FATHER AND DAUGHTER.
The adventurers' camp had completely changed its character: it had lost
the peaceful appearance of the early days, and assumed a warlike air,
perfectly in accordance with the present aspect of affairs. At each
issue from the mission, a gun, guarded by a detachment, was pointed at
the open country, while piled muskets formed a long row, in front of
which a guard walked up and down. Sentries posted at regular distances
watched the approaches, while advanced posts, established in sure
positions, prevented any attempt at a surprise.
In the interior of the camp the greatest activity prevailed; the camp
forges smoked, and re-echoed the hasty blows of the smiths; further
on, carpenters were cutting into shape whole trees; the armorers were
inspecting and repairing arms; in short, everybody was working eagerly,
in order to get everything prepared with the least possible delay.
The count and Curumilla, preceded by Valentine, rapidly crossed the
camp, greeted in their passage by the affectionate salutes of the
adventurers, who were delighted to see them returned. As they approached
headquarters, the shrill sounds of a jarana, with which were mingled the
melancholy notes of a voice singing the romance _del Rey Rodrigo_, smote
their ears.
"Perhaps it would be better, before going further," the count said, "to
ask some information from Don Cornelio."
"Yes, especially as it would be very difficult, if not impossible, to
obtain it from Curumilla."
"I am going to him," the latter remarked, having overheard the few words
exchanged by the friends.
"Then it is all for the best," Valentine said with a smile.
Curumilla turned a little to the left, and guided the two men to a
_jacal_ of branches which served as the Spaniard's abode, and before
which the noble hidalgo was at this moment seated on a stool, strumming
his jarana furiously, and singing his eternal romance, while rolling his
eyes in a most sentimental way. On seeing the two friends he uttered a
shout of joy, threw his guitar far from him, and ran toward them.
"_Capa de Dios!_" he shouted as he seized their hands, "you are welcome,
caballeros. I was impatiently expecting you."
"Is there anything new, then?" Don Louis asked anxiously.
"Hum! a good deal; but I suppose you are not going to remain on
horseback?"
"No, no, we will join you."
And they dismounted. During the few sentences exchanged between the
count and the Spaniard, Valentine had bent down to the Indian chiefs
ear, and whispered a few words, to which Curumilla replied by nodding
his head in affirmation. The two Frenchmen then entered the jacal at
the heels of Don Cornelio, while the Araucano led away the horses.
"Sit down, gentlemen," the Spaniard said, pointing to several stools
scattered about.
"Do you know that you have puzzled me considerably, Don Cornelio?" the
count said to him. "What has happened, then, during my absence?"
"Nothing very important in a general point of view: our spies have
brought in most reassuring news as to the movements of the enemy. As,
however, the acting commandant will make his report to you, I do not
wish to talk with you about those matters."
"Has anything else occurred peculiarly interesting to me?"
"You shall judge. You remember that, before your departure, you ordered
me to watch over Doña Angela--a singular commission enough for me."
"How so?"
"It is enough that I know why. However, I performed my delicate task, I
dare to say, with all the gallantry of a true caballero."
"I thank you for it."
"Yesterday an Indian arrived at the mission, bearer of a letter for the
commandant."
"Ah, ah! And you know the contents of the letter?"
"It was simply a request for a safe-conduct to remain in the camp."
"Ah! and who was it signed by?"
"Father Seraphin."
"What!" Valentine exclaimed quickly, "Father Seraphin, the French
missionary, the sainted man whom the Indians themselves have christened
the 'Apostle of the Prairies?'"
"Himself."
"That is strange," the hunter muttered.
"Is it not?"
"But," said the count, "Father Seraphin does not need a safe-conduct to
stay with us as long as he pleases."
"Of course," Valentine confirmed him, "we shall always be happy, myself
in particular, to profit by his advice."
"The worthy father did not request the safe-conduct for himself: he is
very well aware that his visit could only be agreeable to us."
"Ah! For whom, then?"
"For a person for whom he would be bail during the period of his stay
among us, but whose name he kept secret."
"Hum! that is not clear."
"That is what I thought, so I urged the commandant to refuse."
"Well?"
"He granted the safe-conduct, alleging a reason which, by the way, is
not so illogical--that the man for whom the safe-conduct is requested is
evidently a friend or an enemy, and in either case it is good to know
him, so as eventually to treat him as he deserves."
The two Frenchmen could not refrain from laughing at this singular
logic.
"Well, and what is the result of all this?" the count continued.
"The result is that Father Seraphin arrived this morning at the mission,
accompanied by a person carefully wrapped up in a large cloak."
"Ah, ah! And this person?"
"You can guess a thousand times before finding out."
"I think it would be better for you to tell me at once."
"I believe so too. Well, prepare yourself to hear something incredible.
This person is no one less than Don Sebastian Guerrero."
"The general!" the count exclaimed as he bounded in his chair.
"Do not confound persons. I did not say General, but Don Sebastian
Guerrero."
"A truce with nonsense, Don Cornelio! Let us talk seriously, for what
you say deserves it."
"I am serious, Don Louis. The general has come here in his private
capacity. In a word, it is the father of Doña Angela who is at this
moment in our camp, and not the Governor of Sonora."
"I am beginning to understand," the count said in a hollow voice, as he
walked in agitation up and down the jacal. "And what took place between
father and daughter? Do not be afraid to tell me everything. I will keep
the mastery over myself."
"Nothing at all has passed, Don Louis, thanks to Heaven!"
"Ah!"
"Yes, for the simple reason that Doña Angela, by my advice, refused to
receive her father's visit during your absence."
"She had the strength to do that?" the count said, as he stopped and
fixed a piercing glance on the Spaniard.
"By my advice, yes."
"Thanks, Don Cornelio. Then Father Seraphin and the general----"
"Are awaiting your return in a jacal built expressly for them, where,
though apparently free, the general is under such strict surveillance
that I defy him to make the slightest movement without my knowledge."
"You were right in acting as you have done, my friend. In these
difficult circumstances you have displayed great prudence, and, above
all, great perspicacity."
Don Cornelio, on hearing this compliment, blushed like a girl, and let
his eyes fall modestly.
"What do you intend doing?" Valentine asked the count.
"Leave Doña Angela mistress of her will. Go and advise her of my return,
dear Don Cornelio: you will at the same time lead her father and the
missionary to her. Go: I follow you."
The Spaniard went out at once to fulfil his orders.
"When do you expect to start?" Valentine said, so soon as he found
himself alone with the count.
"In two days."
"And you march?"
"On La Magdalena."
"Good! I will now ask your leave to go away, accompanied by Curumilla."
"What! you wish to leave me?" the count exclaimed with regret.
The hunter smiled.
"You do not understand me, brother," he answered. "The Indian chief
and myself are almost useless here. How could we serve you? In no way;
while I am convinced we can make excellent scouts. Leave us to explore
the road, at the same time as we try to destroy, or at least lessen,
the prejudices which the calumnies so sedulously spread about you have
produced against everybody who bears the name of Frenchman."
"I did not dare ask you to render me that service; but now, as you offer
it so frankly, I will not be so foolish as to refuse it. Go, brother.
Act as you please: all you do will be right."
"Then farewell! I shall start immediately."
"Without taking a moment's rest?"
"You know that I never feel fatigue. Come, courage! We shall meet again
at La Magdalena."
The two friends embraced, and then quitted the jacal. On the threshold
they separated, after a last pressure of the hand, Valentine going to
the right, the count to the left.
A guard of ten men defended the approaches to headquarters, and a
sentinel was pacing, with shouldered musket, before the door of the
mission church, the count's temporary residence. On arriving at his
house Don Louis saw Don Cornelio, accompanied by two persons, one
of whom wore a clerical garb. They had stopped, and were apparently
waiting. The count hurried on. Although he had never, till this moment,
seen Father Seraphin, he recognised him by the portraits Valentine had
drawn.
He was still the man with the angelic glance, the delicate and marked
features, the intelligently gentle countenance, whom we have presented
to our readers in another work; but the apostolate is severe in America.
Years count there as triple for missionaries really worthy of the title;
and Father Seraphin, though hardly thirty years of age, already bore on
his body and face traces of that precocious decrepitude to which those
men fall victims who sacrifice themselves, without any thought of self,
to the welfare of humanity. His back was beginning to bend, his hair was
turning white on his temples, and two deep wrinkles furrowed his brow.
Still the vivacity of his glance seemed to contradict this apparent
weakness, and prove that if his body had grown enfeebled in the contest,
the soul had ever remained equally young and powerful.
The three men bowed politely. The count and the missionary, after
exchanging an earnest glance, shook hands with a smile. They had
understood each other.
"You are welcome, sir," the count said, addressing the general,
"although I am surprised that you place such confidence in _pirates_, as
you call us, as to confide yourself so entirely to our honour."
"The law of nations, sir," the general replied, "has certain recognised
rules which are respected by all men."
"Excepting by those who are placed without the pale of society and the
common law of humanity," Don Louis remarked dryly.
The missionary interposed.
"Gentlemen," he said in his sympathetic voice, "between you there is no
enmity at this moment: there is only a father who claims his daughter
from a gentleman who, I feel convinced, will not refuse to restore her
to him."
"Heaven forbid, my father," the count said quickly, "that I should
attempt to retain this man's daughter against her will, even were he a
thousandfold a greater enemy than he is."
"You see, general," the missionary observed, "that I was not mistaken as
to the count's character."
"Doña Angela came alone, impelled by her own will, into my camp: she is
respected and treated with all the attention she merits. Doña Angela
is free to act as she pleases, and I recognise no right to influence
her. As I did not carry her off from her father, as I did nothing to
attract her hither, I cannot restore her, as this gentleman appears to
demand. If Doña Angela is willing to return to her friends, nobody will
oppose it; but if, on the contrary, she prefers to remain here under the
protection of my brave comrades and myself, no human power will succeed
in tearing her from me."
These words were pronounced in a peremptory tone, which produced a
marked impression on the two hearers.
"However, gentlemen," the count continued, "what we say between
ourselves has no value so long as Doña Angela has not pronounced herself
in one way or the other. I will have the honour of leading you to
her. You will have an explanation with her, and she will tell you her
determination. Still, permit me to warn you that, whatever that decision
may be, both yourselves and myself are bound to submit to it."
"Be it so, sir," the general said dryly: "perhaps it is as well that way
as any other."
"Come, then," the count continued.
And he preceded them to the hut which served as the maiden's private
residence.
Doña Angela, seated on a butaca, and having Violanta at her feet, was
engaged with her needlework. On seeing her father and the persons who
accompanied him enter, a vivid blush purpled her cheeks, but almost
immediately she turned pale as death. Still she contrived to subdue the
emotion she felt, rose, bowed silently, and sat down again. The general
regarded her for a moment with a mingled expression of tenderness and
anger; then turning suddenly to the missionary, he said in a stifled
voice,--
"Speak to her, my father; I do not feel the strength to do so."
The maiden smiled sadly.
"My good padre," she said to the missionary, "I thank you for the
useless attempt you are making on me today. My resolution is formed:
nothing will alter it--it is impossible. I will never return to my
family."
"Unhappy child!" the general exclaimed with sorrow, "what reason urged
you to abandon me thus?"
"I do all justice to your kindness and tenderness toward me, father,"
she answered with a melancholy air. "Alas! that unbounded tenderness
and the liberty you ever allowed me to enjoy are perhaps the cause of
what happens today. I do not wish to reproach you. My destiny has taken
possession of me: I will endure the consequences of the fault I have
committed."
The general frowned and stamped his foot on the ground passionately.
"Angela, my well-beloved child!" he continued bitterly, "reflect that
the scandal occasioned by your flight will dishonour you for ever."
A contemptuous smile played round the maidens pallid lips.
"What do I care?" she said. "The world in which you live is no longer
mine. All my joy and sorrow will be henceforth concentrated here."
"But I, your father--you forget me, then, and I am no longer anything to
you?"
The girl hesitated: she remained silent, with downcast eyes.
"Doña," the missionary said gently, "God curses children who abandon
their father: return to yours. There is still time: he holds out his
arms to you---he calls you. Return, my child. A parent's heart is an
inexhaustible well of indulgence. Your father will forgive you: he has
already done so."
Doña Angela shook her head, but made no further reply. The general and
the missionary regarded each other with disappointment, while Don Louis
stood a little in the rear, his arms folded on his breast, with sunken
head and thoughtful air.
"Oh!" the general muttered with concentrated passion, "ours is an
accursed race!"
At this moment Don Louis drew himself up, and walked a few paces forward.
"Doña Angela," he said with marked significance, "was it really your own
will that brought you here?"
"Yes," she answered resolutely.
"And you have really decided on obeying neither the orders nor
entreaties of your father?"
"Yes," she said again.
"Then you renounce for ever your position in society, and your fortune?"
"Yes."
"You also renounce the protection of your father, who is your natural
guardian, and has every human and divine claim on you--you renounce his
affection?"
"Yes," she murmured in a low voice.
"Then it is now my turn;" and bowing to the general, he continued,
"Sir, whatever may be the hatred that sunders us--whatever may happen
at a later date--the honour of your daughter must remain pure and
unspotted."
"In order to secure that result," the general said bitterly, "someone
must consent to marry her."
"Yes. Well, I, the Count de Prébois Crancé, have the honour of asking
you for her hand."
The general fell back in amazement.
"Do you really ask that seriously?" he said.
"Yes."
"Reflect that, while thanking you for your request, I consider it a
fresh aggrievance."
"Be it so."
"That this marriage will in nowise prevent the measures I intend taking
against you."
"What do I care?"
"And you still consent to give her your hand?"
"Yes."
"Very good. You shall have my answer in four days."
"At La Magdalena, then."
"Be it so." The general turned to his daughter. "I do not curse you,"
he said, "for God himself cannot free a child from its father's
malediction. Farewell! Be happy."
And he rushed out, followed by the missionary.
"My father," the count said, "I shall expect you at La Magdalena."
"I shall be there, sir," Father Seraphin replied sadly, "for I foresee
that there will be tears to dry up."
"Good-by, sir," the general said.
"Good-by till we meet again," the count answered with a bow.
The general and the missionary then mounted and set out, escorted by a
strong detachment of adventurers, who were to accompany them through the
outposts and pickets of the French company. The count looked after them
for a long time, and then walked back slowly to his room.