"Then, Madame, I should, in return, have freed you from the accusation which weighs upon you, and should immediately have obtained your liberty."
"Liberty to be a prisoner in a town, instead of in a convent," said she, with irony; "you are generous, Señor. But you would not have had to appear before a counsel of war."
"That is true; I forgot that you and yours make war on women – especially on women – you are so brave, you revolutionary gentlemen." The young man was unmoved by this bitter insult; he bowed respectfully.
"I wait your answer, Madame," said he.
"What answer?" she replied, with disdain.
"That which you will be pleased to make to the proposition which I have the honour to make."
The marchioness remained a moment silent; then, raising her head, and taking a step in advance —
"Caballero," she resumed, in a haughty voice, "to accept the proposition you make me, would be to admit the possibility of the truth of the odious accusation that you dare to bring against my husband. Now, that possibility I do not allow. The honour of my husband is mine; it is my duty to defend it."
"I expected that answer, Madame, although it afflicts me more than you can suppose. You have, no doubt, well reflected on all the consequences of this refusal?"
"On all – yes, Señor."
"They may be terrible."
"I know it, and I shall submit."
"You are not alone, Madame; you have a daughter."
"Sir," she answered, with an accent of supreme hauteur, "my daughter knows too well what she owes to the honour of her house to hesitate in making for it, if need be, the sacrifice of her life."
"Oh, Madame!"
"Do not try to frighten me, Señor; you will not succeed. My determination is taken, and I should not change it, even if I saw the scaffold before me. Men deceive themselves, if they think they alone possess the privilege of courage. It is good, from time to time, for a woman to show them that they also know how to die for their convictions. A truce, then, I beg you, to any more entreaties, Señor; they would be useless."
The Montonero bowed silently, made a few steps towards the door, stopped, and half turned as if he wished to speak; but, altering his mind, he bowed a last time and went out.
The marchioness remained an instant motionless; then, turning towards the abbess, and extending her arms to her —
"And now, my friend," said she to her, with a sorrowful voice, "do you believe that the Marquis de Castelmelhor is guilty of the frightful crimes of which that man accuses him?"
"Oh, no, no, my friend," cried the superior, melting into tears, and falling into the arms which opened to receive her.
CHAPTER V
THE PREPARATIONS OF TYRO
The painter's rencontre, on his leaving the convent, had struck him with a sad presentiment as to his protégés.
Without being able quite clearly to account for the sentiments he entertained for them, however unfortunate himself, he felt himself constrained to aid and succour by all means in his power, the women who, without knowing him, had so frankly claimed his protection.
His self-love – first as a man, and then as a Frenchman – was flattered at the part which he thus found himself called on to play unawares in this sombre and mysterious affair, the whole of which, notwithstanding the confidence of the marchioness, he much doubted whether they had revealed to him.
But what mattered that?
Placed by chance – or rather by bad fortune – which so furiously pursued him, in an almost desperate situation, the risks that he had to run in succouring these two ladies, did not much aggravate that situation; whereas, if he succeeded in enabling them to escape the fate which threatened them, while he saved himself, he would bring to bear on his persecutors a little warlike strategy in showing himself more keen than they, and would once for all avenge the continual apprehensions they had caused him since his arrival at San Miguel.
These reflections, in bringing back calmness to the young man's mind, gave him back also his careless gaiety, and it was with a quick and deliberate step that he rejoined Tyro at the spot which the latter had assigned as a permanent rendezvous.
The place was well chosen; it was a natural grotto, not very deep, situated at two pistol shots or so from the town, so well concealed from curious eyes by the chaos of rocks, and of thickets of parasitic plants, that, unless the exact position of this grotto were known, it was impossible to discover it – so much the more, as its mouth opened onto the river, and that to enter it, it was necessary to go into the water up to the knees. Tyro, half lying on a mass of dry leaves, covered with two or three Araucanian pellones3 and ponchos, was carelessly smoking a cigarette of maize straw, while he waited for his master.
The latter, after being assured that no one was watching him, removed his shoes, tucked up his trousers, went into the water, and entered the grotto – not, however, without having whistled two separate times, in order to warn the Indian of his arrival.
"Ouf!" said he, as he entered the grotto, "A singular fashion this of coming into one's house. Here am I returned, Tyro."
"I see, master," gravely answered the Indian, without changing his position.
"Now," pursued the young man, "let me resume my clothes, and then we can talk. I have much to tell you."
"And I also, master."
"Ah!" said he, looking at him.
"Yes; but first change your clothes."
"That's right," resumed the young man.
He immediately proceeded to abandon his disguise, and soon he had recovered his ordinary appearance.
"There – that's done," said he, sitting near the Indian, and lighting a cigarette. "I can tell you that this disgusting costume annoys me horribly, and I shall be happy when I shall be able to get rid of it altogether."
"That will be soon, I hope, master."
"And I also, my friend. God grant that we have not deceived ourselves! Now, what have you to tell me? Speak, I am listening."
"But you – have you not told me you have news?"
"That is true; but I am anxious to know what you have to tell me. I believe it is more important than what I have to tell you. So, speak first; my communication will come soon enough."
"As you please, master," answered the Indian, settling himself, and throwing away his cigarette, which began to burn his fingers; then, half turning his head towards the young man, and looking him full in the face —
"Are you brave?" he asked.
This question, put so suddenly unawares, caused such a profound surprise to the painter, that he hesitated an instant.
"Well," he at last answered, "I believe so then, collecting himself by degrees," he added, with a slight smile. "Besides, my good Tyro, bravery is in France so common a virtue, that there is no conceit on my part in asserting that I possess it."
"Good!" murmured the Indian, who caught his idea, "You are brave, master; and so am I, I believe; I have seen you in several circumstances conduct yourself very well."
"Then why ask me this question?" said the painter, with some slight annoyance.
"Do not be angry, master," quickly replied the Indian, "my intentions are good. When a serious expedition is commenced, and when we wish to bring it to a good conclusion, it is necessary to calculate all the chances. You are a Frenchman – that is to say, a foreigner, not long in this country, of the customs of which you are completely ignorant."
"I admit that," interrupted the young man.
"You find yourself on an unknown territory, which, at every moment must be a mystery to you. In asking you, then, if you are brave,