The Gold-Seekers: A Tale of California

San José is the last caravan halt before reaching San Francisco. The travellers had made a journey of more than one hundred and eighty leagues in less than three weeks, through difficulties and dangers without end – a speed hitherto unexampled.

CHAPTER IV

EXPLANATIONS

The hunters placed their animals in a vast corral; then they sought a shelter for themselves in a mesón, the landlord of which, a perfect likeness of the worthy Knight of La Mancha, received them to the best of his ability. After the rough journey they had made, it was a great delight to the adventurers to rest their heads once again beneath a roof, and be, for a few hours at least, lodged in a manner almost civilised.

Don Louis and Valentine occupied the same cuarto, while Curumilla and Don Cornelio selected that exactly facing theirs. So soon as these provisional arrangements were made, and supper enjoyed in common, all retired to rest.

Before lying down on the cuadro, covered with an oxhide, intended for his bed, Don Louis walked up to Valentine, who, lying back in a butaca (easy chair), was smoking a cigarette, and idly watching the blue smoke ascend in spirals.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked him, as he leant familiarly on the back of the butaca.

"About you," Valentine replied, turning to him with a smile.

"About me?"

"Yes. What other anxiety can I have at present, save to see you happy?"

The count looked down on the ground and sighed.

"It is impossible," he said.

Valentine looked at him.

"Impossible!" he repeated. "Oh, oh! Have we reached that point? Come, let us have an explanation, once for all."

"You are right; the hour has arrived: let us have a hearty explanation."

The count drew up a butaca, sat down opposite Valentine, took a cigar from the case his foster brother handed him, and lit it. The hunter followed all his movements attentively. When he saw him comfortably installed, he said, —

"Speak."

"Alas! My life has nothing very interesting in it; it has resembled that of all adventurers. At one time rich, at another poor, I have wandered about, traversing Mexico in every direction, dragging after me the memory of my lost happiness, like the galley slaves cannon ball. For a moment I imagined that a future might still exist for me, and that I might at least regain my rank in the world, if I did not secure again a position like that I had lost I started for San Francisco, that weird Eldorado, whose marvels the hundred-mouthed rumour was narrating. There I found myself mixed up with a crowd of greedy and unbridled adventurers, whose life was one continued orgy, and whose sole passion was gold. I saw there, within a few months, the most prodigious metamorphoses. I saw the most scandalous fortunes spring up and collapse again, and plunging resolutely into this gulf, I demanded from chance my share of feverish joys and intoxicating emotions; but I lacked faith, and nothing succeeded with me. I tried every profession, ever pursued by that implacable fatality which was determined to crush me. I had great difficulty in saving myself from a death by hunger. In turn hunter, porter, Heaven knows what, my efforts availed nothing in that Babel, where the condemned of civilisation jostled each other, who, all marked with the indelible seal of Dante's reprobates, piled ruin on ruin to form themselves a pedestal of ingots, which was immediately overthrown by another. Disgusted with this mingled life of blood, filth, rags, and gold, I set off, resolved to become a drover. A noble profession, is it not, for a Count de Prébois, whose ancestors made three crusades?" he added, with a bitter laugh. "But I knew generals ostlers, marquises waiters; hence I, who had never been anything, could, without any great degradation, become a trader in cattle. And then I had another object in the choice of my profession. Ever since my arrival in North America I have been looking for you: I hoped to find you again some day. For the first time fortune has smiled on me, you see, as I have succeeded in meeting with you. That is all I had to say to you. Now you know as much about my life as I do; so ask me no more."

After these words, uttered in a sharp voice, the count threw himself back on his butaca, relit his cigar, crossed his arms on his chest, and seemed determined not to add a word. Valentine looked at him for a long time with the most concentrated attention, at times tossing his head, and frowning with evident dissatisfaction. At length he resolved to renew the conversation.

"Hum!" he said, "I now know your whole life, I grant it. There is nothing very extraordinary about it in a country like that where we are. It in no way departs from the common law. You would do very wrong to complain."

"I do not complain," the count exclaimed quickly; "I merely assert a fact."

"Of course," Valentine said; "and yet, in all you have told me, one point remains obscure to me."

"Which?"

"You told me all you wished to do – that is well; but leaving out of the question the fraternal friendship that attaches us, and which, however powerful it may be, cannot to my mind account for your settled determination to find me again, you have not told me for what purpose you sought me so obstinately."

The count sprang up, and his eye flashed.

"Have you not guessed it, Valentine?"

"No!"

The count let his head fall, and for a few moments the conversation was again interrupted.

"You are right, Valentine: better finish at once, and never return to the subject again; besides, you know as well as I what I wish to say," the count replied, with the accent of a man whose mind is made up.

"Perhaps so," the hunter said laconically.

"Come, come, I am not an ass; and on the morning of that day when you asked a shelter at my bivouac, you understood me at the first word I let fall."

"It is possible," Valentine said imperturbably; "still, as I have no pretence to the art of divination, be good enough to explain yourself clearly and categorically."

"You insist on it?"

The hunter bowed his assent.

"Well, be it so," the count went on; "you are still the same man you were fifteen years ago."

"Are we not referring to that very period now?" Valentine said with a smile.

"Ah!" the count exclaimed, striking the arm of his butaca, "you see that you understood me."

"Did I say the contrary?"

"Why, then, do you demand – ?"

"Because it must be so," the hunter said dryly.

"Be at rest, for I will repeat your own words."

"I am listening."

"You remember, I suppose, a cold winter night, in the bedroom of my house at Paris?"

"December 31st, 1834, at eleven in the evening," Valentine remarked.

"Yes; the rain lashed the window panes, the wind whistled in the long passages. I was awaiting your coming. You arrived. Then, as now, I was face to face with ruin. I wished to die: you prevented me."

"It is true. Did I do wrong?"

"Perhaps," the count said in a hollow voice; "but these are the words you made use of."

"Allow me to repeat them myself; for, in spite of the fifteen years that have elapsed, Louis, that scene is as present to my mind as if it took place yesterday. After proving to you that you did wrong to despair," Valentine said in a solemn voice, "that all was not lost, I replied to a final objection you raised, 'Be easy, Louis, be easy. If I have not fulfilled my promise in two years, I will hand you the pistols myself, and then – ' 'Then?' you asked. 'Then,' I added, 'you shall not kill yourself alone.' 'I accept,' you answered. Those were the words that passed between us on that night, which decided your future and made a man of you. Is it not so? Have I forgotten the slightest detail? Answer."

"No, you have forgotten nothing, Valentine."

"Well?"

"Well, now that I have faithfully fulfilled the promise I made you, I come to claim of you the complete execution of our compact."

"I do not comprehend you."

"What! You do not comprehend me?" the count said, bounding from his butaca.

"No," Valentine answered coldly. "Did I not keep my promise? Ah, Louis, since you insist on it, by heavens!" he added, growing animated in his turn, "let us reckon up accounts. I ask nothing better. What do you mean by talking to me of fulfilling an agreement? Have I not fulfilled my engagements? Did I not find for you that woman you despaired of ever seeing again? Did you not marry her? Did you not enjoy with her ten years of perfect happiness? By what right do you complain of the fatality that pursues you? By what right do you curse your destiny, ungrateful man! Whose happiness lasted ten years – ten ages in this earth? Look around you. Show me a man who, throughout his whole life, can reckon one year of that happiness you rail at, and then I will pity you, will weep with you, and, if it must be, help you to die. Oh! All men are the same – weak in the presence of joy as in grief, forgetting, in a few hours of adversity, years of happiness. And so, after fifteen years, you have returned to the same point. Insensate! Do you know, you who speak in that way, what it is to pass a whole existence of suffering and horrible agony: to feel hour by hour, minute by minute, your heart lacerated, and that without hope, and yet smile and seem gay – in a word, live? Have you for a single day endured that atrocious suffering, you who speak so deliberately about dying?"

Gradually, while speaking, Valentine had grown animated, his features were contracted, and his eyes flashed flames. Louis gazed on his friend without comprehending him, but startled at the state of exaltation in which he saw him.

"Valentine," he exclaimed, "Valentine, in heaven's name, calm yourself!"

"Ah!" the hunter continued, with a ghastly laugh, "you suffer, you say – you are unhappy; and yet listen. That woman you loved, whom I found for you again, whom I enabled you to marry – well, it was not love I felt for her, but idolatry. To be able to tell her so I would joyfully have parted with my blood drop by drop; and yet I, to whom you have just told your grief, I placed you in each other's arms. I smiled – do you understand me? – smiled on your love, and without a murmur, a word, to reveal that passion which gnawed my heart, I fled into the desert, alone with my love. Face to face with it I suffered for fifteen years. Oh, my God, my God! The wound is as painful now as on the first day. Tell me, Louis, now that you know all – for we are frank with each other – what are your sufferings compared with mine? By what right would you die?"

"Oh, pardon me, pardon me, Valentine!" Louis exclaimed, as he rushed into his arms. "Oh! You are right; I am very ungrateful to you."

"No," Valentine answered sadly, as he returned his embrace; "no, Louis, you are a man; you have followed the common law. I cannot and ought not to be angry with you. Pardon me, on the contrary, for allowing myself to be carried away so far as to reveal to you the secret which I had sworn to bury eternally in my heart. Alas! We have all our cross to bear in this world, and mine has been rude. God doubtlessly decreed it so, because I am strong," he added, with an attempt at a smile. "But, to return to yourself, it is true that youth has fled far from us, with its gay perspective and smiling illusions; life has no longer anything to offer us, save the painful trials of a ripe age. I am as wearied of existence as yourself; it weighs equally on me as on you. You see, my friend, I am fully of your opinion. I will not only not prevent you from dying, but I wish to accomplish my promise fully by accompanying you into the tomb."

"You, Valentine! O no! It is impossible."

"Why so? Is not our position the same? Have we not both suffered equally? An implacable creditor, you have asked me to honour my signature. Very good; but on one condition."

Louis was too well acquainted with his foster brother's firm and resolute character to try and combat his will.

"What is it?" he asked simply.

"I shall choose the mode of death."

"Be it so."

"Oh, pardon me, Louis! I shall not propose an ordinary suicide, so I must have your word of honour before I explain myself more fully."

"I give it you."

"Good! There are two difficult things for a man to do in this world – arranging his life, and arranging his death. The man who kills himself coldly by blowing out his brains in his room, after writing to his friends to announce his suicide, is either a coward or a madman. That is not the sort of suicide I wish; it means nothing, it proves nothing, and is of no service. But there is a manner of suicide which I have ever dreamed of, because it is noble and great: it is that of the man who, unable or unwilling to do more with a life he despises, sacrifices it for his fellow men, with no other object than that of being useful to them, and falls after accomplishing his task."

"I believe I understand you, Valentine."

"Perhaps so; but let me finish. We are in the country best prepared for such a design. Already several attempts – all unsuccessful, however – have been made, especially by the Count de Lhorailles in his colony of Guetzalli. Sonora, which is the richest country in the world, is in the last throes, under the brutalising and unintelligent system of the Mexican government. Well, let us restore life to this country; let us galvanise it, summon to our aid the French emigrants in California, and come here to give liberty to a people whose energetic character will comprehend us. What do we risk in the event of non-success? Death! Why, that is exactly what we desire. At any rate, when we have fallen, we shall sleep in a shroud of glory as martyrs, bearing with us the regrets and sympathies of all. Instead of killing ourselves like cowards, we shall have died in the breach like heroes. Is not that martyrdom the noblest, the most sublime of all?

"Yes, Valentine, you are right – always right Oh, men like ourselves can only die in that fashion!"

"Good!" Valentine exclaimed; "you have understood me."

"Not only have I understood you, brother, but I guessed your meaning before."

"How so?"

"When I met the Count de Lhorailles for the last time in the desert, I was returning with Belhumeur and an Indian chief from visiting a placer of incalculable value which that Indian had discovered, and the ownership of which he gave to Belhumeur, who, in his turn, handed it over to me. On my return, I proceeded to Mexico, where I entered into negotiations with several notable persons; among others, the French chargé d'affaires. You of course know how slow everything is to succeed in this unhappy country. Still, owing to the rich samples I had the precaution to bring with me, and, above all, the powerful protection of certain persons, I succeeded in founding a company, of which I was appointed chief, with the right of levying a French company, armed and disciplined, in order to take possession of the placer, and work it on behalf of the company."

"What then?"

"Well, I returned to San Francisco, and made a few arrangements; but I needed two things – first, patience, and next, money to enlist my men and purchase the necessary stores; and – shall I confess it to you? – what I most needed was the desire to succeed. But you, Valentine, have caused that desire to spring up in me; your presence has restored all my energy, and though I know not how I shall remove all the obstacles that oppose the execution of my plan, I shall do so, I swear it to you."

"What were you doing in Sonora, then?"

"I can hardly explain it to you. My speculation in cattle was more a flight than anything else. I was disgusted with everything, and tried to make an end of it, no matter how."

"Now it is my turn. Tomorrow, at sunrise, you will start. You will proceed at full speed to San Francisco. Your excursion in Sonora was only an exploring tour. You will employ any pretext you like, in a word, and set to work earnestly forming your company. During that time I will sell your herd, and arrange so as to procure you the funds you require. Trouble yourself about nothing, but push ahead boldly."

"But how will you manage it? The sum I need is large."

"That does not concern you: let me arrange matters in my way; At the appointed hour I will furnish you with more than you want, so it is settled. You will start at sunrise?"

"I will do so; but when and where shall I see you again?"

"Ah! That is true. On the twenty-fifth day from this, at sunset, I will enter your room."

"But I do not know myself yet where I shall lodge."

"Do not let that trouble you; I shall find out."

"So, then, at sunset of the twenty-fifth day?"

"Yes, I will arrive with the treasure ships," Valentine replied with a laugh.

"Thanks, brother; you are my good genius. If my life has had a few blemishes, you are preparing me a glorious death to expiate them."

"Pity yourself, pray! I am going to make of you a Francisco Pizarro and an Almagro."

The two men shook hands affectionately, while exchanging a sorrowful smile. After a few more unimportant remarks, they threw themselves on their beds, where they soon fell asleep, overpowered as they were by fatigue.

CHAPTER V

THE CONSEQUENCES OP A LOVE SONG

During the conversation between the foster brothers, certain events we must describe to the reader occurred in the cuarto to which Curumilla and Don Cornelio had retired.

On entering the room, Curumilla, instead of lying down on the cuadro intended for him, laid his zarapé on the tiled flooring, stretched himself out upon it, and immediately closed his eyes. Don Cornelio, on the contrary, after hanging the lamp to a nail in the wall, trimmed up the smoking wick with the point of his knife, sat down on the side of the bed, with his legs hanging down, and then began in a sonorous voice the romance of King Rodrigo.

At this slightly unseasonable music Curumilla half opened one eye, though without protesting in any other way against this unwonted disturbance of his rest. Don Cornelio may or may not have noticed the Indian's silent protest; but in either case he took no heed of it, but went on singing, raising his voice to the highest compass of which it was capable.

"Wah!" the chief said, raising his bead.

"I was certain," Don Cornelio remarked with a friendly smile, "that the music would please you."

And he redoubled his flourishes.

The Araucanian rose, went up to the singer, and touched him gently on the shoulder.

"We must sleep," he said in his guttural voice, and with an ill-tempered grimace.

"Bah, chief! Music makes a man forget sleep. Just listen.

"'Oh, si yo naciera ciego!Oh, tú sin beldad nacieras!Maldito sea el punto – '"7

The Indian seemed to listen with sustained attention, his body bent well forward, and his eyes obstinately fixed on the singer. Don Cornelio felicitated himself internally on the effect he fancied he had produced on this primitive native, when suddenly Curumilla, seizing him by the hips, squeezed him in his nervous hands at in iron pincers, and lifting him with as much ease as if he had been but a child, carried him, spite of his resistance, into the patio, and seated him on the side of the wall.

"Wah!" he said, "music is good here."

And, without adding another word, he turned his back on the Spaniard, walked into his cuarto, laid himself on his zarapé, and went to sleep immediately.

At first Don Cornelio was quite confounded by this sudden attack, and knew not if he ought to laugh or feel vexed at the simple way in which his companion had got rid of his company; but Don Cornelio was a philosopher, gifted with an admirable character. What had happened to him seemed so droll that he burst into an Homeric laugh, which lasted several minutes.

"No matter," he said, when he had at length regained his seriousness, "the adventure is curious, and I shall laugh at it for many a long day. After all, the fellow was not entirely in the wrong. I am famously situated here to sing and play my jarana as long as I think proper; at any rate I shall run no risk of disturbing the sleepers, as I am quite alone."

And after this consolation, which he administered to himself to satisfy his somewhat offended pride, he prepared to continue his serenade.

The night was clear and serene; the sky was studded with a profusion of stars, in the midst of which sparkled the dazzling southern cross; a slight breeze, laden with the perfumes of the desert, gently refreshed the air; the deepest silence brooded over San José; for, in the retired Mexican pueblos, everybody returns home at an early hour. Everybody appeared asleep, too, in the mesón, although at a few windows the weak and dying light of the candles gleamed behind the cotton curtains.

Thus Don Cornelio, unconsciously yielding to the influences of this magnificent evening, omitted the first four verses of the romancero, and after a skilful prelude, struck up the sublime description of night: —

"A l'escaso resplendor,De cualque luciente estrella,Que en el medroso silencio,Tristamente centellea."8

And he continued thus with eyes uplifted to heaven, and brow glowing with enthusiasm to the end of the romance; that is to say, until he had sung the ninety-six verses of which this touching piece of poetry is composed.

The Mexicans, children of the Andalusians, the musicians and dancers par excellence, have not degenerated in this respect from their forefathers; on the contrary, they have, if that be possible, exaggerated these two passions, to which they sacrifice everything.

When Don Cornelio began singing, the patio, as we have, already remarked, was completely deserted; but gradually, as the musician became more animated, doors opened in every corner of the yard, men and women appeared, advanced gently to the singer, and formed a circle round him; so that after the final strophe he found himself surrounded by a group of enthusiastic hearers, who applauded him frenziedly.

Don Cornelio rose from the wall on which he was seated, lifted his hat, and saluted his audience gracefully.

"Come," he said to himself, "this will be something for that Indian, who appreciates music so slightly, to reflect upon."

"Capa de Dios!" an arriero said, "that is what I call singing."

"Poor Señor Don Rodrigo, how he must have suffered!" a young criada exclaimed in short petticoats, and with a flashing eye.

"And that perfidious picaro of a Count Julian, who introduced the Moors into a Catholic country!" the landlord said with an angry gesture.

"God be praised!" the audience said in chorus; "Let us hope that he is roasting in the lowest pit."

Don Cornelio was at the pinnacle of jubilation. Never before had he obtained such a success. All his hearers thanked him for the pleasure he had caused them, with those noisy demonstrations and cries of joy which distinguish southern races. The Spaniard did not know whom to listen to, or on which side to turn. The shouts assumed such a character of enthusiasm, that the singer began to fear that he would be unable to get rid of his frenzied audience the whole long night.

Fortunately for him, at the moment when, half willingly, half perforce, he was preparing, on the general request, to recommence his romance, there was a movement in the crowd; it parted to the right and left, and left a passage for a tall and pretty girl, who, with a well-turned leg confined in silk stockings with gold clocks, her rebozo coquettishly drawn over her head, and her hair buried beneath a profusion of jasmine flowers, placed herself resolutely before the singer, and said with a graceful smile, which allowed her double row of pearly teeth to be seen, —

"Are you not, caballero, a noble hidalgo of Spain, of the name of Don Cornelio?"

We must do Don Cornelio the justice to allow that he was so dazzled by this delicious apparition that he remained for some seconds with gaping mouth, unable to find a word.

The girl stamped her foot impatiently.

"Have you been suddenly turned into stone?" she asked, with a slightly mocking accent.

"Heaven forbid, señorita!" he at length stammered.

"Then be good enough to answer the question I asked you."

"Nothing easier, señorita. I am indeed Don Cornelio Mendoza de Arrizabal, and have the honour to be a Spanish gentleman."

"That is what I call plain speaking," she said, with a slight pout. "If it be so, caballero, I must ask you to follow me."