The Guide of the Desert

"It was then, I don't know for what reason, that I was seized with a desire to travel in America, in order to study that scenery of which, as people say, we have only counterfeits, more or less successful."

"You are severe, Monsieur," interrupted his companion.

"No, I am just. Nature does not exist amongst us; art alone struts in her place; no European landscape will ever sustain a comparison with a stage scene."

"But I resume: I then redoubled my efforts. I wished to leave, but not before assuring my mother a position which would place her forever, whatever might happen during my absence, above want. By dint of work and perseverance, I succeeded in solving this almost unsolvable problem; the efforts it was necessary to make I will not tell you, sir: they surpass all belief; but my determination was taken."

"I wished to see that America of which travellers give us such magnificent descriptions. At last, after ten years of incessant struggle, I succeeded in acquiring a sum of thirty-five thousand francs – that was very little, was it not? However, that was sufficient for me; I kept five thousand francs for myself, and placed the rest in my mother's name."

"I left; it is now eight months since I landed in America. I am as happy as on the first day. Everything looks smiling to me; the future is mine; I live like the birds, without care for the morrow. I have purchased for the comparatively large sum of two hundred and fifty francs, a rancho of some poor Indian Guaranis, who, frightened by the war of the colonies against the metropolis, have taken a refuge in the grand chaco, among their own people. That is how I have become a landowner."

"Continually journeying hither and thither, I study the country, and I choose the landscape that, at a later period, I shall paint. That will last as long as it may: the future is with God; it is useless for me to concern myself with it beforehand."

"There is my history, Monsieur; you see it is simple."

"Yes," answered his companion, with a pensive air; "too simple, in fact. Complete happiness does not exist in the world in which we are. Why not think a little of the adversity which may surprise you?"

"Why," said the artist, laughing, "it is because, more unhappy and poorer than Polycrates, the tyrant of Samos, I have not even a ring to throw into the sea. Moreover, you know the end of the history; some fish or other would bring it back to me. I prefer to wait."

"This philosophy is good; I see no fault in it. Happy are those who can practise it; unhappily I am not of the number," said he, repressing a sigh.

"If I did not fear to displease you, I would, in my turn, address you a question," pursued the painter.

"I know what you wish to ask. You do not understand – is it not so? – how it is that I, whose elevated position would seem to place me under shelter from tempests, find myself near you today in the desert."

"Pardon me, Monsieur; if what I ask you will the least in the world annoy you, do not tell me a word."

The old man smiled with bitterness —

"No," pursued he; "it is good sometimes to pour off the fulness of one's heart into a pure and indulgent soul. I will only tell you a few words which will acquaint you with all."

"Elevated summits fatally attract lightning; that is an axiom generally acknowledged. Notwithstanding the support I gave the Bourbons, my devotion would not convince them of my fidelity."

"Under the rule of Louis XVIII., they regained the same spirit which had formerly voted the death of Louis XVI. Friends warned me, condemning myself to exile, to avoid the death suspended, without doubt, over my head."

"I abandoned all – parents, friends, fortune, even a name without stain, and honoured up to that time – to go into another hemisphere, to conceal my proscribed head."

"While you, young and careless, arrived by one side in America, I arrived by another side – old, with all my illusions dispelled, cursing the blow which struck me."

"Believe me, whatever may be their name, dynasties are all ungrateful, because they feel themselves powerless. The people alone is just, because it knows that it is strong."

"I pity you in a double sense," answered the young man, holding out his hand: "first, because your proscription is iniquitous, then because you arrive in a country in full revolution."

"I know it," answered he, smiling; "it is on this revolution that I reckon: perhaps it will save me."

"I hope so, for your sake, although your words are so obscure to me that I cannot understand them. It is true that up to the present time I have never thought of politics."

"Who knows if they will not soon absorb all your thoughts?"

"God forbid, Monsieur," cried he with a sort of indignation; "I am a painter."

"Here are my people," said M. Dubois.

"Where?"

"Why here, before us!"

"The devil! Then what are these horsemen who are coming towards us on this side?" said the painter, indicating with his finger, diametrically opposite to that at which appeared a group composed of some fifteen individuals.

"Hum!" said his companion, with a shade of uneasiness; "Who can these people be?"

"Bah!" said the young man; "We shall soon know."

"Too soon, perhaps," answered the old man, pensively shaking his head.

Two troops, in fact, were galloping down towards the river.

They were at about an equal distance from the travellers.

CHAPTER XVI

FRIENDS AND ENEMIES

Let us say, in a few words, what was the political situation of the ancient viceroyalty of Buenos Aires at the moment when our history commences.

Notwithstanding the royal decree of Jan. 22, 1809, declaring the provinces of Spanish America an integral part of the monarchy, with equal rights to those of the other provinces of the metropolis, Don Baltazar de Cisneros, named viceroy, arrived with the title of Count of Buenos Aires, and with the authority to receive an annual payment of 100,000 reals.

Indignation, for a long time subdued, at last burst out.

A commission, at the head of which figured two devoted patriots, named don Juan José Castelli and don Manuel Belgrano, was instituted.

On the 14th of May, 1810, a deputation, composed of nearly 600 notables of Buenos Aires, waited on the viceroy to invite him to abandon an authority henceforth ridiculous and illegal, since it emanated from a power which no longer existed in Europe.

A Junta was formed which, after having proclaimed the abolition of the Cour des Comptes, the impost on tobacco, and all dealings with the viceroy, sent an imposing force to Córdoba against General Liniers, French in origin, but devoted to the Spanish monarchy, which for a long time he had served with éclat in America.

Liniers had succeeded in collecting a considerable army, supported by a little squadron which, starting from Monte Video, had come to blockade Buenos Aires.

Unhappily, this event, which was to save the royal cause, compromised it in the most serious way.

The army of Liniers was disbanded; the greater part of the soldiers fell into the hands of the independent party. Moreno, Concha, and Liniers himself, met with the same fate.

The Junta, on learning this unlooked-for result of a campaign from which so much was expected, resolved to strike a decisive blow, in order to intimidate the partisans of the royal cause.

General Liniers was much loved by the people, for he had rendered them many great services. They could have been saved and freed by him. It was necessary to avoid this misfortune.

Don Juan José Castelli consequently received the orders to go in advance of the captives; he obeyed, and they met in the neighbourhood of Mont Pappagallo.

Then there transpired a horrible scene, that history has justly branded with disgrace. Without form of trial, in cold blood, all the prisoners' throats were cut; the bishop of Córdoba alone was spared – not out of respect for his sacred office, but merely to flatter the popular prejudices.

Thus died, cowardly assassinated, General Liniers, a man to whom France justly boasts of having given birth, who rendered such great services to his adopted country, and whose name will everlastingly live on American shores, by reason of his noble and splendid qualities.

A new storm burst over the independent party.

The viceroy of Peru sent, under the command of Colonel Córdoba, a corps d'armée against the Buenos Aireans.

On the 7th November, the two parties met at Hupacha. After a sanguinary fight, the royalists were conquered, and the greater part made prisoners.

Castelli, who, we have seen, massacred Liniers and his companions, had followed the royalist troops in their march. He did not wish to leave his work incomplete: the prisoners were all shot on the field of battle.

The viceroy of Peru, dismayed by this disaster, asked a truce, which the Junta consented to accord to him.

But the struggle was far from ended. Spain was by no means disposed to abandon, without being constrained to do so by force of arms, the magnificent countries where, during a long time, her flag had peaceably floated, and from whence she derived immense riches; and, at the moment when our history recommences, the independence of the Buenos Airean provinces, far from being assured, was again seriously imperilled.

The subjects of the new power had not been long in entering into battle with each other, and in sacrificing to their own miserably ambitious views the most sacred interests of their country, in inaugurating that era of fratricidal war which is not yet finished, and which is leading these beautiful and rich territories to an inevitable ruin.

At the moment when we resume our recital, the Spanish party, for a time subdued, had raised their head again; the colonists, scarcely emancipated, had never found themselves in so great danger of perishing.

The Spanish general, Pezuela, at the head of his experienced troops, made great progress in Peru. On the 25th November he gained a signal victory at Viluma, had retaken Chuguisaca, Potosí, and Tunca; his guards reached Cinti, and some squadrons of volunteer guerillas, partisans of Spain, ravaged almost with impunity the frontier of the province of Tucumán.

The situation was then most critical. The war had lost nothing of its original ferocity; each party appeared to be composed of brigands thirsting for blood and pillage, rather than of brave soldiers or loyal patriots. The road was infested by people without abode, who turned coats according to circumstances, and made war on the two parties according to the exigencies of the moment. The Indians, profiting by these disorders, fished in troubled waters, and chased the whites – royalists or insurgents.

Then, to put the finishing touch to so many misfortunes, a Brazilian army, ten thousand strong, commanded by General Lesort, had invaded the province of Monte Video, which had been for a long time coveted by Brazil, and on which it hoped, favoured by the intestine dissensions of the Buenos Aireans, to seize almost without striking a blow.

It will be easily understood how precarious was the situation of European travellers, necessarily isolated in this country, not knowing either the language or the manners of the people into whose midst they found themselves thrown, and thus cast unawares into the midst of this revolutionary whirlwind, which, like an African simoom, was pitilessly devouring all with which it came in contact.

We shall now return to the two Frenchmen, whom we left carelessly stretched on the grass on the shore of the river, discoursing of various matters.

The view of the second troop, discovered by the painter, had excited to the highest degree the curiosity of his companion. Let us hasten to state that this uneasiness was more than justified by the excessively suspicious appearance of the horsemen.

They were about fifty in number, well mounted, and armed to the teeth with long lances, sabres, poignards, and blunderbusses. These horsemen were evidently Spaniards. Their features, bronzed by the sun and the air of the desert, indicated intelligence and bravery; there was in them something of the haughty and determined bearing of the first Spanish conquerors, from whom they descended in a direct line, without degenerating. Still masters of a great part of the American territory, they did not admit that they could ever be chased from it by the independent party, notwithstanding the victories gained by the latter.

Although riding at a gallop, they advanced in good order; their chests covered with a cuirass of buffalo skin, intended to shield them from the Indian arrows, the lance fixed in the stirrup, the blunderbuss in the bow, the turned sabre in the scabbard, knocking against the spur with a metallic sound.

At ten paces in advance of the troop came a young man of haughty mien, of proud and noble features, with a full black eye, a sarcastic mouth, shaded by a fine black moustache, coquettishly oiled and turned up at the ends.

This young man bore the insignia of a captain, and commanded the troop which followed him. He was about twenty-five years of age; while galloping, he played, with a charming air, with his horse, a magnificent specimen of the untamed coursers of the pampa, who, while spoken to and handled with the nervous delicacy of a woman, curvetted, leaped on one side, and sometimes brought a frown and an ill-humoured grimace to the bronzed and battered countenance of an old sergeant, who was galloping in the rear of the right of the company.

Meanwhile, the distance between the two troops rapidly diminished, and the travellers found themselves, so to speak, the common centre of them.

The two Frenchmen, without saying a word, but as by common consent, had put themselves in the saddle, and in the middle of the track waited, calm and dignified, but their hands on their weapons, and doubtless inwardly uneasy, although they did not wish to appear so.

The second troop, of which we have not yet spoken, was composed of some thirty horsemen at the most, all wearing the characteristic and picturesque costume of the gauchos of the pampa. In the midst they led a dozen mules, loaded with baggage.

Arrived at fifteen paces from the travellers, the two troops halted, appearing to measure one another with their eyes, and mutually preparing for the combat.

To an indifferent spectator, certainly it would have been a strange spectacle offered by these three groups of men, thus boldly camped in the midst of the desert plain, looking defiantly at each other, and, nevertheless, stationary, and appearing to hesitate to charge.

Some minutes passed by.

The young officer, no doubt wishing to bring affairs to a crisis, and wearied with a hesitation he did not appear to share, advanced, making his horse to caracole, and carelessly twirling his moustache.

Arrived at some five or six paces from the travellers:

"Hola, good people," said he, in a sardonic voice, "what do you do there? With a frightened air like nandus in a covey altogether. You do not intend, I suppose, to bar our passage?"

"We have no pretensions of the kind, Señor Captain," answered M. Dubois, in the best Castilian he could manage – Castilian which, notwithstanding his efforts, was deplorable; "we are peaceable travellers."

"¡Caray!" cried the officer, turning round and laughing; "Whom have we here; English, I suppose?"

"No, Señor; Frenchmen," said M. Dubois, with a somewhat nettled look.

"Bah! English or French, what matters?" pursued the officer, with raillery "They are all heretics."

At this manifestation of ignorance, the two travellers shrugged their shoulders with contempt.

"What does that mean?" said the officer.

"Parbleu," answered the painter, "it means that you are deceiving yourself grossly, that is all. We are as good Catholics as you are, if not better."

"Aye, rye, you crow very loud, my young cock."

"Young," said the artist, with a sneer, "you are deceived there again; I am at least two years older than you; as to crowing, it is very easy to swagger and act the 'eater up of little children,' when you are fifty to two."

"Those people down there," pursued the officer, "are they not with you?"

"Yes, they are with us; but what matters that? In the first place, they are inferior to you in number, and next, they are not soldiers."

"Agreed," answered the captain, twirling his moustache with a mocking smile, "I grant you that; what do you wish to conclude from it?"

"Only this, Captain; that we Frenchmen bear insults with great difficulty, no matter where they come from; and that if we were only equal in numbers, this would not have happened."

"Aha, you are brave!"

"Pardieu; revenge is sweet."

"That is swagger also, it appears to me."

"It is an honourable boast."

"Listen," said the captain, after a moment, with exquisite politeness. "I fear I have been deceived with regard to you, and I sincerely ask your pardon for it. I agree to give you free passage, and to those who accompany you, but on one condition."

"Let us have it!"

"You told me a little while ago that I should not speak as I did, had I not believed I should be supported."

"I told you so, because I thought so."

"And you think so still, no doubt?"

"Pardieu!"

"Well, here is what I propose; we are both armed. Let us alight, draw our sabres, and he who shall conquer the other shall be free to act as he thinks proper – that is to say, if it is you, you can pass on your road without fear of being molested, and if it is me, well, a general battle. Does that suit you?"

"Perfectly well," answered the painter, laughing.

"What are you going to do, Monsieur Émile?" cried the old man, briskly. "Do you mean to expose yourself to great danger for a cause which in truth is indifferent to you, and only concerns me?"

"Come," said he, shrugging his shoulders, "are we not fellow countrymen? Your cause is mine. Let me give a lesson to that Spanish braggart, who imagines that Frenchmen are poltroons."

And, without wishing to hear more, he disengaged his foot from the stirrup, leaped to the ground, drew his sabre, and struck its point in the earth, waiting the good pleasure of his adversary.

"But, at least, do you know how to fight?" cried M. Dubois, a prey to the greatest anxiety.

"You are joking," said he, laughing. "Of what use would be the five-and-twenty years' war that France has had, if her sons had not learnt to fight? But make yourself easy," added he, seriously, "I have had eighteen months' instruction in sword exercise, and learned to wield the sabre like a hussar; moreover, we artists know this sort of thing by instinct."

Meanwhile, the captain had also alighted, after having ordered his troop to remain spectators of the combat. The horsemen had shaken their heads; they had, however, not made any remark, but the old sergeant, of whom we have spoken, and who, without doubt, enjoyed certain liberties with his chief, took a few steps in advance, and thought proper to hazard a respectful protest.

The captain, without answering him, made him a mute gesture of a character so decided and imperious, that the worthy soldier stepped back quite snubbed, and resumed his former position without daring to risk a second remonstrance.

"Never mind," he grumbled, between his teeth, twirling his moustache with a furious air; "if this heretic gets the best of it, whatever Don Lucio may say, I know well what I shall do."

The young captain briskly alighted, and advanced towards his adversary, whom he saluted politely.

"I am fortunate," said he, graciously, "in the opportunity which presents itself of receiving from a Frenchman a lesson in fencing, for you have the reputation of being a complete master in arms."

"Eh! Perhaps what you say is more true than you think, Señor," answered the painter, with a smile of raillery; "but if service fails us sometimes, goodwill never forsakes us."

"I am convinced of it, Monsieur."

"Whenever you please to commence, Captain, I am at your orders."

"And I at yours, Señor."

The two adversaries saluted one another with the sabre, and put themselves on guard at the same moment, with perfect grace.

The sabre is, in our opinion, an arm too much disdained, and which ought, on the contrary, to have the preference over the sword in duels, as it has in battles.

The sabre is the true weapon of the military man – officer or soldier. The sword is, on the contrary, only an arm for a gentleman on parade, and is now assumed by persons who, for the most part, carry it at their sides without knowing how to use it.

The sword is a serpent, its bite is mortal. It makes one liable, in using it for a futile cause in a duel, to kill a brave man. The sabre, on the contrary, only makes large wounds which it is easy to heal, and which nearly always it is possible to graduate according to the gravity of the offence received, without risking the life of one's adversary.

The two men, as we have said, had put themselves on their guard. After another bow, the combat commenced, and they exchanged a few passes, mutually feeling their way, as it were, and only using their weapons with extreme prudence.

The Spanish officer was what may be called a good duellist. With a somewhat effeminate appearance, he had a wrist of iron and muscles of steel. His style of fencing was broad and elegant; he appeared to handle his weapon, which was rather heavy, as if he had had a mere reed in his hand.

The style of the French painter was more compact, more nervous, his blows, more unforeseen, and certainly more rapid.

However, the combat did not last long, before it was easy to see with whom would rest the victory. On a sudden, the sabre of the captain leaped into the air, carried away as if by a sling, and fell at a great distance off.

The Frenchman darted off immediately, picked up his adversary's weapon, and presenting it to him:

"Pardon me, Señor," he said, "and be so good, I beg you, to resume a weapon which you use so well. I have only taken it from you by surprise, and I remain at your orders."

"Señor," answered the captain, putting his sabre in the scabbard, "I have merited the lesson that you have given me. Ten times you have had my life in your hands without wishing to take advantage of it. Our combat is finished. I acknowledge myself vanquished, more even by your courtesy than by your skill in the management of arms."

"I do not admit, caballero," pursued the painter, "that any but trifling credit is due to me for the advantage that chance alone has given me over you."

"Go in peace, wherever it may appear good to you, as well as your companions, Señor. You have no insult to fear from us; only I do not consider myself quit of you. My name is Don Lucio Ortega, remember that name. In any circumstances in which you may find yourself, if you have need of me, be it twenty years hence, boldly ask your old adversary and friend."

"I really do not know how to thank you, Señor. I am but a poor French painter, named Émile Gagnepain; but if the opportunity ever presents itself, I shall be happy to prove how much I value the sentiments of goodwill that you manifest towards me."

After this mutual exchange of courtesy, the two men mounted on horseback.

The Spaniards remained motionless at the place where they first stopped, and they allowed to defile before them, without making the least hostile movement, the little troop, at the head of which walked side by side the two Frenchmen. When they passed before him, the captain exchanged a courteous salute with them, and then he gave his troop the order to depart. It darted off at a gallop, and before long had disappeared in the meandering of the track.

"You have been more fortunate than wise," said M. Dubois, to his young companion, when they had crossed the river, and had made the distance between them and the Spaniards rather considerable.

"Why so?" asked the painter, with surprise.

"Why, because you have risked being killed."

"My dear sir, in the country where we now are, we continually run the risk of being killed. In leaving France, I have made a complete abnegation of my life, persuaded that I shall never again see my country. I therefore consider every moment which passes without bringing me misfortune as a favour done me by Providence; so that, my mind being made up, I do not attach the least value to an existence which at any moment can be taken from me under the first pretext that turns up, and even, if need be, under the very slightest provocation."