“With all my heart,” returned Irene, greatly touched.
He passionately kissed her hand and even her wrist, and she was conscious of a tear falling on her bare arm. She grew more and more troubled, and rose from the table. He, too, stood up.
“Forgive me, I am your slave,” he murmured. “Ah, if you had only willed.... But I must tell you all my plans.... Come,” he added, opening a door.
She had a moment of hesitation.
“What! Do you not wish to enter my study?”
It was in fact a study, or rather a spacious library, containing many tables which bore huge coloured charts and maps, all showing the one part of the world which interested him: Patagonia. In one corner stood a couch covered with jaguar skins. When he was not at work he must sleep among these objects of his dreams. Irene cautiously turned away from the couch.
But he seemed in no mood for flirtation. Once more speaking of his plans he turned the pages of his account books, looked at the maps, dealt with figures, and at last, like Napoleon on the eve of a battle developing his plan of campaign to his chief of staff, explained to her why he was confident of winning Patagonia.
For some fifteen minutes Irene listened to him as he dilated on the raising of cattle, sheep walks, wool, llamas, ostriches, corn, land drained and undrained, irrigation, and what it was expedient to undertake beyond Rio Negro, Chubut, Descado and Santa Cruz; and finally he dwelt on the lake and mountain districts with their deep passes leading to auriferous and argentiferous deposits....
Irene was far too intelligent not to be attracted by his recital. Had the man before her been a crank she would have turned away with a shrug of the shoulders, but Languequetrou had given proofs of his capacity. In his way he was a genius, a genius of practical common sense. She could not help admiring him. She shared his enthusiasm. Before her eyes, as before his, a new nation was being born into the world. She saw huge crops of corn swaying in the valleys; endless herds of cattle grazing on the plains; great estancias springing up not less splendid or hospitable than those on the Argentine pampas; cities rising on the banks of rivers; and a network of railways linking together innumerable factories.
“When do you begin?” she asked.
“Next month at latest. You must know that my father, the king, is dead, and my people are awaiting me.”
“But where will you find the money?”
He smiled enigmatically.
“Money,” he said. “I already have too much. Let me tell you that I secretly turned into cash the huge fortune that I made in Brazil. It is at this moment on board Ma Casa.”
“But however large your fortune may be it will not be enough. You will have to obtain capital from abroad, form companies, put yourself in the hands of financiers who will cheat you and not understand the nature of your plans...”
“They won’t cheat Languequetrou.”
“But if they don’t come in?”
“They’ll come in,” he returned, “if I put a thousand million francs into the business.”
“A thousand million francs!” cried Irene. “Have you got a thousand million francs?”
“I don’t know, senhora, how much I’ve got. My father’s kingdom is, perhaps, the richest in the world.”
And as she looked at him in astonishment he went over and took an old book from one of the library shelves.
“Have you ever read Ondegardo?”
“Well, no, I can’t say I have.”
“Xeres?”
“No,” returned Irene, smiling. “I know it as a drink, but I’ve never read it!”
“Well, Ondegardo was a monk who accompanied Pizarro’s expedition to Peru. You have, of course, read that?”
“Yes.”
“Xeres acted as scribe during the expedition. They left some very interesting manuscripts. It is from these manuscripts that subsequent writers have derived their material for their histories of that stupendous enterprise, the conquest of Peru, surpassing in interest that of Cortes in Mexico. In this old book you will find Ondegardo and Xeres’ exact text.”
Languequetrou opened it and Irene read:
“Xeres, Conq del Peru — Ondegardo.”
“I need not remind you of the fabulous wealth which they discovered among the Incas. For numberless years Spanish galleons were engaged in transporting to Europe the remains of temples with their golden cornices and tiles. Gold was of no special value to the Incas. As you know, their empire extended from the equator to the farthest chain of the Andes, and beyond what to-day is called Chile to Patagonia, my own kingdom. Do you follow me, senhora?”
“I am not losing a word, prince. You give me a glimpse of such wonderful vistas....”
“That is because you have understanding in a special degree, senhora. Now though the Spaniards plundered Peru and parts of Chile, they respected and left undefiled Patagonia.”
“Respected, yes, prince!”
“Some of these regions of the Andes have never been trodden by an alien foot.”
“Go on, I beg of you.”
“It is here that my brethren keep their secret and their gold — their unproductive gold — this gold which is not destined to enrich Europe, but to help me to make Patagonia the rival of Brazil and La Plata.”
“How splendid! And are you certain of this gold?”
“Listen and follow my reasoning.”
“I am all attention.”
“The Inca is now called the Quichua Indian. He retains to this day in the Andes and even in Peru the manners and customs and religion of his ancestors. Like the Tehuelches, he worships the sun. He has been taught Christianity, but the Blessed Virgin comes second to the sun. When the modern world, astonished at the inertia of the Inca, the steadfastness of his beliefs and memories, asks itself to what peculiarity this phenomenon is due, it is bound to admit the possibility that somewhere in the Andes there exists still a religious centre which keeps watch over his traditions and the future of his race. Well, I will confide a secret to you, senhora. This religious centre lies in my kingdom, the kingdom of the Tehuelches. I know where the high priests dwell. They have come to me in their mouse skin cloaks.”
“Mouse skin cloaks?”
“Yes, that is the distinguishing cloak of the high priests such as Pizarro knew them. Read Ondegardo. Read Xeres.”
“I promise to read them,” said Irene, in a disappointed voice, carelessly turning over the pages of the great work. “But I very much fear that I shall find in them only ‘words, words, words.’ I am in no way surprised, you know, that your Indians should come to you with their mouse skin cloaks. But if they had only come with gold!”
He gripped her wrist with a force which made her cry out. It was the first time that he had displayed any violence.
“They did come with ingots of gold.”
“You are hurting me.”
“With ingots of gold, I tell you.... Is that enough?... Does that satisfy you?”
He dropped her aching hand.... Now she stared at him, startled. Sad Heart at that moment, indeed, was scarcely a pleasant sight. He had a thunderous look on his face. His whole being seemed to be at war — civilization and savagery were at grips in a terrible conflict. Irene was at a loss. What was the cause of the storm? Whence did it arise?
“What have I done? What have I said?” she asked, trembling.
“Nothing.... You were quite right.... No more phrases, no more speeches. I, too, have had enough of ‘words, words, words.’”
He became silent. He dropped like a log on the couch with its jaguar skins and turned over like a child in a frenzy. Irene, appalled, dared not stir a limb. Suddenly he drew himself up, swept his handkerchief across his forehead, and smiled. The civilized man in him had triumphed.
“I am sorry,” he said. “Sometimes the savage in me comes to the surface, but I crush him. And then, you know, it doesn’t often happen. It is brought out on extraordinary occasions, like to-day.”
He rang the bell and ordered a glass of water, wh
ich he drank. The crisis seemed over, and he said in a gentle voice:
“To return to the gold of the Incas. It is yours. I give it to you. If you do not believe me I will go and fetch the ingots — as many of them as you like. I will put them in a trunk and take you and the trunk to Montevideo.”
He held her hand, but this time he stroked it.... He kissed it.... She grasped his meaning, and preferred him when he had so brutally seized her wrist. She snatched her hand away.
“I am not for sale,” she flung at him.
“Oh,” he returned, with a deep sigh, “you make me very glad to hear it.... No, of course, you are not for sale. You are a noble woman. If you only knew how highly — how very highly — Languequetrou has esteemed you from the first moment he saw you. The mere thought that you might be for sale maddened me, and made me more savage than a beast of the field. What a relief it is to me now that I am sure you are not for sale. But picture my embarrassment. Poor Languequetrou! You are not for sale — very well. You decline to join me in civilizing Patagonia. Therefore you do not love Languequetrou. I am sorry for that for my own sake.... Languequetrou does not know how to attract you....”
“Well, senhor, I do not want to be attracted.”
“But I have been attracted.”
“By whom?”
“You.... Do you remember our walk in the avenue under the bamboo trees?”
“Now you are jesting, you are jesting, senhor.... I am extremely sorry to desert you, but I must take a well-earned rest. I have passed through so many emotions....”
He went with her to the door of her apartments. Here he kissed her hand in his politest manner and said:
“See you presently.”
She thought her ears had misled her.
“What do you mean ‘see you presently.’”
“Yes, senhora, ‘see you presently.’ I am not a de Carangola or an Antonio!”
CHAPTER XIX
MADEMOISELLE AMANDA
AS SOON AS Irene was in her bedroom she was taken in hand by the mucamas, who prepared her attire for the night, dressed her hair with unguents and pomades of a delicate but slightly stimulating scent, scraped her skin, massaged her, and left her in a perfumed bath which she got out of as soon as she was alone. She had tried in vain to enter into conversation with the women; they must have been deaf and dumb. At first she made an effort to decline their pressing attentions, but they did not seem to notice her resistance. She lay in their hands like a live fish which the chief cook is preparing for his master’s table, unmoved by the sight of its flutterings in the casserole....
Throwing a dark red coat over her shoulders which would have created some impression at the Comédie Française, Irene did not waste time in looking at herself in the glass; she darted to the doors to turn the keys. But there were no locks. She shook the doors, which withstood her attacks. Her intention was to lock herself in. But they had anticipated her....
It would be difficult to describe at this juncture Irene’s state of mind. She looked round for some weapon, perhaps to take her life. We cannot tell. She did not herself know.... She could not discover any weapon. She did not cry out. She recognized that it would be useless and farcical. But she was resolved to defend herself to the last. Languequetrou was not at the end of his difficulties any more than she was. Just then the wardrobe door was opened and a strange form stood before her. It was a woman wearing a black silk mask. The mask completely hid her face save the eyes. Irene imagined that she saw before her some female inquisitor. And this time she uttered a cry. The woman made a sign to her to keep quiet; and as she had pretty blue eyes which smiled at her under her peroxidized hair, Irene was silent.
“Who are you?” she asked in a hoarse voice. “I am Mademoiselle Amanda,” returned the other gently. “You must have heard of me.” She sat down beside Irene and took her hands in hers as though she were an old friend. “Mademoiselle Amanda of the Rua do Ouvidor.”
“Yes, yes,” said Irene, endeavouring to collect her thoughts. “Mademoiselle Amanda of the Rua do Ouvidor.”
“I am the milliner.”
“The milliner! Why, of course I remember the milliner. So you are here — you are still here! They have been hunting everywhere for you. You must have had a terrible time.”
“Don’t speak of it. That was long ago.”
“Why are you here? What do you want with me?”
“I want you to tell me the news from Paris.”
“Then you’ve come for a chat? Well, of course, Mademoiselle Amanda, we’ll have a chat — we’ll chat all night. I have so many things to tell you! Indeed, I won’t let you leave me.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, but I must leave you before he comes.”
“So you know that he is coming here?” said Irene, bending over her. “Why do you wear a mask? Take off your mask. Between you and me there’s no object in wearing a mask.”
“Yes, there is an object. Don’t touch my mask.”
“When is he coming here?”
“How can I tell? That old witch-doctor called for him, and they left the fazenda together. But he will soon be back, you may be sure.”
Irene started up.
“He is not here! Let us both make our escape.”
The blue eyes above the black mask stared at her in amazement.
“But, madame, you couldn’t escape. Even supposing you got away from the fazenda, you would be overtaken by Botocudos within twenty minutes. And even supposing you eluded the Botocudos, from whom it is impossible to escape, you would be lost in the forest — that’s all.”
“Have you made the attempt?”
“Never. I’ve never had any inclination. We are very well treated here. I miss Paris now and then, of course, but what should I do in Paris? I am not in the first flush of youth. And if you only knew the life we lead here! It’s like a dream.”
“Yes, I know all about gaffoné. But I am announced to appear in Montevideo.”
“You are to leave to-morrow. Orders have been given. It’s a pity.”
“The thing that surprises me, Mademoiselle Amanda, is why they don’t keep me here by force.”
“Why should they if you are sensible?”
“Sensible! What do you mean by sensible? What may be sensible for you might very well not be sensible for me, you understand.”
“Certainly I understand. I understand quite well.”
“Then what do you suggest?”
“Well, what do you expect me to say? He is very good-hearted, and will do anything you please, will this man, but when he takes an idea into his head...”
“What then?”
“It is better not to attempt to thwart him. Between ourselves, I am giving you good advice. He loses control of himself when he meets with any opposition.”
“Well?”
She seemed to hesitate to say more. She strode over to the window, listened at the wooden shutters, and came back to Irene. She had doubtless reflected, for she remained silent.
“Do tell me, Mademoiselle Amanda. Time is precious.”
“There’s no immediate hurry,” Amanda made answer. “I shall know when he comes back by the cry of the red monkey.... Tell me, are the Marten sisters still in the Rue de la Paix.”
“Listen! At this moment I am not in the least interested in the Marten sisters. I ask you to tell me what will happen to me if I resist him.... In point of fact you cannot know, because no one here has ever resisted him.”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“Me.”
“What then?”
“See!”
Mademoiselle Amanda lifted her mask, and Irene saw a horrible thing. Mademoiselle Amanda had no nose. Her nose had been cut off.
CHAPTER XX
IN WHICH THE MISFORTUNES OF IRENE DE TROIE OF THE COMÉDIE FRANÇAISE BEGIN
MADEMOISELLE AMANDA LOWERED her mask. Irene drew back, uttering a cry of dismay. Now she was trembling with fear. With the shock of that ghastly sight upon her, her min
d began to wander. Was she going mad? Amanda took compassion on her.
“You make a mistake to look at the blackest side of things,” she said. “I am warning you simply to prevent you from driving him to extremities.”
“It was he... he... who...”
“Yes, with a simple cut from his forest knife. It is a short knife which is used in the forest to clear the trail. They can fell anything with it. He had no need to strike a second blow. A flash, a spurt of blood, and I was without a nose.” [The story of the French milliner whose nose was cut off by a coloured planter for playing him false with a French actor is related in M. Charles Capilly’s work on Brazil. — AUTHOR’S NOTE]
“And... you still remain here !”
“All the more reason,” said Mademoiselle Amanda simply.
“With a monster like that?”
“He has surrounded me with every care since then. On my part, I was not entirely without fault. You have probably heard how I played him false with a young actor belonging to a French company in Rio. That’s quite true. Raphael was very fond of me, and I made him very happy.
When Languequetrou carried me off from Rio after taking us by surprise, I was unable to learn what had become of Raphael.... By a miracle of love he followed us here. His object was to recapture me from this man. One day an old slave brought me a bunch of flowers whose meaning was as clear as noonday. The hawthorns and hyacinths suggested sorrow, the bitter almonds in the centre meant ardent love, and the pineapple leaves round it recalled our hours of happiness. I had no doubt in my own mind that this bunch of flowers came from Raphael. I asked the old woman who gave it to her....
“She told me without lifting her eyes that she had gathered the flowers at the stroke of midnight in a clearing of the forest an hour’s journey from here. I realized that Raphael was thus sending me word to meet him, and sallied forth the following night disguised as an old woman. I caught sight of a fire. I imagined that Raphael had adopted this method of directing my course, though I regarded the signal as an act of imprudence. Five minutes later I came up to a band of Botocudos. Raphael was their prisoner, bound hand and foot, and being burnt at the stake.”
Collected Works of Gaston Leroux Page 445
