The Adventurers

CHAPTER VII

HUSBAND AND WIFE

Doña Maria, notwithstanding the fresh and bitter insult she had just received from Don Tadeo, did not yet renounce the hope of softening him. When she recalled to her mind the early years, already so distant, of her love for Don Tadeo, his devotion to her smallest caprices, when she could bring him trembling and prostrate to her feet by a glance or a smile, and the entire abnegation he had made of his will, in order to live for her and by her; notwithstanding all that had since taken place between them, she could not persuade herself that the violent and deeply-seated passion he had entertained for her, the species of worship he had vowed to her, could have entirely disappeared without leaving some slight traces behind. Her pride revolted at the idea of having lost all her empire over the lofty nature which she so long had moulded at her pleasure like soft wax, under the burning impression of wild caprices. She fancied that, like most other men, Don Tadeo, deeply wounded in his pride, loved her still without being willing to admit it, and that the virulent reproaches he had addressed to her, were flashes of that ill-extinguished fire which still smouldered in his heart, and whose flame she should succeed in reviving.

Unfortunately Doña Maria had never given herself the trouble to study the man she had married, and whom her beauty had so long held in subjection. Don Tadeo had been nothing in her eyes but an attentive, submissive slave, and, under the apparent weakness of the loving man, she had not discovered the powerful energy which formed the foundation of his character. And yet the history itself of their love had been a proof of that energy, and of a will which nothing could control. Doña Maria, then fifteen years of age, dwelt with her father in a hacienda, in the neighbourhood of Santiago. Deprived of her mother, who had died in giving her birth, she was brought up under the care of an old aunt, an incorruptible Argus, who allowed no lover to come near her niece. The young girl, ignorant as all girls brought up in the country are, but whose warm aspirations led her to desire to know the world, and to launch into that whirlwind of pleasures the sound of which died without an echo in her ears, waited impatiently the arrival of the man who should introduce her to these delights, of which, although unknown, she had formed seducing ideas. Don Tadeo had only been the guide charged with initiating her into the pleasures for which she thirsted. She had never loved him; she had only said to herself, on seeing him and learning he was of a noble family, "That is the man I have been looking for."

This hideous and selfish calculation is made by more girls than we may fancy. Don Tadeo was handsome. Doña Maria's self-love was flattered by the conquest; but if he had been ugly and disagreeable, it would not have altered her course. In her extraordinary character, a strange conjunction of the most abject passions, among which shone here and there, like diamonds gleaming in the mire, a few feelings which attached her to humanity, there was the spirit of two women of ancient Rome; Locusta and Messalina were united in her: ardent, passionate and ambitious, covetous and prodigal, this demon, concealed under the outward form of an angel, acknowledged no other laws but her own caprices; and all means, by which she could satisfy them, to her appeared good.

For a long time, Don Tadeo, blinded by passion, had submitted without complaining to the iron yoke of this infernal genius; but when the day arrived that the scales fell from his eyes, he measured with terror the depth of the abyss into which this woman had cast him. The frightful disorders to which, under the sanction of his name, she had abandoned herself, imprinted on his blushing brow a stigma of infamy: the world believed him to be her accomplice.

Don Tadeo had by Maria an only daughter, a fair girl of angelic beauty, at the period of our history fifteen years of age, whom he loved in proportion to the sufferings her mother had inflicted upon him. He trembled to think of the frightful future which lay before this innocent creature. For four years he had been separated from his wife; and during that time she had set no bounds on her irregularities. One day, Don Tadeo presented himself unexpectedly at the house of his wife, and without saying a word as to his ulterior intentions, took away his daughter. From that time – nearly ten years – Doña Maria had never seen her child.

A strange revolution was effected by this step in the mother's feelings; a new sentiment, so to say, germinated in her soul. A thing, till that time unknown to her, happened; she felt the pulses of her heart beat for another – she grieved at the remembrance of the little angel who had been ravished from her. What was the sentiment? She, herself, knew not; she only ardently wished to see her child again. During six years she contended, publicly and privately, with Don Tadeo, to have her daughter restored to her. The father was deaf and dumb; she could never learn what had become of her. Don Tadeo, who, since he ceased to love her, had studied the character of the woman of whom he had made an implacable enemy, had taken his precautions so prudently that all Doña Maria's researches proved fruitless, and all her attempts to obtain an interview remained without a result. She imagined that he was afraid of yielding, if face to face with her; and she resolved, cost what it might, to force him to grant her the interview to which nothing had been able to make him consent.

Such was, at the moment we bring them on the scene, the position of the two personages who now doubtless met for the last time. It was an extraordinary position for both; an unequal contest between a wounded and proscribed man, and an ardent, insulted woman, who, like a lioness deprived of her whelps, was resolved to succeed, whatever might happen, and compel the man whom she had forced to hear her, to restore her daughter to her.

Don Tadeo turned towards her.

"I am waiting," he said.

"You are waiting?" she replied, with a friendly smile. "What do you expect, then?"

"The assassins whom you doubtless have at hand, in case I should be unwilling to reply to your questions concerning your daughter."

"Oh!" she said, with an air of repulsion, "how can you, Don Tadeo, have so bad an opinion of me? How can you pretend to believe that, after having saved you, I should deliver you up to those who have proscribed you?"

"Who knows?" he replied, in a strongly ironical tone. "The heart of women of your class, Linda, is an abyss which no man can pretend to sound. You, who are incessantly seeking eccentric pleasures, perhaps would find an unknown enjoyment and a charm in this second execution, which, besides, would not at all compromise you, as I am already legally dead to the world."

"Don Tadeo, I know how unworthy my conduct towards you has been, and how little I deserve your pity; but you are a gentleman, and, as such, do you think it does you honour to load with insults, however merited, a woman who is your wife, and who, after saving your life, with no intention of reinstating herself in your favour, merely makes a claim, at least upon your pity, if not on your esteem?"

"Very well, madam; nothing can be more just than your observations, and I subscribe to them with all my heart. I beg you to pardon me for having allowed myself to utter certain words; but, at the first movement, I was not master of myself, and I could not keep down in the depths of my heart the feelings which were stifling me. Now, accept my sincere thanks for the immense service you have rendered me, and permit me to retire. A longer sojourn, on my part, in this house, is a robbery of which I render myself guilty towards your numerous adorers."

And, bowing with ironical courtesy to his infuriated wife, he made a movement towards one of the doors of the room.

"One word more," she said.

"Speak, madam."

"Are you resolved to leave me ignorant of the fate of my daughter?"

"She is dead."

"Dead!" she cried, in a voice of terror.

"For you – yes," he replied, with a cold smile.

"Oh, you are implacable!" she shrieked, stamping her foot with rage.

He bowed, without making any reply.

"Well, then," she resumed, "it is now no longer a favour I implore – it is a bargain I propose to you."

"A bargain?"

"Yes, a bargain."

"The idea strikes me as original."

"Perhaps it is; you shall judge for yourself."

"I listen, but time presses, and I – "

"Oh, I will be brief," she interrupted.

"I am at your service," and he reseated himself, smiling, exactly like a friend on a visit. The Linda followed his motions with her eye, without appearing to attach any importance to them.

"Don Tadeo," she said, "during the many years we have been separated a great number of events has taken place."

"Quite correct," said he, with a gesture of polite assent.

"I will say nothing to you of myself – my life is known to you."

"Very little of it, madam."

She cast a savage look at him.

"Let that pass," she said, "it is of you I would speak."

"Of me?"

"Yes, of you, whose moments are not so completely absorbed by patriotism and the effervescence of political ideas as not to leave you a few for more intimate joys and emotions."

"What do you mean?"

"Why do you feign ignorance?" she said, with a perfidious smile; "I am sure you understand me."

"Madam!"

"Do not deny it, Tadeo! Tired of the ephemeral love of women of my class, as you have just now so well said, you seek in the pure heart of a young girl emotions more in accordance with your tastes; in a word, I know you are in love with a charming young creature, worthy in all respects of being the wife of your choice, if I, unfortunately, did not exist."

Don Tadeo fixed upon his wife a scrutinizing look while she was pronouncing these words. As she finished, a sigh escaped him.

"What, are you aware?" he exclaimed, with well-feigned surprise. "You know – "

"I know that her name is Doña Rosario del Valle," she replied, satisfied of the effect she thought she had produced upon her husband; "why, it is the freshest news in Santiago! all the world is talking of it. How was it likely it should escape me, when I take such an interest in you?"

The Linda interrupted herself, and laid her hand on his arm.

"It is of very little consequence," she added; "restore me my daughter, Don Tadeo, and this new love of yours shall be sacred to me – if not – "

"You are mistaken, madam, I tell you."

"Beware, Don Tadeo!" she remarked, with a glance at the clock; "by this time the woman we were speaking of is in the hands of my agents."

"What do you mean?" he cried, in great agitation.

"Yes," she replied, in a husky tone, "I have had her carried off. In a few minutes she will be here. Beware! I repeat, Don Tadeo! if you do not tell me where my daughter is, and if you continue to refuse to restore her to me – "

"Well," he said, haughtily, looking her full in the face, and crossing his arms, "what then will you do?"

"I will kill this woman!" she replied, in a gloomy but firm tone.

Don Tadeo looked at her for a moment with an undefinable expression, and then burst into a dry, nervous laugh, which chilled the woman with fear.

"You will kill her!" he cried, "unhappy woman! Well! – kill that innocent creature! – Call in your executioners – I will be mute."

The Linda sprang up like a lioness, and rushed towards the door, which she opened violently.

"This is too much! – Come in!" she called out, loudly.

The two men who had brought in Don Tadeo appeared, poniard in hand.

"Ah!" the gentleman said, with a contemptuous smile, "I know you again at last."

At a motion from the Linda the assassins advanced towards him.

CHAPTER VIII

THE DARK-HEARTS

As we have seen, the people had dispersed almost immediately after the execution of the patriots. Everyone carried away in the depths of his heart the hope of avenging, at an early day, the victims who had so nobly died, with the cry for a time left without an echo, of Viva la patria! A cry checked by the bayonets of the soldiers of Bustamente, but which must soon give birth to fresh martyrs.

And yet the square, though it seemed a desert, was not so. Several men, folded in dark cloaks, and with broad-brimmed hats, pulled down over their eyes, were grouped in the recess of the coach entrance of a house, and were conversing earnestly together in a low voice, keeping an anxious lookout the meanwhile. These men were patriots.

In spite of the terror which hovered over the city, they had, by dint of prayers, obtained from the archbishop of Santiago, who was a true priest according to the gospel, and at heart devoted to the liberal cause, permission to pay the last rites to their unfortunate brethren.

No part of the dismal drama which followed the execution had escaped them. They had seen Don Tadeo rise like a phantom from the heap of carcasses which covered him; they had heard the words he had pronounced, and were preparing to go to his succour, when the two strangers, appearing suddenly, raised his body and bore it away. This carrying off of a half dead man had surprised them exceedingly. After exchanging a few words, two of them went in pursuit of the mysterious strangers, probably in order to learn to what house the wounded man was taken, whilst the others, twelve in number, advanced to the middle of the square.

They anxiously bent down and examined the bodies stretched at their feet, hoping, perhaps, that another victim might have escaped the slaughter. Unfortunately, Don Tadeo was the only one saved by some inexplicable mystery. The nine other victims were all dead. After a long examination, the patriots stood up again with a painful sigh of regret, and one of them went and knocked at a lower door of the cathedral.

"Who is there?" was immediately asked from the interior.

"One for whom the night hath no darkness," the man who had knocked replied.

"What do you want?" the voice asked again.

"Is it not written: Knock and it shall be opened to thee?" the stranger added.

"Our country!" said the voice.

"Or vengeance!" the man promptly replied.

The door opened, and a monk appeared. His cowl pulled down over his face, prevented his features being seen.

"Well," he said, "what do the Dark-Hearts require?"

"A prayer for their murdered brothers."

"Return to those who sent you; they shall be satisfied."

"Thanks for all!" the unknown replied; and, after bowing respectfully to the monk, he rejoined his companions. During his absence they had not been idle, but had placed the bodies upon hand barrows concealed under the arcades of the place.

At the expiration of a few minutes a brilliant light inundated the place; the cathedral doors were opened. The interior was seen to be splendidly illuminated, and from the principal door issued a long procession of monks, each bearing a wax light in his hand; they chanted, as they walked, the service of the dead. At the same moment the gates of the government palace were thrown open as if by enchantment, and a squadron of the Ceras, with General Bustamente at their head, advanced, at a trot, towards the procession.

When the monks and soldiers met, they stopped as of one accord. The twelve unknown men, folded in their cloaks, and grouped round the fountain which forms the centre of the square, anxiously awaited the denouement of the scene about to take place.

"What is the meaning of this procession, at such an unusual hour?" the general haughtily demanded.

"It means that we have come," the monk who walked first replied, with a firm voice, but in a melancholy tone, "to take up the victims you have struck down, and give them honourable burial."

"And who, pray, are you?" the general asked, sharply.

"I?" the monk replied, in the same firm tone, and throwing back his cowl upon his shoulders – "I am the archbishop of Santiago, primate of Chili, invested by his holiness the Pope with the power of binding and unbinding on earth."

In Spanish America, all persons yield without hesitation to the religion of Christ. The only power that is real is that of the priests. No one, however high he may be placed, ventures to struggle against it: he knows beforehand that, if he did, he would be sure to be crushed. The general knitted his brows, struck his forehead forcibly with his hand, but was constrained to admit himself conquered.

"My lord!" he said, with a bow; "pardon me! In these times of civil discord, we often, in spite of ourselves, confound our friends with our enemies. I was ignorant that your lordship had given orders for prayers to be offered up for these criminals, and still more so that you would deign to perform this task in person – I beg leave to retire."

During this scene, the patriots had concealed themselves behind the pillars of the place, where, thanks to the darkness, they remained unseen by the general. As soon as the military had disappeared, at a sign from the archbishop the bodies were borne into the cathedral.

"Beware of that man, my lord," whispered one of the unknown in the archbishop's ear; "he darted at you the glance of a tiger as he retired."

"Brother!" the priest replied calmly; "I am prepared for martyrdom."

The service commenced. As soon as it was terminated, the patriots retired, after warmly thanking the archbishop for his kindness towards their dead brethren. Scarce had they proceeded a few steps along a narrow street, edged by mean dwellings, when two men rose from behind an overturned cart which concealed them, and coming towards them, said in a low voice —

"Our country!"

"Vengeance!" one of the unknown replied. "Come on!"

The two men approached.

"Well!" said he who appeared to be the chief. "What have you learnt?"

"All that it is possible to know," one of the newcomers replied.

"Whither have they transported Don Tadeo?"

"To the mansion of the Linda."

"To the residence of his wife! Of the woman who is now the mistress of the General Bustamente!" the chief replied anxiously. "By the holy Virgin! my comrades, he is lost, for she hates him mortally. Shall we allow him to be assassinated without an effort to save him?"

"That would be base cowardice," they replied unanimously.

"But how can we introduce ourselves into the house?"

"Nothing more easy; the garden walls are very low."

"Come on, then! there is not a minute to be lost!"

Without another word, they all hastened off in the direction of the Linda's house, which, as we have said, was situated in the faubourg of the Canadilla, the handsomest quarter in Santiago. The windows, hermetically closed, did not allow one ray of light to pass; not a sound could be heard, and the house seemed deserted. The patriots stole silently round the walls, and when they reached the back, they easily climbed the fence by sticking their poniards between the bricks, and sprang into the garden. Here they looked carefully about them, and, after a short pause, proceeded with stealthy steps towards a pale, trembling light, which sent a feeble beam through the chink of a shutter. They were within a few paces of this window, when they suddenly heard the noise of what appeared a scuffle, and a terrible cry was uttered, mingled with the crash of furniture and imprecations of rage and pain. Bounding forward like panthers, the strangers, who had covered their faces with masks of black velvet, dashed at the window, which flew in a thousand fragments around them, and entered the salon.

And it was time for them to arrive. Don Tadeo, with a stool, had split the head of one of the bandits, who lay lifeless upon the floor; but the other had got him down, and, with his knee upon his breast, was on the point of stabbing him. With a pistol shot, one of the unknown blew out his brains, and the wretch rolled in his agony close to his dead companion. Don Tadeo sprang up quickly, exclaiming —

"By the Virgin! I thought my hour was come!" Then, turning towards the masked men, he said – "Thanks, caballeros! thanks for your very timely succour! One minute more, and it would have been all over with me! The Linda is expeditious!"

The courtesan, with features contracted by rage, and clenched teeth, looked on without appearing to see, overwhelmed, confounded by the scene which had so rapidly taken place, and which had, in a few minutes, ravished from her the vengeance which she thought had this time been so certain.

"Without bearing malice, madam," said Don Tadeo in a jeering tone, "this is a match deferred. Your fertile imagination will no doubt soon furnish you with the means of taking your revenge!"

"I hope so," she said with a sardonic smile.

"Seize this woman," the leader of the unknown commanded; "gag her, and bind her securely to the bed."

"Bind me!" she cried in a paroxysm of anger; "me! do you know who I am?"

"Perfectly well, madam," the stranger replied drily. "You are a woman for whom honourable people have no name. Libertines have given you that of the Linda, and your present lover is General Bustamente. You see, madam, that we are not unacquainted with you."

"Beware, sir," she hissed; "I am not to be insulted with impunity."

"We do not insult you, madam; we only wish, for a time, to put it out of your power to do mischief. In a few days," he continued, in a quiet, firm tone, "we will determine what shall be done with you."

"Done with me! – me! – who then are you, with faces you dare not reveal, and who presume to speak to me thus?"

"Who we are, – learn! – We are the Dark-Hearts!" At this terrible announcement, a convulsive trembling shook the limbs of the woman, who, retreating to the wall, a prey to intense terror, exclaimed in a faint voice; "My God! my God! I am lost," and sank down fainting.

At a sign from the leader, one of his companions bound her securely, and after gagging her, fastened her to the foot of the bed. Then, taking Don Tadeo with them, they departed by the same way they had entered, without taking any heed of the two assassins lying upon the floor. Before he left the room, the chief pinned a piece of parchment to a table with a dagger. Upon this parchment were written a few words of terrible import: —

"The traitor Pancho Bustamente is cited at the expiration of ninety-three days!"

CHAPTER IX

IN THE STREET

As soon as they were outside of the house, the masked men, at a sign from the leader, dispersed in various directions. When they had disappeared round the corners of the neighbouring streets, the chief turned towards Don Tadeo, who, scarce recovered from the trying emotions he had successively gone through, and weakened by the blood he had lost, as well as by the prodigious efforts his last struggle had cost him, was leaning, half fainting against the wall of the house he had been so fortunately enabled to quit. A flood of bitter reflections rushed upon his brain; the incidents of that terrible night almost unsettled his reason: in vain he tried to recover the train of his ideas which had been so often and so violently broken. The stranger looked at him for a few minutes with profound attention; then approaching him, he laid his hand quietly upon his shoulder. At this sudden touch, the gentleman started as if he had received an electric shock.

"What!" the unknown said in a tone of reproach, "scarcely entered on the good fight, and you despair already, Don Tadeo?"