then, as he was returning, he thought involuntarily of the deep sadness
of the kneeling maiden. Her image followed him to his hotel, and
remained deeply engraven in his soul.
Don Vegal found in his saloon the Jew Samuel, who had come in compliance
with his request. Samuel seemed to have forgotten the events of the
night; the hope of gain animated his countenance with a natural gayety.
"What is your lordship's will?" asked he of the Spaniard.
"I must have thirty thousand piasters within an hour."
"Thirty thousand piasters! And who has them! By the holy king David, my
lord, I am far from being able to furnish such a sum."
"Here are some jewels of great value," resumed Don Vegal, without
noticing the language of the Jew; "besides I can sell you at a low price
a considerable estate near Cusco."
"Ah! señor, lands ruin us--we have not arms enough left to cultivate
them; the Indians have withdrawn to the mountains, and our harvests do
not pay us for the trouble they cost."
"At what value do you estimate these diamonds?"
Samuel drew from his pocket a little pair of scales and began to weigh
the stones with scrupulous skill. As he did this, he continued to talk,
and, as was his custom, depreciated the pledges offered him.
"Diamonds! a poor investment! What would they bring? One might as well
bury money! You will notice, señor, that this is not of the purest
water. Do you know that I do not find a ready market for these costly
ornaments? I am obliged to send such merchandise to the United
Provinces! The Americans would buy them, undoubtedly, but to give them
up to the sons of Albion. They wish besides, and it is very just, to
gain an honest per centage, so that the depreciation falls upon me. I
think that ten thousand piasters should satisfy your lordship. It is
little, I know; but----"
"Have I not said," resumed the Spaniard, with a sovereign air of scorn,
"that ten thousand piasters would not suffice?"
"Señor, I cannot give you a half real more!"
"Take away these caskets and bring me the sum I ask for. To complete the
thirty thousand piasters which I need, you will take a mortgage on this
house. Does it seem to you to be solid?"
"Ah, señor, in this city, subject to earthquakes, one knows not who
lives or dies, who stands or falls."
And, as he said this, Samuel let himself fall on his heels several times
to test the solidity of the floors.
"Well, to oblige your lordship, I will furnish you with the required
sum; although, at this moment I ought not to part with money; for I am
about to marry my daughter to the -caballero- André Certa. Do you know
him, sir?"
"I do not know him, and I beg of you to send me this instant, the sum
agreed upon. Take away these jewels."
"Will you have a receipt for them?" asked the Jew.
Don Vegal passed into the adjoining room, without replying.
"Proud Spaniard!" muttered Samuel, "I will crush thy insolence, as I
disperse thy riches! By Solomon! I am a skillful man, since my interests
keep pace with my sentiments."
Don Vegal, on leaving the Jew, had found Martin Paz in profound
dejection of spirits, mingled with mortification.
"What is the matter?" he asked affectionately.
"Señor, it is the daughter of the Jew whom I love."
"A Jewess!" exclaimed Don Vegal, with disgust.
But seeing the sadness of the Indian, he added:
"Let us go, -amigo-, we will talk of these things afterward!"
An hour later, Martin Paz, clad in Spanish costume, left the city,
accompanied by Don Vegal, who took none of his people with him.
The Baths of Chorillos are situated at two leagues from Lima. This
Indian parish possesses a pretty church; during the hot season it is the
rendezvous of the fashionable Limanian society. Public games,
interdicted at Lima, are permitted at Chorillos during the whole summer.
The señoras there display unwonted ardor, and, in decorating himself for
these pretty partners, more than one rich cavalier has seen his fortune
dissipated in a few nights.
Chorillos was still little frequented; so Don Vegal and Martin Paz
retired to a pretty cottage, built on the sea-shore, could live in quiet
contemplation of the vast plains of the Pacific Ocean.
The Marquis Don Vegal, belonging to one of the most ancient families of
Peru, saw about to terminate in himself the noble line of which he was
justly proud; so his countenance bore the impress of profound sadness.
After having mingled for some time in political affairs, he had felt an
inexpressible disgust for the incessant revolutions brought about to
gratify personal ambition; he had withdrawn into a sort of solitude,
interrupted only at rare intervals by the duties of strict politeness.
His immense fortune was daily diminishing. The neglect into which his
vast domains had fallen for want of laborers, had compelled him to
borrow at a disadvantage; but the prospect of approaching mediocrity did
not alarm him; that carelessness natural to the Spanish race, joined to
the ennui of a useless existence, had rendered him insensible to the
menaces of the future. Formerly the husband of an adored wife, the
father of a charming little girl, he had seen himself deprived, by a
horrible event, of both these objects of his love. Since then, no bond
of affection had attached him to earth, and he suffered his life to
float at the will of events.
Don Vegal had thought his heart to be indeed dead, when he felt it
palpitate at contact with that of Martin Paz. This ardent nature awoke
fire beneath the ashes; the proud bearing of the Indian suited the
chivalric hidalgo; and then, weary of the Spanish nobles, in whom he no
longer had confidence, disgusted with the selfish mestizoes, who wished
to aggrandize themselves at his expense, he took a pleasure in turning
to that primitive race, who have disputed so valiantly the American soil
with the soldiers of Pizarro.
According to the intelligence received by the marquis, the Indian passed
for dead at Lima; but, looking on his attachment for the Jewess as worse
than death itself, the Spaniard resolved doubly to save his guest, by
leaving the daughter of Samuel to marry André Certa.
While Martin Paz felt an infinite sadness pervade his heart, Don Vegal
avoided all allusion to the past, and conversed with the young Indian on
indifferent subjects.
Meanwhile, one day, saddened by his gloomy preoccupations, the Spaniard
said to him:
"Why, my friend, do you lower the nobility of your nature by a sentiment
so much beneath you? Was not that bold Manco-Capac, whom his patriotism
placed in the rank of heroes, your ancestor? There is a noble part left
for a valiant man, who will not suffer himself to be overcome by an
unworthy passion. Have you no heart to regain your independence?"
"We are laboring for this, señor," said the Indian; "and the day when my
brethren shall rise -en masse- is perhaps not far distant."
"I understand you; you allude to the war for which your brethren are
preparing among their mountains; at a signal they will descend on the
city, arms in hand--and will be conquered as they have always been! See
how your interests will disappear amid these perpetual revolutions of
which Peru is the theatre, and which will ruin it entirely, Indians and
Spaniards, to the profit of the mestizoes, who are neither."
"We will save it ourselves," exclaimed Martin Paz.
"Yes, you will save it if you understand how to play your part! Listen
to me, Paz, you whom I love from day to day as a son! I say it with
grief; but, we Spaniards, the degenerate sons of a powerful race, no
longer have the energy necessary to elevate and govern a state. It is
therefore yours to triumph over that unhappy Americanism, which tends to
reject European colonization. Yes, know that only European emigration
can save the old Peruvian empire. Instead of this intestine war which
tends to exclude all castes, with the exception of one, frankly extend
your hands to the industrious population of the Old World."
"The Indians, señor, will always see in strangers an enemy, and will
never suffer them to breathe with impunity the air of their mountains.
The kind of dominion which I exercise over them will be without effect
on the day when I do not swear death to their oppressors, whoever they
may be! And, besides, what am I now?" added Martin Paz, with great
sadness; "a fugitive who would not have three hours to live in the
streets of Lima."
"Paz, you must promise me that you will not return thither."
"How can I promise you this, Don Vegal? I speak only the truth, and I
should perjure myself were I to take an oath to that effect."
Don Vegal was silent. The passion of the young Indian increased from day
to day; the marquis trembled to see him incur certain death by
re-appearing at Lima. He hastened by all his desires, he would have
hastened by all his efforts, the marriage of the Jewess!
To ascertain himself the state of things he quitted Chorillos one
morning, returned to the city, and learned that André Certa had
recovered from his wound. His approaching marriage was the topic of
general conversation.
Don Vegal wished to see this woman whose image troubled the mind of
Martin Paz. He repaired, at evening, to the Plaza-Mayor. The crowd was
always numerous there. There he met Father Joachim de Camarones, his
confessor and his oldest friend; he acquainted him with his mode of
life. What was the astonishment of the good father to learn the
existence of Martin Paz. He promised Don Vegal to watch also himself
over the young Indian, and to convey to the marquis any intelligence of
importance.
Suddenly the glances of Don Vegal rested on a young girl, enveloped in a
black mantle, reclining in a calêche.
"Who is that beautiful person?" asked he of the father.
"It is the betrothed of André Certa, the daughter of the Jew Samuel."
"She! the daughter of the Jew!"
The marquis could hardly suppress his astonishment, and, pressing the
hand of Father Joachim, pensively took the road to Chorillos.
He had just recognized in Sarah, the pretended Jewess, the young girl
whom he had seen praying with such Christian fervor, at the church of
Santa Anna.
CHAPTER V.
THE HATRED OF THE INDIANS.
Since the Colombian troops, confided by Bolivar to the orders of General
Santa Cruz, had been driven from lower Peru, this country, which had
been incessantly agitated by -pronunciamentos-, military revolts, had
recovered some calmness and tranquillity.
In fact, private ambition no longer had any thing to expect; the
president Gambarra seemed immovable in his palace of the Plaza-Mayor. In
this direction there was nothing to fear; but the true danger,
concealed, imminent, was not from these rebellions, as promptly
extinguished as kindled, and which seemed to flatter the taste of the
Americans for military parades.
This unknown peril escaped the eyes of the Spaniards, too lofty to
perceive it, and the attention of the mestizoes, who never wished to
look beneath them.
And yet there was an unusual agitation among the Indians of the city;
they often mingled with the -serranos-, the inhabitants of the
mountains; these people seemed to have shaken off their natural apathy.
Instead of rolling themselves in their -ponchos-, with their feet turned
to the spring sun, they were scattered throughout the country, stopping
one another, exchanging private signals, and haunting the least
frequented -pulperias-, in which they could converse without danger.
This movement was principally to be observed on one of the squares
remote from the centre of the city. At the corner of a street stood a
house, of only one story, whose wretched appearance struck the eye
disagreeably.
A tavern of the lowest order, a -chingana-, kept by an old Indian woman,
offered to the lowest -zambos- the -chica-, beer of fermented maize, and
the -quarapo-, a beverage made of the sugar-cane.
The concourse of Indians on this square took place only at certain
hours, and principally when a long pole was raised on the roof of the
inn as a signal of assemblage, then the -zambos- of every profession,
the -capataz-, the -arrieros-, muleteers, the -carreteros-, carters,
entered the -chingana-, one by one, and immediately disappeared in the
great hall; the -padrona- (hostess) seemed very busy, and leaving to her
servant the care of the shop, hastened to serve herself her usual
customers.
A few days after the disappearance of Martin Paz, there was a numerous
assembly in the hall of the inn; one could scarcely through the
darkness, rendered still more obscure by the tobacco-smoke, distinguish
the frequenters of this tavern. Fifty Indians were ranged around a long
table; some were chewing the -coca-, a kind of tea-leaf, mingled with a
little piece of fragrant earth called -manubi-; others were drinking
from large pots of fermented maize; but these occupations did not
distract their attention, and they were closely listening to the speech
of an Indian.
This was the Sambo, whose fixed eyes were strangely wild. He was clad as
on the Plaza-Mayor.
After having carefully observed his auditors, the Sambo commenced in
these terms:
"The children of the Sun can converse on grave affairs; there is no
perfidious ear to hear them; on the square, some of our friends,
disguised as street-singers, will attract the attention of the
passers-by, and we shall enjoy entire liberty."
In fact the tones of a mandoline and of a -viguela- were echoing
without.
The Indians within, knowing themselves in safety, lent therefore close
attention to the words of the Sambo, in whom they placed entire
confidence.
"What news can the Sambo give us of Martin Paz?" asked an Indian.
"None--is he dead or not? The Great Spirit only knows. I am expecting
some of our brethren, who have descended the river to its mouth, perhaps
they will have found the body of Martin Paz."
"He was a good chief," said Manangani, a ferocious Indian, much dreaded;
"but why was he not at his post on the day when the schooner brought us
arms?"
The Sambo cast down his head without reply.
"Did not my brethren know," resumed Manangani, "that there was an
exchange of shots between the -Annonciation- and the custom-house
officers, and that the capture of the vessel would have ruined our
projects of conspiracy?"
A murmur of approbation received the words of the Indian.
"Those of my brethren who will wait before they judge will be the
beloved of my heart," resumed the Sambo; "who knows whether my son
Martin Paz will not one day re-appear? Listen now; the arms which have
been sent us from Sechura are in our power; they are concealed in the
mountains of the Cordilleras, and ready to do their office when you
shall be prepared to do your duty."
"And what delays us?" said a young Indian; "we have sharpened our knives
and are waiting."
"Let the hour come," said the Sambo; "do my brethren know what enemy
their arms should strike first?"
"Those mestizoes who treat us as slaves, and strike us with the hand and
whip, like restive mules."
"These are the monopolizers of the riches of the soil, who will not
suffer us to purchase a little comfort for our old age."
"You are mistaken; and your first blows must be struck elsewhere," said
the Sambo, growing animated; "these are not the men who have dared for
three hundred years past to tread the soil of our ancestors; it is not
these rich men gorged with gold who have dragged to the tomb the sons
of Manco-Capac; no, it is these proud Spaniards whom Fate has thrust on
our independent shores! These are the true conquerors of whom you are
the true slaves! If they have no longer wealth, they have authority;
and, in spite of Peruvian emancipation, they crush and trample upon our
natural rights. Let us forget what we are, to remember what our fathers
have been!"
"-Anda! anda!-" exclaimed the assembly, with stamps of approbation.
After a few moments of silence, the Sambo assured himself, by
interrogating various conspirators, that the friends of Cusco and of all
Bolivia were ready to strike as a single man.
Then, resuming with fire:
"And our brethren of the mountains, brave Manangani, if they have all a
heart of hatred equal to thine, a courage equal to thine, they will fall
on Lima like an avalanche from the summit of the Cordilleras."
"The Sambo shall not complain of their boldness on the day appointed.
Let the Indian leave the city, he shall not go far without seeing throng
around him -zambos- burning for vengeance! In the gorges of San
Cristoval and the Amancaës, more than one is couched on his -poncho-,
with his poignard at his girdle, waiting until a long carbine shall be
confided to his skillful hand. They also have not forgotten that they
have to revenge on the vain Spaniards the defeat of Manco-Capac."
"Well said! Manangani; it is the god of hatred who speaks from thy
mouth. My brethren shall know before long him whom their chiefs have
chosen to lead this great vengeance. President Gambarra is seeking only
to consolidate his power; Bolivar is afar, Santa Cruz has been driven
away; we can act with certainty. In a few days, the fête of the Amancaës
will summon our oppressors to pleasure; then, let each be ready to
march, and let the news be carried to the most remote villages of
Bolivia."
At this moment three Indians entered the great hall. The Sambo hastened
to meet them.
"Well?" said he to them.
"The body of Martin Paz has not been recovered; we have sounded the
river in every direction; our most skillful divers have explored it with
religious care, and the son of the Sambo cannot have perished in the
waters of the Rimac."
"Have they killed him? What has become of him? Oh! wo, wo to them if
they have killed my son! Let my brethren separate in silence; let each
return to his post, look, watch and wait!"
The Indians went out and dispersed; the Sambo alone remained with
Manangani, who asked him:
"Does the Sambo know what sentiment conducted his son to San Lazaro? The
Sambo, I trust, is sure of his son?"
The eyes of the Indian flashed, and the blood mounted to his cheek. The
ferocious Manangani recoiled.
But the Indian controlled himself, and said:
"If Martin Paz has betrayed his brethren, I will first kill all those to
whom he has given his friendship, all those to whom he has given his
love! Then I will kill him, and myself afterward, that nothing may be
left beneath the sun of an infamous, and dishonored race."
At this moment, the -padrona- opened the door of the room, advanced
toward the Sambo, and handed him a billet directed to his address.
"Who gave you this?" said he.
"I do not know; this paper may have been designedly forgotten by a
-chica--drinker. I found it on the table."
"Have there been any but Indians here?"
"There have been none but Indians."
The -padrona- went out; the Sambo unfolded the billet, and read aloud:
"A young girl has prayed for the return of Martin Paz, for she has not
forgotten that the young Indian protected her and risked his life for
her. If the Sambo has any news of his poor son, or any hope of finding
him, let him surround his arm with a red handkerchief; there are eyes
which see him pass daily."
The Sambo crushed the billet in his hand.
"The unhappy boy," said he, "has suffered himself to be caught by the
eyes of a woman."
"Who is this woman?" asked Manangani.
"It is not an Indian," replied the Sambo, observing the billet; "it is
some young girl of the other classes. Martin Paz, I no longer know
thee!"
"Shall you do what this woman requests?"
"No," replied the Indian, violently; "let her lose all hope of seeing
him again; let her die, if she will."
And the Sambo tore the billet in a rage.
"It must have been an Indian who brought this billet," observed
Manangani.
"Oh, it cannot have been one of ours! He must have known that I often
came to this inn, but I will set my foot in it no more. We have occupied
ourselves long enough with trifling affairs," resumed he, coldly; "let
my brother return to the mountains; I will remain to watch over the
city. We shall see whether the fête of the Amancaës will be joyous for
the oppressors or the oppressed!"
The two Indians separated.
The plan of the conspiracy was well conceived and the hour of its
execution well chosen. Peru, almost depopulated, counted only a small
number of Spaniards and mestizoes. The invasion of the Indians, gathered
from every direction, from the forests of Brazil, as well as the
mountains of Chili and the plains of La Plata, would cover the theatre
of war with a formidable army. The great cities, like Lima, Cusco, Puña,
might be utterly destroyed; and it was not to be expected that the
Colombian troops, so recently driven away by the Peruvian government,
would come to the assistance of their enemies in peril.
This social overturn might therefore have succeeded, if the secret had
remained buried in the hearts of the Indians, and there surely could not
be traitors among them?
But they were ignorant that a man had obtained private audience of the
President Gambarra. This man informed him that the schooner
-Annonciation- had been captured from him by Indian pirates! That it had
been laden with arms of all sorts; that canoes had unloaded it at the
mouth of the Rimac; and he claimed a high indemnity for the service he
thus rendered to the Peruvian government.
And yet this man had let his vessel to the agents of the Sambo; he had
received for it a considerable sum, and had come to sell the secret
which he had surprised.
By these traits the reader will recognize the Jew Samuel.
CHAPTER VI.
THE BETROTHAL.
André Certa, entirely recovered, sure of the death of Martin Paz,
pressed his marriage: he was impatient to parade the young and beautiful
Jewess through the streets of Lima.
Sarah constantly manifested toward him a haughty indifference; but he
cared not for it, considering her as an article of sale, for which he
had paid a hundred thousand piasters.
And yet André Certa suspected the Jew, and with good reason; if the
contract was dishonorable, the contractors were still more so. So the
mestizo wished to have a secret interview with Samuel, and took him one
day to the Baths of Chorillos.
He was not sorry, besides, to try the chances of play before his
wedding: public gaming, prohibited at Lima, is perfectly tolerated
elsewhere. The passion of the Limanian ladies and gentlemen for this
hazardous amusement is singular and irresistible.
The games were open some days before the arrival of the Marquis Don
Vegal; thenceforth there was a perpetual movement of the populace on the
road from Lima: some came on foot, who returned in carriages; others
were about to risk and lose the last remnants of their fortunes.
Don Vegal and Martin Paz took no part in these exciting pleasures. The
reveries of the young Indian had more noble causes; he was thinking of
Sarah and of his benefactor.
The concourse of the Limanians to the Baths of Chorillos was without
danger for him; little known by the inhabitants of the city, like all
the mountain Indians he easily concealed himself from all eyes.
After his evening walk with the marquis, Martin Paz would return to his
room, and leaning his elbow on the window, pass long hours in allowing
his tumultuous thoughts to wander over the Pacific Ocean. Don Vegal
lodged in a neighboring chamber, and guarded him with paternal
tenderness.
The Spaniard always remembered the daughter of Samuel, whom he had so
unexpectedly seen at prayer in the Catholic temple. But he had not dared
to confide this important secret to Martin Paz while instructing him by
degrees in Christian truths; he feared to re-animate sentiments which he
wished to extinguish--for the poor Indian, unknown and proscribed, must
renounce all hope of happiness! Father Joachim kept Don Vegal informed
of the progress of affairs: the police had at last ceased to trouble
themselves about Martin Paz; and with time and the influence of his
protector, the Indian, become a man of merit and capable of great
things, might one day take rank in the highest Peruvian society.
Weary of the uncertainty into which his incognito plunged him, Paz
resolved to know what had become of the young Jewess. Thanks to his
Spanish costume, he could glide into a gaming-saloon, and listen to the
conversation of its various frequenters. André Certa was a man of so
much importance, that his marriage, if it was approaching, would be the
subject of conversation.
One evening, instead of directing his steps toward the sea, the Indian
climbed over the high rocks on which the principal habitations of
Chorillos are built; a house, fronted by broad stone steps, struck his
eyes--he entered it without noise.
The day had been hard for many of the wealthy Limanians; some among
them, exhausted with the fatigues of the preceding night, were reposing
on the ground, wrapped in their -ponchos-.
Other players were seated before a large green table, divided into four
compartments by two lines, which intersected each other at the centre in
right angles; on each of these compartments were the first letters of
the words -azar- and -suerte-, (chance and fate,) A and S.
At this moment, the parties of the -monte- were animated; a mestizo was
pursuing the unfavorable chance with feverish ardor.
"Two thousand piasters!" exclaimed he.
The banker shook the dice, and the player burst into imprecations.
"Four thousand piasters!" said he, again. And he lost once more.
Martin Paz, protected by the obscurity of the saloon, could look the
player in the face, and he turned pale.
It was André Certa!
Near him, was standing the Jew Samuel.
"You have played enough, Señor André," said Samuel to him; "the luck is
not for you."
"What business is it of yours?" replied the mestizo, roughly.
Samuel bent down to his ear.
"If it is not my business, it is your business to break off these habits
during the days which precede your marriage."
"Eight thousand piasters!" resumed André Certa.
He lost again: the mestizo suppressed a curse and the banker
resumed--"Play on!"
André Certa, drawing from his pocket some bills, was about to have
hazarded a considerable sum; he had even deposited it on one of the
tables, and the banker, shaking his dice, was about to have decided its
fate, when a sign from Samuel stopped him short. The Jew bent again to
the ear of the mestizo, and said--
"If nothing remains to you to conclude our bargain, it shall be broken
off this evening!"
André Certa shrugged his shoulders, took up his money, and went out.
"Continue now," said Samuel to the banker; "you may ruin this gentleman
after his marriage."
The banker bowed submissively. The Jew Samuel was the founder and
proprietor of the games of Chorillos. Wherever there was a -real- to be
made this man was to be met with.
He followed the mestizo; and finding him on the stone steps, said to
him--
"I have secrets of importance to communicate. Where can we converse in
safety?"
"Wherever you please," replied Certa, roughly.
"Señor, let not your passions ruin your prospects. I would neither
confide my secret to the most carefully closed chambers, nor the most
lonely plains. If you pay me dearly for it, it is because it is worth
telling and worth keeping."
As they spoke thus, these two men had reached the sea, near the cabins
destined for the use of the bathers. They knew not that they were seen,
heard and watched by Martin Paz, who glided like a serpent in the
shadow.
"Let us take a canoe," said André, "and go out into the open sea; the
sharks may, perhaps, show themselves discreet."
André detached from the shore a little boat, and threw some money to its
guardian. Samuel embarked with him, and the mestizo pushed off. He
vigorously plied two flexible oars, which soon took them a mile from the
shore.
But as he saw the canoe put off, Martin Paz, concealed in a crevice of
the rock, hastily undressed, and precipitating himself into the sea,
swam vigorously toward the boat.
The sun had just buried his last rays in the waves of the ocean, and
darkness hovered over the crests of the waves.
Martin Paz had not once reflected that sharks of the most dangerous
species frequented these fatal shores. He stopped not far from the boat
of the mestizo, and listened.
"-But what proof of the identity of the daughter shall I carry to the
father?-" asked André Certa of the Jew.
"You will recall to him the circumstances under which he lost her."
"What were these circumstances?"
Martin Paz, now scarcely above the waves, listened without
understanding. In a girdle attached to his body, he had a poignard; he
waited.
"Her father," said the Jew, "lived at Concencion, in Chili: he was then
the great nobleman he is now; only his fortune equalled his nobility.
Obliged to come to Lima on business, he set out alone, leaving at
Concencion his wife, and child aged fifteen months. The climate of Peru
agreed with him, and he sent for the marchioness to rejoin him. She
embarked on the -San-José- of Valparaiso, with her confidential
servants.
"I was going to Peru in the same ship. The -San-José- was about to enter
the harbor of Lima; but, near Juan Fernandez, was struck by a terrific
hurricane, which disabled her and threw her on her side--it was the
affair of half an hour. The -San-José- filled with water and was slowly
sinking; the passengers and crew took refuge in the boat, but at sight
of the furious waves, the marchioness refused to enter it; she pressed
her infant in her arms, and remained in the ship. I remained with
her--the boat was swallowed up at a hundred fathoms from the -San-José-,
with all her crew. We were alone--the tempest blew with increasing
violence. As my fortune was not on board, I had nothing to lose. The
-San-José-, having five feet of water in her hold, drifted on the rocks
of the shore, where she broke to pieces. The young woman was thrown into
the sea with her daughter: fortunately, for me," said the Jew, with a
gloomy smile, "I could seize the child, and reach the shore with it."
"All these details are exact?"
"Perfectly so. The father will recognize them. I had done a good day's
work, señor; since she is worth to me the hundred thousand piasters
which you are about to pay me. Now, let the marriage take place
to-morrow."
"What does this mean?" asked Martin Paz of himself, still swimming in
the shadow.
"Here is my pocket-book, with the hundred thousand piasters--take it,
Master Samuel," replied André Certa to the Jew.
"Thanks, Señor André," said the Israelite, seizing the treasure; "take
this receipt in exchange--I pledge myself to restore you double this
sum, if you do not become a member of one of the proudest families of
Spain."
But the Indian had not heard this last sentence; he had dived to avoid
the approach of the boat, and his eyes could see a shapeless mass
gliding rapidly toward him. He thought it was the canoe--he was
mistaken.
It was a -tintorea-; a shark of the most ferocious species.
Martin Paz did not quail, or he would have been lost. The animal
approached him--the Indian dived; but he was obliged to come up, in
order to breathe.... He looked at the sky, as if he was never to behold
it again. The stars sparkled above his head; the -tintorea- continued to
approach. A vigorous blow with his tail struck the swimmer; Martin Paz
felt his slimy scales brush his breast. The shark, in order to snatch at
him, turned on his back and opened his jaws, armed with a triple row of
teeth. Martin Paz saw the white belly of the animal gleam beneath the
wave, and with a rapid hand struck it with his poignard.
Suddenly he found the waters around him red with blood. He dived--came
up again at ten fathoms' distance--thought of the daughter of Samuel;
and seeing nothing more of the boat of the mestizo, regained the shore
in a few strokes, already forgetting that he had just escaped death.
He quickly rejoined Don Vegal. The latter, not having found him on his
return, was anxiously awaiting him. Paz made no allusion to his recent
adventures; but seemed to take a lively pleasure in his conversation.
But the next day Martin Paz had left Chorillos, and Don Vegal, tortured
with anxiety, hastily returned to Lima.
The marriage of André Certa with the daughter of the wealthy Samuel, was
an important event. The beautiful señoras had not given themselves a
moment's rest; they had exhausted their ingenuity to invent some pretty
corsage or novel head-dress; they had wearied themselves in trying
without cessation the most varied toilets.
Numerous preparations were also going on in the house of Samuel; it was
a part of the Jew's plan to give great publicity to the marriage of
Sarah. The frescoes which adorned his dwelling according to the Spanish
custom, had been newly painted; the richest hangings fell in large folds
at the windows and doors of the habitation. Furniture carved in the
latest fashion, of precious or fragrant wood, was crowded in vast
saloons, impregnated with a delicious coolness. Rare shrubs, the
productions of warm countries, seized the eye with their splendid
colors, and one would have thought Spring had stolen along the balconies
and terraces, to inundate them with flowers and perfumes.
Meanwhile, amid these smiling marvels, the young girl was weeping; Sarah
no longer had hope, since the Sambo had none; and the Sambo had no hope,
since he wore no sign of hope! The negro Liberta had watched the steps
of the old Indian; he had seen nothing. Ah! if the poor child could have
followed the impulses of her heart, she would have immured herself in
one of those tranquil -beaterios-, to die there amid tears and prayer.
Urged by an irresistible attraction to the doctrines of Catholicism, the
young Jewess had been secretly converted; by the cares of the good
Father Joachim, she had been won over to a religion more in accordance
with her feelings than that in which she had been educated. If Samuel
had destined her for a Jew, she would have avowed her faith; but, about
to espouse a Catholic, she reserved for her husband the secret of her
conversion.
Father Joachim, in order to avoid scandal, and besides, better read in
his breviary than in the human heart, had suffered Sarah to believe in
the death of Martin Paz. The conversion of the young girl was the most
important thing to him; he saw it assured by her union with André Certa,
and he sought to accustom her to the idea of this marriage, the
conditions of which he was far from respecting.
At last the day so joyous for some, so sad for others, had arrived.
André Certa had invited the entire city to his nuptials; his invitations
were refused by the noble families, who excused themselves on various
pretexts. The mestizo, meanwhile, proudly held up his head, and scarcely
looked at those of his own class. The little Milleflores in vain essayed
his humblest vows; but he consoled himself with the idea that he was
about to figure as an active party in the repast which was to follow.
In the meantime, the young mestizoes were discoursing with him in the
brilliant saloons of the Jew, and the crowd of guests thronged around
André Certa, who proudly displayed the splendors of his toilet.
The contract was soon to be signed; the sun had long been set, and the
young girl had not appeared.
Doubtless she was discussing with her duenna and her maids the place of
a ribbon or the choice of an ornament. Perhaps, that enchanting timidity
which so beautifully adorns the cheeks of a young girl, detained her
still from their inquisitive regards.
The Jew Samuel seemed a prey to secret uneasiness; André Certa bent his
brow in an impatient manner; a sort of embarrassment was depicted on the
countenance of more than one guest, while the thousand of wax-lights,
reflected by the mirrors, filled the saloon with dazzling splendor.
Without, a man was wandering in mortal anxiety; it was the Marquis Don
Vegal.
CHAPTER VII.
ALL INTERESTS AT STAKE.
Meanwhile, Sarah was left alone, alone with her anguish and her grief!
She was about to give up her whole life to a man whom she did not love!
She leaned over the perfumed balcony of her chamber, which overlooked
the interior gardens. Through the green jalousies, her ear listened to
the sounds of the slumbering country. Her lace mantle, gliding over her
arms, revealed a profusion of diamonds sparkling on her shoulders. Her
sorrow, proud and majestic, appeared through all her ornaments, and she
might have been taken for one of those beautiful Greek slaves, nobly
draped in their antique garments.
Suddenly her glance rested on a man who was gliding silently among the
avenues of the magnolia; she recognized him; it was Liberta, her
servant. He seemed to be watching some invisible enemy, now sheltering
himself behind a statue, now crouching on the ground.
Sarah was afraid, and looked around her. She was alone, entirely alone.
Her eyes rested on the gardens, and she became pale, paler still! Before
her was transpiring a terrible scene. Liberta was in the grasp of a man
of tall stature, who had thrown him down; stifled sighs proved that a
robust hand was pressing the lips of the Indian.
The young girl, summoning all her courage, was about to cry out, when
she saw the two men rise! The negro was looking fixedly at his
adversary.
"It is you, then! it is you!" exclaimed he.
And he followed this man in a strange stupefaction. They arrived beneath
the balcony of Sarah. Suddenly, before she had time to utter a cry,
Martin Paz appeared to her, like a phantom from another world; and, like
the negro when overthrown by the Indian, the young girl, bending before
the glance of Martin Paz, could in her turn only repeat these words,
"It is you, then! it is you!"
The young Indian fixed on her his motionless eyes, and said:
"Does the betrothed hear the sound of the festival? The guests are
thronging into the saloons to see happiness radiate from her
countenance! Is it then a victim, prepared for the sacrifice, who is
about to present herself to their impatient eyes? Is it with these
features, pale with sorrow, with eyes in which sparkle bitter tears,
that the young girl is to appear herself before her betrothed?"
Martin Paz spoke thus, in a tone full of sympathizing sadness, and Sarah
listened vaguely as to those harmonies which we hear in dreams!
The young Indian resumed with infinite sweetness:
"Since the soul of the young girl is in mourning, let her look beyond
the house of her father, beyond the city where she suffers and weeps;
beyond the mountains, the palm-trees lift up their heads in freedom, the
birds strike the air with an independent wing; men have immensity to
live in, and the young girls may unfold their spirits and their hearts!"
Sarah raised her head toward Martin Paz. The Indian had drawn himself up
to his full height, and with his arm extended toward the summits of the
Cordilleras, was pointing out to the young girl the path to liberty.
Sarah felt herself constrained by an irresistible force. Already the
sound of voices reached her; they approached her chamber; her father was
undoubtedly about to enter; perhaps her lover would accompany him! The
Indian suddenly extinguished the lamp suspended above his head. A
whistling, similar to the cry of the -cilguero-, and reminding one of
that heard on the Plaza-Mayor, pierced the silent darkness of night; the
young girl swooned.
The door opened hastily; Samuel and André Certa entered. The darkness
was profound; some servants ran with torches. The chamber was empty.
"Death and fury!" exclaimed the mestizo.
"Where is she?" asked Samuel.
"You are responsible for her," said André, brutally.
At these words, the Jew felt a cold sweat freeze even his bones.
"Help! help!" he exclaimed.
And, followed by his domestics, he sprang out of the house.
Martin Paz fled rapidly through the streets of the city. The negro
Liberta followed him; but did not appear disposed to dispute with him
the possession of the young girl.
At two hundred paces from the dwelling of the Jew, Paz found some
Indians of his companions, who had assembled at the whistle uttered by
him.
"To our mountain -ranchos-!" exclaimed he.
"To the house of the Marquis Don Vegal!" said another voice behind him.
Martin Paz turned; the Spaniard was at his side.
"Will you not confide this young girl to me?" asked the marquis.
The Indian bent his head, and said in a low voice to his companions:
"To the dwelling of the Marquis Don Vegal!"
They turned their steps in this direction.
An extreme confusion reigned then in the saloons of the Jew. The news of
Sarah's disappearance was a thunderbolt; the friends of André hastened
to follow him. The -faubourg- of San Lazaro was explored, hastily
searched; but nothing could be discovered. Samuel tore his hair in
despair. During the whole night the most active research was useless.
"Martin Paz is living!" exclaimed André Certa, in a moment of fury.
And the presentiment quickly acquired confirmation. The police were
immediately informed of the elopement; its most active agents bestirred
themselves; the Indians were closely watched, and if the retreat of the
young girl was not discovered, evident proofs of an approaching revolt
came to light, which accorded with the denunciations of the Jew.
André Certa lavished gold freely, but could learn nothing. Meanwhile,
the gate-keepers declared that they had seen no person leave Lima; the
young girl must therefore be concealed in the city.
Liberta, who returned to his master, was often interrogated; but no
person seemed more astonished than himself at the elopement of Sarah.
Meanwhile, one man besides André Certa had seen in the disappearance of
the young Jewess, a proof of the existence of Martin Paz; it was the
Sambo. He was wandering in the streets of Lima, when the cry uttered by
the Indian fixed his attention; it was a signal of rally well known to
him! The Sambo was therefore a spectator of the capture of the young
girl, and followed her to the dwelling of the marquis.
The Spaniard entered by a secret door, of which he alone had the key; so
that his domestics suspected nothing. Martin Paz carried the young girl
in his arms and laid her on a bed.
When Don Vegal, who had returned to re-enter by the principal door,
reached the chamber where Sarah was reposing, he found Martin Paz
kneeling beside her. The marquis was about to reproach the Indian with
his conduct, when the latter said to him:
"You see, my father, whether I love you! Ah! why did you throw yourself
in my way? We should have been already free in our mountains. But how,
should I not have obeyed your words?"
Don Vegal knew not what to reply, his heart was seized with a powerful
emotion. He felt how much he was beloved by Martin Paz.
"The day on which Sarah shall quit your dwelling to be restored to her
father and her betrothed," sighed the Indian, "you will have a son and a
friend less in the world."
As he said these last words, Paz moistened with his tears the hand of
Don Vegal. They were the first tears this man had shed!
The reproaches of Don Vegal died away before this respectful submission.
The young girl had become his guest; she was sacred! He could not help
admiring Sarah, still in a swoon; he was prepared to love her, of whose
conversion he had been a witness, and whom he would have been pleased to
bestow as a companion upon the young Indian.
It was then that, on opening her eyes, Sarah found herself in the
presence of a stranger.
"Where am I?" said she, with a sentiment of terror.
"With a generous man who has permitted me to call him my father,"
replied Martin Paz, pointing to the Spaniard.
The young girl, restored by the voice of the Indian to a consciousness
of her position, covered her face with her trembling hands, and began to
sob.
"Withdraw, friend," said Don Vegal to the young man; "withdraw."
Martin Paz slowly left the room, not without having pressed the hand of
the Spaniard, and cast on Sarah a lingering look.
Then Don Vegal bestowed upon this poor child consolations of exquisite
delicacy; he conveyed in suitable language his sentiments of nobility
and honor. Attentive and resigned, the young girl comprehended what
danger she had escaped; and she confided her future happiness to the
care of the Spaniard. But amid phrases interrupted by sighs and mingled
with tears, Don Vegal perceived the intense attachment of this simple
heart for him whom she called her deliverer. He induced Sarah to take
some repose, and watched over her with the solicitude of a father.
Martin Paz comprehended the duties that honor required of him, and, in
spite of perils and dangers, would not pass the night beneath the roof
of Don Vegal.
He therefore went out; his head was burning, his blood was boiling with
fever in his veins.
He had not gone a hundred paces in the street, when five or six men
threw themselves upon him, and, notwithstanding his obstinate defense,
succeeded in binding him. Martin Paz uttered a cry of despair, which was
lost in the night. He believed himself in the power of his enemies, and
gave a last thought to the young girl.
A short time afterward the Indian was deposited in a room. The bandage
which had covered his eyes was taken off. He looked around him, and saw
himself in the lower hall of that tavern where his brethren had
organized their approaching revolt.
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