The Insurgent Chief. Gustave AimardЧитать онлайн книгу.
means consists in dispatching you to St. Martin. You are a foreigner; they will not distrust you; you will pass in safety, and you will remit to the general the orders of which you will be the bearer—"
"Or I shall be arrested and hanged."
"Oh! That is not probable."
"But it is possible. Well, my dear sir, your project is charming."
"Is it not?"
"Yes, but on thorough reflection it does not please me at all, and I absolutely refuse it. The devil! I do not care to be hanged as a spy for a cause which is foreign to me, and of which I know nothing at all."
"What you say to me annoys me to the last degree, for I interest myself very much in you."
"I thank you for it, but I prefer that you should leave me in my obscurity. I am unambitiously retiring."
"I know it. Unhappily it is absolutely necessary that you charge yourself with this mission."
"Oh, indeed! It will be difficult for you to convince me of that."
"You are in error, my young friend; on the contrary, it will be very easy to me."
"I do not believe it."
"In this way: it appears that two Spanish prisoners, arrested some days ago at the Cabildo, and whose trial is proceeding at this moment, have charged you in their depositions, asserting that you are perfectly acquainted with their plans—in a word, that you were one of their accomplices."
"I!" cried the young man, starting with rage.
"You!" coolly answered the diplomatist "It was then a question of arresting you; the order was already signed when, not wishing you to be shot, I intervened in the discussion."
"I thank you for it."
"You know how much I love you. I warmly took up your defence, until—forced into my last retrenchments, and seeing that your destruction was resolved upon—I found no other expedient to make your innocence apparent to all, than to propose you as an emissary to General San Martin, asserting that you would be happy to give this pledge of your devotion to the revolution."
"But it is a horrible murder!" cried the young man, with despair; "I am in a fix!"
"Alas; yes, you see me afflicted at it—hanged by the Spaniards, if they take you—but they will not take you—or shot by the Buenos Aireans, if you refuse to serve them as an emissary."
"It is frightful," said the young man, utterly cast down; "never did an honest man find himself in so cruel an alternative."
"On which do you decide?"
"Have I the choice?"
"Why, look—reflect."
"I accept," said he, expressing a strong wish as to the fate of those who had thus entrapped him.
"Come, come, calm yourself. The danger is not so great as you suppose. Your mission, I hope, will terminate well."
"When I dreamed that I had come to America to study art, and to escape politics, what a fine idea I had then!"
M. Dubois could not help laughing.
"Grumble now; later you will relate your adventures."
"The fact is, that if I go on as now, they will be considerably varied. It is necessary that I set out immediately, no doubt?"
"No, we are not going on so rapidly as that. You have all the time necessary to make your preparations. Your journey will be long and difficult."
"How much time can I have to get ready to leave?"
"I have obtained eight days—ten at most. Will that suffice you?"
"Amply. Once more I thank you."
The countenance of the young man suddenly brightened, and it was with a smile on his lips that he added—
"And during this time I shall be free to dispose of myself as I like."
"Absolutely."
"Well," pursued he, grasping heartily the hand of M. Dubois, "I do not know why, but I begin to be of your opinion."
"In what way?" said the diplomatist, surprised at the sudden change manifested by the young man.
"I believe that all will finish better than I at first thought."
And after having ceremoniously saluted the old man, he left the saloon and went to his apartments.
M. Dubois followed him a moment with his eyes.
"He meditates some folly," murmured he, shaking his head several times. "In his own interest I will watch him."
[1] See "The Guide of the Desert."
CHAPTER II.
THE LETTER.
The painter had taken refuge in his apartments, a prey to extreme agitation.
Having reached his bedroom, he doubly locked the door; then, certain that for a time no one would come to thrust him out of this last asylum, he allowed himself to fall heavily on a butaca, threw his body backward, leaned his head forward, crossed his arms over his chest, and—an extraordinary thing for an organisation like his—he gave himself up to sad and profound reflections.
At first he called to mind—tormented as he was by the saddest presentiments—all the events which had happened to him since his arrival in America.
The list was long, and by no means pleasant.
At the end of half an hour, the artist arrived at this miserable conclusion—that, from the first moment that he had placed his foot on the New World, Fate had taken a malicious pleasure in falling furiously upon him, and in making him the sport of the most disastrous combinations, spite of the efforts that he had made to remain constantly free from politics, and to live as a true artist, without occupying himself with what was passing around him.
"Pardieu!" he cried, angrily striking with his hand the arm of his chair, "it must be confessed that I have no chance! In conditions like these, life becomes literally impossible. Better a hundred times would it have been for me to remain in France, where at least I should have been allowed to live quietly, and in my own fashion! A pretty situation is this of mine—placed here, without knowing why, between the gun and the gallows! Why, it is absurd, it is unheard-of! The devil take these Americans and Spaniards! As if they could not quarrel with one another without bringing into the dispute a poor painter, who has nothing to do with it, and who is travelling as an amateur in their country! They have, indeed, a singular manner of rendering hospitality, these pretty fellows! I compliment them sincerely upon it. And I, who was persuaded, on the faith of travellers, that America was, par excellence, the land of hospitality—the country of simple and patriarchal manners. Trust to narratives of travel—those who take such pleasure in leading the public into error, ought to be burnt alive! What is to be done? What is to become of me? I have eight days before me, says that old lynx of a diplomatist, to whom, however, I shall preserve eternal gratitude for his proceedings in my behalf. What a charming compatriot I have met there. How fortunate I have been with him. Well, no matter, I must make up my mind what to do. But what? I see nothing but flight! Hum! flight—that's not easy; I shall be closely watched. Unhappily, I have no choice; come, let me study a plan of escape. Away with the wretched fate which obstinately makes of my life a melodrama, when I employ all my powers to make it a vaudeville!"
Upon this the young man, whose gaiety of disposition gained the victory over the anxiety which agitated him, set himself—half laughing, half seriously—to reflect anew.
He