one of those substantial and antiquated dwellings, remnants of the
middle ages, which are of no unfrequent occurrence in Spain, and whose
massive construction seems to promise as many more centuries of
existence as they have already seen. It is the property, and at times
the abode, of the nobleman whose arms are displayed, elaborately carved
on stone, above the wide portal--a nobleman belonging to that section of
the Spanish aristocracy, who, putting aside old prejudices, willingly
adhered to the more liberal and enlightened order of things to which
the death of Ferdinand was the prelude. In a lofty and spacious
apartment of this mansion, and on the evening of the first day after
that of Herrera's departure from Puente de la Reyna, we find Count
Villabuena reclining in an easy-chair, and busied with thoughts, which,
it might be read upon his countenance, were of other than a pleasant
character. Since last we saw him, full of life and strength, and still
active and adventurous as a young man, encountering fatigues and dangers
in the service of his so-called sovereign, a great and sad change had
taken place in the Count, and one scarcely less marked in his hopes and
feelings. The wound received by him in the plains of Alava, although
severe and highly dangerous, had not proved mortal; and when Herrera
sought his body with the intention of doing the last mournful honours to
the protector of his youth, and father of his beloved Rita, he
perceived, to his extreme joy, that life had not entirely fled. On a
litter, hastily and rudely constructed of boughs, the Count was conveyed
to Vittoria, where he no sooner arrived, than by the anxious care of
Herrera, half the surgeons in the town were summoned to his couch. For
some days his life was in imminent peril; but at last natural strength
of constitution, and previous habits of temperance, triumphed over the
wound, and over the conclave of Sangrados who had undertaken his case.
The Count recovered, gradually it is true, and without a prospect of
ever regaining his former firm health; but still, to Herrera's great
delight, and owing in a great measure to the care he lavished upon him,
his life was at last pronounced entirely out of danger.
Upon arriving at Vittoria with his sorely wounded friend, duty had
compelled Herrera to report his capture; but although the prisoner was
considered a most important one, his state was so hopeless, that Luis
had little difficulty in obtaining permission to become his sole jailer,
pledging himself to reproduce him in case he should recover. When the
Count got better, and became aware of his position, he insisted upon
Herrera's informing the authorities of his convalescence, and of his
readiness to proceed to any place of confinement they might appoint.
Herrera's high character and noble qualities had made him many friends,
some of them persons of influence, and he now successfully exerted
himself to obtain a favour which was probably never before or afterwards
conceded to a prisoner during the whole course of that war. Count
Villabuena was allowed his parole, and was moreover told, that on
pledging himself to retire to France, and to take no further share,
direct or indirect, in the Carlist rebellion, he should obtain his
release. One other condition was annexed to this. Two colonels of the
Queen's army, who were detained prisoners by the Carlists, were to be
given up in exchange for his liberty.
When these terms, so unexpectedly favourable, were communicated to the
Count, he lost no time in addressing a letter to Don Carlos, informing
him of his position, and requesting him to fulfil that portion of the
conditions depending on him, by liberating the Christino officers. With
shattered health, he could not hope, he said, again to render his
Majesty services worth the naming; his prayers would ever be for his
success, but they were all he should be able to offer, even did an
unconditional release permit him to rejoin his sovereign. In the same
letter he implored Don Carlos to watch over the safety of his daughter,
and cause her to be conducted to France under secure escort. This letter
dispatched, by the medium of a flag of truce, the Count sought and
obtained permission to remove to the town of Logrono, where an old
friend, the Marquis of Mendava, had offered him an asylum till his fate
should be decided upon.
Long and anxiously did the Count await a reply to his letter, but weeks
passed without his receiving it. Three days before the battle of
Mendigorria, the Christino army passed through Logrono on its way
northwards, and the Count had the pleasure of a brief visit from
Herrera. A few hours after the troops had again marched away, a courier
arrived from Vittoria, bringing the much wished-for answer. It was cold
and laconic, written by one of the ministers of Don Carlos. Regret was
expressed for the Count's misfortune, but that regret was apparently not
sufficiently poignant to induce the liberation of two important
prisoners, in order that a like favour might be extended to one who
could no longer be of service to the Carlist cause.
Although enveloped in the verbiage and complimentary phrases which the
Spanish language so abundantly supplies, the real meaning of the
despatch was evident enough to Count Villabuena. Courted when he could
be of use, he was now, like a worthless fruit from which pulp and juice
had been expressed, thrown aside and neglected. It was a bitter pang to
his generous heart to meet such ingratitude from the prince whom he had
so much loved, and for whose sake he had made enormous sacrifices. To
add to his grief, the only answer to his request concerning his daughter
was a single line, informing him that she had left Segura several weeks
previously, and that her place of abode was unknown.
Depressed and heartsick, the Count lay back in his chair, shading his
eyes with his hand, and musing painfully on the events of the preceding
two years. His estates confiscated, his health destroyed, separated from
his only surviving child, and her fate unknown to him, himself a
prisoner--such were the results of his blind devotion to a worthless
prince and a falling principle. Great, indeed, was the change which
physical and mental suffering had wrought in the Conde de Villabuena.
His form was bowed and emaciated, his cheek had lost its healthful
tinge; his hair, in which, but a short three months previously, only a
few silver threads were perceptible, telling of the decline of life
rather than of its decay, now fell in grey locks around his sunken
temples. For himself individually, the Count grieved not; he had done
what he deemed his duty, and his conscience was at rest; but he mourned
the ingratitude of his king and party, and, above all, his heart bled at
the thought of his daughter, abandoned friendless and helpless amongst
strangers. The news of the preceding day's battle had reached him, but
he took small interest in it; he foresaw that many more such fights
would be fought, and countless lives be sacrificed, before peace would
revisit his unhappy and distracted country.
From these gloomy reflections Count Villabuena was roused by the sudden
opening of his door. The next instant his hand was clasped in that of
Luis Herrera, who, hot with riding, dusty and travel-stained, gazed
anxiously on the pale, careworn countenance of his old and venerable
friend. On beholding Luis, a beam of pleasure lighted up the features of
the Count.
"You at least are safe!" was his first exclamation. "Thank Heaven for
that! I should indeed be forlorn if aught happened to you."
There was an accent of unusually deep melancholy in the Count's voice
which struck Herrera, and caused him for an instant to imagine that he
had already received intelligence of his cousin's treachery, and of
Rita's captivity. Convinced, however, by a moment's reflection, that it
was impossible, he dreaded some new misfortune.
"You are dejected, sir," he said. "What has again occurred to grieve
you?--The reverse sustained by your friends"--
"No, no," interrupted the Count, with a bitter smile--"not so. My
friends, as you call them, seem little desirous of my poor sympathy.
Luis, read this."
As he spoke, he held out the letter received from the secretary of Don
Carlos.
"It was wisely said," continued the Count, when Herrera had finished its
perusal, "'put not your trust in princes.' Thus am I rewarded for
devotion and sacrifices. Hearken to me, Luis. It matters little,
perhaps, whether I wear out the short remnant of my days in captivity or
in exile; but my daughter, my pure, my beautiful Rita, what will become
of her--alas! what has become of her? My soul is racked with anxiety on
her account, and I curse the folly and imprudence that led me to
re-enter this devoted land. My child--my poor child--can I forgive
myself for perilling your defenceless innocence in this accursed war!"
His nerves unstrung by illness, and overcome by his great affliction,
the usually stern and unbending Villabuena bowed his head upon his
hands and sobbed aloud. Inexpressibly touched by this outburst of grief
in one to whose nature such weakness was so foreign, Herrera did his
utmost to console and tranquillize his friend. The paroxysm was short,
and the Count regained his former composure. Although dreading the
effect of the communication, Herrera felt it absolutely necessary to
impart at once the news brought by Paco. He proceeded accordingly in the
task, and as cautiously as possible, softening the more painful parts,
suggesting hopes which he himself could not feel, and speaking
cheeringly of the probability of an early rescue. The Count bore the
communication as one who could better sustain certain affliction than
killing suspense.
"Something I know," said he, when Herrera paused, "of the convent you
mention, and still more of its abbess. Carmen de Forcadell was long
celebrated, both at Madrid and in her native Andalusia, for her beauty
and intrigues. Her husband was assassinated by one of her lovers, as
some said, and within three years of his death, repenting, it was
believed, of her dissolute life, she took the veil. Once, I know,
Baltasar was her reputed lover; but whatever may now be his influence
over her, I cannot think she would allow my daughter to be ill treated
whilst within her walls. No, Herrera, the danger is, lest the villain
may remove my Rita, and place her where no shield may stand between her
and his purposes."
"Do not fear it," replied Herrera, in his turn reassured by the Count's
moderation. "Your cousin was taken in the action of the 16th, and is now
a prisoner at Pampeluna."
"Indeed!" exclaimed the Count, his face brightening with satisfaction.
"It is good news, indeed."
"Better than you even think, perhaps. You have preserved the ball that
was extracted from your wound?"
"I have," replied the Count, "at your request. What of it?"
"So long," said Herrera, "as no advantage could be gained from my
communication, I would not shock you with a statement that even now will
cause you serious pain. You remember, sir, that at the time of receiving
your wound you were at a very short distance from me, and that your
cousin was at a still less one from you, in your rear. As you advanced
towards the intervening stream, my eyes, conducted by chance, or
something better, fixed on your cousin, who at the moment drew a pistol
from his holster. You were but a few paces from him, when I saw him
deliberately--I could not be mistaken--deliberately vary his aim from
myself to you. The pistol was fired--you fell from your horse, struck by
his hand. You seem surprised. The deed was as inexplicable to me until
from your own lips I heard who the officer was--that there had been
serious disagreement between you--and that his temper was violent, and
character bad. Coupled with what my own eyes saw, the bullet itself, far
too small for a carbine ball, convinced me that it had proceeded from a
pistol. Instinctively, rather than from any anticipation of its being
hereafter useful, I requested you to preserve the ball, and to-day an
extraordinary chance enables me to verify my suspicions. Let the bullet
be now produced."
Astounded by what he heard, but still incredulous, the Count summoned
his attendant.
"Bring me the bullet that I bade you keep," said the Count.
"And desire my orderly," added Herrera, "to bring me the brace of
pistols he will find in my valise."
In a few moments both commands were obeyed. The bullet was of very small
calibre, and, not having encountered any bone, had preserved its
rotundity without even an indentation.
"Do you recognize these pistols?" said Herrera, showing the Count those
which he had taken from Baltasar's holsters. "This coronet and initials
proclaim them to have been once your own."
"They were so," replied the Count, taking one of them in his hand--"a
present to my cousin soon after he joined us. I remember them well; he
carried them on the day that I was wounded."
"Behold!" said Herrera, who placed the bullet in the muzzle of the
pistol, into the barrel of which it slid, fitting there exactly.
Shocked and confounded by this proof of his kinsman's villany, the Count
dropped the other pistol and remained sad and silent.
"You doubt no longer?" said Herrera.
"May it not have been accident?" said the Count, almost imploringly. "No
Villabuena could commit so base and atrocious a crime."
"None but he," said Herrera. "I watched him as he took his aim, not
twenty paces from you. With half a doubt, I would have bitten my tongue
from my mouth before an accusation should have passed it against the man
in whose favour indeed I have no cause to be prejudiced. Count
Villabuena, the shot was fired with intent. For that I pledge my honour
and salvation."
There was a pause.
"But my daughter," said the Count; "you forget her, Luis. She must be
rescued. How does this fiend's imprisonment render that rescue easier?"
"Thus," replied Herrera. "Yesterday I had an interview with Cordova, and
told him every thing; the abduction of Rita, and Baltasar's attempt on
your life. Of the latter I engaged to furnish ample proofs. Cordova, as
I expected, was indignant, and would have shot the offender had I
consented to the act. Upon reflection, however, he himself saw
reasonable objections to a measure so opposed to the existing treaty for
exchange of prisoners, and feared retaliation from the enemy. After some
discussion it was agreed that the proof of Baltasar's attempt upon your
life should be submitted, and, if found satisfactory, that the prisoner
should be placed at my disposal. In that event his liberty, nay, his
life, must depend upon his consenting, unreservedly, to write to the
convent, to desire the abbess to set Rita at liberty, and to provide for
her safe conduct into France. Until then, Baltasar, by the general's
order, remains in solitary confinement at Pampeluna."
"Good," said the Count approvingly.
"I had a threefold object in coming hither," continued Herrera. "To
obtain proof of Baltasar's guilt, to comfort you with the hopes of
Rita's safety, and to take you with me to Pampeluna. Baltasar of course
believes you dead; he will the more readily abandon his designs when he
finds that you still live."
"Rightly reasoned," said the Count. "Why should we now delay another
instant? Your news, Herrera, has made me young and strong again."
"We will set out to-morrow," said Herrera. "A column of troops march at
daybreak for Pampeluna, and we can avail ourselves of their escort."
His hopes revived and energies restored by the intelligence Luis had
brought, the Count would have preferred starting without a moment's
delay; but Herrera, although not less impatient, insisted on waiting
till the next day. Although the principal force of the Carlists had been
driven back into Western Navarre, the road to Pampeluna was not safe
without a strong escort, and Herrera himself had incurred no small risk
in traversing it as he had done, with only half a dozen dragoons. Count
Villabuena yielded to his representations, and the following morning
witnessed their departure.
Three days' marching brought the Count and Herrera to Pampeluna, whither
Cordova and his victorious army had preceded them. Count Villabuena had
reckoned too much upon his lately recovered strength; and, although the
marches had not been long, he reached Pampeluna in a very exhausted
state. It was evening when they arrived, and so crowded was the town
with troops that they had some difficulty in obtaining quarters, which
they at last found in the house of one of the principal tradesmen of the
place. Leaving the Count to repose from his fatigues, Herrera went to
visit Cordova, whom he informed of the positive certainty he had now
obtained of Baltasar's culpability. The proofs of it might certainly, in
a court of law, have been found insufficient, but Cordova took a
military view of the case; his confidence in Herrera was great, his
opinion of Baltasar, whom he had known in the service of Ferdinand, very
bad; and finally, the valid arguments adduced by Luis left him no moral
doubt of the prisoner's guilt. He gave the necessary orders for the
admission of Herrera and Count Villabuena into the prison. The next
day, however, the Count was still so fatigued and unwell from the
effects of his journey, that it was found necessary to call in a
physician, who forbade his leaving the house. The Count's impatience,
and the pressing nature of the matter in hand, would have led him to
disregard the prohibition, and at once proceed to the prison, which was
at the other extremity of the town, had not Herrera, to conciliate his
friend's health with the necessity for prompt measures, proposed to have
the prisoner brought to him. An order to that effect was readily granted
by Cordova, and, under proper escort, Don Baltasar was conducted to the
Count's quarters.
It would be erroneous to suppose, that, during the late war in Spain,
adherents of Don Carlos were only to be found in the districts in which
his standard was openly raised. In many or most of the towns best
affected to the liberal cause, devoted partisans of the Pretender
continued to reside, conforming to the established order of things, and
therefore unmolested. In most instances their private opinions were
suspected, in some actually known; but a few of them were so skilful in
concealing their political bias and partialities, as to pass for steady
and conscientious favourers of the Queen's government. Here was one and
no unimportant cause of the prolongation of the war; the number of spies
thus harboured in the very heart of the Christino camp and councils. By
these men intelligence was conveyed to the Carlists, projected
enterprises were revealed, desertion amongst the soldiery and
disaffection amongst the people, stimulated and promoted. Many of these
secretly-working agents were priests, but there was scarcely a class of
the population, from the nobleman to the peasant, and including both
sexes, in which they were not to be found. Innumerable were the plans
traversed by their unseen and rarely detectable influence. On many a
dark night, when the band of Zurbano, El Mochuelo, or some other
adventurous leader, issued noiselessly from the gates of a town, opened
expressly for their egress, to accomplish the surprise of distant post
or detachment, a light in some lofty window, of no suspicious appearance
to the observer uninformed of its meaning, served as a beacon to the
Carlists, and told them that danger was abroad. The Christinos returned
empty-handed and disappointed from their fruitless expedition, cursing
the treachery which, although they could not prove it, they were well
assured was the cause of their failure.
One of the most active, but, at the same time, of the least suspected,
of these subtle agents, was a certain Basilio Lopez, cloth-merchant in
the city of Pampeluna. He was a man past the middle age, well to do in
the world, married and with a family, and certainly, to all appearance,
the last person to make or meddle in political intrigues of any kind,
especially in such as might, by any possibility, peril his neck. Whoever
had seen him, in his soberly cut coat, with his smooth-shaven, sleek,
demure countenance and moderately rotund belly, leaning on the half-door
of his Almacen de Panos, and witnessed his bland smile as he stepped
aside to give admission to a customer or gossip, would have deemed the
utmost extent of his plottings to be, how he should get his cloths a
real cheaper or sell them at a real more than their market value. There
was no speculation, it seemed, in that dull placid countenance, save
what related to ells of cloth and steady money-getting. Beyond his
business, a well-seasoned _puchero_ and an evening game at loto, might
have been supposed to fill up the waking hours and complete the
occupations of the worthy cloth-dealer. His large, low-roofed, and
somewhat gloomy shop was, like himself, of respectable and business-like
aspect, as were also the two pale-faced, elderly clerks who busied
themselves amongst innumerable rolls of cloth, the produce of French and
Segovian looms. Above the shop was his dwelling-house, a strange,
old-fashioned, many-roomed building, with immensely thick walls, long,
winding corridors, ending and beginning with short flights of steps,
apartments panneled with dark worm-eaten wood, lofty ceilings, and queer
quaintly-carved balconies. It was a section of a line of building
forming half the side of a street, and which, in days of yore, had been
a convent of monks. Its former inmates, as the story went, had been any
thing but ascetics in their practices, and at last so high ran the
scandal of their evil doings, that they were fain to leave Pampeluna and
establish themselves in another house of their order, south of the Ebro.
Some time afterwards the convent had been subdivided into
dwelling-houses, and one of these had for many years past been in the
occupation of Basilio the cloth-merchant. Inside and out the houses
retained much of their old conventual aspect, the only alterations that
had been made consisting in the erection of partition walls, the opening
of a few additional doors and windows, and the addition of balconies.
One of the latter was well known to the younger portion of the officers
in garrison at Pampeluna; for there, when the season permitted, the two
pretty, black-eyed daughters of Master Basilio were wont to sit, plying
their needles with a diligence which did not prevent their sometimes
casting a furtive glance into the street, and acknowledging the
salutation of some passing acquaintance or military admirer of their
graces and perfections.