THE CATASTROPHE.
Immediately after the combat a delicious comedy, began between Don
Antonio Pavo and General Guerrero. The latter would not listen to any
proposition tending to obtain for the French a written capitulation. He
confined himself to giving his word of honour as a general officer, that
if the arms were surrendered to him at once, _all_ the rebels should
have their lives granted them. Don Antonio was constrained to yield
to the general's orders. The arms were surrendered, the French made
prisoners of war, and locked up.
So soon as night fell, Colonel Suarez, accompanied by four other
officers, presented himself at the house of Don Antonio Pavo, demanding,
in the name of General Guerrero, that the Count de Prébois Crancé should
be immediately handed over to him. Don Antonio hastened to obey by
giving the count orders to quit his house. The latter, without replying,
contented himself with darting a glance of sovereign contempt at him,
and surrendered to the colonel. A quarter of an hour later he was in
solitary confinement. Of all the combatants only two had escaped,
Valentine and Curumilla, and that was only at the count's peremptory
order.
We repeat it here, although the names are changed, and certain facts
have, been expressly altered, we are not writing a romance, but the
history of a man whose noble character must be dear to all his fellow
countrymen. There are, then, certain things which we cannot and ought
not to pass over in silence, though frequently in the course of this
long narrative we have softened down facts which we felt a repugnance to
display in all their horror.
Despite the solemn promise made by Don Antonio Pavo in the presence of
all the volunteers, a few days after his illegal arrest the count was
told to prepare for trial. The Europeans were aroused by this disloyal
act, and several of them went to Don Antonio to remind him of his
promise, and incite him to keep it Then Don Antonio asserted that he
never made any promise, and that the affair in no way concerned him.
In the meanwhile the preparations for the count's trial were actively
pushed on. All the officers of the battalion, including the commandant,
were interrogated, and all, with one exception, we are compelled to
confess, sought to throw the whole blame of their conduct on the count.
Not a single witness for the defence was examined; for what was the use
of it? The accused was condemned beforehand.
When the count was arrested he still had in his waist belt the pistols
with which he marched into action. General Guerrero ordered that
they should be left him. He doubtless hoped that Louis, impelled by
despair, would, in a moment of terror, blow out his brains, and thus
spare himself the shame of signing the death warrant. But he was not
acquainted with the character of his enemy. The count possessed a mind
too strongly tried by that touchstone called misfortune to have recourse
to suicide, and tarnish the end of his career.
In the meanwhile Valentine had not been inactive. If he had consented
to preserve his liberty, it was only in the hope of saving his
foster-brother. Two or three days before the count's secret imprisonment
was altered, toward evening, the door of his cell opened. He turned his
head mechanically to see who entered, uttered a cry of joy, and rushed
toward him. The newcomer was Valentine.
"You--you here!" he said to him. "Oh, thanks for coming!"
"Did you not expect me, brother?" the hunter asked.
"I expected your visit, though I did not dare count on it. You must be
exposed to a thousand annoyances, and compelled to conceal yourself?"
"I! Not a bit of it."
"All the better; you cannot imagine how happy I am at seeing you. But
who is the person accompanying you?"
In truth, Valentine was not alone; another person had entered the cell
with him, and was standing motionless against the door, which the jailer
locked again, after introducing the visitors.
"Do not trouble yourself about that person at present," Valentine said;
"let us talk about business."
"Be it so: speak."
"You know that you will be condemned to death. I suppose?"
"I presume so."
"Good! Now listen to me, and, above all, do not interrupt me; for time
is precious, and we must profit by it. You understand that if I obeyed
you when you ordered me to escape, I did so because I suspected in what
way affairs would turn. Now the moment for action has arrived. All is
prepared for your flight; the jailers are bought--they will not see you
quit the prison. I have freighted a vessel. Take your hat, and come. In
ten minutes we shall be aboard, in half an hour under sail, and we will
leave Mexican justice to deal with you in your absence. Come, I have
managed capitally, I think, brother. You see that I have lost no time,
and all this is very simple."
"Extremely simple indeed," the count replied with the utmost calmness.
"I thank you for what you have done for me."
"Indeed, brother, it is not worth thanking for."
The count laid his hand on his arm to interrupt him.
"But," he continued, "I cannot accept your offer."
"What!" Valentine exclaimed with a start of surprise. "What do you say,
brother? You must be jesting."
"Not at all, brother. What I say is the truth. It is my inflexible will
to leave to the Mexican people the iniquity of my condemnation, the
indelible stain of my death. I will not fly: I cannot--I ought not; for
it would be an act of cowardice on my part. A soldier does not abandon
his post. A gentleman does not sully his escutcheon. A Frenchman has not
the right to dishonour his name. I die for a noble and grand idea--the
emancipation and regeneration of a people. That idea required a baptism
of blood to make it prosper and bear fruit at a later date. I give it
mine without regret--without a thought of self, gladly--I will say
almost with happiness. Brother, in a prison thoughts ripen quickly: it
is probably because a man is nearer the tomb there, and life appears to
him what it really is--a dream. I have thought much. I have reflected
deeply. I have weighed with the utmost impartiality the for and against
of the two questions, and I prefer death. I knew what you would attempt
for me. Your life has been one long devotion; but that devotion must
this night accomplish its greatest sacrifice in letting me die, and
not attempting to save me. A man like I am must not secure his life by
trickery. I pledged my head as the stake in the game I played. I lost,
and I pay my debt."
"Brother, brother, do not speak so!" Valentine exclaimed with despair;
"you break my heart."
"Reflect, my good Valentine, on the position in which I now stand. I am
tried contrary to the law of nations. Hence my position is a fine one;
my judges will endure all the disgrace of my condemnation. If I fly,
I shall be nothing more than any common adventurer--a pirate, as they
call me, prodigal of his companions' blood, and chary of his own. Must I
not acquit the debt I have contracted with all my friends, who died to
defend my cause? Come, brother, do not try to convince me, for it would
be useless. I repeat to you, my resolution cannot be shaken."
"Ah!" Valentine exclaimed again, with an outburst of passion he could
not repress, "you are determined to die. But do you reflect that, in
dying, you drag down with you to the grave another person? Do you
believe that she will consent to live when----"
"Silence!" the count interrupted him in great agitation. "Do not speak
to me of her. Poor Angela! Alas! why did she love me?"
"Why!" the person who accompanied Valentine, and had hitherto remained
motionless, exclaimed. "Because you are great, Louis; because your heart
is immense."
"Oh!" he said with grief, "Angela! Brother, brother, what have you done?"
The hunter made no reply, for he was weeping. His iron nature was
broken; the strong man wept like a child.
"Do not reproach him for having brought me, Don Louis. I wished to
come--I insisted on accompanying him."
"Alas!" the count replied with an ineffable sadness, "you break my
heart, poor darling child. In your presence all my resolution and
courage abandon me. Oh! why have you come to revive, by your presence,
regrets which nothing will be able to calm again?"
"You are mistaken, Don Louis," she said with febrile energy. "You
believe me to be a weak woman, without courage. My love for you is too
true and too pure for me ever to advise you to do anything against your
honour or your glory. Just now, concealed in that obscure corner, I
listened eagerly to your words. I was happy at hearing you speak as you
did. I love you, Don Louis, oh, as man never was loved in this world!
But I love you for yourself, and not for myself. Your glory is as dear
to me as you are. Your memory must remain without a stain, as your life
has been unsullied. Don Louis, I, to whom you are all in all, the man
for whom I would sacrifice my life if necessary, I have come to say to
you, 'Dear count, die nobly, with head erect: fall like a hero! Your
memory will be revered as that of a martyr.'"
"Yes, thanks, thanks for saying that to me, Angela," the count said as
he pressed her in his arms with passionate energy; "you restore me all
my energy."
"And now farewell, count, to meet again soon."
The count went up to Valentine.
"Your hand, brother," he said to him. "Forgive me for not desiring to
live."
The hunter threw himself into his brother's arms, and the two remained
thus enfolded for several minutes. At length the count liberated himself
from this loving prison by a heroic effort. Valentine left the cell, not
having the strength to utter a word, and supporting Doña Angela, who, in
spite of the courage she had displayed, felt on the point of fainting.
The door closed again, and the count remained alone. He fell back
in his chair, leaned his elbows on the table, buried his face in his
hands, and remained in this position the whole night through. The next
morning, at an early hour, Don Louis was fetched to go to the court. The
interrogatory was over, and the pleading was about to begin.
The count had chosen as his defender a young captain of the name of
Borunda, who during the siege of Hermosillo had been taken prisoner by
the French at the attack on the bridge head. Borunda had remembered the
generous manner in which the count had treated him at that period. His
pleading was what might be expected from the young and noble officer,
simple, pathetic, and imprinted with that eloquence which comes from
the heart, and nothing can equal. Assuredly the count would have been
acquitted, had not his death been decided beforehand.
Don Louis, who during the entire discussion remained calm and apathetic,
listening to the false statements and calumnious imputations of the
witnesses without quivering, or addressing a reproach to those ingrates
who sacrificed him in this cowardly way, felt affected by his defender's
glowing language. He rose and held out his hand to him with inimitable
grace.
"Thank you, sir," he said to him. "I am happy at having found a man like
yourself among so many enemies. Your pleading was as it should be, and
money will not repay such words."
Then, drawing from his finger the ring bearing his coat of arms, which
he had always worn since leaving France, he passed it on to the
captain's finger, adding,--
"Accept this ring, and keep it in remembrance of me."
The captain pressed his hand, but could not reply.[1]
The judges retired to deliberate. They returned at the expiration of
five minutes. Count Louis de Prébois Crancé, unanimously found guilty,
was condemned to be shot. The sworn interpreter of the court was then
called on by the president to translate the sentence to the condemned;
but then a strange incident occurred. This interpreter rose and
addressed the court.
"No, gentlemen," he said resolutely; "I will not translate this unjust
sentence, which you will soon regret having pronounced."
This energetic protest abashed the judges for an instant. The
interpreter was discharged on the spot. He was a Spaniard.
"Gentlemen," the count then said with the greatest coolness, "I
understand your language sufficiently well to know that you have
condemned me to death. May Heaven pardon you, as I do!"
He bowed to the judges with a smile, and withdrew as calm as he entered.
The count was immediately placed in _capilla_. It is the fashion in
Spain and all Southern America for men condemned to death to be placed
in a room, at one end of which is an altar. Near the bed stands the
coffin in which the body of the condemned will be laid after the
execution. The walls are hung with black cloth, on which silver tears
and mournful inscriptions are sewn. This custom, which is very cruel in
our opinion, and is evidently a relic of the barbarous medieval times,
is probably intended to imbue the condemned with religious ideas.
The count was in no way influenced by these mournful trappings, but
employed himself with the utmost tranquillity in setting his affairs
in order. The very day he was put in _capilla_ Valentine entered his
cell, followed by Father Seraphin. He was the priest he would most
certainly have sent for to console him in his last moments, had he known
where to find him; but Valentine thought of everything. By his orders
Curumilla went on the search, and the worthy Indian soon discovered the
missionary, who, on learning the nature of the case, hastened to follow
him.
Still the condemnation of the count had produced an extraordinary
emotion. While the cívicos and other bandits of the town indulged in
indecent joy, parading the streets with bands of music at their head,
the upper classes and sound portion of the population displayed extreme
sorrow. They spoke of nothing less than preventing the execution of the
sentence, and for some hours General Guerrero trembled lest his victim
should escape him.
The Vice-Consul of the United States, indignant at this unjust sentence,
but not having the power to act officially, proceeded to Don Antonio
Pavo with the hope of inducing him to act energetically, and save the
count. Don Antonio refused. While protesting the sorrow he felt, nothing
could make him recall his refusal.
Still Don Antonio understood that he could not refrain from paying a
visit to the count. Valentine was with him, as well as Father Seraphin.
The hunter had obtained leave to remain with his foster brother till
the last moment. The count received Don Antonio with an icy face.
He contented himself with shrugging his shoulders in contempt when
the latter tried to exculpate himself, and alleviate all that was
reprehensible in his conduct. The count handed him several papers, and,
interrupting him roughly in the midst of a very involved sentence, in
which he was trying to prove how innocent he was of all imputed to him,
said dryly,--
"Listen to me, sir. I am willing, if it is of any use to you, to give
you a letter, in which I acknowledge that your conduct toward me was
always irreproachable; but on one condition----"
"What is it, sir?" he asked eagerly.
"I do not wish to be shot on my knees, and with my eyes bandaged. You
understand me, sir? I want to look death in the face. Go and arrange
that with the governor."
"That favour shall be granted you, I can assure you, sir," he answered,
delighted at having been let off so easily.
He went out and kept his word. What did the count's enemies care whether
he fell standing or on his knees, with eyes bandaged or not? Their great
object was that he should be dead. Still General Guerrero profited by
this opportunity to appear generous at a small cost.
The next day but one Valentine brought Doña Angela with him: the maiden
had donned that monk's robe which she had already worn under critical
circumstances.
"Is it for today?" the count asked.
"Yes," Valentine answered.
Louis took his foster-brother on one side.
"Swear to me to protect that child when I am no longer here to do so."
"I swear it!" Valentine said in a broken voice.
Doña Angela heard the words. She smiled sadly as she wiped away a tear.
"Now, brother, there is another oath I must obtain from you."
"Speak, brother."
"Swear to do what I ask you, whatever it may be."
Valentine looked at his foster-brother: he saw such anxiety depicted on
his face that he let his eyes fall.
"I swear it!" he said in a hollow voice.
He had guessed what Don Louis was about to demand of him.
"I do not wish you to avenge me. Believe me, brother, God will take that
vengeance on Himself, and sooner or later punish my enemies in a more
terrible manner than you can do. Do you promise to obey me?"
"You have my word, brother," the hunter answered.
"Thanks! Now let me say good-by to this poor girl."
And he walked toward Doña Angela, who advanced to meet him. We will not
describe their conversation. They forgot everything during an hour to
live an age of joy by isolating themselves, and speaking heart to heart.
Suddenly a loud noise was heard outside, the door of the capilla opened,
and Colonel Suarez appeared.
"I am at your orders, colonel," the count said, not giving the other
time to speak.
He passed his fingers for the last time through his moustache, smoothed
his hair, took up his Panama straw hat, which he held in his hand, and
after taking a melancholy glance around, went out.
Father Seraphin walked on his right; Doña Angela, with the hood over her
head, on his left. Valentine came next, tottering like a drunken man, in
spite of all the efforts he made, with haggard eyes, and face bathed in
tears. There was something heart-rending in the aspect of this man, with
the energetic features and bronzed face, a prey to such grief, which was
the more profound because it was silent.
It was six in the morning, the sun had just risen, the dawn was
magnificent, the atmosphere was filled with perfume, nature seemed
rejoicing, and a man full of life, health, and intellect was about to
die--die brutally, struck by unworthy foemen.
An immense crowd covered the place of execution, and the troops were
drawn up in battle array. General Guerrero, in full uniform, glistening
with precious stones, appeared at the head of the troops.
The count walked slowly, talking with the missionary, and from time to
time addressing a word to the heroic girl, who refused to abandon him at
this supreme hour. He held his hat before his face to protect him from
the sunbeams, and fanned himself carelessly. On reaching the execution
ground he stopped, went in the direction of the firing party, threw his
hat on the ground, and waited.
An officer read his sentence. When this was over, the count
affectionately embraced the missionary, did the same to Valentine, and
whispered in his ear,--
"Remember!"
"Yes," the latter said in an inarticulate voice.
Then came the turn of Doña Angela. They remained for a long time in a
close embrace, and then separated as if by mutual agreement.
"Though separated on the earth, we shall soon be united in heaven.
Courage, my beloved!" she said with exaltation.
He replied to her with a smile which had nothing earthly about it.
Father Seraphin and Valentine fell back about fifteen paces, knelt down
on the ground, and folded their hands in prayer. Doña Angela, with the
cowl still over her face, placed herself only a few paces from the
general, who watched all the preparations for the execution with a
triumphant smile.
The count looked around him to assure himself that his friends had
retired, took a step forward nearer the firing party, from which he was
only eight yards, and laying his hands behind his hack, with head erect,
a smile on his lips, and a resolute glance, he called out in a clear,
impressive voice,--
"Come, my brave fellows, do your duty! Aim at the heart!"
Then a strange event occurred. The officer stammered as he gave the
order to fire; and the soldiers, firing one after the other, did not hit
the sufferer.
"Enough of this, caray!" the general shouted.
The soldiers reloaded their muskets, and the order to fire was given
once more. A discharge burst forth like thunder, and the count fell with
his face to the earth.
He was dead: progress counted one martyr more!
"Farewell, father," a voice cried in the general's ear. "I keep my
promise."
Don Sebastian turned in terror, for he had recognised his daughter's
voice.
Doña Angela had fallen to the ground. Her father rushed toward her. It
was too late; he only pressed a corpse in his arms. His punishment had
already commenced.
The count had scarce fallen ere Valentine rushed toward him, followed by
the missionary.
"Let no one approach the body!" he said in a voice which made the
bravest recoil, and kneeling on his right, while the missionary placed
himself on the left, he prayed.
Curumilla had disappeared.
Those who tell us that the Count de Prébois Crancé was an adventurer, I
will merely ask what Hernando Cortez was on the day before the fall of
Mexico?
In politics, as in everything else, the end justifies the means, and
success is only the consecration of genius.
[1] We are delighted to be able to state that Captain Borunda, in spite
of the brilliant offers afterwards made him, would not consent to part
with this ring.--G.A.
NOTE.
Several of our friends have remarked to us with truth that the work
of justice we have attempted in this work would be incomplete if we
insisted on concealing our characters under their pseudonyms. We will,
therefore, obey our friends' wishes. Who does not remember the heroic
episode of Count Gaston de Raousset-Boulbon's life? The incident that
terminated it was, in spite of the political preoccupations of the
moment, considered a public calamity.
It is the expedition of this great soldier, who only lacked a lever to
overturn a world, that we have attempted to describe. Don Louis is the
count. By the side of Consul Calvo, General Yanès, and the Commandant
Lebourgeois-Desmarets, a sinister trinity fatal to the count, the
first two through a mean hatred, the third through jealousy, also grin
the ignoble and gloomy faces of Colonel Campusano and Cubillas, those
subaltern agents, the buzzards who were less hideously ferocious than
the men who urged them to action. Now let us mention hap-hazard the
names of the few men who remained faithful to the count at all risks.
In the first rank we will name Monsieur A. de la Chapelle, editor
in chief of the _Messager de San Francisco,_ a private friend of
Raousset, who left him at his death the duty of avenging his memory,
and whom friendship inspired to write so fine a book; then Lenoir,
Gamier, Fayolle, and Lefranc, of whom the last three fell bravely
before Hermosillo; O. de la Chapelle, brother of the journalist, that
chivalrous chief of the Cocosperians; lastly, the Mexican captain,
Borunda, whose chivalrous pleading would have saved the count, had not
his death been resolved on.
Twelve years have passed over the drama of Guaymas, and the hour has
arrived to do proper justice to the heroic victim of that unjustifiable
assassination. We, one of his obscurest friends, will be pleased if
our book, so incomplete as it may be, aids to any extent, however
slight, in effecting this rehabilitation so eagerly expected by all
honest hearts. We will add in conclusion, that the narrative has been
undertaken without any notes being prepared beforehand, and written
under the impression of ineffaceable memories, rather with the heart
than with the pen.
GUSTAVE AIMARD.
THE END.