CHAPTER XVII. AFTER THE BATTLE.

Cuéllar was carelessly smoking his cigarette, his left hand was laid on his long sabre, the end of the scabbard resting on the floor: there was a charming ease in the way in which he stood at the door of the room, letting his eyes wander around with a feline gentleness, and emitting through his mouth and nostrils, with the blessed sensuality of a real enjoyer, thick clouds of bluish smoke.

"Pardon, se?ores," he said, "before going further, it is necessary to have a thorough understanding, I think, so permit me to make a slight observation."

"Do so, se?or," the count answered.

"I am perfectly willing to treat: I am a very easy man to deal with as you see, but do not ask of me extravagant things which I should be forced to refuse you, for I need not tell you that, if you are determined, I am no less so, and while desiring a bargain equally advantageous for both sides, still if you are too exorbitant, I should prefer to blow up with you, the more so because I have a presentiment that I shall in that way some day or other, and should not be sorry to go to the deuce in such excellent company."

Although these words were uttered with a smiling air, the count was not deceived as to the resolute purpose of the man with whom he was dealing.

"Oh se?or," he said, "you know us very badly, if you suppose us capable of asking impossibilities of you, still as our position is good, we wish to take advantage of it."

"And I think you perfectly right, caballero; but as you are a Frenchman and your countrymen never doubt anything, I thought it my duty to make this observation to you."

"Be convinced se?or," the count answered, while affecting the same tranquillity as the other, "that we shall only demand reasonable conditions."

"You demand," Cuéllar repeated, laying a stress on these two words.

"Yes: hence we will not oblige you to leave the hacienda, because we know that if you went out today, you would recommence the attack tomorrow."

"You are full of penetration, se?or: so pray come to the facts."

"In the first place you will give up the poor peons who have escaped the massacre."

"I see no difficulty in that."

"With their arms, horses and the little they possess."

"Agreed, go on."

"Don Andrés de la Cruz, his daughter, my friend, myself and Leo Carral, the majordomo, and all the women and children sheltered in this room, will be at liberty to retire whenever we please without fear of being disturbed."

Cuéllar made a grimace. "What next?" he said.

"Pardon me, is that settled?"

"Yes, it is settled; what next?"

"My friend and I are strangers, Frenchmen, and Mexico is not at war, as far as I am aware, with our country."

"It might happen," Cuéllar said maliciously.

"Perhaps so, but in the meanwhile we are at peace, and have a claim to your protection."

"Have you not fought against us?"

"That is true, but we had a right to defend ourselves: we were attacked and were compelled to fight."

"Good, good, enough of that."

"We therefore request the right to take away with us on mules, everything that belongs to us."

"Is that all?"

"Nearly so; do you accept these conditions?"

"I do."

"Good, now there only remains a slight formality to fulfil."

"A formality, what is it?"

"That of the hostages."

"Hostages! Have you not my word?"

"Of course."

"Well, what more do you want?"

"As I told you, hostages: you can perfectly understand, se?or, that I would not confide my life and that of my companions, I will not say to you, for I hold your word and believe it good, but to your soldiers, who, like the worthy guerilleros they are, would have not the slightest scruple, if we had the madness to place ourselves in their power, about plundering us and perhaps worse: you do not command regular troops, se?or, and however strict may be the discipline you maintain in your cuadrilla, I doubt whether it goes so far as to make your prisoners respected, when you are not there to protect them by your presence."

Cuéllar, flattered in his heart by the count's remarks, gave him a gracious smile.

"Hum," he said, "what you say may be true up to a certain point. Well, who are the hostages you desire, and how many are they?"

"Only one, se?or, you see that it is very trifling."

"Very trifling, indeed; but who is this hostage?"

"Yourself," the count answered distinctly.

"Canarios!" Cuéllar said with a grin, "You are a cool hand: that one would in truth be sufficient."

"For that reason we will have no other."

"That is very unfortunate."

"Why so?"

"Because I refuse, caray! And who would be security for me, if you please?"

"The word of a French gentleman, caballero," the count hastily replied, "a word which has never been pledged in vain."

"On my word," Cuéllar continued with that bonhomie of which he possesses so large a share and which, where it suits him, causes him to be taken for the best fellow in the world: "I accept, caballero, let what may happen, for I am curious to try that word of honour of which Europeans are so proud: it is settled then that I act as your hostage: now, how long am I to remain with you? It is very important for me to settle that point."

"We will ask no more of you than to accompany us within sight of Puebla: once there you shall be at liberty, and you can even, if you think proper, take with you an escort of ten men to secure your return."

"Come, that is speaking; I am yours, caballero. Don Melchior, you will remain here during my absence and watch that everything goes on right."

"Yes," don Melchior replied hoarsely.

The count, after whispering a few words to the majordomo, again addressed Cuéllar.

"Se?or," he said to him, "be kind enough to give orders for the peons to be brought here: then, while you remain with us, ?o Leo Carral will go and make all the preparations for our departure."

"Good," said Cuéllar, "the majordomo can go about his business: you hear, my men," he added, turning to the guerilleros who still stood motionless, "this man is free, bring the peons here."

Some fifteen poor wretches, with their clothes in rags, covered with blood, but armed as had been agreed, then entered the drawing room: these fifteen men were all that remained of the defenders of the hacienda. Cuéllar then entered the room in the doorway of which he had been hitherto standing, and without being invited to do it, posted himself behind the barricade. Don Melchior, feeling the false position in which he was placed, now that he remained alone, facing the besieged, turned away to retire; but at this moment don Andrés rose, and addressed him in a loud and imperious voice.

"Stay, Melchior," he said to him, "we cannot separate thus: now, that we shall never meet again in this world, a final explanation between us is necessary—even indispensable."

Don Melchior started at the sound of this voice: he turned pale, and made a movement as if he wished to fly, but then suddenly halted and haughtily raising his head, said—

"What do you want with me? Speak, I am listening to you."

For a very considerable period, the old man stood with his eyes fixed on his son with a strangely blended expression of love, anger, grief and contempt, and at length making a violent effort on himself, he spoke as follows:

"Why wish to withdraw, is it because the crime you have committed horrifies you, or are you really flying with fury in your heart at seeing your parricide foiled and your father saved in spite of all your efforts to rob him of life? God has not permitted the complete success of your sinister projects: He chastens me for my weakness for you and the place you have usurped in my heart: I pay very dearly for a moment of error, but at length the veil that covered my eyes has fallen. Go, wretch, marked on the brow by an indelible stigma, be accursed! And may this curse which I pronounce on you, weigh eternally on your heart! Go, parricide, I no longer know you."

Don Melchior, in spite of all his audacity, could not sustain the flashing glance which his father implacably fixed on him: a livid pallor spread over his face, a convulsive trembling agitated his limbs, his head was bowed beneath the weight of the anathema, and he recoiled slowly without turning round, as if dragged away by a force superior to his will, and at length disappeared in the midst of the guerilleros, who left a passage for him with a movement of horror.

A funereal silence pervaded the room; all these men, though so little impressionable, felt the influence of the terrible malediction pronounced by a father on a guilty son. Cuéllar was the first to recover his coolness.

"You were wrong," he said to don Andrés, with a shake of his head, "to offer your son this crushing insult in the presence of all."

"Yes, yes," the old gentleman answered sadly, "he will avenge himself; but what do I care? Is not my life henceforth crushed?"

And bowing his head on his chest, the old man sank into a deep and gloomy meditation.

"Watch over him," Cuéllar said to the count, "I know don Melchior, he is a thorough Indian."

In the meanwhile, do?a Dolores, who up to this moment had remained, timidly concealed among her women behind the barricade, rose, removed some articles of furniture, glided softly through the opening she had effected, and sat down by the side of don Andrés. The latter did not stir; he had neither seen her come nor heard her place herself by his side. She bent down to him, seized his hand, which she pressed in her own; kissed him softly on the forehead, and said to him in her melodious voice, with an accent of tenderness, impossible to describe—

"My father, dear father, have you not a child left who loves and respects you? Do not let yourself be thus prostrated by grief; look at me, papa, in Heaven's name! I am your daughter, do you not love me, who feel so great a love for you?"

Don Andrés raised his face, which was bathed in tears, and opened his arms to the girl, who rushed into them with a cry of joy. "Oh! I was ungrateful," he exclaimed, with ineffable tenderness; "I doubted the infinite goodness of God; my daughter is left to me! I am no longer alone in the world, I can be happy still!"

"Yes, papa, God has wished to try us, but He will not abandon us in our misfortune; be brave, forget your ungrateful son; when he repents, remove the terrible malediction you uttered against him; let him return penitent to your knees; he has only been led astray, I feel sure; how could he help loving you, my noble father, you are ever so great and good?"

"Never speak to me about your brother, child," the old man replied with savage energy, "that man no longer exists for me; you have no brother, you never had one! Pardon me for deceiving you, by letting you believe that this villain formed part of our family; no, this monster is not my son, I was abused myself in supposing that the same blood flowed in his veins and mine."

"Calm yourself, in Heaven's name, papa, I implore you."

"Come, my poor child," he continued as he pressed her in his arms, "do not leave me, I want to feel you are here near me, that I may not believe myself alone in the world, and that I may have the strength to overcome my despair. Oh, say to me once more, that you love me, you cannot understand what balm the words are to my heart, and what relief they offer to my sorrow!"

The guerilleros had dispersed over all parts of the hacienda, plundering and devastating, breaking the furniture, and forcing locks with a dexterity that evidenced lengthened practice. Still, according to the agreement made, the count's apartments were respected. Raimbaut and Ibarru, relieved from their long watch by Leo Carral, were busily engaged in loading on mules, the portemanteaux of the count and Dominique; the guerilleros watched them for a while with knowing looks, laughing to each other at the clumsy way in which the two servants loaded their mules, and then offered their services to Raimbaut, which he bravely accepted; then, the same men, who without the slightest scruple, would have plundered all these articles, which possessed great value for them, were actively engaged in removing and loading them with the greatest care, without thinking for a moment of stealing the smallest article.

Thanks to their intelligent aid, the luggage of the two young men was in a very short time loaded on three mules, and Leo Carral had only to see that the horses required for the journey were saddled, which were effected in a moment, such eagerness and good will did the guerilleros display in fetching the horses from the corral, and bringing them into the yard. Leo Carral then returned to the drawing room, and announced that everything was in readiness for departure.

"Gentlemen, we will go when you please," the count said.

"At once then."

They left the drawing room, surrounded by the guerilleros, who walked by their side, uttering loud cries, but still without daring to draw too near, restrained, according to all appearance, by the respect they bore their chief.

When all those who were to leave the hacienda were mounted, as well as ten guerilleros, commanded by a non-commissioned officer, whose duty it was to serve as escort on their colonel's release, the guerillero addressed his soldiers, recommending them to obey in all points don Melchior de la Cruz, during his absence, and then gave the signal for departure. Beckoning the women and children, the little caravan was composed of about sixty persons, all that were left of the two hundred servants of the hacienda.

Cuéllar rode at the head, by the side of the count; behind him was do?a Dolores, between her father and Dominique; next came the peons, leading the bat mules, under the direction of Leo Carral and the count's two servants; the guerilleros formed the rearguard.

They descended the hill at a slow pace, and ere long found themselves in the plain; the night was dark, it was about two hours after midnight; the cold was severe, and the sorrowful travellers shivered under their sarapes. They took the high road to Puebla, which they reached at the expiration of about twenty minutes, and then broke into a more rapid pace; the town was only five or six leagues distant, and they hoped to arrive there at sunrise, or, at any rate, at a very early hour.

Suddenly a great light tinged the sky with reddish hues, and lit up the country for a long distance. The hacienda was on fire. At this sight, don Andrés cast a sad glance behind him, and gave vent to a deep sigh, but he did not utter a word. Cuéllar was the only person that spoke; he tried to prove to the count, that war had painful necessities, that for a long time past, don Andrés had been denounced as an avowed partisan of Miramón, and that the capture and destruction of the hacienda were only the results of his dislike of President Juárez. All matters to which the count, understanding the inutility of a discussion on such a subject with such a man, did not even take the trouble to reply. They rode on then for about three hours, without any incident occurring to disturb the monotony of their journey.

The sun rose, and by the first beams of dawn the domes and lofty steeples, of Puebla appeared in the distance, with their black and still indistinct outlines standing out against the dark blue sky.

The count ordered the party to halt.

"Se?or," he said to Cuéllar, "you have loyally fulfilled the conditions stipulated between us; receive my thanks, and those of my unfortunate companions here; we are not more than two leagues from Puebla, it is daylight, and it is, therefore, unnecessary for you to accompany us further."

"In truth, se?or, I believe that you can now do without me, and as you permit it, I will leave you, repeating my regret for what has occurred, but unfortunately I am not the master, and—"

"No more of this, pray," the count interrupted, "what is done is irreparable, for the present at least: so it is useless to dwell on the subject any longer."

Cuéllar bowed. "One word, se?or Conde," he said, in a low voice.

The young man went up to him.

"Let me," the guerillero continued, "give you a piece of advice ere we part."

"Pray go on, se?or."

"You are still far from Puebla, where you will not arrive for two hours: be on your guard, and carefully watch the country around you."

"What do you mean, se?or?"

"It is impossible to know what may happen: I repeat to you, watch."

"Farewell, se?or," the young man replied mechanically as he returned his salute.

After thus courteously taking leave of the party, the guerillero placed himself at the head of his men and galloped off, though not without once more recommending the young man to be prudent by a significant gesture. The count watched him depart with a pensive air.

"What is the matter, friend?" Dominique asked him.

Ludovic told him what Cuéllar had said to him on taking leave.

The vaquero frowned. "There is something in the background," he said; "in any case the advice is good and we should do wrong to neglect it."