THE CONFESSOR.
Mexico, as we have already stated, was, after the conquest, completely
rebuilt on the original plan, so that, at the present day, it offers
nearly the same sight as struck Cortez when he entered it for the first
time. The Plaza Mayor, especially, some years back, before the French
innovations, more or less good, were introduced, offered towards evening
a most picturesque scene.
This immense square is bounded on one side by the Portales de
Mercaderes; heavy arches supported on one side by immense stones, and on
the other by pilasters, at the foot of which are the alacenas or shops.
The ayuntamiento, the president's palace, the cathedral, the sagrario,
the portal de las flores, an immense bazaar for merchandize, and the
Parian, also a bazaar, complete, or rather completed, at the period when
our history takes place, the fourth side of the square, for recently
great changes have taken place, and the Parian, among other buildings,
has disappeared. The handsomest streets, such as the Tacuba, Mint,
Monterilla, Santo Domingo, etc., debouche on the great square.
The cathedral stands exactly on the site of the ancient great Mexican
Teocali, all the buildings of which it has absorbed; unfortunately this
building, which is externally splendid, does not come up internally to
the idea formed of it, for its ornaments are in bad taste, poor and
paltry.
Between five and six in the evening, or a few minutes before Oración,
the appearance of the Plaza Mayor becomes really fairy-like. The crowd
of strollers--a strange crowd were there ever one--flocks up from all
sides at once, composed of horsemen, pedestrians, officers, priests,
soldiers, campesinos, leperos, Indian women in red petticoats, ladies of
fashion in their sayas, and all the people come, go, cross and jostle
each other, mingling their conversation with the cries of children,
the vociferations of the leperos, who torment purchasers with their
impetuosity, and the shrill appeals of the sellers of tamales and
queratero, crouching in the shade of the porticos.
A few minutes before the Oración, a Franciscan monk, recognizable by his
blue gown, and silken cord round his waist, and whose large white felt
hat, pulled down over the eyes, almost completely concealed his face,
came from the Calle Monterilla, and entered the Plaza Mayor.
This man, who was tall and apparently powerfully built, walked slowly,
with hanging head and arms crossed on his chest, as if plunged in
serious reflection. Instead of entering the thronged Portales, he
crossed the square and proceeded towards the Parian, which was very
lively at the moment, for the Parian was a bazaar, resembling the Temple
of Paris, and was visited at this period by persons, the leanness of
whose purses only allowed them to purchase here their jewellery and
smart clothing, which, in any other part of the city would have been
much too expensive for them.
Not attending to the noise or movement around him, the Franciscan leant
his shoulder against the stall of an evangelista, or public writer, and
looked absently and wearily across the square. He did not remain long in
this position, however, for just after he had reached the Parian, the
Oración began. At the first peal of the cathedral bells, all the noises
ceased in the square; the crowd stopped, heads were uncovered, and each
muttered a short prayer in a low voice.
At the last stroke of the Oración, a hand was laid on the Franciscan's
shoulder, while a voice whispered in his ear--
"You are exact to the rendezvous, Señor Padre."
"I am performing my duty, my son," the monk at once answered, turning
round.
In the person who addressed him he doubtless recognized a friend, for he
offered him his hand by a spontaneous movement.
"Are you still resolved to attempt the adventure?" the first speaker
continued.
"More than ever, señor."
"Bear in mind that you must not mention my name; we do not know each
other; you are a monk from the San Franciscan monastery, whom I fetched
to confess a young novice at the Convent of the Bernardines. It is
understood that you do not know who I am?"
"My brother, we poor monks are at the service of the afflicted; our duty
orders us to help them when they claim our support; as we have no name
for society, we are forbidden to ask that of those who summon us."
"Excellently spoken," the other replied, repressing a smile. "You are
a monk according to my own heart. I see that I am not deceived with
respect to you; come then, my father, we must not keep the person
waiting who is expecting us."
The Franciscan bowed his assent, placed himself in the right of his
singular friend, and both went away from the Parian, where the noise
had become louder than ever, after the angelos had ceased ringing. The
two men passed unnoticed through the crowd, and walked in the direction
of the Convent of the Bernardines, going along silently, side by side.
We have said that at the convent gate they passed Don Serapio de la
Ronda, that is to say, Valentine Guillois, and that the three men
exchanged a side glance full of meaning. The sister porter made no
objection to admitting the Franciscan; and his guide, so soon as he
saw him inside the convent, took leave of him after exchanging a few
commonplace compliments with the sister. The latter respectfully led the
monk into a parlour, and after begging him to wait a moment, went away
to inform the Mother Superior of the arrival of the confessor whom the
young novice had requested to see.
We will leave the Franciscan for a little while to his meditations, and
return to the two young ladies whom we left in the garden. So soon as
the abbess had withdrawn, they drew closer together, Doña Helena taking
the seat on the bench previously occupied by the abbess.
"My dear Anita," she said, "let me profit by the few minutes we are left
alone to impart to you the contents of a letter I received this morning;
I feared that I should be unable to do so, and yet it seems to me that
what I have to tell you is most important."
"What do you mean, my dear Helena? Does the letter to which you refer
interest me?"
"I cannot positively explain to you, but it will be sufficient for you
to know that my brothers are very intimate with a countryman of ours who
takes the greatest interest in you, and what I have to tell you relates
to this Frenchman."
"That is strange," said Doña Anita, pausing. "I never knew but one
Frenchman, and I have told you the sad story which was the cause of all
the misfortunes that overwhelmed me. But the Frenchman whom my father
wished me to marry died under frightful circumstances; then who can this
gentleman be who takes so lively an interest in me--do you know him?"
"Very slightly," the young lady answered with a blush, "but sufficiently
to be able to assure you that he possesses a noble heart. He does not
know you personally; but," she added, as she drew a letter from her
bosom, and opened it, "this is the passage in my brother's letter which
refers to you and him. Shall I read it to you?"
"Pray read it, my dear Helena, for I know the friendship you and your
family entertain for me; hence, it is with the greatest pleasure I
receive news of your brothers."
"Listen then," the young lady continued, and she read, after seeking for
the passage--
"'Valentine begs me, dear sister, to ask you to tell your friend'--that
is you," she said, breaking off.
"Go on," Doña Anita answered, whose curiosity had been aroused by the
name Helena had pronounced, though it was impossible for her to know
who that person was.
"'To tell your friend,' Doña Helena continued, 'that the confessor she
asked for will come to the convent this very day after the Oración. Doña
Anita must arm herself with courage, which is as necessary to endure
joy as grief, for she will learn today some news possessing immense
importance for the future.' That is underlined," the young lady added,
as she bent over to her friend, and pointed to the sentence with the tip
of her rosy finger.
"That is strange," Doña Anita murmured. "Alas! what news can I learn?"
"Who knows?" said her young companion, and then continued--"'Before
all, Doña Anita must be prudent; and however extraordinary what she
hears may appear to her, she must be careful to conceal the effect
produced by this revelation, for she must not forget that if she have
devoted friends, she is closely watched by all-powerful enemies, and the
slightest imprudence would hopelessly neutralize all the efforts that
we are making to save her. You cannot, my dear sister, lay sufficient
stress on this recommendation.' The rest," the maiden added, with a
smile, "only relates to myself, and it is, therefore, unnecessary for me
to read it to you."
And she refolded the letter, which disappeared in her dress again.
"And now, my darling, you are warned," she said; "so be prudent."
"Good heaven! I do not understand the letter at all, nor do I know the
Valentine to whom it alludes. It was by your advice that I asked for a
confessor."
"That is to say, by my brother's advice, who, as you know, Anita, placed
me here, not merely because I love you as a sister, but also to support
and encourage you."
"And I am grateful both to you and him for it, dear Helena; if I had
not you near me, in spite of the friendship our worthy and kind mother
condescends to grant me, I should long ago have succumbed to my grief."
"The question is not about me at this moment, my darling, but
solely about yourself. However obscure and mysterious my brother's
recommendation may be, I know him to be too earnest and too truly kind
for me to neglect it. Hence I cannot find language strong enough to urge
you to prudence."
"I seek in vain to guess what the news is to which he refers; and I
acknowledge that I feel a secret repugnance to see the confessor he
announces to me. Alas! I have everything to fear, and nothing to hope
now."
"Silence," Doña Helena said, quietly. "I hear the sound of footsteps in
the walk leading to this arbour. Someone is coming. So we must not let
ourselves be surprised."
"In fact, almost at the same moment the lay sister, who had already
informed the Mother Superior of the arrival of Don Serapio de la Ronda,
appeared at the entrance of the arbour.
"Señorita," she said, addressing Doña Helena, "our holy mother abbess
wishes to speak to you as well as to Doña Anita without delay. She is
waiting for you in her private cell in the company of a holy Franciscan
monk."
The maidens exchanged a glance, and a transient flush appeared on Doña
Anita's pale cheeks.
"We will follow you, sister," Doña Helena replied. The maidens rose;
Doña Helena passed her arm through her companion's, and stooping down,
whispered in her ear--
"Courage, Querida."
They followed the lay sister, who led them to the Mother Superior's
cell, and discreetly withdrew on reaching the door. The abbess appeared
to be talking rather excitedly with the Franciscan monk; but, on seeing
the two girls, she ceased speaking, and rose.
"Come, my child," she said, as she held out her arms to Doña Anita,
"come and thank God who in his infinite goodness has deigned to perform
a miracle on your behalf."
The maiden stopped through involuntary emotion, and looked wildly around
her. At a sign from the abbess the monk rose, and throwing back his hood
at the same time as he fell on his knees before the maiden, he said to
her in a voice faltering with emotion--
"Anita, do you recognize me?"
At the sound of this voice, whose sympathetic notes made all the fibres
of her heart vibrate, the maiden suddenly drew herself back, tottered
and fell into the arms of Doña Helena, as she shrieked with an accent
impossible to describe--
"Martial! oh, Martial!"
A sob burst from her overcharged bosom, and she burst into tears. She
was saved, since the immense joy she so suddenly experienced had not
killed her. The Tigrero, as weak as the woman he loved, could only find
tears to express all his feelings.
For some minutes the abbess and Doña Helena trembled lest these two
beings, already so tried by misfortune, would not find within themselves
the necessary strength to resist so terrible an emotion; but a powerful
reaction suddenly took place in the tiger-slayer's mind; he sprang up
at one leap, and seized in his arms the maiden, who, on her side, was
making efforts to rush to him--
"Anita, dear Anita," he cried, "I have found you again at last; oh, now
no human power will be able to separate us!"
"Never, never!" she murmured, as she let her head fall on the young
man's shoulder; "Martial, my beloved Martial, protect me, save me!"
"Oh, yes, I will save you; angel of my life," he exclaimed, looking up
defiantly to heaven; "we will be united, I swear it to you."
"Is that the prudence you promised me?" the abbess said, interposing;
"remember the perils of every description that surround you, and the
implacable foes who have sworn your destruction; lock up in your heart
these feelings which, if revealed before one of the countless spies who
watch you, would cause your death and that, perhaps, of the poor girl
you love."
"Thank you, madam," the Tigrero replied; "thank you for having reminded
me of the part I must play for a few days longer. If I forgot it for
a few seconds, subdued by the passion that devours my heart, I will
henceforth adhere to it carefully. Do not fear lest I should imperil the
happiness that is preparing for me; no, I will restrain my feelings, and
let myself be guided by the counsel of the sincere friends to whom I owe
the moments of ineffable happiness I am now enjoying."
"Oh! I now understand," Doña Anita exclaimed, "the mysterious hints
given me. Alas! misfortune made me suspicious; so forgive me, heaven,
forgive me, holy mother, and you too, Helena, my kind and faithful
friend. I did not dare hope, and feared a snare."
"I forgive you, my poor child," the abbess answered; "who could blame
you?"
Doña Helena pressed her friend to her heart without saying a word.
"Oh, now our misfortunes are at an end, Anita," the Tigrero exclaimed
passionately; "we have friends who will not abandon us in the supreme
struggle we are engaging in with our common enemy. God, who has hitherto
done everything for us, will not leave his work incomplete; have faith
in Him, my beloved."
"Martial," the maiden replied, with a firmness that astonished her
hearers, "I was weak because I was alone, but now that I know you live,
and are near me to support me, oh! if I were to fall dead at the feet
of my persecutor, I would not be false to the oath I took to be yours
alone. Believing you dead, I remained faithful to your memory; but now,
if persecution assailed me, I should find the strength to endure it."
This scene would have been prolonged, but prudence urged that the abbess
should break it off as soon as possible. Doña Anita, rendered strong
merely by the nervous excitement which possessed her, soon felt faint;
she could scarcely stand, and Don Martial himself felt his energy
abandoning him.
The separation was painful between these two beings so miraculously
re-united when they never expected to see each other again; but it was
soothed by the hope of soon meeting again under the protection of the
Mother Superior, who had done so much for them, and whose inexhaustible
kindness they had entirely gained for their cause.
For the first time since she had entered the convent, Doña Anita smiled
through her tears, as she offered up to heaven her nightly prayers.
Don Martial went off rapidly to tell Valentine of what had taken place
at this interview, which he had so long desired. Doña Helena, however,
retired pensively to her cell; the maiden was dreaming--of what?
No one could have said, and probably she herself was ignorant; but, for
some days past, an obtrusive thought unnecessarily occupied her mind,
and constantly troubled the calm mirror in which her virgin thoughts
were reflected.