The last of the customers to leave the _boliche_ that evening were going
home when Robledo stopped in front of the house Elena occupied.
He went softly up the stairs and, after a few seconds of hesitation,
knocked gently at the door. After a very brief interval it opened, and
Sebastiana appeared, thoroughly surprised at being summoned in this
fashion just as she was going to bed. Her coarse hair was arranged in
numerous braids, each one of which was tied at the end with a knot of
ribbon or string, and with her enormous arms she tried to conceal a part
of her copper-colored and exuberant bosom, freed from the compression of
her corset. Her wrathful eyes, which gave warning of the hailstorm of
abusive words with which she was planning to receive the importunate
disturber of her peace, softened at sight of Robledo, and before he had
time to speak, she was saying in the most amiable tone in the world,
“The mistress is in her bedroom, and the _señor marqués_ has gone out
with his accursed pistol case. I thought he was at your house ... but
come in, I’ll go call the _señora_.”
Robledo had good reason to know that Torre Bianca had gone to see him,
but he felt it imperative to speak to the _marquesa_. However, he
hesitated about stepping into the house. He had no desire to find
himself alone with Elena. Besides, his interview with her must be of the
briefest. Torre Bianca might return at any moment, and it would be
awkward to explain his presence there when a few minutes earlier he had
been talking with the _marqués_ at his house.
“I want to see your mistress for just a second.... It would be better if
she just leaned out of her bedroom window....”
The half-breed closed the door, and Robledo went along the outside
balcony past several windows. One of them opened a few moments later and
Elena, her hair hanging loose, and a dressing gown thrown negligently
about her shoulders, but leaving much of her arms and breast exposed,
leaned out.
She had gotten up quickly, and appeared startled. Even before Robledo
spoke she asked anxiously,
“Has something happened to Watson? Why are you here at this hour?”
Robledo smiled ironically; then he answered,
“Watson is quite well. My being here at such an hour as this is on some
other man’s account.”
He looked at her with severity and added slowly,
“Within a few hours’ time two men are going to kill one another. This is
a horrible absurdity which makes it quite impossible for me to sleep
tonight. So I have come to say to you, Elena, stop this frightful thing,
for heaven’s sake!”
As soon as she felt certain that Robledo’s business in no wise concerned
Watson, Elena replied, with little concealed ill-humor,
“What do you want me to do? They can fight if they choose. That’s what
men are born for.”
Robledo heard these words with a gesture of astonishment. How cruel they
sounded!
“Although I am a woman,” she continued, “these matters don’t alarm me.
Federico fought a duel for me when we were first married. Several men in
my country risked their lives in duels for me in the hope of making
themselves agreeable in this way. I never interfered in any of them.”
An expression of contempt passed over her face as she added,
“Do you really think that I am going to ask these two gentlemen not to
risk their precious lives on my account, just so afterwards they can ask
me for something in return? Anyway, if I interfered, each one of them
would believe that I was interested in him ... and I don’t care a snap
for either of them. If it were some other man who was concerned, I might
grant your request....”
Robledo raised his head slightly at the phrase “some other man,” and for
a moment saw clearly before him the image of his partner. The expression
in Elena’s eyes grew gentle.
“Go to bed and sleep peacefully, just as I shall, Robledo. Let those two
vain male creatures announce all they like that they are going to kill
one another. Nothing serious will happen, you’ll see!”
She made a motion as though to draw back into the bedroom, for a crowd
of “_jejenes_” and other insects attracted by her fragrant flesh were
beginning to swarm around her shoulders, and she had to ward them off by
constant slaps while she spoke.
“If you see Watson tell him that I expected him all day. With all this
commotion about the duel I suppose it was impossible for him to get
away.... Till tomorrow then, and rest easy! There’s no need to
worry....”
She closed the window, pretending a childish fear of the mosquitoes, and
Robledo retired, defeated.
At the same hour Canterac, seated at his work table, was finishing a
long letter with these words,
“ ...and this is my last request. I hope you will grant it. Good-by, my
sons! Forgive me!”
He folded the sheet of paper and put it in an envelope which he placed
methodically in the pocket of a coat hanging near him.
“If luck’s against me tomorrow,” he thought, “they’ll find this letter
on my person. Before the duel I’ll ask Watson to send it to my family,
in case....”
An hour later his opponent was entering Moreno’s lodgings.
The government employee had returned just a short time before from the
meeting with Canterac’s seconds. Pirovani spoke haltingly, struggling
hard to conceal his emotion.
He had just left two letters on Moreno’s table, one of them very bulky,
with the envelope still unsealed, showing the contents to be a folio of
close written sheets. The Italian had been writing most of the night,
trying to condense his affairs into such form as could be jotted down on
these sheets. He pointed to the less voluminous of the two letters.
“That is for my daughter,” he said gravely. “Send it to her if anything
final happens to me....”
Moreno tried to laugh as though he couldn’t at all believe in the
possibility of a fatality. But he stopped his feigned merriment abruptly
when the contractor went on in a still graver voice,
“This thicker envelope contains an authorization duly made out, by means
of which you will be able to collect the money the government owes me,
and other sums at the bank. A man as competent as you ought to find it
possible, by means of all that I have prepared for you in this packet,
to take over my business. I am also leaving a will, appointing you my
daughter’s guardian. You are the only man here, Moreno, in whom I place
my confidence. Even though now and then you have been more on my enemy’s
side than mine ... but that doesn’t matter! I know that you are honest,
and I am entrusting my daughter and my fortune to you,--everything I
have in the world.”
Moreno was so moved by this proof of confidence in him that he was
forced to raise a hand to his eyes. Then he stood up to grasp the
Italian’s hand, and with broken phrases expressed his intention of
fulfilling with the utmost exactitude the obligation laid upon him. He
vowed that he would devote himself to the care of his friend’s daughter
and fortune, if the duel should result fatally for him.
* * * * *
Sunrise; a meadow overgrown with fine grass, along the river bank; at
the far end, some old willows, their roots half exposed to the air.
Slowly dying, they lay across the stream, and it seemed as though at any
moment they might fall into it.
A gloomy spot at best; and it was here that Elena’s friends had elected
to fight their duel. The light striking horizontally and almost level
with the surface of the ground, elongated the shadows of the human
figures and the trees, making them seem fantastic and unreal.
Pirovani arrived first, escorted by Moreno and don Carlos, all of them
dressed in black. But the contractor was distinguished from those who
accompanied him by his coat, which was new and of a solemn cut. He had
received it the preceding week from Buenos Aires. It was the creation of
a well-known tailor there of whom he had ordered a complete outfit of
clothes similar to those made for the most fastidious millionaires of
the capital.
Behind this group came a tall, heavy old man, whose nose was purplish
and bulbous, due to excessive use of alcohol through a long and
prosperous life. He carried a surgeon’s instrument case. This was the
doctor whom Rojas had gone to fetch the day before.
A few minutes later Canterac, Torre Bianca and Watson arrived. The
captain and the _marqués_ wore long frock coats, less striking than
Pirovani’s, and black neckties, just as though they were officiating at
a funeral. Watson alone wore a dark-colored business suit.
After ceremoniously saluting his antagonist and the latter’s seconds
from afar, Canterac began to walk up and down along the river bank,
pretending to amuse himself watching the birds who were displaying their
customary morning animation, or throwing stones into the current. The
contractor did not wish to make a less gallant showing; bent on
imitating the captain in everything, he also walked up and down near
the willows, and looked at the river. And thus both of them continued
promenading up and down, like two automatons, each on that part of the
bank he had selected.
Torre Bianca, who because of his experience in such matters, directed
the arrangements, began to pace out distances. He asked Watson for the
two canes that the latter had foresightedly brought with him, and stuck
one into the ground. Then he looked toward the sun with one hand over
his eyes in order to discover just how the light struck; and then once
more he measured out twenty paces.
“Twenty,” he said, and stuck in the second cane.
Then he went up to the other seconds, drew out a coin, and after a word
from Moreno, tossed it into the air. As it fell, the government employee
said to Rojas,
“We have won, don Carlos. We can choose our ground.”
The _marqués_, who had brought his pistol case, spread it open on the
grass. With elaborate care and deliberation he loaded the weapons,
producing the same coin in order to consult chance once again. As the
metal disc fell, Moreno leaned over to look at it and said to the
rancher,
“Luck is with us. We can choose the revolver we prefer.”
Then Pirovani’s seconds went to bring him up to that one of the canes
they had chosen. The _marqués_ and Watson conducted their principal to
the spot marked by the second cane.
Meanwhile the doctor somewhat confusedly set about his preparations. It
was the first time that he had witnessed a duel. With one knee on the
ground he opened his instrument case and began to unroll bandages, open
medicine flasks, and examine the condition of his instruments.
The antagonists stood facing one another, Canterac rigid, his face grave
but inexpressive, like a soldier awaiting the word of command.
Pirovani’s eyes glowed like coals, he looked aggressive, furious. When
Moreno came up to him to give him a revolver, he said, very low,
“You watch me kill him. I know I’m going to do it....”
But then he forgot his homicidal hopes to add,
“I wish they would explain clearly to me how much time I can have to
take aim. I don’t want to make any mistake, and be taken for an
ignoramus who doesn’t understand these affairs.”
The two opponents held their pistols aloft, the barrels point up. Moreno
noticed that Pirovani’s coat was unbuttoned and carefully buttoned it.
Then he turned up the Italian’s collar so that the white of his shirt
could not be seen. Meanwhile, Torre Bianca was examining Canterac, who
was correctly buttoned up, in military fashion, but he too needed to
have his coat collar turned up. Both men, before taking their weapons,
had removed their hats and given them to the seconds.
Taking a stand between them both, the _marqués_ removed a paper from his
pocket and read slowly:
“ ..._Secondly, the director of the duel will clap his hands three
times, whereupon the principals are to take aim and fire when they are
ready, in the interval between the first and the third handclap._”
“_Thirdly, if one of the two principals fires after the third handclap
he will be disqualified, and declared an outlaw to the gentleman’s
code._”
Pirovani, with his pistol held above him, thrust his head forward and
looked toward the marqués so as to hear better, and he nodded at each
word that came from Torre Bianca. Canterac remained impassive, as though
listening to something that was perfectly familiar to him.
The _marqués_ went on reading, and finally put away the sheet of paper
and addressed both antagonists.
“It is my duty to ask those here present if they are able to come to
terms without firing. Is it possible for you gentlemen to settle this
difficulty without having recourse to the duel? Does either of you wish
to offer excuses to the other?”
Pirovani violently shook his head. “No!” Canterac remained motionless.
Not a line of his sombre expression softened.
The _marqués_ spoke again, removing his hat with mournful solemnity,
“Then fate is to decide between you, and each of you is to comply with
the requirements of the field of honor.”
He took a few steps backward, keeping the combatants in full view. Then
he raised his hand. Were they ready? Pirovani nodded. His adversary
continued motionless.
The _marqués_ brought his hands to within a few inches of one another,
indicating that he was ready to give the first handclap. Every motion
that he made was so slow that it assumed a tragic solemnity.
The other seconds, at a considerable distance from him, were looking on
with ill-dissimulated emotion. Still kneeling near his instrument case,
the doctor was looking up with wide-open eyes.
The _marqués_ brought his hands together, slowly uttering “Fire....
One....”
Both men brought their revolvers down simultaneously.
Pirovani, whose sole thought at that moment was that he must not shoot
after the third handclap, fired at once. His opponent blinked one eye,
and the muscles of his cheek on the same side contracted slightly, as
though he had felt a projectile brush close by. But he at once recovered
his impassivity and went on taking aim.
The _marqués_ clapped his hands again. “Two!”
When Pirovani saw that he had not wounded his enemy, and that now he
stood disarmed before him, there passed over his face like a swift
cloud, an expression of pure fear. But it had gone in an instant. Then,
looking at Canterac who was still taking aim, he crossed his arms,
pointing his own useless revolver at his breast, and, as though defying
death, presented himself full face to the shot.
Moreno clutched Rojas by the shoulder.
“_Pucha!_ ... He is going to kill him,” he said between his teeth.
Torre Bianca gave the third clap. “Three!” But the instant before
Canterac had fired.
There was a general rush in one direction. Only the captain remained
motionless, one arm hanging by his side, the still smoking revolver in
his left hand.
Pirovani lay stretched on the ground, an inert mass. The men who reached
him first saw a thread of blood coming from the top of his head, and
running out, a miniature stream, on the grass. Then his head was hidden
from view, for every one was crowding around the fallen body, leaning
over to hear what the doctor was saying.
In a few moments the latter looked up, and stammered,
“There’s nothing to be done ... he’s dead!”
Seeing that Canterac was approaching to learn what had been the effect
of his shot, Torre Bianca went up to him, quickening his steps. His
gesture told Canterac what had happened even before he spoke.
His second judged it necessary to get him away from the field and
ordered him to follow. On the other side of the sand dunes a vehicle was
waiting. It was the same one that had transported Elena to the garden
party.
When this cart deposited them in front of the house that had once
belonged to Pirovani, both men stood hesitant.... Torre Bianca could not
ask the captain to enter the house of the man he had just shot; nor did
Canterac dare move towards it.
So they were standing, unable to make a decision, when Robledo appeared.
He had evidently been prowling about the vicinity to learn some news of
the event. When he saw Canterac, he looked questioningly at him.
“And the other ...?”
Canterac bowed his head, and the _marqués_ with a gesture told Robledo
what had happened.
All three men stood silent. Finally the Frenchman said very low,
“My career is ended, my family lost to me.... And the most frightful
part of it all is that I can feel no hate when I think of that poor
man.... What is to become of me?”
Robledo was the only one of the three capable at that moment of coming
to a determined decision.
“The first thing you must do, Canterac, is to get away. There’ll be a
great stir about this affair. We won’t be able to hush it up as though
it were a fist-fight in the _boliche_. You must get away to the Andes,
at once. When you get into Chile you can wait there.... Everything in
this world can be settled somehow ... perhaps well, perhaps badly, but
settled somehow.”
The Frenchman, however, had lost his grip for the moment. What could he
do? He had no money ... he had spent it all for that mad garden
party.... How could he live in Chile? He knew no one there....
Robledo took his arm and pulled him gently away from the others.
“The first thing to do is to get away,” he repeated. “I’ll see that you
have what you need to do that. Come!”
Canterac however hesitated to obey. He was looking back at Torre Bianca.
“Before I go,” he murmured, “I would like to say good-by to the
_marquesa_.”
Robledo listened with a pitying smile to this plea. Then he took hold of
him with paternal superiority.
“Let’s not lose time,” he said. “Look after yourself, and nobody else.
The _marquesa_ has other things to think about.”
And he took Canterac with him to his quarters.
All that day the town seethed with the news of the duel. Indeed some of
the inhabitants treated the occasion as a holiday. In the main street
thick groups of men and women gathered, talking, gesticulating, and
casting hostile glances at the house that had once been the
contractor’s. Torre Bianca’s name, and his wife’s, were bandied about
even more frequently than those of the men who had fought the duel.
Some of the _gauchos_ who were friends of Manos Duras passed in and out
among the groups. Apparently the recent event had quite overshadowed the
hostility existing between them and the people of the settlement.
In the middle of the afternoon Manos Duras himself came riding up the
main street. He stared with profound interest at the dead man’s house.
Some of the half-breed girls spoke to him. What did he think of that
woman who made the men around her kill one another in cold blood?... But
the notorious _gaucho_ merely shrugged, and smiling contemptuously,
passed on.
Three of his friends were waiting for him at the _boliche_. They were
men who lived the greater part of the year in the foothills of the
Andes. Recently they had been paying him a visit at his ranch. Under
other circumstances don Roque would have been alarmed to learn of this
fact. He would have suspected that these pals of the _gaucho’s_ were
preparing some shameless piece of cattle rustling. But at that
particular moment the most important persons at the dam were giving the
_comisario_ far more to worry about than the thieving _gauchos_ had ever
done.
When Manos Duras stepped into the “_Almacén del Gallego_,” he noticed
that there were many more customers there than on other workday
afternoons. Everyone was talking about the contractor’s death.
“That woman did it all,” someone was shouting. “She’s to blame for the
whole thing, the--!”
Manos Duras bethought him of the afternoon when he had first seen the
_marquesa_; and the memory was enough to make him look as aggressively
at the man who was talking as though the words contained an insult for
him.
“If two men chose to fight with bullets for this lady, what have you got
to say about it?... I’m just as ready as they were to draw a bead on
anyone who insults her.... Come on now, let’s see if there’s one of you
dares step on my poncho....”
This _gaucho_ challenge was received in silence by the _Gallego’s_
patrons. When the talk began again it was about subjects that Manos
Duras could not take exception to.
At nightfall Torre Bianca from one of his windows looked wonderingly at
the groups of people in the street. Their number had noticeably
increased. Then he noticed that the _comisario_, who had just returned
from Fuerte Sarmiento, was going about talking to different people in
the crowd, urging them to go home. When he saw the _marqués_ at the
window the police commissioner raised his hat to him.
Men and women turned to stare at Elena’s husband. Many of the glances
turned in his direction were hostile, but no one dared make any
demonstration against him.
Torre Bianca could not conceal his amazement at having so many eyes
fastened upon him. Then he took in the fact that there was something
very unfriendly in the glances coming his way. Haughtily, but sadly, he
closed the window. He did not understand.
A little later Sebastiana opened the house door and leaned over the
railing of the balcony. She was irresistibly attracted by this crowd in
which she spied many old friends. But when they saw her, the women who
were in the street began to gesticulate and shriek out insults.
Annoyed by such an incomprehensible reception, she replied in the same
fashion; but crushed finally by the strength of numbers of her enemies,
and seeing that several of the men were joining in the attack on her,
contributing loud guffaws and vile names, she retired defeated. Her
meditations in the kitchen during the next few hours brought her to an
alarming conclusion. Every woman of the region, even though she might
formerly have been a friend, would now be against her because she was in
the service of the _marquesa_!
At about the same time of the day, Watson returned to town. After the
morning’s tragedy he had accompanied the seconds and the doctor while
they transported the victim’s body to a dilapidated ranch house near the
river. Then they determined to remove it to Fuerte Sarmiento, since
Pirovani was to be buried there, in order to avoid the outbreaks that
would be imminent if this ceremony were performed in La Presa.
As he was riding into town, just as he reached the first houses of the
settlement he encountered Canterac.
The latter also was on horseback; and he wore a sombrero and a poncho
just like the _gauchos_. From his saddle hung a sack of the kind used by
the cow-punchers to carry clothing and various belongings.
As soon as Watson recognized him he stopped to say good-by, for Canterac
had all the appearance of one prepared to cross the Patagonian desert.
Canterac, by way of replying to his question, pointed to that part of
the horizon where the first stars were beginning to glitter over the
invisible Andes. Then he told him that he counted on spending the night
at a ranch near Fuerte Sarmiento, and that he would probably be under
way again before dawn.
“Good-by, Watson,” he said. “It would have been a good thing for us if
that woman had never come here. Strange, in what a different light I see
things now. But ... it’s too late.”
For a few seconds he looked hesitatingly at the youth; then finally with
decision, he said,
“I’ve earned at least the right to speak through my folly ... listen to
what I am going to say, and don’t be offended if I give you advice that
you don’t ask for.... Never let anything come between you and Robledo,
boy.... There are few souls in this world like his. It’s thanks to him
that I am getting away. Everything in this outfit belongs to him....
Don’t trust anyone who speaks ill of him....”
He eyed the boy sadly at these words; and before he rode away, he
offered him still another bit of advice.
“And don’t on any account forget that young lady they call _Flor de Rio
Negro_!” Then he shook Watson by the hand, waved him good-by, and
leaning down, spurred his horse. In a moment he had vanished into the
darkness of the new-born night.