In a small house of the third Municipality, in the street called Casa
Calvo, dwelt Don Ignacio Valverde. It was a wooden structure--a frame
dwelling--of French-Creole fashion, consisting of but a single story,
with casement windows that opened on a verandah, in the Southern States
termed _piazza_; this being but little elevated above the level of the
outside street. Besides Don Ignacio and his daughter, but one other
individual occupied the house--their only servant, a young girl of
Mexican nativity and mixed blood, half white, half Indian--in short, a
_mestiza_. The straitened circumstances of the exile forbade a more
expensive establishment. Still, the insignia within were not those of
pinched poverty. The sitting-room, if small, was tastefully furnished,
while, among other chattels speaking of refinement, were several volumes
of books, a harp and a guitar, with accompaniment of sheets of music.
The strings of these instruments Luisa Valverde knew how to touch with
the skill of a professional, both being common in her own country.
On that night, when the election of the filibustering officers was being
held in Poydras Street, her father, alone with her in the same
sitting-room, asked her to play the harp to the accompaniment of a song.
Seating herself to the instrument, she obeyed, singing one of those
_romanzas_ in which the language of Cervantes is so rich. It was, in
fact, the old song "El Travador," from which has been filched the music
set to Mrs Norton's beautiful lay, "Love not." But on this night the
spirit of the Mexican senorita was not with her song. Soon as it was
finished, and her father had become otherwise engaged, she stepped out
of the room, and, standing in the piazza, glanced through the trellised
lattice-work that screened it from the street. She evidently expected
some one to come that way. And as her father had invited Florence
Kearney to supper, and she knew of it, it would look as if he were the
expected one.
If so, she was disappointed for a time, though a visitor made his
appearance. The door bell, pulled from the outside, soon after summoned
Pepita, the Mexican servant, to the front, and presently a heavy
footfall on the wooden steps of the porch, told of a man stepping upon
the piazza.
Meanwhile the young lady had returned within the room; but the night
being warm, the hinged casement stood ajar, and she could see through it
the man thus entering. An air of disappointment, almost chagrin, came
over her countenance, as the moonlight disclosed to her view the dark
visage of Carlos Santander.
"_Pasa V. adientro, Senor Don Carlos_," said her father also recognising
their visitor through the casement; and in a moment after the Creole
stepped into the room, Pepita placing a chair for him.
"Though," continued Don Ignacio, "we did not expect to have the honour
of your company this evening, you are always welcome."
Notwithstanding this polite speech, there was a certain constraint or
hesitancy in the way it was spoken, that told of some insincerity. It
was evident that on that night at least Don Carlos' host looked upon him
in the light of an intruder. Evidence of the same was still more marked
on the countenance, as in the behaviour of Don Ignacio's daughter.
Instead of a smile to greet the new-comer, something like a frown sat
upon her beautiful brow, while every now and then a half-angry flash
from her large liquid eyes, directed towards him, might have told him he
was aught but welcome. Clearly it was not for him she had several times
during the same night passed out into the piazza and looked through its
lattice-work.
In truth, both father and daughter seemed disturbed by Santander's
presence, both expecting one whom, for different reasons, they did not
desire him to meet. If the Creole noticed their repugnance, he betrayed
no sign of it. Don Carlos Santander, besides being physically handsome,
was a man of rare intellectual strength, with many accomplishments,
among others the power of concealing his thoughts under a mask of
imperturbable coolness. Still, on this night his demeanour was
different from its wont. He looked flurried and excited, his eyes
scintillating as with anger at some affront lately offered him, and the
sting of which still rankled in his bosom. Don Ignacio noticed this,
but said nothing. Indeed, he seemed to stand in awe of his guest, as
though under some mysterious influence. So was he, and here it may as
well be told. Santander, though by birth an American and a native of
New Orleans, was of Mexican parentage, and still regarded himself as a
citizen of the country of his ancestors. Only to his very intimates was
it known that he held a very high place in the confidence of Mexico's
Dictator. But Don Ignacio knew this, and rested certain hopes upon it.
More than once had Santander, for motives that will presently appear,
hinted to him the possibility of a return to his own land, with
restoration of the estates he had forfeited. And the exiled patriot,
wearied with long waiting, was at length willing to lend an ear to
conditions, which, in other days, he might have spurned as humiliating
if not actually dishonourable.
It was to talk of these Santander had now presented himself; and his
host suspecting it, gave the young lady a side look, as much as to say,
"Leave the room, Luisita."
She was but too glad to obey. Just then she preferred a turn upon the
piazza; and into this she silently glided, leaving her father alone with
the guest who had so inopportunely intruded.
It is not necessary to repeat what passed between the two men. Their
business was to bring to a conclusion a compact they had already talked
of, though only in general terms. It had reference to the restitution
of Don Ignacio's confiscated estates, with, of course, also the ban of
exile being removed from him. The price of all this, the hand of his
daughter given to Carlos Santander. It was the Creole who proposed
these terms, and insisted upon them, even to the humiliation of himself.
Madly in love with Luisa Valverde, he suspected that on her side there
was no reciprocity of the passion. But he would have her hand if he
could not her heart.
On that night the bargain was not destined to reach a conclusion, their
conference being interrupted by the tread of booted feet, just ascending
the front steps, and crossing the floor of the piazza. This followed by
an exchange of salutations, in which the voice of Luisa Valverde was
heard mingling with that of a man.
Don Ignacio looked more troubled than surprised. He knew who was there.
But when the words spoken outside reached the ears of Carlos Santander,
first, in openly exchanged salutations and then whispers seemingly
secret and confidential, he could no longer keep his seat, but springing
up, exclaimed--
"_Carrai_! It's that dog of an _Irlandes_!"
"Hish!" continued his host. "The Senor Florencio will hear you."
"I wish him to hear me. I repeat the expression, and plainly in his own
native tongue. I call him a cur of an Irishman."
Outside was heard a short, sharp ejaculation, as of a man startled by
some sudden surprise. It was followed by an appealing speech, this in
the softer accents of a woman. Then the casement was drawn abruptly
open, showing two faces outside. One, that of Florence Kearney, set in
an angry frown; the other, Luisa Valverde's, pale and appealing. An
appeal idle and too late, as she herself saw. The air had become
charged with the electricity of deadliest anger, and between the two men
a collision was inevitable.
Without waiting for a word of invitation, Kearney stepped over the
casement sill, and presented himself inside the room. Don Ignacio and
the Creole were by this also on their feet; and for a second or so the
three formed a strange triangular _tableau_--the Mexican with fear on
his face, that of Santander still wearing the expression of insult, as
when he had exclaimed, "Cur of an Irishman!" Kearney confronting him
with a look of indignant defiance.
There was an interval of silence, as that of calm preceding storm. It
was broken by the guest latest arrived saying a few words to his host,
but in calm, dignified tone; an apology for having unceremoniously
entered the room.
"No need to apologise," promptly rejoined Don Ignacio. "You are here by
my invitation, Senor Don Florencio, and my humble home is honoured by
your presence."
The Hidalgo blood, pure in Valverde's veins, had boiled up at seeing a
man insulted under his roof.
"Thanks," said the young Irishman.
"And now, sir," he continued, turning to Santander and regarding him
with a look of recovered coolness, "having made my apology, I require
_yours_."
"For what?" asked Santander, counterfeiting ignorance.
"For using language that belongs to the _bagnios_ of New Orleans, where,
I doubt not, you spend most part of your time."