The Insurgent Chief

by Gustave Aimard

He who appeared to be the chief of these men had knocked three times with the pommel of his sword on the door, which was immediately opened.

This man had, in a low voice, exchanged a few words with an invisible person; then, on a sign from himself, the ranks of his troop opened, and four women—four spectres, perhaps—draped in long veils, which did not allow any part of their person to be perceived, entered the house silently, and in a line. Some few words further had been exchanged between the chief of the troop and the invisible doorkeeper of this mysterious house; then the door had been again noiselessly closed, as it had been opened; the soldiers returned by the way they had come, and all was over.

This singular circumstance had transpired without awakening in any way the attention of the poor people who lived in the vicinity. The greater part were assisting at the fête in the streets or in the squares of the high quarters of the town; the remainder were sleeping, or Were too indifferent to trouble themselves about any noise whatever at so advanced an hour of the night.

So that, on the morrow, the inhabitants of the Callejón de las Cruces would have been quite unable to give the slightest account of what had passed at midnight in their street, at the gate of the Black House as among themselves they called this gloomy habitation, for which they had a strong dislike, and which was far from enjoying a good reputation among them.

Several days had passed since the fête, the town had resumed its calm and peaceful appearance, only the troops had not raised their camp—on the contrary, the Montonera of Don Zeno Cabral had installed itself at a short distance from them.

Vague rumours, which circulated in the town, gave rise to the belief that the revolutionists were preparing a great expedition against the Spaniards.

Emile Gagnepain—much annoyed at first at being continually the sport of events, and at seeing his free will completely annihilated for the benefit of others, and especially at being obliged, in spite of himself, to be mixed up with politics, when he would have been so happy to pass his days in wandering about the country, and particularly in dreamily stretching himself on the grass—had finished by making up his mind to these continual quarrels in which he could do nothing. He had, till better times arrived, resigned himself to his fate with that philosophic carelessness which formed the foundation of his character; and this the more readily, as he was not long in perceiving that his position as secretary to the Duc de Mantone was rather nominal than actual, and that, in fact, it was a magnificent sinecure, inasmuch as during the fortnight he had been supposed to fulfil its duties, the diplomatist had not given him a syllable to write.

Although both lived in the same house, the patron and the nominal secretary only saw one another rarely, and, ordinarily, did not meet but at meals, when the same table served them. Two or three days sometimes passed without their seeing each other.

M. Dubois, completely absorbed in the intricate combinations of politics, often passed the day in long and serious conferences with the chiefs of the executive power. He had been charged with a very difficult work on the election of the deputies to the general congress, which was about to be held at San Miguel de Tucuman, and in which the independence of the provinces of the ancient vice-royalty of Buenos Aires was about to be proclaimed.

So that, spite of the lively interest which he had in his young countryman, the diplomatist was obliged to neglect him—of which the latter by no means complained; on the contrary, profiting conscientiously by the agreeable leisure which politics gave to him, he gave himself up with delight to the contemplative life so dear to artists, and lounged whole days about the town and country, in quest of picturesque points of view, and of fine landscapes.