The Red Track: A Story of Social Life in Mexico

"My brother, we poor monks are at the service of the afflicted; our duty orders us to help them when they claim our support; as we have no name for society, we are forbidden to ask that of those who summon us."

"Excellently spoken," the other replied, repressing a smile. "You are a monk according to my own heart. I see that I am not deceived with respect to you; come then, my father, we must not keep the person waiting who is expecting us."

The Franciscan bowed his assent, placed himself in the right of his singular friend, and both went away from the Parian, where the noise had become louder than ever, after the angelos had ceased ringing. The two men passed unnoticed through the crowd, and walked in the direction of the Convent of the Bernardines, going along silently, side by side.

We have said that at the convent gate they passed Don Serapio de la Ronda, that is to say, Valentine Guillois, and that the three men exchanged a side glance full of meaning. The sister porter made no objection to admitting the Franciscan; and his guide, so soon as he saw him inside the convent, took leave of him after exchanging a few commonplace compliments with the sister. The latter respectfully led the monk into a parlour, and after begging him to wait a moment, went away to inform the Mother Superior of the arrival of the confessor whom the young novice had requested to see.

We will leave the Franciscan for a little while to his meditations, and return to the two young ladies whom we left in the garden. So soon as the abbess had withdrawn, they drew closer together, Doña Helena taking the seat on the bench previously occupied by the abbess.

"My dear Anita," she said, "let me profit by the few minutes we are left alone to impart to you the contents of a letter I received this morning; I feared that I should be unable to do so, and yet it seems to me that what I have to tell you is most important."

"What do you mean, my dear Helena? Does the letter to which you refer interest me?"

"I cannot positively explain to you, but it will be sufficient for you to know that my brothers are very intimate with a countryman of ours who takes the greatest interest in you, and what I have to tell you relates to this Frenchman."

"That is strange," said Doña Anita, pausing. "I never knew but one Frenchman, and I have told you the sad story which was the cause of all the misfortunes that overwhelmed me. But the Frenchman whom my father wished me to marry died under frightful circumstances; then who can this gentleman be who takes so lively an interest in me – do you know him?"

"Very slightly," the young lady answered with a blush, "but sufficiently to be able to assure you that he possesses a noble heart. He does not know you personally; but," she added, as she drew a letter from her bosom, and opened it, "this is the passage in my brother's letter which refers to you and him. Shall I read it to you?"

"Pray read it, my dear Helena, for I know the friendship you and your family entertain for me; hence, it is with the greatest pleasure I receive news of your brothers."

"Listen then," the young lady continued, and she read, after seeking for the passage —

"'Valentine begs me, dear sister, to ask you to tell your friend' – that is you," she said, breaking off.

"Go on," Doña Anita answered, whose curiosity had been aroused by the name Helena had pronounced, though it was impossible for her to know who that person was.

"'To tell your friend,' Doña Helena continued, 'that the confessor she asked for will come to the convent this very day after the Oración. Doña Anita must arm herself with courage, which is as necessary to endure joy as grief, for she will learn today some news possessing immense importance for the future.' That is underlined," the young lady added, as she bent over to her friend, and pointed to the sentence with the tip of her rosy finger.

"That is strange," Doña Anita murmured. "Alas! what news can I learn?"

"Who knows?" said her young companion, and then continued – "'Before all, Doña Anita must be prudent; and however extraordinary what she hears may appear to her, she must be careful to conceal the effect produced by this revelation, for she must not forget that if she have devoted friends, she is closely watched by all-powerful enemies, and the slightest imprudence would hopelessly neutralize all the efforts that we are making to save her. You cannot, my dear sister, lay sufficient stress on this recommendation.' The rest," the maiden added, with a smile, "only relates to myself, and it is, therefore, unnecessary for me to read it to you."

And she refolded the letter, which disappeared in her dress again.

"And now, my darling, you are warned," she said; "so be prudent."

"Good heaven! I do not understand the letter at all, nor do I know the Valentine to whom it alludes. It was by your advice that I asked for a confessor."

"That is to say, by my brother's advice, who, as you know, Anita, placed me here, not merely because I love you as a sister, but also to support and encourage you."

"And I am grateful both to you and him for it, dear Helena; if I had not you near me, in spite of the friendship our worthy and kind mother condescends to grant me, I should long ago have succumbed to my grief."

"The question is not about me at this moment, my darling, but solely about yourself. However obscure and mysterious my brother's recommendation may be, I know him to be too earnest and too truly kind for me to neglect it. Hence I cannot find language strong enough to urge you to prudence."

"I seek in vain to guess what the news is to which he refers; and I acknowledge that I feel a secret repugnance to see the confessor he announces to me. Alas! I have everything to fear, and nothing to hope now."

"Silence," Doña Helena said, quietly. "I hear the sound of footsteps in the walk leading to this arbour. Someone is coming. So we must not let ourselves be surprised."

"In fact, almost at the same moment the lay sister, who had already informed the Mother Superior of the arrival of Don Serapio de la Ronda, appeared at the entrance of the arbour.

"Señorita," she said, addressing Doña Helena, "our holy mother abbess wishes to speak to you as well as to Doña Anita without delay. She is waiting for you in her private cell in the company of a holy Franciscan monk."

The maidens exchanged a glance, and a transient flush appeared on Doña Anita's pale cheeks.

"We will follow you, sister," Doña Helena replied. The maidens rose; Doña Helena passed her arm through her companion's, and stooping down, whispered in her ear —

"Courage, Querida."

They followed the lay sister, who led them to the Mother Superior's cell, and discreetly withdrew on reaching the door. The abbess appeared to be talking rather excitedly with the Franciscan monk; but, on seeing the two girls, she ceased speaking, and rose.

"Come, my child," she said, as she held out her arms to Doña Anita, "come and thank God who in his infinite goodness has deigned to perform a miracle on your behalf."

The maiden stopped through involuntary emotion, and looked wildly around her. At a sign from the abbess the monk rose, and throwing back his hood at the same time as he fell on his knees before the maiden, he said to her in a voice faltering with emotion —

"Anita, do you recognize me?"

At the sound of this voice, whose sympathetic notes made all the fibres of her heart vibrate, the maiden suddenly drew herself back, tottered and fell into the arms of Doña Helena, as she shrieked with an accent impossible to describe —

"Martial! oh, Martial!"

A sob burst from her overcharged bosom, and she burst into tears. She was saved, since the immense joy she so suddenly experienced had not killed her. The Tigrero, as weak as the woman he loved, could only find tears to express all his feelings.

For some minutes the abbess and Doña Helena trembled lest these two beings, already so tried by misfortune, would not find within themselves the necessary strength to resist so terrible an emotion; but a powerful reaction suddenly took place in the tiger-slayer's mind; he sprang up at one leap, and seized in his arms the maiden, who, on her side, was making efforts to rush to him —

"Anita, dear Anita," he cried, "I have found you again at last; oh, now no human power will be able to separate us!"

"Never, never!" she murmured, as she let her head fall on the young man's shoulder; "Martial, my beloved Martial, protect me, save me!"

"Oh, yes, I will save you; angel of my life," he exclaimed, looking up defiantly to heaven; "we will be united, I swear it to you."

"Is that the prudence you promised me?" the abbess said, interposing; "remember the perils of every description that surround you, and the implacable foes who have sworn your destruction; lock up in your heart these feelings which, if revealed before one of the countless spies who watch you, would cause your death and that, perhaps, of the poor girl you love."

"Thank you, madam," the Tigrero replied; "thank you for having reminded me of the part I must play for a few days longer. If I forgot it for a few seconds, subdued by the passion that devours my heart, I will henceforth adhere to it carefully. Do not fear lest I should imperil the happiness that is preparing for me; no, I will restrain my feelings, and let myself be guided by the counsel of the sincere friends to whom I owe the moments of ineffable happiness I am now enjoying."

"Oh! I now understand," Doña Anita exclaimed, "the mysterious hints given me. Alas! misfortune made me suspicious; so forgive me, heaven, forgive me, holy mother, and you too, Helena, my kind and faithful friend. I did not dare hope, and feared a snare."

"I forgive you, my poor child," the abbess answered; "who could blame you?"

Doña Helena pressed her friend to her heart without saying a word.

"Oh, now our misfortunes are at an end, Anita," the Tigrero exclaimed passionately; "we have friends who will not abandon us in the supreme struggle we are engaging in with our common enemy. God, who has hitherto done everything for us, will not leave his work incomplete; have faith in Him, my beloved."

"Martial," the maiden replied, with a firmness that astonished her hearers, "I was weak because I was alone, but now that I know you live, and are near me to support me, oh! if I were to fall dead at the feet of my persecutor, I would not be false to the oath I took to be yours alone. Believing you dead, I remained faithful to your memory; but now, if persecution assailed me, I should find the strength to endure it."

This scene would have been prolonged, but prudence urged that the abbess should break it off as soon as possible. Doña Anita, rendered strong merely by the nervous excitement which possessed her, soon felt faint; she could scarcely stand, and Don Martial himself felt his energy abandoning him.

The separation was painful between these two beings so miraculously re-united when they never expected to see each other again; but it was soothed by the hope of soon meeting again under the protection of the Mother Superior, who had done so much for them, and whose inexhaustible kindness they had entirely gained for their cause.

For the first time since she had entered the convent, Doña Anita smiled through her tears, as she offered up to heaven her nightly prayers. Don Martial went off rapidly to tell Valentine of what had taken place at this interview, which he had so long desired. Doña Helena, however, retired pensively to her cell; the maiden was dreaming – of what?

No one could have said, and probably she herself was ignorant; but, for some days past, an obtrusive thought unnecessarily occupied her mind, and constantly troubled the calm mirror in which her virgin thoughts were reflected.

CHAPTER XVII.

THE BEGINNING OF THE STRUGGLE

Ambition is the most terrible and deceptious of all human passions, in the sense that it completely dries up the heart, and can never be satisfied.

General Don Sebastian Guerrero was not one of those coldly cruel men, solely governed by the instinct of art, or whom the smell of blood intoxicates; but, with the implacable logic of ambitious persons, he went direct to his object, overthrowing, without regret or remorse, all the obstacles that barred his way to the object he had sworn to reach, even if he were compelled to wade in blood up to his knees, and trample on a pile of corpses. He only regarded men as pawns in the great game of chess he was playing, and strove to justify himself, and stifle the warnings of his terrified conscience, by the barbarous axiom employed by the ambitious in all ages and all countries, that the end justifies the means.

His secret ambition, which, on a day of pretended frankness, he had partly revealed in an interview with the Count de Prébois Crancé at Hermosillo, was not to render himself independent, but simply to be elected, by means of a well-arranged pronunciamiento, President of the Mexican Republic.

It was not through hatred that General Guerrero was so obstinately bent on destroying the count. Ambitious men, who are ever ready to sacrifice their feelings to the interests of their gloomy machinations, know neither hatred nor friendship. Hence we must seek elsewhere the cause of the judicial murder of the count which was so implacably carried out. The general feared the count, as an adversary who would constantly thwart him in Sonora, where the first meshes of the net he wished to throw over Mexico were spun – an adversary ready to oppose the execution of his plans by claiming the due performance of the articles of partnership – a performance which, in the probable event of an insurrection excited by the general, would have become impossible, by plunging the country for a lengthened period into a state of crisis and general suspension of trade, which would have been most hostile to the success of the lofty conceptions of the noble French adventurer.5

But the count had scarce fallen on the beach of Guaymas ere the general recognized the falseness of his calculations, and the fault he had committed in sacrificing him. In fact, leaving out of the question the death of his daughter, the only being for whom he retained in some corner of his heart a little of that fire which heaven illumes in all parents for their children, he found that he had exchanged a loyal and cautious adversary for an obstinate enemy – the more formidable because, caring for nothing, and having no personal ambition, he would sacrifice everything without hesitation or calculation in behalf of the vengeance which he had solemnly vowed to obtain by any means, over the still quivering body of his friend.

This implacable enemy, whom neither seduction nor intimidation could arrest or even draw back, was Valentine Guillois.

Under these circumstances, the general committed a graver fault than his first one – a fault which was fated to have incalculable consequences for him. Being very imperfectly acquainted with Valentine Guillois, unaware of his inflexible energy of will, and ranking him in his mind with those wood rangers, the Pariahs of civilization, who have only courage to fire, in a moment of despair, a shot from behind a tree, but whose influence was after all insignificant, he despised him.

Valentine was careful not to dissipate, by any imprudent step, his enemy's mistake, or even arouse his suspicions.

At the time of the Count de Prébois Crancé's first expedition, when all seemed to smile on him, and his followers already saw the complete success of their bold undertaking close at hand, Valentine had been entrusted by his friend with various important operations and difficult missions to the rich rancheros and hacenderos of the province. Valentine had performed the duties his friend confided to him with his usual loyalty and uprightness of mind, and had been so thoroughly appreciated by the persons with whom chance had brought him into connection, that all had remained on friendly terms with him and given him unequivocal proofs of the sincerest friendship, especially upon the death of the count.

It only depended on the hunter's will to be rich, since he knew an almost inexhaustible placer; and what the wood ranger would never have consented to for himself, for the sake of paltry gain, he did not hesitate to attempt in order to avenge his friend. Followed by Curumilla, Belhumeur, and Black Elk, and leading a recua of ten mules, he did what two hundred and fifty men could not have succeeded in doing. He went through Apacheria, crossed the fearful desert of sand in which the bones of the hapless companions of the Marquis de Lhorailles were bleaching, and, after enduring superhuman fatigue and braving terrible dangers, he at length reached the placer. But this time he did not come to take an insignificant sum; he wanted to collect a fortune at one stroke.

The hunter returned with his ten mules laden with gold. He knew that he was beginning a struggle with a man who was enormously rich, and wished to conquer him with his own weapons. In the new world, as in the old, money is the real sinew of war, and Valentine would not imperil the success of his vengeance.

On returning to Guaymas, he realized his fortune, and found himself, in a single day, not one of the richest, but the richest private person in Mexico, although it is a country in which fortunes attain to a considerable amount. Thus the gold of the placer, which, at an earlier period, had served to organize the count's expedition, and make him believe for a moment in the realization of his dreams, was about to serve in avenging him, after having indirectly caused his death.

Then began between the general and the hunter a secret and unceasing struggle, the more terrible through its hidden nature; and the general, struck without knowing whence the blows dealt his ambition came, struggled vainly, like a lion caught in a snare, while it was impossible for him to discover the obstinate enemy who hunted him down.

This man, who had hitherto succeeded in everything – who, during the course of his long and stormy political career, had surmounted the greatest obstacles and forced his very detractors to admire the luck that constantly accompanied his wildest and rashest conceptions – suddenly saw Fortune turn her back on him with such rapidity – we may even say brutality – that, scarce six weeks after the execution of the count, he was obliged to resign his office of Military Governor, and quit, almost like a fugitive, the province of Sonora, where he had so long reigned as a master, and on which his iron yoke had pressed so heavily.

This first blow, dealt the general in the midst of his ambitious aspirations, when he had only just begun to recover from the grief his daughter's death had caused him, was the more terrible because he did not know to whom he should attribute his downfall.

Still, he did not long remain in doubt. An hour before his departure from Hermosillo he received a letter in which he was informed, in the minutest details, of the oath of vengeance taken against him, and of the steps taken to obtain his recall. This letter was signed "Valentine Guillois." The hunter, despising darkness and mystery, tore down the veil that covered him, and openly challenged his foe by manfully telling him to be on his guard.

On receiving this threatening declaration of war, the general fell into an extraordinary passion, the more terrible because it was impotent, and then, when his mind became calm again, and he began reflecting, he felt frightened. In truth, the man who stood so boldly before him as an enemy, must be very powerful and certain of success thus to dare and defy him.

His departure from Sonora was a disgraceful flight, in which he tried, by craft and caution, to throw out his enemy; but the meeting at the Fort of the Chichimèques, a meeting long prepared by the hunter, proved to him that he was unmasked once again, and conquered by his enemy.

The contemptuous manner in which Valentine dismissed him after his stormy explanation with him, had internally filled the general with terror. What sinister projects could the man be meditating, what private vengeance was he arranging, that, when he held him quivering in his grasp, he allowed his foe to escape, and refused to kill him, when that would have been so easy? What torture more terrible than death did he intend to inflict on him?

The remainder of his journey across the Rocky Mountains, as far as Mexico, was one protracted agony, during which, suffering from constant apprehension, and extreme nervous excitement, his diseased imagination inflicted on him moral torture in the stead of which any physical pain would have been welcome.

The loss of his daughter's corpse, and above all, the death of his father's old comrade in arms, the only man in whom he put faith, and who possessed his entire confidence, destroyed his energy, and for several days he was so overwhelmed by this double misfortune, that he longed for death.

His punishment was beginning. But General Guerrero was one of those powerful athletes who do not allow themselves to be overcome so easily; they may totter in the struggle, and roll on the sand of the arena, but they always rise again more terrible and menacing than before. His revolted pride restored his expiring courage; and since an implacable warfare was declared against him, he swore that he would fight to the end, whatever the consequences for him might be.

Moreover, two months had elapsed since his arrival in Mexico, and his enemy had not revealed his presence by one of those terrible blows which burst like a clap of thunder above his head. The general gradually began supposing that the hunter had only wished to force him to abandon Sonora, and that, in despair of carrying out his plans advantageously in a city like Mexico, he was prudently keeping aloof, and if he had not completely renounced his vengeance, circumstances at any rate, independent of his will, compelled him to defer it.

The general, so soon as he was settled in the capital of Mexico, organized a large band of highly-paid spies, who had orders to be constantly on the watch, and inform him of Valentine's arrival in the city. Thus reassured by the reports of his agents, he continued with feverish ardour the execution of his dark designs, for he felt convinced that if he succeeded in attaining his coveted object, the hatred of the man who pursued him would no longer be dangerous. This was the more probable, because, so soon as he held the power in his own hands, he would easily succeed in getting rid of an enemy, whom his position as a foreigner isolated, and rendered an object of dislike to the populace.

The general lived in a large house in the Calle de Tacuba; it was built by one of his ancestors, and considered one of the handsomest in the capital. We will describe in a few words the architecture of Mexico, for, as all the houses are built on the same pattern, or nearly so, by knowing one it is easy to form an idea of what the others must be.

The Mexican architecture greatly resembles the Arabic, and as for the mode of arranging the rooms, it is still entirely in its infancy; but, since the Proclamation of the Independence, foreign architects have succeeded, in most of the great towns, in opening side doors in the suites of rooms, which formerly only communicated with one another, and hence compelled you to go through a bedroom to enter a dining room, or pass through a kitchen to reach the drawing room.

The general's house was composed of four buildings, two stories in height, and with terraced roofs. Two courts separated these buildings, and an awning stretched over the four sides of the first yard, enabling visitors to reach the wide stone steps dry footed. At the top of this flight, a handsome covered gallery, adorned with vases of flowers and exotic shrubs, led to a vast anteroom, which opened into a splendid reception hall; after this came a considerable number of apartments, splendidly furnished in the European style.

The general only inhabited the first floor of his mansion. Although most of the streets are paved at the present day, and the canals have entirely disappeared, except in the lower districts of the city, water is still found a few inches beneath the surface, which produces such damp, that the ground floor, rendered uninhabitable, is given up to stores and shops in nearly all the houses. The ground floor of the main building, looking on the Calle de Tacuba, was, therefore, occupied by brilliant shops, which rendered the façade of the general's house even more striking.