THE CONSULTATION.
A man must have lived a long time apart from beings he loves, separated
from them by immeasurable distances, without hope of ever seeing them
again, in order to understand the sweet and yet painful emotions
Valentine experienced on seeing his mother again. We, the greater part
of whose life has been spent in the deserts of the New World, amid the
savage hordes that occupy them, speaking languages having no affinity
with our own, forced into habits not at all agreeing with those of our
country--we can remember the tender feelings that assailed us whenever a
straying traveller uttered in our presence that sacred name of France so
dear to our heart.
Exile is worse than death; it is an ever bleeding wound, which time, in
lieu of cicatrising, only increases every hour, every minute, and
changes at length into such a craving to breathe one's native air, were
it only for a day, that exile contracts that terrible and incurable
disease to which physicians give the name of nostalgia. The moment comes
when a man, remote from his country, feels an invincible desire to see
his country again, and hear his language again; neither fortune nor
honours can contend against the feeling.
Valentine, during the many years he had spent in traversing the desert,
had always had this memory of his country present to his mind. During
his conversations with Father Seraphin he had spoken to him of his
mother, that good and holy woman whom he never hoped to see again, for
he had given up all thoughts of returning home for a long time past. The
feverish existence of the desert had so seduced him, that every other
consideration yielded to it, especially after the misfortunes of his
early youth and the wounds of his only love. When, therefore, he saw
himself reunited to his mother, and understood they would never separate
again, an immense joy occupied his mind.
The entire night passed away like an hour, in delicious conversation;
the hunters collected round the fire, listened to mother and son
describing with that accent that comes from the heart the various
incidents of their life during the long conversation. A few minutes
before sunrise; Valentine insisted on his mother taking rest; he feared
lest, at her advanced age, after the piercing emotions of such a day,
such a lengthened absence of sleep might injure her health. After
various objections, Madame Guillois at length yielded to her son's
wishes, and retired to a remote compartment of the grotto.
When Valentine supposed his mother asleep, he made his friends a sign to
sit down near him; the latter, suspecting that he had a serious
communication to make to them, silently obeyed. Valentine walked up and
down the cavern with his hands behind his back and frowning brow.
"Caballeros," he said, in a stern voice, "day is about to break, it is
too late for any of us to think about sleep, so be good enough to aid me
with your counsels."
"Speak, my friend," Father Seraphin replied, "you know that we are
devoted to you."
"I know it, and you more than anyone else, father--hence I shall be
forever grateful to you for the immense service you have rendered me.
You know I forget nothing, and when the moment arrives, be assured that
I shall pay my debt to you."
"Do not speak about that, friend; I knew the intense desire you had to
see your mother again, and the anxiety that tortured you on the subject
of that cruel separation; I only acted as anyone else would have done in
my place, so dismiss the affair, I beg; I desire no other reward than to
see you happy.
"I am so, my friend," the hunter exclaimed, with emotion; "I am more so
than I can say, but it is that very happiness which terrifies me. My
mother is near me, 'tis true, but, alas! You know the life to which a
desert existence, made up of fighting and privation, condemns us; at
this moment especially, when following out our implacable revenge, ought
I to make my mother, a woman of great age and weak health, share the
changes and dangers of that life? Can we, without cruelty, compel her to
follow us on the trail of the villain we are pursuing? No, not one of
you, I feel convinced, would give me that advice; but what is to be
done? My mother cannot remain alone in this cavern abandoned, far from
all help, and exposed to numberless privations. We know not whither the
duty we have sworn to accomplish may drag us tomorrow. On the other
hand, will my mother, so happy at our meeting, consent so promptly to
even a temporary separation--a separation which circumstances may
indefinitely prolong? I therefore beg you all, my only and true friends,
to advise me, for I confess that I know not what resolution to form.
Speak, my friends, tell me what I should do."
There was a lengthened silence among the hunters. Each understood
Valentine's embarrassment, but the remedy was very difficult to find, as
all were in their hearts made rest by the thought of pursuing Red Cedar
closely, and not giving him respite until he had been punished for all
his crimes. As usual under such circumstances, egotism and private
interests took the place of friendship. Father Seraphin, the only
disinterested person, saw clearly, hence he was the first to speak.
"My friend," he answered, "all you have said is most just; I undertake
to make your mother listen to reason; she will understand, I feel
assured, how urgent it is for her to return to civilisation, especially
at the present period of the year; still, we must spare her feelings,
and lead her back quietly to Mexico, without letting her suspect the
separation she fears, and you fear too. During the journey hence to the
civilised frontier, we will strive to prepare her for it, so that the
blow may not be so rude when the moment for parting arrives. That is the
only thing, I believe, you can do under the present circumstances. Come
reflect; if you have any plan better than mine, I will be the first to
submit."
"That advice is really the best that can be given me," Valentine said,
warmly; "hence I eagerly adopt it. You will consent then, father, to
accompany us to the frontier?"
"Of course, my friend, and further, were it necessary. Hence, do not let
that trouble you; all we have now to decide is our road."
"That is true," said Valentine; "but here lies the difficulty. We must
lodge my mother at a clearing near enough for me to see her frequently,
and yet sufficiently distant from the desert to guard her against any
danger."
"I fancy," Don Miguel remarked, "that my hacienda, at the Paso del
Norte, will suit admirably; the more so, as it offers your mother all
the guarantees of security and comfort you can require for her."
"In truth," Valentine exclaimed, "she would be most comfortable there,
and I thank you cordially for your offer. Unfortunately, I cannot accept
it."
"Why not?"
"For a reason you will appreciate as well as I do; it is much too far
off."
"Do you think so?" Don Miguel asked.
Valentine could not repress a smile at this question.
"My friend," he said quietly to him, "since you have been in the desert,
circumstances have forced you to take so many turns and twists, that you
have completely lost all idea of distances, and do not suspect, I feel
assured, how many miles we are from the Paso."
"I confess I do not," Don Miguel said in surprise. "Still, I fancy we
cannot be very far."
"Make a guess."
"Well, one hundred and fifty miles, at the most."
"My poor friend," Valentine remarked, with a shrug of his shoulders,
"you are out of your reckoning; we are more than seven hundred miles
from the Paso del Norte, which is the extreme limit of the civilised
settlements."
"The deuce!" the hacendero exclaimed, "I did not fancy we had gone so
far."
"And," Valentine went on, "from that town to your hacienda is a distance
of about fifty miles."
"Yes, about that."
"You see, then, that, to my great regret, it is impossible for me to
accept your generous offer."
"What is to be done?" General Ibañez asked.
"It is awkward," Valentine replied, "for time presses."
"And your mother cannot possibly remain here; that is quite decided,"
Don Miguel objected.
Curumilla had hitherto listened to the talk in his usual way, not saying
a word. Seeing that the hunters could not agree, he turned to Valentine.
"A friend would speak," he said.
All looked at him, for the hunters knew that Curumilla never spoke save
to give advice, which was generally followed. Valentine gave a nod of
assent.
"Our ears are open, chief," he said.
Curumilla rose.
"Koutonepi forgets," he quietly remarked.
"What do I forget?" the hunter asked.
"Koutonepi is the brother of Unicorn, the great Comanche Sachem."
Valentine struck his forehead in his delight.
"That is true," he exclaimed; "what was I thinking about? On my honour,
chief, you are our Providence: nothing escapes you."
"Is my brother satisfied?" the chief asked joyously.
Valentine pressed his hand warmly.
"Chief," he exclaimed, "you are the best fellow I know; I thank you from
my heart: however, we understand each other, I think, and need say
nothing about that."
The Araucano Ulmen warmly returned his friend's pressure, and sat down,
merely muttering one word, which contained all his impressions--
"Good."
The other persons, however, had not understood this little scene.
Although they had been living for a long time in the company of the
Aucas, they had not yet grown accustomed to his silence or learned to
translate it; they therefore anxiously waited till Valentine gave them
the explanation of the few sentences he had exchanged with his friend.
"The chief," Valentine said quickly, "has found at once what we have
been racking our brains in vain to discover."
"How so? Explain," Don Miguel asked.
"What, you do not understand?"
"On my honour I do not."
"Yet it is very simple; I have been for a long time an adopted son of
the Comanches; I belong to Unicorn's tribe; that chief will not refuse,
I feel sure, to shelter my mother at his village. The redskins love me;
Unicorn is devoted to me; my mother will be nursed and kindly treated by
the Indians, while, on the other hand, it will be easy for me to see her
whenever I have a moment to spare."
"_Canarios!_" General Ibañez exclaimed, "On my honour, chief," he added,
as he gaily tapped the Araucanian's shoulder, "I must allow that we are
all asses, and that you have more sense in your little finger than we
have in our whole body."
This discussion had lasted some time, and the sun had risen for nearly
an hour, when it terminated. Madame Guillois, entirely recovered from
the emotions of the night, appeared in the grotto and kissed her son.
When breakfast was over, the horses were saddled, and they set out.
"Where are you taking me to, my son?" the mother asked the hunter; "you
know that henceforth I belong entirely to you, and you alone have the
right to watch over me."
"Be at your ease, mother," Valentine answered; "although we are in the
desert, I have found you a retreat in which you will not only be
protected from every danger, but where it will be possible for me to see
you at least once a week."
Valentine, like all men endowed with a firm and resolute character,
instead of turning the difficulty, had preferred to attack it in front,
persuaded that the harder the blow he dealt was, the shorter time its
effect would last, and he should be enabled to lessen its consequences
more easily. The old lady stopped her horse instinctively and looked at
her son with tear-laden eyes.
"What do you say, Valentine?" she asked in a trembling voice; "Are you
going to leave me?"
"You do not quite understand me, mother," he replied; "after so long a
separation I could not consent to keep away from you."
"Alas!" she murmured.
"Still, my dear mother," he continued stoically, "you will have to
convince yourself of one fact, that desert life is very different from
civilised life."
"I know it, already," she said sighing.
"Very good," he continued; "this life has claims which it would take too
long to explain to you, and necessitate constant marches and counter
marches, going at one moment here, at another there, without apparent
reason, living from hand to mouth, and eternally on horseback."
"Come," my boy, "do not make me suffer longer, but tell me at once what
you wish to arrive at."
"At this, mother, that this life of unending fatigue and danger may be
very agreeable to a young man like myself, endowed with an iron
constitution, and long accustomed to its incidents; but that it is
materially impossible for you, at your age, weak and sickly as you are:
now you are my only comfort and treasure, mother; I have found you again
by a miracle, and am determined to keep you as long as possible. For
that reason I must not expose you through an improper weakness, to
fatigues and privations which would kill you in a week."
"Well, then?" asked the mother timidly, involuntarily conquered by her
son's peremptory accent.
"This is what I have resolved," said he insinuatingly, "as I do not wish
you to suffer; we must be together as much as we can, if not always."
"Oh, yes," she said; "I only ask to see you ever, my child; what do I
care for aught else, provided I am near you, can console you in sorrow,
and rejoice in your joy!"
"Mother," the hunter said, "I believe I have arranged matters as well as
possible. Father Seraphin will tell you any other plan would be futile."
"Let me hear it," she murmured.
"I am taking you to the village of the Comanches, whose adopted son I
am; their chief loves me as a brother; the village is only a few
leagues off, and you will be there among friends, who will respect you
and pay you the greatest attention."
"But you, my child?"
"I will visit you as often as I can, and, believe me, few days will pass
without my seeing you."
"Alas! My poor child, why insist on leading this life of danger and
fatigue? If you liked, we could be so happy in a little village at home.
Have you forgotten France entirely, Valentine?"
The hunter sighed.
"No, mother," he said, with an effort, "since I have seen you again, all
the memories of my youth have revived; I know now the desire I had to
see France again some day; the sight of you has made me understand that
a man cannot voluntarily resign those home joys, whose charm he can only
truly understand when unable to enjoy them. Hence I soon intend to
remove you from this country disinherited by Heaven, and return to our
native land."
"Alas!" she said, with an accent of soft reproach, "We should be so
happy there; why not return at once?"
"Because it cannot be, mother; I have a sacred duty to accomplish here;
but I pledge you my word of honour that when I have fulfilled the duty I
have imposed on myself and am free, we will not remain an hour longer
here. So have patience, mother; perhaps we may start for France within
two months."
"May Heaven grant it, my child," the old lady said, sadly; "well, your
will be done, I am prepared to wait."
"Thanks, mother; your kindness renders me happier than I can describe to
you."
The old lady sighed, but gave no answer, and the little party marched
silently in the direction of the Comanche village, the outskirts of
which they reached at about three in the afternoon.
"Mother," Valentine said, "you are not yet used to Indian fashions; do
not be frightened at anything you may see or hear."
"Am I not near you?" she said "What can I feel afraid of?"
"Oh!" he said, joyfully, "you are a true mother."
"Alas!" she answered, with a stifled sigh, "You are mistaken, child, I
am only a poor old woman, who loves her son, that is all."