FACE TO FACE.
The door of the cuarto in which Doña Rosario was confined was thrown
open, and the Puelche warrior appeared; he held in his hand a rude
earthen lamp, the flame of which, although feeble, sufficed to
distinguish objects. He had replaced his shabby hat upon his head, and
its wide brim served as a mask to his features.
"Come with me!" he said, in a rough voice, to the maiden.
Conscious of the inutility of a resistance which could only be dangerous
to her amidst the bandits who surrounded her, and bowing her head with
resignation, she followed her guide in silence. Doña Maria had resumed
her place in the ebony chair; with arms crossed, and her head hanging
upon her bosom, she was buried in dark meditations. At the slight noise
made by the footsteps of the young lady, she drew herself up, a flash of
hatred gleamed from her dark eyes, and with, a gesture she commanded the
Indian to retire. The Puelche obeyed.
The two women examined each other intensely; their looks crossed; the
hawk and the dove were face to face. A deathlike silence reigned in the
apartment; at intervals the wind came in gusts and dismal moanings,
through the ill-joined boards of the doors, shook the old building to
its foundation, and agitated the flame of the only candle that illumined
the vast gloomy room in which the two women were. After a sufficiently
long pause, the Linda, who, with that instinct which women possess in
such a high degree, had examined in detail, one by one, the numerous
beauties of the charming girl who stood pale and trembling before her,
at length spoke--
"Yes," she said, in a hollow voice, as if speaking to herself, and
overcome by the evidence of the fact, "yes, this girl is beautiful; she
has everything to make her an object of love--to see her must be to
love her; well, this beauty, which up to this time has been her joy and
her pride, grief shall wither rapidly; before one year has passed away
I am resolved that she shall become an object of pity and contempt for
all. Oh!" she added, in a piercing, shrill voice, "I have her at length
within the power of my vengeance!"
"What have I done to you, madam, that you should hate me thus?" the
maiden asked, in a plaintive voice, the sweet and melodious accent of
which would have softened anyone but her to whom she spoke.
"What have you done to me, silly creature?" the Linda cried, bounding
up like a wounded lioness, and placing herself close in front of Doña
Rosario--"what have you done to me?" and then added, with a loud
laugh--"Ah! ah! that's true, _you_ have done nothing to me!"
"Alas, madam! I do not even know you; this is the first time I have been
in your presence; I, a poor young girl, whose life to the present time
has passed away in retirement--how can I have offended you?"
"Yes, I allow it," the Linda replied; "you have done nothing to me; and,
personally, as you have just said, I have nothing to reproach you with;
but, by making you suffer, learn that it is upon _him_ I avenge myself."
"I do not understand what you mean, madam," the maiden said, simply.
"Senseless fool, do not play with the lioness who is ready to devour
you, or pretend to feign an ignorance of which I am not the dupe; if you
have not already divined my name, I will tell it you--I am Doña Maria,
whom they call the Linda--do you understand me now?"
"Not more than I did before, madam," replied Doña Rosario, with an
accent of frankness that shook the belief of her persecutor, in spite of
herself; "I have never even heard that name."
"Can that be true?" she cried, doubtingly.
"I swear it is."
Doña Linda strode about the apartment with long, hasty steps. Doña
Rosario, more and more astonished, looked stealthily at this woman,
without being able to account to herself for the emotion which her
presence, and the sound of her voice, caused her to experience; it
was not fear, still less was it joy, but an incomprehensible mixture
of sadness, joy, pity, and terror; an undefinable feeling, which,
far from creating repulsion, drew her towards a woman whose odious
projects were no secret to her, and from whom she knew she had so much
to dread. Singular sympathy; what Doña Rosario felt towards the Linda,
the Linda felt towards Doña Rosario: in vain she called to her aid the
remembrance of all the wrongs with which she fancied she had to reproach
the man whom she wished to strike in the person of the young girl; in
the innermost recesses of her heart, a voice, which constantly gained
strength, spoke to her in favour of the maiden whom she was about to
sacrifice to her hatred; the more she endeavoured to overcome this
sentiment, for which she could not account, the more powerless she found
her efforts become; at length, she was on the point of being softened.
"Oh!" she murmured, passionately, "what is going on within me? Am I
weak enough to allow myself to be subdued by the tears of that paltry
creature?"
Like Indian warriors, who, when fastened to the stake of blood, sing
their own exploits to encourage them to endure bravely the tortures
which their executioners silently prepare, the Linda recalled the
maddening remembrance of all the outrages Don Tadeo had loaded her with;
and with flashing eyes and trembling lips, she stopped short in front of
Doña Rosario.
"Listen to me, girl," she said, in a voice which passion caused to
tremble, "this is the first and last time we shall be in the presence of
each other; and you shall know why I bear you such hatred. What you will
learn will be hereafter, perhaps, a consolation to you, and help you to
bear with courage the miseries I reserve for you," she added, with the
laugh of a demon.
"I will listen to you, madam," Rosario replied, meekly, "although I am
certain that what you are about to say cannot, in any sense, render me
guilty with respect to you."
"Do you think so?" the Linda said, in a tone of ironical compassion;
"well, then, listen; we have time to talk, as you will not leave this
place for an hour."
This allusion to her approaching departure made the poor girl shudder,
by recalling to her all that the departure threatened.
"A woman," the Linda continued, "a young and beautiful woman, more
beautiful than you, fragile child of cities, whom the least storm
bends like a weak reed--a woman, I say, had for love married a man,
also young, and handsome as the evil angel before his fall, who with
perfidiously golden words, by opening before her immense and unknown
horizons, had so seduced her, the poor, poor girl, that in a few days
he induced her to abandon stealthily the roof which had sheltered her
infancy, and to which her aged father in vain recalled her up to the day
of his death, that he might bless and pardon her."
"Oh, that is frightful!" cried Doña Rosario.
"Why so? as he had married her, morality was satisfied, in the eyes
of the world. This woman was pure, and could thenceforward move with
head erect before the crowd which had hailed her fall with laughter and
contempt. But everything passes away in this world, and most quickly of
all, the love of the most passionate man. Only a year after marriage
this woman, alone in the most retired room of her dwelling, wept over
the remembrance of the happiness which had left her for ever. Her
husband had deserted her! A child born of this union, a little fair
girl, a rosy-lipped cherub, whose eyes reflected the azure of the
heavens, was the sole consolation which in her misfortunes was left to
the poor abandoned mother. One night, when she was plunged in sleep, her
husband stole like a thief into her house, seized the child, in spite
of the cries of the desolate mother, who threw herself in tears at his
feet, and implored him by all he held sacred in the world. After roughly
repulsing the despairing mother, who sank dying on the cold slabs of the
floor, this heartless and pitiless man disappeared with the child."
"And the mother?" Doña Rosario anxiously asked, much affected by the
story which the Linda told, entirely to her own advantage.
"The mother," she continued, in a low, broken voice, "the mother was
doomed never to see her child again. She never has seen her! Prayers,
threats, everything in turn, have been employed without success. And
now, this mother, who adores her child, and would sacrifice her life
for her,--this mother has vowed a hatred against this man, whom she so
fondly loved, and who showed no pity to her, which no vengeance can
satisfy! Now, then, young girl, do you know the name of this mother?
Say, do you know it? No, you do not? Well, then, I am this mother! and
the man who ravished from her all her happiness--the man whom she hates
as she does the demon whose heart he bears, is Don Tadeo de Leon!"
"Don Tadeo!" Rosario cried, starting back with surprise.
"Yes!" the Linda said, furiously; "yes, Don Tadeo, your lover!"
The maiden sprang towards Doña Maria, and seizing her arm violently, and
placing her face, inflamed with anger, close to that of the courtezan,
who was stupefied at the energy she could not have expected from this
delicate creature, cried indignantly,--
"What have you dared to say, madam? Don Tadeo my lover! It is false,
madam!"
"Can this be true?" the Linda asked, eagerly. "Can I have been so
grossly mistaken? But then," she added, mistrustfully, "who are you? and
by what title does he keep you always with him?"
"I will tell you who I am, madam!" Rosario replied, proudly.
All at once the hasty gallop of several horses was heard from without,
mingled with cries and oaths.
"What can the matter be?" said Doña Maria, turning pale.
"Oh!" said Doña Rosario, clasping her hands fervently; "oh, my God! are
you sending me liberators?"
"You are not free yet," the Linda said, with a bitter smile.
The tumult increased greatly; the door, violently pushed from without,
flew open, and several men rushed into the room.