THE SOLITARY.
We must now return to the French painter that we have left buried, so
to say, at the bottom of a cavern, philosophically making up his mind
to this voluntary seclusion, which, however, circumstances rendered
indispensable, and vigorously attacking the provisions placed before
him.
Obliged to remain alone during a considerable time, and not knowing
how to employ himself, the young man prolonged his meal as much as
possible; and then--when, despite all his efforts, he felt the natural
impossibility of taking another mouthful--he lit a cigar, and began to
smoke with the beatific resignation of a Mahometan, or a drinker of
_hatckich._ After this cigar he smoked another, then another, and then
another, followed immediately by a fourth; so that midnight came almost
without his perceiving it, and he laid himself upon his hammock without
being wearied.
However, Emile had too nervous an organisation to content himself long
with this kind of life. It was with a sigh of regret that he closed
his eyes and slept; for he could not foresee the termination of his
imprisonment, and the prospect of remaining several days thus alone
frightened him.
How long had he remained plunged in sleep, he could not tell. Suddenly
he jumped up, sat up in his hammock, with his forehead pale, and his
features contracted, casting around him a look of fright.
In the midst of his sleep--while he was cradled in those sweet dreams
that tobacco sometimes procures for those who abuse it when they are
not accustomed to smoke it to excess--he suddenly thought he heard
cries, and the trampling of horses, mingled with deadened sounds. For
some time these sounds were mingled and incorporated with the events of
his dream.
But soon these cries and trampling acquired such an intensity--appeared
so near the young man--that they suddenly awakened him from his sleep.
At first he took no account of what he heard, believing that it was but
a sound existing only in his imagination--the last echo, in fact, of
his interrupted dream.
But when, by degrees, he succeeded in recovering his ideas, and when
he felt that he was completely awake, he acquired the certainty, not
only that this noise was real--that he was not the dupe of an illusion
of his senses--but that it every moment increased, and had become very
loud.
One would have thought that a desperate combat was even being fought in
the cavern itself.
However, all was calm around the young man; the lamp--the wick of which
he had lowered when he lay down, so that its too brilliant light might
not hinder his sleeping--shed a gentle and uncertain light, but strong
enough to enable him to assure himself at a glance that all was in the
state in which he had left it on retiring to bed, and that he was still
alone.
He rose, a prey to extraordinary agitation.
The first thought that occurred to him was that his retreat was
discovered, and that they wished to arrest him; but he soon admitted
the absurdity of this supposition, and reassured himself; the people
charged to secure him would simply have entered the cavern, and would
have had no combat to sustain; they would have made him a prisoner even
before he had had time to open his eyes.
But what could be the cause of this frightful tumult which still
continued quite near to him?
This extremely puzzled the young man, and awakened his curiosity to the
highest pitch.
He looked at his watch. It was half past five in the morning.
Outside, then, it was daylight. It could not be a gathering of wild
beasts, the sun making them retire into their caves; moreover, these
animals would not dare to venture so near the town.
What was it, then?
A battle, perhaps! But a battle in the middle of the night, almost at
the gates of San Miguel, the capital of the province of Tucuman, where,
on account of the congress, considerable forces were now united; this
supposition was not admissible.
For a moment the young man thought of knocking at the trapdoor, to get
it opened, and to ask information of the rancheros.
But he reflected that these good people were supposed to be ignorant
of his presence among them--that this inconsiderate proceeding would
displease them, and cause them to fear afterwards getting into trouble
about him.
And then, if this uproar was really that of a fight, it was probable
that the poor Indians at the commencement of the fight had abandoned
their rancho, half dead with fright, and had flown across the country,
in order to conceal themselves in some retreat known to themselves
alone, to escape the fury of one or other of the two parties; so that
it would be pure loss of time for him to call them and ask them to open
the door.
These various considerations were strong enough to restrain him from
committing an imprudence in revealing his retreat, if, by chance, the
rancho had been temporarily occupied by his enemies.
But as--as we have said--his curiosity was excited to the highest
degree, and as, in the precarious situation he was in it was important
for him--at least, he gave himself this reason to justify in his own
eyes the step he wished to take--to know what was passing around
him, in order to know how to act; he resolved to act without further
delay, and learn the causes of this extraordinary uproar, which had so
suddenly troubled his repose.
HE therefore rose, took a sabre, passed a pair of pistols in his
girdle, seized a carbine, and thus armed, and ready for any event, he
lit a lantern, and proceeded towards the passage on the right--the side
from whence the sound appeared to come.
This passage, or rather this gallery of the cavern, was large enough
for two persons to walk abreast; its walls were high and dry, and the
ground was covered with a fine yellow sand, which completely stifled
the sound of steps. The gallery had several turnings.
After a short time the young man reached a room which at the moment
served for a stable for his three horses.
The animals appeared frightened; they were drooping their ears, and
violently snorting, as they tried to break the cords which bound them
to the manger, furnished with a copious supply of provender.
The painter patted them with his hand, caressed them, and tried to
reassure them, and then continued his investigations.
The further he advanced into the gallery, the more the noise became
intense. It was no longer cries and trampling that he heard, but the
sound of firearms, and the clashing of sabres.
Doubt was no longer possible; a furious combat was being fought a few
steps from the entry of the cavern.
This certainty, far from stopping the young man, increased his desire
to know positively what was passing; he almost ran to reach the end of
the gallery.
There he was obliged to stop; an enormous stone hermetically sealed the
entrance of the cavern.
The young man, nevertheless, was not discouraged by this apparently
insurmountable obstacle.
This stone could evidently be moved; but what means could he employ to
obtain that result? He knew not.
Then, with the help of his lantern, he proceeded to examine the stone
above, below, and on the sides, seeking how he might succeed in
removing it.
For nearly half an hour he gave himself up to an inspection as careful
as it was useless, and he began to despair of discovering the secret
which evidently existed, when suddenly he thought he saw the stone
slightly move.
He looked more attentively. Yes, the stone was gently moved, and was,
by degrees, coming out of its cell.
Emile was a bold fellow, endowed with a large share of coolness and
energy. His mind was made up in a moment, and mentally thanking the
individual, whoever he was, who was sparing him the long and fatiguing
labour which he did not know how to bring to a successful termination,
he quickly placed himself in concealment in a corner of the gallery,
placed his lantern on the ground near him, taking care to cover it with
his hat, so that its light might not be perceived. Seizing a pistol
in each hand, to be ready for anything, he waited with his eyes fixed
on the stone, which, owing to the numerous fissures in the walls of
the gallery, he could easily distinguish--a prey to a strange emotion,
which caused his heart to beat violently, and his blood to rush to his
brain.
His watching was not long. Scarcely had he concealed himself before the
stone was detached and rolled on the ground, and a man, holding in his
hand a carbine, the barrel of which was still smoking, quickly entered
the cavern.
The man leant forward towards the aperture, appeared to listen for a
few seconds, and then stood up, murmuring loud enough for the young man
to hear him.
"They come, but too late; the tiger has now escaped."
And skilfully aiding himself with the barrel of the carbine, as with a
lever, he rapidly replaced the stone in its previous position.
"Search, search, _perros malditos,_" said the unknown, with an ironical
sneer, "I do not fear you now."
And with the greatest coolness he proceeded to reload his gun; but the
painter did not give him time to do so. Rushing from his concealment,
and removing the hat which covered his lantern, he stood face to face
with the unknown, and, presenting his pistols:
"Who are you? What do you want?" he demanded. The unknown made a
movement of surprise and flight, stepped back apace, and letting fall
his gun:
"Eh! What is this?" cried he; "Am I, then, betrayed?"
"Betrayed!" repeated the Frenchman, prudently placing his foot on
the carbine; "The expression seems to me rather strange from your
mouth, Señor; especially after the manner in which you have introduced
yourself here."
But it was only the work of a minute for the unknown to regain his
coolness, and become completely master of himself.
"Replace your pistols in your girdle, Señor," said he; "they are not
wanted here; you have nothing to fear from me."
"I am pleased to hear it," answered the painter; "but what guarantee do
you give me?"
"My word as a gentleman," he replied, with dignity.
Although the painter had been but a few months in America, he had been
often enough in a position to study the character of the inhabitants
of the country, to know what reliance he might place on this word so
proudly given. So, after having affirmatively nodded his head:
"I accept it," said he, uncocking his pistols, and placing them in his
girdle.
The unknown picked up his gun.
Without, the noise still continued, but its character had changed; it
was no longer a combat which was heard, but the sound of iron striking
the ground, and loud cries; they were seeking the fugitive.
"Come, follow me," pursued the young man; "you must not remain any
longer here."
The unknown smiled with an air of raillery.
"They will not find me," said he; "let them search."
"As you please; come, let us talk."
"Talk--be it so."
"Who are you?"
"You see--a _proscrit_."
"Just so; but there are various kinds of _proscrits_."
"I am of the worst kind," said the other, smiling.
"Hum!" cried the young man, "What do you mean?"
"What I say--nothing else. At the end of a desperate combat, fought by
me against my enemies, as I had fallen into an ambuscade, I have been
conquered just at the moment when I thought I had gained the victory.
After seeing all my companions fall around me, I have been obliged to
fly."
"That is the fortune of war," said the young man, philosophically; "you
know this retreat, then?"
"Apparently, since you see I have taken refuge in it."
"True; you do not fear that you will be discovered?"
"Impossible; nobody knows of the existence of the place."
"I, however--I know it."
"Yes, you; but you are a _proscrit_, like myself."
"How do you know that?"
"I suppose so; otherwise you would not be here."
"Possibly; but as I know it, others may know it--especially as I did
not discover it myself."
"Yes, but he who has told you, and who has brought you here, wishes, no
doubt, to place you in a position where you will not run the risk of
falling into the hands of those who seek you. He must be master of his
secret."
"Well, I give up any more discussion with you, for you answer
everything with a knock-down logic. In my turn, I give you my word of
honour as a Frenchman, that you have nothing to fear from me, and that
I will serve you in all I can."
"Thank you," laconically answered the unknown, holding out his hand; "I
expected nothing less from you."
"The tumult appears to go farther off; your pursuers, no doubt, give up
seeking for you any longer. Follow me; I am, I believe, in a position
to offer you better hospitality than you think."
"At the present moment, I want two things."
"What?"
"Food, and two hours sleep."
"And then--?"
"Then--unhappily that does not depend upon you."
"What is it, then?"
"A good horse to carry me as quick as possible to rejoin my companions,
that I have left twenty leagues from here."
"Very well You shall first eat; then you shall sleep; then, when you
have reposed long enough, you shall choose which of my horses suits you
best, and you shall set out."
"Will you do that, indeed?" cried the unknown, with a thrill of joy.
"Why should I not do it, since I promise it?"
"You are right. Pardon me; I did not know what I was saying."
"Come then, proceed."
"Well, let us go."
They quitted the extremity of the gallery, and proceeded to the room.
"There are the horses," said the young man, as he passed through the
stable.
"Good!" simply said the other.
When they were in the cavern, the unknown looked around him with wonder.
"What does this mean?" said he; "Do you really live here, then?"
"For a time, yes. Have you not guessed that I, like yourself, am
proscribed?"
"How? you--a Frenchman!"
"Nationality has nothing to do with the matter," said the young man,
laughing; "sit down and eat." And after having brought forward a chair,
he placed provisions on the table.
"And you--will you not also eat?" asked the unknown.
"Pardon--I intend to keep you company."
The two took their places, and began the meal.
"Look you," said the unknown, after a pause, "I wish to give you a
decided proof of the entire confidence I have in you."
"You do me honour."
"Would you like to gain 15,000 piastres?"
"Pooh!" said the young man, with a pout.
"You do not care for money?" said the unknown, with astonishment.
"Upon my word, no! It is not worth the trouble you have to get it."
"But it is easy for you, without the least trouble, to gain this money."
"That is another affair. Let me see your plan."
"It is very simple."
"So much the better."
"Have you heard of four Pincheyra brothers?"
"Often."
"Favourably or not?"
"Good and bad, but especially bad."
"Good! There are so many tongues of scandal."
"That is true. Go on."
"You know that a price is put on their heads?"
"Ah! Ah! Ah!"
"You did not know it?"
"How should I know it? It does not concern me, I suppose."
"More than you think: I am a Pincheyra," said he, looking at him
fixedly.
"Bah!" cried the young man, turning round upon his chair so as to
examine his guest more at his ease; "It is a strange meeting."
"Is it not? I am Don Santiago Pincheyra, the second of the four
brothers."
"Very good, I am delighted at having made your acquaintance."
"My head is worth 15,000 piastres."
"That is a pretty sum. I doubt whether mine, which I value very much,
is worth so great an amount."
"You do not understand what I mean."
"Upon my word, no; not the least in the world."
"Give me up; they will give you the money, and, more than that, they
will pardon you."
The Frenchman knitted his eyebrows; his eyes flashed, and a livid
paleness covered his face.
"_Vive Dieu!_" cried he, striking the table with his fist, "Do you know
that you insult me, _caballero?_"
Don Santiago remained motionless and smiling; he held out his hand to
the young man, and, inviting him to resume his seat he had so suddenly
quitted:
"On the contrary," said he, "I give you a proof of the confidence I
have in your honour, inasmuch as without your having asked who I am, I
have told you; and now, knowing that I am completely in your power, I
am going to stretch myself in your hammock, where I shall sleep under
your protection as tranquilly as if I were in the midst of my friends."
"Well, sir," answered the young man, still with some little resentment,
"I admit your explanation; only, if you choose to make yourself known
to me, you should have done it in some other way than by attacking my
honour."
"I confess that I am wrong, and I ask pardon for it again, Señor; it
is more than a man like me is accustomed to do. So give me your honest
hand, and forget it."
The young man took the hand that the Pincheyra offered him, and resumed
his place at the table beside him.
They continued their meal without any fresh disagreeable incident.
The Pincheyra was so overcome by fatigue, that, towards the end of the
repast, he fell asleep talking.
The painter understood the effort which the Pincheyra was making, and
put an end to his suffering, striking him on the shoulder.
"What do you want?" asked he.
"Merely to tell you that now you have appeased your appetite, you have
another want, more imperious still, to satisfy; it is time that you
went to sleep, so as to be speedily in a position to join your friends."
"True," said Don Santiago, laughing, "I am sleeping as I sit; I really
do not know how to excuse myself for such ill manners before you."
"_Pardieu!_ by lying down; that, I think, is the only thing you have to
do at this moment."
"Upon my word, you are right; I will not make any fuss about it, and
since you are so good a companion, I will, without any further delay,
profit by your counsel."
In speaking thus, he rose with some little difficulty, so overcome was
he by fatigue, and, aided by the young man, he stretched himself on the
hammock, where he soon fell asleep.
Again free to give himself up to his own thoughts, the young man lit a
cigar, installed himself comfortably in a seat, and, while digesting
his breakfast, he began to reflect on this new episode of his varied
life which had just been unexpectedly grafted on the others, and which
would, perhaps, still more complicate the numberless difficulties of
the position in which he found himself.
"This time," said he, "I can boldly say that I have had no hand in what
has happened, and that this man has really come to me when I by no
means sought him, as he knew the cavern before me. How will all this
finish? Suppose Tyro does not arrive! Devoted as the brave fellow may
be to me, I fear the allurement of 15,000 piastres--a very large sum
for anyone who knows how to gain it honestly--may induce him to give up
my guest and myself, which would be excessively disagreeable."
Several hours thus passed, during which the Montonero chief slept
soundly. The Frenchman faithfully watched over his bed, and all the
while gave himself up to reflections which gradually became more and
more sombre.
At last, about one o'clock in the afternoon, Emile thought that the
Montonero had sufficiently slept. He approached him, and touched him
lightly on the shoulder, to awaken him.
The latter instantly opened his eyes, and bounded like a coyote out of
the hammock.
"What is the matter?" demanded he, in a low voice.
"Nothing that I know of," answered the other.
"Then, why wake me, when I was sleeping so well?" said he, gaping.
"Because you have slept enough."
"Ah!" said the other.
"Yes, it is time to go."
"Time to go! already! You are chary of your hospitality, master. Well,
let us say nothing more about it. I will do what you wish," added he,
in a feigned tone; "I do not wish to embarrass you any longer with my
presence."
"You do not embarrass me, Señor," answered the young man; "if it only
depended upon me, you might remain here as long as you please. You
cannot compromise me more than I am already."
"Perhaps; but on whom does it depend, then?"
"On the Indian servant who has concealed me here, and who, probably,
will not be long before he pays me a visit. Consider whether it would
suit you to be seen by him."
"Not the least in the world! To trust myself to an Indian would be to
be irretrievably lost. And you say that he is coming here soon?"
"I do not know precisely when he will come, but I expect him from one
moment to another."
"The deuce! With your permission, _I_ will not expect him. If you will
permit me, I will set out at once."
"Come and choose your horse."
The Montonero seized his carbine, which he loaded as he walked, and
they went into the gallery.
The choice did not take long. The three horses were equally young, full
of blood, fire, and swiftness. The Montonero, a good judge, saw this at
a glance, and took one haphazard.
"What is unfortunate for me in all this," said he, quickly saddling his
horse, "is, that I am obliged to leave the same way as I came, and that
I run the risk of falling into an ambuscade. There used to be a second
gallery in this cavern, but it has been stopped up long ago, I suppose?"
"No, not at all. This gallery is still there. You can easily go out
that way."
"If it is so, I am saved," cried the Montonero, with joy.
"Silence!" said the young man, in a low voice, rapidly putting his hand
on his companion's mouth; "I hear someone walking."
The Pincheyra listened, and heard the sound of steps close by.
"Oh!" cried he, with a gesture of despair.
"Remain here! Let me act--I'll answer for all," the young man quickly
whispered.
And he briskly darted into the cavern. It was time that he came. Tyro
was about to look for him in the gallery.