THE SOIRÉE.
The cabildo of San Miguel de Tucumán was gay with excitement, and
brilliantly lighted up. The people collected on the Plaza Mayor saw
through the open windows the crowd of guests, men and women, in their
most magnificent costumes, and their most brilliant toilets.
The governor was giving a tertulia a gala (soirée) to celebrate, in
official style, the brilliant victory gained by the celebrated and
valorous partisan chief, don Zeno Cabral, over the troops of the King
of Spain.
Joy burst forth and overflowed all parts of the cabildo on to the
square, and from the square into the streets, where the people, picking
up the crumbs which fell from the official fête, amused themselves
in their own way, laughing, singing, dancing, and here and there
exchanging--so great was their delight--a few blows of the knife.
The soirée had acquired new lustre from the arrival of M. Dubois,
who--although everybody knew his title of Duc de Mantone--preferred
to preserve the modest name which he had adopted on his arrival in
America; saying with charming good humour, to those who reproached him
with this obstinate incognito, which deceived no one, that the name
of Dubois reminded him of the best years of his youth, when he fought
on the benches of the National Convention to conquer for his country
the republic and liberal institutions; and that he thought it well to
resume this name now, when, in the decline of life, he came to another
hemisphere, to maintain, with all the influence that his experience
could give, the same principles.
At this the questioners could find nothing to answer, and withdrew,
charmed with the spirit and manners of the old member of Convention,
and--let us hasten to state--secretly flattered at possessing in their
ranks one of those Titans of the National French Convention who, from
their curule chairs, had made the world tremble, and whom the storm had
been powerless to annihilate.
About half past nine, at the moment when the fête was at its height,
Captain Don Louis Ortega, the painter, Émile Gagnepain, and the Count
de Mendoza entered the cabildo, and made their appearance in the
saloons.
Thanks to the captain, the French artist had changed his costume of a
gaucho, rubbed and worn in use, for a splendid Buenos Airean chacrero,
which almost rendered him unrecognisable.
The presence of the newcomers was little remarked in the whirlwind of
the fête, and they could, without attracting attention, mingle in the
crowd of guests which literally encumbered the reception rooms.
The French painter had a few minutes' happiness in contemplating
the fête, the entire appearance and arrangements of which so little
resembled what, under similar circumstances, we are accustomed to see
in Europe.
The cabildo, the former palace of the governor of the province, had, in
fact, vast and well-ventilated rooms, but the furniture of which formed
a striking contrast to the magnificent toilets of the guests.
The whitewashed walls were entirely bare; two rows of benches were
all the furniture of the saloons, which were lighted by means of wax
candles and garlands of coloured lamps, hidden as far as possible in
the midst of bouquets of artificial flowers. On a stage placed in
the centre of the principal saloon was an orchestra composed of some
fifteen musicians, who, playing almost ad libitum, made the most odious
uproar with their instruments that could be imagined.
But joy and enthusiasm lit up every face. The guests appeared very
little to care whether the music was good or bad, provided it enabled
them to dance, of which they acquitted themselves in a thoroughly
joyous manner, bounding and gambolling in emulation of each other with
every manifestation of pleasure.
In the midst of the crowd the general commanding and the governor were
promenading, followed by a number of their staff, glittering with
ornaments, and returning with a patronising air the salutes which were
addressed to them.
Near them was M. Dubois, upright and formal, in his black coat in
the French style, and his short breeches, forming the most singular
contrast to those who surrounded him.
The painter could scarcely repress a burst of laughter on perceiving
him, and tried to hide himself in the middle of the crowd; but it was
labour lost: M. Dubois perceived him, and came right to him.
The painter was obliged to wait for him.
"My young friend," said M. Dubois, passing his arm under his arm, and
drawing him towards the seat of a window, which was unoccupied at the
moment, "I am happy to have the opportunity of meeting you; I have
something important to say to you."
"Important!" said the artist, with a gesture of annoyance, "The devil
take it."
"Yes," replied he, smiling; "you shall see."
"I am scarcely serious enough in my nature," pursued he; "I am an
artist, you know--a painter, a passionate lover of art; and it is just
to escape the exigencies of serious life that I have abandoned France
to come to America."
"Then you have decidedly fallen," said M. Dubois with a dash of irony.
"I begin to believe that I am wrong."
"It is possible, but let us return to business."
"What, it is a question of business, then?"
"Pardieu! Is not everything business in this world?"
"Hum!" said the artist, not at all convinced.
M. Dubois assumed a paternal air, and, seizing a button of his
companion's coat, without doubt, to prevent him from escaping--
"Listen to me with attention," said he; "the few days that I have
had the advantage of passing in your company enabled me to study
your character, and to appreciate it at its just value; you are an
intelligent, wise, and modest young man; you please me."
"You are very good," mechanically murmured Émile by way of answer.
"I wish to do something for you."
"That is a good idea; have you any influence?"
"Yes, much more than you doubtless think."
"Then render me a service."
"What? Speak. I shall be glad to acquit myself of what I owe you."
"Bah! That is nothing; do not let us speak of it."
"On the contrary, let us talk about it."
"No, no, I beg you; rather render me the service which I ask of you."
"What?"
"Then procure me, this very evening, a respectable escort, so that I
may without danger reach Buenos Aires."
"What do you wish to do at Buenos Aires?"
"To embark by the first ship which sets sail, in order to fly as
soon as possible from this frightful country, where they only talk
politics, and where life has so many tragic elements that it becomes
insupportable to any man who, like me, lives only for art."
"Have you finished?" asked the diplomatist.
"Nearly; it only remains for me to add, that if you render me this
immense service, you will make me the happiest of men, and I shall be
eternally grateful to you. What I ask is easy, it appears to me."
"Yes, it is easy enough."
"Then I may count on your kindness?"
"I do not say that."
"What, you refuse me?"
"For your good; in your interest I ought to do so."
"Parbleu! That is good!" cried the artist, quite disappointed.
"I know better than yourself what is good for you; let me explain
myself."
"Speak, but I warn you beforehand, that you will not succeed in
convincing me."
"Perhaps. I was saying, then, when you interrupted me," resumed he,
imperturbably, "that you please me. Called by the confidence of the
enlightened men who play the foremost parts in the glorious revolution
of this noble country to occupy a high place in their counsels, I want
near me an honest intelligent man, in whom I can trust, who understands
Spanish--which I do not--and which I am told to learn; in a word,
who will be devoted to me, and who will be rather a friend than a
secretary. This man, after mature reflection, I have chosen--it is you."
"I?"
"Yes, my friend."
"Thank you for the preference."
"Then you accept."
"I! I refuse--I refuse with all my might."
"Come, you are not serious."
"My dear Monsieur Dubois, I do not joke about such things--they are too
serious."
"Bah! Bah! You will reflect."
"My reflections are made, my resolution immovable; I repeat that I
refuse. Why, there seems to be an epidemic! Everybody is obstinately
trying to make me against my will a man of politics; it's enough, upon
my honour, to drive me mad."
The diplomatist slightly shrugged his shoulders, and, tapping the
painter on the arm in a friendly way--
"Sleep upon it," said he; "tomorrow you will answer me." And he turned
away to leave him.
"But I swear to you--" said Émile.
"I will listen to nothing," interrupted he; "dance, amuse yourself;
tomorrow you will talk."
And he left him.
"They are all demented!" cried the young man, stamping with rage. "What
a singular mania to wish to make me by force a serious man. He will
be very clever who will catch me tomorrow at Tucumán. I will leave
tonight. I will escape, come what may. This life is awful, and I can
bear it no longer; but the advice that M. Dubois has given me is not
bad; I will take advantage of the few hours of liberty that remain to
divert myself, if that is possible."
After this "aside," during which the greater of his anger evaporated,
the painter re-entered the ballroom.
The fête continued, more excited and disorderly than when his
countryman had drawn him aside; people were dancing in all parts of
the saloons--not the cold and insipid French quadrilles, where it
is good taste to walk stiffly and with constraint, but the graceful
samba juecas, the jotas--in fact, all the delicious Spanish dances, so
full of freedom, of movement, and abandon, where liberty never passes
certain bounds, but which, nevertheless, allow the women to display all
the voluptuous graces which they possess without shocking the eye of
the most austere moralist.
The painter, unknown to all who surrounded him, and speaking Spanish
with too much difficulty--although he understood it very well--to hold
any conversation whatever with his neighbours, leant his shoulder
against the wall, and with his arms folded across his breast, he
watched with increasing interest the dances which passed before him
like a whirlwind; when suddenly the music ceased, the dancing stopped,
and a move was made by the crowd.
Loud cries--joyful cries, let us hasten to state--were heard in the
square; then the crowd in the cabildo fell back, and separated briskly
into two parts, leaving a large open space in the middle of the rooms.
The governor, the general, and some twenty officers, then advanced
up this passage, which had been left open for them, at the head
of the newly arrived guests, who had not been expected, but whom,
nevertheless, they prepared to receive most cordially.
At the appearance of the newcomers in the saloons, applause burst
forth with unwonted force, and hats and handkerchiefs were waved with
enthusiasm.
Those that entered were the true heroes of the fête.
Don Zeno Cabral, who, it was thought, had camped at about ten leagues
from San Miguel de Tucumán, entered the cabildo with all the staff of
his Montonera.
At the sight of those bold partisans, who a few days before had gained
a signal advantage over the Spaniards, joy became delirium. Everybody
rushed towards them to see them and congratulate them, and in the first
movement of enthusiasm they really ran some danger of being suffocated
by their admirers.
However, by degrees the demonstrations, without ceasing to be hearty,
became calmer, and there was again room to move in the saloons, which,
during a short time, the people of the square had nearly invaded.
The fête recommenced.
But the guests, whose curiosity had been excited to the highest point,
and who could not satiate themselves by looking at these men, whom
they considered as almost their saviours, no longer entered into the
amusements with the same spirit as before.
The painter, wearied with the secondary part which he was playing in
the midst of people whose aspirations it was impossible for him to
understand, and whose enthusiasm he could not share, had left the
corner of the room where he had so long remained alone, admiring
in silence the scene of excitement which passed before him; and he
sought to open up a passage through the crowd, and reach the square
incognito--hoping easily to escape during the tumult caused by the
arrival of the Montoneros--when he felt himself touched lightly on the
shoulder.
He turned round, and could with difficulty repress an exclamation of
ill humour on recognising his two companions of the Alameda--those who
had assisted him to an introduction to the cabildo--in a word, the
Spanish captain and the Count de Mendoza.
Both were disguised, and had put on a costume similar to that which the
young Frenchman wore.
"Where are you going to this way?" asked the count, with a sneer.
We must render this justice to the painter--that if he had not
completely forgotten the two men whose prisoner on parole he was,
at least, in his inmost heart he hoped to escape their vigilance,
reckoning on chance for the opportunity.
"I?" asked he, surprised unawares.
"Certainly, you," said the count.
"Mon Dieu," said he, with the most indifferent air that he could
affect, "it is suffocating in these rooms, and I was going out on the
square, in quest of a little breathable air."
"Is that all?"
"Certainly."
"Do not distress yourself, then; as we want a little air, like
yourself, we will accompany you," pursued the count.
"Be it so; I am quite agreeable," said he.
They took some steps towards the door. But the young man, suddenly
altering his mind, stopped, and turning briskly towards his two
bodyguards, who followed him step for step--
"Parbleu!" said he to them, resolutely, "I have changed my mind, and
since the opportunity for an explanation between us presents itself, I
will profit by it."
"What is that he says?" asked the count, haughtily.
"Let the caballero speak," said the captain; "I am certain that he has
something interesting to say."
"Yes, Señor, very interesting indeed, for me!"
"Ah, ah!" murmured the count; "Let us hear--it must be curious."
"You think so?"
"I am convinced of it."
"But, pardon," pursued the count; "are you not, like us, my dear sir,
of opinion that it is not well to put the public in the confidence of
things which concern us alone?"
"I can understand that you have an interest in seeking mystery; such
is not my view. I wish, on the contrary, that the greatest publicity
should be given to this conversation."
"That is a great pity."
"Why so?"
"Because," coldly remarked the count, drawing from under his poncho
a pistol loaded and cocked, "if you say one word more--if you do not
follow us on the instant--I will blow your brains out."
The painter burst out laughing.
"You would not be stupid enough to do that!" said he.
"And why?"
"Because you would be immediately arrested; because important reasons
oblige you to remain unknown; and because my death would not be
sufficiently advantageous to you for you thus to risk your personal
safety for the pleasure of killing me."
"¡Cuerpo de Cristo!" cried the captain, laughing; "Well answered, on my
word. You are beaten, my dear count."
"All is not finished between us," said the count, gnashing his teeth,
but putting aside his weapon.
"I am astonished, Señor," coolly resumed the young man, "that you--an
hidalgo, a gentleman of the old stamp--that you should every now and
then manifest such bad taste."
"Take care, Monsieur," cried the count, "do not play thus with my
anger; if you push me to extremities, I can forget everything."
"Come," said Émile, shrugging his shoulders with disdain, "do you take
me for a timid child that is frightened by threats? You forget who I
am, and who you are. Take my advice, let us live together in the bonds
of courtesy; any uproar would ruin you, and make you ridiculous."
"Let us make an end of it," said the captain, interposing; "it has
already lasted too long. Do not let us attract attention towards us for
a foolish affair like this. You wish, Señor, to regain your liberty by
our giving you up your parole, do you not?"
"Just so; that is what I ask, Señor; am I wrong?"
"Upon my word, no; in acting thus, you do but obey the instinct that
God has placed in the hearts of all men; I cannot blame you."
"What are you doing, Captain?" cried the count, with violence.
"Eh, mon Dieu! My dear count, I am doing what I must do. It must be one
of two things--either this stranger is an honest man, in whom we ought
to have confidence, or he is a rogue who will deceive us at the first
opportunity. In one case, as in the other, we ought to trust his word.
If he is honest, he will keep it; if not, he will succeed in escaping."
"Perfectly reasoned, Señor," answered the artist. "The word that I have
given you, believe me, binds me more strongly towards you than the best
forged chain."
"I am convinced of it, Señor. To terminate this contest, I declare to
you here that you are free to act as you like, without our imposing any
obstacle, certain that you will not betray men against whom you have no
motive of hatred, and to whom you have promised secrecy."
"You have well judged, Señor; I thank you for that opinion, which is
true."
"You wish it," exclaimed the count, with suppressed rage; "let it be
so; but you will repent this foolish confidence in a man whom you do
not know, and who, moreover, is a foreigner."
"Come, my dear count, you are pushing your mistrust too far. There are
honest men everywhere, even in that France that you hate, and this
cavalier is of the number. Your hand, Señor, and au revoir. Perhaps we
shall meet again in more favourable circumstances; then I hope you will
accord me your friendship, as I have already offered you mine."
"With all my heart, sir," said the painter, warmly pressing the hand
which was held out to him, and only answering the words of the Count by
a smile of disdain.
"Now, thank God, this grave discussion has terminated," pursued the
captain, laughing, "I believe that all our affairs here are finished
for the night, my dear count, and that it is time to retire."
"We have only stayed too long here; like you, I think we ought to leave
as soon as possible," answered the count, with a morose air.
"If you will permit me, I will accompany you as far as the square,
Señores; seductive as this fête may be, it has no charms for me. I feel
the need of repose."
"Come, then," said the captain.
They then quitted the saloon, and made towards the exit.
"On my word," thought the painter, "I am happy to be rid of them at
this price, to find myself at last free. As to that dear Monsieur
Dubois, I wish him much joy, and especially that he may quickly find
another secretary, for he was perfectly wrong in reckoning on me."
And the young man joyfully rubbed his hands.
Unhappily for him, the series of his troubles had not yet come to an
end, as he had rather prematurely flattered himself.
At the moment when the three men reached the outer door, and were about
to descend the few steps which led into the court of the cabildo:
"There they are!" said a voice.
Immediately the two sentinels placed at the door crossed their guns and
barred the passage.
"Come, what now?" murmured the painter, with vexation.
"What does this mean?" demanded the count, haughtily.
"It means," answered a man, stepping forward, who had been hitherto in
the darkness, "that I arrest you in the name of the country, and that
you are my prisoners."
He who had just spoken this was Captain Quiroga.
"We prisoners!" exclaimed the three men.
"Yes, you," coldly resumed the captain, "you, Don Jaime de Zúñiga,
Count de Mendoza, and you, Captain Don Lucio Ortega, accused of high
treason."
"Well, and me; what have I to do with all this?"
"You, my dear sir, we arrest you as a presumed accomplice of these
caballeros, in company of whom you have introduced yourself to the
cabildo, and with whom you have been talking a long time."
"Ah! That is madness!" exclaimed the painter, at the height of
astonishment; "But I am not at all a friend of these caballeros."
"Enough!" coldly answered the captain; "Now, gentlemen, give up the
arms that you probably conceal in your clothing if you do not wish to
be searched."
The two Spaniards exchanged a look; then, by a movement rapid as
thought, they rushed with an invincible force upon the sentinels who
were barring their passage, overthrew them, and bounded into the court.
But here they found themselves in the presence of some twenty soldiers,
hidden beforehand, who precipitated themselves upon them, and in the
twinkling of an eye they were searched and disarmed.
"Well, we give ourselves up," said the count; "you need not lay hands
on us anymore, and treat us like bandits."
The soldiers immediately moved a little on one side, and allowed the
prisoners, ruffled by their fall, to put their clothing a little in
order.
This struggle, short as it was, had, nevertheless, attracted a great
number of people.
"Come," said Captain Quiroga, rudely seizing the arm of the painter, to
make him descend the steps.
"Why, this is horrible," exclaimed the latter, arguing with fury; "you
violate the right of nations. I am a Frenchman, I am a foreigner; let
me go, I tell you."
The contest would probably have terminated to the disadvantage of the
young man, alone, among so many enemies, if suddenly the governor had
not advanced, and addressing the captain--
"Let that caballero go," said he; "there is a mistake. He is an honest
man; he is the secretary to the Duc de Mantone."
[In our next volume, "The Insurgent Chief," the adventures of the
personages mentioned in this description of Life in the Pampas will be
continued.]