In most Mexican cities of the first and second class, there is both a
"Paseo" and an "Alameda;" the former a public drive--riding included;
the latter more especially set apart for pedestrians, though there is
also a carriage way around it.
In the capital itself there are two Paseos--_Bucareli_ and _La Vega_.
The latter extending along the famed _chinampas_, or "floating gardens,"
is only fashionable at a certain season of the year--during the week of
Carnival. At all other times it is neglected for the more magnificent
drive of Bucareli.
The Paseo of Puebla is poor by comparison; but its Alameda is not
without merits. It is a large quadrangle lying on the western edge of
the city; with trees, walks, statues, flowers, fountains, and all the
usual adornments of a public garden. Around it is a road for carriages
and equestrians, as well as a path for promenaders--with benches at
intervals on which they may rest themselves.
Its view includes the _teocalli_ of Cholula, with the church of the
virgin "Remedios" on its top; beyond, the snow-cone of Popocatepec, and
the twin _nevada_ of the "White Sister."
It was not to look upon these that I was "in the Alameda at six
o'clock;" or, perhaps, a half-hour earlier.
With such an appointment as mine, no living man could have restrained
himself from anticipating the time.
As the place is devoted to the three several kinds of recreation--
walking, riding, driving--it was a question in which way Mercedes would
present herself.
The last was the most likely; though the first would have been the more
convenient--keeping in view the supposed purpose.
It was the mode I had myself adopted: having entered the enclosure as a
simple pedestrian, and in civilian dress--to avoid observation.
I sauntered along the walks--apparently admiring the flowers, and
criticising the statues. It was sheer pretence--to deceive the
promenaders, who were moving before and behind me. At that moment I had
no thought, either of the elegancies of Art, or the beauties of Nature;
not even for its sublimities, displayed within sight on the snow-clad
slopes of the great "Cordillera."
I was thinking only of the beauty of woman--impatient to behold it in
its most perfect type.
Was it to appear on foot, on horseback, or between wheels?
Considering the character of the times--and that Red Hats were in the
Alameda--the last was the most likely.
Notwithstanding this conjecture, I scrutinised every female pedestrian
who came inside the enclosure--even those coifed by the cheapest
_reboso_.
Though her sister had said otherwise, Mercedes might not always be free
to go forth? She might have to take her recreation by stealth, and
disguised?
My surmises soon came to an end; and, to my joy, proved erroneous.
Dolores had been right. The _cochero_ in black glaze hat and _jaqueta_
of blue camlet cloth, driving a pair of _frisones_, could be no other
than he who had once lost a doubloon by staying too late over his stable
duties?
I took no further note of him. Thenceforth my eyes were occupied with a
countenance seen through the windows of the carriage. It was a
_carretela_ of elegant construction--all glass in front--best plate, and
clear as crystal.
The face inside was but improved by its interposition--toned to the
softness of tinted wax.
It needed no scrutiny to identify it. There was no mistaking the
countenance of Mercedes.
I had done this before; but that was under the uncertain glimmer of a
street lamp.
I now saw it in the full light of day; and well did it bear the
exposure. If possible it was more perfect than ever; and the jetty
eyes, the carmine tinted checks, the lips--but I had no time to observe
them in detail before the carriage came close up.
I saw that she was its sole occupant--unaccompanied either by sister, or
_chaperone_. Even Tia Josefa was not with her!
It was true, then, what Dolores had said. Poor Dolores! I could not
help feeling sympathy for her; the more so that I was now the friend of
her Francisco.
The carriage was coming on at a slow pace. The _frisones_ scarce
trotted. I had time to take some steps, which simple prudence
suggested. Even love has its instincts of caution; especially when full
of confidence.
Mine was to seek some solitary nook of the Alameda, where I might
observe without being observed--except by the occupant of the
_carretela_.
Fortune favoured me. A clump of Peruvian pepper-trees stood close by--
their pendant fronds drooping over the drive. Under their shadow was a
recess--quiet, cornered, apparently unoccupied. It was the very spot I
was in search of.
In ten seconds I had placed myself under the _pimentos_.
In ten more the carriage came abreast of me--still slowly moving on.
My eyes met those of Mercedes!
Half blinded by the blaze of her beauty, I stood gazing upon it. My
glance must have betrayed my admiration; but not less the faltering fear
that had hold of me. It was in my heart, and must have been symbolled
in my countenance. It was the humility of a man who feels that he is
not worthy of the woman he would worship; for I could have worshipped
Mercedes!
In five minutes afterwards I was _cursing_ her! She passed, with her
eyes full upon me, but without showing any sign of recognition, either
by speech or gesture!
It was only after they were averted that I thought of interpreting their
glance; and then I was prevented by a surprise that stupified me--a rage
that almost rendered me frantic.
Instead of the smile--the something more which I had been fondly
expecting--the look vouchsafed to me was such as might have been given
to a complete stranger!
And yet it was not like this. There was salutation in it, distant,
disguised under some strange reserve--to me unreadable.
Was it caution? Was it coquetry?
It stung me to think it was the latter.
I gazed after the _carretela_ for an explanation. I was not likely to
get it--now that the blind back of the vehicle was towards me, and its
occupant no longer to be seen.
But I had it the instant after.
A little farther along the drive I saw a man pass out from among the
pepper-trees; who, like myself, appeared to have been there "in
waiting."
Unlike me, he was on horseback--bestriding a well caparisoned steed.
The man was no stranger to me. At a glance I saw who it was.
Yielding to a touch of the spur, his horse launched himself out into the
road; and was pulled up close to the _carretela_--through the opened
window of which a white arm was at the same time protruded.
I saw the flashing of a jewelled wrist, with a _billetita_ held at the
tips of tapering fingers!
Stodare could not have taken that note more adroitly, or concealed it
with quicker sleight, than did my friend Francisco Moreno--_never more
to be friend of mine_!