Chapter 4 - Wood Rangers: The Trappers of Sonora by Mayne Reid
The Forsaken Chamber
On arriving at the chateau, the alcalde ordered the door of the Countess’s chamber to be burst in—for it was still bolted inside. On entering the apartment a picture of confusion was presented. Drawers empty, others drawn out, but only half sacked of their contents.
All this did not indicate precisely that there had been any violence. A voluntary but hurried departure on the part of the Countess might have left just such traces as were discovered. The bed was still undisturbed, as if she had not lain down upon it. This fact appeared to indicate a foreknowledge, on the part of the lady, of what was to happen—as if she had had the intention of going off, but had made no preparation until the moment of departure. The furniture was all in its place—the window curtains and those of the alcove had not been disarranged, and no traces of a struggle were to be discerned within the chamber, which contained many light fragile objects of furniture that could not fail to have been destroyed by the slightest violence.
The fetid odour of an oil lamp filled the apartment despite the cold air that came in through the open window. It was evident, therefore, that this lamp had been left alight, and had continued to burn until the oil had become exhausted.
It could not be a robbery either. A thousand articles of value, likely enough to have tempted the cupidity of robbers, were left behind both on the tables and in the drawers.
The conclusion then was that neither assassination nor burglary had taken place.
Notwithstanding all these deceptive appearances, the old steward shook his head doubtfully. The signs were sufficient to baffle his reason, which was none of the strongest, but the faithful servant could not bring himself to believe that his noble mistress would take flight in a manner so extraordinary—his good sense revolted at the thought. In his belief some crime had been committed, but how was it to be explained—since the assassin had left no traces of his guilt? The devoted Don Juan looked with a sad eye upon that desolate chamber—upon the dresses of his beloved mistress scattered over the floor; upon the cradle of the young Count, where he had so lately slept, rosy and smiling, under the vigil of his mother.
Suddenly struck with an idea, the steward advanced towards the iron balcony that fronted upon the sea—that where the window had been found open. With inquiring eye he looked to the ground below, which was neither more nor less than the beach of the sea itself. It was at no great depth below; and he could easily have seen from the balcony any traces that might have been there. But there were none. The tide had been in and out again. No trace was left on the sand or pebbles that had the slightest signification in regard to the mysterious event. The wind sighed, the waves murmured as always; but amid the voices of nature none raised itself to proclaim the guilty.
On the fair horizon only were descried the white sails of a ship, gradually passing outwards and fading away into the azure of the sea.
While the old steward watched the disappearance of the ship with a sort of dreamy regard, he sent up a silent prayer that his mistress might still be safe. The others, with the exception of the alcalde and his clerk, stood listening to the mournful howling of the wind against the cliffs, which seemed alternately to weep and sigh as if lamenting the sad event that had just transpired.
As regards the alcalde and his assistant, they were under the same conviction as Don Juan—both believing that a crime had been committed—though they did not care to avow their belief, for reasons known to themselves. The absence of any striking evidence that might lead to the discovery of the delinquents, but more especially the difficulty of finding some interested individual able to pay the expenses of justice (the principal object of criminal prosecutions in Spain), damped the zeal of Don Ramon and the scribe. Both were satisfied to leave things as they stood—the one contented with having gained the recompense so much coveted—the other with the twelve years of rents which he felt sure of gaining.
“Valga me Dios! my children,” said the alcalde, turning toward the witnesses, “I cannot explain what fancy the Countess may have had in going out by the window—for the door of the chamber, bolted inside, leaves no room to doubt that she went that way. Some woman’s caprice, perhaps, which justice has no business to meddle with.”
“Perhaps it was to escape from giving the alcalde his receipt,” suggested one of the bystanders to another, in an undertone of voice.
“But how, Don Juan,” continued the magistrate, addressing himself to the old steward, “how did you know of the Countess’s disappearance, since you could not get into the room?”
“That is simple enough,” replied the old man. “At the hour in which the chamber-maid is accustomed to present herself before the señora, she knocked as usual at the door. No answer was given. She knocked louder, and still received no answer. Growing anxious, she came to me to tell me. I went to the door myself, first knocked and then called; and receiving no reply, I ran round to the garden and got the ladder. This I placed against the balcony, and mounted up in order to see through the window. On reaching the window I found it open, and the chamber in the condition you now see it.”
When the steward had finished this declaration, Cagatinta whispered some words in the ear of the alcalde; but the latter only replied by a shake of the shoulders, and an expression of disdainful incredulity.
“Who knows?” answered the scribe in reply to this dumb show.
“It might be,” muttered Don Ramon, “we shall see presently.”
“I persist, gentlemen,” continued the alcalde, “in my belief that the Countess has gone out by the window; and however singular it may appear, I believe the lady is free to her fancy to go out as she pleases—even though it be by a window.”
Cagatinta, and some others, complimented, with a laugh, this little bit of magisterial facetiousness.
“But, señor alcalde,” spoke out Don Juan, disgusted with this ill-timed pleasantry, “a proof that there has been a forced entry into the chamber is this broken glass of the window, of which you see some pieces still lying on the balcony.”
“This old fool,” muttered the alcalde to himself, “is not going to let me have any breakfast. By this time everything will be cold, and Nicolasa—What do these bits of glass prove?” he continued, raising his voice; “don’t you think that the breeze which was blowing roughly last night might have caused this? The window was hanging open, and the wind clashing it violently against the frame, would readily cause the breaking of a pane?”
“But why is it,” answered Don Juan, “that the broken pane is precisely the one adjacent to the fastening? It must have been knocked out to get the window open.”
“Carramba! Señor Don Juan de Dios!” cried the alcalde, in a peevish tone—at the same time biting his gold-headed cane, the emblem of his office—“Is it you or I who have here the right to ask questions? Carrai! it appears to me that you make me cut a strange figure!”
Here Cagatinta interposed with a modest air—
“I shall answer our friend Canelo, if you permit me. If the window was open with the design he has stated, it must of course have been done from the outside. The pieces of glass then would have fallen into the chamber; but such is not the case—there they lie on the balcony! It has been the wind therefore, as his honour the alcalde has reasonably stated, that has done this business. Unless, indeed,” added he, with a feigned smile, “some trunk carried incautiously past the window might have struck one of the squares. This may have been—since it appears the Countess intends a prolonged absence, judging from the effects—taken with her, as testified by the empty drawers.”
The old steward lowered his head at this proof which seemed completely to falsify his assertion. He did not hear the last observation of Cagatinta, who was cogitating whether he ought not to exact from the alcalde something more than the liver-coloured breeches, as a recompense of this new service he had done him.
While the faithful Don Juan was busy with painful reflections that threw their shadows upon his bald forehead, the alcalde approached and addressed him in a voice so low as not to be heard by the others.
“I have been a little sharp with you, Don Juan—I have not sufficiently taken into account the grief, which you as a loyal servant must feel under such an unexpected stroke. But tell me! independent of the chagrin which this affair has caused you, are you not also affected by some fears about your own future? You are old—weak in consequence—and without resources?”
“It is just because I am old, and know that I have not long to live, that I am so little affected. My grief, however,” added he with an air of pride, “is pure and free from all selfishness. The generosity of Count de Mediana has left me enough to pass the remainder of my days in tranquillity. But I should pass them all the more happily if I could only see avenged the lady of my old master.”
“I approve of your sentiments, Señor Don Juan! you are doubly estimable on account of your sorrow, and as to your savings—Notary! Señor Cagatinta!” cried the alcalde, suddenly raising his voice so as to be heard by all present, “Make out a procès verbal—that the Señor Don Juan Dios Canelo, here present, will become prosecutor in this case. It cannot be doubted that a crime has been committed; and it is a duty we owe to ourselves as well as to this respectable man, to seek out and punish the authors of it.”
“But, señor alcalde!” interposed the steward, perfectly stupefied with this unexpected declaration, “I did not say—I have no intention to become prosecutor.”
“Take care, old man!” cried Don Ramon, in a solemn tone; “if you deny what you have already confided to me, grievous charges may be brought against you. As friend Cagatinta has just this minute observed to me, the ladder by which you scaled the balcony might prove sinister designs. But I know you are incapable of such. Rest contented, then, at being the accuser in place of the accused. Come, gentlemen! our duty calls us outside. Perhaps underneath the balcony we may find some traces of this most mysterious matter.”
So saying, the alcalde left the chamber, followed by the crowd.
Poor Don Juan found himself thus unexpectedly between two horns of a dilemma, the result in either case being the same—that is, the spoliation of the little pecadillo he had put away against old age. He shook his head, and with a sublime resignation accepted the voice of iniquity for that of God—consoling himself with the reflection, that this last sacrifice might be of some service to the family whose bread he had so long eaten.
No trace was found under the balcony. As already stated the waves must have obliterated any footmarks or other vestiges that may have been left.
It was believed for a while that an important capture had been made, in the person of a man found lying in a crevice among the rocks. This proved to be Pepé the Sleeper. Suddenly aroused, the coast-guard was asked if he had seen or heard anything? No, was the reply, nothing. But Pepé remembered his full pockets; and fearing that the alcalde might take a fancy to search him, saw that some ruse was necessary to put an end to the scene. This he succeeded in doing, by begging the alcalde for a real to buy bread with!
What was to be done with this droll fellow? The alcalde felt no inclination to question him farther, but left him to go to sleep again and sleep as long as he pleased.
Any further investigation appeared to Don Ramon to be useless—at least until some order might be received from higher quarters—besides it would be necessary to graduate the expenses of justice to the means of the prosecutor; and with this reflection, the alcalde went home to his breakfast.
In the evening of this eventful day for the village of Elanchovi—when the twilight had fallen upon the water—two persons might have been seen wandering along the beach, but evidently desirous of shunning one another. Both appeared in grief, though their sorrows sprang from a very different cause.
One was a poor old steward, who, while heaving a sigh at the thought that his worldly store was about to be absorbed in the inexorable gulf of justice, at the same time searched for some trace of his lost mistress, praying for her and her child, and calling upon God to take them under his protection.
The other pensive wanderer was Cagatinta, of whom the alcalde had again taken the advantage. Profiting by the confidence of the scribe, Don Ramon had induced the latter to commit his oath to stamped paper; and then instead of the liver-coloured breeches had offered him an old hat in remuneration. This Cagatinta had indignantly refused.
He was now lamenting his vanished dreams of ambition, his silly confidence, and the immorality of false oaths—not paid for. Nevertheless, he was meditating whether it would not be more prudent to accept the old hat in lieu of the liver-coloured breeches, alas! so well earned!