MOTHER AND SON.
So soon as Father Seraphin had installed Red Cedar and Ellen in the
jacal, and assured himself that the new life he had procured them was
supportable, he thought about keeping his promise to Valentine's mother.
The worthy female, in spite of all her courage and resignation, felt her
strength daily growing less; she said nothing, she did not complain; but
the certainty of being so near her son and yet unable to see him, to
press him in her arms after such a lengthened separation, such cruel
alternations of cheated hopes and frightful deceptions plunged her into
a gloomy melancholy from which nothing could draw her; she felt herself
dying by inches, and had arrived at the terrible point of believing that
she would never see her son again, for he was dead, and that the
missionary, through fear of dealing her a terrible blow, deceived her
with a hope which could never be realised. Maternal love does not
reason.
All that Father Seraphin had told her to cause her to be patient had
only lulled her grief for a while, till it broke out again in redoubled
impatience and anxiety. All she had seen and heard since her landing in
America had only increased her anxiety, by showing her how life in this
country often only hangs by a thread. Hence, when the missionary
informed her that in a week at the latest she should embrace her son,
her joy and anxiety were so great that she almost fainted.
At first, she did not believe in such happiness. Through hoping against
hope so long, she had reached such a state of distrust that she supposed
that the good priest only told her this to make her patient for a while
longer, and that he promised this meeting just as hopeless sick people
are promised things which can never be realised.
In the meanwhile, Father Seraphin, though certain that Valentine was at
this moment on the prairie, did not know where to lay his hand on him.
So soon as he reached the grotto he inhabited provisionally, he sent off
the Indians in four different directions to obtain information and bring
him positive news of the hunter. Valentine's mother was present when the
missionary despatched these couriers; she heard the instructions he gave
them, saw them start, and then began counting the minutes till their
return, calculating in her mind the time they would employ in finding
her son and in returning: the incidents that might delay them; in short,
making those countless suppositions to which people give way who are
impatiently awaiting anything they eagerly desire.
Two days elapsed, and none of the couriers returned; the poor mother,
seated on a rock, with her eyes fixed on the plain, awaited them,
motionless and indefatigable. At the close of the third day, she
perceived, at a great distance, a black point, rapidly approaching the
spot where she was; gradually, it became more distinct, and she
recognised a horseman galloping at full speed up the valley.
The mother's heart beat as if ready to burst. It was evidently one of
the missionary's messengers; but what news did he bring? At length, the
Indian dismounted, and began scaling the hill side; the old woman seemed
to regain her youthful limbs, so rapidly did she go to meet him, and
cleared in a few minutes the space that separated them. But when they
were face to face, another obstacle rose before her: the redskin did not
understand a word of French; she, for her part, could not speak Indian.
But mothers have a species of language, a freemasonry of the heart,
which is understood in all countries; the Comanche warrior stopped
before her, folded his arms on his chest, and bowed with a gentle smile,
merely uttering the word--
"Koutonepi!"
Valentine's mother knew that the Indians were accustomed to call her son
thus; and she suddenly felt reassured by the man's smile, and the way in
which he had spoken her son's name. She took the warrior by the arm, and
dragged him to the grotto, at the entrance of which Father Seraphin was
reading his breviary.
"Well!" he asked on seeing her, "What news?"
"This man could tell me nothing," she replied, "for I do not understand
his language; but something assures me he brings good news."
"With your leave, I will question him."
"Do so, for I am anxious to know what I have to expect."
The missionary turned to the Indian, who stood motionless a few yards
off, and had listened to the few words spoken.
"The brow of my brother, the Spider, is damp," he said; "let him take a
place by my side and rest: he has had a long journey."
The Indian smiled gravely, and bowed respectfully to the missionary.
"The Spider is a chief in his tribe," he said in his guttural and yet
melodious voice; "he can bound like the jaguar, and crawl like the
serpent: nothing fatigues him."
"I know that my brother is a great warrior," the missionary answered:
"his exploits are numerous, and the Apaches fly on seeing him. Has my
brother met the young men of his tribe?"
"Spider has met them: they are hunting the buffalo on the Gila."
"Was their great chief Unicorn with them?"
"Unicorn was with his warriors."
"Good! My brother has the eye of a tiger-cat: nothing escapes him. Did
he meet the great paleface hunter?"
"Spider smoked the calumet with Koutonepi and several warriors, friends
of the pale hunter, assembled round his fire."
"Did my brother speak with Koutonepi?" the priest asked.
"Yes, Koutonepi is glad at the return of the father of prayer, whom he
did not hope to see again. When the walkon has sung for the second time,
Koutonepi will be near my father with his comrades."
"My brother is a wise and skillful warrior: I thank him for the way in
which he has carried out the mission with which he was entrusted, a
mission which no other warrior would have performed with so much
prudence and tact."
At this well-dressed compliment, a smile of joy and pride played round
the Indian's lips, who withdrew after respectfully kissing the
missionary's hand. Father Seraphin then turned to Madame Guillois, who
anxiously awaited the result of this conversation, trying to read in the
priest's looks what she had to hope or fear. He took her hand, pressed
it gently, and said to her with that sympathetic accent which he
possessed in the highest degree--
"Your son is coming, you will soon see him: he will be here this night,
within two hours at the most."
"Oh!" she said with an accent impossible to render; "God! Be blessed!"
And, kneeling on the ground, she burst into tears. The missionary
watched her anxiously, ready to help her if her extreme emotion caused
her to break down. After a few moments she rose smiling through her
tears, and took her place again by the priest's side.
"Oh!" she said eagerly, "he is my son, the only being I ever loved; the
child I nursed at my breast, and I am going to see him again! Alas! We
have been separated for ten years--for ten years the mark of my kisses
has been effaced from his forehead. You cannot understand what I feel,
father--it cannot be explained; to a mother her child is everything."
"Do not let your emotion overpower you."
"Then, he is coming?" she repeated eagerly.
"In two hours at the most."
"What a long time two hours are!" she said with a sigh.
"Oh! all human creatures are like that," the missionary exclaimed. "You,
who waited so many years without complaining, now find two hours too
long."
"But I am waiting for my son, my beloved child; I cannot see him soon
enough."
"Come, calm yourself, you are quite in a fever."
"Oh! fear nothing, father, joy never kills. The sight of my son will
restore my health, I feel sure."
"Poor mother!" the priest could not refrain from saying.
"Am I not?" she said. "Oh, it is a terrible thing, if you but knew it,
to live in these continued horrors, to have only a son who is your joy,
your delight, and not to know where he is, or what he is doing, whether
he is dead or alive. The most cruel torture for a mother is this
continual uncertainty of good and evil, of hope and disappointment. You
do not understand this, you can never understand it, you men; it is a
sense wanting in you, and which we mothers alone possess--love of our
children."
There was a short silence, then she went on:
"Good heaven! How slowly time passes. Will not the sun soon set? Which
way do you think my son will come, father? I should like to see him
arrive, though I have not seen him for a long time. I feel certain that
I shall recognise him at once; a mother is not mistaken, look you, for
she does not see her child with her eyes, but feels him in her eyes."
The missionary led her to the entrance of the cave, made her sit down,
placed himself by her side, and said, as he stretched out his arm in a
southwestern direction:
"Look over there, he must come that way."
"Thanks!" she said, eagerly. "Oh, you are as kind as you are virtuous.
You are good as a saint, father. God will reward you, but I can only
offer you my thanks."
The missionary smiled softly.
"I am happy," he said, simply.
They looked out, the sun was rapidly sinking in the horizon; gloom
gradually covered the ground; objects were confused, and it was
impossible to distinguish anything, even at a short distance.
"Let us go in," Father Seraphin said; "the night chill might strike
you."
"Nonsense," she said, "I feel nothing."
"Besides," he went on, "the gloom is so dense that you cannot see him."
"That is true," she said, fervently, "but I shall hear him."
There was no reply possible to this. Father Seraphin took his seat again
by her side.
"Forgive me, father," she said, "but joy renders me mad."
"You have suffered enough, poor mother," he answered, kindly, "to have
the right of enjoying unmingled happiness this day. Do what you please,
then, and have no fear of causing me pain."
About an hour elapsed ere another word was uttered by them: they were
listening; the night was becoming more gloomy, the desert sounds more
imposing, the evening breeze had risen, and groaned hoarsely through the
_quebradas_, with a melancholy and prolonged sound. Suddenly Madame
Guillois sprang up with flashing eye, and seized the missionary's hand.
"Here he is," she said, hoarsely.
Father Seraphin raised his head.
"I hear nothing," he replied.
"Ah!" the mother said, with an accent that came from her heart, "I am
not mistaken--it is he! Listen, listen again."
Father Seraphin listened with greater attention, and, in fact, a
scarcely perceptible sound could be heard on the prairie, resembling the
prolonging roaring of distant thunder. The noise became gradually
louder, and it was presently easy to distinguish the gallop of several
horses coming up at full speed.
"Well," she exclaimed, "was it fancy? Oh! A mother's heart is never
mistaken."
"You are right, madam; in a few minutes he will be by your side."
"Yes," she muttered, in a panting voice.
That was all she could say--joy was stifling her.
"In Heaven's name," the missionary exclaimed, in alarm, "take care! This
emotion is too great for you; you are killing yourself."
She shook her head with a careless gesture, full of inexpressible
happiness.
"What matter?" she said; "I am happy--oh, very happy at this moment."
The horsemen entered the defile, and the gallop of their horses grew
very loud.
"Dismount, gentlemen," a powerful voice shouted, "we have arrived."
"'Tis he! 'Tis he!" she said, with a movement as if going to rush
forward; "it was he who spoke--I recognised his voice."
The missionary held her in his arms.
"What are you about?" he exclaimed, "you will kill yourself!"
"Pardon me, father, pardon me! But on hearing him speak, I know not what
emotion I felt; I was no longer mistress of myself, but rushed forward."
"A little patience, he is coming up; in five minutes he will be in your
arms."
She started back hurriedly.
"No," she said, "not so, not so, the recognition would be too hurried;
let me enjoy my happiness without losing a morsel. I wish him to find me
out as I did him."
And she hurriedly dragged Father Seraphin into the grotto.
"It is Heaven that inspires you," he said; "yes, this recognition would
be too abrupt--it would kill you both."
"I was right, father, was I not? Oh, you will see--you will see. Hide me
at some spot where I can see and hear everything unnoticed; make haste,
here he is."
The cavern, as we have said, was divided into a number of cells, each
communicating with the other; Father Seraphin concealed Madame Guillois
in one of these, whose walls were formed of stalactites, that had
assumed the strangest forms. After hobbling their horse, the hunters
climbed the mountain. While coming up, they could be heard talking
together; the sound of their voices distinctly reached the inhabitants
of the grotto, who listened greedily to the words they uttered.
"That poor Father Seraphin," Valentine said; "I do not know if you are
like myself, caballeros, but I am delighted at seeing him again. I
feared lest he had left us forever."
"It is a great consolation for me in my grief," said Don Miguel, "to
know him so near us; that man is a true apostle."
"What is the matter, Valentine?" General Ibañez suddenly asked; "Why do
you stop?"
"I do not know," the latter replied, in a hesitating voice, "something
is taking place in me which I cannot explain. When Spider told me today
of the father's arrival, I felt a strange contraction of the heart; now
it is affecting me again, though I cannot say for what reason."
"My friend, it is the joy you feel at seeing Father Seraphin again, that
is all."
The hunter shook his head.
"No," he said, "it is not that, but something else; what I feel is not
natural: my chest is oppressed, I am choking, what can be happening?"
His friends anxiously collected round him.
"Let me go on," he said, resolutely; "if I have bad news to hear, it is
better to do so at once."
And, in spite of the exhortations of his friends, who were alarmed at
seeing him in this state, he began running up the mountain side. He soon
reached the platform, when he stopped to take breath.
"Come on!" he said.
He boldly entered the cavern, followed by his friends, but at the moment
he went in, he heard his name called; at the sound of this voice the
hunter started; he turned pale and trembled, and a cold perspiration
covered his face.
"Oh," he murmured, "who calls me thus?"
"Valentine! Valentine!" the soft voice repeated.
The hunter hesitated and bent his body forward, his face assumed an
indescribable look of joy and alarm.
"Again! Again!" he said, in an indistinct voice, as he laid his hand on
his heart to check its beating.
"Valentine!" the voice repeated. This time Valentine bounded forward
like a lion.
"My mother!" he cried; "My mother, here I am!"
"Ah, I felt certain he would recognise me," she exclaimed, as she rushed
into his arms.
The hunter pressed her to his bosom with a sort of frenzy; the poor
woman lavished her caresses on him, crying and half mad with joy and
terror at seeing him in this state. She repeated the experiment she had
made. He kissed her face, with her white locks, unable to utter a word.
At length a hoarse groan burst from his chest, he breathed faintly, and
he melted into tears, saying, in an accent of indescribable tenderness--
"My mother! Oh, my mother!"
These were the only words he could find. Valentine laughed and wept at
once; as he sat on a rock, holding his mother on his knees, he embraced
her with delirious joy, and was never wearied of kissing her white hair,
her pale cheeks, and her eyes, which had shed so many tears.
The spectators of the scene, affected by this true and simple affection,
wept silently round the mother and son. Curumilla, crouched in a corner
of the cave, was looking fixedly at the hunter, while two tears slowly
glided down his bronzed cheeks.
When the first emotion was slightly calmed, Father Seraphin, who had
till then kept aloof, not to trouble the glorious outpourings of this
interview, stepped forward, and said in a gently imperious voice, as he
held up the simple copper crucifix in his right hand:
"My children, let us return thanks to the Saviour for His infinite
goodness."
The backwoodsmen knelt down and prayed.