It cannot be denied that at the end of that time he was as far advanced as before; that is to say, that he had hit upon nothing.
"Well, I give it up for the present," he cried, rising suddenly; "my imagination absolutely refuses me its aid! It is always so. Well, I, who wanted sensation, cannot complain; it is to be hoped that for some time past I have had enough of it, and of the most poignant sensation too!"
Then he began to stride about his room, to stretch his legs, mechanically rolled up a cigarette, and felt in his pocket for his mechero to light it.
In the movement which he made in searching for it, he felt in his waistcoat pocket something which he did not remember to have placed there; he looked at it.
"Pardieu!" said he, striking his forehead, "I had completely forgotten my mysterious unknown; but that's accounted for by my vexation! If this lasts only for eight days, I am convinced I shall completely go out of my mind. Let me see what it is that she has so adroitly dropped on my hat."
While he soliloquised, the painter had drawn from his pocket the little roll of paper, and attentively considered it.
"It is extraordinary," continued he, "the influence which women exert, perhaps unknown to ourselves, on the organisation of us men, and how the most trivial thing which comes to us from one of them, who is utterly unknown, immediately interests us."
He remained several moments turning about the paper in his hand, without coming to the resolution to break the silk, which alone prevented him from satisfying his curiosity, all the while continuing in petto his speculations on the probable contents of the packet.
At last, with a sudden resolution, he put an end to his hesitation, and broke with his teeth the delicate silk thread, and then unrolled the paper carefully. This paper, which—as the young man had conjectured—served for an envelope, contained another, folded carefully, and covered on every page with fine close writing.
Spite of himself, the young man felt a nervous trembling as he unfolded this paper, in which a ring was enclosed.
This ring was but a simple gold ring, in which was set a Balas ruby, of great value.
"What does this mean?" murmured the young man, admiring the ring, and trying it mechanically on all his fingers.
But although the artist had a very beautiful hand—thing of which, in parenthesis, he was very proud—this ring was so small, that it was only on the little finger that he could succeed in putting it on, and this with some difficulty.
"This person is evidently deceived," pursued the painter; "I cannot keep this ring; I will return it, come what may. But to do that I must know the individual, and I have no other means of obtaining this information except by reading her letter. I'll read it, then."
The artist was at this moment in the singular position of a man who feels himself gliding down a rapid decline, at the foot of which is a precipice, and who, perceiving that he has not the power successfully to resist the impulse which controls him, endeavours to prove to himself that he does right to abandon himself to it.
But before opening the paper, which he apparently held with such a careless hand, and on which he looked so disdainfully—so much, say what we may, is man (that being said to be made in the image of his Maker) always a comedian, even to himself, when no one can see him, because even then he tries to impose upon his self-love—the artist went to try the lock, to see if the door was firmly fastened, and that no one could surprise him; then he slowly returned, sat himself on the butaca, and unfolded the paper.
It was, indeed, a letter, written in a fine close hand, but nervous and agitated, which convinced him in a moment that it was a woman's writing.
The young man at first cursorily read it, and feigning to take but moderate interest in it; but soon, spite of himself, he felt himself influenced by what he learned. As he proceeded in his reading, he found his interest increase; and when he had reached the last word, he remained with his eyes fixed on the thin paper which was being crushed in his convulsive fingers; and a considerable time elapsed before he could succeed in conquering the strong emotion that this strange letter had excited.
The following are the contents of this letter, the original of which has for a long time remained in our hands, and which we translate without comment:—
"As an important preliminary, let me, Señor, claim, from your courtesy a formal promise—a promise in which you will not fail, I am convinced, if, as I have the presentiment, you are a true caballero. I demand that you read this letter without interruption from beginning to end, before passing any judgment whatever on her who addresses it to you."
"You have sworn, have you not? Well, I thank you for the proof of confidence, and I begin without further preamble."
"You are, Señor—if, as I believe, I am not deceived in my observation—a Frenchman from Europe: that is to say, the son of a country where gallantry and devotion to women reign supreme, and are so far traditional, that these characteristics form the most salient feature in the men."
"I also am—not a French woman, but born in Europe; that is to say, although unknown to you, your friend, almost your sister on that far-off land; and as such, I have a right to your protection, and I now boldly claim it from your honour."
"As I do not wish that you should at once take me for an adventuress, from the mode, somewhat beyond the rules of society, in which I enter on relations with you, I must first tell you, in a few words, not my history—that would cause you unreasonably to lose precious time—but who I am, and by what motives I am compelled for a time to put aside that timid modesty which never abandons women worthy of the name; and then I will tell you what is the service I ask of you."
"My husband, the Marquis de Castelmelhor, commands a division of the Brazilian army, which, they say, has some days since entered Buenos Airean territory."
"Coming from Peru with my daughter and some servants, with the intention of joining my husband in Brazil—for I knew nothing of the events which had just previously occurred—I have been surprised, carried away, and declared a prisoner of war, by a Buenos Airean Montonero; and I and my daughter are now imprisoned in the house which you pass twice a day."
"If it were but a question of a detention more or less protracted, I would resign myself to submit to it, confiding myself to the power and goodness of God."
"But, unhappily, a terrible fate threatens me—a frightful danger hangs not only over my own head, but over that of my daughter—my innocent and pure Eva."
"An implacable enemy has sworn our ruin; he has boldly accused us of being spies, and in a few days—perhaps tomorrow, for this man is thought very highly of by the members of his Government—we shall be brought before a tribunal assembled to judge us, and the verdict of which cannot be doubtful—the death of traitors, dishonour! The Marchioness of Castelmelhor cannot submit to such infamy."
"God, who never abandons the innocent who trust in Him in their distress, has inspired me with the thought of addressing you, Señor, for you alone can save me."
"Will you do it? I believe you will."
"A stranger in this country—sharing neither the prejudices, the narrow ideas, nor the hatred of its inhabitants against Europeans—you ought to make common cause with us, and try to save us, even if it be at the peril of your life."
"I have long hesitated before writing this letter. Although your manners were those of a respectable man—although the frank expression of your countenance, and even your youth, prepossessed me in your favour—I feared to trust myself to you; but when I learned that you were a Frenchman, my fears vanished, to give place to entire confidence."
"Tomorrow, between ten and eleven o'clock in the morning, present yourself boldly at the door of the Black House, and knock. When the door is opened, say that you have heard that a professor of the piano is wanted in the convent, and that