THE DUEL.
It was about eight in the evening when the Count de Lhorailles left the
residence of Don Sylva de Torrés. The _feria de plata_ was then in all
its splendour. The streets of Guaymas were thronged with a joyful and
motley crowd: the shouts of songs and laughter rose on every side. The
piles of gold heaped on the monte tables emitted their yellow and
intoxicating reflection in the dazzling gleams of the lights, that
shone in every door and window: here and there the sounds of the
_vihuelas_ and _jarabes_ escaped from the pulquerías, invaded by the
drinkers. The count, elbowed and elbowing, traversed as quickly as was
possible the dense groups which at every instant barred his passage; but
the conversation he had had with Don Sylva had put him in too happy a
temper for him to dream of being vexed at the numerous collisions he
endured at every moment.
At length, after numberless difficulties, and wasting at least thrice
the time he would have employed under other circumstances, he reached at
about ten in the evening, the house where he lodged. He had spent about
two hours in covering less than six hundred yards.
On arriving at the mesón, the count proceeded first to the corral to see
his horse, to which he gave, with his own hand, two trusses of alfalfa;
then, after ordering that he should be called at one o'clock, if by
accident (which was most improbable) he retired to his _cuarto_ to take
a few hours' rest.
The count intended to start at such an early hour in order to avoid the
heat of the day, and travel more quickly. Besides, after his lengthened
conversation with Don Sylva, the noble adventurer was not sorry to find
himself alone, in order to go over in his mind all the happy things that
had happened during the past evening.
From the moment he had landed in America the count had enjoyed--to
employ a familiar term--a shameful good luck: everything succeeded with
him. In a few months his fortune might be thus summed up:--A colony
founded under the most favourable auspices, and already on the road of
progress and improvement: while keeping his nationality intact--that is
to say, his liberty of action and an inviolable neutrality--he was in
the service of the Mexican Government, as captain of a free corps of one
hundred and fifty devoted men, with whom he could attempt, if not carry
out, the wildest enterprises. In the last place, he was on the point of
marrying the daughter of a man twenty times a millionaire, as far as he
had opportunity of judging; and what in no way spoiled the affair, his
betrothed was delightful.
Unfortunately, or fortunately, according the standpoint our readers may
think in judging of our hero, this man, worn out by the enervating
eccentricities of Parisian life, no longer felt his heart beat from any
emotion of joy, sorrow or fear: all was dead within him. He was exactly
the man wanted to succeed in the country to which accident had sent him.
In the great del of life he had begun in America he had an immense
advantage over his adversaries--that of never allowing himself to be
directed by passion; and consequently, owing to his unalterable coolness,
he was enabled to evade the pitfalls incessantly laid for him, over
which he triumphed without appearing to notice them.
After what we have said, we have hardly need to add that he did not love
the woman whose hand he sought. She was young and lovely--so much the
better. Had she been old and ugly he would have accepted her hand all
the same. What did he care? He only sought one thing in marriage--a
brilliant and envied position. In fine, the Count de Lhorailles was all
calculation. We have made a mistake, however, in affirming that he had
not a weak point. He was ambitious. This passion, one of the most
violent of those with which Heaven has afflicted the human race, was
possibly the only link by which the count was still attached to
humanity. Ambition in him had reached such a pitch, especially during
the last few months--it had taken such an immense development--that he
would have sacrificed all to it.
Now let us see what was the object of this man's ambition. What future
did he dream of? It is probable that we may explain this to the reader
in fuller detail presently.
The count went to bed; that is to say, after wrapping himself carefully
in his zarapé, he stretched himself on the leathern frame which
throughout Mexico is the substitute for beds, whose existence is
completely ignored. So soon as he lay down he fell asleep, with that
conscience peculiar to the adventurer whose every hour is claimed
beforehand, and who, having but a few moments to grant to rest, hastens
to profit by them, and sleeps as the Spaniards say, _a la pierna
suelta_, which we may translate nearly by sleeping with closed fists.
At one in the morning the count, as he had promised, awoke, lighted the
_cebo_ which served him as a candle, arranged his toilette to a certain
extent, carefully examined his pistols and rifle, and assured himself
that his sabre left the scabbard easily; then, when all these various
preparations, indispensable for every traveller careful for his safety,
were ended, he opened the door of the cuarto and proceeded to the
corral.
His horse was eating heartily, and gaily finishing its alfalfa. The
count himself gave it a measure of oats, which he saw it dispose of with
neighs of pleasure, and then put on the saddle. In Mexico, horsemen,
whatever the class of society to which they belong, never leave to
others the care of attending to their steeds: for in those semi-savage
countries the life of the rider depends nearly always upon the vigour
and speed of his animal.
The door of the mesón was only leaned to, so that the travellers might
start whenever they pleased without disturbing anybody. The count lit
his cigar, leaped into the saddle, and started on a trot along the road
leading to the Rancho. Nothing is so agreeable as night travelling in
Mexico. The earth, refreshed by the night breeze, and bedewed by the
copious dew, exhaled acrid and perfumed scents, whose beneficent
emanations restore the body all its vigour, and the mind its lucidity.
The moon, just on the point of disappearing, profusely scattered its
oblique rays, which lengthened immoderately the shadow of the trees
growing at intervals along the road, and made them in the obscurity
resemble a legion of fleshless spectres. The sky, of a deep azure, was
studded with an infinite number of glistening stars, in the midst of
which flashed the dazzling southern cross, to which the Indians have
given the name of _Poron Chayké_. The wind breathed gently through the
branches, in which the blue jay uttered at intervals the melodious notes
of its melancholy song, with which were mingled at times, in the
profundities of the desert, the howling of the cougar, the sharp miauw
of the panther or the ounce, and the hoarse bark of the coyotes in
search of prey.
The count, on leaving Guaymas, had hurried on his horse; but subjugated,
in spite of himself, by the irresistible attractions of this autumn
night he gradually checked the pace of his steed, and yielded to the
flood of thoughts which mounted incessantly to his brain, and plunged
him into a gentle reverie. The descendant of an ancient and haughty
Frank race, alone in this desert, he mentally surveyed the splendour of
his name so long eclipsed, and his heart expanded with joy and pride on
reflecting that the task was reserved for him perhaps to rehabilitate
those from whom he descended, and restore, this time eternally, the
fortunes of his family, of which he had hitherto proved such a bad
guardian.
This land, which he trampled underfoot, would restore him what he had
lost and madly squandered a hundred fold. The moment had at length
arrived when, free from all hobbles, he was about to realise those plans
for the future so long engraved on his brain. He went on thus,
travelling in the country of chimeras, and so absorbed in his thoughts,
that he no longer troubled himself with what went on around him.
The stars were beginning to turn pale in the heavens, and be
extinguished in turn. The dawn was tracing a white line, which gradually
assumed a reddish tint on the distant obscurity of the horizon. On the
approach of day the air became fresher; then the count, aroused--if we
may employ the term--by the icy impression produced on him by the
bountiful desert dew, pulled the folds of his zarapé over the shoulders
with a shudder, and started at a gallop, directing a glance to the sky,
and muttering,--
"I will succeed, no matter the odds."
A haughty defiance, to which the heavens seemed prepared to respond
immediately.
The day was on the brink of dawning, and, in consequence of that, the
night, owing to its struggle with the twilight, had become more gloomy,
as always happens during the few moments preceding the apparition of the
sun. The first houses of the Rancho were standing out from the fog, a
short distance before him, when the count heard, or fancied he heard,
the sound of several horses' hoofs re-echoing on the pebbles behind him.
In America, by night, and on a solitary road, the presence of man
announces always or nearly always, a peril.
The count stopped and listened. The sound was rapidly approaching. The
Frenchman was brave, and had proved it in many circumstances; still he
did not at all desire to be assassinated in the corner of the road, and
perish miserably through an ambuscade. He looked around, in order to
study the chances of safety offered him in the probable event that the
arrivals were enemies.
The plain was bare and flat: not a tree, not a ditch, nor any elevation
behind which he could intrench himself. Two hundred yards in front, as
we have said, were the first houses of the Rancho.
The count made up his mind on the instant. He dug his spurs into his
horse's flanks, and galloped at full speed in the direction of San José.
It seemed to him as if the strangers imitated him, and pressed on their
horses too.
A few minutes passed thus, during which the sound grew more distinct. It
was, therefore, evident to the Frenchman that the strangers were after
him. He threw a glance behind him, and perceived two shadows, still
distant, rushing at full speed towards him. By this time the count had
reached the Rancho. Reassured by the vicinity of houses, and not caring
to fly from a perhaps imaginary danger, he turned back, drew his horse
across the road, took a pistol in each hand, and waited. The strangers
were still pressing on without checking the speed of their horses, and
were soon within twenty yards of the count.
"Who goes there?" he shouted in a firm and loud voice.
The unknown made no reply, and appeared to redouble their speed.
"Who's there?" the count repeated. "Stop, or I fire!"
He uttered these words with such a determined accent, his countenance
was so intrepid, that, after a few moments' hesitation, the strangers
stopped.
There were two of them. The day, just feebly breaking, permitted the
count to distinguish them perfectly. They were dressed in Mexican
costume; but, strangely enough in this country, where, under similar
circumstances, the bandits care very little about showing their faces,
the strangers were masked.
"Hold, my masters!" shouted the count. "What means this obstinate
pursuit?"
"That we probably have an interest in catching you up," replied a
hoarse voice sarcastically.
"Then you really are after me?"
"Yes, if you are the stranger known as the Count de Lhorailles."
"I am he," said he without any hesitation.
"Very good; then we can come to an understanding."
"I ask nothing better, though, from your suspicious conduct, you appear
to me to be bandits, if you want my purse, take it and be off, for I am
in a hurry."
"Keep your purse, caballero; we want to take your life, and not your
money."
"Ah, ha! 'tis, then, a trap, followed by an assassination."
"You are mistaken. I offer you a fair fight."
"Hum!" the count said, "a fair fight: two against one--that is rather
disproportionate."
"You would be correct if matters were as you assume," the man haughtily
replied who had hitherto taken the word; "but my companion will content
himself with looking on and taking no part in the duel."
The count reflected.
"Pardieu!" he said at last, "It is an extraordinary affair! A duel in
Mexico and with a Mexican! Such a thing as that has never been heard of
before."
"It is true, caballero; but all things must have a beginning."
"Enough of jesting. I ask nothing better than to fight, and I hope to
prove to you that I am a resolute man; but before accepting your
proposition, I should not be sorry to know why you force me to fight
you."
"For what end?"
"Corbleu! Why, to know it. You must understand that I cannot waste my
time in fighting with every ruffler I meet on the road, and who has a
fancy to have his throat cut."
"It will be enough for you to know that I hate you."
"Caramba! I suspected as much; but as you seem determined not to show me
your face, I should like to be able to recognise you at another time."
"Enough chattering," the unknown said haughtily. "Time is flying. We
have had sufficient discussion."
"Well, my master, if that is the case, get ready. I warn you that I
intend to take you both. A Frenchman would never have any difficulty in
holding his own against two Mexican bandits."
"As you please."
"Forward!"
"Forward!"
The three horsemen spurred their horses and charged. When they met they
exchanged pistol shots, and then drew their sabres. The fight was brief,
but obstinate. One of the strangers, slightly wounded, was carried away
by his horse, and disappeared in a cloud of dust. The count, grazed by a
ball, felt his anger changed to fury, and redoubled his efforts to
master his foe; but he had before him a sturdy opponent, a man of
surprising skill and of strength at least equal to his own.
This man whose eyes he saw gleaming like live coals through the holes in
his mask, whirled round him with extraordinary rapidity, making his
horse perform the boldest curvets, attacking him incessantly with the
point or edge of his sabre, while bounding out of reach of the
counterblows.
The count exhausted himself in vain against this indefatigable enemy.
His movements began to lose their elasticity--his sight grew
troubled--the perspiration stood in beads on his forehead. His silent
adversary increased the rapidity of his attacks: the issue of the combat
was no longer doubtful, when the Frenchman suddenly felt a slipknot fall
on his shoulders. Before he could even dream of loosening it he was
roughly lifted from his saddle, and hurled to the ground so violently
that he almost fainted, and found it impossible to make an effort to
rise. The second stranger, after a mad course of a few moments, had at
length succeeded in mastering his horse; he returned in all haste to the
scene of action, the two men so furiously engaged not noticing it; then,
thinking it time to put an end to the duel, he raised his reata and
lassoed the count.
So soon as he saw his enemy on the ground, the unknown leaped from his
horse and ran up to him. His first care was to free the Frenchman from
the slipknot that strangled him, and then tried to restore him to his
senses, which was not a lengthy task.
"Ah!" the count said, with a bitter smile, as he rose and crossed his
arms on his chest, "that is what you call fair fighting."
"You are alone to blame for what has happened," the other said quietly,
"as you would not agree to my propositions."
The Frenchman disdained any discussion. He contented himself with
shrugging his shoulders contemptuously.
"Your life belongs to me," his adversary continued.
"Yes, through a piece of treachery; but no matter--assassinate me, and
finish the affair."
"I do not wish to kill you."
"What do you want, then?"
"To give you a piece of advice."
The count laughed sarcastically.
"You must be mad, my good fellow."
"Not so much as you fancy. Listen attentively to what I have to say to
you."
"I will do so even for the hope of being promptly freed from your
presence."
"Good, Señor Conde de Lhorailles. Your arrival in this country has
caused the unhappiness of two persons."
"Nonsense! You are jesting with me."
"I speak seriously. Don Sylva de Torrés has promised you his daughter's
hand."
"How does it concern you?"
"Answer!"
"It is true. Why should I conceal it?"
"Doña Anita does not love you."
"How do you know that?" the count asked with a mocking smile.
"I know it; I know, too, that she loves another."
"Only think of that!"
"And that the other loves her."
"All the worse for him; for I swear that I will not surrender her."
"You are mistaken, señor conde. You will surrender her or die."
"Neither one or the other," the impetuous Frenchman shouted, now
perfectly recovered from his stunning fall. "I repeat that I will marry
Doña Anita. If she does not love me, well, that is unfortunate. I hope
that she will presently alter her opinion of me. The marriage suits me,
and no one will succeed in breaking it off."
The unknown listened, a prey to violent emotion. His eyes flashed
lightning, and he stamped his feet furiously; still he made an effort to
master the feeling which agitated him, and replied in a slow and firm
voice,--
"Take care of what you do, caballero. I have sworn to warn you, and have
done so honestly. Heaven grant that my words find an echo in your heart,
and that you follow the counsel I give you! The first time accident
brings us together again one of us will die."
"I will take my precautions, be assured; but you are wrong not to profit
by the present occasion to kill me, for it will not occur again."
The two strangers had by this time remounted.
"Count de Lhorailles," the unknown said again, as he bent over the
Frenchman, "for the last time, take care, for I have a great advantage
over you. I know you, and you do not know me. It will be an easy thing
for me to reach you whenever I please. We are the sons of Indians and
Spaniards. We feel a burning hatred: so take care."
After bowing ironically to the count he burst into a mocking laugh,
spurred his horse, and started at headlong speed, followed by his silent
companion. The count watched them disappear with a pensive air. When
they were lost in the obscurity he tossed his head several times, as if
to shake off the gloomy thoughts that oppressed him in spite of himself,
then picked up his sabre and pistols, took his horse by the bridle, and
walked slowly toward the pulquería, near which the fight had taken
place.
The light which filtered through the badly-joined planks of the door,
the songs and laughter that resounded from the interior, afforded a
reasonable prospect of obtaining a temporary shelter in this house.
"Hum!" he muttered to himself as he walked along, "That bandit is right.
He knows me, and I have no way of recognising him. By Jupiter, I have a
good sound hatred on my shoulders! But nonsense!" he added, "I was too
happy. I wanted an enemy. On my soul, let him do as he will! Even if
Hades combine against me, I swear that nothing will induce me to resign
the hand of Doña Anita."
At this moment he found himself in front of the pulquería, at the door
of which he rapped. Naturally impatient, angered, too, by the accident
which had happened to him, and the tremendous struggle he had been
engaged in, the count was about to carry out his threat of beating in
the door, when it was opened.
"_Válga me Dios!_" he exclaimed wrathfully, "Is this the way you allow
people to be assassinated before your doors, without proceeding to their
assistance?"
"Oh, oh!" the pulquero said sharply, "Is anyone dead?"
"No, thanks to Heaven!" the count replied; "But I had a narrow escape of
being killed."
"Oh!" the pulquero said with great nonchalance, "If we were to trouble
ourselves about all who shout for help at night, we should have enough
to do; and besides, it is very dangerous on account of the police."
The count shrugged his shoulders and walked in, leading his horse after
him. The door was closed again immediately.
The count was unaware that in Mexico the man who finds a corpse, or
brings the assassin to trial, is obliged to pay all the expenses of a
justice enormously expensive in itself, and which never affords any
satisfaction to the victim. In all the Mexican provinces people are so
thoroughly convinced of the truth of what we assert, that, so soon as a
murder is committed, everyone runs off, without dreaming of helping the
victim; for, in the case of death supervening, such an act of charity
would entail many annoyances on the individual who tried to imitate the
good Samaritan.
In Sonora people do better still: as soon as a quarrel begins, and a man
falls, they shut all the doors.