"You can never know what these two days have been for me," the general
said as he and Alaire lingered over their meal. "They will afford me
something to think about all my life! It is a delicious comfort to know
that you trust me, that you do not dislike me. And you do not dislike
me, eh?"
"Why, of course not. I have a great deal for which to thank you."
General Longorio fingered his wineglass and stared into it. "I am not
like other men. Would to God I were, for then I could close my eyes
and--forget. You have your great tragedy--it is old to you; but mine,
dear lady, is just beginning. I can look forward to nothing except
unhappiness." He sighed deeply.
"I'm sorry you are unhappy," Alaire parried. "Surely you have every
pleasant prospect."
"It would seem so. I am young, rich, a hero, I serve my country in
glorious fashion, but what is all that if there is no pretty one to
care? Even the meanest peon has his woman, his heart's treasure. I
would give all I have, I would forego my hope of heaven and doom myself
to eternal tortures, for one smile from a pair of sweet lips, one look
of love. I am a man of iron--yes, an invincible soldier--and yet I have
a heart, and a woman could rule me."
"You say you have a heart." Alaire studied her vis-avis curiously as he
met her eyes with his mournful gaze. "How is it that I hear such
strange stories about you, general?"
"What stories?"
"Stories--too terrible to mention. I wonder if they can be true."
"Lies, all of them!" Longorio asserted.
"For instance, they tell me that you shoot your prisoners?"
"Of course!" Then, at her shocked exclamation, he explained: "It is a
necessity of war. Listen, señora! We have twelve million Indians in
Mexico and a few selfish men who incite them to revolt. Everywhere
there is intrigue, and nowhere is there honor. To war against the
government is treason, and treason is punishable by death. To permit
the lower classes to rise would result in chaos, black anarchy,
indescribable outrages against life and property. There is but one way
to pacify such people--exterminate them! Mexico is a civilized nation;
there is no greater in the world; but she must be ruled with an iron
hand. Soldiers make rulers. I am still a young man, and--at present
there is but one other capable of this gigantic task. For the time
being, therefore, I permit myself to serve under him, and--I salute
him. Viva Potosi!" The speaker lifted his glass and drank. "Madero was
a wicked believer in spells and charms; he talked with the dead. He,
and those who came after him, fired the peons to revolt and despoiled
our country, leaving her prone and bleeding. We of the Cientificos have
set ourselves to stop her wounds and to nourish her to life again. We
shall drive all traitors into the sea and feed them to the sharks. We
shall destroy them all, and Mexico shall have peace. But I am not a
bloodthirsty man. No, I am a poet and a lover at heart. As great a
patriot as I am, I could be faithless to my country for one smile from
the woman I adore."
Alaire did not color under the ardent glance that went with this
declaration. She deliberately changed the subject.
"This morning while we were in the office of the jeje de armas," she
said, "I saw a poor woman with a baby--she was scarcely more than a
child herself--whose husband is in prison. She told me how she had come
all the way from the country and is living with friends, just to be
near him. Every day she goes to the carcel, but is denied admission,
and every day she comes to plead with the jefe de armas for her
husband's life. But he will not see her, and the soldiers only laugh at
her tears."
"A common story! These women and their babies are very annoying,"
observed the general.
"She says that her husband is to be shot."
"Very likely! Our prisons are full. Doubtless he is a bad man."
"Can't you do something?"
"Eh?" Longorio lifted his brows in the frankest inquiry.
"That poor girl with her little, bare, brown-eyed baby was pitiful."
Alaire leaned forward with an earnest appeal in her face, and her host
smiled.
"So? That is how it is, eh? What is her name?"
"Inez Garcia. The husband's name is Juan."
"Of course. These peladors are all Juans. You would like to appear as
an angel of mercy, eh? Your heart is touched?"
"Deeply."
"Bastante! There is no more to be said." Longorio rose and went into
the next room where were certain members of his staff. After a time he
returned with a paper in his hand, and this he laid before Alaire. It
was an order for the release of Juan Garcia. "The salvo conducto which
will permit Juan and his Inez and their Juanito to return to their farm
is being made out," he explained. "Are you satisfied?"
Alaire looked up wonderingly, "I am deeply grateful. You overwhelm me.
You are--a strange man."
"Dear lady, I live to serve you. Your wish is my law. How can I prove
it further?" As he stood beside her chair the fervor of his gaze caused
her eyes to droop and a faint color to come into her cheeks. She felt a
sudden sense of insecurity, for the man was trembling; the evident
desire to touch her, to seize her in his arms, was actually shaking him
like an ague. What next would he do? Of what wild extravagance was he
not capable? He was a queer mixture of fire and ice, of sensuality and
self-restraint. She knew him to be utterly lawless in most things, and
yet toward her he had shown scrupulous restraint. What possibilities
were in a man of his electric temperament, who had the strength to
throttle his fiercest longings?
The strained, throbbing silence that followed Longorio's last words did
more to frighten the woman than had his most ardent advances.
After a time he lifted Alaire's hand; she felt his lips hot and damp
upon her flesh; then he turned and went away with the document.
When he reappeared he was smiling. "These Garcias shall know who
interceded for them. You shall have their thanks," said he.
"No, no! It is enough that the man is free."
"How now?" The general was puzzled. "What satisfaction can there be in
a good deed unless one receives public credit and thanks for it? I am
not like that."
He would have lingered indefinitely over the table, but Alaire soon
rose to go, explaining:
"I must finish my disagreeable task now, so that I can go home
to-morrow."
"To-morrow!" her host cried in dismay. "No, no! You must wait--"
"My husband is expecting me."
This statement was a blow; it seemed to crush Longorio, who could only
look his keen distress.
As they stepped out into the street Alaire was afforded that treat
which Longorio had so thoughtfully arranged for her. There in the
gutter stood Inez Garcia with her baby in her arms, and beside her the
ragged figure of a young man, evidently her Juan. The fellow was
emaciated, his face was gaunt and worn and frightened, his feet were
bare even of sandals, the huge peaked straw hat which he clutched over
his breast was tattered, and yet in his eye there was a light.
They had waited patiently, these Garcias, heedful of Longorio's orders,
and now they burst into a torrent of thanks. They flung themselves to
their knees and kissed the edge of Alaire's dress. Their instructions
had been plain, and they followed them to the letter, yet their
gratitude was none the less genuine for being studied. The little
mother's hysteria, for instance, could not have been entirely assumed,
and certainly no amount of rehearsals could have taught the child to
join his cries so effectively to his parents'. Between them all they
made such a racket as to summon a crowd, and Dolores, who had also
awaited her mistress, was so deeply stirred that she wept with them.
General Longorio enjoyed this scene tremendously, and his beaming eyes
expressed the hope that Alaire was fully satisfied with the moment. But
the Garcias, having been thoroughly coached, insisted upon rendering
full measure of thanks, and there seemed to be no way of shutting them
off until the general ordered them to their feet.
"That is enough!" he declared. "Hombre, you are free, so go about your
business and fight no more with those accursed rebels."
Juan, of course, was ready at this moment to fight for any one he was
told to fight for, particularly Longorio himself, and he so declared.
His life was at the service of the benefactor who had spared him; his
wife and baby lived only to bless the illustrious general.
"They look very poor," said Alaire, and opened her purse; but Longorio
would not permit her to give. Extracting a large roll of paper money
from his own pocket, he tossed it, without counting, to Juan, and then
when the onlookers applauded he loudly called to one of his officers,
saying:
"Oiga! Give these good friends of mine two horses, and see that they
are well cared for. Now, Juan," he addressed the dazed countryman, "I
have one order for you. Every night of your life you and your pretty
wife must say a prayer for the safety and happiness of this beautiful
lady who has induced me to spare you. Do you promise?"
"We promise!" eagerly cried the pair.
"Good! See that you keep your word. On the day that you forget for the
first time Luis Longorio will come to see you. And then what?" He
scowled at them fiercely.
"We will not forget," the Garcias chorused.