Chapter 24 - The White Chief by Mayne Reid
When Vizcarra reached his sumptuous quarters, the first thing he did was to call for wine. It was brought, and he drank freely and with fierce determination.
He thought by that to drown his chagrin; and for a while he succeeded.
There is relief in wine, but it is only temporary: you may make jealousy drunk and oblivious, but you cannot keep it so. It will be sober as soon—ay, sooner than yourself. Not all the wine that was ever pressed from grapes can drown it into a complete oblivion.
Vizcarra’s heart was filled by various passions. There was love—that is, such love as a libertine feels; jealousy; anger at the coarse handling he had experienced; wounded self-love, for with his gold-lace and fine plumes he believed himself a conqueror at first sight; and upon the top of all, bitter disappointment.
This last was the greater that he did not see how his suit could be renewed. To attempt a similar visit would lead to similar chagrin,—perhaps worse.
It was plain the girl did not care for him, with all his fine feathers and exalted position. He saw that she was very different from the others with whom he had had dealings—different from the dark-eyed doncellas of the valley, most of whom, if not all, would have taken his onza without a word or a blush!
It was plain to him he could go no more to the rancho. Where, then, was he to meet her—to see her? He had ascertained that she seldom came to the town—never to the amusements, except when her brother was at home. How and where, then, was he to see her? His was a hopeless case—no opportunity of mending his first faux pas—none, any more than if the object of his pursuit was shut up in the cloisters of a nunnery! Hopeless, indeed! Thus ran his reflections.
Though uttering this phrase, he had no belief in its reality. He had no intention of ending the affair so easily. He—the lady-killer, Vizcarra—to fail in the conquest of a poor ranchera! He had never failed, and would not now. His vanity alone would have urged him farther in the affair; but he had a sufficient incentive to his strong passion,—for strong it had now grown. The opposition it had met—the very difficulty of the situation—only stimulated him to greater energy and earnestness.
Besides, jealousy was there, and that was another spur to his excited pride.
He was jealous of Don Juan. He had noticed the latter on the day of the fiesta. He had observed him in the company of the cibolero and his sister. He saw them talking, drinking, feasting together. He was jealous then; but that was light, for then he still anticipated his own easy and early triumph. That was quiet to the feeling that tortured him now—now that he had failed—now that he had seen in the very hour of his humiliation that same rival on his road to the rancho—welcome, no doubt—to be told of all that had happened—to join her in jeering laughter at his expense—to—Furies! the thought was intolerable.
For all that the Comandante had no idea of relinquishing his design. There were still means—foul, if not fair—if he could only think of them. He wanted some head cooler than his own. Where was Roblado?
“Sergeant! tell Captain Roblado I wish to speak with him.”
Captain Roblado was just the man to assist him in any scheme of the sort. They were equally villains as regarded women; but Vizcarra’s métier was of a lighter sort—more of the genteel-comedy kind. His forte lay in the seductive process. He made love à la Don Giovanni, and carried hearts in what he deemed a legitimate manner; whereas Roblado resorted to any means that would lead most directly to the object—force, if necessary and safe. Of the two Roblado was the coarser villain.
As the Comandante had failed in his way, he was determined to make trial of any other his captain might suggest; and since the latter knew all the “love stratagems,” both of civilised and savage life, he was just the man to suggest something.
It chanced that at this time Roblado wanted counsel himself upon a somewhat similar subject. He had proposed for Catalina, and Don Ambrosio had consented; but, to the surprise of all, the Señorita had rebelled! She did not say she would not accept Captain Roblado. That would have been too much of a defiance, and might have led to a summary interference of paternal authority. But she had appealed to Don Ambrosio for time—she was not ready to be married! Roblado could not think of time—he was too eager to be rich; but Don Ambrosio had listened to his daughter’s appeal, and there lay the cause of the captain’s trouble.
Perhaps the Comandante’s influence with Don Ambrosio might be the means of overruling this decision and hastening the wished-for nuptials. Roblado was therefore but too eager to lay his superior under an obligation.
Roblado having arrived, the Comandante explained his case, detailing every circumstance that had happened.
“My dear colonel, you did not go properly to work. I am astonished at that, considering your skill and experience. You dropped like an eagle upon a dovecot, frightening the birds into their inaccessible holes. You should not have gone to the rancho at all.”
“And how was I to see her?”
“In your own quarters; or elsewhere, as you might have arranged it.”
“Impossible!—she would never have consented to come.”
“Not by your sending for her direct; I know that.”
“And how, then?”
“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Roblado; “are you so innocent as never to have heard of such a thing as an ‘alcahuete’?”
“Oh! true—but by my faith I never found use for one.”
“No!—you in your fine style have deemed that a superfluity; but you might find use for one now. A very advantageous character that, I assure you—saves much time and trouble—diminishes the chances of failure too. It’s not too late. I advise you to try one. If that fails, you have still another string to your bow.”
We shall not follow the conversation of these ruffians further. Enough to say that it led into details of their atrocious plans, which, for more than an hour, they sat concocting over their wine, until the whole scheme was set forth and placed in readiness to be carried out.
It was carried out, in fine, but led to a different ending from what either anticipated. The “lady” who acted as “alcahuete” soon placed herself en rapport with Rosita; but her success was more equivocal than that of Vizcarra himself; in fact, I should rather say unequivocal, for there was no ambiguity about it.
As soon as her designs were made known to Rosita, the latter communicated them to her mother; and the scratches which the Comandante had received were nothing to those which had fallen to the lot of his proxy. The “alcahuete” had, in fact, to beg for her life before she was allowed to escape from the terrible Cibolo.
She would have sought legal revenge, but that the nature of her business made it wiser for her to pocket the indignities, and remain silent.