EVENING IN THE STREETS OF LIMA.
Night had succeeded, almost without intervening twilight, the glare of
day. The two women quickened their pace, for it was late; the young
girl, still under the influence of strong emotion, maintained silence,
while the duenna murmured some mysterious paternosters--they walked
rapidly through one of the sloping streets leading from the Plaza-Mayor.
This place is situated more than four hundred feet above the level of
the sea, and about a hundred and fifty rods from the bridge thrown over
the river Rimac, which forms the diameter of the city of Lima, arranged
in a semicircle.
The city of Lima lies in the valley of the Rimac, nine leagues from its
mouth; at the north and east commence the first undulations of ground
which form a part of the great chain of the Andes: the valley of
Lungaucho, formed by the mountains of San Cristoval and the Amancaës,
which rise behind Lima, terminates in its suburbs. The city lies on one
bank of the river; the other is occupied by the suburb of San Lazaro,
and is united to the city by a bridge of five arches, the upper piers of
which are triangular to break the force of the current; while the lower
ones present to the promenaders circular benches, on which the
fashionables may lounge during the summer evenings, and where they can
contemplate a pretty cascade.
The city is two miles long from east to west, and only a mile and a
quarter wide from the bridge to the walls; the latter, twelve feet in
height, ten feet thick at their base, are built of _adobes_, a kind of
brick dried in the sun, and made of potter's clay mingled with a great
quantity of chopped straw: these walls are calculated to resist
earthquakes; the enclosure, pierced with seven gates and three posterns,
terminates at its south-east extremity by the little citadel of Santa
Caterina.
Such is the ancient city of kings, founded in 1534 by Pizarro, on the
day of Epiphany; it has been and is still the theatre of constantly
renewed revolutions. Lima, situated three miles from the sea, was
formerly the principal storehouse of America on the Pacific Ocean,
thanks to its Port of Callao, built in 1779, in a singular manner. An
old vessel, filled with stones, sand, and rubbish of all sorts, was
wrecked on the shore; piles of the mangrove-tree, brought from Guayaquil
and impervious to water, were driven around this as a centre, which
became the immovable base on which rose the mole of Callao.
The climate, milder and more temperate than that of Carthagena or Bahia,
situated on the opposite side of America, makes Lima one of the most
agreeable cities of the New World: the wind has two directions from
which it never varies; either it blows from the south-east, and becomes
cool by crossing the Pacific Ocean; or it comes from the south-west,
impregnated with the mild atmosphere of the forests and the freshness
which it has derived from the icy summits of the Cordilleras.
The nights beneath tropical latitudes are very beautiful and very clear;
they mysteriously prepare that beneficent dew which fertilizes a soil
exposed to the rays of a cloudless sky--so the inhabitants of Lima
prolong their nocturnal conversations and receptions; household labors
are quietly finished in the dwellings refreshed by the shadows, and the
streets are soon deserted; scarcely is some _pulperia_ still haunted by
the drinkers of _chica_ or _quarapo_.
These, the young girl, whom we have seen, carefully avoided; crossing in
the middle of the numerous squares scattered about the city, she
arrived, without interruption, at the bridge of the Rimac, listening to
catch the slightest sound--which her emotion exaggerated, and hearing
only the bells of a train of mules conducted by its _arriero_, or the
joyous _stribillo_ of some Indian.
This young girl was called Sarah, and was returning to the house of the
Jew Samuel, her father; she was clad in a _saya_ of satin--a kind of
petticoat of a dark color, plaited in elastic folds, and very narrow at
the bottom, which compelled her to take short steps, and gave her that
graceful delicacy peculiar to the Limanienne ladies; this petticoat,
ornamented with lace and flowers, was in part covered with a silk
mantle, which was raised above the head and enveloped it like a hood;
stockings of exquisite fineness and little satin shoes peeped out
beneath the graceful _saya_; bracelets of great value encircled the arms
of the young girl, whose rich toilet was of exquisite taste, and her
whole person redolent of that charm so well expressed by the Spanish
word _donaire_.
Milleflores might well say to André Certa that his betrothed had nothing
of the Jewess but the name, for she was a faithful specimen of those
admirable señoras whose beauty is above all praise.
The duenna, an old Jewess, whose countenance was expressive of avarice
and cupidity, was a devoted servant of Samuel, who paid her liberally.
At the moment when these two women entered the suburb of San Lazaro, a
man, clad in the robe of a monk, and with his head covered with a cowl,
passed near them and looked at them attentively. This man, of tall
stature, possessed a countenance expressive of gentleness and
benevolence; it was Padre Joachim de Camarones; he threw a glance of
intelligence on Sarah, who immediately looked at her follower.
The latter was still grumbling, muttering and whining, which prevented
her seeing any thing; the young girl turned toward the good father and
made a graceful sign with her hand.
"Well, señora," said the old woman, sharply, "is it not enough to have
been insulted by these Christians, that you should stop to look at a
priest?"
Sarah did not reply.
"Shall we see you one day, with rosary in hand, engaged in the
ceremonies of the church?"
The ceremonies of the church--_las funciones de iglesia_--are the great
business of the Limanian ladies.
"You make strange suppositions," replied the young girl, blushing.
"Strange as your conduct! What would my master Samuel say, if he knew
what had taken place this evening?"
"Am I to blame because a brutal muleteer chose to address me?"
"I understand, señora," said the old woman, shaking her head, "and will
not speak of the _gaucho_."
"Then the young man did wrong in defending me from the abuse of the
populace?"
"Is it the first time the Indian has thrown himself in your way?"
The countenance of the young girl was fortunately sheltered by her
mantle, for the darkness would not have sufficed to conceal her emotion
from the inquisitive glance of the duenna.
"But let us leave the Indian where he is," resumed the old woman, "it is
not my business to watch him. What I complain of is, that in order not
to disturb these Christians, you wished to remain among them! Had you
not some desire to kneel with them? Ah, señora, your father would soon
dismiss me if I were guilty of such apostasy."
But the young girl no longer heard; the remark of the old woman on the
subject of the young Indian had inspired her with sweeter thoughts; it
seemed to her that the intervention of this young man was providential;
and she turned several times to see if he had not followed her in the
shadow. Sarah had in her heart a certain natural confidence which became
her wonderfully; she felt herself to be the child of these warm
latitudes, which the sun decorates with surprising vegetation; proud as
a Spaniard, if she had fixed her regards on this man, it was because he
had stood proudly in the presence of her pride, and had not begged a
glance as a reward of his protection.
In imagining that the Indian was near her, Sarah was not mistaken;
Martin Paz, after having come to the assistance of the young girl,
wished to ensure her safe retreat; so when the promenaders had
dispersed, he followed her, without being perceived by her, but without
concealing himself; the darkness alone favoring his pursuit.
This Martin Paz was a handsome young man, wearing with unparalleled
nobility the national costume of the Indian of the mountains; from his
broad-brimmed straw hat escaped fine black hair, whose curls harmonized
with the bronze of his manly face. His eyes shone with infinite
sweetness, like the transparent atmosphere of starry nights; his
well-formed nose surmounted a pretty mouth, unlike that of most of his
race. He was one of the noblest descendants of Manco-Capac, and his
veins were full of that ardent blood which leads men to the
accomplishment of lofty deeds.
He was proudly draped in his _poncho_ of brilliant colors; at his girdle
hung one of those Malay poignards, so terrible in a practiced hand, for
they seem to be riveted to the arm which strikes. In North America, on
the shores of Lake Ontario, Martin Paz would have been a great chief
among those wandering tribes which have fought with the English so many
heroic combats.
Martin Paz knew that Sarah was the daughter of the wealthy Samuel; he
knew her to be the most charming woman in Lima; he knew her to be
betrothed to the opulent mestizo André Certa; he knew that by her birth,
her position and her wealth she was beyond the reach of his heart; but
he forgot all these impossibilities in his all-absorbing passion. It
seemed to him that this beautiful young girl belonged to him, as the
llama to the Peruvian forests, as the eagle to the depths of immensity.
Plunged in his reflections, Martin Paz hastened his steps to see the
_saya_ of the young girl sweep the threshold of the paternal dwelling;
and Sarah herself, half-opening then her mantilla, cast on him a
bewildering glance of gratitude.
He was quickly joined by two Indians of the species of _zambos_,
pillagers and robbers, who walked beside him.
"Martin Paz," said one of them to him, "you ought this very evening to
meet our brethren in the mountains."
"I shall be there," coldly replied the other.
"The schooner _Annonciation_ has appeared in sight from Callao, tacked
for a few moments, then, protected by the point, rapidly disappeared.
She will undoubtedly approach the land near the mouth of the Rimac, and
our bark canoes must be there to relieve her of her merchandise. We
shall need your presence."
"You are losing time by your observations. Martin Paz knows his duty and
he will do it."
"It is in the name of the Sambo that we speak to you here."
"It is in my own name that I speak to you."
"Do you not fear that he will find your presence in the suburb of San
Lazaro at this hour unaccountable?"
"I am where my fancy and my will have brought me."
"Before the house of the Jew?"
"Those of my brethren who are disposed to find fault can meet me
to-night in the mountain."
The eyes of the three men sparkled, and this was all. The _zambos_
regained the bank of the Rimac, and the sound of their footsteps died
away in the darkness.
Martin Paz had hastily approached the house of the Jew. This house, like
all those of Lima, had but two stories; the ground floor, built of
bricks, was surmounted with walls formed of canes tied together and
covered with plaster; all this part of the building, constructed to
resist earthquakes, imitated, by a skillful painting, the bricks of the
lower story; the square roof, called _asoetas_, was covered with
flowers, and formed a terrace full of perfumes and pretty points of
view.
A vast gate, placed between two pavilions, gave access to a court; but
as usual, these pavilions had no window opening upon the street.
The clock of the parish church was striking eleven when Martin Paz
stopped before the dwelling of Sarah. Profound silence reigned around; a
flickering light within proved that the saloon of the Jew Samuel was
still occupied.
Why does the Indian stand motionless before these silent walls? The cool
atmosphere woos him with its transparency and its perfumes; the radiant
stars send down upon the sleeping earth rays of diaphanous mildness; the
white constellations illumine the darkness with their enchanting light;
his heart believes in those sympathetic communications which brave time
and distance.
A white form appears upon the terrace amid the flowers to which night
has only left a vague outline, without diminishing their delicious
perfumes; the dahlias mingle with the mentzelias, with the helianthus,
and, beneath the occidental breeze, form a waving basket which surrounds
Sarah, the young and beautiful Jewess.
Martin Paz involuntarily raises his hands and clasps them with
adoration. Suddenly the white form sinks down, as if terrified.
Martin Paz turns, and finds himself face to face with André Certa.
"Since when do the Indians pass their nights in contemplation?"
André Certa spoke angrily.
"Since the Indians have trodden the soil of their ancestors."
"Have they no longer, on the mountain side, some _yaravis_ to chant,
some _boleros_ to dance with the girls of their caste?"
"The _cholos_," replied the Indian, in a high voice, "bestow their
devotion where it is merited; the Indians love according to their
hearts."
André Certa became pale with anger; he advanced a step toward his
immovable rival.
"Wretch! will you quit this place?"
"Rather quit it yourself," shouted Martin Paz; and two poignards gleamed
in the two right hands of the adversaries; they were of equal stature,
they seemed of equal strength, and the lightnings of their eyes were
reflected in the steel of their arms.
André Certa rapidly raised his arm, which he dropped still more quickly.
But his poignard had encountered the Malay poignard of the Indian; at
the fire which flashed from this shock, André saw the arm of Martin Paz
suspended over his head, and immediately rolled on the earth, his arm
pierced through.
"Help, help!" he exclaimed.
The door of the Jew's house opened at his cries. Some mestizoes ran from
a neighboring house; some pursued the Indian, who fled rapidly; others
raised the wounded man. He had swooned.
"Who is this man?" said one of them. "If he is a sailor, take him to the
hospital of Spiritu Santo; if an Indian, to the hospital of Santa Anna."
An old man advanced toward the wounded youth; he had scarcely looked
upon him when he exclaimed:
"Let the poor young man be carried into my house. This is a strange
mischance."
This man was the Jew Samuel; he had just recognized the betrothed of his
daughter.
Martin Paz, thanks to the darkness and the rapidity of his flight, may
hope to escape his pursuers; he has risked his life; an Indian assassin
of a mestizo! If he can gain the open country he is safe, but he knows
that the gates of the city are closed at eleven o'clock in the evening,
not to be re-opened till four in the morning.
He reaches at last the stone bridge which he had already crossed. The
Indians, and some soldiers who had joined them, pursue him closely; he
springs upon the bridge. Unfortunately a patrol appears at the opposite
extremity; Martin Paz can neither advance nor retrace his steps; without
hesitation he clears the parapet and leaps into the rapid current which
breaks against the corners of the stones.
The pursuers spring upon the banks below the bridge to seize the swimmer
at his landing.
But it is in vain; Martin Paz does not re-appear.