Kitobni o'qish: «The Insurgent Chief», sahifa 4

CHAPTER IV
THE INTERVIEW

The French painter was not deceived. It was indeed Zeno Cabral, the Montonero chief, whom he had seen enter the convent.

The portress walked with a hasty step, without turning her head, before the young man, who appeared plunged in sorrowful and painful reflections.

They proceeded thus for a considerable time through the corridors, without exchanging a word; but at the moment when they had reached the entry of the first cloister, the chief stopped, and lightly touching the arm of his conductress —

"Well?" said he, in a low voice.

The latter turned briskly, threw an enquiring look around her, and then, reassured, no doubt, by the solitude in the midst of which she was, she answered, in the same low and stifled tone, the single word —

"Nothing."

"How nothing?" cried Don Zeno, with suppressed impatience, "You have not, then, watched as I desired you, and as was agreed between us."

"I have watched," answered she, eagerly; "watched from evening to morning, and from morning to evening."

"And you have discovered nothing?"

"Nothing."

"So much the worse," said the Montonero, coldly; "so much the worse for you, my sister; for if you are so little clear-sighted, it is not just yet that you will quit your post of portress for a superior employment in the convent, or one better still, in that of the Bernardines."

The portress trembled; her little grey eyes gave a sinister look.

"I have discovered nothing, it is true," said she, with a dry and nervous laugh, like the cry of a hyena; "but I suspect, and soon I shall discover; only I am watched, and opportunity fails me."

"Ah! And what shall you discover?" asked he, with ill-concealed interest.

"I shall discover," she pursued, laying an affected stress on each syllable, "all that you wish to know, and more, too. My measures are now taken."

"Ah, ah!" said he, "And when will that be, if you please?"

"Before two days."

"You promise me?"

"As I hope for heaven."

"I rely on your word."

"Rely on it; but as to yourself?"

"I?"

"Yes."

"I will keep the promise I have made you."

"All?"

"All."

"Well, do not distress yourself about anything; but – giving, giving?"

"That's agreed."

"Now, come; they expect you. This long stay may excite suspicion; more than ever, prudence is necessary."

They proceeded. At the moment when they entered the first cloister, a black figure came away from an obscure corner, which, until that moment, it had remained shrouded in darkness; and after having made a threatening gesture to the portress, it appeared to vanish like a fantastic apparition, so rapidly did it glide through the corridors.

Arrived at the door of the superior's room, the portress knocked gently twice without receiving any answer; she waited a moment, and then knocked again.

"Adelante," was then answered from within.

She opened the door, and announced the stranger.

"Beg the gentleman to enter; he is welcome," answered the abbess.

The portress disappeared, and the general entered; then, on a sign from the superior, the portress withdrew, closing the door behind her.

The superior was alone, sitting on her great abbess's chair; she held open a Book of Hours, which she appeared to be reading.

At the entry of the young man she slightly inclined her head, and, with a gesture, directed him to a seat.

"Pardon me, Madame," said he, bowing respectfully, "in thus coming so inopportunely to disturb your pious meditations."

"You are, you say, Señor caballero, sent to me by the governor of the town. In that capacity my duty is to receive you at any hour that you please to come," pursued she, in a tone of cold politeness. "You have no apologies to make me, but only to explain the reason for this visit."

"I am about to have the honour of explaining myself; as you so graciously request it, Madame," answered he, with a constrained smile, taking the seat which she had pointed out.

The conversation had commenced in a tone of frigid politeness, which completely expressed the relation which the two speakers wished to hold towards each other during the whole interview.

There was a silence of two or three minutes.

The Montonero turned and returned his hat in his hands with a vexed air; while the abbess, who pretended to read attentively the book which she had not abandoned, stealthily cast a mocking look at the officer.

It was he who, feeling how strange his silence would appear, recommenced the conversation with an ease which was too marked to be natural.

"Señora, I do not know what causes the displeasure that you appear to have in seeing me; will you acquaint me with the reason, and accept, meanwhile, my humble and respectful apologies for the annoyances that, to my great regret, my presence occasions you?"

"You are in error, caballero," answered she, "as the meaning I attach to my words. I do not feel any annoyance, believe me, at your presence; only I am vexed at being obliged, at the good pleasure of the persons who govern us, to receive, without being prepared for it beforehand, the visits of envoys – very respectable, no doubt – but whose place should be anywhere else than in the room of the superior of a convent of women."

"That observation is perfectly just, Madame. It is not my fault that this has occurred. Unhappily it is, for the present, a necessity to which you must submit."

"So," resumed she, with some sharpness, "you see that I submit to it."

"You submit to it – yes, Madame," he pursued, in an insinuating tone, "but complaining at it, because you confound your friends with your enemies."

"I, Señor! You make a mistake, no doubt," said she, with compunction; "you do not reflect on who I am. What friends or what enemies can I have – I, a poor woman retired from the world, and devoted to the service of God?"

"You deceive yourself, or, which is more probable – excuse me, I beg, Madame – you do not wish to understand me."

"Perhaps, also, it is a little your fault, Señor," she resumed, with a slight tinge of irony, "owing to the obscurity in which your words are enveloped, unknown to yourself, no doubt."

Don Zeno repressed a gesture of impatience.

"Come, Madame," said he, after a pause, "let us be candid, shall we?"

"I wish nothing better for my part, Señor."

"You have here two prisoners?"

"I have two ladies that I have only received into this house on the express injunction of the governor of the town. Is it of these two ladies that you speak, Señor?"

"Yes, Señora, the same."

"Very well, they are here; I have, indeed, very strict orders with respect to them."

"I know it."

"These ladies have nothing, that I can see, to do with this conversation."

"On the contrary, Madame; it is them alone that it concerns; it is on their account alone that I have come here."

"Very well, Señor, continue; I am listening."

"These ladies have been made prisoners by me, and by me also conducted into this town."

"You could even add – into this convent, Señor; but continue."

"You are wrong in supposing, Madame, that I am the enemy of these unfortunate women; no one, on the contrary, interests himself more than I do in their fate."

"Ah!" said she, with irony.

"You do not believe me, Madame; indeed, appearances condemn me."

"Meanwhile, you condemn these unhappy ladies; is it not so, caballero?"

"Señora," he cried, with violence, but immediately controlling himself, "pardon me this outburst, Madame; but if you consent to understand me – "

"Is not that what I am doing at this moment, Señor?"

"Yes; you listen to me, it is true, Madame; but with your mind made up, beforehand, not to put faith in my words, however true they may be."

The abbess slightly shrugged her shoulders, and resumed: "It is, Señor, that you now tell me things which are so incredible. How can you expect, when you yourself have just admitted that you arrested these ladies, when it would have been so easy to allow them to continue their journey; that it is you who brought them into this town; that it is you who also brought them to this convent, in order to deprive them of all hope of flight – how can you expect that I should credit the professions of devotion of which you are now pleased to make a parade before me? It would be more than artlessness on my part, you must admit, and you Would have a right to believe me to be what I am not – that is to say, to speak frankly, a fool."

"Oh, Madame, there are many things which you do not know."

"Certainly, there are many things which people do not know in such cases; but come, let us come to the fact, since you yourself have proposed candour: prove to me that you really intend to speak the truth – tell me the things of which I am ignorant."

"I am quite willing to do so, Madame."

"Only I warn you that I perhaps know many of these things, and that if you wander from the right path I will pitilessly put you in it again. Does that course suit you?"

"Nothing better can be done, Madame."

"Well, speak; I promise not to interrupt you."

"You overwhelm me, Señora; but to acquaint you with the whole truth, I shall be obliged to enter into some details touching my family which, doubtless, will have little interest for you."

"I beg your pardon; I wish to be impartial, so I ought to know all."

And as she said these words, she looked stealthily towards the door of the adjoining room.

This look was not observed by the Montonero, who at this moment, his head sunk upon his breast, appeared to be collecting his thoughts.

At last, after a few minutes, he began —

"My family, as my name indicates, Madame, is of Portuguese origin; one of my ancestors was that Alvarez Cabral, to whom Portugal owes so many magnificent discoveries. Settled in Brazil from the period of the occupation, my ancestors established themselves in the province of São Paulo, and led, one after the other, by the example of their neighbours and friends, they made long and perilous expeditions into the interior of unknown lands, and several of them were reckoned among the most celebrated and the most bold Paulistas of the province. Pardon me these details, Madame, but they are indispensable; for the rest, I will abridge them as much as possible. My ancestor, as the result of a very lively discussion with the Viceroy of Brazil, Don Vasco Fernandez Cesar de Menezes, about 1723 – a discussion, the topics of which he never wished to reveal – saw his property placed under sequestration. He himself was obliged to take flight with all his family. A little patience, I beg you, Madame."

"You are unjust, Señor; these details, of which I was ignorant, interest me in the highest degree."

"My great-grandfather, with the wreck which he had succeeded in saving from his fortune – of considerable value, I hasten to say; for he was enormously rich – took refuge in the vice-royalty of Buenos Aires, in order to go back the more easily to Brazil, if fortune ceased to be adverse to him. But his hope was frustrated; he was to die in exile; his family was condemned never again to see their country. However, on various occasions propositions were made to him to enter into relations with the Portuguese Government, but he always haughtily rejected them, protesting that, never having committed any crime, he would not be absolved, and that especially – pay particular attention to this, Madame – the Government which had taken away his property had no claim to what remained to him; that he would never consent to pay for a pardon that they had no right to sell him. Subsequently, when my great-grandfather was on the point of death, and my grandfather and father were round his bed, although then very young, my father thought he understood the propositions made by the Portuguese Government, and which the old man had always obstinately repulsed."

"Ah!" said the abbess, beginning to take an interest in the recital, which was made with an air of truth which could not be questioned.

"Judge of the matter yourself, Madame," resumed the Montonero; "my great-grandfather, as I have said, feeling that he was about to die, had called my grandfather and my father round his bed; then, after making them swear on the Cross and on the Gospel never to reveal what he was about to tell them, he confided to them a secret of great importance for the future of our family; in a word, he stated to them that some time before his exile, in the last expedition that he had made, according to his custom, he had discovered diamond mines and deposits of gold of incalculable value. He entered into the minutest details as to the route that was to be followed to discover the country where these unknown riches were hidden; gave to my grandfather a map traced by himself on the very spot, and added, for fear that my grandfather should forget any important detail, a bundle of manuscripts, in which the history of his expedition and of his discovery, as well as the itinerary life that he had followed, going and returning, were related as a diary, almost hour by hour; then, certain that this fortune which he had left them would not be lost to them, he gave his children his blessing, and died almost immediately, weakened by the efforts that he had been obliged to make to give them complete information; but before closing his eyes for ever, he made them, for the last time, swear inviolable secrecy."

"I do not yet see, Sir, what relation there is between this history – very interesting, certainly – that you are relating, and these two unfortunate ladies," interrupted the abbess, shaking her head.

"A few minutes more complaisance, Madame; you will not be long in being satisfied."

"Be it so, Sir; continue then, I beg."

Don Zeno resumed:

"Some years passed; my grandfather was at the head of the vast chacra occupied by our family, my father was beginning to aid him in his labours. He had a sister beautiful as the angels, and pure as they. She was named Laura; her father and brother loved her to adoration; she was their joy, their pride, their happiness – "

Don Zeno stopped; tears that he did not try to restrain slowly flowed down his cheeks.

"This souvenir affects you, Señor," said the abbess, gently.

The young man proudly nerved himself.

"I have promised to tell you the truth, Madame, and although the task that I impose on myself is painful, I will not give way. My grandfather had deposited in a place, known to him and his daughter only, the manuscript and the map that had been left them by my great-grandfather on his deathbed, and then neither of them had cared much more about the matter, not supposing that a time would arrive when it would be possible to take possession of this fortune, which, nevertheless, belonged to them by incontestable title. One day, a foreigner presented himself at the chacra, and asked hospitality, which was never refused to anyone. The stranger was young, handsome, and rich – at least, he appeared so – and for our family he had the great advantage of being our fellow countryman; he belonged to one of the most noble families of Portugal. He was then more than a friend – almost a relation. My grandfather received him with open arms; he lived several months in our chacra; he might have lived there altogether had he wished it; everyone in the house liked him. Pardon me, Madame, for passing rapidly over these details. Although too young to have personally assisted in that infamous treason, my heart is broken. One day the stranger disappeared, carrying away Doña Laura. That is how that man repaid our hospitality."

"Oh! that is horrible!" cried the abbess, carried away by the indignation she felt.

"Every search was fruitless; it was impossible to discover his traces. But what was more serious in this affair, Madame, was, that this man had coldly and basely followed out a plan previously laid."

"It is not possible!" said the abbess, with horror.

"This man had – I do not know how – discovered something in Europe about the secret that my great-grandfather had so well guarded. The stranger's design, in introducing himself into our house, was to discover the complete secret, in order to rob us of our fortune. During the time that he lived at the chacra, he several times tried, by artful questions, to learn the details of which he was ignorant – questions addressed sometimes to my grandfather, sometimes to my father, then a young man. The odious violence that he committed did not proceed from love, pushed almost to distraction, as you might suppose; he might have demanded of my grandfather the hand of his daughter, which the latter would have given him; no, he did not love Doña Laura.

"Then," interrupted the abbess, "why did he carry her off?"

"Why, you say?"

"Yes."

"Because he believed that she possessed the secret that he wished to discover; that, Madame, was the only motive for the crime."

"What you tell me is infamous, Señor," cried the abbess; "this man was a demon."

"No, Madame, he was a wretch devoured by the thirst for riches, and who, at any price, determined to possess them, even if to do so he had to bring dishonour and shame into a family, or to walk over a heap of corpses."

"Oh!" she gasped, hiding her head in her hands.

"Now, Madame, do you wish to know the name of this man?" he pursued, with bitterness; "But it is needless, is it not? For you have already guessed, no doubt."

The abbess nodded her head affirmatively, without answering.

There was rather a long silence.

"But why render the innocent," at last said the abbess, "responsible for the crimes committed by others?"

"Because, Madame – an inheritor of the paternal hatred for twenty years – it is only a fortnight ago that I have again found a trace that I thought was lost forever; that the name of our enemy has, like a thunderclap, suddenly burst on my ear, and that I have demanded of this man a reckoning in blood for the honour of my family."

"So to satisfy a vengeance which might be just, were it brought to bear on the guilty, you would be cruel enough – "

"I do not yet know what I shall do, Madame. My head is on fire; fury carries me away," interrupted he, with violence. "This man has stolen our happiness; I wish to take away his; but I shall not be a coward, as he has been; he shall know from whence comes the blow which strikes him; it is between us a war of wild beasts."

At this moment the door of the adjoining room opened suddenly, and the marchioness appeared calm and imposing.

"A war of wild beasts let it be, caballero; I accept it."

The young man rose abruptly, and darting a look of crushing scorn at the superior:

"Ah! I have been listened to," said he, with irony; "well, so much the better, I prefer it to be so. This unworthy treachery precludes any further explanation; you know, Madame, the cause of the hatred that I bear towards your husband; I have nothing more to tell you."

"My husband is a noble caballero, who, if he were present, would wither, by his denial – as I do myself – the odious tissue of lies by which you have not scrupled to accuse him before a person," added she, directing a look of sorrowful pity to the superior, "who would not, perhaps, have believed this frightful tale, the falsity of which is too easy to prove for it to be necessary to refute it."

"Be it so, Madame; this insult, coming from you, cannot affect me; you are naturally the last person to whom your husband would have confided this horrible secret; but whatever happens, a time will come – and it is near, I hope – when the truth will be declared, and when the criminal will be unmasked before you."

"There are men, Señor, whom calumny, however skilfully concocted, cannot reach," answered she, with scorn.

"Let us cease this, Madame; all discussion between us would only serve the more to embitter us against each other. I repeat that I am not your enemy."

"But what are you then, and for what reason have you related this horrible story?"

"If you had had the patience to listen to me a few minutes more, Madame, you would have learned."

"What prevents you telling me, now that we are face to face?"

"I will tell you if you desire it, Madame," replied, he, coldly. "I should have preferred, however, that some other person, who might have more sympathy for you than I have, should perform this task."

"No, no, Sir; I am myself a Portuguese also, and when the honour of my name is concerned, my principle is to act for myself."

"As you please, Madame; I was about to make a proposition to you."

"A proposition – to me!" said she, haughtily.

"Yes, Madame."

"What is it? Be brief, if you please."

"I was about to ask you to give me your word not to quit this town without my authority, and not to try and communicate with your husband."

"Ah! And if I had made this promise?"

"Then, Madame, I should, in return, have freed you from the accusation which weighs upon you, and should immediately have obtained your liberty."

"Liberty to be a prisoner in a town, instead of in a convent," said she, with irony; "you are generous, Señor. But you would not have had to appear before a counsel of war."

"That is true; I forgot that you and yours make war on women – especially on women – you are so brave, you revolutionary gentlemen." The young man was unmoved by this bitter insult; he bowed respectfully.

"I wait your answer, Madame," said he.

"What answer?" she replied, with disdain.

"That which you will be pleased to make to the proposition which I have the honour to make."

The marchioness remained a moment silent; then, raising her head, and taking a step in advance —

"Caballero," she resumed, in a haughty voice, "to accept the proposition you make me, would be to admit the possibility of the truth of the odious accusation that you dare to bring against my husband. Now, that possibility I do not allow. The honour of my husband is mine; it is my duty to defend it."

"I expected that answer, Madame, although it afflicts me more than you can suppose. You have, no doubt, well reflected on all the consequences of this refusal?"

"On all – yes, Señor."

"They may be terrible."

"I know it, and I shall submit."

"You are not alone, Madame; you have a daughter."

"Sir," she answered, with an accent of supreme hauteur, "my daughter knows too well what she owes to the honour of her house to hesitate in making for it, if need be, the sacrifice of her life."

"Oh, Madame!"

"Do not try to frighten me, Señor; you will not succeed. My determination is taken, and I should not change it, even if I saw the scaffold before me. Men deceive themselves, if they think they alone possess the privilege of courage. It is good, from time to time, for a woman to show them that they also know how to die for their convictions. A truce, then, I beg you, to any more entreaties, Señor; they would be useless."

The Montonero bowed silently, made a few steps towards the door, stopped, and half turned as if he wished to speak; but, altering his mind, he bowed a last time and went out.

The marchioness remained an instant motionless; then, turning towards the abbess, and extending her arms to her —

"And now, my friend," said she to her, with a sorrowful voice, "do you believe that the Marquis de Castelmelhor is guilty of the frightful crimes of which that man accuses him?"

"Oh, no, no, my friend," cried the superior, melting into tears, and falling into the arms which opened to receive her.