THE GIRL I LOVE
It was long ago, that day that brought Liberty to Brazil and glory to
the name of Miguel de Pintra. Fate is big, but her puppets are small,
and such atoms are easily swept aside and scattered by the mighty
flood-tide of events for which we hold capricious Fate responsible.
Yet they leave records, these atoms.
I remember how we came to Rio—Valcour, Lesba, Paola, and I—and how Paola
was carried through the streets perched upon the shoulders of the free
citizens, while vast throngs pressed around to cheer and strong men
struggled to touch the patriot’s hand and load him with expressions of
love and gratitude. And there was no simper upon Paola’s face then, you
may be sure. Since the tragedy at Bastro’s that disagreeable expression
had vanished forever, to be replaced by a manliness that was the
fellow’s most natural attribute, and fitted his fine features much
better than the repulsive leer he had formerly adopted as a mask.
Valcour, still weak, but looking rarely beautiful in her womanly robes,
rode in a carriage beside Francisco and shared in the fullness of his
triumph. The patriots were heroes in those early days of the Republic.
Even I, modest as had been my deeds, was cheered far beyond my deserts,
and for Lesba they wove a wreath of flowering laurel, and forced the
happy and blushing girl to wear it throughout our progress through the
streets of the capital.
Fonseca invited us to the palace, where he had established his
headquarters; but we preferred to go to the humbler home of Captain
Mazanovitch, wherein we might remain in comparative retirement during
the exciting events of those first days of rejoicing.
Afterward we witnessed the grand procession in honor of the Dictator. I
remember that Fonseca and his old enemy Piexoto rode together in the
same carriage, all feuds being buried in their common triumph. The bluff
general wore his most gorgeous uniform and the lean statesman his shabby
gray cloak. And in my judgment the adulation of the populace was fairly
divided between these two champions, although the Dictator of the
Republic bowed with pompous pride to right and left, while the little
man who was destined to afterward become President of the United States
of Brazil shrank back in his corner with assumed modesty. Yet Piexoto’s
eyes, shrewd and observing, were everywhere, and it may be guessed that
he lost no detail of the day’s events.
Paola should have been in that procession, likewise, for the people
fairly idolized the former Minister of Police, and both Fonseca and
Piexoto had summoned him to join them. But no; he preferred to sit at
Valcour’s side in a quiet, sunlit room, effacing himself in all eyes but
hers, while history was making in the crowded streets of the capital.
It required many days to properly organize a republican form of
government; but the people were patient and forbearing, and their
leaders loyal and true; so presently order began to come out of chaos.
Meantime Valcour mended daily, and the roses that had so long been
strangers to her pale cheeks began to blossom prettily under the
influence of Francisco’s loving care.
They were happy days, I know; for Lesba and I shared them, although not
so quietly. For the dear girl was all aglow with the triumph of Liberty,
and dragged me as her escort to every mass-meeting or festival and every
one of the endless processions until the enthusiasm of her compatriots
had thoroughly tired me out. The Liberty of Brazil bade fair to deprive
me of my own; but I bore the ordeal pretty well, in Lesba’s society.
Then came a day when I obtained my reward. Valcour had made a quick
recovery, and now needed only the strengthening influence of country
air; so one bright morning we all boarded a special train and traveled
to Cuyaba, reaching safely the de Pintra mansion in the early evening.
Nothing seemed changed about the dear old place, which I had already
arranged to purchase from Dom Miguel’s executors. Pedro had resigned his
position as station-master to become our major-domo, and the thoughtful
fellow had made every provision for our comfort on this occasion of our
homecoming.
Captain Mazanovitch was with us. He had retired from active service to
enjoy his remaining years in his daughter’s society, and although he
seldom allowed one of us to catch a glimpse of his eyes, the face of the
old detective had acquired an expression of content that was a distinct
advantage to it.
I had chosen to occupy my old room off the library, and early on the
morning following our arrival I arose and passed out into the shrubbery.
Far down the winding walks, set within the very center of the vast
flower gardens, was the grave of Dom Miguel, and thither I directed my
steps. As I drew near I saw the square block of white marble that the
patriots had caused to be erected above the last resting-place of their
beloved chieftain. It bore the words
“MIGUEL DE PINTRA
SAVIOR OF BRAZIL”
and is to this day the mecca of all good republicans.
Lesba was standing beside the tomb as I approached. Her gown was as
white as the marble itself, but a red rose lay upon her bosom and
another above Dom Miguel. She did not notice my presence until I touched
her arm, but then she turned and smiled into my eyes.
“‘Savior of Brazil!’” she whispered softly. “It is splendid and fitting.
Did you place it there, Robert?”
“No,” I answered; “the credit is due to Piexoto. He claimed the
privilege for himself and his associates, and I considered it his
right.”
“Dear uncle!” said she; and then we turned reverently away and strolled
through the gardens. Every flower and shrub lay fair and fresh under the
early sun, and we admired them and drank in their fragrance until
suddenly, as we turned a corner of the hedge, I stopped and said:
“Lesba, it was here that I first met you; on this exact spot!”
“I remember,” said she, brightly. “It was here that I prophesied you
would be true to the Cause.”
“And it was here that I loved you,” I added; “for I cannot remember a
moment since that first glimpse of your dear face that my heart has not
been your very own.”
She grew sober at this speech, and I watched her face anxiously.
“Tell me, Lesba,” said I at last, “will you be my wife?”
“And go to your country?” she asked, quickly.
I hesitated.
“All my interests are there, and my people, as well,” I answered.
“But I cannot leave Brazil,” she rejoined, positively; “and Brazil needs
you, too, Robert, in these years when she is beginning to stand alone
and take her place among nations. Has not Fonseca offered you a position
as Director of Commerce?”
“Yes; I am grateful for the honor. But I have large and important
business interests at home.”
“But your uncle is fully competent to look after them. You have told me
as much. We need you here more than they need you at home, for your
commercial connections and special training will be of inestimable
advantage in assisting the Republic to build up its commerce and extend
its interests in foreign lands. Brazil needs you. _I_ need you, Robert!
Won’t you stay with us—dear? For a time, at least?”
Well, I wrote to Uncle Nelson, and his reply was characteristic.
“I loaned you to de Pintra, not to Brazil,” his letter read. “But I am
convinced the experiences to be gained in that country, during these
experimental years of the new republic, will be most valuable in fitting
you for the management of your own business when you are finally called
upon to assume it. You may remain absent for five years, but at the
expiration of that period I shall retire from active business, and you
must return to take my place.”
On those terms I compromised with Lesba, and we were married on the same
day that Valcour and Francisco Paola became man and wife.
“I should have married you, anyway,” Lesba confided to me afterward;
“but I could not resist the chance to accomplish one master-stroke for
the good of my country.” And she knew the compliment would cancel the
treachery even before I had kissed her.
As I have hinted, these events happened years ago, and I wonder if I
have forgotten any incident that you would be interested to know.
Dom Miguel’s old home became our country residence, and we clung to it
every day I could spare from my duties at the capital. It was here our
little Valcour was born, and here that Francisco came afterward to bless
our love and add to our happiness and content.
The Paolas are our near neighbors, and often Captain Mazanovitch drives
over with their son Harcliffe to give the child a romp with our little
ones. The old detective is devoted to the whole noisy band, but
yesterday I was obliged to reprove Francisco for poking his chubby
fingers into the captain’s eyes in a futile endeavor to make him raise
the ever-drooping lids.
The five-year limit expired long since; but I have never been able to
fully separate my interests from those of Brazil, and although our
winters are usually passed in New Orleans, where Uncle Nelson remains
the vigorous head of our firm, it is in sunny Brazil that my wife and I
love best to live.
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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. Corrected incorrect page references in ‘A LIST OF CHAPTERS’.
2. Changed ‘make’ to ‘made’ on p. 29.
3. Silently corrected typographical errors.
4. Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed.
5. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.