THE DUEL.
It was about eight in the evening when the Count de Lhorailles left the residence of Don Sylva de Torrés. The feria de plata was then in all its splendour. The streets of Guaymas were thronged with a joyful and motley crowd: the shouts of songs and laughter rose on every side. The piles of gold heaped on the monte tables emitted their yellow and intoxicating reflection in the dazzling gleams of the lights, that shone in every door and window: here and there the sounds of the vihuelas and jarabes escaped from the pulquerías, invaded by the drinkers. The count, elbowed and elbowing, traversed as quickly as was possible the dense groups which at every instant barred his passage; but the conversation he had had with Don Sylva had put him in too happy a temper for him to dream of being vexed at the numerous collisions he endured at every moment.
At length, after numberless difficulties, and wasting at least thrice the time he would have employed under other circumstances, he reached at about ten in the evening, the house where he lodged. He had spent about two hours in covering less than six hundred yards.
On arriving at the mesón, the count proceeded first to the corral to see his horse, to which he gave, with his own hand, two trusses of alfalfa; then, after ordering that he should be called at one o'clock, if by accident (which was most improbable) he retired to his cuarto to take a few hours' rest.
The count intended to start at such an early hour in order to avoid the heat of the day, and travel more quickly. Besides, after his lengthened conversation with Don Sylva, the noble adventurer was not sorry to find himself alone, in order to go over in his mind all the happy things that had happened during the past evening.
From the moment he had landed in America the count had enjoyed—to employ a familiar term—a shameful good luck: everything succeeded with him. In a few months his fortune might be thus summed up:—A colony founded under the most favourable auspices, and already on the road of progress and improvement: while keeping his nationality intact—that is to say, his liberty of action and an inviolable neutrality—he was in the service of the Mexican Government, as captain of a free corps of one hundred and fifty devoted men, with whom he could attempt, if not carry out, the wildest enterprises. In the last place, he was on the point of marrying the daughter of a man twenty times a millionaire, as far as he had opportunity of judging; and what in no way spoiled the affair, his betrothed was delightful.
Unfortunately, or fortunately, according the standpoint our readers may think in judging of our hero, this man, worn out by the enervating eccentricities of Parisian life, no longer felt his heart beat from any emotion of joy, sorrow or fear: all was dead within him. He was exactly the man wanted to succeed in the country to which accident had sent him. In the great del of life he had begun in America he had an immense advantage over his adversaries—that of never allowing himself to be directed by passion; and consequently, owing to his unalterable coolness, he was enabled to evade the pitfalls incessantly laid for him, over which he triumphed without appearing to notice them.
After what we have said, we have hardly need to add that he did not love the woman whose hand he sought. She was young and lovely—so much the better. Had she been old and ugly he would have accepted her hand all the same. What did he care? He only sought one thing in marriage—a brilliant and envied position. In fine, the Count de Lhorailles was all calculation. We have made a mistake, however, in affirming that he had not a weak point. He was ambitious. This passion, one of the most violent of those with which Heaven has afflicted the human race, was possibly the only link by which the count was still attached to humanity. Ambition in him had reached such a pitch, especially during the last few months—it had taken such an immense development—that he would have sacrificed all to it.
Now let us see what was the object of this man's ambition. What future did he dream of? It is probable that we may explain this to the reader in fuller detail presently.
The count went to bed; that is to say, after wrapping himself carefully in his zarapé, he stretched himself on the leathern frame which throughout Mexico is the substitute for beds, whose existence is completely ignored. So soon as he lay down he fell asleep, with that conscience peculiar to the adventurer whose every hour is claimed beforehand, and who, having but a few moments to grant to rest, hastens to profit by them, and sleeps as the Spaniards say, a la pierna suelta, which we may translate nearly by sleeping with closed fists.
At one in the morning the count, as he had promised, awoke, lighted the cebo which served him as a candle, arranged his toilette to a certain extent, carefully examined his pistols and rifle, and assured himself that his sabre left the scabbard easily; then, when all these various preparations, indispensable for every traveller careful for his safety, were ended, he opened the door of the cuarto and proceeded to the corral.
His horse was eating heartily, and gaily finishing its alfalfa. The count himself gave it a measure of oats, which he saw it dispose of with neighs of pleasure, and then put on the saddle. In Mexico, horsemen, whatever the class of society to which they belong, never leave to others the care of attending to their steeds: for in those semi-savage countries the life of the rider depends nearly always upon the vigour and speed of his animal.
The door of the mesón was only leaned to, so that the travellers might start whenever they pleased without disturbing anybody. The count lit his cigar, leaped into the saddle, and started on a trot along the road leading to the Rancho. Nothing is so agreeable as night travelling in Mexico. The earth, refreshed by the night breeze, and bedewed by the copious dew, exhaled acrid and perfumed scents, whose beneficent emanations restore the body all its vigour, and the mind its lucidity. The moon, just on the point of disappearing, profusely scattered its oblique rays, which lengthened immoderately the shadow of the trees growing at intervals along the road, and made them in the obscurity resemble a legion of fleshless spectres. The sky, of a deep azure, was studded with an infinite number of glistening stars, in the midst of which flashed the dazzling southern cross, to which the Indians have given the name of Poron Chayké. The wind breathed gently through the branches, in which the blue jay uttered at intervals the melodious notes of its melancholy song, with which were mingled at times, in the profundities of the desert, the howling of the cougar, the sharp miauw of the panther or the ounce, and the hoarse bark of the coyotes in search of prey.
The count, on leaving Guaymas, had hurried on his horse; but subjugated, in spite of himself, by the irresistible attractions of this autumn night he gradually checked the pace of his steed, and yielded to the flood of thoughts which mounted incessantly to his brain, and plunged him into a gentle reverie. The descendant of an ancient and haughty Frank race, alone in this desert, he mentally surveyed the splendour of his name so long eclipsed, and his heart expanded with joy and pride on reflecting that the task was reserved for him perhaps to rehabilitate those from whom he descended, and restore, this time eternally, the fortunes of his family, of which he had hitherto proved such a bad guardian.
This land, which he trampled underfoot, would restore him what he had lost and madly squandered a hundred fold. The moment had at length arrived when, free from all hobbles, he was about to realise those plans for the future so long engraved on his brain. He went on thus, travelling in the country of chimeras, and so absorbed in his thoughts, that he no longer troubled himself with what went on around him.
The stars were beginning to turn pale in the heavens, and be extinguished in turn. The dawn was tracing a white line, which gradually assumed a reddish tint on the distant obscurity of the horizon. On the approach of day the air became fresher; then the count, aroused—if we may employ the term—by the icy impression produced on him by the bountiful desert dew, pulled the folds of his zarapé over the shoulders with a shudder, and started at a gallop, directing a glance to the sky, and muttering,—
"I will succeed, no matter the odds."
A haughty defiance, to which the heavens seemed prepared to respond immediately.
The day was on the brink of dawning, and, in consequence of that, the night, owing to its struggle with the twilight, had become more gloomy, as always happens during the few moments preceding the apparition of the sun. The first houses of the Rancho were standing out from the fog, a short distance before him, when the count heard, or fancied he heard, the sound of several horses' hoofs re-echoing on the pebbles behind him.
In America, by night, and on a solitary road, the presence of man announces always or nearly always, a peril.
The count stopped and listened. The sound was rapidly approaching. The Frenchman was brave, and had proved it in many circumstances; still he did not at all desire to be assassinated in the corner of the road, and perish miserably through an ambuscade. He looked around, in order to study the chances of safety offered him in the probable event that the arrivals were enemies.
The plain was bare and flat: not a tree, not a ditch, nor any elevation behind which he could intrench himself. Two hundred yards in front, as we have said, were the first houses of the Rancho.
The count made up his mind on the instant. He dug his spurs into his horse's flanks, and galloped at full speed in the direction of San José. It seemed to him as if the strangers imitated him, and pressed on their horses too.
A few minutes passed thus, during which the sound grew more distinct. It was, therefore, evident to the Frenchman that the strangers were after him. He threw a glance behind him, and perceived two shadows, still distant, rushing at full speed towards him. By this time the count had reached the Rancho. Reassured by the vicinity of houses, and not caring to fly from a perhaps imaginary danger, he turned back, drew his horse across the road, took a pistol in each hand, and waited. The strangers were still pressing on without checking the speed of their horses, and were soon within twenty yards of the count.
"Who goes there?" he shouted in a firm and loud voice.
The unknown made no reply, and appeared to redouble their speed.
"Who's there?" the count repeated. "Stop, or I fire!"
He uttered these words with such a determined accent, his countenance was so intrepid, that, after a few moments' hesitation, the strangers stopped.
There were two of them. The day, just feebly breaking, permitted the count to distinguish them perfectly. They were dressed in Mexican costume; but, strangely enough in this country, where, under similar circumstances, the bandits care very little about showing their faces, the strangers were masked.
"Hold, my masters!" shouted the count. "What means this obstinate pursuit?"
"That we probably have an interest in catching you up," replied a hoarse voice sarcastically.
"Then you really are after me?"
"Yes, if you are the stranger known as the Count de Lhorailles."
"I am he," said he without any hesitation.
"Very good; then we can come to an understanding."
"I ask nothing better, though, from your suspicious conduct, you appear to me to be bandits, if you want my purse, take it and be off, for I am in a hurry."
"Keep your purse, caballero; we want to take your life, and not your money."
"Ah, ha! 'tis, then, a trap, followed by an assassination."
"You are mistaken. I offer you a fair fight."
"Hum!" the count said, "a fair fight: two against one—that is rather disproportionate."
"You would be correct if matters were as you assume," the man haughtily replied who had hitherto taken the word; "but my companion will content himself with looking on and taking no part in the duel."
The count reflected.
"Pardieu!" he said at last, "It is an extraordinary affair! A duel in Mexico and with a Mexican! Such a thing as that has never been heard of before."
"It is true, caballero; but all things must have a beginning."
"Enough of jesting. I ask nothing better than to fight, and I hope to prove to you that I am a resolute man; but before accepting your proposition, I should not be sorry to know why you force me to fight you."
"For what end?"
"Corbleu! Why, to know it. You must understand that I cannot waste my time in fighting with every ruffler I meet on the road, and who has a fancy to have his throat cut."
"It will be enough for you to know that I hate you."
"Caramba! I suspected as much; but as you seem determined not to show me your face, I should like to be able to recognise you at another time."
"Enough chattering," the unknown said haughtily. "Time is flying. We have had sufficient discussion."
"Well, my master, if that is the case, get ready. I warn you that I intend to take you both. A Frenchman would never have any difficulty in holding his own against two Mexican bandits."
"As you please."
"Forward!"
"Forward!"
The three horsemen spurred their horses and charged. When they met they exchanged pistol shots, and then drew their sabres. The fight was brief, but obstinate. One of the strangers, slightly wounded, was carried away by his horse, and disappeared in a cloud of dust. The count, grazed by a ball, felt his anger changed to fury, and redoubled his efforts to master his foe; but he had before him a sturdy opponent, a man of surprising skill and of strength at least equal to his own.
This man whose eyes he saw gleaming like live coals through the holes in his mask, whirled round him with extraordinary rapidity, making his horse perform the boldest curvets, attacking him incessantly with the point or edge of his sabre, while bounding out of reach of the counterblows.
The count exhausted himself in vain against this indefatigable enemy. His movements began to lose their elasticity—his sight grew troubled—the perspiration stood in beads on his forehead. His silent adversary increased the rapidity of his attacks: the issue of the combat was no longer doubtful, when the Frenchman suddenly felt a slipknot fall on his shoulders. Before he could even dream of loosening it he was roughly lifted from his saddle, and hurled to the ground so violently that he almost fainted, and found it impossible to make an effort to rise. The second stranger, after a mad course of a few moments, had at length succeeded in mastering his horse; he returned in all haste to the scene of action, the two men so furiously engaged not noticing it; then, thinking it time to put an end to the duel, he raised his reata and lassoed the count.
So soon as he saw his enemy on the ground, the unknown leaped from his horse and ran up to him. His first care was to free the Frenchman from the slipknot that strangled him, and then tried to restore him to his senses, which was not a lengthy task.
"Ah!" the count said, with a bitter smile, as he rose and crossed his arms on his chest, "that is what you call fair fighting."
"You are alone to blame for what has happened," the other said quietly, "as you would not agree to my propositions."
The Frenchman disdained any discussion. He contented himself with shrugging his shoulders contemptuously.
"Your life belongs to me," his adversary continued.
"Yes, through a piece of treachery; but no matter—assassinate me, and finish the affair."
"I do not wish to kill you."
"What do you want, then?"
"To give you a piece of advice."
The count laughed sarcastically.
"You must be mad, my good fellow."
"Not so much as you fancy. Listen attentively to what I have to say to you."
"I will do so even for the hope of being promptly freed from your presence."
"Good, Señor Conde de Lhorailles. Your arrival in this country has caused the unhappiness of two persons."
"Nonsense! You are jesting with me."
"I speak seriously. Don Sylva de Torrés has promised you his daughter's hand."
"How does it concern you?"
"Answer!"
"It is true. Why should I conceal it?"
"Doña Anita does not love you."
"How do you know that?" the count asked with a mocking smile.
"I know it; I know, too, that she loves another."
"Only think of that!"
"And that the other loves her."
"All the worse for him; for I swear that I will not surrender her."
"You are mistaken, señor conde. You will surrender her or die."
"Neither one or the other," the impetuous Frenchman shouted, now perfectly recovered from his stunning fall. "I repeat that I will marry Doña Anita. If she does not love me, well, that is unfortunate. I hope that she will presently alter her opinion of me. The marriage suits me, and no one will succeed in breaking it off."
The unknown listened, a prey to violent emotion. His eyes flashed lightning, and he stamped his feet furiously; still he made an effort to master the feeling which agitated him, and replied in a slow and firm voice,—
"Take care of what you do, caballero. I have sworn to warn you, and have done so honestly. Heaven grant that my words find an echo in your heart, and that you follow the counsel I give you! The first time accident brings us together again one of us will die."
"I will take my precautions, be assured; but you are wrong not to profit by the present occasion to kill me, for it will not occur again."
The two strangers had by this time remounted.
"Count de Lhorailles," the unknown said again, as he bent over the Frenchman, "for the last time, take care, for I have a great advantage over you. I know you, and you do not know me. It will be an easy thing for me to reach you whenever I please. We are the sons of Indians and Spaniards. We feel a burning hatred: so take care."
After bowing ironically to the count he burst into a mocking laugh, spurred his horse, and started at headlong speed, followed by his silent companion. The count watched them disappear with a pensive air. When they were lost in the obscurity he tossed his head several times, as if to shake off the gloomy thoughts that oppressed him in spite of himself, then picked up his sabre and pistols, took his horse by the bridle, and walked slowly toward the pulquería, near which the fight had taken place.
The light which filtered through the badly-joined planks of the door, the songs and laughter that resounded from the interior, afforded a reasonable prospect of obtaining a temporary shelter in this house.
"Hum!" he muttered to himself as he walked along, "That bandit is right. He knows me, and I have no way of recognising him. By Jupiter, I have a good sound hatred on my shoulders! But nonsense!" he added, "I was too happy. I wanted an enemy. On my soul, let him do as he will! Even if Hades combine against me, I swear that nothing will induce me to resign the hand of Doña Anita."
At this moment he found himself in front of the pulquería, at the door of which he rapped. Naturally impatient, angered, too, by the accident which had happened to him, and the tremendous struggle he had been engaged in, the count was about to carry out his threat of beating in the door, when it was opened.
"Válga me Dios!" he exclaimed wrathfully, "Is this the way you allow people to be assassinated before your doors, without proceeding to their assistance?"
"Oh, oh!" the pulquero said sharply, "Is anyone dead?"
"No, thanks to Heaven!" the count replied; "But I had a narrow escape of being killed."
"Oh!" the pulquero said with great nonchalance, "If we were to trouble ourselves about all who shout for help at night, we should have enough to do; and besides, it is very dangerous on account of the police."
The count shrugged his shoulders and walked in, leading his horse after him. The door was closed again immediately.
The count was unaware that in Mexico the man who finds a corpse, or brings the assassin to trial, is obliged to pay all the expenses of a justice enormously expensive in itself, and which never affords any satisfaction to the victim. In all the Mexican provinces people are so thoroughly convinced of the truth of what we assert, that, so soon as a murder is committed, everyone runs off, without dreaming of helping the victim; for, in the case of death supervening, such an act of charity would entail many annoyances on the individual who tried to imitate the good Samaritan.
In Sonora people do better still: as soon as a quarrel begins, and a man falls, they shut all the doors.