SAN MIGUEL DE TUCUMÁN.
San Miguel de Tucumán, the studious and calm town, whose broad streets
were ordinarily almost deserted, and whose squares resembled the
cloisters of an immense convent, had suddenly changed its aspect. It
might have been called a vast barrack, so many soldiers of all kinds
encumbered it. The quiet life of its inhabitants had been changed into
feverish existence, full of noise and excitement. Men, women, children,
and soldiers, mingled pell-mell at the corner of each street, and in
every square, were calling out and talking in emulation of each other,
gesticulating with that vivacity and animation peculiar to southern
races; brandishing banners with the colours of the nation, and dragging
about in all the busy streets, and close to the houses, boxes and
cohetes, that supreme manifestation of joy in Spanish America.
A fête without cohetes or crackers, without fireworks, making noise and
smoke, is a failure in these countries. The quantity of powder which is
consumed in this way attains fabulous proportions.
We are pleased to render this justice to the Hispano-Americans--that
they have no pretentiousness in their fireworks, and that they let them
off artlessly, to their great contentment, as well by day under the
most brilliant sun, as by night in the midst of darkness. We have even
remarked that they prefer, by a refinement, no doubt, of extravagant
selfish enjoyment, to let them off by daylight under the noses of the
gaping crowd, that escapes half-burnt, howling and cursing at the
mischievous wags, who laugh convulsively at the good turn which they
have done for their admirers.
On this day, as the travellers learned on their passage, the
inhabitants of San Miguel were celebrating a great victory gained by a
chief of the Buenos Airean Montoneros over the Spaniards.
In the old Spanish colonies, and in general throughout America--that
of the south as well as that of the north--it is not well to take too
literally these bulletins of victory, which for the most part are only
skirmishes of no importance, when there are neither killed nor wounded;
and which even frequently conceal defeats or shameful retreats.
For some years Europeans have been informed as to the character of
these dwellers beyond the sea; their boasting and throwing the hatchet
have passed into a proverb. Everyone knows that the puff is of American
origin; that the most magnificent flocks of canards reach us at a
single flight from the other side of the Atlantic; and that, although
many come from the Spanish republics, the most numerous start in
countless troops from all the ports of the United States of America,
which have justly acquired such a superiority for the rearing of these
interesting birds, that henceforth no one will venture to dispute with
them the palm of the puff, the public announcement, and the official
lie.
An entire house had been placed at the disposal of M. Dubois by the
new republican power. The governor of the province and the general
commanding the troops camped round the town, warned of his arrival,
waited for him at the door of the house, at the head of a numerous and
brilliant staff.
The painter grasped the hand of his companion, allowing him to enjoy in
his own way the honours which they heaped upon him; and, curious, true
artist as he was, he put an album under his arm, glided through the
crowd assembled in the Plaza Mayor, and wandered about, his nose in the
air and his hands in his pocket, in quest of studies to paint or types
to sketch; preferring to look out for novelty, than to submit to the
wearisomeness of an official reception.
However, he had left his horses and his attendants with those of M.
Dubois, who had only consented to his temporary departure after having
made him promise not to choose any other dwelling than his own during
all the time he might be pleased to stay at San Miguel.
The artist wore the complete costume of the inhabitants of the country,
and had nothing which could attract attention; so it was easy for
him to move about among the groups without being incommoded by the
impertinent curiosity of the gaping idlers, for whom, especially at
this time, a stranger--a European particularly--was an extraordinary
being, who they imagined belonged to a different species to themselves,
and towards whom they manifested more pity than goodwill. The greater
part at the present day believe that Europeans are heretics, half men
and half demons, and damned from the moment of their birth.
Nothing, in our opinion, is so agreeable as to walk about thus, without
occupation of any sort, wandering through the crowd, isolated amidst
the multitude; allowing oneself carelessly to follow out the caprices
of the moment; mingling sometimes indirectly in the general joy,
then resuming the course of one's thoughts, and again becoming alone
in the midst of the crowd; only attaching oneself by an invisible
chain--incessantly breaking, and again joined by chance--to events
which, as an immense kaleidoscope, defile before one's eyes; at once
an actor and a spectator, indifferent or interested to everything that
strikes the eye, elbowing and skimming everything without being oneself
mixed up in the facts which are transpiring.
The young man, happy as a scholar during the vacation at being so
agreeably rid of his serious companion, thus wandered about, admiring
the public monuments, the squares, the promenades; gazing at the women
who passed near him, with a light and gentle tread; carelessly smoking
his cigarette, walking right on without knowing where he was going, and
caring very little, seeing that he was on the lookout for novelty.
He thus reached, scarcely knowing how, the Alameda or promenade of
the town, a charming garden with thick foliage, adorned with clusters
of pomegranate and orange trees in flower, the delicious perfume from
which embalmed the atmosphere. By a singular chance the Alameda was
deserted; all the population had been carried away into the centre of
the town, and for one day had abandoned this delicious promenade.
The painter congratulated himself on the solitude in which he found
himself, after the noise and uproar with which he had been so long
mingled, and which began to oppress his temples, and to cause him to
feel a kind of moral lassitude.
He cast his eye round for a bench, which he soon discovered,
half-concealed in a bower of orange trees, and sat down with an
unspeakable sense of pleasure.
It was about five o'clock in the evening. The breeze had risen, and
was refreshing the heated atmosphere; the sun, nearly level with the
ground, immeasurably lengthened the shadow of the trees; a number of
birds concealed in the foliage were singing with all their might, and
millions of insects with transparent wings were humming and flying
around the flowers, the sweets of which they were gathering.
The sounds of the fête only came as a far-off echo, and almost
inaudible to this solitude, which breathed the most complete calm.
Carried away in spite of himself by all that surrounded him, and
submitting to the enervating influence of the perfume exhaled by the
flowers, the young man allowed himself to fall back, crossed his arms
over his chest, and, half closing his eyes, he fell into a sweet
reverie, which soon absorbed his whole being, and made him completely
forget reality, to be borne away into the fantastic land of dreams.
How long had he been subjected to this delicious somnolence, without
name in our language? He could not have answered his own question; when
suddenly he gained consciousness with a rude gesture of ill humour,
listening and casting around him a look of discontent.
The sound of conversation had reached him.
However, it would have been in vain for him to try and pierce the
darkness, for night had come; he could see no one. He was still alone
in the bower, into the recess of which he had withdrawn.
He redoubled his attention; then he discovered that the voices that he
had heard were those of two men who had stopped at a few paces behind
him, and that the cluster of orange trees, in the midst of which he was
alone, precluded his seeing them.
These two men, whoever they might be, appeared to wish not to be heard,
for they spoke in a low voice, though with some animation. Unhappily,
the Frenchman was so near them that, in spite of himself, and do what
he might to prevent it, he heard all they said.
"The devil take these fellows," murmured the young man to himself; "to
think of coming to talk politics here! I was so comfortable. What shall
I do with myself now?"
But as he heard what his neighbours said, and even their lightest
movements, the latter probably would have heard him if he had
endeavoured to leave the place. Force compelled him, then, though he
grumbled at it, to maintain his hiding place, and to continue to hear
the conversation of the two men--a conversation by no means calculated
to reassure him, and which from time to time assumed a very disquieting
character for a third party, called to be, spite of himself, a
confidant.
We have mentioned what horror the painter had for politics: the reader
will easily understand what was his anxiety on hearing such things as
those we are about to relate.
"This news is certain!" said one of the interlocutors.
"I have it from an eyewitness," answered the other.
"¡Caramba!" said the first, slightly raising his voice, "So we may soon
hope to see the general in these parts!"
The painter trembled. He seemed to recognise that voice, without being
able to recall where he had previously heard it.
"So the insurgents have been defeated?" continued the same speaker.
"Utterly defeated, Captain. I repeat it, at the battle of Villuma,
General Pezuela pursued them more than six leagues, hard pressing them
with the sword."
"Bravo! And what is he doing now?"
"Carsi! He is marching, doubling the rations, in order to arrive the
quicker; unhappily, as far as we can see, he will not be able to be
here for two months."
"That is very late."
"Yes; but that allows you to prepare your batteries."
"That is true; nevertheless, the mission with which the general charges
me is full of difficulties. The insurgents are numerous round the town,
and they keep a good guard; if it were a question of carrying away two
or three, or even ten deputies, perhaps I could answer for success;
but consider, my dear count, that it is nothing less than causing the
disappearance of sixty or eighty persons."
"I do not understand you."
"That is natural," continued the captain; "only arrived today in the
town, and not having yet gone out, except with me, you are unacquainted
with what is passing."
"Entirely so," pursued the other, to whom had been given the title of
count.
"Here are the circumstances in a few words. The insurgents wish to
strike a decided blow. With this design they have convoked here at
Tucumán a congress composed of deputies from each revolted district.
This congress has for its object the proclaiming of the independence of
Buenos Aires, and of all the Banda Oriental."
"¡Sangre de Dios! Are you sure of that?" cried the Count astounded.
"So sure that I know it by one of my cousins, who is himself one of
these deputies, and who has no secret from us."
"¡Cuerpo de Cristo! This is dreadful! The general will be furious when
I inform him of it."
"I am convinced of it; but what is to be done?"
"To prevent it by all means."
"It is impossible; means fail us completely. I can only dispose of a
hundred men, with whom I can attempt nothing, so much the more as we
are playing an unlucky game at this moment. The population is running
frantic at the success of the chief of the Montoneros, Zeno Cabral,
has gained two days ago over the royal troops, commanded by Colonel
Azevedo."
"This success is somewhat apocryphal, my dear Captain. I give you my
word of honour; it merely consists of an unimportant skirmish between
foragers."
"I admit it; it is even certain that it is so; but no one in the town
will believe it; so that the check must be considered real."
"Well, what matters? Let us leave these people in their error, and take
advantage of it by acting. Now that they think themselves invincible,
and that they amuse themselves by wasting their powder in fireworks, we
can perhaps try a bold attack on the town."
"Your idea is not bad; I even avow that it rather pleases me; but it
has to be matured. It would be necessary to adroitly remove the troops
camped in the environs, and to profit by their absence to attempt a
surprise."
"Then nothing would be easier than to seize upon the deputies."
"Do not let us go too fast; let us first see what are the forces we
have at our disposal for this expedition, which cannot but be very
perilous, and which offers--I do not deceive you--very little chance of
success."
"Well, let us discuss the matter; I am quite agreeable."
The painter, becoming more and more ill at ease through these
confidences, which assumed rather a grave aspect for him, and
wishing at all hazards to escape from the perplexing position in
which he found himself--for he instinctively understood that it was
a conversation between conspirators, and that he risked his life if
he were discovered--took a resolution which appeared to him to be an
inspiration from Heaven. Not wishing to continue to be a third party to
secrets of such importance, he resolved to discover himself. He did not
conceal from himself that the first moments would be very dangerous for
him to get through, when the two men knew that their conversation had
been heard throughout; but he preferred rather to risk this uncertain
chance of saving his life than to remain any longer in the awkward
position.
Émile was foolishly bold, and scarcely ever thought of danger; on the
contrary, he rushed headlong into it--the reader has already discovered
this for himself; but this time, contrary to his habits, he used some
little prudence before revealing his presence to the unknown speakers.
He gently cocked his pistols, which he held in his hand under his
poncho, ready to make use of them if need be: then rising from the
bench on which up to that moment he had remained sitting--
"¡Hola caballeros!" said he, in a voice not loud enough to be heard by
any other persons than those to whom he addressed himself. "Take care!
There are ears which hear you."
The two men uttered an exclamation of surprise and terror; then there
was a trampling sound in the shrubbery, and they appeared in front of
the young man, each holding a sabre in one hand and a pistol in the
other, their countenances distorted by rage and fright.
But they suddenly stopped.
The young man stood motionless before them, his pistols in his grasp.
"Halt, and let us talk it over," said he coolly.
This scene had something strange and startling about it. In this little
enclosure of orange trees in flower--in the silver rays of the moon, in
the midst of a profound calm, in the bosom of that calm nature on which
the imposing silence of a night impressed a stamp of majesty--these
three men, thus placed face to face, measuring each other with their
glances and ready for attack, formed a most striking contrast with what
surrounded them.
"Talk over the matter!" said the count. "Of what use would that be?"
"To prevent killing one another like brutes without knowing why,"
answered the painter.
"A traitor merits death."
"I agree with you; but I am not a traitor, since I make myself known
to you, when it would have been easy to remain silent until I had
discovered all your secrets."
This observation--very reasonable for that matter--appeared to produce
a certain impression on the two men.
"Then, why these arms?" continued the count, in a tone evidently
mollified.
"To avoid what would have happened had I not taken the precaution to
furnish myself with them."
"You are not a spy upon us, then?"
"By no means; in fact, I was here a good while before you. The sound
of your conversation awakened me from a light slumber into which I had
fallen, and not caring to be, against your will, a confidant in your
secrets, I have decided to warn you."
"Who can prove it?" sternly pursued the count.
"I presume, caballero," answered the young man, "that you allow
yourself to doubt my words?"
"Who, then, are you, Señor, that you ought to be thus believed at the
first words?"
"I!" said the young man, laughing; "Not much compared with you--a poor
French painter, but honest, thank God, to the fingers' ends."
"Ah! I know him," cried the second stranger, who till that moment had
remained silent. "I know him now. Put up your sabre and drop your
pistol, my dear count. Arms are not wanted here."
"I will do so willingly, if that is your advice, Captain," answered the
count, with hesitation. "However, it appears to me that in so serious a
position--"
"Down with your arms! I tell you," interrupted the captain, who had
already put aside his own. "I will answer, body for body, as to this
cavalier."
"Be it so," said the count; "but prudence--"
"What? Since this caballero gives you his word, and this word is
corroborated by my own, that is sufficient, it appears to me," pursued
the captain.
The young man, seeing that his adversaries had apparently no longer any
hostile intentions, quietly uncocked his pistols, and, replacing them
in his girdle, he turned towards him who had so unexpectedly come to
his aid--
"I thank you, Señor," said he, "for the good opinion that you have of
me. Although your voice is not unknown to me, I shall be, nevertheless,
happy if you will be good enough to refresh my memory, by informing me,
if you can, where I have had the honour of meeting you before."
"Vive Dios, Señor. Don Émile," he resumed in a tone of good humour,
"you have a short memory."
"How do you know my name?"
"And you know mine, unless you have forgotten it--which would not
astonish me after what I see!"
"I am really astonished, Señor; but I cannot the least in the world
recall where we have already seen one another."
"Come, since it is absolutely necessary that I tell you my name once
more, I will do so. I am Don Lucio Ortega."
"The Spanish captain!" cried he.
"And whom you so dexterously disarmed. The very same, caballero."
"Oh! How could I forget that meeting, which has left me so charming a
souvenir?" he said, holding out his hand.
"So this gentleman is a friend of yours?" pursued the count.
"Yes, my dear count; and one of the most intimate."
"Pardon me for saying it, but you know what would be the consequences
of indiscretion."
"They would be terrible. Continue."
"And you think yourself still in a position to answer for the
discretion of this caballero?"
"As much as for my own, I repeat."
"Good; act in your own way, then," he continued.
"Listen," said the captain; "I can understand how you, who do not know
this gentleman, may entertain secret anxiety; we are not engaged in
child's play at this moment, we are risking our lives in a desperate
undertaking; each of us has a right to demand of his companion a strict
account of his conduct."
"Just so; it appears to me it ought to be so."
"Very well. This account I am going to give you. In spite of himself,
and without having wished to do so, Don Émile has discovered secrets
of the greatest importance. These secrets, I am convinced, he will
keep at the bottom of his heart; but the certainty that I have you do
not share: this is your right, and I have nothing to object to in it;
but, with the design of merely reassuring you, I will take all the
precautions, with respect to my friend, that you can demand. Of course,
these precautions will have in them nothing to wound the honour or
self-respect of Don Émile, whom I hold above all as my friend."
"I will act with the captain," briskly answered the young man; "and I
place myself completely at your disposal as to anything you are pleased
to exact from me. I humbly confess that politics cause me a shudder,
and that I most sincerely regret to be so unfortunately discovered
here, when it would have been so easy for me to have been elsewhere,
where, without doubt, I should have been much better off."
The gravity of the Count was not proof against this speech, uttered
with such despairing artlessness. He burst into laughter.
"You are a charming companion," said he; "and, although our connection
has commenced under such hostile auspices, I hope it will be lasting:
that soon you will become one of our friends, and I shall be one of
yours."
"That will be a great honour for me, Monsieur le Comte," he answered,
bowing.
"Now that you have placed one foot on our secrets, it is necessary that
you enter into them entirely."
"Is it, then, absolutely necessary?"
"Decidedly so."
"It is curious how for the last few days fate has been pleased to
pursue me and obstinately to make me a man of politics, when I should
be so happy merely to paint pictures--I, who have only come to America
for that purpose. It has been a splendid idea, certainly, and I have
well chosen my time."
"In the first place, it is necessary for you to make your decision."
"I know it well, and that is just the reason why I am enraged; but
as soon as I shall be able to act otherwise, I shall not hesitate a
moment, I promise you."
"Until a new order, it is indispensable that you remain with us--that
you be in some sort our prisoner; but, reassure yourself, your
captivity shall not be hard; we will make it, or at least we will try
to make it, as agreeable to you as possible."
"So you are going to deprive me of my freewill?" said the painter with
a tragi-comic air.
"It must be so for the present."
"Hum! Well, I consent to it--the devil take politics! What occasion had
I to come to San Miguel to accompany that old Dubois?"
The two men started at that name.
"You know the Duc de Mantone?" they exclaimed.
"Ah, ha! You know whom I mean, it appears?"
"The Duc de Mantone, formerly a member of the Convention, a senator
under the Emperor Napoleon, who has come to America under the name of
Louis Dubois?" said the count.
"That is he. Why, then, did he urge me so strongly not to give him his
title?"
"Because he hoped not to be recognised. He comes here, hunted by the
Bourbons for having voted the death of Louis XVI., to seek a refuge in
this country, and to lend the insurgents the aid of his experience in
conducting the revolution."
"The fact is that he ought to know a great deal about this affair,"
said the painter, laughing.
"But what were you saying about him? Was he really at San Miguel?"
"I myself aided him to enter the town today."
"You?"
"Parbleu! He is a fellow countryman: and, look you, Captain, we were
together when I had the honour of meeting you."
"What! That tall old man with such a haughty look and such imposing
features, who sat so firmly on horseback near you?"
"The very same."
"Oh, if I had known it!" cried the captain.
"What would you have done, then?"
"I should have captured him, ¡vive Dios!"
"Then it is fortunate that you did not know him, for probably there
would have been a skirmish."
The captain took no notice of this remark.
"Come," said he.
"Where shall you conduct me?"
"To Cabildo."
"To Cabildo! What for?"
"The governor gives a grand ball there today; we shall spend some
little time there."
"I fear that this conceals some political manoeuvre."
"Perhaps."
"Provided that I do not find myself further mixed up in it, spite of
myself--"
"I will try to leave you ignorant of what may transpire."
"I shall be very grateful to you for it. Well, à la grâce de Dieu!"
The three men, quite reconciled, left the little inclosure, set out
from Alameda, and took the road to Cabildo, conversing in a friendly
way.
The streets were illuminated, and the population were diverting
themselves more than ever in letting off fireworks.