CHAPTER XXVII.
THE CAPILLA.
The Spanish custom--a custom which has been kept up in all the oldcolonies of that power--of placing persons condemned to death in achapel, requires explanation, in order that it may be thoroughlyunderstood and appreciated, as it deserves to be.
Frenchmen, over whom the great revolution of '93 passed like ahurricane, and carried off most of their belief in its sanguinary cloak,may smile with pity and regard as a fanatic remainder from anotherage, this custom of placing the condemned in chapel. Among us, it istrue, matters are managed much more simply: a man, when condemned bythe law, eats, drinks, and remains alone in his cell. If he desire it,he is visited by the chaplain, whom he is at liberty to converse with,if he likes; if not, he remains perfectly quiet, and nobody pays anyattention to him, during a period more or less long, and determined bythe rejection of his appeal. Then, one fine morning, when he is leastthinking of it, the governor of the prison announces to him, when hewakes, as the most simple thing in the world, that he is to be executedthat same day, and only an hour is granted him to recommend his soulto the divine clemency. The fatal toilet is made by the executioner andhis assistant, the condemned man is placed in a close carriage, conveyedto the place of execution, and in a twinkling launched into eternity,before he has had a moment to look round him.
Is it right or wrong to act in this way? We dare not answer, yes or no.This question is too difficult to decide, and would lead us the further,because we should begin with asking society by what right it arrogatesto itself the power of killing one of its members, and thus committing acold-blooded assassination, under the pretext of doing justice; for weconfess that we have ever been among the most determined adversaries ofpunishment by death, as we are persuaded that, in trying to deal a heavyblow, human justice deceives itself, and goes beyond the object, becauseit avenges when it ought merely to punish.
We will, therefore, repeat here what we said in a previous work, inexplanation of what the Spaniards mean by the phrase "placing in chapel."
When a man is condemned to death, from that moment he is, _de facto_,cut off from that society to which he no longer belongs, through thesentence passed on him; he is consequently separated from his fellow men.
He is shut up in a room, at one end of which is an altar; the walls arehung with black drapery, studded with silver tears, and here and theremourning inscriptions, drawn from Holy Writ. Near his bed is placed thecoffin in which his body is to be deposited after execution, while twopriests, who relieve each other, but of whom one constantly remains inthe room, say mass in turn, and exhort the criminal to repent Of hiscrimes, and implore divine clemency. This custom, which, if carried toan extreme, would appear in our country before all, barbarous and cruel,perfectly agrees with Spanish manners, and the thoroughly believingspirit of this impressionable nation; it is intended to draw the culpritback to pious thought, and rarely fails to produce the desired effectupon him.
The general was, therefore, placed in capilla, and two monks belongingto the order of St. Francis, the most respected, and, in fact,respectable in Mexico, entered it with him.
The first hours he passed there were terrible; this proud mind, thispowerful organization, revolted against adversity, and would not acceptdefeat. Gloomy and silent, with frowning brows, and fists clenched onhis bosom, the general sought shelter like a wild beast in a corner ofthe room, recalling his whole life, and seeing with starts of terror thebloody victims scattered along his path, and sacrificed in turn to hisdevouring ambition, sadly defile before him.
Then he reverted to his early years. When residing at the Palmar, hismagnificent family hacienda, his life passed away calm, pure, gentle,and tranquil, without regrets, and without desires, among his faithfulservants. Then, he was so glad to be nothing, and to wish to be nothing.
By degrees his thoughts followed the bias of his recollections: thepresent was effaced; his contracted features grew softer, and twoburning tears, the first, perhaps, this man of iron had ever shed,slowly coursed down his cheeks, which grief had hollowed.
The monks, calm and contemplative, had eagerly followed the successivechanges on this eminently expressive face. They comprehended that theirmission of consolation was beginning, and approached the general softly,and wept with him; then this man, whom nothing had been able to subdue,felt his soul torn asunder; the cloud that covered his eyes melted awaylike the winter snow before the first sunbeam, and he fell into the armsopen to receive him, exclaiming, with an expression of desperate griefimpossible to render--
"Have mercy, heaven! have mercy!"
The struggle had been short but terrible; faith had conquered doubt, andhumanity had regained its rights.
The general then had with the monks a conversation, protracted far intothe night, in which he confessed all his crimes and sins, and humblyasked pardon of God whom he had outraged, and before whom he was aboutto appear.
The next day, a little after, sunrise, one of the monks, who had beenabsent about an hour, returned, bringing with him the general'scapataz. It had only been with extreme reluctance that Carnero hadconsented to come, for he justly dreaded his old master's reproaches.
Hence his surprise was extreme at being received with a smile, andkindly, and on finding that the general did not make the slightestallusion to his treachery, which the evidence before the court-martialhad fully revealed.
Carnero looked inquiringly at the two monks, for he did not dare putfaith in his master's words, and each moment expected to hear him burstout into reproaches. But nothing of the sort took place; the generalcontinued the conversation as he had begun it, speaking to him gentlyand kindly.
At the moment when the capataz was about to withdraw, the generalstopped him.
"One moment," he said to him; "you know Don Valentine, the Frenchhunter, for whom I so long cherished an insensate hatred?"
"Yes," Carnero stammered.
"Be kind enough to ask him to grant me the favour of a short visit; heis a noble-hearted man, and I am convinced that he will not refuse tocome. I should be glad if he consented to bring with him Don Martial,the Tigrero, who has so much cause to complain of me, as well as myniece, Dona Anita de Torres. Will you undertake this commission, thelast I shall doubtless give you?"
"Yes, general," the capataz answered, affected in spite of himself bysuch gentleness.
"Now go; be happy and pray for me, for we shall never meet again."
The capataz went out in a very different frame of mind from that inwhich he had entered the capilla, and hastened off to Valentine. Thehunter was not at home, for he had gone to the presidential palace, buthe returned almost immediately. The capataz gave the message which hisold master had entrusted him with for him.
"I will go," the hunter said simply, and he dismissed him.
Curumilla was at once sent off to Mr. Rallier's quinta with a letter,and during his absence Valentine had a long conversation with Belhumeurand Black Elk. At about five in the evening, a carriage entered thecourtyard of Valentine's house at a gallop; it contained Mr. Rallier,Anita, and Don Martial.
"Thanks!" he said, on seeing them.
"You ordered me to come, so I obeyed as usual," the Tigrero answered.
"You were right, my friend."
"And now what do you want of us?"
"That you should accompany me to the place whither I am going at thismoment."
"Would it be indiscreet to ask you----"
"Where?" the hunter interrupted him with a laugh.
"Not at all; I am going to lead you, Dona Anita, and the persons herepresent, to the capilla in which General Guerrero is confined."
"The capilla?" the Tigrero exclaimed in amazement, "for what purpose?"
"What does that concern you? The general has requested to see you, andyou cannot refuse the request of a man who has but a few hours left tolive."
The Tigrero hung his head without answering.
"Oh! I will go!" Dona Anita exclaimed impulsively, as she wiped away
thetears that ran down her cheeks.
"You are a woman, senorita, and therefore good and indulgent," thehunter said; then turning to the Tigrero, he said, with a slight accentof reproach, "you have not yet answered me, Don Martial."
"Since you insist, Don Valentine, I will go," he at length answered,with an effort.
"I do not insist, my friend; I only ask, that is all."
"Come, Martial, I implore you," Dona Anita said to him gently.
"Your will be done in this as in all other things," he said. "I am readyto follow you, Don Valentine."
Valentine, Dona Anita, Mr. Rallier, and Don Martial got into thecarriage. The two Canadians and the chief followed them on horseback,and they proceeded at a gallop to the chapel where the condemned man wasconfined.
All along the road they found marks of the obstinate struggle which haddeluged the city with blood a few days previously; the barricades hadnot been entirely removed, and though the distance was, in reality,very short, they did not reach the prison till nightfall, owing to thedetours they were forced to make.
Valentine begged his friends to remain outside, and only entered withDona Anita and the Tigrero. The general was impatiently expecting them,and testified a great joy on perceiving them.
The young lady could not restrain her emotion, and threw herself intoher uncle's arms with an outburst of passionate grief. The generalpressed her tenderly to his bosom, and kissed her on the forehead.
"I am the more affected by these marks of affection, my child," he saidwith much emotion, "because I have been very harsh to you. Can you everforgive me the sufferings I have caused you?"
"Oh, uncle, speak not so. Are you not, alas! the only relation I haveremaining?"
"For a very short time," he said with a sad smile, "that is the reasonwhy I ought, without further delay, to provide for your future."
"Do not talk about that at such a moment, uncle," she continued,bursting into tears.
"On the contrary, my child, it is at this moment when I am going toleave you, that I am bound to insure you a protector. Don Martial, Ihave done you great wrong; here is my hand, accept it as that of a manwho has completely recognized his faults, and sincerely repents the evilhe has done."
The Tigrero, more affected than he liked to display, took a stepforward, and cordially pressed the hand offered him.
"General," he said, in a voice which he tried in vain to render firm,"this moment, which I never dared hope to see, fills me with joy, but atthe same time with grief."
"Well, you can do something for me by proving to me that you have reallyforgiven me."
"Speak, general, and if it is in my power----," he exclaimed warmly.
"I believe so," Don Sebastian answered, with his sad smile. "Consent toaccept my niece from my hand, and marry her at once in this chapel."
"Oh, general!" he began, choking with emotion.
"Uncle, at this awful moment!" the young lady murmured, timidly.
"Allow me the supreme consolation of dying under the knowledge thatyou are happy. Don Valentine, you have doubtless brought some of yourfriends with you?"
"They are awaiting your commands, general," the hunter answered.
"Let them come in, in that case, for time presses."
One of the monks had prepared everything beforehand.
When the hunters and the French banker entered, followed by Curumilla,and the officer commanding the capilla guard, who had been warnedbeforehand, the general walked eagerly toward them.
"Senores," he said, "I would ask you to do me the honour of witnessingthe marriage of my niece, Dona Anita de Torres, with this caballero."
The newcomers bowed respectfully. At a signal from one of theFranciscans they knelt down and the ceremony began. It lasted hardlytwenty minutes, but never had a marriage mass been read or listened towith more pious fervour. When it was ended, the witnesses wished toretire.
"One moment, senores, if you please," the general said to them. "I nowwish to make you witnesses of a great reparation."
They stopped, and the general walked up to Valentine.
"Caballero," he said to him, "I know all the motives of hatred youhave against me, and those motives I allow to be just. I am now in thesame position in which I placed Count de Prebois Crance, your dearestfriend. Like him, I shall be shot tomorrow at daybreak; but with thisdifference, that he fell as a martyr to a holy cause, and innocent ofthe crimes of which I accused him, while I am guilty, and have deservedthe sentence passed on me. Don Valentine, I repent from the bottom ofmy heart the iniquitous murder of your friend. Don Valentine, do youforgive me?"
"General Don Sebastian Guerrero, I forgive you the murder of my friend,"the hunter answered, in a firm voice. "I forgive you the life of griefto which I am henceforth condemned by you."
"You pardon me unreservedly?"
"Unreservedly I do."
"Thanks! We were made to love instead of hate each other. Imisunderstood you; but yours is a great and noble heart. Now, let deathcome, and I shall accept it gladly; for I feel convinced that God willhave pity on me on account of my sincere repentance. Be happy, niece,with the husband of your choice. Senores, all, accept my thanks. DonValentine, once more I thank you; and now leave me all, for I no longerbelong to the world, so let me think of my salvation."
"But one word," Valentine said. "General, I have forgiven you, and it isnow my turn to ask your pardon. I have deceived you."
"Deceived me!"
"Yes: take this paper. The President of the Republic, employing hissovereign right of mercy, has, on my pressing entreaty, revoked thesentence passed on you. You are free."
His hearers burst into a cry of admiration.
The general turned pale; he tottered, and for a moment it was fanciedthat he was about to fall. A cold perspiration stood on his temples.Dona Anita sprang forward to support him, but he repulsed her gently,and, with a great effort, exclaimed, in a choking voice--
"Don Valentine, Don Valentine, such then is your revenge. Oh! blind,blind that I was to form such an erroneous opinion of you! You condemnme to live. Well, be it so; I accept, and will not deceive yourexpectations. Fathers," he said, turning to the monks, "lead me to yourmonastery. General Guerrero is dead, and henceforth I shall be a monk ofyour order."
Don Sebastian's conversion was sincere. Grace had touched him, and hepersevered. Two months after professing, he died in the FranciscanMonastery, crushed by remorse and worn out by the cruel penance heinflicted on himself.
Two days after the scene we have described, Valentine and his companionsleft Mexico, and returned to Sonora. On reaching the frontier, thehunter, in spite of the pressing entreaties of his friends, separatedfrom them, and returned to the desert.
Don Martial and Dona Anita settled in Mexico, near the Ralliers. A monthafter Valentine's departure, Dona Helena returned to the convent, andat the end of a year, in spite of the entreaties of her family, whowere surprised at so strange a resolution, which nothing apparentlyexplained, the young lady took the vows.
When I met Valentine Guillois on the banks of the Rio Joaquin, sometime after the events recorded in this long story, he was going withCurumilla to attempt a hazardous expedition across the Rocky Mountains,from which, he said to me, with that soft melancholy smile which hegenerally assumed when speaking to me, he _hoped_ never to return.
* * * * *
I accompanied him for several days, and then we were compelled toseparate. He pressed my hand, and, followed by his dumb friend, heentered the mountains. For a long time I looked after him, for Iinvoluntarily felt my heart contracted by a sad foreboding. He turnedround for the last time, waved his hand in farewell, and disappearedround a bend of the track.
I was fated never to see him again.
Since then nothing has been heard of him, or of Curumilla. All myendeavours to join them, or even obtain news of them, was vain.
Are they still living?--no one can say. Darkness has settled down overthese two magnificent me
n, and time itself will, in all probability,never remove the veil that conceals their fate; for all, unhappily,leads me to suppose that they perished in that gloomy expedition fromwhich Valentine _hoped_, alas! never to return.
END OF RED TRACK.