THE TOLDO.
On leaving the reception room, Emile Gagnepain proceeded to the toldo occupied by the Marchioness de Castelmelhor and her daughter. In thus acting, the young man obeyed a presentiment which told him that in what had passed before him a melancholy farce had been played by Don Pablo, and that the readiness with, which he had consented to part with them concealed some perfidy or other.
This presentiment had become so fixed in the young man's mind—it had become so real to him—that, although nothing arose to corroborate this suspicion of treachery, he was perfectly convinced of it, and would have asserted as much had occasion called for it.
Drawn, spite of himself, into a series of adventures very disagreeable to a man who, like him, had come to America to seek for that freedom and tranquillity of mind which his country, torn by factions, refused him, the young man had at last—as always happens—become interested in the anomalous position into which he had been thrown, with the feverish anxiety of a man who sees passing before him the scenes of a stirring drama. Moreover, without his taking any heed of it, a sentiment that he could not analyse had taken possession of his heart. This feeling had grown, unknown to himself, almost insensibly, and finally had acquired such force that the young man—who began to be frightened at the novel situation in which he was suddenly placed—despaired of freeing himself from it. Like all natures not feeble, but careless—not daring seriously to question himself, and sound the gulf which had thus opened in his heart—he allowed himself carelessly to be drifted by the current which carried him along, enjoying the present without caring for the future, and assuring himself that when the catastrophe arrived it would be time enough to face the danger and to take his stand.
He had taken but a few steps in the camp when, turning his head, he perceived Don Santiago Pincheyra at a few paces behind him.
The Montonero was walking carelessly, his arms behind his back, with a vague look, whistling a zambacueca—in a word, all the appearance of a man taking a lounging walk. But the painter was not deceived: he knew that Don Pablo, engaged with his guests, towards whom he was obliged to do the honours of the camp, had deputed his brother to watch his movements and render an account of his proceedings.
The young man by degrees slackened his pace unaffectedly, and, turning suddenly on his heel, found himself face to face with Don Santiago.
"Eh!" said he, feigning to see him for the first time; "What a charming surprise, Señor! You have then left to your brother, Don Pablo, the care of treating with the Spanish officers."
"As you see, Señor," answered the other, rather nonplussed, and not well knowing what to say.