THE INTERVIEW.
The French painter was not deceived. It was indeed Zeno Cabral, the
Montonero chief, whom he had seen enter the convent.
The portress walked with a hasty step, without turning her head,
before the young man, who appeared plunged in sorrowful and painful
reflections.
They proceeded thus for a considerable time through the corridors,
without exchanging a word; but at the moment when they had reached the
entry of the first cloister, the chief stopped, and lightly touching
the arm of his conductress--
"Well?" said he, in a low voice.
The latter turned briskly, threw an enquiring look around her, and
then, reassured, no doubt, by the solitude in the midst of which she
was, she answered, in the same low and stifled tone, the single word--
"Nothing."
"How nothing?" cried Don Zeno, with suppressed impatience, "You have
not, then, watched as I desired you, and as was agreed between us."
"I have watched," answered she, eagerly; "watched from evening to
morning, and from morning to evening."
"And you have discovered nothing?"
"Nothing."
"So much the worse," said the Montonero, coldly; "so much the worse for
you, my sister; for if you are so little clear-sighted, it is not just
yet that you will quit your post of portress for a superior employment
in the convent, or one better still, in that of the Bernardines."
The portress trembled; her little grey eyes gave a sinister look.
"I have discovered nothing, it is true," said she, with a dry and
nervous laugh, like the cry of a hyena; "but I suspect, and soon I
shall discover; only I am watched, and opportunity fails me."
"Ah! And what shall you discover?" asked he, with ill-concealed
interest.
"I shall discover," she pursued, laying an affected stress on each
syllable, "all that you wish to know, and more, too. My measures are
now taken."
"Ah, ah!" said he, "And when will that be, if you please?"
"Before two days."
"You promise me?"
"As I hope for heaven."
"I rely on your word."
"Rely on it; but as to yourself?"
"I?"
"Yes."
"I will keep the promise I have made you."
"All?"
"All."
"Well, do not distress yourself about anything; but--giving, giving?"
"That's agreed."
"Now, come; they expect you. This long stay may excite suspicion; more
than ever, prudence is necessary."
They proceeded. At the moment when they entered the first cloister,
a black figure came away from an obscure corner, which, until that
moment, it had remained shrouded in darkness; and after having made
a threatening gesture to the portress, it appeared to vanish like a
fantastic apparition, so rapidly did it glide through the corridors.
Arrived at the door of the superior's room, the portress knocked gently
twice without receiving any answer; she waited a moment, and then
knocked again.
"_Adelante_," was then answered from within.
She opened the door, and announced the stranger.
"Beg the gentleman to enter; he is welcome," answered the abbess.
The portress disappeared, and the general entered; then, on a sign from
the superior, the portress withdrew, closing the door behind her.
The superior was alone, sitting on her great abbess's chair; she held
open a Book of Hours, which she appeared to be reading.
At the entry of the young man she slightly inclined her head, and, with
a gesture, directed him to a seat.
"Pardon me, Madame," said he, bowing respectfully, "in thus coming so
inopportunely to disturb your pious meditations."
"You are, you say, Señor _caballero_, sent to me by the governor of the
town. In that capacity my duty is to receive you at any hour that you
please to come," pursued she, in a tone of cold politeness. "You have
no apologies to make me, but only to explain the reason for this visit."
"I am about to have the honour of explaining myself; as you so
graciously request it, Madame," answered he, with a constrained smile,
taking the seat which she had pointed out.
The conversation had commenced in a tone of frigid politeness, which
completely expressed the relation which the two speakers wished to hold
towards each other during the whole interview.
There was a silence of two or three minutes.
The Montonero turned and returned his hat in his hands with a vexed
air; while the abbess, who pretended to read attentively the book which
she had not abandoned, stealthily cast a mocking look at the officer.
It was he who, feeling how strange his silence would appear,
recommenced the conversation with an ease which was too marked to be
natural.
"Señora, I do not know what causes the displeasure that you appear to
have in seeing me; will you acquaint me with the reason, and accept,
meanwhile, my humble and respectful apologies for the annoyances that,
to my great regret, my presence occasions you?"
"You are in error, _caballero_," answered she, "as the meaning I attach
to my words. I do not feel any annoyance, believe me, at your presence;
only I am vexed at being obliged, at the good pleasure of the persons
who govern us, to receive, without being prepared for it beforehand,
the visits of envoys--very respectable, no doubt--but whose place
should be anywhere else than in the room of the superior of a convent
of women."
"That observation is perfectly just, Madame. It is not my fault that
this has occurred. Unhappily it is, for the present, a necessity to
which you must submit."
"So," resumed she, with some sharpness, "you see that I submit to it."
"You submit to it--yes, Madame," he pursued, in an insinuating tone,
"but complaining at it, because you confound your friends with your
enemies."
"I, Señor! You make a mistake, no doubt," said she, with compunction;
"you do not reflect on who I am. What friends or what enemies can
I have--I, a poor woman retired from the world, and devoted to the
service of God?"
"You deceive yourself, or, which is more probable--excuse me, I beg,
Madame--you do not wish to understand me."
"Perhaps, also, it is a little your fault, Señor," she resumed, with a
slight tinge of irony, "owing to the obscurity in which your words are
enveloped, unknown to yourself, no doubt."
Don Zeno repressed a gesture of impatience.
"Come, Madame," said he, after a pause, "let us be candid, shall we?"
"I wish nothing better for my part, Señor."
"You have here two prisoners?"
"I have two ladies that I have only received into this house on the
express injunction of the governor of the town. Is it of these two
ladies that you speak, Señor?"
"Yes, Señora, the same."
"Very well, they are here; I have, indeed, very strict orders with
respect to them."
"I know it."
"These ladies have nothing, that I can see, to do with this
conversation."
"On the contrary, Madame; it is them alone that it concerns; it is on
their account alone that I have come here."
"Very well, Señor, continue; I am listening."
"These ladies have been made prisoners by me, and by me also conducted
into this town."
"You could even add--into this convent, Señor; but continue."
"You are wrong in supposing, Madame, that I am the enemy of these
unfortunate women; no one, on the contrary, interests himself more than
I do in their fate."
"Ah!" said she, with irony.
"You do not believe me, Madame; indeed, appearances condemn me."
"Meanwhile, you condemn these unhappy ladies; is it not so,
_caballero?_"
"Señora," he cried, with violence, but immediately controlling himself,
"pardon me this outburst, Madame; but if you consent to understand me--"
"Is not that what I am doing at this moment, Señor?"
"Yes; you listen to me, it is true, Madame; but with your mind made up,
beforehand, not to put faith in my words, however true they may be."
The abbess slightly shrugged her shoulders, and resumed: "It is, Señor,
that you now tell me things which are so incredible. How can you
expect, when you yourself have just admitted that you arrested these
ladies, when it would have been so easy to allow them to continue their
journey; that it is you who brought them into this town; that it is you
who also brought them to this convent, in order to deprive them of all
hope of flight--how can you expect that I should credit the professions
of devotion of which you are now pleased to make a parade before me?
It would be more than artlessness on my part, you must admit, and you
Would have a right to believe me to be what I am not--that is to say,
to speak frankly, a fool."
"Oh, Madame, there are many things which you do not know."
"Certainly, there are many things which people do not know in such
cases; but come, let us come to the fact, since you yourself have
proposed candour: prove to me that you really intend to speak the
truth--tell me the things of which I am ignorant."
"I am quite willing to do so, Madame."
"Only I warn you that I perhaps know many of these things, and that if
you wander from the right path I will pitilessly put you in it again.
Does that course suit you?"
"Nothing better can be done, Madame."
"Well, speak; I promise not to interrupt you."
"You overwhelm me, Señora; but to acquaint you with the whole truth, I
shall be obliged to enter into some details touching my family which,
doubtless, will have little interest for you."
"I beg your pardon; I wish to be impartial, so I ought to know all."
And as she said these words, she looked stealthily towards the door of
the adjoining room.
This look was not observed by the Montonero, who at this moment, his
head sunk upon his breast, appeared to be collecting his thoughts.
At last, after a few minutes, he began--
"My family, as my name indicates, Madame, is of Portuguese origin;
one of my ancestors was that Alvarez Cabral, to whom Portugal owes so
many magnificent discoveries. Settled in Brazil from the period of
the occupation, my ancestors established themselves in the province
of Sao Paulo, and led, one after the other, by the example of their
neighbours and friends, they made long and perilous expeditions into
the interior of unknown lands, and several of them were reckoned among
the most celebrated and the most bold Paulistas of the province. Pardon
me these details, Madame, but they are indispensable; for the rest, I
will abridge them as much as possible. My ancestor, as the result of a
very lively discussion with the Viceroy of Brazil, Don Vasco Fernandez
Cesar de Menezes, about 1723--a discussion, the topics of which he
never wished to reveal--saw his property placed under sequestration.
He himself was obliged to take flight with all his family. A little
patience, I beg you, Madame."
"You are unjust, Señor; these details, of which I was ignorant,
interest me in the highest degree."
"My great-grandfather, with the wreck which he had succeeded in saving
from his fortune--of considerable value, I hasten to say; for he was
enormously rich--took refuge in the vice-royalty of Buenos Aires, in
order to go back the more easily to Brazil, if fortune ceased to be
adverse to him. But his hope was frustrated; he was to die in exile;
his family was condemned never again to see their country. However, on
various occasions propositions were made to him to enter into relations
with the Portuguese Government, but he always haughtily rejected them,
protesting that, never having committed any crime, he would not be
absolved, and that especially--pay particular attention to this, Madame
--the Government which had taken away his property had no claim to what
remained to him; that he would never consent to pay for a pardon that
they had no right to sell him. Subsequently, when my great-grandfather
was on the point of death, and my grandfather and father were round
his bed, although then very young, my father thought he understood the
propositions made by the Portuguese Government, and which the old man
had always obstinately repulsed."
"Ah!" said the abbess, beginning to take an interest in the recital,
which was made with an air of truth which could not be questioned.
"Judge of the matter yourself, Madame," resumed the Montonero; "my
great-grandfather, as I have said, feeling that he was about to die,
had called my grandfather and my father round his bed; then, after
making them swear on the Cross and on the Gospel never to reveal what
he was about to tell them, he confided to them a secret of great
importance for the future of our family; in a word, he stated to
them that some time before his exile, in the last expedition that he
had made, according to his custom, he had discovered diamond mines
and deposits of gold of incalculable value. He entered into the
minutest details as to the route that was to be followed to discover
the country where these unknown riches were hidden; gave to my
grandfather a map traced by himself on the very spot, and added, for
fear that my grandfather should forget any important detail, a bundle
of manuscripts, in which the history of his expedition and of his
discovery, as well as the itinerary life that he had followed, going
and returning, were related as a diary, almost hour by hour; then,
certain that this fortune which he had left them would not be lost to
them, he gave his children his blessing, and died almost immediately,
weakened by the efforts that he had been obliged to make to give them
complete information; but before closing his eyes for ever, he made
them, for the last time, swear inviolable secrecy."
"I do not yet see, Sir, what relation there is between this
history--very interesting, certainly--that you are relating, and these
two unfortunate ladies," interrupted the abbess, shaking her head.
"A few minutes more complaisance, Madame; you will not be long in being
satisfied."
"Be it so, Sir; continue then, I beg."
Don Zeno resumed:
"Some years passed; my grandfather was at the head of the vast _chacra_
occupied by our family, my father was beginning to aid him in his
labours. He had a sister beautiful as the angels, and pure as they. She
was named Laura; her father and brother loved her to adoration; she was
their joy, their pride, their happiness--"
Don Zeno stopped; tears that he did not try to restrain slowly flowed
down his cheeks.
"This souvenir affects you, Señor," said the abbess, gently.
The young man proudly nerved himself.
"I have promised to tell you the truth, Madame, and although the task
that I impose on myself is painful, I will not give way. My grandfather
had deposited in a place, known to him and his daughter only, the
manuscript and the map that had been left them by my great-grandfather
on his deathbed, and then neither of them had cared much more about
the matter, not supposing that a time would arrive when it would be
possible to take possession of this fortune, which, nevertheless,
belonged to them by incontestable title. One day, a foreigner presented
himself at the _chacra_, and asked hospitality, which was never refused
to anyone. The stranger was young, handsome, and rich--at least, he
appeared so--and for our family he had the great advantage of being
our fellow countryman; he belonged to one of the most noble families
of Portugal. He was then more than a friend--almost a relation. My
grandfather received him with open arms; he lived several months in
our _chacra;_ he might have lived there altogether had he wished it;
everyone in the house liked him. Pardon me, Madame, for passing rapidly
over these details. Although too young to have personally assisted
in that infamous treason, my heart is broken. One day the stranger
disappeared, carrying away Doña Laura. That is how that man repaid our
hospitality."
"Oh! that is horrible!" cried the abbess, carried away by the
indignation she felt.
"Every search was fruitless; it was impossible to discover his traces.
But what was more serious in this affair, Madame, was, that this man
had coldly and basely followed out a plan previously laid."
"It is not possible!" said the abbess, with horror.
"This man had--I do not know how--discovered something in Europe
about the secret that my great-grandfather had so well guarded. The
stranger's design, in introducing himself into our house, was to
discover the complete secret, in order to rob us of our fortune.
During the time that he lived at the _chacra_, he several times
tried, by artful questions, to learn the details of which he was
ignorant--questions addressed sometimes to my grandfather, sometimes
to my father, then a young man. The odious violence that he committed
did not proceed from love, pushed almost to distraction, as you might
suppose; he might have demanded of my grandfather the hand of his
daughter, which the latter would have given him; no, he did not love
Doña Laura.
"Then," interrupted the abbess, "why did he carry her off?"
"Why, you say?"
"Yes."
"Because he believed that she possessed the secret that he wished to
discover; that, Madame, was the only motive for the crime."
"What you tell me is infamous, Señor," cried the abbess; "this man was
a demon."
"No, Madame, he was a wretch devoured by the thirst for riches, and
who, at any price, determined to possess them, even if to do so he had
to bring dishonour and shame into a family, or to walk over a heap of
corpses."
"Oh!" she gasped, hiding her head in her hands.
"Now, Madame, do you wish to know the name of this man?" he pursued,
with bitterness; "But it is needless, is it not? For you have already
guessed, no doubt."
The abbess nodded her head affirmatively, without answering.
There was rather a long silence.
"But why render the innocent," at last said the abbess, "responsible
for the crimes committed by others?"
"Because, Madame--an inheritor of the paternal hatred for twenty
years--it is only a fortnight ago that I have again found a trace that
I thought was lost forever; that the name of our enemy has, like a
thunderclap, suddenly burst on my ear, and that I have demanded of this
man a reckoning in blood for the honour of my family."
"So to satisfy a vengeance which might be just, were it brought to bear
on the guilty, you would be cruel enough--"
"I do not yet know what I shall do, Madame. My head is on fire; fury
carries me away," interrupted he, with violence. "This man has stolen
our happiness; I wish to take away his; but I shall not be a coward,
as he has been; he shall know from whence comes the blow which strikes
him; it is between us a war of wild beasts."
At this moment the door of the adjoining room opened suddenly, and the
marchioness appeared calm and imposing.
"A war of wild beasts let it be, _caballero;_ I accept it."
The young man rose abruptly, and darting a look of crushing scorn at
the superior:
"Ah! I have been listened to," said he, with irony; "well, so much the
better, I prefer it to be so. This unworthy treachery precludes any
further explanation; you know, Madame, the cause of the hatred that I
bear towards your husband; I have nothing more to tell you."
"My husband is a noble _caballero_, who, if he were present, would
wither, by his denial--as I do myself--the odious tissue of lies by
which you have not scrupled to accuse him before a person," added she,
directing a look of sorrowful pity to the superior, "who would not,
perhaps, have believed this frightful tale, the falsity of which is too
easy to prove for it to be necessary to refute it."
"Be it so, Madame; this insult, coming from you, cannot affect me; you
are naturally the last person to whom your husband would have confided
this horrible secret; but whatever happens, a time will come--and it is
near, I hope--when the truth will be declared, and when the criminal
will be unmasked before you."
"There are men, Señor, whom calumny, however skilfully concocted,
cannot reach," answered she, with scorn.
"Let us cease this, Madame; all discussion between us would only serve
the more to embitter us against each other. I repeat that I am not your
enemy."
"But what are you then, and for what reason have you related this
horrible story?"
"If you had had the patience to listen to me a few minutes more,
Madame, you would have learned."
"What prevents you telling me, now that we are face to face?"
"I will tell you if you desire it, Madame," replied, he, coldly. "I
should have preferred, however, that some other person, who might have
more sympathy for you than I have, should perform this task."
"No, no, Sir; I am myself a Portuguese also, and when the honour of my
name is concerned, my principle is to act for myself."
"As you please, Madame; I was about to make a proposition to you."
"A proposition--to me!" said she, haughtily.
"Yes, Madame."
"What is it? Be brief, if you please."
"I was about to ask you to give me your word not to quit this town
without my authority, and not to try and communicate with your husband."
"Ah! And if I had made this promise?"
"Then, Madame, I should, in return, have freed you from the accusation
which weighs upon you, and should immediately have obtained your
liberty."
"Liberty to be a prisoner in a town, instead of in a convent," said
she, with irony; "you are generous, Señor. But you would not have had
to appear before a counsel of war."
"That is true; I forgot that you and yours make war on
women--especially on women--you are so brave, you revolutionary
gentlemen." The young man was unmoved by this bitter insult; he bowed
respectfully.
"I wait your answer, Madame," said he.
"What answer?" she replied, with disdain.
"That which you will be pleased to make to the proposition which I have
the honour to make."
The marchioness remained a moment silent; then, raising her head, and
taking a step in advance--
"_Caballero_," she resumed, in a haughty voice, "to accept the
proposition you make me, would be to admit the possibility of the truth
of the odious accusation that you dare to bring against my husband.
Now, that possibility I do not allow. The honour of my husband is mine;
it is my duty to defend it."
"I expected that answer, Madame, although it afflicts me more than you
can suppose. You have, no doubt, well reflected on all the consequences
of this refusal?"
"On all--yes, Señor."
"They may be terrible."
"I know it, and I shall submit."
"You are not alone, Madame; you have a daughter."
"Sir," she answered, with an accent of supreme hauteur, "my daughter
knows too well what she owes to the honour of her house to hesitate in
making for it, if need be, the sacrifice of her life."
"Oh, Madame!"
"Do not try to frighten me, Señor; you will not succeed. My
determination is taken, and I should not change it, even if I saw the
scaffold before me. Men deceive themselves, if they think they alone
possess the privilege of courage. It is good, from time to time,
for a woman to show them that they also know how to die for their
convictions. A truce, then, I beg you, to any more entreaties, Señor;
they would be useless."
The _Montonero_ bowed silently, made a few steps towards the door,
stopped, and half turned as if he wished to speak; but, altering his
mind, he bowed a last time and went out.
The marchioness remained an instant motionless; then, turning towards
the abbess, and extending her arms to her--
"And now, my friend," said she to her, with a sorrowful voice, "do you
believe that the Marquis de Castelmelhor is guilty of the frightful
crimes of which that man accuses him?"
"Oh, no, no, my friend," cried the superior, melting into tears, and
falling into the arms which opened to receive her.