Chapter Fifty Seven.
Under Arrest.
Scarce necessary to say that Luisa Valverde and Ysabel Almonté were at length really alarmed—fully alive to a sense of their danger.
It was no more a question of the safety of their lovers, but their own. And the prospect was dark, indeed. Santander had said nothing of the reason for arresting them; nor had they cared to inquire. They divined it; no longer doubting that it was owing to revelations made by the hunchback.
Sure now that this diminutive wretch not only himself knew their secret, but had made it known in higher quarters, there seemed no hope for them; instead, ruin staring them in the face. The indignity to their persons they were already experiencing would be followed by social disgrace, and confiscation of property.
“Oh, Ysabelita! what will they do to us?” was the Doña Luisa’s anxious interrogatory, soon as they had got well inside their room. “Do you think they’ll put us in a prison?”
“Possibly they will. I wish there was nothing worse awaiting us.”
“Worse! Do you mean they’d inflict punishment on us—that is, corporal punishment? Surely they daren’t?”
“Daren’t! Santa Anna dare anything—at least, neither shame nor mercy will restrain him. No more this other man, his minion, whom you know better than I. But it isn’t punishment of that kind I’m thinking of.”
“What then, Ysabel? The loss of our property? It’ll be all taken from us, I suppose.”
“In all likelihood it will,” rejoined the Condesa, with as much unconcern as though her estates, value far more than a million, were not worth a thought.
“Oh! my father! This new misfortune, and all owing to me. ’Twill kill him!”
“No, no, Luisita! Don’t fear that. He will survive it, if aught survives of our country’s liberty. And it will, all of it, be restored again. ’Tis something else I was thinking of.”
Again the other asked “What?” her countenance showing increased anxiety.
“What we as women have more to fear than aught else. From the loss of lands, houses, riches of any sort, one may recover—from the loss of that, never!”
Enigmatic as were the words, Luisa Valverde needed no explanation of them, nor pressed for it. She comprehended all now, and signified her apprehension by exclaiming, with a shudder, “Virgen Santissima!”
“The prison they will take us to,” pursued the Countess, “is a place—that in the Plaza Grande. We shall be immured there, and at the mercy of that man, that monster! O God!—O Mother of God, protect me!”
At which she dropped down upon a couch despairingly, with face buried in her hands.
It was a rare thing for the Condesa Almonté to be so moved—rather, to show despondence—and her friend was affected accordingly. For there was another man at whose mercy she herself would be—one like a monster, and as she well knew equally unmerciful—he who at that moment was under the same roof with them—in her father’s house, for the time its master.
“But, Ysabel,” she said, hoping against hope, “surely they will not dare to—”
She left the word unspoken, knowing it was not needed to make her meaning understood.
“Not dare!” echoed the Countess, recovering nerve and again rising to her feet. “As I’ve said, he’ll dare anything—will Don Antonio Lopez De Santa Anna. Besides, what has he to fear? Nothing. He can show good cause for our imprisonment, else he would never have had us arrested. Enough to satisfy any clamour of the people. And how would any one ever know of what might be done to us inside the Palacio? Ah, Luisita querida, if its walls could speak they might tell tales sad enough to make angels weep. We wouldn’t be the first who have been subjected to insult—ay, infamy—by El excellentissimo. Valga me Dios!” she cried out in conclusion, stamping her foot on the floor, while the flash of her eyes told of some fixed determination. “If it be so, that Palace prison will have another secret to keep, or a tale to tell, sad and tragic as any that has preceded. I, Ysabel Almonté, shall die in it rather than come out dishonoured.”
“I, too!” echoed Luisa Valverde, if in less excited manner, inspired by a like heroic resolve.
While his fair prisoners were thus exchanging thought and speech, Santander, in the sala grande outside, was doing his best to pass the time pleasantly. An effort it was costing him, however, and one far from successful. His last lingering hope of being beloved by Luisa Valverde was gone—completely destroyed by what had late come to his knowledge—and henceforth his love for her could only be as that of Tarquin for Lucretia. Nor would he have any Collatinus to fear—no rival, martial or otherwise—since his master, Santa Anna, had long since given up his designs on Don Ignacio’s daughter, exclusively bending himself to his scheme of conquest—now revenge—over the Condesa. But though relieved in this regard, and likely to have his own way, Carlos Santander was anything but a happy man after making that arrest; instead, almost as miserable as either of those he had arrested.
Still keeping up a pretence of gallantry, he could not command their company in the drawing-room where he had installed himself; nor, under the circumstances, would it have been desirable. He was not alone, however; Major Ramirez and the other officers of his escort being there with him; and, as in like cases, they were enjoying themselves. However considerate for the feelings of the ladies, they made free enough with the house itself, its domestics, larder, and cocina, and, above all, the cellar. Its binns were inquired into, the best wine ordered to be brought from them, as though they who gave the order were the guests of an hotel and Don Ignacio’s drawing-room a drinking saloon.
Outside in the courtyard, and further off by the coach-house, similar scenes were transpiring. Never had that quiet casa de campo known so much noise. For the soldiers had got among them—it was the house of a rebel, and therefore devoted to ruin.