CHAPTER XXIX
Will Saragossa surrender? Death to him who says it!
Saragossa will not surrender. She will be reduced to powder. Of herhistoric houses, let not one brick remain upon another! Let her hundredtemples fall, the ground beneath her open, pouring out flames; lether foundations be hurled into the air; let her roofs fall into thepits that are opened,--but among the fragments and the dead therewill always be one tongue left alive to say that Saragossa will neversurrender!
The moment of supreme despair came. France was not fighting now, butmining. It was necessary to destroy the soil of the nation in order toconquer it. Half the Coso was hers, but Spain retreated only to theopposite pavement. By Las Tenerias and in the suburb on the left theyhad obtained some advantages; and their little mines did not rest foran instant.
At last--it seems like a lie--we became accustomed to the explosions,as before we had become accustomed to the bombardment. At worst weheard a noise like that of a thousand thunder-claps all at once. Whathas happened? Nothing, the University, the Chapel de la Sangre, theCasa de Aranda, such a convent or chapel exists no longer. It wasnot like living on our peaceful and quiet planet. It was like havingthe birthplace of thunderbolts for a dwelling-place, like being in adisordered world, where everything was heaving up and unhinging. Therewas no place to live, because the ground was no longer ground. Underevery shrub or plant a crater was opening. And yet those men went ondefending themselves against the crushing horrors of a never-stilledvolcano and a ceaseless tempest. Lacking fortresses, they had used theconvents; lacking convents, the palaces; when the palaces failed, thehumble houses. There were still some partition walls. They did not eatnow. Of what use, when death was expected from one moment to the next?Thousands of men perished in the explosions, and the epidemic had risento its height of horror. One might go by chance unharmed through theshower of balls, then on turning a street corner, dreadful chills andfever would suddenly take possession of his frame, and in a littlewhile he would be dead. There were no longer kinsfolk or friends;men did not even know one another, their faces blackened by smoke, byearth, by blood, disfigured, cadaverous. Meeting one another after acombat they would ask, "Who are you?"
The belfries no longer sounded the alarm, because there were nobell-ringers. One heard no more the proclamations by criers, becauseproclamations were no longer published. Mass was not said, becausethere were no more priests. Nobody sang the jota now. The voices of thedying people were husky in their throats. From hour to hour a funerealsilence was conquering the city. Only the cannon spoke. The advanceguards of the two nations no longer took the trouble to exchangeinsults. Instead of madness, everybody was full of sadness; and thedying city fought on in silence, so that no atom of strength need belost in idle words.
The necessity of surrender was now the general idea; but none showedit, guarding it in the depths of conscience as he would conceal a crimewhich he was about to commit. Surrender! It seemed an impossibility, aword too difficult. To perish would be easier!
One day passed after the explosion of San Francisco; it was a horribleday which seemed to have no existence in time, but only in thefanciful realm of the imagination. I had been in the Calle de lasArcadas a little before the greater number of its houses fell. I ranafterwards to the Coso, to fulfil a commission with which I had beencharged, and I remember that the heavy infected air choked me so thatI could scarcely walk. On the way I saw the same child that I had seenseveral days before, alone and crying in the quarter of Las Tenerias.He was still alone and crying, and the poor child had his hands inhis mouth as if he were eating his fingers. In spite of that, nobodynoticed him. I also passed him by indifferently; but, afterwards alittle voice reproached me, and I turned back, and took him with me,giving him some bits of bread. My commission accomplished, I ran to thePlazuela de San Felipe, where, since the affair of Las Arcadas, werethe few men of my battalion who were still alive. It was now night; andalthough there had been firing in the Coso between one sidewalk and theother, my comrades were held in reserve for the following day, becausethey were dropping with fatigue. On arriving, I saw a man who wrappedin his military cloak was walking up and down, taking notice of nobody.It was Augustine Montoria.
"Augustine, is it thou?" I asked, going up to him. "How pale andchanged thou art? Have they wounded thee?"
"Let me alone," he answered bitterly, "I am in no mood for comrades."
"Are you mad? What has happened to you?"
"Leave me," he answered, pushing me away, "I tell you that I want to bealone. I do not want to see anybody."
"Friend!" I cried, understanding that some terrible trouble was on thesoul of my companion, "if misfortune is upon you, tell it to me, andlet me share your sorrow."
"Do you not know it, then?"
"I know nothing. You know that I was sent with twenty men to the Callede las Arcades. Since yesterday, since the explosion of San Francisco,you and I have not seen each other."
"It is true," he replied. "I have sought death in this barricade of theCoso, and death has passed me by. Numberless comrades fell beside me,and there was not one ball for me. Gabriel, my dear friend, put thebarrel of one of your pistols to my temple and tear out my life. Wouldyou believe it? A little while ago I tried to kill myself. I do notknow--but it seemed as if an invisible hand came and took the weaponfrom my temple, then another hand, soft and warm, passed over my brow."
"Calm yourself, Augustine, and tell me what is the matter."
"What the matter is with me? What time is it?"
"Nine o'clock."
"It lacks an hour," he cried, trembling nervously. "Sixty minutes. Itmay be the French have mined this Plazuela de San Felipe where we are,and perhaps in a moment the earth will leap under our feet and open ahorrible gulf in which we shall all be buried,--all, the victim and theexecutioners."
"What victim is that?"
"The unfortunate Candiola. He is shut up in the Torre Nueva."
In the doorway of the Torre Nueva there were some soldiers, and a faintlight illumined the entrance.
"Of course," I said, "I know that that infamous old man was takenprisoner with some of the French in the orchard of San Diego."
"His crime is unquestioned. He showed the enemy the passage, known tohim alone, from Santa Rosa to his house los Duendes. Besides, therebeing no lack of proof, the unhappy man has to-night confessed all, inthe hope of saving his life."
"They have condemned him?"
"Yes, the council of war did not discuss it long. Candiola will be shotwithin an hour. There he is, and here you are. Here am I, Gabriel,captain of the battalion of Las Pe?as de San Pedro. These cursedepaulets! Here am I with an order in my pocket which commands me toexecute the sentence at ten o'clock at night here in this very place,in the Plazuela de San Felipe, at the foot of the tower. Do you see it?Do you see this order? It is signed by General Saint March."
I was silent; because I could not think of one word to say to mycompanion in that terrible hour.
"Courage, my friend!" I cried at last. "You must obey the order!"
Augustine did not hear me. He acted like a madman, and tore himselfaway from me, only to return a second later, uttering words ofdesperation, then looking at the tower which, splendid and tall, lifteditself above our heads crying with terror,--
"Gabriel, do you not see it? Don't you see the tower? Don't you seethat it is straight, Gabriel? The tower has been made straight!"
I looked at the tower, and, naturally, the tower was still leaning.
"Gabriel," said Augustine, "kill me! I do not want to live. No, I willnot take life from that man. You must take the order. I, if I live,must run away. I am sick. I will tear off these epaulets, and throwthem in the face of General Saint March. No, do not tell me that theTorre Nueva is still leaning. Why, man, do you not see that it isstraight? My friend, you deceive me. My heart is pierced as by red-hotsteel, and my blood burns within me. I am dying of the pain."
I was trying to console him, when a white figure e
ntered the plazaby the Calle de Torresecas. On seeing her I trembled, for it wasMariquilla. Augustine did not have time to flee, and the distressedgirl embraced him, exclaiming eagerly in her emotion,--
"Augustine! Augustine! thank God, I have found you here! How much Ilove you! When they told me that you were the jailer of my father, Iwas wild with delight, for I know that you will save him. Those savagesof the council have condemned him to death. He to die who has done harmto no one! But God does not wish the innocent to perish, and He hasput him in your hands, so that you may let him escape!"
"Oh, my heart's Mariquilla," said Augustine, "leave me, I pray you! Idon't wish to see you. To-morrow--to-morrow we will talk. I love you,too. I am mad for you. Let Saragossa perish, but don't leave off lovingme! They expected me to kill your father."
"Oh, God, do not say that!" cried the girl. "Thou!"
"No, a thousand times no! Let others punish his treachery."
"No, it is a lie! My father is not a traitor. Do you also accuse him? Inever have believed it. Augustine, it is night. Untie his hands; takeoff the fetters that hurt his feet. Set him at liberty. No one can see.We will flee. We will hide ourselves in the ruins of our house, thereby the cypress where so many times we have seen the spire of the TorreNueva."
"Mariquilla, wait a little," said Montoria, with great agitation. "Thiscannot be done so. There are many people in the plaza. The soldiers aregreatly incensed against the prisoner. To-morrow--"
"To-morrow! What do you say? You are laughing at me. Set him atliberty this instant. Augustine, if you do not do it, I shall believethat I have loved the most vile, the most cowardly, the most despicableof men."
"Mariquilla, God hears us. God knows that I adore you. By Him I swearthat I will not stain my hands with the blood of this unhappy man. Iwill sooner break my sword. But--in the name of God, I tell you alsothat I cannot set your father at liberty. Mariquilla, Heaven is againstus."
"Augustine, you are deceiving me," said the girl, anguished andbewildered. "Do you tell me that you will not set him at liberty?"
"Oh, no, I cannot. If God should come in human form to ask of me thefreedom of him who sold our heroic peasants, delivered them up to theFrench sword, I would not do it. It is a supreme duty, in which onecannot fail. The innumerable victims immolated by his treachery, thecity surrendered, the national honor outraged, are things which weightoo strongly upon my conscience."
"My father cannot have done this deed of treachery," she said, passingat once from grief to an exalted and nervous anger; "these arecalumnies of his enemies. They lie who call him traitor, and you, morecruel and more inhuman than all, you lie also! It is not possible thatI have loved you! It causes me shame to think of it. You say you willnot free him? Then of what good are you? Do you hope to gain favor byyour bloody cruelty of those inhuman barbarians who have destroyedthe city, imagining that they were defending it? To you the life ofthe innocent is of no consequence, nor the desolation of an orphan.Miserable, ambitious egoist, I abhor you more than I have ever lovedyou! You thought that you would be able to present yourself before mewith your hands stained with the blood of my father? No, he is not atraitor. You are traitors, all of you. My God, is there no generoushand to help me? Among so many men, is there not even one to preventthis crime? A poor woman runs through all the city looking for afriendly soul, and does not find anything but wild beasts."
"Mariquilla," said Augustine, "you are lacerating my soul. You ask theimpossible of me, that which I will not do, and cannot do, although youoffer me eternal blessedness for payment. I have sacrificed all, and Iknew that you would abhor me. Think what it is for a man to tear outhis own heart and trample it in the mud. I have done that. I can do nomore."
The fervent exaltation of Mariquilla Candiola carried her from intenseanger to pathetic sensitiveness of suffering. She had showed her angerwith fiery heat, now she burst into bitter tears, expressing herselfthus,--
"What mad things I have said! And what madness hast thou said,Augustine! How I have loved you, and how I do love you!--from thetime I saw you first at our house. You have never been absent from mythoughts for a moment. You have been to me the most loving, the mostgenerous, the most thoughtful, the bravest of all men. I loved youwithout knowing who you were. I did not know your name, or that of yourparents; but I would have loved you if you had been the son of thehangman of Saragossa. Augustine, you have forgotten me since we havenot been together. It is I, Mariquilla. I have all this time believed,and I believe now that you will not take away from me my good fatherwhom I love as much as I love you. He is good. He has not hurt anybody.He is a poor old man. He has some faults; but I do not see them. I donot see anything in him but virtues. I never knew my mother, who diedwhen I was very small. I have lived retired from the world. My fatherhas brought me up in solitude. In solitude the great love that I bearyou has been nourished. If I had never known you, the whole world wouldhave been nothing to me without him!"
I could read clearly Montoria's indecision in his face. He was lookingwith terrified eyes, now at the girl, now at the sentinels at theentrance of the tower. The daughter of Candiola, with admirableinstinct, knew how to make use of that evidence of weakness. Throwingher arms around his neck, she cried,--
"Augustine, set him at liberty! We will hide where no one can find us.If they say anything to you, if they accuse you of having failed induty, do not take any notice of them. Come with me. How my father willlove you, seeing you have saved his life! Then what happiness is beforeus, Augustine. How good you are! I was expecting it, and when I knewthat the poor prisoner was in your hands, I felt the gates of heavenwere open!"
My friend took a few steps, then drew back. There were plenty ofsoldiers and armed men in the plazuela. Suddenly there appeared beforeus a man on crutches, accompanied by several officials of high rank.
"What is going on here?" asked Don Jos? de Montoria. "It seemed to meI heard the cries of a woman. Augustine, are you weeping? What is thematter?"
"Se?or," said Mariquilla, in alarm, turning to Montoria. "You will notat all oppose their setting my father at liberty? Do you not rememberme? You were wounded yesterday, and I cared for you."
"It is true, child," said Don Jos? gravely; "I am very grateful. Now Isee that you are the daughter of Se?or Candiola."
"Yes, sir. Yesterday, when I was attending you, I recognized in you theman who ill-treated my father some time ago."
"Yes, my daughter, it was a sudden thing--a hasty--I can't help it. Ihave very quick blood. And you took care of me? That is the way goodChristians do, returning good for evil, paying back injuries withbenefits, and to do good to them that hate us is what God commands."
"Se?or," exclaimed Mariquilla, dissolved in tears. "I forgive myenemies. Do you also forgive yours? Why do they not free my father? Hehas not done anything."
"This thing that you ask is a little difficult. The treachery of Se?orCandiola is unpardonable. The troops are furious."
"It is all a mistake. If you would intercede! You must be one of thecommanders."
"I!" said Montoria, "that is a business which does not rest on me.But calm yourself, young woman. You seem to be a good girl; truly,I remember the attention with which you took care of me, and suchgoodness touches my soul. I did you a great wrong, and from thesame person whom I injured I received a great good, perhaps lifeitself. In such ways God teaches us to be humble and charitable,porr--I was just going to let it go, this cursed tongue of mine!"
"Se?or, how good you are!" cried the girl; "and I thought you were verybad. You will help me to save my father. He does not lay up the outragehe received."
"Listen," said Montoria, taking her by the arm. "Not long ago Iasked pardon of Se?or Don Jeronimo for all that; and far from beingreconciled with me, he insulted me in the most gross manner. He and Ido not pull together, child. If you tell me that you forgive me thatmatter of the blows, my conscience will be free of a great weight."
"Indeed, there is nothing for me to forgive you. Oh, se?or, how goody
ou are! You command here surely. Then cause my father to be set free!"
"That is none of my business. Se?or Candiola has committed a terriblecrime. It is impossible to pardon him, impossible! I understand youraffliction, and truly I feel it, especially in remembering yourkindness. I will protect you. We shall see."
"I do not wish for anything for myself," said Mariquilla, whose voicewas now hoarse with her emotion. "I only wish that an unfortunate manwho has done nothing should be set at liberty. Augustine, are you notin command here? What are you doing?"
"This young man will do his duty," said Montoria.
"This young man," cried Mariquilla, angrily, "will do what I bid him,because he loves me. Isn't it true that you will free my father? Yousaid you would. Se?ors, what are you here for? Do you intend to stophim? Augustine, do not pay any attention to them; defend us!"
"What is all this?" exclaimed Montoria, in amazement. "Augustine, haveyou told this girl that you have any idea of failing in your duty? Doyou know her?"
Augustine, overcome by his fear, answered nothing.
"Yes, he will set him at liberty," said Mariquilla, in despair. "Goaway from here, se?ors. You have no business here."
"What am I to understand?" cried Don Jos?, seizing his son by his arm."If what this girl says should be true, if I could imagine that myson's honor could fail in this fashion, his loyalty sworn to his flagbe trampled underfoot,--if I supposed that my son could make light ofthe orders with whose fulfilment he has been charged, I myself wouldtie him and drag him before the council of war that he might get hisjust reward."
"Se?or, oh, my father," said Augustine, pale as death, "I have neverthought of failing in my duty."
"Is that your father?" said Mariquilla. "Augustine, tell him that youlove me, and perhaps he will have compassion on me."
"This girl is mad," said Don Jos?. "Unhappy child, your trouble touchesmy heart. I charge myself with protecting you in your orphanhood. Yes,I will protect you as long as you reform your habits. Poor little one,you have a good heart, an excellent heart. But,--yes--I have heard, alittle inclined to be giddy. It is a pity that by being badly broughtup a good soul should be lost. But you will be good? I think you will!"
"Augustine, how can you permit me to be insulted?" said Mariquilla,with overwhelming grief.
"It is not insult," said the father, "it is good counsel. How could Iinsult my benefactress? I believe that if you behave yourself well,we shall have a great affection for you. Remain under my protection,poor orphan. Why do you talk so to my son? It is nothing, nothing;have better sense; and enough for now of all this agitation. The ladperhaps knows you. Yes, I have been told that during the siege you havenot left the company of the soldiers. Now you must reform. I chargemyself--I cannot forget the kindness I have received. And besides Iknow that you are good at heart. That is not a deceitful face. You havea heavenly form. But it is necessary to renounce worldly enjoyments,refrain from vice--then--"
"No!" cried Augustine, suddenly, with so lively an outburst of angerthat all of us trembled at seeing him and hearing him. "No! I will notconsent that any one, not even my father, should insult her before me.I love her! And if I have concealed it before, I tell it now, withoutfear or shame, for all the world to know! Sir, you do not know what youare saying, nor how you miss the truth! You have been deceived. You maykill me, if I fail in respect, but do not defame her before me; becauseif I should hear again what I have heard, not even the fact that youare my own father could restrain me!"
Montoria, not expecting this, looked about in amazement at his friends.
"Good, Augustine!" cried Mariquilla. "Do not pay any attention to thesepeople. This man is not your father. Do what your heart tells you todo. Go away, se?ors! Go away!"
"You are mistaken, Mariquilla," replied the young man; "I have notintended to free the prisoner, nor shall I do so; but at the same timeI tell you that it will not be I who will take his life. There areofficers in my battalion who will carry out the order. I am no longera soldier. Although we are in the face of the enemy, I break my sword,and hasten to the Captain-General that he may decide my fate."
As he said this, he drew his sword, and, doubling the blade across hisknee, he broke it, and after throwing the two pieces into the middleof our circle, he went without another word.
"I am all alone! There is no one to help me!" cried Mariquilla, faintly.
"Gentlemen, pay no attention to the affairs of my son. I will take thatupon myself. Perhaps the girl has interested him. That is of littleconsequence. These inexperienced ecclesiastics are very likely to betaken in. And you, Se?ora Do?a Mariquilla, try to calm yourself. Wewill look after you. I promise you that, if you behave yourself, youwill later enter into repentance. Come, let us take her away from here!"
"No, no! nobody shall tear me away from here, except in bits," said thegirl, with the calmness of despair. "Oh, Se?or Don Jos? de Montoria,will you not ask them to pardon my father? If he would not forgive you,I forgive you a thousand times. But--"
"I cannot do what you ask of me," said the patriot, sadly. "The crimecommitted is enormous. You must go away. What terrible grief! It isnecessary to resign yourself. God will pardon you all your faults, poororphan. Rely upon me, and all that I can do--we will take care of you.We will help you. I am moved not by gratitude alone but by pity. Come,come with me. It lacks only a quarter to ten."
"Se?or Montoria," said Mariquilla, kneeling before the patriot, andkissing his hands, "you have influence in the city, and can save myfather. You are angry with me because Augustine said he loved me.No, I will not love him. I will not see him any more. I am an honestgirl; but he is above me, and I cannot think of marrying him. Se?or deMontoria, by the soul of your dead son, help me! My father is innocent.No, it is not possible that he could have been a traitor. If the HolySpirit should tell me, I would not believe it. They say that he was nopatriot. I say it is a lie. They say that he did not give anything forthe war; but now everything that we have shall be given. There is agreat deal of money buried in the cellar of the house. I will tell youwhere it is, and they can take it all. They say that he has not takenup arms. I will take arms now. I am not afraid of the balls. The noiseof the cannon does not terrify me. I am not afraid of anything. I willrun to the places of greatest danger, and there, where the men can donothing, I will go into the fire. I will dig in the mines with my ownhands, and make holes for the powder under all the ground occupied bythe French. Tell me if there is some castle to take, or some wall todefend; because I fear nothing, and of all living beings in Saragossa,I shall be the last to surrender."
"Unhappy girl!" said the patriot, lifting her from the ground, "let usgo, let us go from here!"
"Se?or de Araceli," said the head of our forces, who was present, "asCaptain Augustine Montoria is not in his place, you are intrusted withthe command of this company."
"No, assassins of my father!" exclaimed Mariquilla, furious as a lion;"you shall not kill the innocent! Cowards! Executioners! You are thetraitors, not he! You cannot conquer your enemies, so you enjoy takinglife from an unfortunate old man. Soldiers, how can you talk of yourhonor, when you do not know what honor is? Augustine, where art thou!Se?or Don Jos? de Montoria, this is a contemptible vengeance planned byyou, a spiteful and heartless man! My father has done wrong to no one,and you tried to rob him. He was right in not wishing to give you hisflour, for you who call yourselves patriots are tradesmen who speculatein the misfortunes of the city. I cannot extort from these cruelmen one compassionate word. Men of brass, barbarians! My father isinnocent, and if he were not, he would have done well in selling such acity. They would easily give more than you are worth. But is there notone, one single one, to pity him and me?"
"Come, let us take her away, let us carry her off, se?ors," saidMontoria. "This cannot be prolonged. What has my son done with himself?"
They took her away, and for a time I could hear her heart-rending cries.
"Good-night, Se?or de Araceli," said Montoria to me. "I am going to
seeif I can get a little wine and water for this poor orphan."