“Another little glass of _mate_, _comisario_?”
The police commissioner of the camp sat opposite don Carlos Rojas in the
latter’s living room. A half-breed girl, standing very straight, was
looking at the two men with her slanting eyes, waiting for the master’s
orders.
In front of them on the table were two little calabash shells full of a
decoction made from the _mate_ herb, and they were sipping the liquid
through the silver “straw” that is known in these regions as a
_bombilla_. No sooner did the servant hear the gurgling of the liquid in
the straws, which indicated that the contents of the cup was getting
low, than she ran to the stove and brought the “peacock” or _pava_ as
the kettle is called, from the curved neck of which she poured boiling
water on the soaking leaves at the bottom of the calabashes, and filled
these unique goblets to the brim.
Rojas and his guest, as they talked, took frequent sips of their tea. It
was evident from the rancher’s expression that something had gone wrong
with him. As a matter of fact he had lost another steer, and he angrily
attributed this loss to Manos Duras who, of late, had sold altogether
too many pieces of beef to the camp at the Dam. As Rojas himself was its
official victualler, the loss of his trade, in addition to the
disappearance of his steers, seemed to him an insufferable outrage.
He had sent in hot haste for the commissioner, and together, after don
Rojas had told his suspicions, they had counted his herd. It was certain
that one was lacking. And, as he talked with don Roque, the rancher
worked himself up to the point where he came out flatly with the
statement that there was no justice to be had in Rio Negro.
“But,” protested the _comisario_ in a tone of discouragement, “I sent
that fellow up to the capital of the territory three separate times,
under guard, in fact he went as a prisoner, and each time he got off
scot-free. No proofs! What could we do? No one will testify against
him!”
But Rojas continued his protests, and the commissioner to quiet his
growing irritation, promised to make a more determined effort than ever
this time to bring the thief to justice.
However, he had at his disposal very few means of carrying out his
promise. The police forces at the settlement consisted of four lazy
rascals, whose uniforms had grown old and spotted in the service, and
whose only weapons were cavalry swords. When they had to pursue a
criminal, the well-to-do inhabitants lent the police their rifles; and
their horses, of course, were gaunt nags, too ill-nourished to be a
menace to anyone intent on escaping.
“That’s what comes of being a federal republic,” lamented don Roque.
“The states at least have their own police system. We in the territories
who have to depend on the Federal Government for our protection, are so
far away from Buenos Aires that they forget all about us. There’s
nothing for us to do but trust to our wits for our safety.”
“Yes, here we are, deserted you might say,” continued don Roque,
“turning into savings! After all, this is nothing but Patagonia, and it
is only a few years ago that anything like civilization began here at
all. Meanwhile the rest of the Argentine has forged ahead at a
breathless pace in less than half a century.... Pucha! It’s worth seeing
just the same!”
And for the moment they forgot their immediate worries, while they
talked of that part of their country which had progressed with such
dizzying rapidity within their lifetimes. But don Roque had a jealous
enthusiasm for Patagonia also.
“Desert though it is at this moment, you’ll see it bloom yet, and in a
short time from now, too, when this soil begins to get water. And it’s
lucky for us that this land has such an ugly face.... If it hadn’t it
would have been stolen from us long ago!”
Wound up by his own words he went on to tell how he had read in a
magazine about that _gringo_ Charles Darwin, the same who had discovered
how we had all come from monkeys. He, too, it seemed, had wandered
around these parts, when, as a youth, he had landed at Bahia Blanca,
arriving there in a British frigate in which he was making a tour of the
world. He had taken it into his head to study the plants and animals of
the region, not an arduous task because there were so few specimens of
either. Finally, in despair, he gave up his search for new flora and
went away, leaving to this arid plateau the name “Land of Desolation.”
“That was doing us a favor, if the _gringo_ but knew it! Just as soon as
people learn what this country is like when it’s irrigated, the English
are sure to take it from us! Didn’t they take our _Islas Malvinas_, that
they now call Fauckland Islands?”
Rojas too began to talk of past times, lamenting the fact that his
forebears had not been able to see where the true riches of the country
lay. It had been their misfortune to become well-to-do before the
generation of great and rapid fortune-making in the Argentine.
It was in 1870 that the government at Buenos Aires, growing weary of
having the Indians, still in a state of savagery, at its very gates,
completed the work of the _Conquistadores_, by sending a military
expedition out to the desert to take possession of twenty thousand
leagues of land, practically all that was capable of cultivation.
“The government sold that land for 1500 _pesos_. The league and the
_peso_ in those days was worth only a few _centavos_. More than that, it
allowed several years’ time for payment, and even printed the names of
purchasers in the official newspaper, declaring them ‘well-deserving of
the country’. The soldiers who had taken part in the expedition also
received land as a reward for their services. It wasn’t long before they
sold the titles to their acres to the store-keepers in exchange for gin,
and canned food. And these are the lands that now supply wheat and beef
to half the world! On them have arisen numberless villages and towns.
Today a league of land, which once cost a few cents, is worth millions.
The owners of all this property have no other merit than that they kept
their land, without cultivating it, and with no wish to sell it, waiting
for the European immigration which would give it its value. My
grandfather was already rich in those days and owned a big ranch. He
didn’t want to buy any of the new property. If he had only known!”
Rojas at the moment was quite forgetful of how he had squandered the
better part of his inheritance; the thought of the enormous fortune his
family might have amassed had it been willing to take advantage of an
opportunity provided by the rapid expansion of the country, and seized
by so many others, fascinated and tormented him.
But at this point the conversation of the two Argentinians was
interrupted by Celinda’s arrival. Dutifully wearing her riding skirt,
she came in to give her father a kiss, and greet the _comisario_. Taking
advantage of the moment during which don Carlos left them to get a box
of cigars, don Roque said teasingly to the girl,
“Haven’t I seen you wear a different riding suit when you were out on
the mesa!”
Celinda smiled, at the same time indicating by a graceful little
threatening gesture, that he must be more discreet.
“Be careful,” she said. “Don’t let my old man hear you.”
While the two men lit their cigars and went on with their talk about
Manos Duras, and how he was to be punished for his lawlessness, Celinda
knowing the conversation was likely to be a long one, left the ranch,
demurely riding her horse with a side-saddle.
A half hour later, however, she was cantering along the river bank;
wearing boy’s clothes and mounted on a different horse. Suddenly she
caught sight of a group of riders approaching, and stopped to
reconnoitre.
Canterac, inspired by his desire to arouse the _marquesa’s_ interest in
him, had invited her to ride on the river path. It would, he believed,
give her a heightened estimate of him when she saw the work that was
being carried out under his direction. She would realize then that he
was the real manager of the enterprise, when she saw hundreds of men
obeying his orders....
Elena and the Frenchman were in the lead. Behind them rode Pirovani, who
hadn’t a very steady seat, and lurched about rather grotesquely on his
saddle, making determined efforts nevertheless to get his horse between
Elena’s and the Frenchman’s. Last of the cavalcade came the _marqués_,
Watson and Moreno.
As Elena and Canterac rode past Celinda the two women looked at one
another. The _marquesa_ smiled, as though eager to speak to the young
girl; but with a childish frown, Celinda turned severe eyes on her.
“She’s nothing but a girl,” said Canterac, “a mischievous little thing,
full of pranks--and, although she looks like a boy, I shouldn’t wonder
if she had it in her to turn any man’s head. The people hereabouts call
her _Flor de Rio Negro_.”
Elena, offended by the girl’s attitude, looked haughtily at her.
“_Flor_, perhaps,” she commented, “but a little too wild!”
And followed by her escort she rode on.
This brief conversation had been carried on in French, so that Celinda
caught but a few words of it; but it was easy to guess that the
_marquesa_ had said something disparaging, and Celinda did not restrain
her impulse to make a grimace at the intruder’s unconscious back.
The other riders then drew near, and the _marqués_ ceremoniously greeted
the young girl. Moreno, however, did not even see her, so intent was he
in watching the group ahead. As for Richard Watson, he indicated by his
manner that he intended riding on with the other members of the party;
and he pretended not to understand Celinda’s perfectly obvious gestures.
She let him go on, though she wore an expression of childish annoyance.
Suddenly, however, she repented of her meekness, and pulling on the
reins, wheeled her horse around and followed the group.
As she rode, her right hand suddenly caught up the lassoo tied to the
front of the saddle and threw it at the American ... a tug at the rope
... and Watson, to escape rolling out of the saddle, had to stop and
turn his horse back; his companions meanwhile, rode on, unaware of his
capture.
The thong still tight about his shoulders, Richard rode up to the girl;
he was too much annoyed to free himself and ride away; better have it
out!
“Come here,” she said smiling, as she drew in the rope. “Tell me what
you mean by going around with that woman--without my permission!”
In a voice betraying his annoyance, Watson replied sharply,
“You have no rights over me, señorita Rojas! I shall go about with
anyone I like!”
Celinda grew pale. She had not expected that tone. But very quickly she
recovered herself, and imitating the young man’s serious manner, she
replied,
“Mr. Watson, I have over you this right at least. I do care about what
happens to you, and I don’t like to see you in bad company!”
Conquered by the girl’s comic seriousness, young Watson burst out
laughing; and then Celinda laughed too.
“You know how I am, _gringuito_.... I don’t like to see you with that
woman. Anyway she’s too old for you.... Swear to me that you’ll do what
I ask--or I won’t let you go!”
Watson swore solemnly, with hand up-raised, making determined efforts to
preserve his solemnity. Celinda loosened the rope and the two young
people set off in the opposite direction to that taken by Elena and her
party.
Since the day when the Frenchman had shown the _marquesa_ the
engineering works at the Dam, somewhat boastfully exhibiting his
authority over the workmen, Pirovani had felt that he had lost ground;
and he was eager at any cost to regain it.
An inspiration came to him one morning as he leaned on his elbow over
the railing of his balcony. He knew now how to steal a march on his
rival! Within half an hour one of the Italian’s foremen was in
conference with his employer.
This fellow, a Chilian, crafty, ingenious in finding a way out of tight
places, was frequently called upon by the contractor to handle
difficult missions for him. He was known as “the Friar” by his
compatriots, an allusion to his sojourn during one period of his
adventurous life with the Dominicans at Valparaiso. As a result of this
experience he not only knew how to read and write; he had also acquired
a taste for unusual words, which he rendered more unusual still by
stressing their syllables to his own taste. Soft-voiced and
courteous-mannered, he peppered his conversation with poetic phrases. A
little incident of two fatal knife thrusts administered to a friend had
caused him to abandon his native land.
Foreseeing that his master’s summons would mean a long journey, he had
ridden over on his excellent mare. As he dismounted, Pirovani came out,
and gave his henchman a vigorous slap on the shoulder by way of
indicating the affectionate confidence he felt in him.
“Listen, _roto_,” said the contractor, adopting the Chilians’ own
ironical nickname for themselves, “I want you to get to the station as
fast as you can. The train for Buenos Aires will go through in two
hours, and you are going to take it.”
In spite of his half-breed impassivity, the Friar could not suppress a
gesture of astonishment at hearing that he was being sent to the
capital.
“Just as soon as you get there,” Pirovani continued, “give this list to
my agent, Fernando--you know him. Tell him he is to buy these things at
once, and give you the packages. You are to take the next train back. I
expect you to make the round trip in five days.”
The Chilian listened with utmost gravity to these commands. He
concluded from his employer’s manner that the mission being entrusted to
him must be of tremendous importance and felt agreeably flattered at
having been chosen to accomplish it.
Pirovani thrust a fistfull of bills into his hand and bade him good-by,
turning his back on him with the brisk satisfaction of a general who has
just commanded the manœuvres sure to bring a quick and decisive victory.
With a frown indicative of profound thought, the Friar went down the
steps.
“This must be an order for steel for the works,” he reflected. “Or
perhaps he’s sending me for money....”
Seeing that Pirovani had retired into his cottage, he gave up his
attempt to think out a reason for his errand, deeming it simpler to open
the envelope entrusted to him. Then he stood in the middle of the street
reading the papers it contained.
His first glance at the several lines of the document did not enlighten
him.
“_One dozen bottles of ‘Jardin Florido’._”
“_Idem, ‘Nymphs and Undines’._”
“_Six dozen boxes of ‘Moonlight Soap’_”....
The bewildered foreman went on with the remaining pages of the thick
packet. He was beginning to understand; but the more he understood, the
greater was his astonishment. Was it for this that he was being sent to
Buenos Aires with orders to return at once?...
“Holy smoke!” he muttered, “this can’t all be for one female! There’s
enough here for the Grand Turk’s harem!”
But, as the prospect of a trip to Buenos Aires pleased him, even though
he would be able to remain there only a few hours, he cheerfully mounted
his horse, and galloped off hot-foot to the station.
Of all the _marquesa’s_ nightly callers, the calmest, to judge by
appearance, was Moreno. As his work kept him busy only about one day a
week, he spent the rest of the time reading in the window of the frame
house where he had set up his office. He was a greedy and insatiable
reader, devouring two and sometimes three novels daily. His passion for
novels of all kinds was one of long standing; it had grown worse in the
many hours of solitude he spent at la Presa. When everybody else went
away to work in the morning, leaving him alone in his rustic office, he
had no distraction of any other kind.
It was after the arrival of the Torre Biancas that his literary
preferences, up to that time not clearly formulated, took definite
shape. He determined henceforth to read nothing but those tales the
scene of which was the so-called world of fashion, with heroes and
heroines who were personages of supposedly high society. Moreover, now
that he was rubbing elbows with some of the most distinguished
representatives of Parisian _high-life_, he could judge of whether these
novels were true descriptions of the subject they attempted to treat, or
not.
At times he would stop reading and look up at the ceiling with an
ecstatic expression, while a desire whispered in his brain,
“Oh, to be the hero of such a story! Oh, to be loved by a woman of high
society!”
One afternoon when Moreno was least expecting him Canterac appeared at
his door on horseback. As a rule he was at that time of day always at
the dam. Something unusual must have happened ... the captain would not
be likely otherwise to come and see him.
The horseman rode up to the window and shook hands with Moreno. With
military abruptness, avoiding all preambles, he began,
“I wanted to talk to you a minute before tonight so you can get a letter
off in today’s mail.... It’s about a present for the _marquesa_. Poor
woman, in this desert of ours she has none of the things she’s
accustomed to, and if you remember, a few weeks ago she happened to
mention that she misses perfumes so much....”
The engineer took some papers out of a leather wallet, and gave them to
Moreno.
“I clipped these out of some catalogues that the Galician fellow at the
store gave me. Of course it took him a while to get them for me from
Buenos Aires. I should have had them three days ago, so as to send the
order by the other train. But, to come to the point.... You have a lot
of friends in Buenos Aires, won’t you get one of them to buy these
things for me? And take the money out of my pay for the month....”
Moreno with a nod, took the catalogue clippings.
“I hope Pirovani won’t get ahead of me in this matter,” Canterac went
on. “The fellow is more insufferable every day.”
The captain had left him to return to his work at the Dam. Moreno
neglected his novel a moment longer to examine the catalogue lists and
prices; and as he did so his eyes grew round with amazement; in fact
they became almost as round and blank as the shell-rimmed glasses
covering them.
For the list marked was a long one; it contained not only perfumery, but
all kinds of toilet articles. Evidently the Captain had plunged into the
catalogue as though it were a newly discovered continent, appropriating
everything he encountered.
“All this mounts up to more than a thousand _pesos_,” said the paymaster
to himself. “And Canterac’s pay is only 800 _pesos_ a month.”
Methodical and prudent as he was, a man of figures and accounts, he felt
outraged at this lack of balance between income and expenditure. But
after a little reflection he began to smile to himself. After all, this
lavishness was easy to understand! The _marquesa_ was so charming ...
and she couldn’t be expected to live like an ordinary woman!
But all the rest of the afternoon Moreno was uneasy; he couldn’t keep
his attention on the novel he held in his hands. It would waver and
slowly sink to the table in front of him, thickly strewn with business
papers. Finally, with a frown, he picked up a sheet of writing paper and
with the expression of a child fearful of being caught telling a
whopper, he began to write--
“DEAR CLARA:
Send me, as soon as you get this, the frock coat I had made when we
were married. Things have changed here considerably. Quite
important persons are coming this way now and there are a good many
parties given for them. Naturally I want to make as good an
appearance as anybody else. It’s really quite important for my
advancement that I should....”
Here Moreno scratched his head with his pen handle; then, with a
remorseful expression, he went on writing until he had covered all four
pages of his letter paper.
Every evening now at the _marquesa’s tertulias_, Pirovani betrayed the
indecision and preoccupation of one who has something on his mind of
which he must speak, but whose emotions get the better of him before he
can begin.
After a week of hesitancy however he decided to postpone his offer no
longer; he reached this decision precisely on the evening when Moreno
counted on enjoying one of the most triumphant moments of his life.
Elena was wearing one of those evening dresses of hers the effect of
which she was constantly varying by the addition or removal of some
ornament so that her costumes always appeared new. Canterac and Torre
Bianca wore dinner dress, and Pirovani was displaying the majestic cut
of his swallow-tail. But, alas! He was no longer the only one to be so
arrayed; for, at the last moment, Moreno had arrived wearing the evening
clothes sent down by his wife. It was true that his clothes were modest
enough, and somewhat the worse for numerous years of service and moth
balls. But still they were formal evening dress, and robbed the
contractor of the distinction of being the only guest present to be thus
attired; as a consequence, Pirovani was so nervous that he chattered
like a magpie.
Watson and Robledo had compromised with their surroundings by putting on
dark suits; they felt obliged to change their clothes every evening now
so as not to strike too glaring a note in the picture of incongruous
elegance that was being created out of respect for Elena’s presence.
Watson was tired out by his day’s work; he was preoccupied moreover with
thinking of the meeting he had had in the late afternoon with Celinda
near her father’s ranch. Finally, after several more or less disguised
yawns, he got up to go to his own quarters. Elena could not conceal her
annoyance when he returned her look of cordial interest with a coolly
courteous bow, as though it were without the slightest regret that he
left her charming presence.
As, at that very moment, Canterac was engaged in conversation with the
_Marques_, and as Moreno was discussing something with Robledo, Pirovani
seized his opportunity.
“I haven’t dared say anything before, _Marquesa_, but now I feel that I
must.... This frame is unworthy of your beauty and elegance....”
He gave a depreciative glance about at the room and its furnishings.
“If you like, my house is at your disposal from tomorrow on. It is
yours, _marquesa_. I can live in the house of one of my employees.”
Elena, for some reason, did not betray great astonishment. One might
have said that she had been expecting this offer for a long time, or
even that she had been subtly suggesting it to the contractor. However,
she went through various gestures of protest, at the same time smiling
at Pirovani, and letting her glance rest caressingly on him.
Finally she weakened before his arguments, and promised to consider the
suggestion and consult her husband about it; she could not decide
alone....
While Robledo and Watson were at work the next day, she kept her
promise.
In spite of the submissiveness with which Torre Bianca usually accepted
his wife’s suggestions, he indicated in no uncertain terms that this
particular one scandalized him. Certainly he could not accept Pirovani’s
generosity!
“What will people think of his giving up his own house to us? Everyone
knows that he takes such enjoyment in it!”
No; he shook his head emphatically. Besides, all his class feeling awoke
at the thought of being under obligations to a man, for whom he felt no
dislike, it is true, but whose tastes he considered rather vulgar.
But Elena became irritable.
“Your friend Robledo is constantly doing us favors, and yet it doesn’t
seem to occur to you that people might think that strange! Why do you
think it so extraordinary that a new friend should express his interest
in us by letting us live in his house?”
And Torre Bianca, who was so accustomed to yield on every occasion to
his wife’s wishes, felt himself yielding once more at these words;
nevertheless he persisted for awhile longer in voicing his objections to
the idea, so that finally, by way of settling the matter, Elena said,
“Of course I understand your scruples ... but it isn’t as though the
house were being given to us ... it is simply rented. I insisted on that
point to Pirovani. You will pay him when the irrigation project begins
to bring us in some money.”
With a gesture of resignation, the marqués surrendered. Particularly
noticeable at the moment was his air of discouragement; and he looked
aged and sick, as though some secret malady were eating away his life.
“Do as you like. I have no desire but to see you happy.”
The following day Elena called on Pirovani. It had been arranged that
she was to see the house, and look it over thoroughly before moving.
The contractor, pale with emotion at being alone with her at last,
received her at the head of the stairs, and escorted her through the
various rooms. Elena, playing her part as mistress of the establishment,
at once ordered certain pieces of furniture to be moved about; the
Italian, meanwhile, overcome with admiration of her taste, looked
significantly at Sebastiana the housekeeper; he wanted her too to share
his ecstasy over the titled lady’s exquisite discrimination.
Finally they reached the bedroom that was to be Elena’s henceforth. On
the dressing table and chairs, spread out in every available space,
were innumerable packages all carefully wrapped in tissue paper, tied
with ribbon, and sealed; and about each package hovered an aroma of
flowers and spices. Pirovani was opening them eagerly, revealing dozens
of flasks of perfumes, and boxes of delicate and extravagant soaps, as
well as handsome toilet articles; all the enormous order, in fact,
brought from Buenos Aires, and that now with its gilded labels, its
gorgeously lined cases, its glittering cut glass, caressed the eye and
at the same time flattered the sense with its perfumes suggestive of all
the marvellous blossoms of a Persian garden.
Elena passed from surprise to amazement; finally she burst out laughing,
uttering exclamations of amusement not untinged with mockery.
“How generous of you! But there’s enough here to start a perfume shop!”
Pirovani, quite white by this time, and growing bolder under the
_marquesa’s_ smiles, tried to get possession of her hand. But Elena,
with a malicious glance in her dark eyes, checkmated him at once.
“I know that this is a real present,” she said, “and that you are not
like those vulgar men who sell their gifts.... You want nothing from me
but appreciation, I am sure!”
Then, taking pity on the Italian’s embarrassment--alas! he had, as well
he knew, laid himself open to the charge of vulgarity, according to the
_marquesa’s_ definition--she extended her right hand graciously toward
his lips.
“That is for you,” she said.
But he had not yet learned how to kiss a lady’s hand with the proper
mixture of fervor and restraint; and Elena, abruptly putting an end to
his homage, shook her finger at him....
They went on then to the other rooms of the house, and the contractor,
as though repentant of his audacity, meekly followed his guest about;
and yet there were moments when he wished he had been more audacious
still; but above his conflicting sentiments persisted a sense of
triumph. The _marquesa’s_ white and fragrant hand had actually been
offered to his lips, and with what a gesture!
Ah, what good fortune to be able to offer a woman like that a house, and
servants, and the luxurious articles so indispensable to her comfort!...
With a smile Pirovani contemplated his recent success, and dreamed of
other successes to come....