EXPLANATIONS.
The hunters placed their animals in a vast corral; then they sought a
shelter for themselves in a mesón, the landlord of which, a perfect
likeness of the worthy Knight of La Mancha, received them to the best of
his ability. After the rough journey they had made, it was a great
delight to the adventurers to rest their heads once again beneath a
roof, and be, for a few hours at least, lodged in a manner almost
civilised.
Don Louis and Valentine occupied the same cuarto, while Curumilla and
Don Cornelio selected that exactly facing theirs. So soon as these
provisional arrangements were made, and supper enjoyed in common, all
retired to rest.
Before lying down on the _cuadro_, covered with an oxhide, intended for
his bed, Don Louis walked up to Valentine, who, lying back in a _butaca_
(easy chair), was smoking a cigarette, and idly watching the blue smoke
ascend in spirals.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked him, as he leant familiarly on
the back of the butaca.
"About you," Valentine replied, turning to him with a smile.
"About me?"
"Yes. What other anxiety can I have at present, save to see you happy?"
The count looked down on the ground and sighed.
"It is impossible," he said.
Valentine looked at him.
"Impossible!" he repeated. "Oh, oh! Have we reached that point? Come,
let us have an explanation, once for all."
"You are right; the hour has arrived: let us have a hearty explanation."
The count drew up a butaca, sat down opposite Valentine, took a cigar
from the case his foster brother handed him, and lit it. The hunter
followed all his movements attentively. When he saw him comfortably
installed, he said,--
"Speak."
"Alas! My life has nothing very interesting in it; it has resembled that
of all adventurers. At one time rich, at another poor, I have wandered
about, traversing Mexico in every direction, dragging after me the
memory of my lost happiness, like the galley slaves cannon ball. For a
moment I imagined that a future might still exist for me, and that I
might at least regain my rank in the world, if I did not secure again a
position like that I had lost I started for San Francisco, that weird
Eldorado, whose marvels the hundred-mouthed rumour was narrating. There
I found myself mixed up with a crowd of greedy and unbridled
adventurers, whose life was one continued orgy, and whose sole passion
was gold. I saw there, within a few months, the most prodigious
metamorphoses. I saw the most scandalous fortunes spring up and collapse
again, and plunging resolutely into this gulf, I demanded from chance my
share of feverish joys and intoxicating emotions; but I lacked faith,
and nothing succeeded with me. I tried every profession, ever pursued by
that implacable fatality which was determined to crush me. I had great
difficulty in saving myself from a death by hunger. In turn hunter,
porter, Heaven knows what, my efforts availed nothing in that Babel,
where the condemned of civilisation jostled each other, who, all marked
with the indelible seal of Dante's reprobates, piled ruin on ruin to
form themselves a pedestal of ingots, which was immediately overthrown
by another. Disgusted with this mingled life of blood, filth, rags, and
gold, I set off, resolved to become a drover. A noble profession, is it
not, for a Count de Prébois, whose ancestors made three crusades?" he
added, with a bitter laugh. "But I knew generals ostlers, marquises
waiters; hence I, who had never been anything, could, without any great
degradation, become a trader in cattle. And then I had another object in
the choice of my profession. Ever since my arrival in North America I
have been looking for you: I hoped to find you again some day. For the
first time fortune has smiled on me, you see, as I have succeeded in
meeting with you. That is all I had to say to you. Now you know as much
about my life as I do; so ask me no more."
After these words, uttered in a sharp voice, the count threw himself
back on his butaca, relit his cigar, crossed his arms on his chest, and
seemed determined not to add a word. Valentine looked at him for a long
time with the most concentrated attention, at times tossing his head,
and frowning with evident dissatisfaction. At length he resolved to
renew the conversation.
"Hum!" he said, "I now know your whole life, I grant it. There is
nothing very extraordinary about it in a country like that where we are.
It in no way departs from the common law. You would do very wrong to
complain."
"I do not complain," the count exclaimed quickly; "I merely assert a
fact."
"Of course," Valentine said; "and yet, in all you have told me, one
point remains obscure to me."
"Which?"
"You told me all you wished to do--that is well; but leaving out of the
question the fraternal friendship that attaches us, and which, however
powerful it may be, cannot to my mind account for your settled
determination to find me again, you have not told me for what purpose
you sought me so obstinately."
The count sprang up, and his eye flashed.
"Have you not guessed it, Valentine?"
"No!"
The count let his head fall, and for a few moments the conversation was
again interrupted.
"You are right, Valentine: better finish at once, and never return to
the subject again; besides, you know as well as I what I wish to say,"
the count replied, with the accent of a man whose mind is made up.
"Perhaps so," the hunter said laconically.
"Come, come, I am not an ass; and on the morning of that day when you
asked a shelter at my bivouac, you understood me at the first word I let
fall."
"It is possible," Valentine said imperturbably; "still, as I have no
pretence to the art of divination, be good enough to explain yourself
clearly and categorically."
"You insist on it?"
The hunter bowed his assent.
"Well, be it so," the count went on; "you are still the same man you
were fifteen years ago."
"Are we not referring to that very period now?" Valentine said with a
smile.
"Ah!" the count exclaimed, striking the arm of his butaca, "you see that
you understood me."
"Did I say the contrary?"
"Why, then, do you demand----?"
"Because it must be so," the hunter said dryly.
"Be at rest, for I will repeat your own words."
"I am listening."
"You remember, I suppose, a cold winter night, in the bedroom of my
house at Paris?"
"December 31st, 1834, at eleven in the evening," Valentine remarked.
"Yes; the rain lashed the window panes, the wind whistled in the long
passages. I was awaiting your coming. You arrived. Then, as now, I was
face to face with ruin. I wished to die: you prevented me."
"It is true. Did I do wrong?"
"Perhaps," the count said in a hollow voice; "but these are the words
you made use of."
"Allow me to repeat them myself; for, in spite of the fifteen years that
have elapsed, Louis, that scene is as present to my mind as if it took
place yesterday. After proving to you that you did wrong to despair,"
Valentine said in a solemn voice, "that all was not lost, I replied to a
final objection you raised, 'Be easy, Louis, be easy. If I have not
fulfilled my promise in two years, I will hand you the pistols myself,
and then--' 'Then?' you asked. 'Then,' I added, 'you shall not kill
yourself alone.' 'I accept,' you answered. Those were the words that
passed between us on that night, which decided your future and made a
man of you. Is it not so? Have I forgotten the slightest detail?
Answer."
"No, you have forgotten nothing, Valentine."
"Well?"
"Well, now that I have faithfully fulfilled the promise I made you, I
come to claim of you the complete execution of our compact."
"I do not comprehend you."
"What! You do not comprehend me?" the count said, bounding from his
butaca.
"No," Valentine answered coldly. "Did I not keep my promise? Ah, Louis,
since you insist on it, by heavens!" he added, growing animated in his
turn, "let us reckon up accounts. I ask nothing better. What do you mean
by talking to me of fulfilling an agreement? Have I not fulfilled my
engagements? Did I not find for you that woman you despaired of ever
seeing again? Did you not marry her? Did you not enjoy with her ten
years of perfect happiness? By what right do you complain of the
fatality that pursues you? By what right do you curse your destiny,
ungrateful man! Whose happiness lasted ten years--ten ages in this
earth? Look around you. Show me a man who, throughout his whole life,
can reckon one year of that happiness you rail at, and then I will pity
you, will weep with you, and, if it must be, help you to die. Oh! All
men are the same--weak in the presence of joy as in grief, forgetting,
in a few hours of adversity, years of happiness. And so, after fifteen
years, you have returned to the same point. Insensate! Do you know, you
who speak in that way, what it is to pass a whole existence of suffering
and horrible agony: to feel hour by hour, minute by minute, your heart
lacerated, and that without hope, and yet smile and seem gay--in a word,
live? Have you for a single day endured that atrocious suffering, you
who speak so deliberately about dying?"
Gradually, while speaking, Valentine had grown animated, his features
were contracted, and his eyes flashed flames. Louis gazed on his friend
without comprehending him, but startled at the state of exaltation in
which he saw him.
"Valentine," he exclaimed, "Valentine, in heaven's name, calm yourself!"
"Ah!" the hunter continued, with a ghastly laugh, "you suffer, you
say--you are unhappy; and yet listen. That woman you loved, whom I found
for you again, whom I enabled you to marry--well, it was not love I felt
for her, but idolatry. To be able to tell her so I would joyfully have
parted with my blood drop by drop; and yet I, to whom you have just told
your grief, I placed you in each other's arms. I smiled--do you
understand me?--smiled on your love, and without a murmur, a word, to
reveal that passion which gnawed my heart, I fled into the desert, alone
with my love. Face to face with it I suffered for fifteen years. Oh, my
God, my God! The wound is as painful now as on the first day. Tell me,
Louis, now that you know all--for we are frank with each other--what are
your sufferings compared with mine? By what right would you die?"
"Oh, pardon me, pardon me, Valentine!" Louis exclaimed, as he rushed
into his arms. "Oh! You are right; I am very ungrateful to you."
"No," Valentine answered sadly, as he returned his embrace; "no, Louis,
you are a man; you have followed the common law. I cannot and ought not
to be angry with you. Pardon me, on the contrary, for allowing myself to
be carried away so far as to reveal to you the secret which I had sworn
to bury eternally in my heart. Alas! We have all our cross to bear in
this world, and mine has been rude. God doubtlessly decreed it so,
because I am strong," he added, with an attempt at a smile. "But, to
return to yourself, it is true that youth has fled far from us, with its
gay perspective and smiling illusions; life has no longer anything to
offer us, save the painful trials of a ripe age. I am as wearied of
existence as yourself; it weighs equally on me as on you. You see, my
friend, I am fully of your opinion. I will not only not prevent you from
dying, but I wish to accomplish my promise fully by accompanying you
into the tomb."
"You, Valentine! O no! It is impossible."
"Why so? Is not our position the same? Have we not both suffered
equally? An implacable creditor, you have asked me to honour my
signature. Very good; but on one condition."
Louis was too well acquainted with his foster brother's firm and
resolute character to try and combat his will.
"What is it?" he asked simply.
"I shall choose the mode of death."
"Be it so."
"Oh, pardon me, Louis! I shall not propose an ordinary suicide, so I
must have your word of honour before I explain myself more fully."
"I give it you."
"Good! There are two difficult things for a man to do in this
world--arranging his life, and arranging his death. The man who kills
himself coldly by blowing out his brains in his room, after writing to
his friends to announce his suicide, is either a coward or a madman.
That is not the sort of suicide I wish; it means nothing, it proves
nothing, and is of no service. But there is a manner of suicide which I
have ever dreamed of, because it is noble and great: it is that of the
man who, unable or unwilling to do more with a life he despises,
sacrifices it for his fellow men, with no other object than that of
being useful to them, and falls after accomplishing his task."
"I believe I understand you, Valentine."
"Perhaps so; but let me finish. We are in the country best prepared for
such a design. Already several attempts--all unsuccessful, however--have
been made, especially by the Count de Lhorailles in his colony of
Guetzalli. Sonora, which is the richest country in the world, is in the
last throes, under the brutalising and unintelligent system of the
Mexican government. Well, let us restore life to this country; let us
galvanise it, summon to our aid the French emigrants in California, and
come here to give liberty to a people whose energetic character will
comprehend us. What do we risk in the event of non-success? Death! Why,
that is exactly what we desire. At any rate, when we have fallen, we
shall sleep in a shroud of glory as martyrs, bearing with us the regrets
and sympathies of all. Instead of killing ourselves like cowards, we
shall have died in the breach like heroes. Is not that martyrdom the
noblest, the most sublime of all?
"Yes, Valentine, you are right--always right Oh, men like ourselves can
only die in that fashion!"
"Good!" Valentine exclaimed; "you have understood me."
"Not only have I understood you, brother, but I guessed your meaning
before."
"How so?"
"When I met the Count de Lhorailles for the last time in the desert, I
was returning with Belhumeur and an Indian chief from visiting a placer
of incalculable value which that Indian had discovered, and the
ownership of which he gave to Belhumeur, who, in his turn, handed it
over to me. On my return, I proceeded to Mexico, where I entered into
negotiations with several notable persons; among others, the French
_chargé d'affaires_. You of course know how slow everything is to
succeed in this unhappy country. Still, owing to the rich samples I had
the precaution to bring with me, and, above all, the powerful protection
of certain persons, I succeeded in founding a company, of which I was
appointed chief, with the right of levying a French company, armed and
disciplined, in order to take possession of the placer, and work it on
behalf of the company."
"What then?"
"Well, I returned to San Francisco, and made a few arrangements; but I
needed two things--first, patience, and next, money to enlist my men and
purchase the necessary stores; and--shall I confess it to you?--what I
most needed was the desire to succeed. But you, Valentine, have caused
that desire to spring up in me; your presence has restored all my
energy, and though I know not how I shall remove all the obstacles that
oppose the execution of my plan, I shall do so, I swear it to you."
"What were you doing in Sonora, then?"
"I can hardly explain it to you. My speculation in cattle was more a
flight than anything else. I was disgusted with everything, and tried to
make an end of it, no matter how."
"Now it is my turn. Tomorrow, at sunrise, you will start. You will
proceed at full speed to San Francisco. Your excursion in Sonora was
only an exploring tour. You will employ any pretext you like, in a word,
and set to work earnestly forming your company. During that time I will
sell your herd, and arrange so as to procure you the funds you require.
Trouble yourself about nothing, but push ahead boldly."
"But how will you manage it? The sum I need is large."
"That does not concern you: let me arrange matters in my way; At the
appointed hour I will furnish you with more than you want, so it is
settled. You will start at sunrise?"
"I will do so; but when and where shall I see you again?"
"Ah! That is true. On the twenty-fifth day from this, at sunset, I will
enter your room."
"But I do not know myself yet where I shall lodge."
"Do not let that trouble you; I shall find out."
"So, then, at sunset of the twenty-fifth day?"
"Yes, I will arrive with the treasure ships," Valentine replied with a
laugh.
"Thanks, brother; you are my good genius. If my life has had a few
blemishes, you are preparing me a glorious death to expiate them."
"Pity yourself, pray! I am going to make of you a Francisco Pizarro and
an Almagro."
The two men shook hands affectionately, while exchanging a sorrowful
smile. After a few more unimportant remarks, they threw themselves on
their beds, where they soon fell asleep, overpowered as they were by
fatigue.