“There, then, ye gentlemen-artists! Always poets!” replied the commercial traveller. “For my part, if I am not deceived by the natural grace of this man, his lady foot well cast, the elegance of his profile, and his form, I would characterize him as a taureador (bull-fighter). Who knows? perhaps it is Montés himself, possessing the joint attractions of riches and generosity.”
“A taureador!” cried the artist; “a man of the people! You jest.”
“Not at all,” said the other; “I am very far, indeed, from jesting. You have not lived, like me, in Spain, and you do not know the aristocratic type of the nation. You will see, you will see. This is my opinion. Thanks to the progress of equality and fraternity, the insulting manners of the aristocracy disappear daily, and in a short time hence they will be found only among the men of the people.”
“Believe that this man is a taureador!” repeated the artist, with a smile so disdainful that the commercial traveller, wounded by the reply, rose and said:
“We will know very soon who he is; come with me, we will get information of him from his servant.”
The two friends mounted to the deck, where they were not long in meeting the man they searched for.
The commercial traveller, who volunteered to converse with the Spanish servant, led the conversation, and, after some trivial remarks, asked: “Your master,” he said to him, “has he retired to his chamber?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the servant, casting on the questioner a look full of penetration and malice.
“Is he rich?”
“I am not his intendant, I am only his valet-de-chambre.”
“Is he travelling on business?”
“I do not believe he has any.”
“Is he travelling for his health?”
“His health is excellent.”
“Is he travelling incognito?”
“No, sir; he travels with his name and Christian names.”
“And he is called – ”
“Don Carlos de la Cerda.”
“An illustrious name, very certainly,” cried the painter.
“My name is Pedro de Guzman,” added the servant, “and I am humble servant to you both.” He then made a very humble reverence, and went away.
“Gil Blas is right,” said the Frenchman, “in Spain nothing is more common than glorious names. It is true that in Paris my boot-maker was named Martel, my tailor called himself Roland, and my laundress, Madame Bayard. In Scotland, there are more Stuarts than paving-stones.”
“We are humbugged! That insolent servant is mocking us. But, every thing considered, I have a suspicion that he is an agent of the factions, an obscure emissary of Don Carlos.”
“Certainly not,” replied the artist; “it is my Alonzo Perez de Guzman the Good – the hero of my dreams.” The other Frenchman shrugged his shoulders.
When the ship arrived at Cadiz, the Spaniard took leave of Stein. “I am obliged to remain some short time in Andalusia,” he said to him. “Pedro, my servant, will accompany you as far as Seville, and take a place for you in the diligence for Madrid. Here are some letters of recommendation for the Minister of War and the general-in-chief of the army. If it happens that you have any friendly service to ask of me, write to me at Madrid, to this address.”
Stein, stifled with emotion, could not speak. With one hand he took the letters, and with the other he pushed back the card which the Spaniard presented to him. “Your name is engraven here,” he said in placing his hand on his heart. “Oh! I will not forget it while I live; it is that of a soul the most noble, the most elevated, the most generous; it is the name of the best of men.”
“With this address,” replied Don Carlos, smiling, “your letters would never reach me. You must have another, more clear and more brief,” and he handed him his card, and departed.
Stein read: “The Duke of Almansa.”
And Pedro de Guzman, who was close by, added: “Marquis de Guadalmonte, de Val-de-Flores, and de Loca-Fiel; Comte de Santa-Clara, de Encinasala, et de Laza; Chevalier of the Golden Fleece, and Grand Cross of Charles III.; Gentleman of the Chamber of his Majesty; Grandee of Spain, of First Class; &c., &c., &c.”
CHAPTER II
ONE morning in October, in the year 1838, a man on foot descended a little hill in the county of Niebla, and advanced towards the coast. His impatience to arrive at a little port which had been indicated to him was such that, thinking to shorten his route, he found himself in one of those vast solitudes so common in the south of Spain, real deserts, reserved to raise cattle, and in which the flocks never go beyond the limits. This man, although not more than twenty-six years of age, appeared already old. He wore a military tunic, buttoned up to the chin. On his head he wore a common cloth cap. He carried on his shoulder a large stick, at the end of which was suspended a little casket of mahogany, covered with green flannel, a package of books, fastened together with pack-thread, a handkerchief covering a little white linen, and a great cloak rolled up. This light baggage appeared to be beyond the strength of the traveller, who, from time to time, paused, supporting one hand on his oppressed chest, or passing it over his burning forehead. At times he fixed his looks on a poor dog which followed him, and which, whenever he halted, stretched himself at full length at his feet. “Poor Fidele!” said the master; “the only being who makes me believe there is yet in the world a little of affection and of gratitude. No! I will never forget the day when I saw you for the first time. Thou wast, with a poor herdsman, condemned to be shot, because he would not be a traitor. He was on his knees, he awaited his death, and it was in vain he supplicated a respite. He asked that thou shouldst be spared, and no one listened to him. The shots were fired, and thou, faithful friend of the unfortunate, thou didst fall cruelly wounded beside the inanimate corpse of thy master. I rescued thee, I cured thy wounds, and since then thou hast not abandoned me. When the wits of the regiment called me a dog-curer, you came and licked the hand that had saved you, as if you would say to me, ‘Dogs have gratitude.’ Oh! my God, I have a loving heart! It is two years since, full of life, of hope, and good-will, I arrived in this country, and offered to my brethren my will, my care, my knowledge, and my heart. I have cured many wounds; for my recompense they have made me feel sorrow the most profound, and it is my soul they have lacerated. Great God! great God! discouragement has seized me. I see myself ingloriously driven from the army, after two years of incessant labor – labor without repose. I see myself accused and pursued, for nothing but for having given my care to a man of an opposite party; to an unhappy man, who, driven like a beast, fell dying into my arms. Is it possible that the rules of war convert into a crime what morality recognizes as a virtue, and which religion proclaims to be a duty!
“What can I do at present? Go and repose my head, prematurely bald, and cure my lacerated heart in the shade of the linden-trees which surround my father’s house. There, at least, they will not charge me with crime for having showed pity for a dying man.”
After the pause of a few minutes, the unhappy man made an effort. “Let us go, Fidele,” said he; “move on! move on!” and the traveller and his faithful animal pursued their painful route.
But soon the man lost the right path, which he had until now followed, and which had been beaten by the steps of the shepherds. The ground was covered more and more with briers and with high and thick bushes; it was impossible to follow a straight line; he must turn aside alternately to the right and left.
The sun had finished his course, and no part of the horizon discovered the least appearance of any human habitation. There was nothing to be seen but limitless solitude; nothing but the desert tinged with green, and uniform as the ocean.
Fritz Stein, whom our reader no doubt already recognizes, perceived too late that he had placed too much