“FOR TO-MORROW WE DIE!”
I remembered Fonseca’s visit of the night before, and considered it
natural he should take the morning train to the capital.
“But Valcour would not need to murder Madam Izabel,” said I. “They were
doubtless in the plot together, and she would have no hesitation in
giving him the ring had he demanded it. On the contrary, our general was
already incensed against the daughter of the chief, and suspected her of
plotting mischief. I am satisfied he has the ring.”
“The general will be with us presently,” answered Mazanovitch, quietly.
“But, gentlemen, you all stand in need of refreshment, and Senhor
Harcliffe should have his burns properly dressed. Kindly follow me.”
He led the way up a narrow flight of stairs that made two abrupt
turns—for no apparent reason—before they reached the upper landing.
Following our guide we came to a back room where a table was set for
six. A tall, studious-looking Brazilian greeted us with a bow and
immediately turned his spectacled eyes upon me. On a small side table
were bandages, ointments, and a case of instruments lying open.
Within ten minutes the surgeon had dressed all my wounds—none of which,
however, was serious, merely uncomfortable—and I felt greatly benefited
by the application of the soothing ointments.
Scarcely was the operation completed when the door opened to admit
Fonseca. He gave me a nod, glanced questioningly at the others, and then
approached the table and poured out a glass of wine, which he drank
eagerly. I noticed he was in full uniform.
“General,” said I, unable to repress my anxiety, “have you the ring?”
He shook his head and sat down with a gloomy expression upon his face.
“I slept during the journey from Cuyaba,” he said presently, “and only
on my arrival at Rio did I discover that Senhora de Mar had traveled by
the same train. She was dead when they carried her into the station.”
“And Valcour?” It was Mazanovitch who asked the question.
“Valcour was beside the body, wild with excitement, and swearing
vengeance against the murderer.”
“Be seated, gentlemen,” requested our host, approaching the table. “We
have time for a slight repast before our friends arrive.”
“May I join you?” asked a high, querulous voice. A slender figure,
draped in black and slightly stooping, stood in the doorway.
“Come in,” said Fonseca, and the new arrival threw aside his cloak and
sat with us at the table.
“The last supper, eh?” he said, in a voice that quavered somewhat. “For
to-morrow we die. Eh, brothers?—to-morrow we die!”
“Croaker!” cried Fonseca, with scorn. “Die to-morrow, if you like; die
to-night, for all I care. The rest of us intend to live long enough to
shout huzzas for the United States of Brazil!”
“In truth, Senhor Piexoto,” said Marco, who was busily eating, “we are
in no unusual danger to-night.”
Startled by the mention of the man’s name, I regarded him with sudden
interest.
The reputation of Floriano Piexoto, the astute statesman who had plotted
so well for the revolutionary party, was not unknown to me, by any
means. Next to Fonseca no patriot was more revered by the people of
Brazil; yet not even the general was regarded with the same
unquestioning affection. For Piexoto was undoubtedly a friend of the
people, and despite his personal peculiarities had the full confidence
of that rank and file of the revolutionary party upon which, more than
upon the grandees who led it, depended the fate of the rising republic.
His smooth-shaven face, sunken cheeks, and somewhat deprecating gaze
gave him the expression of a student rather than a statesman, and his
entire personality was in sharp contrast to the bravado of Fonseca. To
see the two leaders together one would never suspect that history would
prove the statesman greater than the general.
“Danger!” piped Piexoto, shrilly, in answer to Sergeant Marco’s remark,
“you say there is no danger? Is not de Pintra dead? Is not the ring
gone? Is not the secret vault at the Emperor’s mercy?”
“Who knows?” answered Fonseca, with a shrug.
“And who is this?” continued Piexoto, turning upon me a penetrating
gaze. “Ah, the American secretary, I suppose. Well, sir, what excuse
have you to make for allowing all this to happen under your very nose?
Are you also a traitor?”
“I have not the honor of your acquaintance, senhor,” said I, stiffly;
“nor, in view of your childish conduct, do I greatly desire it.”
Fonseca laughed, and the Pole turned his impassive face, with its
half-closed eyelids, in my direction. But Piexoto seemed rather pleased
with my retort, and said:
“Never mind; your head sits as insecurely upon its neck as any present.
‘Tis really a time for action rather than recrimination. What do you
propose, Mazanovitch?”
“I am waiting to hear if you have discovered the present possessor of
the ring,” answered the captain.
“No; our people were ignorant of its very existence, save in a few
cases, and none of them has seen it. Therefore the Emperor has it,
without doubt.”
“Why without doubt?” asked Mazanovitch.
“Who else could desire it? Who else could know its value? Who else would
have murdered Madam Izabel to secure it?”
“Why the devil should the Emperor cause his own spy to be murdered?”
inquired Fonseca, in his harsh voice. “You are a fool, Piexoto.”
“What of Leon de Mar?” asked the other, calmly. “He hated his wife. Why
should he not have killed her himself, in order to be rid of her and at
the same time secure the honor of presenting his Emperor with the key to
the secret vault?”
“Leon de Mar,” said Mazanovitch, “is in Rio Grande do Sul. He has been
stationed there for three weeks.”
For a time there was silence.
“Where is Paola?” suddenly asked Piexoto. “I want to know what Paola is
doing in this crisis.”
“He was last seen near de Pintra’s residence,” said Figgot. “But we know
nothing of his present whereabouts.”
“You may be sure of one thing,” declared Marco stoutly; “that Francisco
Paola is serving the Cause, wherever he may be.”
The general snorted derisively, and Piexoto looked at him with the
nearest approach to a smile his anxious face had shown.
“How we admire one another!” he murmured.
“Personally I detest both you and Paola,” responded the general,
frankly. “But the Cause is above personalities, and as for your loyalty,
I dare not doubt it. But we wander from the subject in hand. Has the
Emperor the ring or is he seeking it as eagerly as we are?”
“The Emperor has not the ring,” said Mazanovitch, slowly; “you may be
assured of that. Otherwise—”
Piexoto gave a start.
“To be sure,” said he, “otherwise we would not be sitting here.”