Watson, as he went on towards the town, felt the prick of a conscience
that has lost its accustomed tranquility.
With remorse he remembered the brief dialogue in Canterac’s park, in the
course of which he had answered Robledo harshly.
“And for this woman,” he thought, “for this woman who coolly sends men
to their death, I treated my best friend in such fashion!”
And after Robledo’s image came that of Celinda, with unhappy,
reproachful eyes....
“Poor _Flor de Rio Negro_,” he thought to himself. “Tomorrow I must go
beg her to forgive me ... if she will listen to me....”
Absorbed in his thoughts, he rode into La Presa, letting his horse pick
the way. Suddenly he noticed that the animal was hesitating, about to
stop. Raising his head Watson saw that he was in front of Elena’s house.
The _comisario_, assisted by two of his men, was with paternal
exhortations gently shoving the last group of curiosity-mongers out of
the way.
Don Roque followed them down the street, and Richard was about to ride
on when he noticed that one of the windows of the Torre Bianca’s house
had opened. A woman’s hand was beckoning to him. Watson remained
indifferent to the summons, and the window swung out wide enough to let
Elena appear in the opening. She was dressed in black, as though in
mourning, but she wore her floating veils with considerable coquetry.
Richard felt that he must at least approach the house sufficiently to
offer his greetings. He took off his hat in response to Elena’s
affectionate signs to him.
“Such a long time since I have seen you, Ricardo!... Come in at
once....”
But he shook his head, looking at her sternly.
“You do not ask for whom I am in mourning,” she went on. “It is for my
husband’s mother, a dear old lady whom I loved very much. I feel so bad
about this loss.... And I do so need at this very moment to talk to a
friend....”
As she spoke she tried to maintain a sorrowful expression, although at
the same time she was employing every gracious word and gesture she knew
to persuade him to come in. But Richard persistently shook his head, and
said, finally,
“I shall come to see you when you are living in some other house, and
when your husband is present. I cannot come now.”
Coldly he went away without turning around; and Elena’s emotions ran the
scale from intense surprise to hot anger. Finally she banged the window
shut with a violence that threatened to demolish it.
That night after supper Watson offered Robledo his apologies for his
unfriendly words to him at the garden _fête_; but Robledo cut him
short.
“That’s all over and done with, Watson. We’re as good friends as before,
aren’t we? So what does all that matter? The terrible part of this
affair is what happened to poor Pirovani ... and in some ways it’s even
worse for Canterac. Of course his words make an impression on you. Poor
fellow! He wouldn’t take anything more than what was absolutely
necessary for his journey over the mountains. He’s going to wait for
news from me in Chile, he says. I must get some letters of
recommendation for him from friends of mine in Buenos Aires.... But what
a catastrophe, Watson!... And all for a woman!”
Robledo was silent for a while. Then he added optimistically,
“She isn’t _bad_, she’s merely a woman of impulse, whose emotions have
never had the slightest training; and so she sows evil, without knowing
always what she is doing, because all her attention is centered on
herself. She has never discovered that she isn’t the center of the
universe. If she were rich, she would perhaps be good. But she cannot be
content with a modest sort of existence, and she’s incapable of
sacrificing herself. All the trouble in her life comes from the fact
that she has so little and desires so much!”
He smiled sadly and then went on after a pause,
“Fortunately all women are not like that. She herself told me that in
this age of ours, the woman who thinks at all is unhappy and hates all
the rest of creation if she can’t have the pearl necklace that is ‘the
modern woman’s uniform’.... I am quoting.... But there is something more
terrible still than the woman who is determined to get a pearl necklace
for herself, Richard, and that is the woman who having had it once, has
lost it, and feels that she must at any cost get it back!”
The memory of Gualicho, the demon who tormented the Indians with his
wiles, driving them to the point where they mounted their horses and
pursued him with darts and tomahawks, passed through his mind. Elena, in
the old world, would have been merely one of many dangerous women; and
her powers for evil would have been checked and neutralized by the
proximity of others like herself. But here, surrounded by men who
admired her, conscious of primitive surroundings among which she stood
out like a being of finer clay, she had, without wishing to, exerted an
influence as evil as that of the red-skinned demon, in former times the
terror of the wandering _gauchos_ of the Pampas.
She herself had been a victim of the loneliness of her surroundings to
the extent at least of becoming enamored of Watson. She had believed
that she could play with men and despise them. That at least was what
she had intimated to Robledo one evening, while she gazed pityingly at
her victims. But Richard was youth, and masculine energy incarnate; he
was, moreover, the object of a young girl’s first love; and so to this
mature coquette, eager to win him away from an inexperienced adolescent,
as a proof that her former powers of seduction had not yet waned, he
represented an irresistible temptation.... And now her vanity had been
cruelly wounded. Not only had the only man she had found interesting in
this wild desert repulsed her; she had every reason to believe that he
despised her....
Robledo meanwhile went on talking about the _marquesa_ with a somewhat
contemptuous pity.
“She really believes that she was born for higher things, and yet fate
seems determined to make her roll downhill.... It isn’t surprising that
she should appear to be a bad woman, when you consider that she doesn’t
know what resignation means.”
But the effect of Elena’s influence on affairs at the dam was
sufficiently alarming....
“Our contractor dead ... our chief engineer a fugitive.... How can we
carry on the work, Watson? The construction at the dam will be delayed
and the spring floods will come before we have braced the walls. What
are we going to do? I’ll have to run up to Buenos Aires to get help.”
And he spent most of the night worrying about what was to be done to
save three years’ labor from destruction.
The next morning Watson got on his horse; but instead of riding towards
the canal works he took the road to the Rojas ranch. There was no use
going on with this secondary part of the work until the government sent
down a new engineer to take over the completing of the work on the dam.
When he reached the ranch he was about to dismount and open the
“palisade,” or barrier poles that closed the way. But near it he
discovered a small half-breed, about ten years of age, a chubby little
fellow with velvety antelope’s eyes, and a skin of a lustrous light
chocolate color. The small boy, one finger in his nose, was smiling at
him.
“The master went out early this morning,” he said in reply to Richard’s
question. “Last night someone stole one of his cows.”
“And where’s your mistress, Cachafaz?”
Young Puck, who had earned his name Cachafaz through an unbelievable
series of deviltries, took his finger out of his nose, and pointed
vaguely to the horizon line.
“She just now left. You’ll find her somewhere near.”
And with his dirty forefinger he gestured in a zigzag towards the
distant desert. Watson grasped the fact that for young master Cachafaz
“just now” might mean one hour, or two or three, and “somewhere near”
might mean anywhere within two leagues. But he must see Celinda!
Determined to find her, he set his horse off at a gallop towards the
open, trusting that luck would lead him in the right direction.
But what young Cachafaz had not told the visitor was that, in his
estimable mother’s opinion, the little mistress of the ranch was sick.
Cachafaz’s mother was an old Indian woman who had come to take
Sebastiana’s place as housekeeper; but she lacked some of Sebastiana’s
virtues; she had neither her good humor nor her talent for work. All day
long she kept a Paraguay cigar in one corner of her blue,
nicotine-stained lips, and when don Carlos wasn’t at home, she used his
carved calabash and silver _bombilla_ for the absorption of her own
_mate_.
The servants and peons at the ranch looked upon Cachafaz’s mother with
superstitious respect, for it was generally believed that she was a
witch and held dealings with the invisible spirits of the air, those
that howl as they whirl inside the sand columns as high as towers, that
the hurricanes drive in front of them when they come down from the
plateau lands. When the old squaw noticed that Celinda was in very poor
spirits indeed and found her crying several times, she shook her head
knowingly, as though all this merely confirmed her suspicions.
“The trouble with the girl is that she’s sick, and I know what sickness
she’s sick of.”
An ancestor of the old woman’s had been a great medicine man back in the
times when the Indians were still the owners of the land. He was always
summoned whenever the chiefs fell sick. His son had inherited his secret
lore, but unfortunately he had handed on only a part of it to his
daughter, who became Cachafaz’s mother.
“It’s the _ayacuyas_ that are bothering the girl, and she must be cured
of the wounds left by their arrows.”
The old squaw was well acquainted with the _ayacuyas_, hob-goblins so
diminutive that a dozen of them would scarcely cover a finger nail; they
always carried bows and arrows, and it was the wounds from these weapons
that caused most of the sicknesses in the world.
She herself had never seen them, for she was nothing but a poor
ignorant, miserable old woman, but her father, and her grandfather
before him, who had been great _machis_ or medicine men, had often had
dealings with these little creatures. Only the native Indians could see
them. Some of the _gringo_ doctors pretended to have seen them too, and
called them by a name in their own language, _microbe_, but what did
they know about them ...?
And if you took their bows and arrows away from them, they attacked
human beings with tooth and nail, and it was important to know how, by
bleeding and sucking, to get the splinters of the arrows, or the nails
and teeth that the invisible demons left in the bodies of their victims,
out of the poisoned wounds.
“I’ll find you a _machi_ who’ll make you well, little lady, and take
away this sadness that the _ayacuyas_ brought upon you. But don’t let
the master know of it.”
Celinda smiled at the remedies suggested by Cachafaz’s mother. When she
grew tired of being shut up in the ranch house she went to get her horse
and rode him hither and yon over the desert with no goal to reach. She
never wore boy’s clothes now. She hated those clothes because of the
memories they awoke. She preferred riding in skirts; and she had laid
aside too the lassoo that had once been her favorite plaything.
That morning she had been galloping for more than an hour over the ranch
when she noticed, on a slight elevation, a rider standing motionless;
the distance diminished him to the size of a little tin soldier.
She stopped when she noticed that the miniature rider was plunging down
the slope and galloping towards her as though he had recognized her. For
some time he was lost to sight, then he reappeared, much bigger in size,
on the edge of a deep depression. When she saw that the rider was
Watson, her first impulse was to flee. But she repented of this impulse
as though it were cowardly, and turning her horse about, remained
motionless in a disdainful attitude.
Richard rode up to her, and with his hat in his hand and eyes humbly
cast down, he was about to beg pardon. He opened his mouth to speak but
the words would not come. Nor did Celinda give him time.
“What do you want?” she asked harshly. “Has your _gringa_ dismissed you?
Other people’s leavings aren’t welcome here.”
And she wheeled her horse about to ride away. Richard made a desperate
effort.
“Celinda! I’ve come to tell you I’m sorry.... I came to get my _Flor de
Rio Negro_ ... to....”
She softened a little at the note of child-like humility in the young
man’s voice; but at once she recovered herself and looked at him
unforgivingly.
“Ask alms of God, brother, and go your way. Today I have no alms to
give!”
She began to move away; but she stopped long enough to tell him with the
cruelty of a spoiled child,
“I don’t like men who ask for pardon. Anyway, I vowed that if you wanted
to see me again you’d have to catch me with the rope.... But you’ll
never be able to. You’re nothing but a tenderfoot, and a _gringo_, and
you’re awkward and I don’t like you!”
And spurring her horse she went off at a gallop, not however, before
casting Richard a look of complete scorn.
He stood distressed by this dismissal, and felt no desire to follow her.
Then his vanity took offense as he went over the words that she had
thrown at him. She had belittled him as a man, and he was going to get
hold of her and show her that he was no tenderfoot nor as awkward as she
made out.
Then began a wild race through the ranch, one rider following the other
up hill and down, from ridge to gully. Now and then Celinda, who had a
great advantage over her pursuer, would rein in her horse as though she
wanted to be overtaken; but as soon as he came near, she started off at
a gallop again, insulting him with the terms that the _gauchos_ of other
days used when they made fun of the awkward Europeans and their lack of
skill as riders.
“Clodhopper _gringo_! Tenderfoot, who doesn’t know one end of a horse
from another!”
Richard kept a coil of lariat that _Flor de Rio Negro_ had given him on
the front of his saddle. As he rode along he let it out and began
throwing it over her head every time he came near her. But the lassoo
always fell into space, while Celinda, from far away, laughed at this
exhibition. However, her laughter had changed its character and was
growing heartier and happier, as though expressing, not so much contempt
for the man she was mocking, as genuine merriment. Watson too was
laughing; so often, when they had laughed together, they had made up
their quarrels!
In their circlings about they had little by little approached the ranch.
Celinda jumped her horse over an obstacle of tree-trunks and rode into
the corral. Watson did not dare let his horse take the height and rode
around the palisade in order to get in through a gate.
He reached the main building of the ranch with calculated slowness,
hoping that someone would come out to whom he could speak. Celinda
remained invisible, and he did not dare go up to the front door of the
house, for fear the _señorita_ Rojas might receive him in unfriendly
fashion.
Again little Cachafaz appeared quite providentially, close to the
horse’s feet.
“Tell the _señorita_ Celinda I would like to come in and say ‘how do you
do’ to her!”
Cachafaz went away scratching his little fat chocolate colored belly
under his loose shirt. In a few minutes he came out of the house, and in
his soft Indian singsong he announced to Watson,
“Mistress says you’re to go away, and that she doesn’t want to see you,
because you are ... because you are very ugly!”
Cachafaz burst out laughing at his own words; but Watson looked
despondently at the house. Then he turned his horse about, and, a little
consoled by a resolution he had just taken, rode homeward.
“I shall come back tomorrow,” he said to himself. “I shall come back
every day until she forgives me.”
* * * * *
Elena sat absorbed in thought, sitting in an armchair. Then she took up
a position near the window where she could look out on the main street
without being seen.
As a matter of fact she could be seen only by two of the four policemen
of La Presa. Don Roque had placed them near the house so that there
should be no more gathering in groups around it as on the day before.
For the moment the people of the settlement seemed to have forgotten
Pirovani’s former dwelling. No one seemed at all inclined to stop in
front of it, and the _comisario’s_ precaution seemed superfluous.
Besides many of the workmen from the dam had gone to Fuerte Sarmiento to
be present at the contractor’s funeral. The others were either in the
_Gallego’s_ shop, or gathering to talk in different places on the
outskirts of the town, where they heatedly discussed the possibility of
the immediate suspension of the work, which would leave most of them out
of employment.
Some of the more optimistic ones were certain that on the very next
train a new chief engineer would arrive, quite as though the government
at Buenos Aires could not go on for a day without starting up the works
at the dam again. The Galician and some of the other Spaniards were
betting on don Manuel Robledo as the new director of the works.
Some of the old peons who had labored on all the public works of the
country shrugged their shoulders with characteristic fatalism.
“The cart is caught in the mire, and you’ll see a long time pass before
its wheels revolve again!”
Meanwhile Elena, standing behind the window, was gazing at the solitary
street and mentally reviewing all the difficulties of her present
situation. Pirovani dead ... Canterac a fugitive ... she no longer even
knew who owned the house she was living in. Besides this, Robledo must
have been talking about her to the only man whose presence gave
emotional interest to the monotony of her life in that God-forsaken
country. Perhaps at that very moment this man, whom she needed, was
with that girl who had tried to lash her face with a riding whip....
Never, in the whole course of her complicated history, the many phases
of which she alone knew, had she found herself placed in a situation so
difficult. Even that heterogeneous mob, in which there was many a man
with a European crime record, dared to criticize her, and went so far as
to force the public authorities to set a guard over her ... there they
were, those two men armed with sabres, just within sight of her window.
And she had crossed the ocean and come to live in this wild land only to
find herself in this lamentable situation!
She had always found a way out of the difficulties of her life, she had
always discovered a solution. Sometimes it was a bad one, and sometimes
profitable ... but what was the solution of the difficulties that faced
her now?... Should she go away? But how? She and her husband were as
penniless as when they arrived; more so, since Robledo was not going to
pay their fare back. And where could they go, with the law lying in wait
for her husband if he should return to Paris?
She was terrified at the thought of remaining in La Presa. Her life
there had been tolerable up to the present, thanks to Pirovani’s
generosity, and the rivalry she had stirred up among the men of the
community. But now that the Italian was dead she would have to give up
this house that was palatial compared to the other dwellings of the
settlement. No one would come any more to admire her, pay her
attentions, and desire her, doing everything to make life agreeable for
her. Only Robledo remained ... and he was an enemy! And as for Watson,
who might have provided the solution she was seeking ... there was his
partner in the way!
An idea that she had been cherishing of late passed through her mind.
When she had been out riding with Watson, it had occurred to her more
than once that now was the time to leave Torre Bianca, who was, after
all, a failure, who would never succeed in getting ashore from the
shipwreck.... But with Watson she would be able to make her way in the
world. He was young, energetic.... With the advice of an experienced
woman to guide him through a life of adventure, he would succeed
anywhere. In her previous life she had had similar experiences under far
less favorable circumstances.... But of what use to think about Watson?
This solution was denied her. An implacable hate burned in her at the
thought.
Richard had gone away for good and all. She could not doubt that, after
the words they had exchanged while she stood at her window the day
before....
Perhaps it would be easy to win him back if she could only have him
alone with her for a while. But, aware of that danger, hadn’t he told
her bluntly that he would call upon her again only if her husband were
present? The tone in which he had spoken, and his look at her as he
spoke, had shown her clearly enough that he would be immovable on this
point.
Ignorant as she could not help but be of the young man’s conversation
with Canterac after the duel, she naturally attributed his change of
manner to Celinda’s influence.
“She has taken him away from me,” the older woman thought. “It is she
who stands in my way.... How I hate her!”
And while she pursued these reflections, she felt agitated and divided
by diverse and opposing thoughts as though she were two distinct
persons. The image of Watson comforted her even in these painful
moments. He was young, he was the master fated to come along sometime in
the life of a woman who has played coldly and cruelly with men. In all
her previous life she had sought men out of ambition or vanity. But now
she needed Watson; she needed him not only because he could get her out
of the critical situation in which she found herself, but because he was
youth and strength and resourcefulness, he was everything she lacked,
everything her weary life needed. And as though that were not enough,
she felt the pain of jealousy, the jealousy of an impulsive and mature
woman who sees her last hope of happiness snatched away by a rival young
enough to be her daughter.
And with this torment, there was all the difficulty of the tragic
situation created by the rivalry she had excited between two of her
admirers; and there was the urgent necessity of protecting herself
against the general hostility that was likely to pursue her throughout
the whole community.
“What am I to do?” she kept saying to herself. “Where shall I go?”
A knock at the drawing room door interrupted her. It was Sebastiana,
who came in with a timid, undecided expression, fingering a corner of
her apron, and smiling at her mistress as though looking for words in
which to explain what had brought her there.
Elena gave her a little encouragement, and finally the half-breed
plucked up courage enough to speak.
“I was in the employ of don Pirovani, and as he is dead now ... and for
the reason that everybody knows, I must go away.”
The _marquesa_ signified her surprise at this decision. Sebastiana could
remain, of course. She was pleased with her services. The contractor’s
death was not sufficient reason for her going. As long as she must work
somewhere, she might as well work for Elena. But the half-breed was
insistent, and went on shaking her head.
“I must go. If I stay, there are friends of mine here who’ll scratch my
eyes out. Many thanks!... just the same, I’d rather stay on good terms
with my people ... and ... I might as well say it ... the _señora
marquesa_ hasn’t any friends here.”
At this Elena deemed it prudent not to continue the conversation. So she
expressed her acceptance of Sebastiana’s decision.
“Very well, if you are afraid to stay here....”
This prudence quite moved Sebastiana.
“I’d like to stay. The _señora_ is very kind, and never did me any
harm.... But that’s the way people are, and I can’t fight all the women
in town.... But if there’s anything I can do for the _señora_, she has
only to ask.... It would be a pleasure....”
Finally, after expatiating further on her desire to be useful to Elena,
and her unwillingness to leave her, Sebastiana withdrew.
Near the door she stopped to reply to Elena’s question about the
whereabouts of the _marqués_.
“I don’t know. He went out this morning and hasn’t come back yet.
Perhaps he went to Fuerte Sarmiento with don Moreno for the funeral of
my poor old master.”
When she was once more alone Elena’s thoughts turned to her husband as
to someone long forgotten but now presenting himself with renewed
importance. She was so accustomed to looking upon him as a person
entirely lacking in desires of his own, as someone ready to accept all
her notions, and disposed to believe whatever she wanted him to believe!
But this latest episode of her life had been of such a violent
nature.... In a large city it would have caused little more than a
ripple. But here, in the monotony of life in a pioneer community, where
such unprecedented events were rare, surrounded by this rabble of
adventurers, predisposed to insult persons of superior rank....
She felt more and more uneasy at the thought of the possibility that
Torre Bianca might learn the real cause of the rivalry between those two
men whose duel he had directed. Mentally she reviewed all that had
passed between her husband and herself since the previous day. On
returning to the house, Federico had told her of the sad outcome of the
duel; he had obviously taken certain precautions in telling her the
news, as though fearful of the emotion it might cause her. But later
that day he had appeared a changed man. He would not speak, he answered
her questions in monosyllables. And twice she surprised him gazing
fixedly at her with an expression that she had never seen him wear
before. After having closed the window, to shut out the stares of the
crowd that so much annoyed him, he had shut himself up in his bedroom,
and had gone away the next morning very early, while Elena was still
asleep. All that day she had not seen him. What was she to think?
But her uneasiness soon left her. She was so accustomed to controlling
her husband that she concluded that her suspicions and fears were all
uncalled for. Besides, even though her uneasiness should be well
founded, she would always be able to calm and reassure him, as she had
done so many times before.
The sight of a passer-by slowly walking in front of the house, and
looking attentively at the windows, was enough to make her forget all
about her husband ... Manos Duras! An hour earlier, when, as now, she
had stood at the window, she had thought once or twice that she saw the
_gaucho_ standing at the entrance to an alley that ran into the main
street near the house. The notorious cow-puncher was roaming around the
town on foot just like a European laborer on a holiday. As soon as he
caught sight of the _marquesa_ on the other side of the window panes, he
saluted her, taking off his hat with a flourish and showing his wolf’s
teeth.
This was the first pleasant greeting that Elena had received since
Pirovani’s death. She felt instinctively that this man was the only
admirer left her; that this should be seemed to her so comic that she
could not help smiling. Henceforth there was only one suitor for her
favor whom she could count on in that part of the world ... and he was
a cattle-rustling _gaucho_!
She stood meditating once more, her forehead pressed against the
window-panes, staring at the solitary street. Manos Duras had
disappeared in the neighboring alleyway, and even the two policemen,
considering their vigil unnecessary, had wandered off to the _boliche_.
Again three discreet raps on the door ... Sebastiana entered more
resolutely. This time she spoke very low, and with a confidential
expression in her crafty eyes.
“Has the master come in?” asked Elena.
“No; it’s something else I’m to tell you.... I was in the corral a
moment ago, and the _gaucho_ they call Manos Duras suddenly looked in at
the back gate and he said....”
Sebastiana made a valiant effort to recall the man’s words. He had
charged her to tell the _señora marquesa_ that he was “at her orders for
anything she might choose to command, that in times of trouble one
discovers one’s true friends, and now that there were so many people
both in the town and outside of it, talking evil of the _señora_ out of
pure envy, Manos Duras was glad to have the opportunity to say that he
was just the same in his sentiments as before.”
“Tell your mistress that I don’t turn around with every wind like the
others, and that she will always be the same for me, for I’m one of
those that break but never bend ... that’s what he told me to tell the
_señora_....”
Elena received the words with a smile. Poor man! And yet there were
people who said he was no better than a bandit! To her at that moment he
seemed the most interesting male creature in the region; he was the only
gentleman to offer her assistance!
When the half-breed went out of the room Elena remained standing near
the window, her eyes following the passers-by as they came and went in
constantly increasing numbers. Several times she stepped back at sight
of groups of workmen on horseback or in carriages returning from Fuerte
Sarmiento. They must undoubtedly be those who had gone to the
contractor’s funeral. All of them, she noticed, looked askance at the
house before they passed on.
At dusk she saw a solitary rider go by, his head obstinately held down.
It was Richard Watson. From his dust-covered clothing, and the lagging
pace of his horse, she concluded that he had not been to the funeral. He
must have spent the day riding in the open, undoubtedly on the Rojas
ranch or wandering near the river with that girl who was so free with
her whip.--“And I have to stay shut up here like a wild beast to escape
the insults of this miserable and unjust rabble ... and then they wonder
that I do the things I do....”
She remained motionless, her eyes closed, while the shadows of twilight
crept out of the corners of the room, and came to mingle their darkness
in the core of her being. A faint and fading light from outside gave a
certain bluish phosphorescence to the window panes, outlining Elena’s
motionless silhouette.
When night had fallen she called Sebastiana, who answered, saying that
she was bringing the light.
And she appeared bearing a large lamp which she placed on the table in
the centre of the parlor.
She was on the point of going away, believing that she had discharged
her full duty, when her mistress stopped her.
“Do you know where that Manos Duras you spoke to me about a while ago is
now?”
The half-breed, always inclined to chatter, produced a long preamble
before giving a definite reply. Manos Duras was going about these days
with some friends of his from the mountains who were staying with him at
his ranch ... they were a poor sort and not at all God-fearing. No
telling what they might be up to ... and he had said while he was
talking at the gate that he might soon go away on a long trip and that
this was the principal reason why he had come to bother the _señora_, in
case she should want him to do anything for her.
“And probably,” she wound up, “if he hasn’t gone back to his ranch, I’ll
find him this very moment at the _boliche_!”
“Go find him,” said Elena, “and tell him that I want him to be in front
of the house at ten o’clock.... You needn’t say anything else. But be
careful how you tell him ... I don’t care to have anyone overhear....”
Sebastiana had some doubts as to whether she had heard the first words
correctly, but at being admonished by her mistress to be discreet, she
forgot her astonishment and began affirming vehemently that the _señora_
could rest easy as to her prudence and that she was accustomed to
discharging confidential missions with the utmost care.
She went out of the house and made a bee-line for the _boliche_. If the
_gaucho_ was not there, it would mean that he had started for his ranch.
When she reached the door of the _Gallego’s_ establishment, she stopped
and peered inside. As it was the supper hour the customers were not
numerous. The majority of them had gone to their own homes where they
were having their evening meal with their families. An hour later they
would have returned to sit around the counter. An old _gaucho_ was
strumming the guitar while he gazed up at the paunch of one of the
crocodiles hanging from the ceiling. Manos Duras’ three guests were
listening attentively. Manos Duras himself was sitting on a horse’s
skull, and leaning one shoulder against the wall, was smoking
meditatively. As the owner of the _boliche_ was absent, Friterini,
behind the counter, was assuming all the airs of proprietorship, while
he blissfully perused an ancient and greasy copy of an Italian magazine.
Manos Duras looked up when he heard a discreet cough, and saw a
half-breed in the door beckoning to him to come out. When he had
followed her to the rear of the _Gallego’s_ shop, Sebastiana delivered
her message in a mysterious manner, keeping one finger on her lips; she
even went so far as to wink one eye. The _gaucho_ needn’t take her for a
fool. She had some idea what her message meant!
When the half-breed had gone, Manos Duras waited a few minutes before
returning to the _boliche_. He wanted to be alone in the dark, for it
seemed to him that he could enjoy his satisfaction better there. But in
his satisfaction there was a great deal of astonishment. How could he
have foreseen, that afternoon, as he wandered in front of the great
_señora’s_ house, that she would send him a message asking him to see
her in private that very night?
When through Sebastiana, whom he found in the corral, he had made his
offer of assistance to her mistress he had simply been, in his own
special way, obeying a chivalrous impulse. He wanted to appear to the
_marquesa’s_ eyes to be a man different from the rest, and he had
offered his protection without any hope that she would accept it.... Yet
one hour later she was sending for him. What was she going to ask him to
do for her?
Fortified by male vanity he dismissed his doubts. Even though he was a
rough cattle merchant, he was after all a man; and a better one at that
than these others.... They were all afraid of him ... these _gringas_
from the other side of the world were capricious creatures ... one never
knew where their fancy might lead them.... Manos Duras smiled....
“Just what I always said,” he thought, “they are all alike!”
And he returned to the _boliche_ and sat down with his friends, waiting
for the hour stipulated by the great _señora_.
Robledo and Watson were at that moment finishing their supper.
Someone knocked at the door.
They were both astonished to see Torre Bianca come in; he was so
thoroughly covered with dust that his black clothes looked grey, and
his hair and mustache were completely white.
“I’ve just come back from Fuerte Sarmiento, from poor Pirovani’s
funeral.... Moreno brought me back in his carriage.”
Robledo invited him to sit down at the table.
“Have some supper here, if you don’t feel that you must go at once to
your house.”
Torre Bianca shook his head.
“I do not intend to go back to my house.”
He spoke with such decision that Robledo stared at him. So tense were
the nerves of the _marqués_ that his hands shook and his tongue stumbled
over the words he spoke.
“I had something to eat with Moreno before coming back here.... But I’ll
eat a little now.... Death ... it’s pretty grim, isn’t it? Poor
Pirovani.... I’ll have a drink if you don’t mind.”
In spite of mentioning several times that he was hungry, he ate very
little of the food brought him by Robledo’s servant. But on the other
hand he drank a great deal of wine, tossing it down mechanically, as
though unaware that he was drinking.
Robledo thought he noticed the odor of gin about him. Undoubtedly he and
Moreno had had several drinks before starting on the journey home.
Perhaps this was the explanation of his excitement. He was not in the
habit of drinking liquor.
Watson, who had finished his supper, noticed that Torre Bianca was
looking at him as though he wanted to intimate that his presence was
inopportune.
“Is Moreno at his place now?” the young American inquired.
And on hearing that he was, Watson took himself off to discuss with the
government employee the report that was to be presented at Buenos Aires,
urging that the work at the dam be continued.
When Torre Bianca found himself alone with his friend, he became a
different person. His excitement abated suddenly, he lowered his eyes,
and it seemed to Robledo that he was shrinking in his chair like
something soft that huddles in on itself for lack of support from
within. All the spurious energy of alcohol had vanished at a stroke and
Torre Bianca, sitting opposite him there, had all the appearance of a
wrapping from which the contents has been deftly removed.
“I must talk to you,” he said, lifting his mild and pleading eyes to his
friend. “You are all that is left me now, the only human being in the
world who cares anything about me ... and for that very reason you must
let me have the truth. Today, while they were burying poor Pirovani, I
could think of nothing but this.... ‘I must see Robledo. He will tell me
frankly what I am to think of all this.’ What I mean by ‘all this’ is
the things I have noticed since yesterday ... everywhere I go ... the
way people look at me, the dislike they show in their gestures, the
names I can hear them calling me in their minds ... they don’t have to
speak, because I can guess it all.... Oh, it is too horrible!”
His voice broke on a note of complete discouragement and he covered his
face with his hands. Robledo murmured a few words intended to cheer him
up a little, but the _marqués_ interrupted him.
“You can talk later, Manuel. But first you must hear some things you
don’t know, and some of the things I told you once and that you have
forgotten. I must ask you one thing. Do you believe that my wife is
deceiving me?”
Robledo looked his astonishment at his friend’s words. Several minutes
passed before he attempted to reply. It was obvious that Torre Bianca
was in terror of his answer! And to avoid hearing it, he began relating
the whole story of his relations with Elena.
Robledo had heard a part of this history when he was in Paris; how the
_marqués_ had met her in London, the high rank her family held in Russia
at the court of the Czars, and so on.... But now the speaker’s tone was
quite changed, as though Torre Bianca himself had his doubts about the
authenticity of that past in which, up to that very day, he had had
complete faith, and about which he had always shown a great deal of
pride.
Furthermore, between the lines of his narrative, Federico was revealing
new episodes to his friend. Apparently the events of the past stood out
in clearer relief now, and his attention was caught by details that
until then had passed unnoticed. There had always been in his house an
intimate friend, a favored friend, whom his wife treated with the utmost
confidence, asserting that she had known him since the days when she was
living with her distinguished family. And when one “friend” went away,
another appeared ... but the place was never vacant. Twice the _marqués_
had fought duels for his wife’s honor, as a result of her being
calumniated by men who but a short time before had been frequent
visitors in her drawing-room. And with remorse he recalled that his
antagonist in one of these duels had been a friend of his whom he had
seriously wounded.
“I have told you the whole story of my life with this woman,” he said.
“At least all that I am sure of concerning her life. All the rest is
what she herself says ... and I don’t know whether I am to believe it or
not.... I even doubt what she says about her nationality and her name. I
told her frankly everything about myself ... and she gave me back lies
... lies ... lies....”
Again he looked anxiously at Robledo, hoping that the latter would give
him some faith in what he had once believed.
Like a drowning man, the _marqués_ was grasping at straws as he sank.
But Robledo looked away, and gave an ambiguous shrug.
“Since a few hours ago I have been looking at things with new eyes. Oh
God! The cruel glances of those poor people when I opened the window
yesterday! And today during the funeral ... I can’t tell you what
torment I endured!... And I, who never in my whole life have been afraid
of anyone, I couldn’t meet the hostile eyes of those workmen ... and
what was worse, some of them were mocking and contemptuous. Poor Moreno
kept taking me aside, and talking very loud so that I wouldn’t hear the
things people were saying behind me.... He didn’t know that I noticed
everything he was doing to protect me.... But this afternoon I felt so
overwhelmed, that I thought of you, my friend ... and I thought of my
poor old mother as though I were still a child. She had deprived herself
of everything so that her son might preserve the honor of his race! And
her son ends up by being the laughing-stock of a workmen’s camp, in a
wild uncivilized corner of the globe.... Oh, how shameful!”
He covered his eyes with his hands as if to shut out the cruel
spectacle. Then he looked up to ask with breathless anxiety,
“You, who are my only friend, and who knew something of my life in
Paris, do you believe that Fontenoy was my wife’s lover?”
Again Robledo made an ambiguous gesture. What could he reply? And again
Torre Bianca, with anguish in his voice, asked,
“And those two men who went out yesterday morning to kill one another,
do you think it was on Elena’s account?”
But this time Robledo did not take refuge in ambiguity. He merely
lowered his eyes; and the _marqués_ took the silence that followed to
mean “yes”....
Then hiding his face again in desperation, he said,
“And it was I, her husband, who acted as master of the duel in which
those two men fought....”
A long silence. The _marqués_ laid his head down on his hands, and
Robledo watched him, pityingly. Suddenly Torre Bianca straightened up,
and said, slowly rubbing his forehead,
“I can’t go on here. I am ashamed to meet the eyes of these people. But
I can’t go away with her, either. She couldn’t deceive me now ... and
when I look, at her, and see how false she is, and how falsely she
smiles, I shall kill her ... I am certain that I shall kill her!”
The moment had come for Robledo to speak.
“Don’t think about her any more. For the time being you must rest.
Tomorrow we’ll find a better way of your getting rid of your wife.
You’ll stay here tonight. And I’ll plan what we must do tomorrow. She
will go away. I don’t know just how; but she’ll go. And you will stay
with me.”
He laid an affectionate hand on Torre Bianca’s shoulder, and his tone
while he spoke, was like that of a father. But the _marqués_ kept his
face covered, and he shook his head.
He hated her! And yet, at the thought of separating from her forever, he
felt a sharp pang, a strange anxiety....