Notwithstanding the disagreeables above enumerated, and some others, I
was not among those who would have preferred quarters in Timbuctoo.
One's liking for a place often depends upon a trivial circumstance; and
just such a circumstance had given me a _penchant_ for Puebla.
The human heart is capable of a sentiment that can turn dirt into
diamonds, or darkness to light,--at least in imagination. Under its
influence the peasant's hut becomes transformed into a princely palace;
and the cottage girl assumes the semblance of a queen.
Possessed by this sentiment, I thought Puebla a paradise; for I knew
that it contained, if not an angel, one "fair as the first that fell of
womankind." As yet only on one occasion had I seen her; then only at a
distance, and for a time scarce counting threescore seconds.
It was during the ceremonial of our entry into the place, already
described. As the van of our columns debouched into the Piazza Grande a
halt had been ordered, necessarily extending to the regiments in the
rear. The spot where my own troop had need to pull up was overlooked by
a large two-story house, of somewhat imposing appearance, with frescoed
front, _balcons_, and _portales_. Of course there were windows; and it
was not likely that so situated I should feel shy about looking at, or
even _into_ them. There are times and circumstances when a man may be
permitted to dispense with the strictest observance of etiquette; and,
though it may be quite unchivalric, the conqueror claims, on the
occasion of making entry into a conquered city, the right to peep into
the windows.
No better than the rest of my fellows, I availed myself of the saucy
privilege, by glancing toward the windows of the house, before which we
had halted.
In those below there was nobody or nothing--only the red iron bars and
the black emptiness behind them.
On turning my eyes upwards, I saw something very different--something
that rivetted my gaze, in spite of every effort to avert it. There was
a window with balcony in front, and green Venetians inside. Half
standing on the sill, and holding the _jalousies_ back, was a woman--I
had almost said an _angel_!
Certainly was she the fairest thing I had ever seen, or in fancy
conceived; and my reflection at the time was--I well remember making
it--if there be _two_ of her sort in Puebla, the place is appropriately
named--_La Puebla de los Angeles_!
She was not of the fair-haired kind, so fashionable in late days; but
dark, with deep dreamy eyes; a mass of black hair, surmounted by a large
tortoise-shell comb; eyebrows so pretty as to appear painted; with a
corresponding tracery upon the upper lip--the _bigotite_ that tells of
Andalusian stock, and descent from the children of the Cid.
While gazing upon her--no doubt rudely enough--I saw that she returned
the glance. At first I thought _kindly_; but then with a serious air,
as if resenting my rudeness. I would have given anything I possessed to
appease her--the horse I was riding, or aught else. I would have given
much for a flower to fling at her feet--knowing the effect of such
little flatteries on the Mexican "muchacha;" but, unfortunately, there
was no flower near.
In default of one, I bethought me of a substitute--my sword-knot!
The gold tassel was instantly detached from the guard, and fell into the
balcony at her feet.
I did not see her take it up. The bugle at that moment sounded the
advance; and I was forced to ride forward at the head of my troop.
On glancing back, as we turned out of the street, I saw that she was
still outside; and fancied there was something glittering between her
fingers in addition to the jewelled rings that encircled them.