THE ABDUCTION.
Whilst the ceremony we have described was being accomplished, a terrible
event was passing not far from it, on the banks of the river, in the
camp of Don Tadeo de Leon. The three parties which divided Chili, and
aimed at governing it, had, as if of one accord, chosen the day for the
renewal of the treaty to throw off the mask and give their partisans the
signal of revolt. Don Tadeo, who feared everything from Doña Maria and
the General's spies, had consented, but with regret, that Rosario should
accompany him to the plain, to be present at the ceremony; he had taken
her from the convent, and brought the young girl with him, inwardly
pleased that she would thus not be in Valdivia during the serious events
that were there preparing.
Doña Rosario, to tell the truth, had only consulted her love in the
request she had made of her guardian; the desire of seeing unobserved,
for a few hours, the object of her affections, had dictated it. Don
Tadeo, who could not on any account be present at the ceremony, being
obliged to conceal himself, took the two young Frenchmen aside as soon
as his little encampment was arranged. It was then about seven o'clock
in the morning, and the crowd began to flock to the plain. The King of
Darkness cast a prudent and searching look around, but, reassured by the
complete solitude that prevailed, he at length decided upon explaining
to the young men, who were astonished at this strange proceeding, all
that appeared so unusual and inconsistent in his conduct.
"Caballeros," he said, "since I have had the honour of knowing you, I
have concealed nothing from you, and you know all my secrets; this day
must decide the question of life or death to which, from my boyhood,
I have devoted all the energies of my mind. I must leave this spot
instantly, and return to Valdivia. It is in that city that the first
blow will be struck, within a few hours, against the tyrant, and the
struggle I expect will be terrible. I am not willing to expose the
young lady whom you know, and whose life you have already saved, to the
chances of it. I confide the care of her to one of you, the other will
accompany me to the city. In the event of any fatal mischance happening
to me, I will place in his hands a paper, which will inform you both of
my intentions, and of what I wish you to do with that poor child, who is
all I hold dear on earth, and whom I leave with the greatest pain. Which
of you, gentlemen, will take charge of Doña Rosario during my absence?"
"Be at ease, Don Tadeo, go where your duty calls you," Louis answered,
in a solemn but agitated tone; "I swear that while I live no danger,
either near or distant, shall assail her; to reach her it must pass over
my dead body."
"Receive my warmest thanks, Don Louis," the Dark-Heart replied, somewhat
surprised, and yet affected by the manner of the Frenchman; "I place
implicit faith in your words; I know you will keep your vow at all
risks; besides, in a few hours I hope I shall be back, and here she can
have nothing to dread."
"I will watch over her," the young man said, quietly.
"Once again I thank you."
Don Tadeo left the young men, and returned to the tent where Doña
Rosario, reclining in a hammock, was gently swinging herself, and
indulging in perhaps pleasing reveries. On seeing her guardian, she
sprang up eagerly.
"Do not disturb yourself, my child," said Don Tadeo, putting her back
with a gentle hand, "I have but two words to say to you."
"I am always attentive to you, my kind friend."
"I have come to bid you farewell."
"Farewell, Don Tadeo!" she exclaimed, in great terror.
"Oh! comfort yourself, timid darling! only for a few hours."
"Ah! that is all!" she said, with a smile of satisfaction.
"Certainly, all! There is in this neighbourhood an exceedingly curious
grotto. I was foolish enough to let some words slip concerning it this
morning before Don Valentine, and that demon of a Frenchman," he added,
with a smile, "insists upon my showing it to him; so that, in order to
get rid of his importunities, I have been obliged to comply."
"You have done quite right," she said, eagerly; "we are under great
obligations to those two French caballeros, and what he asked is such a
trifle!"
"That it would have been uncourteous on my part to refuse him," Don
Tadeo interrupted, "therefore I have not. We shall set off directly,
in order to be the sooner back. Be as cheerful as you can during our
absence, dear child."
"I will endeavour," she said, absently.
"Besides, I shall leave Don Louis to take care of you; you can chat
together, and the time will quickly pass away."
The young girl blushed as she stammered--"Come back soon, dear friend."
"Time to go and return, that is all; adieu, then, darling!"
Don Tadeo left the tent, and rejoined the young men.
"Adieu, Don Louis!" he said. "Are you ready, Don Valentine?"
"Ready!" the Frenchman replied, laughing; "Caramba! I should be in
despair at losing such an opportunity of judging whether you understand
getting up revolutions as well as we Frenchmen do."
"Oh! We are but young at the work yet," Don Tadeo remarked; "and yet we
begin to have some idea of the matter, I assure you."
"Good-bye, Louis, for a time," said Valentine, pressing his friend's
hand; and stooping towards his ear, he added--"Be thankful to your
stars, do you not see that Heaven protects your love?" The young man
only replied by shaking his head despondingly, and sighing deeply. A
peon had brought the horses for the two Chilians and the Frenchman,
and they were soon in the saddle. They set off at a quick pace, and
were quickly lost in the high grass and the windings of the road. Louis
returned pensively to the camp, where he found Doña Rosario alone in her
tent; the two Indian chiefs, attracted by curiosity, having gone in the
direction of the chapel, where, mingled with the crowd, they might be
present at the ceremony. The arrieros and the peons had not been long in
following their example.
The young girl was seated on a heap of dyed sheepskins in front of
the tent, dreamily looking at, but without seeing, the clouds which
were driven across the heavens by a strong breeze. Doña Rosario was
a charming girl of sixteen, slender, fragile, and delicate, small in
person, whose least gestures and least movements possessed inexpressible
attractions. Of a rare kind of beauty in America, she was fair; her
long silky hair was of the colour of ripe golden corn; her blue eyes,
in which were reflected the azure of the heavens, had that melancholy,
dreamy expression which we attribute only to angels, and young girls who
are beginning to love; her nose, with its pinky nostrils, was inclined
to be aquiline; while her mouth, rather serious, with rosy lips set
off by teeth of dazzling whiteness, and her skin of pearl-like purity,
altogether made her a charming creature.
The noise of the approaching young man's steps roused her from her
reverie. She turned her head in the direction, and looked at him with
inexpressible sadness, although a faint smile played upon her lips.
"It is I," said the Count, in a low, inarticulate voice, bowing
respectfully.
"I knew of your coming," she replied, in a sweetly-toned voice. "Oh! why
did you return to me at all?"
"Be not angry with me for drawing near you once more. I endeavoured to
obey you; I left the spot you resided in, without, alas! even the hope
of seeing you again; but destiny has decided otherwise."
She gave him a long and eloquent look.
"Unfortunately," he continued, with a melancholy smile, "you are
condemned for some hours to endure my presence."
"I must resign myself to it," she said, extending her hand to him
cordially.
The young man imprinted a burning kiss upon the white, soft hand he held.
"And so we are left alone!" she said gaily, but withdrawing her hand.
"Good heavens! yes, nearly so," he replied, falling in with her humour.
"The Indian chiefs and the peons, overcome by curiosity, have joined the
crowds, and kindly procured us a _tête-à-tête_."
"In the midst of ten thousand people!" she said, smiling.
"That is all the better; everyone is engaged with his own affairs,
without troubling himself about those of others; and we can speak to
each other without the fear of being interrupted by importunate persons."
"True," she said, thoughtfully; "it is frequently amidst a crowd that we
find the greatest solitude."
"Does not the heart possess that great faculty of being able to isolate
itself when it pleases--to fold itself, as it were, within itself?"
"And is not that faculty often a misfortune?"
"Perhaps it is," he replied, with a sigh.
"But how comes it?" she said, with a half-smiling air, in order to
change the conversation, which was becoming a little too serious.
"Pardon my giddy impertinence! How comes it, I say, that you, of whom I
sometimes caught a glimpse at Paris, during my short sojourn there, and
who then enjoyed, if I was not mistaken, a brilliant position, should
meet me here so far from your country?"
"Alas! madam, my history is that of many young men, and may be summed up
in two words--weakness and ignorance."
"That is but too true; that is the history of nearly all the world, in
Europe as well as in America."
At this moment a great noise reached them from the camp. Doña Rosario
and the Count were placed so as not to be able to see what was passing
in the plain.
"What is that noise?" she asked.
"Probably the tumult of the festival which reaches us: should you like
to be present at this ceremony?"
"To what purpose? Those cries and that tumult terrify me."
"And yet, I thought it was you who asked Don Tadeo to see this."
"A silly girl's caprice," she said, "which passed away as soon as
conceived."
"But was it not Don Tadeo's intention to----"
"Who can tell Don Tadeo's intention?" she interrupted, with a sigh.
"He appears to love you tenderly?" Louis hazarded, timidly.
"Sometimes I am on the point of believing so; he pays me the most
delicate attentions, shews me the tenderest care; then at other times he
appears to endure me with, pain--he repulses me--my caresses annoy him."
"Singular conduct!" the Count observed; "this gentleman is your
relation, there can be no doubt."
"I do not know," she replied ingenuously; "when alone and pensive, my
thoughts stray back to my early years. I have some vague remembrance of
a young and handsome woman, whose black eyes smiled upon me constantly,
and whose rosy lips lavished affectionate kisses upon me; and then, all
at once, a complete darkness comes over my brain, and memory entirely
fails me. As far back as I can recollect, I find nobody but Don Tadeo
watching over me, everywhere and always, as a father would do over his
daughter."
"Perhaps, then," said the Count, "he is your father."
"Listen. One day, after a long and dangerous illness which I had just
gone through, and in which Don Tadeo had night and day watched over
my pillow for more than a month, happy at seeing me restored to life,
for he had been fearful he should lose me, he smiled upon me tenderly,
kissed my brow and my hands, and appeared to experience the most
lively joy. 'Oh!' I said, as a sudden thought rushed across my mind;
'oh! you are my father! None but a father could devote himself with
such abnegation for his child!' and throwing my arms round his neck,
I concealed my tear-laden face on his chest. Don Tadeo arose, his
countenance was lividly pale, his features were frightfully contracted;
he repulsed me roughly, and strode hastily about the chamber. I Your
father! I! Doña Rosario!' he cried, in a husky voice, 'you are a silly,
poor child! Never repeat those words again; your father is dead, and
your mother, likewise, long, long ago. I am not your father--never
repeat that word--I am only your friend. Yes, your father, at the point
of death, confided you to my care, and that is why I am bringing you up,
that is why I watch over you; as to me, I am not even your relation!'
His agitation was extreme; he said many other things which I do not now
remember, and then he left me. Alas! from that day I have never ventured
to ask him for any account of my family."
A silence ensued; the two young people were pensively thoughtful: the
simple and touching recital of Doña Rosario had strongly affected the
Count. At length he said, in a tremulous voice,--
"Let _me_ love you, Doña Rosario!"
The maiden sighed.
"To what could that love lead, Don Louis?" she said sadly,--"to death,
perhaps!"
"Oh!" he exclaimed madly; "and it would be welcome, if it came in your
defence!"
At this very instant, several individuals rushed into the tent, uttering
discordant cries. Quick as thought, the Count threw himself before the
young girl, a pistol in each hand. But, as if Heaven had decreed that he
should accomplish the wish he had just uttered, before he had time to
defend himself, he was struck to the earth, stabbed by several machetes.
In falling, he saw, as if in a dream, Doña Rosario seized by two
individuals, who fled away with her in their arms. With an incredible
effort, the young man succeeded in getting on his knees, and afterwards
in rising altogether. He beheld the ravishers hastening towards their
horses, which were being held at a short distance by an Indian. He
took aim at the flying wretches, crying, with a faint voice, "Murder!
Murder!" and fired.
One of the ravishers fell, uttering an imprecation of rage. The Count,
exhausted by the superhuman effort he had made, staggered like a drunken
man; the blood gushed from his ears, his sight grew dim, and he rolled
senseless upon the ground.