The Insurgent Chief. Gustave AimardЧитать онлайн книгу.
your services."
"But be very careful. We are watched with the greatest care. Perhaps it would be better if you were to disguise yourself, to avoid being recognised, in case your proceedings are watched."
"Remember that you are the only hope of two innocent women, who, if you refuse them your help, will die cursing you; for their safety depends on you."
"Tomorrow, between ten and eleven in the morning."
"The most unfortunate of women,"
"Marquise LEONA DE CASTELMELHOR."
No pen could describe the expression of astonishment, mingled with fright, which was painted on the countenance of the young man, when he had finished the reading of this singular letter, which had reached him in so extraordinary a way.
As we have said, he remained a long time with his eyes fixed on the paper, probably without seeing the characters which were written there, his body leaning forward, his hands clenched, a prey to reflections which could not be at all pleasant.
To say nothing of the check to his self-love—a check always disagreeable to a man who for several hours had given his imagination free play in the pleasant land of chimeras, and who had thought himself the object of a sudden and irresistible passion, caused by his good looks and his Don Juan-like appearance—the service which the unknown lady demanded of him could not but considerably embarrass him, especially in the exceptional position in which he found himself at the time.
"Decidedly," murmured he, in a low voice, dashing his hand on the chair with rage, "Fate too furiously pursues me. This is absurd! Here am I asked to be a protector—I, who so much want protection myself! Heaven is not just to permit, without rhyme or reason, a good fellow, who only sighs for quiet, to be thus tormented in every possible circumstance."
He rose, and began to stride about his room.
"However," added he, after a pause, "these ladies are in a frightful position; I cannot abandon them thus, without trying to come to their aid; my honour is engaged in it; a Frenchman, spite of himself, represents France in a foreign country. But what is to be done?"
He sat down again, and appeared to be lost in a deep reverie. At last, in about a quarter of an hour, he again rose.
"That is it," said he; "I see no other means that. If I do not succeed, I shall have nothing to reproach myself with, for I shall have done even more than my actual position, and especially prudence, should permit me to attempt."
Emile had evidently made a resolve.
He opened the door, and went down into the patio.
It was almost night; the attendants, freed from their labours, more or less properly accomplished, were resting themselves, reclining on palm-mats, smoking, laughing, and chatting together.
The painter had not long to search for his domestics in the midst of the twenty or five-and-twenty individuals grouped pell-mell on the ground.
He made a sign to one of them to come to him, and he immediately went up again into his room.
The Indian, at the call of his master, immediately rose, in order to obey him.
He Was an Indian Guaraní, still very young; he appeared to be at the most twenty-four or twenty-five, With fine, bold, and intelligent features, a tall figure, of a robust appearance, and with free and unconstrained manners.
He wore the costume of the gauchos of the Pampa, and was named Tyro.
At the call of his master he had thrown away his cigarette, picked up his hat, gathered his poncho round him, and had darted towards the staircase with an alacrity which spoke well for him.
The painter much liked this young man, who, although of rather a taciturn disposition, like all his people, appeared, nevertheless, to entertain some affection for him.
Having reached the sleeping room, he did not pass the door, but, stopping on the threshold, he respectfully bowed, and waited till his master might be pleased to address him.
"Enter, and close the door behind you," said the painter to him, in a friendly tone; "we have some important things to talk about."
"Secrets, master?" asked the Indian.
"Yes."
"Then, with your permission, master, I will leave the door open."
"What is that caprice for?"
"It is not a caprice, master; all these places are rendered noiseless by the mats which cover the ground; a spy can, without being heard, come and put his ear to the door and hear all that we may say, so much the more easily as we, absorbed in our own conversation, should not be aware of his presence; whereas, if all the doors remain open, no one will enter without our seeing him, and we shall not risk being watched."
"What you remark is very sensible, my good Tyro; leave the doors open, then. The precaution cannot do any harm, although I do not believe in spies."
"Does not the master believe in the night?" answered the Indian, with an emphatic gesture. "The spy is like the night; he likes to glide about in the darkness."
"Be it so; I will not discuss the matter with you. Let us come to the reason for which I have called you."
"I am listening, master."
"Tyro, first answer me, frankly, the question which I am about to ask you."
"Let the master speak."
"Bear in mind, that I wish you to speak candidly; but pay particular attention to the form of my question, so as to answer, fully understanding it. Are you towards me only a good domestic, strictly performing your duties; or a devoted servant, on whom I have the right to reckon at all times."
"A devoted servant, master—a brother, a son, a friend. You cured my mother of a disease which appeared incurable. When you bought the rancho, instead of sending her and me away, you preserved to the old woman her cuarto, her garden, and her flock. As to me, you have treated me as a man, never commanding me with rudeness, and never obliging me to do shameful or dishonourable things, though I am an Indian. You have always considered me an intelligent being, and not an animal possessed of instinct merely. I repeat, master, I am devoted to you in everything, and forever."
"Thank you, Tyro," answered the painter, with slight emotion; "I half thought what you have just told me, but I was resolved to make you confirm it; for I have need of your services."
"I am ready; but what is to be done?"
Notwithstanding the candour of this avowal, the French painter—little acquainted yet with the character of these primitive races—by no means intended to put the Indian completely in the confidence of his secrets.
Too much civilisation renders us mistrustful.
The Guaraní readily perceived the hesitation of the artist, who, unaccustomed to dissimulation, allowed his countenance to reflect his emotions, as in a mirror.
"The master has nothing to teach Tyro," said he, with a smile; "the Indian knows all."
"What!" cried the young man, with a start of surprise; "You know all!"
"Yes," he merely said.
"Pardieu!" pursued the artist; "For the curiosity of the thing, I would not be sorry if you were to inform me how far extends that 'all' of which you so confidently speak."
"That is easy; let the master listen."
Then, to the extreme astonishment of the young man, Tyro related to him, without omitting the least detail, all that he had done since his arrival at San Miguel de Tucuman.
However, by degrees Emile, by a great effort, succeeded in regaining his coolness, reflecting with inward satisfaction that this recital, so complete in other respects, had one omission—an important omission for him; it stopped at that very morning. Tyro knew nothing of the adventure of the Callejón de las Cruces.