreme astonishment of the young man, Tyro related to
him, without omitting the least detail, all that he had done since his
arrival at San Miguel de Tucuman.
However, by degrees Emile, by a great effort, succeeded in regaining
his coolness, reflecting with inward satisfaction that this recital,
so complete in other respects, had one omission--an important omission
for him; it stopped at that very morning. Tyro knew nothing of the
adventure of the Callejón de las Cruces.
But fearing that this omission merely arose from forgetfulness, he
resolved to assure himself of it.
"Well," said he, "all that you relate is correct, but you forget to
speak about my walks through the town."
"Oh, as to that," answered the Indian, with a smile, "it is useless to
occupy myself with that. The master passes all his time in a reverie,
looking up at the sky and gesticulating as he walks. At the end of two
days it was found that it was not worthwhile to follow him."
"The devil! I have been followed then! I did not know I had friends who
took such an interest in me."
An equivocal smile played on the expressive lips of the Indian, but he
did not answer.
"You, no doubt, know the person who has thus played the spy?"
"Yes, I know him, master."
"You will tell me his name, then?"
"I will tell you, when the time arrives to do so; but he is but an
instrument; besides, if this person spies you at the command of
another, I watch him, master, for your sake; and what he has been able
to discover is of little importance. I alone possess your secrets, so
you may be easy."
"What! You know my secrets!" cried the painter, again provoked at the
moment when he least expected it; "What secrets?"
"The white rose and the letter of the Callejón de las Cruces; but I
repeat that I alone know it."
"This is too much!" murmured the young man.
"A devoted servant," seriously remarked the Indian, who had heard the
"aside" of the painter, "ought to know all, so that when the time comes
that his assistance may be necessary, he may be in a position to come
to his master's aid."
The artist then decided on doing what most men would have decided on
doing, under similar circumstances. Seeing that there was no means of
doing otherwise, he determined on giving his entire confidence to the
Indian, and he avowed all with the greatest candour--a candour which
the Guaraní would have little valued had he known the true reason for
it. Though he did not fully admit it to himself, the painter only
acted under the pressure of necessity, and, feeling the uselessness of
concealing the least thing from so far-seeing a servant, he preferred
freely placing himself entirely in the Indian's hands, hoping that this
mode of acting would engage him not to betray him. For a moment, the
thought crossed his mind to blow the man's brains out; but, reflecting
what a ticklish thing this would be, especially in his position, he
preferred trying a milder course and a feigned open-heartedness.
Happily for him, the painter had to do with an honest and really
devoted man, who with any other person would probably have ruined him,
rather than have saved him.
Tyro had for a long time led the life of the gauchos, hunted the Pampa,
and explored the desert in all directions. He was thoroughly acquainted
with all the Indian schemes. Nothing would have been easier for him
than to have acted as a guide to his master, and have conducted him
either to Peru, Buenos Aires, Chili, or even to Brazil.
When confidence was thoroughly established between the two men, though
the Frenchman had at first acted with but feigned candour, he was not
long in displaying all the artless honesty of his character, happy in
meeting in a country, where everybody was hostile to him, a man who
manifested sympathy with him, even if this sympathy were more apparent
than real. He at once seriously asked the advice of his servant.
"This is what must be done," said the latter. "In this house everything
is suspicious; it is filled with spies. Pretend to put yourself in
a rage with me, and dismiss me. Tomorrow, at the time of your usual
walk, I will meet you, and we will settle everything. Our conversation
has lasted too long already, master. Suspicions are awakened. I will
go down as if I had been scolded by you. Follow me to the door of the
room, speaking in a loud tone, and finding fault with me; then, in a
little while, you will come down and dismiss me before everybody. Above
all, master," added he, laying stress on these last words, "say nothing
till tomorrow to the occupants of the house; do not let them suspect
our arrangement: if you do, believe me, you are lost."
Having so said, the Indian withdrew, his finger on his lips.
All was done as had been arranged between master and servant.
Tyro was immediately sent from the house, which he left grumbling,
and Emile again went up to his apartment, leaving all the attendants
astounded at a scene which they never expected from a man whom they
were accustomed to see ordinarily so gentle and tolerant.
The next day, at the same hour as usual, the painter went out for his
accustomed walk, taking care, while he feigned the utmost indifference,
to return every now and then, to assure himself that he was not
followed. But this precaution was needless; no one cared to watch his
promenade, so inoffensive was it known to be.
Arrived on the bank of the river, at about a hundred paces from the
town, a man, concealed behind a rock, suddenly presented himself to him.
The young man smothered a cry of surprise. He recognised Tyro, the
Guaraní servant dismissed by him the previous evening, according to
mutual arrangement.