The Rebel Chief: A Tale of Guerilla Life

"Really, no. How should I know him?"

"I do not ask you that. Since you do not know him, how is it that you are bringing him to the rancho, without giving us notice?"

"For a very simple reason. I was returning from Cholula, when I found him lying across the road, groaning like a bull in the death throes. What could I do? Did not humanity command me to succour him? Is it permissible to let a Christian die in such a way without attempting to aid him?"

"Yes, yes," Oliver replied, ironically; "you acted well, and certainly I am far from blaming you. Of course, a man could not meet one of his fellow men in this cruel condition without assisting him." Then, suddenly changing his tone, and shrugging his shoulders with pity, he added; "Did you receive such lessons in humanity from the Redskins, among whom you lived so long?"

The young man attempted to answer, but he hurriedly checked him.

"Enough, now the evil is done," he said to him: "it is of no use alluding to it. Lopez will convey him to the cavern of the rancho, where he will nurse him. Go, Lopez, lose no time; lead away this man, while I talk with Dominique."

Lopez obeyed, and the young man allowed him to do so. He was beginning to comprehend that possibly his heart had deceived him, and that he had too easily given way to a feeling of humanity towards a man who was a perfect stranger to him.

There was a rather lengthened silence. Lopez had gone off with the wounded man, and had already disappeared in the cavern. Oliver and Dominique, standing face to face, remained motionless and pensive. At length the adventurer raised his head.

"Have you spoken with this man?"

"Only a few words."

"What did he tell you?"

"Not much that was sensible, he talked to me about an attack to which he had fallen a victim."

"Is that all?"

"Yes, or nearly so."

"Did he tell you his name?"

"I did not ask him for it."

"But he must have told you who he is."

"Yes, I think so: he told me that he had come a short time previously from Veracruz and was proceeding to Mexico, when he was attacked unawares and plundered by men whom he was unable to recognize."

"He told you nothing else about his name or position?"

"No, not a word."

The adventurer remained pensive for a moment.

"Listen," he then continued, "and do not take what I am going to say to you in ill part."

"From you, Master Oliver, I will hear anything you have the right to say everything to me."

"Good! Do you remember how we became acquainted?"

"Certainly: I was a child then, wretched and sickly, dying of want and misery in the streets of Mexico: you took pity on me, you clothed and fed me: not satisfied with this, you yourself taught me to read, write and cypher, and many other things."

"Go on."

"Then, you enabled me to find my parents again, or at least the persons who brought me up, and whom, in default of others, I have always regarded as my family."

"Good, what next?"

"Hang it, you know that as well as I do, Master Oliver."

"That is possible, but I wish you to repeat it to me."

"As you please: one day you came to the rancho, you took me away with you and took me to Sonora and Texas, where we hunted buffalo: at the end of two or three years, you caused me to be adopted by a Comanche tribe, and you left me, ordering me to remain on the prairies, and to lead the existence of a wood ranger, until you sent me an order to return to you."

"Very good, I see that you have a good memory: go on."

"I obeyed you, and remained among the Indians, hunting and living with them: six months ago, you came yourself to the banks of the Rio Gila, where I was at the time, and you told me that you had come to fetch me and that I must follow you. I followed you, therefore, without asking an explanation which I did not need: for do I not belong to you, body and soul?"

"Good, you still retain the same feeling."

"Why should I have changed? You are my only friend."

"Thanks, then you are resolved to obey me in everything?"

"Without hesitation, I swear it."

"That is what I wished to be certain of, now listen to me in your turn: this man whom you have succoured so foolishly – forgive the word – lied from the first to the last word he told you. The story he told you is a tissue of falsehoods: it is not true that he had only arrived a few days before from Veracruz, it is not true that he is going to Mexico, and lastly it is not true that he was attacked and plundered by strangers. This man I know: he has been at Mexico for the last eight months, he lives at Puebla, he was condemned to death by men who had a right to try him and with whom he is perfectly well acquainted: he was not attacked unawares, a sword was placed in his hand, and he received permission to defend himself – a permission which he took advantage of, and he fell in fair fight: finally, he was not plundered, because he had not to do with highwaymen but with men of honour."

"Oh, oh," said the young man, "this alters the case."

"Now answer this: you have pledged yourself to me? What do you mean by that?"

"This man, when he regained his senses and was able to speak, implored your protection; did he not?"

"That is true, Master Oliver."

"Good, and what did you answer him?"

"Hang it all, you understand that it was very difficult for me to abandon the poor fellow in the state he was in, especially after what I had done for him."

"Good, good; what then?"

"Well then, I promised to cure him."

"Nothing else?"

"Well no."

"And you only promised him this?"

"No, I pledged my word."

The adventurer gave a start of impatience.

"But supposing he recovers," he continued, "which between ourselves seems rather doubtful; when he is in a good state of health, will you consider yourself entirely free from him?"

"Oh yes, Master Oliver, completely."

"In that case, it is only a half evil."

"You know that I do not at all understand you?"

"Be content, Dominique, learn that you have not a lucky hand for a good deed."

"Because?"

"Because the man you have succoured and on whom you lavished such devoted attentions, is your deadly enemy."

"This man my deadly enemy?" he exclaimed with an astonishment mingled with doubt; "But I do not know him any more than he knows me."

"You suppose so, my poor fellow; but be convinced that I am not deceived and am telling you the truth."

"It is strange."

"Yes, very strange, indeed, but it is so: this man is even your most dangerous foe."

"What is to be done?"

"Leave me to act: I went to the rancho this morning with the intention of telling you that one of your enemies, the most formidable of all, was dead: you took care to make me a liar. After all, perhaps it is better it should be so: what God does is well, His ways are unknown to us, we must bow before the manifestation of His will."

"Then, it is your intention – ?"

"My intention is to order Lopez to watch over your patient: he will remain in the cavern where he will be taken the greatest care of, but you will not see him again, as it is unnecessary for you to know any more about him at present: in my turn, I pledge you my word that all the attention his condition demands shall be bestowed on him."

"Oh, I trust entirely to you, Master Oliver: but when he's cured, what shall we do?"

"We will let him go away in peace, he is not our prisoner: be at ease, we shall find him again without difficulty when we want him: of course it is understood that no one in the rancho is to go down to him or have any relations with him."

"Good: in that case you will tell them so, for I cannot undertake it."

"I will do so: but I shall not see him either; Lopez alone will remain in charge of him."

"Have you nothing more to say to me?"

"Yes, that I intend to take you away with me for a few days."

"Ah, are we going far?"

"You will see: in the meanwhile go to the rancho and prepare everything you want for your journey."

"Oh, I am ready," he interrupted.

"That is possible, but I am not; have I not to give Lopez orders about your wounded man?"

"That is true, and besides I must say good-bye to my family."

"That will be very proper, as you will probably be away for some time."

"Good, I understand, we are going to have a famous hunt."

"Yes, we are going to hunt," the adventurer said with an equivocal smile; "but not at all in the way you suppose."

"All right, I do not care. I will hunt in whatever way you please."

"I reckon on it; but come, we have lost too much time already."

They proceeded toward the mound. The adventurer entered the vault, and the young man went up to the rancho. Loïck and the two women were awaiting him on the platform considerably perplexed by the long conversation he had held with Oliver; but Dominique was impenetrable – he had lived too long in the desert to let the truth be drawn from his heart when he thought proper to conceal it. Under these circumstances, all the questions they showered on him were thrown away; he only answered by clever evasions, and at last his father and the two women, despairing of making him speak, resolved to leave him at peace. His breakfast was all ready on the table. As he was hungry, he took advantage of this pretext to change the conversation, and while eating, announced his departure. Loïck made no remark, for he was accustomed to these sudden absences.

At the end of about half an hour Oliver reappeared. Dominique rose and took leave of his family.

"You are taking him with you," said Loïck.

"Yes," Oliver replied, "for a few days; we are going into the Tierra Caliente."

"Take care," said Louise anxiously; "you know that Juárez' guerillas are scouring the country."

"Fear nothing, little sister," the young man said as he embraced her; "we shall be prudent. I will bring you back a handkerchief. You know that I have promised you one for a long time."

"I should prefer your not leaving us, Dominique," she replied sadly.

"Come, come," the adventurer remarked gaily; "do not be alarmed, I will bring him back safe and sound."

It appears that the occupants of the rancho had great confidence in Oliver's word, for on this assurance their anxiety became calmed, and they took leave of the two men in tolerably good spirits. The latter then left the rancho, descended the mound, and found their horses, ready to be mounted, awaiting them, tied up to a liquidambar tree. After giving a last parting signal to the inhabitants of the rancho, who were assembled on the platform, they leapt into their saddles, and went off at a gallop across country to strike the Veracruz road.

"Are we really going to the hot lands?" Dominique asked, while galloping by his comrade's side.

"We are not going so far, or nearly so; I am only taking you a few miles off to a hacienda, where I want you to make a new acquaintance."

"Bah! Why so? I care very little for new acquaintances."

"This one will be very useful to you."

"Oh, in that case it is different. I confess to you that I am not very fond of the Mexicans."

"The person to whom you will be introduced is not Mexican, but French."

"That is not at all the same thing; but why do you talk in that mysterious way? Are you not going to introduce me?"

"No, it is another person whom you know, and for whom you feel some liking."

"To whom are you alluding?"

"To Leo Carral."

"The majordomo of the hacienda del Arenal?"

"Himself!"

"In that case we are going to the hacienda?"

"Not exactly, but near it. I have given the majordomo a rendezvous, where he will wait for me, and we are going there now."

"In that case all is for the best. I shall be delighted to see Leo Carral again. He is a good fellow."

"And a man of honour and trust," Oliver added.

CHAPTER X

THE MEETING

Ever since Count de la Saulay's arrival at the hacienda del Arenal, Doña Dolores had treated him with a degree of reserve which the marriage projects made by the two families were far from justifying. The young lady had not only had no private interviews with the man whom she ought to consider to some extent her betrothed, but had not indulged in the slightest intimacy, or most innocent familiarity; while remaining polite, and even gracious, she had contrived, ever since the first day they met, to raise a barrier between herself and the Count – a barrier which he had never attempted to scale, and which had condemned him to remain, perhaps against his secret wishes, within the limits of the strictest reserve.

In these conditions, and especially after the scene at which he had been present on the previous evening, we can easily understand what the stupefaction of the young man must be on learning that Doña Dolores requested an interview with him. What could she have to say to him? For what motive did she grant him this meeting? What reason impelled her to act thus? Such were the questions which the Count did not cease to ask himself – questions which necessarily remained unanswered. Hence the young man's anxiety, curiosity, and impatience, were aroused to the highest degree, and it was with a feeling of joy, which he could not fully explain, that he at length heard the hour for the interview strike. Had he been in Paris instead of a Mexican hacienda, he would have certainly known beforehand what he had to expect from the message he had received, and his conduct would have been regulated beforehand.

But here the coldness of Doña Dolores toward him – a coldness which had never once thawed – the preference which after the last night's scene she seemed to give to another person, all combined to deprive this interview of the slightest supposition of love. Was it his renunciation of her hand, and immediate retirement, that Doña Dolores was about to request of him?

Singular contradiction of the human mind! The Count, who felt for this marriage a repulsion more and more marked, whose formal intention it was to have, as soon as possible, an explanation on this subject with Don Andrés de la Cruz, and whose firm resolution it was to withdraw, and renounce the alliance so long prepared, and which displeased him the more because it was forced on him – revolted at the supposition of this renunciation, which, without doubt, Doña Dolores was going to ask him; his wounded self-esteem made him regard this question under a perfectly new light, and the contempt which the young lady seemed to feel for his hand, filled him with shame and anger.

He, Count Ludovic de la Saulay, young, handsome, rich, renowned for his wit and elegance, one of the most distinguished members of the jockey club, one of the gods of fashion, whose conquests occupied every mouth in Paris, had produced on a half wild girl no other impression but that of repulsion, had inspired no other feeling but a cold indifference. There was certainly something desperate about this; for an instant he went so far as to fancy – for anger blinded him to such an extent – that he was really in love with his cousin, and he was on the point of swearing to remain deaf to the tears and supplications of Doña Dolores, and insisting on the completion of the marriage within the shortest period possible. But fortunately the pride which had urged him to this determination suddenly suggested to him a more simple, and assuredly more agreeable way to escape from the embarrassment.

After taking a complacent glance at his person, a smile of haughty satisfaction lit up his face; he found himself both physically and morally so immeasurably above his surroundings, that he only felt a sort of merciful pity for the poor girl whom the bad education she had received prevented from appreciating the numberless advantages which gave him a superiority over his rivals, or understanding the happiness she would find in an alliance with him.

While revolving all these, and many other thoughts, the Count left his rooms, crossed the courtyard, and proceeded to the apartments of Doña Dolores. He remarked, though without attaching much importance to the fact, that several saddle horses were waiting in the court, held by peons. At the door of the apartments stood a young Indian girl with pretty face, and sparkling eyes, who greeted him with a smile and a profound courtesy, as she made him a sign to enter. The Count followed her; the waiting maid passed through several elegantly furnished rooms, and finally raised a curtain of white China crape, embroidered with large flowers of every hue, and introduced the Count, without saying a word, into a delightful boudoir, furnished throughout with China lace.

Doña Dolores, half-reclining on a hammock of aloe fibre, was amusing herself with teasing a pretty parrot half the size of her hand, and was laughing heartily at the little creature's cries of fury.

The young lady was charming, thus: the Count had never seen her so lovely. After bowing deeply to her, he stopped in the door, experiencing an admiration mingled with such great stupefaction, that Doña Dolores after looking at him for a moment, could not retain her seriousness, but burst out into a silvery peal of laughter.

"Forgive me, cousin," she said to him, "but you look so singular at this moment, that I could not help – "

"Laugh, laugh, my fair cousin," the young man replied, resolved to share this gaiety which he was so far from expecting, "I am delighted to find you in such good humour."

"Do not stay there, cousin," she continued, "set down here near me in this butaca," and with her pink finger she pointed to an armchair.

The young man obeyed.

"Cousin," he said, "I have the honour of obeying the invitation which you deigned to send me."

"Ah, that is true," she answered; "I thank you for your kindness, and more especially for your punctuality, cousin."

"I could not display too great eagerness in obeying you, cousin, I have so rarely the happiness of seeing you."

"Is that a reproach you are addressing to me, cousin?"

"Oh, by no means, Madam. I in no way claim the right of offering you what you are pleased to call reproaches: you are at liberty to act as you please, and to dispose of me."

"Oh, oh, my dear cousin, I fancy if I were disposed to make trial of this noble devotion, I should expose myself to shame and you would refuse me point blank."

"Now we have it," the young man thought and added aloud, "it is my most sincere desire to please you in everything, cousin. I pledge you my word as a gentleman, and no matter what you may ask of me, I will obey you."

"I am much inclined to take you at your word, Don Ludovic," she said, leaning down to him with a delicious smile.

"Do so, cousin, and you will see from my promptitude in obeying you, that I am the most devoted of your slaves."

The young lady remained pensive for a moment, then putting back on its rosewood perch the parrot with which she had been playing up till now, she leaped from her hammock, and seated herself a short distance from the Count.

"Cousin," she said to him, "I have a service to ask of you."

"Of me? At length I shall be of some use to you."

"This service," she continued, "is not of great importance in itself."

"All the worse."

"But I fear, lest it may cause you great annoyance."

"What matter, cousin, the annoyance I may experience, if I can be of service to you."

"Cousin, I thank you, this is the affair: I must take a rather long ride today, for reasons you will soon appreciate. I cannot and will not be accompanied by any of the inhabitants of the hacienda, whether masters or servants. Still, as the roads are not, at this moment, perfectly secure, and I dare not venture to traverse them alone, I want with me, in order to protect and defend me if necessary, a peon whose presence at my side could not give rise to any malevolent suppositions. I have thought of you as my companion on this expedition. Do you consent, cousin?"

"With delight: I would merely remark that I am a stranger to this country, and might lose my way on roads I am unacquainted with."

"Do not trouble yourself about that, cousin, I am a native of the country, and have no fear about losing my way for fifty leagues round."

"If that is the case, cousin, all is for the best: I thank you for the honour you deign to do me, and place myself completely at your disposal."

"It is for me to thank you, cousin, for your extreme kindness; the horses are saddled, the Mexican garb becomes you admirably, go and put on your spurs, warn your valet that he will have to accompany you, and fetch your weapons: that is an important point, for you never know what may happen, and come back in ten minutes, when I shall be ready for you."

The Count rose, bowed to the young lady, who responded by a gracious smile, and left the room.

"By Jove," he muttered as soon as he was alone, "this is delightful, and the duty she intends for me is most satisfactory. I fancy I am simply accompanying my delightful cousin to some love appointment. But how was it possible to refuse her anything! I never saw her looking so lovely as today. On my soul, she is a charming fay, and unless I take care, I may end by falling in love with her, unless I have done so already," he added with a stifled sigh.

He returned to his rooms ordered Raimbaut to get ready to follow him, which the worthy valet did with the punctuality and silence that distinguished him, and after buckling on his heavy silver spurs, and throwing a zarapé over his shoulders, he selected a double-barrelled gun, a straight sabre, a brace of revolvers, and thus armed went into the patio. Raimbaut followed his example, had laid in a complete arsenal. The two men were thus, without exaggeration, capable in case of need, to face fifteen bandits.

Doña Dolores, already mounted, was talking with her father while awaiting the Count's arrival. Don Andrés de la Cruz was rubbing his hands in delight, the good understanding between the young people charmed him.

"So you are going to take a ride?" he said to the Count; "I wish you all possible pleasure."

"The señorita has deigned to offer to accompany me," Ludovic answered.

"She has acted admirably, for her choice could not be better."

While exchanging these few words with his future papa-in-law, the Count had mounted.

"A pleasant trip," continued Don Andrés, "and mind you are careful whom you meet, Juárez' cuadrillas are beginning to prowl about the neighbourhood, so I have been informed."

"Do not be alarmed, papa," Doña Dolores replied; "besides," she added with a charming smile aimed at the young man, "under my cousin's escort I fear nothing."

"Be off then and get back early."

"We shall return before the oración, papa."

Don Andrés gave them a last farewell nod, and they left the hacienda. The Count and the young lady galloped side by side. Raimbaut, as a well trained servant, followed a few paces in the rear.

"I will act as your guide, cousin," the young lady said, when they had ridden some distance out into the plain and were lost among clumps of liquidambars.

"I could not desire a better one," Ludovic answered gallantly.

"Stay, cousin," she resumed, giving him a side glance, "I have a confession to make to you."

"A confession, cousin?"

"Yes, I see you are such a good fellow, that I feel ashamed at having deceived you."

"You deceived me, cousin?"

"Shamefully," she said with a laugh, "as you shall judge. I am leading you to a spot where we are expected."

"Where you are expected, you mean."

"No, because it is you they want especially to see."

"I confess, cousin, that I do not understand you at all: I know no one in this country."

"Are you quite sure of that, my dear cousin?" she asked with a mocking air.

"Well, I believe so at least."

"Then, you are beginning to doubt."

"You seem so sure of your fact."

"I am so, indeed: the person who expects you, not only knows you, but is a friend of yours."

"Very good, this makes the matter more puzzling than ever: go on, I beg."

"I have but very little to add, besides, in a few minutes we shall have arrived, and I do not wish to keep you in doubt any longer."

"That is very kind of you, cousin, I declare. I am humbly waiting till you deign to explain."

"I must do so, as your head has such a bad memory. What, sir, you are but a foreigner, who had been but a little while in a strange land. In this country, so soon as you landed, you met one man who displayed some sympathy with you, and you have already forgotten him. Permit me to remark, my dear cousin, that this offers but poor testimony to your constancy."