This interview was followed by several others, in which, always excepting the numberless protestations the general lavished on the count, the latter could obtain nothing except a species of tacit permission to take the command of the volunteers, in concert with the chief of the battalion. This permission was more injurious than useful to the count, however, as it rendered a great part of the Frenchmen indisposed toward him, for they were angry at the general appointing them a new leader.
During the week the count had been at Guaymas the general had not said a word to him about Doña Angela, and it had been impossible for him to see her. On the day when we find him again at Don Sebastian's house, matters had reached such a pitch between the inhabitants and the French, that immediate repression was urgent in order to prevent great calamities. Several Frenchmen had been insulted—two had even been stabbed in the public streets; the cívicos and inhabitants made growling threats against the volunteers; and there was in the air that something which forebodes a great catastrophe, which no one, however, can explain.
The general pretended to feel deeply the insults offered the French. He promised the count that prompt and full justice should be done, and the assassins arrested. The truth was that the general, before striking the great blow he was meditating, wished for the arrival of the powerful reinforcements he expected from Hermosillo in order to crush the French, and he only sought to gain time.
The count withdrew.
The next day the insults began again, and the French saw the assassins, whom the general had promised to punish, walking impudently about the streets. The battalion began to grow fearfully excited, and a fresh deputation, at the head of which the count was placed, was sent to the general. The count peremptorily demanded that justice should be done, two cannon given to the battalion for its security, and that the cívicos should be at once disarmed; for these men, drawn from the dregs of the populace, occasioned all the disorders.
Once again the general protested his kindly feeling toward the French, and promised to deliver to them two guns; but he would not hear a word about disarming the cívicos, alleging as his reason that such a step might irritate the population and produce an ill effect. While accompanying the Frenchmen to the very door of the saloon he told them that, in order to prove the confidence he placed in them, he would himself come without an escort to their barracks, and hear their complaints.
The step the general took was a bold one, and therefore sure to succeed, especially with Frenchmen, who are good judges of bravery, and correct appreciators of everything that is daring. The general kept his promise; he really proceeded alone to the French quarters, in spite of the recommendations of his officers; he even answered them in a way which proves how thoroughly he was acquainted with the character of Frenchmen.
A colonel, among others, demonstrated to him the imprudence of thus placing himself defencelessly in the hands of men exasperated by the vexations of every description from which they had suffered so long.
"You do not know what you are saying, colonel. The Gauls in no way resemble the Mexicans: with them the point of honour is everything. I know very well that the question will be discussed of keeping me prisoner; but there is one man who will never consent, and who will defend me if necessary: that man is the Count de Prébois Crancé."
The general judged correctly: all happened as he said. It was the count who energetically opposed his arrest, which was already almost resolved. The general left the barracks in the same way as he entered them. No one dared to utter a word of reproach in his presence. On the contrary, thanks to the honeyed eloquence with which he was gifted, he succeeded so well in turning opinions in his favour, that every one overwhelmed him with protestations of devotion, and an ovation was almost offered him.
The result of this audacious visit was immense for the general; for, through the effect he had contrived to produce on the mass of volunteers, a division commenced among them almost immediately after his departure, and they no longer agreed. One party wished for peace at any price; the others demanded war with loud shouts, insisting that he was deceiving them, and that they would be once again the dupes of the Mexicans.
The latter were right, for they saw clearly; but, as ever happens, they were not listened to, and in conclusion they came to a compromise, which is always bad in such circumstances; that is to say, a committee was appointed to come to an understanding with the government, and regulate the affairs of the battalion.
As may be seen, the mine was charged: a spark would be sufficient to enkindle an immense fire.
It was night. In a small house at Guaymas, Louis and Valentine were conversing by the light of a meagre candle, which only spread a smoking and trembling illumination. They were discussing the measures by which to expedite the finale of the gloomy machinations in which General Guerrero had managed to enfold them with diabolical cunning, while Curumilla was peacefully sleeping in a corner of the room.
"I foresaw it," Valentine said. "Now it is too late to draw back. We must act energetically: if not, you are lost."
"Eh, my friend? I am so in every way."
"What! will you really break down when the hour of danger has pealed?"
"I do not fear it: it will be welcome. I should wish to die, brother."
"Come, be a man. Regain your courage, but make haste. Have you noticed the arms and ammunition continually arriving? Believe me, we must make an end of it, one way or other, as speedily as possible."
"Yes, I know as well as you that the general is deceiving us; but these volunteers are not the men I had at Hermosillo. These fellows hesitate and are afraid. Their commandant is incapable of acting: he is a vacillating, irresolute man. With such people we can achieve nothing."
"I am afraid so: still it is better to know at once on what you have to depend than to remain any longer in this state of uncertainty."
"Tomorrow the delegates will go and see the general."
"Let them go to the deuce: they will be at least certain of obtaining a categorical answer from him," Valentine said impatiently.
At this moment two light taps were heard at the street door.
"Who can arrive so late?" the count said. "I expect nobody."
"No matter; let us see," Valentine said. "It is often the case that the people we least expect are the most agreeable visitors."
And he went to open the door. It was scarce ajar ere a woman rushed into the house, crying to the hunter in a voice rendered hoarse by terror,—
"Look, look! I am pursued!"
Valentine rushed out.
Although this woman was tapada—that is to say, her features were completely hidden by a rebozo—the count recognised her at once. What other woman but Doña Angela could come to see him in this way? It was, in reality, the general's daughter. The count received her half fainting into his arms, laid her on a butaca, and began lavishing on her all those attentions which her condition demanded.
"In Heaven's name, speak! What is the matter with you?" he exclaimed. "What has happened?"
In a little while the young lady recovered, passed her hand over her forehead several times, and gazed at the count with an expression of intense happiness.
"At length I see you again, my love!" she exclaimed as she burst into tears, and threw herself headlong into his arms.
Don Louis returned her caresses, and tried to calm her. The maiden was suffering from a strange nervous excitement, her large black eyes were haggard, her face pallid as that of a corpse, and her whole body was agitated by a convulsive tremor.
"Tell me, my child, what is the matter with you? In Heaven's name, explain! I implore you, speak. Angela, speak, if you love me."
"If I love you, poor cherished one of my heart!" she said with a sigh as she laid her hand in his. "If I love you! Alas! I love you to death, Don Louis; and this love will kill me."
"Speak not so, my well-beloved angel! Dispel these gloomy thoughts: let us only think of our love."
"No, Don Louis, I have not come to you to speak of love: I have come to save you."
"To save me!" he said with feigned gaiety. "Do you believe me, then, to be in great peril?"
"Don Louis, you are running an immense risk. Take heed of my words. Do not look at me so with a smile: tomorrow you will be a lost man. All the measures are taken. I heard all: it is horrible! And that is the way I learnt your return to Guaymas, of which I was ignorant. Then I ran off madly, wildly to you, in order to say to you, 'Fly, fly, Don Louis!'"
"Fly!" he repeated thoughtfully. "And you, Angela, must I lose you again this time and for ever? No, I prefer death."
"I will go with you; for am I not your affianced, your wife in the sight of Heaven? Come, come, Don Louis, let us go—not lose a minute, a second. Your black horse will carry us beyond pursuit in two hours. But take your weapons, for I was followed by a man as I came here from my father's house."
She spoke with strange volubility, like a person talking in a fever. The count knew not what resolution to follow, when suddenly a loud noise was heard in the street, and the door, which was only leant to, flew wide open.
"Save me, save me!" the poor child exclaimed, a prey to indescribable terror.
Don Louis bounded on his pistols, and placed himself resolutely before her.
"Oh, you shall come, you villain!" Valentine's voice was heard outside. "You shall not escape me this time. Come, walk in, or I'll quicken your motions with my dagger."
And with a vigorous effort the hunter entered the room, dragging after him a man who made futile efforts to escape.
"Shut the door, Louis," Valentine continued. "And now, my worthy spy, show me your treacherous face, that I may be able to recognise you again."
Curumilla had left the corner in which he had hitherto been sleeping. Without uttering a syllable he drew Doña Angela behind a mosquito net, which completely concealed her, and then rejoined his friends, candle in hand. All this while the prisoner offered an obstinate resistance to prevent his features being seen; but he did not say a word, contenting himself with uttering hoarse and indistinct exclamations of rage. At length, after a long struggle, the stranger seemed to comprehend that all his efforts would be in vain: he drew himself up, took off his cloak, and crossed his arms on his chest.
"Well, look at me, as you insist on doing so," he said with a sarcastic accent.
"Don Cornelio!" the Frenchmen exclaimed.
"Myself, gentlemen. How have you been since I last had the pleasure of seeing you?" he continued with serpent coolness.
"Miserable traitor!" Valentine yelled as he rushed on him.
But the count checked him.
"Wait," he said.
"I betrayed you, it is true," Don Cornelio replied. "What next? I had probably a motive in doing so. I know you are going to say that you did me many services. What does that prove, if you did me in a single day more injury than all the good you did me during the course of our relations?"
"I did you an injury! You lie, you scoundrel!"
"Señor conde," Don Cornelio said with a haughty air, "I would remind you that I am a gentleman, and will not allow you to address me in the way you are now doing."
"This wretch is mad, on my soul!" the count said with a smile of pity. "Let him go, brother; he is unworthy of our anger: he only merits our contempt."
"Not so," Valentine sharply objected. "This man is the general's tool: we cannot let him go thus."
"What shall we do with him? Sooner or later we must release him."
"That is possible, but for the present we will hand him over to the care of Curumilla."
The Indian gave a nod of assent, and seizing Don Cornelio, led him away. The latter allowed him to do so without offering the slightest resistance.
"We shall meet again, gentlemen," he said with a mocking smile.
The Indian looked at him in a very peculiar manner, and drew him into another room. Doña Angela then emerged from behind the curtain.
"I am waiting for you, Don Louis," she said.
The latter shook his head sadly.
"Alas!" he said, "I cannot fly: my life is not my own. I have sworn to my comrades not to abandon them. Were I to fly, I should be a traitor."
Doña Angela went up to him and bent gracefully over him.
"Farewell, Don Louis," she said. "You are acting as a caballero. Follow your destiny. Your honour is as dear to me as to yourself. I wish it to be unspotted. I no longer insist. Farewell! Give me a kiss on the forehead: we shall not meet again till the day of our death."
All at once a cry was heard in the street, so horrible that the three persons shuddered with terror. The door opened, and Curumilla stalked in: his face was calm, and his step as measured as usual.
"You went out by the door of the corral then, chief?" Valentine asked him.
"Yes."
"But what have you done with Don Cornelio?"
"Free," the Indian said.
"What! free?" Don Louis exclaimed.
"There must be something in the background," the hunter remarked. "Why did you give him his liberty?"
Curumilla drew his knife from his waist belt, and the blade was red with blood.
"You need no longer fear him," he said.
"You have not killed him?" the three exclaimed simultaneously.
"No," he said. "He is dumb and blind."
"Oh!" they said with a gesture of horror.
Curumilla had simply scooped out Don Cornelio's eyes with his scalping knife, and torn out his tongue; then he led him to the other end of the town, and abandoned him to his fate. Valentine and Don Louis considered it useless to address any reproaches to the chief, which could not repair the evil, and which, indeed, the Araucano would not have understood; consequently they refrained from any observation.
Doña Angela, in spite of the count's entreaties, would not consent to him accompanying her on her return home. She withdrew, after whispering in his ear the parting recommendation,—
"Take heed of tomorrow, Don Louis."
The count smiled, and she flew away like a bird, leaving behind her very sad and naked the little room which she had illumined for a short time with her presence.
"Come," the count said, as he fell hack in a butaca so soon as she was gone, "it seems that tomorrow will bring the finale: all the better. Still the man that takes me will have to pay dearly for it."
The next day, as had been arranged, the delegates of the volunteers waited on the general, who received them in his usual way, lavishing protestations and promises on them. The delegates pressed for a settlement, on which Don Sebastian, who was doubtlessly ready to deal the blow he had so long meditated, changed his tone and dismissed them, bidding them await his good pleasure. The delegates withdrew, exasperated by the roguery of the man in whom they had been so weak as to place confidence, and who now proved to them that he had been deceiving them from the beginning.
The volunteers were anxiously expecting the answer their delegates were to bring them. When the latter described what had taken place their exasperation reached its height: the cry "To arms!" was raised, and everyone prepared for fighting. The chief of the battalion completely lost his head.
"Bid them form a square," the count said to him. The order was obeyed. The count placed himself in the centre of the square, and raised his hand to command silence.
All were still: the moment was a solemn one, and all perceived it. In spite of himself, a certain degree of hesitation was depicted on the count's handsome face: not that he feared for himself personally, but he felt that he was about to risk his last stake, and it would be decisive. Everyone had his eyes fixed upon him.
"You hesitate, count," an officer said to him. "Why did you join us, then? Are you no longer the man of Hermosillo?"
At this sharp remark a vivid blush suffused the count's cheek, and he trembled with suppressed passion.
"No," he exclaimed, "no, by heavens! I do not hesitate. My friends, reflect: there is yet time. Remember that, the sword once drawn, we become outlaws. What will you do?"
"Fight—fight!" the volunteers shouted, waving their weapons enthusiastically.
The count drew himself up, unsheathed his sword, and brandished it over his head.
"You wish it?" he shouted.
"Yes, yes!"
"Well, then, forwards! Long live France!"
"Long live France!" the volunteers replied.
The battalion, formed in four companies, resolutely left its quarters, and proceeded at a quick step toward the Mexican barracks. Unfortunately, as we have said, a dissension had sprung up among the French. Many of them marched very unwillingly, being forced on by their comrades. The chief of the battalion, too, though personally very brave, was not the man suited to attempt a coup de main like the present one; and the count, through excess of delicacy, and in order to maintain unity of action, committed the fault of declining the command when offered to him by the officers and men.
The battalion proceeded toward the Mexican barracks by three different roads. But General Guerrero had made his arrangements long before. He had shut himself up in these barracks with three hundred troops of the line. The neighbouring houses were crammed with cívicos, while four guns commanded the only approaches. The Frenchmen only amounted to three hundred men, one half of them discouraged, while the Mexicans were nearly two thousand.
Still the action began vigorously on all sides at once. The first charge was admirable. The Mexican guns swept down the attacking party, and effected a frightful carnage. Still the French held their ground, and continued to advance, supported by the example of the count, who walked fifteen paces in advance of the column, with a rifle in one hand and a sword in the other, amid a hail-storm of bullets, shouting in his powerful voice,—
"Forward! forward!"
All at once, the chief of the battalion, who ought to have supported the attack on the right, seeing his company decimated by canister, lost his head completely, and fell back in disorder on the French quarters. The count tried in vain to rally the volunteers; disorder was beginning to spread among them, and all his efforts were powerless.
It was at this moment the count understood the fault he had committed by not accepting the chief command. Still the Mexican guns no longer fired, for the artillerymen were dead.
"Forward! Charge with the bayonet!" the count shouted; and he rushed onward, followed by Valentine and Curumilla, who did not remain an inch behind. Some twenty volunteers dashed after him. The count rushed up to the wall of the barracks, which he succeeded in scaling, and stood upright on the summit, exposed to the whole of the enemy's fire.
"Forward! forward!" he repeated.
His hat, pierced by balls, was blown off his head, and several bayonet-thrusts tore his clothes. A terrible hand-to-hand contest commenced. Unfortunately there were only fifteen Frenchmen altogether. After a heroic attempt to hold their ground they were compelled to give way; but they fell back like lions, pace by pace, with their faces turned to the foe, and not ceasing to fight. The count howled with rage: tears of passion poured down his cheeks at seeing himself thus abandoned. He wished to die. But in vain did he throw himself into the thickest of the fight: his friends protected him, in spite of himself, against the blows dealt at him. At length the route commenced. The count broke his sword, after a glance of powerless fury at his enemies, whom, had he been bravely supported, he would have conquered, and who thus escaped him.
Valentine and Curumilla dragged him down to the port; but the vessel which brought him had set sail during the combat. Flight was impossible. In this extremity only one house could offer a refuge to the conquered: it was that of the French agent, and the volunteers flocked to it.
Señor Pavo promised that all those who delivered their arms up to him should be placed under the protection of the French flag. The count had entered the house and thrown himself into a chair, insensible to all that was said and done around him; but Valentine was watching.
"A moment," he said. "Señor Pavo, will the life of Count de Prébois Crancé be saved?"
The Mexican looked craftily at the hunter, but made no answer.
"No shuffling, sir," Valentine continued. "We want a distinct answer, or we shall renew the engagement."
As it was no longer possible to hesitate Señor Pavo spoke.
"Gentlemen," he said in a clear and distinct voice, "on my honour I swear to you that the life of Count Louis de Prébois Crancé shall be spared."
"We shall remember your words, sir," Valentine said sternly.
Don Antonio Pavo hoisted a white flag as a signal of peace. Nearly the whole battalion of volunteers had sought refuge at his house. The battle was over; it had lasted three hours. The French had thirty-eight men killed, and sixty-three wounded, out of three hundred combatants. The Mexicans lost thirty-five men during the action, and had one hundred and forty-seven wounded, out of about two thousand soldiers. The battle had been warmly contested, and the conquerors paid dearly for a victory which was the result of treachery.
Immediately after the combat a delicious comedy, began between Don Antonio Pavo and General Guerrero. The latter would not listen to any proposition tending to obtain for the French a written capitulation. He confined himself to giving his word of honour as a general officer, that if the arms were surrendered to him at once, all the rebels should have their lives granted them. Don Antonio was constrained to yield to the general's orders. The arms were surrendered, the French made prisoners of war, and locked up.
So soon as night fell, Colonel Suarez, accompanied by four other officers, presented himself at the house of Don Antonio Pavo, demanding, in the name of General Guerrero, that the Count de Prébois Crancé should be immediately handed over to him. Don Antonio hastened to obey by giving the count orders to quit his house. The latter, without replying, contented himself with darting a glance of sovereign contempt at him, and surrendered to the colonel. A quarter of an hour later he was in solitary confinement. Of all the combatants only two had escaped, Valentine and Curumilla, and that was only at the count's peremptory order.
We repeat it here, although the names are changed, and certain facts have, been expressly altered, we are not writing a romance, but the history of a man whose noble character must be dear to all his fellow countrymen. There are, then, certain things which we cannot and ought not to pass over in silence, though frequently in the course of this long narrative we have softened down facts which we felt a repugnance to display in all their horror.
Despite the solemn promise made by Don Antonio Pavo in the presence of all the volunteers, a few days after his illegal arrest the count was told to prepare for trial. The Europeans were aroused by this disloyal act, and several of them went to Don Antonio to remind him of his promise, and incite him to keep it Then Don Antonio asserted that he never made any promise, and that the affair in no way concerned him.
In the meanwhile the preparations for the count's trial were actively pushed on. All the officers of the battalion, including the commandant, were interrogated, and all, with one exception, we are compelled to confess, sought to throw the whole blame of their conduct on the count. Not a single witness for the defence was examined; for what was the use of it? The accused was condemned beforehand.
When the count was arrested he still had in his waist belt the pistols with which he marched into action. General Guerrero ordered that they should be left him. He doubtless hoped that Louis, impelled by despair, would, in a moment of terror, blow out his brains, and thus spare himself the shame of signing the death warrant. But he was not acquainted with the character of his enemy. The count possessed a mind too strongly tried by that touchstone called misfortune to have recourse to suicide, and tarnish the end of his career.
In the meanwhile Valentine had not been inactive. If he had consented to preserve his liberty, it was only in the hope of saving his foster-brother. Two or three days before the count's secret imprisonment was altered, toward evening, the door of his cell opened. He turned his head mechanically to see who entered, uttered a cry of joy, and rushed toward him. The newcomer was Valentine.
"You—you here!" he said to him. "Oh, thanks for coming!"
"Did you not expect me, brother?" the hunter asked.
"I expected your visit, though I did not dare count on it. You must be exposed to a thousand annoyances, and compelled to conceal yourself?"
"I! Not a bit of it."
"All the better; you cannot imagine how happy I am at seeing you. But who is the person accompanying you?"
In truth, Valentine was not alone; another person had entered the cell with him, and was standing motionless against the door, which the jailer locked again, after introducing the visitors.
"Do not trouble yourself about that person at present," Valentine said; "let us talk about business."
"Be it so: speak."
"You know that you will be condemned to death. I suppose?"
"I presume so."
"Good! Now listen to me, and, above all, do not interrupt me; for time is precious, and we must profit by it. You understand that if I obeyed you when you ordered me to escape, I did so because I suspected in what way affairs would turn. Now the moment for action has arrived. All is prepared for your flight; the jailers are bought—they will not see you quit the prison. I have freighted a vessel. Take your hat, and come. In ten minutes we shall be aboard, in half an hour under sail, and we will leave Mexican justice to deal with you in your absence. Come, I have managed capitally, I think, brother. You see that I have lost no time, and all this is very simple."
"Extremely simple indeed," the count replied with the utmost calmness. "I thank you for what you have done for me."
"Indeed, brother, it is not worth thanking for."
The count laid his hand on his arm to interrupt him.
"But," he continued, "I cannot accept your offer."
"What!" Valentine exclaimed with a start of surprise. "What do you say, brother? You must be jesting."
"Not at all, brother. What I say is the truth. It is my inflexible will to leave to the Mexican people the iniquity of my condemnation, the indelible stain of my death. I will not fly: I cannot—I ought not; for it would be an act of cowardice on my part. A soldier does not abandon his post. A gentleman does not sully his escutcheon. A Frenchman has not the right to dishonour his name. I die for a noble and grand idea—the emancipation and regeneration of a people. That idea required a baptism of blood to make it prosper and bear fruit at a later date. I give it mine without regret—without a thought of self, gladly—I will say almost with happiness. Brother, in a prison thoughts ripen quickly: it is probably because a man is nearer the tomb there, and life appears to him what it really is—a dream. I have thought much. I have reflected deeply. I have weighed with the utmost impartiality the for and against of the two questions, and I prefer death. I knew what you would attempt for me. Your life has been one long devotion; but that devotion must this night accomplish its greatest sacrifice in letting me die, and not attempting to save me. A man like I am must not secure his life by trickery. I pledged my head as the stake in the game I played. I lost, and I pay my debt."
"Brother, brother, do not speak so!" Valentine exclaimed with despair; "you break my heart."
"Reflect, my good Valentine, on the position in which I now stand. I am tried contrary to the law of nations. Hence my position is a fine one; my judges will endure all the disgrace of my condemnation. If I fly, I shall be nothing more than any common adventurer—a pirate, as they call me, prodigal of his companions' blood, and chary of his own. Must I not acquit the debt I have contracted with all my friends, who died to defend my cause? Come, brother, do not try to convince me, for it would be useless. I repeat to you, my resolution cannot be shaken."
"Ah!" Valentine exclaimed again, with an outburst of passion he could not repress, "you are determined to die. But do you reflect that, in dying, you drag down with you to the grave another person? Do you believe that she will consent to live when——"
"Silence!" the count interrupted him in great agitation. "Do not speak to me of her. Poor Angela! Alas! why did she love me?"
"Why!" the person who accompanied Valentine, and had hitherto remained motionless, exclaimed. "Because you are great, Louis; because your heart is immense."
"Oh!" he said with grief, "Angela! Brother, brother, what have you done?"
The hunter made no reply, for he was weeping. His iron nature was broken; the strong man wept like a child.
"Do not reproach him for having brought me, Don Louis. I wished to come—I insisted on accompanying him."
"Alas!" the count replied with an ineffable sadness, "you break my heart, poor darling child. In your presence all my resolution and courage abandon me. Oh! why have you come to revive, by your presence, regrets which nothing will be able to calm again?"
"You are mistaken, Don Louis," she said with febrile energy. "You believe me to be a weak woman, without courage. My love for you is too true and too pure for me ever to advise you to do anything against your honour or your glory. Just now, concealed in that obscure corner, I listened eagerly to your words. I was happy at hearing you speak as you did. I love you, Don Louis, oh, as man never was loved in this world! But I love you for yourself, and not for myself. Your glory is as dear to me as you are. Your memory must remain without a stain, as your life has been unsullied. Don Louis, I, to whom you are all in all, the man for whom I would sacrifice my life if necessary, I have come to say to you, 'Dear count, die nobly, with head erect: fall like a hero! Your memory will be revered as that of a martyr.'"
"Yes, thanks, thanks for saying that to me, Angela," the count said as he pressed her in his arms with passionate energy; "you restore me all my energy."
"And now farewell, count, to meet again soon."
The count went up to Valentine.
"Your hand, brother," he said to him. "Forgive me for not desiring to live."
The hunter threw himself into his brother's arms, and the two remained thus enfolded for several minutes. At length the count liberated himself from this loving prison by a heroic effort. Valentine left the cell, not having the strength to utter a word, and supporting Doña Angela, who, in spite of the courage she had displayed, felt on the point of fainting.
The door closed again, and the count remained alone. He fell back in his chair, leaned his elbows on the table, buried his face in his hands, and remained in this position the whole night through. The next morning, at an early hour, Don Louis was fetched to go to the court. The interrogatory was over, and the pleading was about to begin.
The count had chosen as his defender a young captain of the name of Borunda, who during the siege of Hermosillo had been taken prisoner by the French at the attack on the bridge head. Borunda had remembered the generous manner in which the count had treated him at that period. His pleading was what might be expected from the young and noble officer, simple, pathetic, and imprinted with that eloquence which comes from the heart, and nothing can equal. Assuredly the count would have been acquitted, had not his death been decided beforehand.
Don Louis, who during the entire discussion remained calm and apathetic, listening to the false statements and calumnious imputations of the witnesses without quivering, or addressing a reproach to those ingrates who sacrificed him in this cowardly way, felt affected by his defender's glowing language. He rose and held out his hand to him with inimitable grace.
"Thank you, sir," he said to him. "I am happy at having found a man like yourself among so many enemies. Your pleading was as it should be, and money will not repay such words."
Then, drawing from his finger the ring bearing his coat of arms, which he had always worn since leaving France, he passed it on to the captain's finger, adding,—
"Accept this ring, and keep it in remembrance of me."
The captain pressed his hand, but could not reply.[1]
The judges retired to deliberate. They returned at the expiration of five minutes. Count Louis de Prébois Crancé, unanimously found guilty, was condemned to be shot. The sworn interpreter of the court was then called on by the president to translate the sentence to the condemned; but then a strange incident occurred. This interpreter rose and addressed the court.
"No, gentlemen," he said resolutely; "I will not translate this unjust sentence, which you will soon regret having pronounced."
This energetic protest abashed the judges for an instant. The interpreter was discharged on the spot. He was a Spaniard.
"Gentlemen," the count then said with the greatest coolness, "I understand your language sufficiently well to know that you have condemned me to death. May Heaven pardon you, as I do!"
He bowed to the judges with a smile, and withdrew as calm as he entered.
The count was immediately placed in capilla. It is the fashion in Spain and all Southern America for men condemned to death to be placed in a room, at one end of which is an altar. Near the bed stands the coffin in which the body of the condemned will be laid after the execution. The walls are hung with black cloth, on which silver tears and mournful inscriptions are sewn. This custom, which is very cruel in our opinion, and is evidently a relic of the barbarous medieval times, is probably intended to imbue the condemned with religious ideas.
The count was in no way influenced by these mournful trappings, but employed himself with the utmost tranquillity in setting his affairs in order. The very day he was put in capilla Valentine entered his cell, followed by Father Seraphin. He was the priest he would most certainly have sent for to console him in his last moments, had he known where to find him; but Valentine thought of everything. By his orders Curumilla went on the search, and the worthy Indian soon discovered the missionary, who, on learning the nature of the case, hastened to follow him.
Still the condemnation of the count had produced an extraordinary emotion. While the cívicos and other bandits of the town indulged in indecent joy, parading the streets with bands of music at their head, the upper classes and sound portion of the population displayed extreme sorrow. They spoke of nothing less than preventing the execution of the sentence, and for some hours General Guerrero trembled lest his victim should escape him.
The Vice-Consul of the United States, indignant at this unjust sentence, but not having the power to act officially, proceeded to Don Antonio Pavo with the hope of inducing him to act energetically, and save the count. Don Antonio refused. While protesting the sorrow he felt, nothing could make him recall his refusal.
Still Don Antonio understood that he could not refrain from paying a visit to the count. Valentine was with him, as well as Father Seraphin. The hunter had obtained leave to remain with his foster brother till the last moment. The count received Don Antonio with an icy face. He contented himself with shrugging his shoulders in contempt when the latter tried to exculpate himself, and alleviate all that was reprehensible in his conduct. The count handed him several papers, and, interrupting him roughly in the midst of a very involved sentence, in which he was trying to prove how innocent he was of all imputed to him, said dryly,—
"Listen to me, sir. I am willing, if it is of any use to you, to give you a letter, in which I acknowledge that your conduct toward me was always irreproachable; but on one condition——"
"What is it, sir?" he asked eagerly.
"I do not wish to be shot on my knees, and with my eyes bandaged. You understand me, sir? I want to look death in the face. Go and arrange that with the governor."
"That favour shall be granted you, I can assure you, sir," he answered, delighted at having been let off so easily.
He went out and kept his word. What did the count's enemies care whether he fell standing or on his knees, with eyes bandaged or not? Their great object was that he should be dead. Still General Guerrero profited by this opportunity to appear generous at a small cost.
The next day but one Valentine brought Doña Angela with him: the maiden had donned that monk's robe which she had already worn under critical circumstances.
"Is it for today?" the count asked.
"Yes," Valentine answered.
Louis took his foster-brother on one side.
"Swear to me to protect that child when I am no longer here to do so."
"I swear it!" Valentine said in a broken voice.
Doña Angela heard the words. She smiled sadly as she wiped away a tear.
"Now, brother, there is another oath I must obtain from you."
"Speak, brother."
"Swear to do what I ask you, whatever it may be."
Valentine looked at his foster-brother: he saw such anxiety depicted on his face that he let his eyes fall.
"I swear it!" he said in a hollow voice.
He had guessed what Don Louis was about to demand of him.
"I do not wish you to avenge me. Believe me, brother, God will take that vengeance on Himself, and sooner or later punish my enemies in a more terrible manner than you can do. Do you promise to obey me?"
"You have my word, brother," the hunter answered.
"Thanks! Now let me say good-by to this poor girl."
And he walked toward Doña Angela, who advanced to meet him. We will not describe their conversation. They forgot everything during an hour to live an age of joy by isolating themselves, and speaking heart to heart. Suddenly a loud noise was heard outside, the door of the capilla opened, and Colonel Suarez appeared.
"I am at your orders, colonel," the count said, not giving the other time to speak.
He passed his fingers for the last time through his moustache, smoothed his hair, took up his Panama straw hat, which he held in his hand, and after taking a melancholy glance around, went out.
Father Seraphin walked on his right; Doña Angela, with the hood over her head, on his left. Valentine came next, tottering like a drunken man, in spite of all the efforts he made, with haggard eyes, and face bathed in tears. There was something heart-rending in the aspect of this man, with the energetic features and bronzed face, a prey to such grief, which was the more profound because it was silent.
It was six in the morning, the sun had just risen, the dawn was magnificent, the atmosphere was filled with perfume, nature seemed rejoicing, and a man full of life, health, and intellect was about to die—die brutally, struck by unworthy foemen.
An immense crowd covered the place of execution, and the troops were drawn up in battle array. General Guerrero, in full uniform, glistening with precious stones, appeared at the head of the troops.
The count walked slowly, talking with the missionary, and from time to time addressing a word to the heroic girl, who refused to abandon him at this supreme hour. He held his hat before his face to protect him from the sunbeams, and fanned himself carelessly. On reaching the execution ground he stopped, went in the direction of the firing party, threw his hat on the ground, and waited.
An officer read his sentence. When this was over, the count affectionately embraced the missionary, did the same to Valentine, and whispered in his ear,—
"Remember!"
"Yes," the latter said in an inarticulate voice.
Then came the turn of Doña Angela. They remained for a long time in a close embrace, and then separated as if by mutual agreement.
"Though separated on the earth, we shall soon be united in heaven. Courage, my beloved!" she said with exaltation.
He replied to her with a smile which had nothing earthly about it.
Father Seraphin and Valentine fell back about fifteen paces, knelt down on the ground, and folded their hands in prayer. Doña Angela, with the cowl still over her face, placed herself only a few paces from the general, who watched all the preparations for the execution with a triumphant smile.
The count looked around him to assure himself that his friends had retired, took a step forward nearer the firing party, from which he was only eight yards, and laying his hands behind his hack, with head erect, a smile on his lips, and a resolute glance, he called out in a clear, impressive voice,—
"Come, my brave fellows, do your duty! Aim at the heart!"
Then a strange event occurred. The officer stammered as he gave the order to fire; and the soldiers, firing one after the other, did not hit the sufferer.
"Enough of this, caray!" the general shouted.
The soldiers reloaded their muskets, and the order to fire was given once more. A discharge burst forth like thunder, and the count fell with his face to the earth.
He was dead: progress counted one martyr more!
"Farewell, father," a voice cried in the general's ear. "I keep my promise."
Don Sebastian turned in terror, for he had recognised his daughter's voice.
Doña Angela had fallen to the ground. Her father rushed toward her. It was too late; he only pressed a corpse in his arms. His punishment had already commenced.
The count had scarce fallen ere Valentine rushed toward him, followed by the missionary.
"Let no one approach the body!" he said in a voice which made the bravest recoil, and kneeling on his right, while the missionary placed himself on the left, he prayed.
Curumilla had disappeared.
Those who tell us that the Count de Prébois Crancé was an adventurer, I will merely ask what Hernando Cortez was on the day before the fall of Mexico?
In politics, as in everything else, the end justifies the means, and success is only the consecration of genius.