Chapter Twenty.
A Pair of Beautiful Petitioners.
Soon as the aide-de-camp had closed the door behind him, Santa Anna sprang up from his seat and hastily stumped it to a large cheval glass which stood on one side of the room. Squaring himself before this he took survey of his person from crown to toes. He gave a pull or two at his moustaches, twisting their points, and turning them upward along his cheeks. Then running his fingers comb-like through his hair, he gave that also a jaunty set. In fine, straightening himself in his gold-braided uniform frock, with a last glance down to his feet—this resulting in a slight grimace—he returned to the state chair and reseated himself.
With all his gallantry and politeness—and to these he made much pretension—it was not his custom to receive lady visitors standing. In the upright attitude the artificial leg made him look stiff, and he preferred stowing it away under the table. Besides, there was his dignity, as the grand figure-head of the nation, which he now wished to have its full effect. Leaning forward, he gave a downward blow to the spring of the table bell; then assuming an attitude of expectant grandeur, sate expectant. This time the aide-de-camp required no passing to and fro; and the door again opening, the ladies were ushered into the august presence.
In their air and manner they betrayed agitation too, while the serious expression upon their features told they were there on no trivial errand.
“Pray be seated, ladies,” said the Dictator, after exchanging salutations with them. “’Tis not often the Condesa Almonté honours the Palacio with her presence, and for the Señorita Valverde, were it not for official relations with her father, I fear we should see even less of her than we do.”
While speaking he pointed to a couple of couch chairs that stood near the table.
They sat down rather hesitatingly, and slightly trembling. Not that either would have been at all timid had the occasion been a common one. Both were of Mexico’s best blood, the Condesa one of the old noblesse who hold their heads higher even than the political chief of the State, when he chances to be—as more than once has occurred—an adventurer of humbler birth. Therefore, it was not any awe of the great dignitary that now unnerved them, but the purpose for which they were seeking speech with him. Whether Santa Anna guessed it, or not, could not be told by his looks. An experienced diplomatist, he could keep his features fixed and immovable as the Sphinx, or play them to suit the time and the tune. So, after having delivered himself, as above, with the blandest of smiles upon his face, he remained silent, awaiting the rejoinder.
It was the Condesa who made it.
“Your Excellency,” she said, doing her utmost to look humble; “we have come to beg a favour from you.”
A gratified look, like a gleam of light, illuminated Santa Anna’s swarthy features. Ysabel Almonté begging favours from him! What better could he have wished? With all his command of features he but ill-concealed the triumph he now felt. It flashed up in his eyes as he said respondingly—
“A favour you would ask? Well, if it be within my power to grant it, neither the Condesa Almonté, nor the Doña Luisa Valverde need fear refusal. Be frank, then, and tell me what it is.”
The Countess, with all her courage, still hesitated to declare it. For despite the ready promise of compliance, she did fear a refusal; since it had been asked for that same morning and though not absolutely refused, the answer left but little hope of its being conceded.
As is known, at an earlier hour Don Ignacio had paid a visit to the Palacio, to seek clemency for a prisoner-of-war, Florence Kearney. But pardon for a state prisoner was also included in his application—that being Ruperto Rivas. Of all this the ladies were well aware, since it was at their instigation, and through their importunity, he had acted. It was only, therefore, by the urgency of a despairing effort, as a dernier ressort, these had now sought the presence as petitioners, and naturally they dreaded denial. Noting the Condesa’s backwardness—a thing new but not displeasing to him, since it gave promise of influence over her—Santa Anna said interrogatively:
“Might this favour, as you are pleased to term it, have ought to do with a request lately made to me by Don Ignacio Valverde?”
“’Tis the same, your Excellency,” answered the Countess, at length recovering spirit, but still keeping up the air of meek supplication she had assumed.
“Indeed!” exclaimed the Dictator, adding, “that grieves me very much.”
He made an attempt to look sorry, though it needed none for him to appear chagrined. This he was in reality, and for reasons intelligible. Here were two ladies, both of whom he had amatory designs upon, each proclaiming by her presence—as it were telling him to his teeth, the great interest she felt in another—that or she would not have been there!
“But why, Excellentissimo?” asked the Countess, entreatingly. “What is there to grieve you in giving their freedom to two men—gentlemen, neither of whom has been guilty of crime, and who are in prison only for offences your Excellency can easily pardon?”
“Not so easily as you think, Condesa. You forget that I am but official head of the State, and have others to consult—my Ministers and the Congress—in affairs of such magnitude. Know, too, that both these men for whom you solicit pardon have been guilty of the gravest offences; one of them, a foreigner, an enemy of our country, taken in arms against it; the other, I am sorry to say, a citizen, who has become a rebel, and worse still, a robber!”
“’Tis false!” exclaimed the Countess, all at once changing tone, and seeming to forget the place she was in and the presence. “Don Ruperto Rivas is no robber; never was, nor rebel either; instead, the purest of patriots!”
Never looked Ysabel Almonté lovelier than at that moment—perhaps never woman. Her spirit roused, cheeks red, eyes sparkling with indignation, attitude erect—for she had started up from her chair—she seemed to be the very impersonation of defiance, angry, but beautiful. No longer meek or supplicating now. Instinct or intuition told her it would be of no use pleading further, and she had made up her mind for the worst.
The traits of beauty which her excitement called forth, added piquancy to her natural charms, and inflamed Santa Anna’s wicked passions all the more. But more than any of them revenge. For now he knew how much the fair petitioner was interested in the man whose suit she had preferred. With a cold cynicism—which, however, cost him an effort—he rejoined:
“That, perhaps, is your way of thinking, Condesa. But it remains to be proved—and the prisoner you speak of shall have an opportunity of proving it—with his innocence in every respect. That much I can promise you. The same for him,” he added, turning to Luisa Valverde, “in whom, if I mistake not, the Doña Luisa is more especially interested. These gentlemen prisoners shall have a fair trial, and justice done them. Now, ladies! can you ask more of me?”
They did not; both seeing it would be to no purpose. Equally purposeless to prolong the interview; and they turned toward the door, the daughter of Don Ignacio leading where she had before followed.
This was just as Santa Anna wished it. Seemingly forgetful of his cork-leg, and the limp he took such pains to conceal, he jerked himself out of his chair and hurried after—on a feigned plea of politeness. Just in time to say to the Countess in a hurried, half-whisper:—
“If the Condesa will return, and prefer her request alone, it may meet with more favour.”
The lady passed on, with head held disdainfully, as though she heard but would not heed. She did hear what he said, and it brought a fresh flush upon her cheek, with another flash of anger in her eyes. For she could not mistake his meaning, and knew it was as the serpent whispering into the ear of Eve.