CHAPTER I.

VAGABOND LIFE

IN

MEXICO.

BY

GABRIEL FERRY,

FOR SEVEN YEARS RESIDENT IN THAT COUNTRY.

NEW YORK.

HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS,

FRANKLIN SQUARE.

1856.

CONTENTS.

PAGE

PERICO, THE MEXICAN VAGABOND 5

FRAY SERAPIO, THE FRANCISCAN MONK 47

DON TADEO CRISTOBAL, THE THIEVES' LAWYER OF MEXICO 90

REMIGIO VASQUEZ 128

THE MINERS OF RAYAS 177

CAPTAIN DON BLAS AND THE SILVER CONVOY 217

THE JAROCHOS 277

THE PILOT VENTURA 314

VAGABOND LIFE IN MEXICO.

Perico, the Mexican Vagabond.

CHAPTER I.

The Jamaïca and Mount Parnassus.

Mexico is the most beautiful city ever built by the Spaniards in the New

World; and even in Europe it would take a high place for splendor and

magnificence. If you wish to behold the magnificent and varied panorama

which Mexico presents, you have only to mount at sunset one of the

towers of the Cathedral. On whatever side you turn your eye, you see

before you the serrated peaks of the Cordilleras, forming a gigantic

azure belt of about sixty leagues in circumference. To the south, the

two volcanoes which overtop the other peaks of the sierra raise their

majestic summits, covered with eternal snow, which, in the evening sun,

put on a pale purple hue flecked with delicate ruby. The one,

Popocatapetl (smoking mountain), is a perfect cone, dazzling in the blue

vault of heaven; the other, Iztaczihuatl (the white woman), has the

appearance of a nymph reclining, who lifts her icy shoulders to receive

the last beams of the dying sun. At the foot of the two volcanoes gleam

two lakes, like mirrors, which reflect the clouds in their waters, and

where the wild swan plays its merry gambols. To the west rises an

immense pile of building, the palace of Chapultepec, once the abode of

the old viceroys of New Spain. Round the mountain on which it is built

stretches, in a long, waving belt of verdure, a forest of cedars more

than a thousand years old. A fountain bubbles forth at the top of the

mountain; its brawling waters leap down into the valley, where they are

received into an aqueduct, and thus conducted into a large and populous

city, to supply the wants of its inhabitants. Villages, steeples, and

cupolas rise on all sides from the bottom of the valley. Dusty roads

cross and recross one another like gold stripes on a green ground, or

like runnels of water interbranching through the country. A tree,

peculiar to Peru, the weeping willow of the sandy plains, bends its

long, interlaced branches, loaded with odoriferous leaves and red

berries, in the evening breeze, and a solitary palm-tree rises here and

there above clumps of olives with their pale-green foliage.

But these are only the grand outlines of the picture. Turn your eye upon

the city, or, rather, look at your feet. In the midst of the chess-board

formed by the terraces of houses, and from among the flowers with which

these are adorned, you will see rising, as from an immense bouquet,

spires, churches with domes of yellow and blue tiling, houses with walls

stained with various colors, and balconies hung with a kind of striped

cotton, which give them a trim and jaunty appearance. On one of the four

sides of the Plaza Mayor (great square) the Cathedral towers

majestically aloft. This magnificent edifice overtops the turrets of the

president's palace, a building devoid of all pretensions to

architectural beauty, and now falling to decay. It is an immense pile,

inclosing within its four walls the public offices of the government, a

prison, two barracks, a botanic garden, and the legislative chambers.

This palace occupies a whole side of the square. The _Ayuntamiento_

(Municipality) and the _Postal de las flores_, an immense market, form

the third side. The _Parian_, a market similar to the preceding,

completes the fourth. Thus the legislative and executive power, the

board of works, commerce--all the departments of the Mexican government,

in short, are in one building, and seem as if grouped together under the

shadow of the church. The people are there also; for the streets of St.

Domingo, of St. Francisco, of Tacuba, of Monnaie, of Monterilla, all

arteries of the great city, pour into the Plaza Mayor a flood of human

beings, which is always changing, and ever in motion, and you have only

to mix in this crowd for a few moments to get acquainted with Mexican

life in all its diversified phases of vice and virtue, of splendor and

misery.

When the hour of the Angelus approaches especially, horsemen,

foot-passengers, and carriages are packed together in disorderly

confusion, and gold, silk, and rags, mingled here and there, give to the

crowd a grotesque and startling appearance. The Indians are returning to

their villages, the populace to the suburbs. The _ranchero_ makes his

horse prance and curvet in the midst of the passengers, who are in no

hurry to get out of his way; the _aquador_ (water-carrier), whose day's

work is over, crosses the square, bending under the weight of his

_chochocol_ of porous earthenware; the officer is bending his steps to

the coffee-houses or gambling-tables, where he intends to spend the

evening; the non-commissioned officer clears the way for himself with a

vine-tree-staff, which he carries in his hand as a badge of his rank.

The red petticoat of the townswoman is in glaring contrast with the saya

and black mantilla of the fashionable lady, who holds her fan over her

face to shade it from the departing rays of the sun. Monks of all colors

flit through the crowd in every direction. Here the _padre_, with his

huge hat _à la Basile_, elbows the Franciscan in his blue gown, silken

cord, girdle, and large white felt hat; there goes the Dominican in his

lugubrious costume of black and white, reminding one of Torquemada, the

founder of the Inquisition; farther on, the brown drugget of the

Capuchin contrasts with the white flowing robes of the Brother of Mercy.

Incidents of different kinds occur continually in this motley crowd, and

serve to keep one's attention alive. Sometimes, as the drum in the

barracks are beating a salute, the folding doors of a _sagrario_[1]

suddenly fly open, and there issues forth a carriage splendidly gilt,

the slow toll of the bell is heard along with the harsh rattle of the

drum, and the whole crowd uncover, and kneel with bent head to the holy

sacrament which they are carrying to a dying man. Woe betide the

foreigner, though bold and resolute, who, ignorant of the profound

respect which the Mexican pays to his religious rites, fails to bow the

knee to the host as it passes! Sometimes a military detachment of six

officers, escorted by three soldiers and preceded by a dozen musicians,

is seen marching into the square in all the majesty of military pomp; it

is to proclaim a _bando_ (law or edict) of the highest authority, for

which all this display of military music and brocaded uniforms is deemed

necessary. Such at this time of the evening is the general appearance of

the Plaza Mayor, that square where the people of Mexico, the sovereign

people (as their flatterers call them), flutter in rags, ceaselessly

engaged in quest of a new master who can put down the master of the

night before, quite indifferent as to political principles, mistaking

disorder for liberty, and never suspecting that the continual assaults

of anarchy may bring down one day the worm-eaten structure of their

rotten republic, although it has not been in existence more than

twenty-five years.

Every evening, however, at the first peals of the Angelus, all noise

ceases, as if by enchantment, in the Plaza Mayor. The crowd becomes

hushed and silent. When the last toll of the bell dies away, the din

recommences. The crowd disperses in every direction, carriages rattle

off, horsemen gallop away, foot-passengers hurry hither and thither, but

not always nimbly enough to escape the sword or _lasso_ of the bold

thieves who murder or rob their hapless victims, and whose audacity is

such that, even in open day, and with crowds looking on, they have been

known to commit their crimes.[2] At nightfall the square is deserted; a

few promenaders scurry along in the moonlight; others remain seated, or

swing lazily upon the iron chains, which, separated by granite pillars,

run round the sagrario. The day is past, the scenes of the night begin,

and the _léperos_ become for a few hours masters of the city.

The _lépero_ is a type, and that the strangest, of Mexican society. The

attentive observer, who has seen Mexico stirring with the joyous

excitement that precedes the Oracion, and then abandoned to the

ill-omening silence which the night brings on, can alone tell what is

singular and formidable in the character of this Mexican _lazzarone_. At

once brave and cowardly, calm and violent, fanatic and incredulous, with

just such a belief in God as to have a wholesome terror for the devil, a

continual gambler, quarrelsome by nature, with a sobriety only equaled

by the intemperance to which he sometimes delivers himself, the lépero

can accommodate himself to every turn of fortune, as his humor or

idleness inclines him. Porter, stone-mason, teamster, street-pavior,

hawker, the lépero is every thing at different times. A thief sometimes

by inclination, he practices his favorite calling every where, in the

churches, at processions, and in theatres; his life is only one struggle

with justice, which is not herself safe from his larcenies. Lavish when

he finds himself master of a little money, he is not the less resigned

or courageous when he has none. Has he gained in the morning a

sufficiency for the expenses of the day? he drops work immediately.

Often his precarious resources fail him entirely. Tranquil then, and

submissive, and careless about thieves, he wraps himself in his torn

cloak, and lies down at the corner of the pavement or in a door-way.

There, rattling his _jarana_ (a little mandolin), and looking with

stoical serenity at the _pulqueria_ (public-house), where he has no

credit, he listens distractedly to the hissing of some savory stew which

they are preparing for some more favored being, tightens the belt round

his stomach, and, after breakfasting off a sunbeam, he sups off a cigar,

and sleeps quietly without thinking of the morrow.

I will confess my weakness: among this motley crowd, idle and brawling

as it was, my attention was more engaged with the miserable

tatterdemalions than with the well-dressed foot-passengers, as the

former seemed to afford a truer index of Mexican society than the

latter. I never met, for instance, a lépero, in all the picturesqueness

of his tattered costume, without having a strong desire to become better

acquainted with this Bohemian-like class, who reminded me frequently of

the more uncommon heroes of Picaresque romance. It appeared to me a

curious study to compare this filthy and ragged denizen of the great

towns with the savage adventurers I had met in the woods and savannas.

When I first came to live in Mexico, I sought, and succeeded in getting

acquainted, through the kindness of a Franciscan monk, a friend of mine,

with a thorough-bred lépero, called Perico the Zaragate.[3] Unhappily,

our acquaintance had hardly commenced, when, for very good reasons, I

was resolved to break it, for I only got the scantiest information from

him about his class, and the number of piastres I was forced to pay him

was so considerable as to induce me to reflect strongly upon the

absurdity of taking such expensive lessons. I was resolved, then, to

bring my studies with him to a conclusion, when, one morning, Fray

Serapio, the worthy monk who had made me acquainted with Perico, entered

my apartment.

"I came to ask you," said the Franciscan, "to go with me to a bull-fight

at the Necatitlan Square; there will also be a _Jamaïca_ and a _Monte

Parnaso_, which will be an additional inducement."

"What is a _Jamaïca_ and a _Monte Parnaso_?"

"You will know that immediately. Let us set out; it is nearly eleven,

and we shall be scarcely there in time to get a good place."

I could never resist the attraction of a bull-fight, and I found an

advantage in having the company of Fray Serapio while traversing in

security those suburbs which surround Mexico in a formidable belt. The

neighborhood of the Necatitlan Square is more dreaded than any, and it

is almost always dangerous to appear there in a European garb; indeed, I

never passed through it alone without uneasiness. The cowl of the monk

would be a safeguard to me in my European dress. I accepted his offer

with pleasure, and we set out. For the first time, I viewed with a

tranquil mind the narrow, dirty, and unpaved streets, the blackened

houses full of cracks running over the walls in all directions,

lurking-places of the thieves and robbers who ply their calling on the

streets, and who sometimes even break into houses in the city. Swarms of

one-eyed léperos, their faces cut and scarred with the knife, were

drinking, whistling, and shouting in the taverns, clad in dirty cotton

clothes, or enveloped in their _frazadas_.[4] Their wives, dressed in

tatters, stood in the doorways, watching their naked children, who were

sporting in the mud, and laughing and shouting merrily. In passing

through these haunts of cut-throats, the terror of the police, the judge

mutters a prayer, the alcalde crosses himself, the _corchete_ (bailiff)

and the regidor shuffle humbly along with downcast eye but watchful

look, and the honest man shudders, but the monk stalks along with lofty

brow and serene face, and the creak of his sandals is more respected

there than the clink of the _celador's_ sabre; sometimes, even, like

tame tigers who recognize their master, the bandits emerge from their

lurking-places, and come and kiss his hand.

The Necatitlan Square presented an appearance at once strange and

novel. On one side, where the sun darted his unpitying rays upon the

_palcos de sol_,[5] stood the people, with cloaks and rebozos hung over

their heads as a shade, clustered in noisy, animated groups on the steps

of the circus, and keeping up a lively concert of whistling and

groaning. On the shady side, the nodding plumes of the officers' hats,

and the variegated silk shawls of the ladies, presented to the eye an

appearance which contrasted strongly with the wretchedness and misery of

the rabble in the palcos de sol. I had witnessed bull-fights a hundred

times. I had seen this dirty mass of people, wearied and exhausted in

body, but with as keen a relish for slaughter as ever, their tongues

sticking to the roofs of their mouths, and their throats dry and parched

as the sand, when the setting sun darted his long rays through the

ill-joined boards of the amphitheatre, and when the scent of the blood

lured the hungry vultures who were sailing in the air above, but I never

saw the arena so transformed as it was at that time. Numerous wooden

erections filled the space ordinarily devoted to the bull-fights; these,

covered with grass, flowers, and sweet-smelling branches of trees, made

the whole place assume the appearance of a vast hall, growing, as it

were, out of the ground, and forming a series of shady groves, with

paths winding through them. Little booths were dispersed here and there

through the groves, some intended for the preparation of delicate

articles of Mexican cookery, others for the sale of cool, refreshing

drinks. In the cookery booths you could indulge in the luxury of

nameless ragouts of pork, seasoned with pimenta. In the puestos[6]

glittered immense glasses filled with beverages of all the colors in

the rainbow, red, green, blue, and yellow. The mob in the palcos de sol

snuffed up greedily the nauseous smell of the fat pork, while others,

more lucky, seated in this improvised elysium, under the shade of the

trees, discussed patés of the wild duck of the lakes.

"Look!" said the Franciscan, pointing with his finger to the throng

seated at the tables in the ring; "that's what we call a _Jamaïca_."

"And that?" said I, showing him a tree five or six yards high, fixed in

the ground, with all its leaves, in the middle of the arena, quite

covered with handkerchiefs of every hue, which fluttered from the

branches.

"That is a _Monte Parnaso_," said the Franciscan.

"Probably poets are to ascend it?"

"No; but léperos, and such like uneducated persons--which will be a

great deal more diverting."

The monk had hardly given me this answer, which but half enlightened me,

when cries of _toro, toro_, from the rabble in the palcos de sol became

louder and more overpowering; the pastry cooks' booths and the puestos

were suddenly deserted; the revelers were suddenly interrupted by the

sudden rush of a band of léperos from the highest boxes round the

inclosure, who, sliding down by means of their cloaks, made a terrific

onslaught on the green booths inside. Among the crowd who were yelling

and kicking down the booths, and strewing the whole ring with their

remains, I recognized my old friend Perico. Indeed, without him the fête

would have been incomplete. The _Monte Parnaso_, with its cotton

handkerchiefs, stood alone in the midst of the wreck, and soon became

the only object to which the looks and aims of the rabble were directed.

All tried to be the first to ascend the tree, and get possession of

such handkerchiefs as took their fancy; but the struggles of the one

impeded the efforts of the other; the tree still remained standing, and

not a single claimant had yet succeeded in even touching its trunk. At

the same moment the bugle sounded in the box of the alcalde, the door of

the _toril_ was thrown open, and a magnificent bull, the best that the

neighboring haciendas could furnish, came thundering into the arena. The

spectators, who expected a more formidable animal, were somewhat

disappointed when they saw an _embolado_.[7] The aspiring laureates of

_Monte Parnaso_ were nevertheless somewhat scared and frightened. The

bull, after standing with some hesitation, bounded with a gallop toward

the tree, which was still standing. Some of the léperos ran away, and

the others took refuge, one after another, in the branches of _Monte

Parnaso_. The bull, having come to the foot of the tree, butted at it

with repeated blows of his horns; it tottered; and at the very moment

Perico was busily engaged in reaping an abundant harvest of

pocket-handkerchiefs, it fell, dragging with it the men who were

entangled in the branches. Roars of laughter and enthusiastic cheering

arose from the ten thousand spectators in the galleries and boxes at

sight of the unfortunate wretches, who, bruised and lamed, were seeking

to escape from each other's grasp, and from the branches in which they

were entangled. To add to the confusion, the bull, seeking no doubt to

separate the black mass struggling on the ground, butted several of the

unfortunate léperos with his horns, and, to my great sorrow, I saw

Perico, launched ten feet into the air, fall to the ground in such a

state of insensibility as to deprive me of all hope of completing my

studies of Mexican life under so skillful a master.

Perico had been scarcely carried out of the arena when cries of "a

priest! a priest!" were raised by a hundred voices. Fray Serapio

crouched in a corner of his box, but he could not avoid the duty which

the people expected from him. He rose, gravely cloaking his

disappointment as much as he could from the eyes of the people, and said

to me, in a low tone,

"Follow me; you will pass for a surgeon."

"Are you joking?" said I.

"Not at all; if the fellow is not quite dead, he will have a surgeon and

a priest of equal merit."

I followed the monk with a gravity at least equal to his own, and while

descending the stairs of the amphitheatre, the laughter and loud hurrahs

of the populace proved that the people in the _shade_, as well as the

rabble in the _sun_, viewed the accident as an every-day occurrence. We

were conducted into a little dark room on the ground floor of a house,

from which issued several lobbies leading to different apartments. In a

corner of this room Perico was laid, having been previously deprived of

all his handkerchiefs; then, partly through respect for the Church and

the faculty, so worthily represented by both of us, partly lest they

should lose the spectacle of the fight, the attendants withdrew and left

us alone. The lépero, his head leaning against the wall, and giving no

sign of life, was seated rather than reclining; his motionless arms, and

his pale, corpse-like face, showed that, if life had not quite fled,

there was but a slender spark remaining. We looked at each other, the

Franciscan and I, quite at a loss what to do in the circumstances.

"I think," said I to the monk, "that it would perhaps be best to give

him absolution."

"_Absolvo te_," said Fray Serapio, touching roughly the lépero's foot.

He appeared sensible to this mark of interest, and muttered, half

opening his eyes,

"I believe in God the Father, the Son, and the Holy--Ah! the rascals

have taken all my handkerchiefs--_Señor Padre_, I am a dead man.

"Not yet, my son," said the monk; "but perhaps there only remains for

you sufficient time to confess your sins; and it would be best for you

to profit by it, that I may open to you the folding doors of heaven. I

warn you that I am in a hurry."

"Is the bull-fight not over, then?" said poor Perico, naïvely. "I

think," said he, passing his hands over his body, "that I am not so ill

as you imagine."

Then, seeing me, Perico shut his eyes, as if he were going to faint, and

added, in a very low voice,

"Indeed I am ill, very ill; and if you please to listen to my

confession, I will soon finish it."

"Go on, then, my son."

The monk then kneeled down close to the sick man, who, to speak the

truth, bore no trace on his body of a single wound. Taking off his large

gray hat, Perico brought his lips near the ear of the monk, and I, not

to interrupt the lépero, stepped aside. He began thus:

"I accuse myself first, father, of the blackest ingratitude to this

cavalier, in that I took from him so much money--and would have taken

more if I could--and I hope he will bear no ill feeling toward me on

that account, for at heart I sincerely loved him."

I bowed in token of forgiveness.

"I accuse myself also, father, of having stolen the gold watch of

Sayosa, the judge in the criminal court, the last time I appeared before

him."

"How was that, my son?"

"The Lord Sayosa was imprudent enough to put his hand into his pocket

for his watch, and to express his regret and surprise that he had left

both it and his gold chain at home. I said to myself then, if I am not

executed for this, that will be a good stroke of business for me.

Ignorant that any thing like this accident would befall me, I gave a

hint to a friend of mine who was at that moment set at liberty. I ought

to tell you that my lord judge has a weakness for turkeys."

"I don't understand you, my son."

"All in good time, father. My confederate bought a splendid turkey, and

hastened to present it to the wife of my Lord Sayosa, saying that her

husband had ordered him to give it her; my lord judge entreated her at

the same time, added my friend, to deliver to the bearer his gold watch

and chain that he had forgotten at home. It was thus the watch--"

"That's serious, my son."

"I did worse than that, father; the day after, I stole from the judge's

lady while her husband was at court."

"What, my son?"

"The turkey, father. You see one does not like to lose any thing,"

muttered Perico, in a doleful tone. The monk could scarcely restrain

himself from laughing outright at the confession of the lépero.

"And why," said Fray Serapio, in a shaking tone of voice, "were you at

the bar before my Lord Judge Sayosa?"

"A trifle, father. A citizen in the town (his name needn't be mentioned)

had engaged me to take vengeance on a person who had offended him. The

man was pointed out to me whom I was to strike. He was a young, handsome

cavalier, easily recognizable by a long narrow scar above his right

eyebrow. I placed myself in ambuscade at the door of a house which he

was accustomed to enter every night before orisons. I saw him, in fact,

enter the house pointed out to me. Night came on. I waited. Two hours

passed. There was not a single person in the street, which was silent as

the grave. The person I was waiting for had not yet appeared. I was

curious to see what kept him so long. The apartment in which I thought

he was was on the ground floor. I crept slowly up to it, and looked

through the bars of a window that had been left open probably on account

of the heat."

Perico, in continuing his confession, either from weakness or some other

motive, seemed to do it unwillingly, as if he could not brook the

ascendency which Fray Serapio had over him. The lépero unveiled his

thoughts like one in a state of mesmeric sleep, who is obliged to act

according to the will of the manipulator. I asked the monk by a look

whether I should stay or retire. His glance urged me to stay.

"Beneath a picture of all the saints," continued Perico, "slept an old

woman wrapped up to the eyes in her _rebozo_. The handsome cavalier,

whom I recognized, was seated on a sofa. Kneeling before him, her head

on his knees, was a young and beautiful woman, her eyes fixed upon his,

beaming with the most ardent devotion. The young man was stripping the

leaves off a full-blown rose that he had taken from the tortoise-shell

comb in the hair of the fair dame, whose head was on his knees. I saw

clearly now why the time had seemed to him so short. Perhaps the feeling

of compassion which rose in my bosom will be placed to my credit aloft,

for I felt quite sorry at being forced to bring this sweet romance to a

rough conclusion."

"Did you kill him, then, you wretch?" cried the monk.

"I sat down in the shade on the pavement, with my face to the door. I

pitied the poor fellow, was quite discouraged, and slept at my post. The

creaking of a door awoke me from my slumbers; a man came out. I said to

myself then that my word of honor had been given, and my feelings of

compassion must be crushed. I arose. A second after, I was on the traces

of the unknown. The sound of a piano came stealing from the window,

which was now closed. 'Poor girl!' said I, 'your lover has seen his last

hour, and you are playing!' I struck--the man fell!"

Perico stopped and sighed.

"Had grief dimmed my sight?" said he, after a short silence. "The rays

of the moon fell full upon the face of the poor fellow. It was not my

man. I had done my duty, however; I had been paid to kill a man. I had

killed him. And my conscience quieted on this score, I set about cutting

off a lock of hair from the head of the unknown, in order to convince my

employer that I had fulfilled my mission. 'All men's hair is of the same

color,' said I to myself. I was again deceived; the man I had killed was

an Englishman, and had hair red as a ripe pimenta. The handsome cavalier

still lived. Chagrined at my disappointment, I blasphemed the holy name

of God, and that is what I accuse myself of, holy father."

Perico beat his breast, while the Franciscan showed him the blackness of

the latter crime of which he was guilty, passing very slightly over the

former, for the life of a man, an English heretic above all, is of very

little importance in the eyes of the least enlightened class of the

Mexican people, of which the monk and the lépero were two very distinct

types. Fray Serapio finished his exhortation by administering hastily to

Perico an absolution in Latin, worthy of Molière's comedies. He then

said, in good Spanish,

"All you have got to do now is to ask pardon of this cavalier for having

fleeced him so often, which he will willingly grant, seeing that it is

very improbable that you will lay him again under contribution, at least

for a long time."

The lépero turned to me, and, in as languishing a tone as he could

assume,

"I am a double-dyed rascal," said he, "and shall only consider myself

completely absolved if you will pardon me for the unworthy tricks that I

have played upon you. I am going to die, Señor Cavalier, and I have not

the wherewithal to bury me. My wife must be told of my situation, and it

will be a great comfort to her if she find something in my pocket to pay

for my shroud. God will reward you for it, Señor Cavalier."

"In truth," said the monk, "you can hardly refuse the poor devil this

favor, as they are the last piastres he will cost you."

"God grant it!" said I, not thinking about the cruelty of the wish, and

I emptied my purse into Perico's outstretched hand. He shut his eyes,

let his head fall upon his breast, and said no more.

"_Requiescat in pace!_" said Fray Serapio; "the sports must be far

advanced by this time. I can be of no farther use here."

We went out. After all, said I to myself in leaving the circus, this

recital has been the most curious revelation I have yet got from the

Zaragate. Such a confession as this is ample amends for the drafts upon

my purse which this singular personage has made. Besides, this would be

the last lesson the lépero would ever give me; and, with this thought in

my mind, I could not help pitying the poor wretch. I was wrong, however,

as will be seen in the sequel, in thinking that I would have no more

dealings with my master Perico.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Sagrario, the part in a church where the host is kept.

[2] A journal, "Siglio XIX." of the 11th November, 1845, contains in its

columns a petition addressed to the Ayuntamiento upon the subject of

certain thieves, who, not content with the evening, had chosen midday

for the exercise of their calling. The petition and answer of the

municipal council are alike curious.

[3] Zaragate, a rogue of the most dangerous kind.

[4] A blanket of common wool, differing in that respect only from the

_serape_.

[5] Those parts of the circus exposed to the sun.

[6] Portable shops.

[7] A bull with a ball on each horn.

CHAPTER II.

The Alameda.[8]--The Paseo of Bucareli.

There are few towns in Mexico which can not boast of having an Alameda;

and, as generally happens in the capital city, that of Mexico is

decidedly the finest. There is no promenade of this sort in Paris. Hyde

Park in London most nearly resembles it. The Alameda of Mexico forms a

long square, surrounded by a wall breast high, at the bottom of which

runs a deep ditch, whose muddy waters and offensive exhalation mar the

appearance of this almost earthly paradise. An iron gate at each of its

corners affords admission to carriages, horsemen, and pedestrians.

Poplars, ash-trees, and willows bend their branches over the principal

drive, and afford a leafy shade to the occupants of the carriages and

equestrians for whom this beautifully level road is appropriated.

Alleys, converging into large common centres, ornamented with fountains

and _jets d'eau_, interpose their clumps of myrtles, roses, and jasmines

between the carriages and the pedestrians, whose eyes can follow,

through the openings in those odoriferous bushes, the luxurious

equipages and prancing steeds caracoling round the Alameda. The noise

of the wheels, muffled by the sand on the drive, scarcely reaches the

ear, mingled as it is with the murmur of the water, the sighing of the

wind through the evergreen leafage, and the buzzing of bees and

humming-birds. The gilded carriage of the country and the plain European

chariot are continually passing each other, and the gaudy trappings of

the Mexican horses contrast strongly with the unaffected plainness of

the English saddle, which wears a shabby appearance in the midst of this

Oriental luxury. The ladies of fashion have laid aside for the promenade

the _saya_ and _mantilla_, to wear dresses which are only six months

behind the last Parisian mode. Stretched in dreamy languor on their silk

cushions, they allow their feet, the pride and admiration of Europeans,

to remain in shoes, alas! ill fitted for them. The sorry appearance of

their feet is hidden when in the carriages, through the open window of

which you can only see their diadems of black hair, decorated with

natural flowers, their seductive smile, and their gestures, in which

vivacity and listlessness are so pleasingly blended. The fan is kept in

a perpetual flutter at the carriage window, and speaking its own

mysterious language. Swarms of pedestrians present a spectacle not less

piquant; and the sad-colored garments of the Europeans are seen less

frequently here than the variegated costumes of America.

After taking a few turns, the carriages quit the Alameda, the horsemen

accompany them, and the whole crowd saunters carelessly past a

strongly-grated window, which hangs over the path you must traverse

before reaching a promenade called the _Paseo_ of Bucareli.[9] One can

hardly tell what hideous scenes are daily exhibited there behind this

rusty iron grating, not two paces from the most fashionable promenade in

Mexico: this is the window of the Mexican Morgue, where the dead bodies

are exposed. Justice only displays her anxiety at the moment when the

dead bodies of men and women are thrown together in one promiscuous heap

on its floor, some half naked, others still bleeding. Every day there is

a new succession of victims. As for the Paseo, which is close to this

melancholy exhibition, its only attractions are a double row of trees, a

few stone seats for the use of pedestrians, and three fountains

overloaded with detestable allegorical statues. At this spot you catch a

glimpse of a part of the country seen from the towers of the Cathedral;

the two snow-covered peaks of the volcanoes with their canopy of clouds;

the sierra shaded with its beautiful violet tints: lower down, the

whitened fronts of several haciendas; and through the arches of a

gigantic aqueduct you descry fields of maize, church domes and convents,

almost always half hidden at the promenade hour in the mist which

generally ascends at nightfall.

On the evening of the day on which I had witnessed the bull-fight, I

found myself in a crowd of idlers who ordinarily cover the space between

the Paseo and the Alameda. It was twilight; the lamps were about to be

lighted, and pedestrians and carriages were severally wending their way

homeward. It was Sunday. Noisily repeated by the numerous bells of the

churches and convents, the toll of the Angelus rose high above the

murmur of the crowd, of which one portion respectfully paused, while the

other made its way like a torrent that nothing could resist. The last

gleams of departing day glimmered through the grate of the Morgue, and

lighted up feebly the victims who were lying promiscuously on the

slabbed pavement, stained here and there with large patches of blood.

Women, uttering the most piercing cries of sorrow, returned to the rusty

grated window, though again and again pushed back by the soldiers. Their

cries attracted the passers-by; some pitied them; others contented

themselves with peering curiously in their faces. Kneeling before the

grated window, his head uncovered, and the bridle of his

richly-caparisoned horse in his hand, stood a man praying devoutly. From

his costume you could easily see that he belonged to that opulent class

of inhabitants of the _Tierra Afuera_, who disdain both the fashions and

ideas of Europeans. His picturesque costume harmonized well with his

manly and noble features. Above the right eyebrow of the stranger

extended a long narrow scar. It was doubtless the handsome young

cavalier whom Perico had that very morning described to me. Was he

thanking God for preserving him from danger, or for loving and being

loved? The question remained doubtful; besides, the emotions which gave

rise to these conjectures were suddenly interrupted. Startled by the

noise of the carriages, a refractory horse struck violently against a

ladder, on the top of which a _sereno_ (watchman) was lighting a lamp

suspended from the walls of the barrack of La Acordada. The sereno fell

from a height of fifteen feet, and lay motionless on the pavement. It

would be easy to describe the feelings of the unfortunate horseman when

he saw the poor fellow lying unconscious, and perhaps dangerously

injured; for the cavalier, I must own, was myself; but I prefer telling

what followed.

Every one is well aware of the benevolent feelings of the populace of

great towns toward those who have the misfortune to be guilty of such

sad accidents. It is impossible, however, to have an exact idea of the

spirit of such a populace, in Mexico especially, toward a foreigner,

which is there synonymous with a national enemy. Hemmed in, in spite of

his mettle, amid a dense crowd of léperos, who were deliberating only

what sort of punishment to inflict on the unhappy author of such a

calamity, my horse was of no use to me. I could not help envying for an

instant the fate of the sereno, insensible at least to the rude hustling

of the crowd, who mercilessly trod him under foot. Fortunately, chance

sent me two auxiliaries, on one of whom, at least, I was far from

reckoning. The first was an alcalde, who, escorted by four soldiers,

made his way through the crowd, and told me that in his eyes I was

guilty of having caused the death of a Mexican citizen. I bowed, and

said not a word. In compliance with the magistrate's orders, the still

inanimate body of the sereno was placed on a _tapestle_ (a kind of

litter), always kept at the barracks for similar accidents; then

politely inviting me to dismount, the alcalde ordered me to follow the

litter on foot to the palace, which was not more than two paces from the

prison. It may be supposed that I took good care not to comply at once

with this invitation, and attempted to demonstrate to the alcalde that

the exceptional case in which I stood nowise warranted such a

procession. Unhappily, the alcalde was, like all his class, gifted with

strong obstinacy, and replied to all my arguments only by insisting on

the respect due to custom. I then thought of seeking among the

spectators some one who might be security for me, and, very naturally,

my eyes sought the place where I had seen the cavalier, who had, at

first sight, inspired me with such interest; but he had disappeared. Was

I then to be compelled to submit to the odious formality required by the

alcalde? Chance at this moment sent me the second auxiliary of which I

have spoken. This new personage, who interposed between me and the

alcalde, was very jauntily dressed in a cloak of olive-colored Queretaro

cloth, the skirt of which, thrown back, almost entirely hid his face.

Through the numerous rents in his cloak appeared a jacket as dilapidated

as his upper garment. Having, with great exertion, got through the crowd

as far as the alcalde, this personage passed his hands through one of

the holes in his cloak, and was thus able to touch the remains of a hat

which covered his head without disarranging the folds of his cape. He

courteously uncovered, while a few cigarettes, a lottery ticket, and an

image of the miraculous Virgin of Guadaloupe remained sticking in his

long black hair. I was not a little surprised in recognizing in this

respectable townsman my friend Perico, whom I believed dead, and on the

eve of being buried.

"Señor Alcalde," said Perico, "this cavalier is right. He committed the

murder involuntarily, and he should not be confounded with ordinary

malefactors; besides, I am here to become security for him, for I have

the honor of his intimate acquaintance."

"And who will be security for _you_?" asked the alcalde.

"My antecedents," modestly replied the Zaragate, "and this cavalier,"

added he, pointing to me.

"But if you become security for him?"

"Well, I become security for this cavalier--he is security for me; you

have, therefore, two securities for one, and your lordship could not be

better suited."

I confess that, placed between the justice of the alcalde and the

offensive protection of Perico, I hesitated an instant. On his side, the

alcalde seemed scarcely convinced by the syllogism which Perico had

enunciated with such barefaced assurance. I thought it best, then, to

finish the debate by whispering to the alcalde my address.

"Well," he replied, on retiring, "I accept the security of your friend

in the olive cloak, and will go immediately to your house, where I hope

to find you."

The alcalde and his soldiers walked away; the mob remained as compact

and threatening as before, but a shrill whistle and two or three gambols

played by Perico soon caused him to be acknowledged by the people of his

caste, who eagerly made way for him. The lépero then took my horse by

the bridle, and I quitted this scowling rabble very uneasy about the

termination of my adventure, and much depressed at the unfortunate event

of which I had been the innocent cause.

"How comes it that I find you in such good health?" said I to my guide,

when I had recovered a little my presence of mind. "I confess I thought

your affairs in this world were forever wound up."

"God wrought a miracle specially for his servant," returned Perico, and

he devoutly raised his eyes to heaven; "but it appears, señor, that my

resurrection displeases you. You can conceive that, in spite of my

strong desire to be agreeable to you--"

"Not at all, Perico; by no means; I am delighted to see you alive; but

how was this miracle brought about?"

"I don't know," gravely replied the lépero; "only I was resuscitated so

quickly as not only to resume my place among the spectators of the

fight, but even to attempt another ascension. I had just been confessed

and received absolution, and it was a capital opportunity for risking my

life without endangering my soul. I wished to profit by it, and it

brought me good fortune; for this time, although the bull gave me

another pitch in the air with his horns, I fell on my feet, to the great

delight of the public, who showered reals and half reals upon me. Then

finding myself, thanks to you especially, with a tolerably well-lined

purse, I thought it my duty to satisfy my love for dress; I went to a

_baratillo_, and purchased this garb, which gives me quite a respectable

appearance. You saw with what consideration the alcalde treated me.

There is nothing like being well dressed, señor."

I saw clearly that the fellow had _done_ me once more, and that his

pretended agony, like his confession, had been only simulated for the

purpose of getting more money out of me. I must confess, however, that

my anger was disarmed at this moment by the comic dignity with which the

lépero strutted about in his torn cloak all the time he was holding

forth in this strange way. I determined to rid myself of company that

was becoming troublesome to me, and said to Perico, with a smile,

"If I reckon accurately, your children's illness, your wife's

confinement, and your own shroud have cost me little less than a hundred

piastres; to release you of the whole debt will, I would fain hope, be a

sufficient reward for the service you have rendered me. I will therefore

return home immediately; and I again thank you for your kindness."

"Home, señor! What are you thinking about?" cried Perico; "why, by this

time your house will be in the hands of the soldiers; they are seeking

you among all your friends. You do not know the alcalde you have to do

with."

"Do you know him, then?"

"I know all the alcaldes, señor; and what proves how little I deserve

the surname bestowed upon me is, that all the alcaldes do not know me;

but of all his fellows, the one in pursuit of you is the most cunning,

the most rapacious, and the most diabolical."

Although I felt that this portrait was exaggerated, I was for a moment

shaken in my resolution. Perico then represented to me, in very moving

terms, the happiness his wife and children would receive by seeing their

benefactor indebted to them for a night's lodging. Having a choice

between two protectors equally disinterested, I allowed myself to be

convinced by the one whose rapacity seemed most easily satisfied; I

decided upon once more following the lépero.

Meanwhile, night came on; we traversed suspicious lanes, deserted

places, streets unknown to me, and shrouded in darkness. The serenos

(policemen) became more and more scarce. I felt myself hurried away into

the heart of those dreadful suburbs where justice dares not penetrate; I

was unarmed, and at the mercy of a man whose frightful confession I had

just heard. Hitherto the Zaragate, I must confess, in spite of his

crimes so unblushingly avowed, did not seem to me to stand out in

glaring relief among a people demoralized by ignorance, want, and civil

wars; but at that hour, amid a labyrinth of dark lanes, and in the

silence of the night, my imagination gave fantastic and colossal

dimensions to his picaresque figure. My position was a difficult one. To

leave such a guide suddenly in this cut-throat quarter was dangerous,

to follow him not less so.

"Where the devil do you live?" said I. The lépero scratched his head in

answer. I asked him again.

"To say the truth," replied he at last, "having no fixed abode, I live a

little every where."

"And your wife and children, and the night's shelter you offered me?"

"I forgot," replied the Zaragate, imperturbably; "I sent away my wife

and children yesterday to--to Queretaro; but as for a lodging--"

"Is that at Queretaro also?" I asked Perico, discovering, when too late,

that the wife and children of this honorable personage were as imaginary

as his abode.

"As for shelter," added Perico, with the same impassible air, "you shall

share that which I can procure for you, and which I find when my means

won't admit of paying for a night's lodging, for heaven does not send us

every day bull-fights and such like windfalls. Stop," said he, pointing

with his finger to a glimmering light at a distance, which was reflected

on the granite pavement; "that is perhaps what we are seeking for."

We advanced to the light, and soon perceived that it came from the

lantern of a sereno. Wrapped in a yellow cloak almost as ragged as

Perico's, the guardian of the night, squatted on the pavement, seemed to

follow with his melancholy gaze the large clouds which flitted across

the sky. At our approach he still kept his indolent position.

"Halloo! friend," said the Zaragate, "do you know of any _velorio_

(wake) in this neighborhood?"

"Of course, a few _cuadras_ from here, near the bridge of Eguizamo, you

will find one; and if I did not fear some round of the Señor Regidor's,

or found some good fellow to don my cloak and take care of my lantern, I

would go with you to the entertainment myself."

"Much obliged," said Perico, politely; "we will profit by the

information."

The sereno cast a look of astonishment at my dress, which was singularly

out of keeping with Perico's.

"Gentlemen like that cavalier are little in the habit of frequenting

such meetings," said the man of the police.

"This is a special case; this señor has contracted a debt which obliges

him to spend the night elsewhere."

"That makes all the difference in the world," said the sereno. "There

are some debts that one likes to be as long in paying as possible." And,

hearing a church clock strike at a distance, the night-watch, troubling

himself no more about us, cried out in a doleful tone, "Nine o'clock and

stormy weather." He then resumed his former attitude, while the distant

voices of the serenos answered him in succession through the silence of

the night.

I resumed my melancholy march behind Perico, followed by my horse, which

I led by the bridle, as, by the police regulations of Mexico, no one is

allowed to ride through the streets after Angelus has rung, and I was

unwilling to try another fall with the alcaldes. Shall I confess it? My

curiosity was roused by the words of my guide, and I decided at this

moment not to separate from him. I wanted to know what a velorio was;

and this love of novelty, which finds so many opportunities of

satisfying itself in Mexico, once more made me forget my troubles.

We had not walked ten minutes, till, as the sereno had told us, we came

to a bridge thrown over a narrow canal. Some dilapidated houses bathed

their greenish bases in the thick muddy water. A lamp which burned dimly

before a picture of the souls in Purgatory threw its livid reflex on the

stagnant water. On the terraces the watch-dogs bayed at the moon, which

was sometimes hidden, sometimes fringed only by a movable curtain of

clouds, for it was the rainy season. Except those doleful sounds, all

was silent there as in the other parts of the town that we had

traversed. The windows in the first story, brightly lighted up opposite

the picture of the souls in Purgatory, were the only things remarkable

in this double row of melancholy-looking huts. Perico knocked at the

door of the house with the illuminated windows. They were rather long in

coming; at last the door half opened, one of the leaves being fastened

as usual by an iron chain.

"Who is there?" said a man's voice.

"Friends who come to pray for the dead and rejoice with the living,"

said Perico, without hesitation.

We entered. Lighted by the porter's lantern, we passed through a porch

and entered an inner court. The guide pointed out to Perico an iron ring

let into the wall. I tied my horse up by the bridle; we ascended some

twenty steps, and I entered, preceded by Perico, a room tolerably well

lighted up. I was at last going to learn what a _velorio_ was.

FOOTNOTES:

[8] Alameda, a general name for a public walk; literally, a place

planted with poplars, _alamos_.

[9] The name of the viceroy who presented it to the town.

CHAPTER III.

A Mexican Wake.

The company to which Perico had introduced me presented a very singular

appearance. About twenty men and women of the lowest class were seated

in a circle, chatting, bawling, and gesticulating. A dank, cadaverous

smell pervaded the apartment, which was hardly smothered by the smoke of

cigars, and the fumes of Xeres and _Chinguirito_. In a corner of the

room stood a table loaded with provisions of every sort, with cups,

bottles, and flasks. Some gamblers, seated at a table a little farther

off, jingling copper money, and shouting out the technical terms of

_monte_, were quarreling, with drunken excitement, over piles of

_cuartillas_[10] and _tlacos_. Under the triple excitement of wine,

women, and play, the orgie, which had only commenced when I arrived,

seemed likely to mount to a formidable height; but what struck me most

was precisely that which seemed to engage the attention of the assembly

least. A young child, who seemed to have scarcely reached his seventh

year, was lying at full length on a table. His pale brow, wreathed with

flowers faded by the heat of the stifling atmosphere, his glazed eyes,

and shriveled, sunken cheeks, already tinged with a violet hue, plainly

showed that life had left him, and that it was some days, probably,

since he had slept the eternal sleep. The mere sight of the little

corpse was heartrending amid the cries, the gambling, and the noisy

conversation; the men and women meanwhile laughing and singing like

savages. The flowers and jewels which decorated him, far from stripping

death of its gloomy solemnity, only made the appearance more hideous. A

general silence followed our entrance. A man, in whom I soon recognized

the master of the house and the father of the dead child, rose to

receive us. His face, far from being oppressed with sadness, seemed, on

the contrary, radiant with delight, and he pointed with an air of pride

to the numerous guests that had assembled to celebrate the death of his

son, an event considered as a favor from heaven, since God had been

pleased to call the child to himself before he was old enough to

displease him. He assured us that we were welcome to his house, and that

to him, on such an occasion, strangers became friends. Thanks to the

loquacity of Perico, I had become the focus on which all eyes were

centred. I had a difficult part to play, Perico thinking it right to

make it appear to all who would listen to him that no one could kill

people with a better grace than I. To enable me to act my part properly,

I hastened to put my gloves in my pocket, and affect the most cavalier

assurance, convinced that it was prudent to follow the fashion.

"What do you think of the lodging I have found you?" asked Perico,

rubbing his hands; "is not this better than what I could offer you?

besides, you will now know what a velorio is; it will be a resource in

the evenings when you are low-spirited, and have nothing to do. Thanks

to me, you will thus acquire a title to the eternal gratitude of this

worthy father, whose child, having died before its seventh year, is now

an angel in heaven."

And Perico, anxious, no doubt, to have a share in this tribute of

gratitude, seized, without ceremony, an enormous glass of _chinguirito_,

and swallowed it at a draught. I witnessed for the first time this

barbarous custom, which compels the father of a family to cloak his

sorrow beneath a smiling face, and to do the honors of his house to the

first vagabond who, under the guidance of a sereno, comes to gorge

himself with meat and drink before the corpse of his son, and share in

that profuse liberality which often brings want to the family on the

morrow.

The orgie, which had been disturbed a moment by our entrance, now fell

in its usual course, and I began to cast my eyes about a little. In the

midst of a circle of excited females, who esteem it a duty never to

neglect a night-wake, I perceived a pale face, lips attempting to smile

in spite of eyes full of tears, and, in this victim of a gross

superstition, I had little difficulty in detecting the mother, for whom

an angel in heaven could not compensate for the angel she missed on

earth. The women about her seemed vying with one another as to who

should increase the sorrow of the poor woman by their ill-timed but

well-meant importunities. The different stages of the disease, and the

sufferings of the dead child, were described by one woman; another

enumerated infallible remedies that she would have applied if she had

been consulted in time, such as St. Nicholas's plasters, moxas, the

vapor of purslane gathered on a Friday in Lent, decoctions of herbs

strained through a bit of a Dominican's frock, and the poor credulous

mother turned her head away to wipe her eyes, thoroughly convinced that

these remedies, if applied in time, would have saved her child. Sherry

and cigarettes were rapidly consumed during these discussions; then all

the innocent games in use in Spanish America were proposed and played,

while the children, weary and sleepy, lay down to rest in every corner

of the room, as if envying him whose discolored face protested, beneath

the withered flowers, against this odious profanation of the dead.

Seated in the deep recess of one of the windows which looked into the

street, I watched all Perico's motions with some uneasiness. It appeared

to me that the protection he had so suddenly bestowed was only a cloak

to entrap me. My features must have betrayed my uneasiness, for the

lépero approached and said, by way of consolation,

"Look you, señor, killing a man is like every thing else; the first step

is the only painful one. Besides, your sereno may perhaps be like my

Englishman, who is to-day as well as ever. These heretics have as many

lives as a cat. Ah! señor," said Perico, with a sigh, "I have always

regretted that I was not a heretic."

"To have as many lives as a cat?"

"No, to be paid for my conversion! Unfortunately, my reputation as a

Christian is too well established."

"But the cavalier you were to kill," I asked of Perico, naturally

brought back to the recollection of the melancholy young man whom I had

seen kneeling before the Morgue, "do you think that he is still alive?"

Perico shook his head. "To-morrow, perhaps, his mad passion may have

cost him his life, and his mistress will not survive him. I have no

desire to make two victims at once, and I threw up the business."

"These sentiments do you honor, Perico."

Perico wished to profit by the favorable impression his answer had

produced upon me.

"Doubtless--you can not risk your soul so for a few piastres. But,

speaking of piastres, señor," he continued, holding out his hand, "I

feel in the vein, and perhaps there are still a few pieces left in your

purse. If I break the bank at _monte_, you shall go halves with my

winnings."

I thought it prudent to yield to this new demand of the Zaragate. The

play, besides, would free me from his company, which was becoming

irksome. I slipped, then, some piastres into Perico's hand. Almost at

the same moment twelve o'clock struck. One of the company rose, and

cried in a solemn tone, "It is the hour of the souls in Purgatory; let

us pray!"

The gamblers arose, amusements were suspended, and all the company

gravely knelt. The prayer began in a high tone of voice, interrupted by

responses at regular intervals, and for the first time the object of the

meeting seemed remembered. Picture to yourselves these sots, their eyes

glazed with drunkenness--these women in tatters, standing round a corpse

crowned with flowers; draw over all this kneeling crowd the vapors of a

thick atmosphere, in which putrid miasmas were mingled with the fumes of

liquor, and you will have an idea of the strange and horrible scene of

which I was forced to become an unwilling eye-witness.

Prayers over, gambling commenced anew, but not with so much liveliness

as before. In company, when the night is far advanced, there is always a

strong inclination to go to sleep; but when this struggle is over, the

spirits become more lively, and get almost delirious and frantic. That

is the hour of the orgie: the time was approaching.

I had again sat down in the recess of the window, and, to drive away the

drowsiness which I felt stealing upon me, occasioned by the close air in

the room, had opened the window a little. Looking out into the darkness

of the night, I tried to find out, by the stars, what o'clock it was,

and also to trace my way mentally through the labyrinth of streets, but

I could scarcely see a bit of the sky, which on that night was cloudy,

above the tops of the neighboring houses. I never remembered to have

seen in Mexico before this canal with its leaden waters, nor those dark,

deserted lanes which ran at right angles to it. I was completely at

fault. Should I remain any longer amid this hideous orgie? Ought I not

to try to escape, even though it was dangerous, through the streets of

this distant suburb? While I was irresolutely weighing all these things

in my mind, a noise of steps and confused whispers attracted my

attention. I hid myself behind one of the shutters, so as to see and

hear without being seen. Half a dozen men soon issued from a lane in

front of the house in which I was. Their leader was wrapped in an

_esclavina_,[11] which only half concealed the scabbard of his sword.

The others were armed with naked sabres. A European but newly arrived in

the country would have considered them criminals from their timid

deportment, but my experienced eye could not be deceived; justice alone

could seem so terrified, and I easily recognized the night patrol,

composed of a regidor, an auxiliary alcalde, and four _celadores_.

"_Voto a brios!_" said the man in the _esclavina_, probably one of the

auxiliary magistrates, at once alcaldes and publicans, who lodge

criminals during the day, and let them off to pursue them at night;

"what does my Lord Prefect mean by sending us to patrol in such a

quarter as this, where the officers of justice have never penetrated. I

should like to see him employed about this business."

"He would take care to provide himself with fire-arms, that he refuses

to us," said one of the _corchetes_, who appeared the coolest of the

party, "for criminals and malefactors are not in the habit of carrying

the arms we do, and the person whom we have been ordered to protect will

perhaps experience it this night to his cost."

"What the devil!" said the alcalde, "when one knows that he runs the

risk of getting a dagger into him at night, why does not he stay at

home?"

"There are some scamps whom nothing frightens," replied one of the

corchetes; "but, as the Evangelist says, 'he who seeks the danger shall

perish in it.'"

"What o'clock may it be now?" asked the auxiliary.

"Four in the morning," answered one of the men; and, raising his eyes to

the window behind which I was concealed, he added, "I envy those people

who pass the night so merrily in that _tertulia_." Talking thus, the

celadores walked along the brink of the canal. All at once the auxiliary

at their head stumbled in the darkness. At that moment a man sprang up

and stood before the patrol.

"Who are you?" cried the alcalde, in a voice meant to be imposing.

"What's that to you?" replied the man as haughtily. "Can't a man sleep

in the streets without being questioned?"

"One sleeps at home as--as--much as possible," stammered the alcalde,

evidently frightened.

The person thus caught acting so much like a vagabond gave a shrill

whistle, and, pushing the alcalde aside, ran down a neighboring lane.

To my great surprise, the alcalde and the celadores, like men who dread

a snare, instead of following him, ran off in quite an opposite

direction. Almost at the same moment a hand was laid on my shoulder. I

started and turned about. Perico and my host stood before me.

"That whistle sounds wonderfully like the call of my chum Navaja, when

out on an expedition," cried the former, stooping to peer through the

window, while the latter, with bleared eyes, his legs tottering like a

man who had too conscientiously fulfilled his duties as master of the

house, offered me a glass of liquor, that his shaky hand allowed to run

over. Then, with the irritability peculiar to drunkards,

"One may say, señor," said he to me, "that you despise the society of

poor people like us; you don't play, you don't drink; yet, in certain

cases of conscience, gambling and brandy give great relief. Look at me

now! To gratify my friends, I have eaten and drunk what I have and what

I haven't: well, I am happy, although I don't possess a _tlaco_ in the

world; and, if you like, I will play with you for my child's body! It is

a stake," continued he, in a confidential tone, "which is as good as

another, for I can let it out, and well too, to some lover of a

velorio."

"Play for the body of your child!" I cried.

"Why not? That is done every day. Every body hasn't the good fortune to

have an angel aloft, and the body of this dear little one brings luck

here."

I got rid, as well as I could, of the entreaties of this tender-hearted

father, and cast my eyes once more into the street, but the approaches

to the canal were now silent and deserted. I was not long, however, in

discovering that this quiet, this solitude, were only apparent. Some

strange, vague sounds escaped now and then from one of the lanes leading

to the canal. Presently I fancied I heard the crunching of unsteady

steps on the gravel. With my body leaning over the balcony, and

listening intently, I waited for the moment when the awful stillness

would be broken by some cry of anguish. The sound of voices, loud in

dispute, again drew my attention to the room on which my back was

turned. The orgie was this moment at its height. The Zaragate,

surrounded by a group of angry gamblers, whose suspicions had been

roused by his run of good luck, was trying, but in vain, to wrap around

him the shreds of his olive cloak, which had been torn into ribbons by

the furious hands of his adversaries.

The most stinging epithets were launched against him from all sides.

"I am a man of substance," cried the fellow, impudently, "as much as

those whose uncivil hands have torn to tatters the handsomest cloak I

ever possessed."

"Barefaced swindler!" cried a gambler; "your cloak had as many rents as

your conscience."

"In any other place," replied Perico, who was prudently edging toward

the door, "you would have to give me satisfaction for this double

insult. Señor," said he, appealing to me, "be my surety, as I have been

yours; half of my winnings is yours; they were honestly come by. All

this is but mere slander."

I was once more mentally cursing my intimacy with Perico, when an

occurrence of a graver nature made a happy diversion to the scene in

which I saw myself in danger of becoming an actor. A man rushed

hurriedly out of one of the back rooms on the same floor. Close behind

him another followed, knife in hand; a woman after, shrieking terribly,

and her dress flying in disorder about her.

"Will you stand and see me murdered?" cried the pursued, piteously.

"Will no one hand me a knife?"

"Let me bury my knife in this rascal's body, this destroyer of my

honor!" gasped the outraged husband.

The women, doubtless through sympathy, shrieked in concert, and uttered

the most dreadful cries, while a friend of the offender slyly slipped a

long knife into his hand. The latter faced about, and rushed boldly at

his adversary. The cries of the women increased; a dreadful confusion

ensued. The infuriated fellows made prodigious efforts to get at one

another. Blood was about to flow, when, in the struggle, the table on

which the infant lay was overturned. The body fell on the floor with a

dull, heavy sound, and the flowers were scattered about. A large circle

formed round the profaned corpse. A piercing shriek rose over all the

uproar, and the bereaved mother threw herself on her child's remains

with a cry of intense agony.

I had seen too much. I rushed to the balcony to cast a second look into

the street, to assure myself that escape was yet possible; but there was

no egress in that way. A man had just emerged from one of the lanes

which opened upon the opposite bank of the canal. Other men came behind

him, brandishing their weapons. This Navaja, whom Perico acknowledged as

one of the fraternity, had doubtless collected his troop, and I was

about to see him terminate, without being able to help his victim, one

of those nocturnal brawls, of which some of the léperos boast. The

person they were pursuing soon reached the parapet, and set his back to

it. I distinctly heard him exclaim,

"Back, you cowardly rascals, who fight five to one."

"At him, _Muchachos_!" cried the chief of the band; "there are a hundred

piastres to be earned."

Need I tell what followed? The unequal struggle lasted only a few

moments. Soon a fierce shout announced that the murderers had triumphed.

The unhappy man still breathed. He was able even to drag himself to the

bridge, and, waving the stump of his sword, to dare the assassins to

come on. Again surrounded by these villains, he once more fell beneath

their blows. By the wan light of the lamp burning for the souls in

Purgatory, I saw the men lift a bleeding body and throw it into the

canal, the surface of which was for a moment disturbed. A second after,

the assassins dispersed, and so rapidly that I asked myself if all this

was not a bad dream; but the reality was too evident for me to indulge

long in this error. Another incident occurred to prove to me that I was

wide awake. A man on horseback issued from the house to which a fatal

chain of events had bound me, and in this man I recognized Perico,

mounted on the noble animal that I had brought with so much trouble from

the _hacienda de la Noria_.

"Halloo, you rascal!" I exclaimed, "this is too much; you are stealing

my horse."

"Señor," replied Perico, with astonishing composure, "I am carrying away

a proof which might criminate your lordship."

Such was the lépero's farewell. The spurs driven home, the horse sprang

off at a gallop. Without taking leave of any body, I set off in pursuit.

It was too late; I only heard in the distance his plaintive neigh and

the break of his gallop. These sounds soon died away. I rushed at

random down one of the lanes which led to the canal. I wandered a long

time in this labyrinth before finding myself in a place I knew, and day

was breaking before I discovered my whereabouts. Night had brought its

counsel, and I resolved to make a declaration in a court of law about

the misfortune I had caused the night before. I went, then, to the

_juzgado de latras_.[12] When I entered the judge had not yet arrived,

and I waited in the hall. Fatigue and want of sleep were not long in

making me oblivious of all my anxieties, and I fell asleep on a bench. I

was retracing in my dreams the extraordinary scenes I had witnessed. I

fancied I heard a dull noise about me, then deep silence all at once. I

opened my eyes; I still believed myself a prey to the nightmare. A

stretcher, covered with a bloody sheet, was laid almost at my feet. A

thought passed through me like a flash of lightning. I imagined that I

had been recognized, and that, by a refinement of barbarous justice,

they were about to confront me with him whose death I had caused. I

walked to the end of the lobby; the sight of the bloody sheet became

insupportable to me. I gradually reassured myself, however, and, arming

myself with courage, went and raised a corner of the covering. I had no

difficulty in recognizing the victim. His pale, handsome face, and

forehead marked with a long, slender scar, had left too deep an

impression in my memory. The marshy plants and green slime which soiled

his clothes reminded me of the theatre of the crime. This was the man I

had seen die so valiantly, and whose loss, I knew, would be so tenderly

bewailed. I let the sheet fall over his noble face.

I hasten to terminate this too long story. Twenty days had passed. No

attention seemed to have been paid to the unfortunate accident of which

I had been the innocent cause, and nothing remained of my nocturnal

adventures but an invincible horror of the whole tribe of léperos, when

I received an order to appear before a strange alcalde. A man about

forty years of age, as much a stranger to me as the alcalde, was waiting

for me at the bar.

"Señor," said this man to me, "I am the lamplighter whom your lordship

almost killed; and as this accident has kept me from work for a

fortnight, you will not take it ill if I ask you to make it up to me."

"Certainly not," said I, delighted to know that I had not to reproach

myself with the death of any body. "How much do you ask?"

"Five hundred piastres, señor."

I must confess that this exorbitant charge immediately changed my

pleasure into anger, and I could not help mentally consigning the

lamplighter to the devil. But these feelings cooled down almost

immediately; and the alcalde advising me to compound with the man, I was

glad to be let off for a fifth part of the sum demanded by the

lamplighter. After all, if my studies had been too expensive, the

experience I had gained had its value, and I regretted nothing that

Perico had extorted from me, not even the noble horse which he had so

ingeniously appropriated.

FOOTNOTES:

[10] A cuartilla is worth 1½_d_; a tlaco ¾_d_.

[11] A small frock-coat, a short cloak.

[12] Justiciary court. The _juez de latras_ is the criminal judge.

Fray Serapio, the Franciscan Monk.

CHAPTER I.

The Convent of St. Francis.

In the present state of society in Europe, in which the principles and

traditions of the Middle Ages have been so completely broken up, one can

hardly form any idea of the influence which the monk exercises in

Mexico, and of the strong tie which connects him with the world. If,

however, this bond had no existence, the singular picture which Mexican

society presents would lose one of its greatest charms--the perpetual

contrast, namely, of the customs and characteristics of the nineteenth

century with those of the time of Philip II. Beside men armed to the

teeth, women dressed as in the days of Cortez and Pizarro, and

barelegged Indians, with feet encased in ancient sandals, the gown of

the monk appears, not as an anomaly, but as a highly poetic souvenir.

This figure is not out of keeping with the picture, but in perfect

harmony with it. Whether in public or in private, the monk takes a share

in Mexican life, not only every day, but almost every moment. Not to

speak of the many religious ceremonies performed by the monks, the rules

of the cloister are generally so lax as to allow them free liberty of

egress at almost any hour; and thus they can mix, without difficulty, in

all the gayeties of the world. You can easily understand what a

picturesque element is introduced into society by this immense crowd,

who issue every day from the numerous convents, each order bringing its

own type upon the scene, from the black frock of the Dominican to the

white robe of the _Mercedario_.

If the upper classes of Mexican society have escaped from the trammels

of monkish influence, the middle classes regard them with as much

superstitious reverence as they did a century ago. The fantastic

eloquence of the Middle Ages still keeps its ground here. The Mexican

preacher, carried away by his enthusiasm, seizes upon the most startling

metaphors: sometimes he represents God _as making the sun his charger,

and the moon his stirrup_;[13] sometimes it is an obscene story, to

which, with the most imperturbable gravity, he attaches a religious

moral. When out of pulpit or confessional, the same man who inculcated

the severest ascetism, utters the raciest jokes, and sings the best

songs in some _tertulia_ on the ground floor. He even pushes his anxiety

so far as to furnish the laity with hints about dress. He gives

excellent directions about the cut of a new suit of clothes; nay, more,

he charges himself sometimes with their purchase, frequenting

assiduously the saloons of fashion--and there is no appeal from his

criticism. Very often his complaisance is not of the most disinterested

kind; too often his purchase is only a kind of tribute paid to a family

whom the reverend father supports at his own expense, on condition of

tasting clandestinely in its pleasures. The monk is every where except

at his convent. Every thing is an attraction to him--bull-fights,

cock-fights, gambling-tables, and theatres; every place gives him an

opportunity of displaying his whims and oddities. Let no one fancy that

his compliant manners operate against him as a priest and spiritual

director. The Mexicans understand to a nicety the bond which unites

devotion to worldly pleasures. When the monk, late at night, wends his

way to his convent after a day spent in dissipation, the passers-by,

when they see him, bow the knee with as much respect as if his pious

discourses and conduct were not in startling contrast with each other.

After this account of the character and habits of the Mexican monk, no

one will be astonished at the occurrence which made me acquainted with

one of the jolliest members of the great monastic family, the Reverend

Fray Serapio. Curiosity had led me to a popular fête in the environs of

Mexico, that of San Augustin de las Crevas, a small town about twelve

miles from the capital. This fête, which makes Mexico a deserted city

for three days, is frequented by the élite of Mexican gamblers. Whoever

does not play is looked upon with suspicion. I followed the example of

the numerous card-players who had been attracted to San Augustin, and

seated myself at a table. My opposite neighbor was a Franciscan of

athletic mould, and I shall never forget his sunburned, swarthy

countenance, his piercing look, and his shaven face fringed with

clusters of long crisp hair, shaggy as a bison's mane. He was a true

soldier in a monkish dress. After a run of bad luck, I left the tables

just as my last stake disappeared in the pocket of the monk. I wandered

for some time in the streets of the village, hearing around me every

where the clink of quadruples and piastres. I then mounted my horse,

and, cursing my ill luck, took the road to Mexico. I had scarcely gone

more than half way when I was brought to a stand-still by a very

disagreeable circumstance. A turnpike gate stood half way between Mexico

and San Augustin. Just as I came within sight of it, I made the

disagreeable discovery that I had not the real necessary for passing me

through the gate. Wishing to give myself time for reflection, I walked

my horse slowly along, but the fatal turnpike came always nearer and

nearer. I was just going to turn my horse's head round and gallop back,

when by chance the Franciscan who had cleaned me out came up. The lucky

winner addressed me most politely, and I replied in the most courteous

manner. He offered to accompany me to Mexico; and the secret hope of

being able to pass the gate at the Franciscan's expense doubtless made

me accept his offer with so much alacrity. I fancied that I was doing no

more than an act of politeness in congratulating my companion on his run

of good luck. But what was my surprise when he exclaimed, with a sigh,

"Confound it! I was quite cleaned out down there; I have

nothing--nothing but my debts. I must say that I counted upon you to

pass me through."

I confessed that I was just about to beg the same favor of him. Upon

this the Franciscan fell into such convulsions of laughter that, in

spite of myself, I could not help joining him heartily. We then

deliberated what course to pursue. We hit upon several ludicrous

expedients, but they were rejected one after the other. After some

discussion, we decided that it would be best to clear the turnpike at a

gallop without paying. "We will pay double the next time we pass," said

the monk. Having thus disposed of this case of conscience, he spurred

his steed; I followed. We soon left the pikemen behind us; and our

horses flying at full speed, a thick cloud of dust soon hid us from

their sight. Once at Mexico, it may be easily understood that we did not

part without agreeing to meet again. A card-table, it must be owned, is

rather an extraordinary place for one to strike up a friendship with a

monk.

The acquaintance thus commenced promised to be agreeable, and a few days

after our first meeting I repaired to the convent of St. Francisco, the

abode of my friend. After this visit I went often, at first for the

Franciscan's sake, and afterward to see the convent, the most beautiful

building of the kind in Mexico. To tell the truth, Fray Serapio was

seldom in his cell; but his friendship insured me a constant welcome at

the monastery, the library of which possessed inexhaustible treasures.

None of the religious communities scattered over Mexico is so rich or

powerful as that of St. Francis. The vast extent of ground covered by

the Franciscan convents in all the large towns, and the massive walls,

crowned with numerous turrets, which surround them, are sufficient

indications of the power and wealth of the order. The monastery to which

chance had introduced me is at once worthy of the community that owns

it, and of the capital of which it is one of the chief ornaments. The

street of San Francisco, which leads to the cloister of this name, is a

continuation of that crowded commercial street, the _Plateros_. The

cloister, happily situated in the most stirring part of the town, rises

at the extremity of the street Francisco, and extends as far as the

entrance to the Alameda. The thick walls, flanked with massive

buttresses, give to the convent the appearance of a fortress. At the

same time, the spires, which shoot up into the air, and the fine

cupolas, covered with burnished tiles, gave clear indications of the

character of the building. You arrive at the principal chapel by a vast

flagged court, which is always crowded with sight-seers, visitors, the

faithful, and the poor. Opposite the first court is an inclosure

reserved for the monks. The immense cloisters, ornamented with basins

inlaid with white jasper, gardens, a rich library, new dormitories,

three hundred cells, a refectory, in which three hundred persons can sit

down to dinner, combine to form a spectacle at once imposing and

magnificent, which surpasses even the expectation of the visitor who

enters the convent after having admired its exterior.

All my leisure hours, on Sundays especially, I loved to bury myself in

the huge dusty library, and to ransack archives of which even the monks

themselves were quite ignorant. Two books, above all, captivated me

completely; one was a volume of legendary stories, the other a

collection of _autos de fé_, executed by the Mexican Inquisition. I

forgot even the lapse of time while reading them. These atrocious

recitals, which the cold-blooded chronicler always sums up with _Laus

Deo_, exercised upon me, especially when the day was waning, a singular

fascination. The distant droning of the organ, and the doleful chanting

of the monks, sometimes deepened the impression; and, in the mysterious

gloom which had already enveloped the hall, I fancied I saw rise before

me the heroes of the legendary stories, or the victims of the

Inquisition. When I came out of the library, and walked in the

cloisters, the monks whom I met in the dark corridors seemed to me to

bear no resemblance whatever to those I had seen upholding the dignity

of the cowl in the streets of Mexico. There are two sorts of monks in

the convent: monks still young enough to delight in a _monte_ table and

in a _tertulia_, and who are never in their cells; others whose age and

infirmities prevent them from mixing with the world: these last form the

settled population, which is not a very numerous one. Among the monks

whom I met in the corridors of San Francisco, there was one, above all,

who seemed to me to personify the convent life, with all its attendants

of gloomy observance and secret penance. He was an old man, with a

shining bald head; a kind of awe, mingled with curiosity, seized me

whenever I saw him. I could have sworn that one of those sombre pictures

upon the walls of the convent, from the pencil of Rodriguez, Cabrera, or

Villalpando, had left its frame and come to life again.

Sometimes I mused away an idle hour in the garden; for, all the time I

was in Mexico, solitude was peculiarly pleasing to me. Since my arrival

in Mexico, years had been added to years, and I began to experience

attacks of home-sickness. The unvarying deep blue sky, so unlike that of

France, rather increased my sadness. The appearance of the convent

garden, surrounded on all sides by lofty walls, was in perfect harmony

with the melancholy thoughts which had taken possession of my mind. The

sun had calcined the brick walls, upon which opened the windows of the

tenantless cells. Weeds were growing here and there on a terrace shaded

with the wide-spreading branches of the sycamore, the palma christi, and

the mango. An arbor, ornamented with climbing plants, was the place to

which I most frequently directed my steps. There, under a flowery arch,

where the passion-flower, that favorite plant of the cloisters, the

jasmine, and the clematis, with its beautiful flowers, grew in charming

confusion, I passed many long hours, dreaming of my native country and

absent friends. A mysterious charm drew me to this fresh and rustic

retreat. A quaint device, cut on the trunk of a sycamore, which threw

its branches across my bower, often attracted my attention: _In silentio

et in spe erit fortitudo tua_. My soul felt strengthened and soothed in

this solitude. In this wild and uncultivated garden I was charmed into a

forgetfulness of the world, where the only sounds that reminded me of

life were the buzzing of the humming-birds among the rose-bushes, the

tinkling of bells, and the distant droning of the organ.

I scarcely ever saw any one in the garden. One monk only seemed to share

with me a predilection for this peaceful inclosure, and, above all, for

the arbor, from which I almost always saw him escaping at my approach.

He was the same man whom I had so often watched in the cloisters with

such a fearful curiosity. Sometimes I surprised him watering the garden

borders, or giving his care to those flowers which grew near the

grass-grown walks. My imagination soon found some romantic link between

this melancholy old man and the forsaken bower. I resolved to enter into

conversation with him. A conscience so troubled as his seemed to be

might surely be able to make some curious revelations; but, after

repeated attempts to rouse him from his habitual taciturnity, I was

forced to give it up as hopeless. With hands crossed, and face turned to

the ground, the monk, every time he met me, quickened his pace and

vanished from my sight. I looked at him always with intense interest, as

the intellectual though stern expression of his features contrasted

strikingly with the vacant faces of the other monks. His face, which

sometimes betrayed painful dejection, sometimes a fanatical joy,

reminded me at times of the wonderful legends and dismal stories which I

had been reading in the convent library. Was I right in my conjectures

about this singular personage? Despairing of success in my endeavors to

induce the monk to break silence, I resolved to question Fray Serapio

about him; and, with the hope of meeting the jolly Franciscan, I

directed my steps to one of the most charming spots in the environs of

Mexico, the canal of Viga.

FOOTNOTE:

[13] Cabalgando el sol, y estribando la luna.

CHAPTER II.

The Viga Canal.

Nowhere in Mexico could there be found a spot which presents an

appearance more different, according to the seasons of the year, than

the Viga Canal. No place is by turns more solitary or more crowded, more

noisy or more silent. This canal, about twenty-four miles long, mixes

its waters with the lake on which Chalco stands, and forms a means of

transport and communication between that town and Mexico. A broad open

road, planted with aspens and poplars, runs along its sleeping waters.

If the pedestrian did not observe, at some distance from the highway,

the buildings which inclose the bull-ring, and, farther off, the towers

of the Cathedral, above which shoot up the two mighty volcanoes of

Mexico, he might fancy himself three hundred miles from the city. Some

country houses, whose inhabitants are always invisible; the deserted

paths of the _Candelaria_, a rival road to the Viga; lakelets scattered

here and there in the midst of teeming vegetation, on whose surface

float _chinampas_[14] looking like large baskets; a solitary _vaquero_

hut here and there in the plain; then a range of hills overtopped by the

sierra, form the principal features in the landscape. A placid stillness

reigns over every part of the picture. Sometimes a pirogue is seen

gliding noiselessly on the canal, sometimes a group of Indians kneeling

in some grove before a Christ that they are decking with flowers, at

whose feet they are piously depositing oranges and grenadilles,

offerings which savor strongly of paganism. The flapping of the wings of

an aigret hovering over the water, or that is losing itself in the blue

sky, and the baying of some dogs prowling about, are the only sounds

which break the stillness on this shady road. But at the approach of the

Easter fêtes the road assumes quite a different appearance. Every Sunday

in Lent, the entire population of Mexico assembles here, and a noisy

crowd streams along the way. The day on which I went to the canal was

the last Sunday in Lent. On reaching the road, I found the habitual

promenaders of the _Paseo_ and _Alameda_ crowding every spot of the

ground in the Viga; but it was not the crowd which chiefly attracted me,

it was the canal itself. On that day, the reeds on the bank, ordinarily

so still, waved and jostled to and fro under the continual motion of the

water, produced by the passing and repassing of numberless fleets of

boats. _Launches_, canoes, pirogues, were constantly coming and going;

some conveying to Mexico, for the Holy Week, immense quantities of

flowers, which diffused a most delightful odor around. Other boats

followed, crowded with light-hearted, merry passengers, wearing wreaths

of wild poppy and sweet pea, and dancing on the deck to the inspiring

strains of harps, flutes, and mandolins. Light-hearted Cyprians, in

gamesome mood, scattered upon the breeze the purple buds of their

wreaths, and trolled out choruses of lascivious songs. The clear sky,

the dazzling brilliancy of the different costumes, and the soft, sweet

melody of the language, brought to my mind the national festivals of

ancient Greece; while the canal, which seemed at times suddenly

transformed into a carpet of flowers, generally had the appearance of a

moving mass of canoes, which shot past one another in all directions;

groups of people, lying lazily on the bank, bantered the boatmen as they

passed. Farther off, under the green arcades formed by the aspens upon

the road, which shook under the roll of carriages and gallop of horses,

paraded the gay fashionables of Mexico. Parties of high-spirited,

wild-looking cavaliers, dressed in the national costume, sauntered up

and down amid this gay throng as if protesting by their rough manners

against the whimsical appearance of the dandies habited in French style.

A striking contrast was observable to the spectator. Upon the canal one

saw America in the sixteenth century, which, under the beaming sun of

the tropics, had abandoned herself without constraint to pleasure. Upon

the road was America in the nineteenth century, seeking to model its

native appearance on the worn-out type of Europe. By way of

compensation, a few Europeans, habited in the ancient Mexican costume,

at times appeared on the Viga; but beneath their dress you could

distinguish at a glance the Englishman, the Frenchman, or the German. I

must say, however, that our compatriots of the South were distinguished

above all the other foreigners for the ease and grace with which they

wore the national costume.

Evening was drawing on, darkness was coming down over the surrounding

country, and the moving picture before me was rapidly dissolving, when I

perceived four horsemen seemingly making their way toward me. I could

not at first distinguish their features, their faces being partly

concealed by the wide-spreading _sombreros_, trimmed with broad ribbons,

which they wore; but their appearance caused me to suspect them. These

men, dressed in _mangas_ and _sarapes_, seemed to be hemming me in with

the intention of opposing my passage. They immediately spurred their

horses and galloped up to me. "Stand!" cried a threatening voice; and,

at the same moment, the four horsemen surrounded me. They were neither

robbers nor alguazils, but men whose amiable character and joyous

temperament I often had occasion to appreciate. In one I recognized Don

Diego Mercado, student of theology in the college of St. John de

Lateran; in another, the officer Don Blas; the third was the hidalgo,

Don Romulo D---- F----, a political marplot, who could never be

satisfied with the government of the day, but was always looking about

for an opportunity to overturn it, who was admitted, notwithstanding

this weakness, into the highest society in Mexico; the fourth was one

whom I would have least expected to find in a company like the present,

and in such a disguise: it was no other, in truth, than my worthy

friend, Fray Serapio.

"Do I really see the Reverend Fray Serapio?" I exclaimed. "Do I really

see my friend under this bandit costume?"

"Tut!" said the Franciscan; "I am traveling incog.; I shall tell you

why some other time."

"Good," said I to the monk; "I have something to ask you which interests

me as much."

"You are one of ourselves," cried the officer, "and we are going to

conduct you to a place out of Mexico, where we intend to finish the Holy

Week."

"Where is it?" I inquired.

"You will know when you get there," replied the hidalgo. "I know you are

a lover of adventures: well, I promise you some, and of a strange enough

kind."

This was taking me on my weak side, and I accepted the offer without

troubling myself any farther as to its whereabouts. I was, besides, in

full traveling costume; and an excursion by night was, above all, highly

agreeable to me. We alighted, and threaded our way through the crowd;

then leaving it, we struck along the Candelaria road, and, remounting,

pursued a northerly direction. I fell behind the rest and joined Fray

Serapio, and again renewed my inquiries about his disguise. On our first

acquaintance the monk seemed to my taste too shy and distrustful, but I

soon hit upon a sure way of stripping him of these unsocial qualities. I

feigned to make the Christian virtues of my venerable friend the theme

of my warm admiration; and Serapio, who had the high ambition, a

singular one in a monk, of passing for a rake, replied to my eulogiums

by some revelations about the old monk which did not redound greatly to

his credit. At this time, too, the expedient succeeded as it ordinarily

did. The Franciscan assured me, with a contrite air, that he had put on

this disguise by the will of God!

"As you always do," I rejoined, gravely; "you obey him implicitly, like

a humble servant."

The monk bowed and quickened his horse's pace.

"It has pleased God," replied he, "to deprive his servant of his robes

for the purpose of saving the soul of a Christian who is about to quit

this world."

"St. Martin gave to the poor only a half of his cloak. What was his

charity in comparison with yours?"

The Franciscan shrugged his shoulders.

"Alas!" he muttered, "it is a rich man who has my gown, and I don't

deserve to be compared to St. Martin."

"I am well aware that the most noble virtues are often modestly hidden

from the world."

Wearied with my bantering, the monk dropped the mask entirely.

"Faith!" he replied, in a frank, open tone, "pietistic people prefer

being interred in a monkish habit; and, the more threadbare the garment,

the higher they value it. My gown, on this account, is of an inestimable

value. I sold it a short time ago for double its original cost; and,

besides the profit from the sale of it, I got a present of this costume

which I am now wearing."

The sun had now set; and the moon, which was rising, diffused its beams

over the solitary country. Arrived at the crest of a small eminence, I

looked back upon the canals and the plains of the Viga, which, under the

brilliant night of the tropics, appeared to me under quite a new aspect.

The moon had lighted up the lagoons, the canal, and the road. They were

all now silent. The most profound stillness had taken the place of the

stir and hum of the busy crowd; the silence was broken only by the

distant bellowing of the bulls in the savannas. The fire-flies sparkled

in the high grass, and the watch-fires of the shepherds shone here and

there in the fields.

FOOTNOTE:

[14] Floating islands.

CHAPTER III.

An Indian Village.

We had now been for some time on the road, and the night was getting

darker and darker. The moon, which up to this time had lighted our way,

was now becoming gradually encircled with a halo--a bad omen. At last it

finally disappeared in a dense bank of clouds on the verge of the

horizon. From time to time a yellowish sheet of lightning shot through

the dark mass, and brought out, in strong relief, the dense blackness

which enveloped the country around. The instinct of our horses alone

kept us right in the thick darkness. The barking of dogs announced our

approach to some solitary cabin by the wayside; sometimes we charged

unwillingly among a herd of pigs which were lying wallowing in the ruts

of the road, and which trotted off grunting in the darkness. In the

midst of this savage scene, surrounded with the lurid light produced by

the flashes, which were following each other in quick succession, we

looked more like some country smugglers out on an expedition than

peaceful travelers on an excursion of pleasure.

We had already passed through the village of Tacubaya, and were

struggling onward in the mountain road which leads to Toluca. I knew

nothing of the road they were leading me. That was of little importance,

provided we reached our place of destination before the bursting of the

storm, which announced its approach by distant peals of thunder. We soon

arrived at a rising ground, round the foot of which ran a pine wood.

There a halt was called to breathe our horses. The clouds of dust we had

swallowed rendered some refreshment necessary. A skin of Valdepeñas

wine, which the officer Don Blas carried at his saddle-bow, was passed

round, and served for a moment to quench the burning thirst which had

begun to torment us. I profited by this opportunity to renew my

inquiries about our place of destination. The theological student

undertook to satisfy my curiosity.

"I have been invited," said he, "to spend the Easter holidays at the

hacienda of a friend of mine, about a dozen leagues from here; I thought

it no bad thing to give my friend the honor of receiving a few more

guests, and I am sure you will all be very welcome."

The hidalgo Don Romulo, on his part, was not unwilling to allow, during

his absence, the agitation caused by a very violent pamphlet which he

had written against the government of the republic to subside, while he

was anxious, at the same time, to visit the ruins of a celebrated

convent, the Desierto, which was on our way. The officer hoped to escape

in the Desierto and the hacienda the importunities of his numerous

creditors, and was disposed to make himself happy in every place but

where they were. As for Fray Serapio, he confessed that, having been

forced, as he might call it, to purchase a habit ill suited to a monk,

he had embraced with delight the invitation of his friend, Don Diego

Mercado.

"And yet I got a hundred piastres for my old habit," added the

Franciscan, gloomily, taking another pull at the skin of Valdepeñas.

"That's where your soft-heartedness leads you," said I. "You have

doubtless flung it away in charity."

"_Mon cher_ (these were the only French words that Fray Serapio knew,

and he made use of them on all occasions), know then, once for all, that

I don't deserve your praises. Nature cut me out for a soldier, but

conventionality made me a monk."

The Franciscan confessed, readily enough, that when he was on the point

of buying a new frock, an inconceivable distraction made him spend the

money on other things quite useless for a man, and, above all, for a

monk; things which--(Fray Serapio whispered the remainder in my ear).

The skin of Valdepeñas being now half empty, we resumed our journey.

Large drops of rain began to fall; the storm was going to burst over us

in all its fury. To push on was our only resource. Stimulated by a

secret instinct, our horses increased their pace. Sometimes they shyed

or stopped suddenly, terrified at the fantastic forms of some projecting

root, or the sudden growl of the thunder; but these annoyances were only

temporary, and we flew over the ground with inconceivable swiftness. We

descried at last, in a plain, a little Indian village, still more than a

league in advance. We covered this league in a few minutes, and entered

the village, saluted by a legion of hungry dogs, who snarled and bit at

our horses' heels. Our arrival set every one in motion. Copper-colored

faces appeared and disappeared at the doors of the huts. We were asking

ourselves, in no small consternation, if we must give up all hopes of

finding a shelter in a place where every door seemed to be shut against

us, when Fray Serapio, catching an Indian by his long hair, forced him

to lead us to a house that did duty for an inn.

Scarcely had we stopped before the door of the pretended hostelry than

a great hulking fellow, one of the half-breeds so numerous in Mexico,

very easily known by his complexion, opened one of the leaves of the

door, which was secured by the invariable iron chain. This was the

master of the inn, who had come to parley with us.

"I have neither stables, nor maize, nor straw to offer your lordships,"

said the half-breed, in a gruff tone; "be so good, then, as to continue

your journey."

"Go to the devil," said the officer, "with your straw, your maize, and

your stables; all we want is a room fit for Christians and officers.

Open, or I will smash the door to pieces."

To give full force to his threat, Captain Don Blas struck the door such

a furious blow with his sabre, that the _huesped_, in a fright, dropped

the chain, and, excusing himself for his obstinacy by the plea that

there were a great number of suspicious characters abroad, ushered us

into an apartment little better than a stable.

"I hope," cried Don Romulo, putting his pocket handkerchief to his nose,

"that we sha'n't be obliged to pass the night in this cursed hole!"

"You are very squeamish, _mon cher_," said Fray Serapio; "the room seems

tolerable enough."

In spite of this assertion, we determined to push on after the storm had

passed. We remained, then, standing till we could take the road again,

as we wished to reach the _hacienda_ as quickly as possible, where a

hospitable reception had been promised us. I thought this halt presented

a favorable opportunity for making some inquiries about the mysterious

monk I had met in the garden of San Francisco. To my first question: "I

can guess whom you are inquiring about," said Fray Serapio, shaking his

head; "it is Fray Epigmenio whom you saw in the arbor in the garden of

the convent, of which you and he are the only visitants. A trial, to

which he was subjected by the Inquisition, turned the head of the poor

soul, and for fifty years his life has been only one long penance."

"Well, I'll tell you frankly," I rejoined, "I had a suspicion that some

painful mystery was wrapped up in the life of this man. I counted upon

you for its solution, and it was you I was in search of when chance

brought us together on the Viga."

The monk was about to reply, when an extraordinary noise arose in the

court-yard of the _posada_, which was suddenly lit up by the red glow of

torches. Almost at the same moment a man, whom from his copper-colored

visage and strange costume we easily knew to be an Indian, entered,

followed by several inhabitants of the village, some carrying torches,

others brandishing knotty clubs, some even with bows, and arrows in reed

quivers. The Indian who seemed to be the chief of the party advanced,

and told us that, as our noisy arrival had disturbed the peace of the

village, the alcalde wished to see us without delay.

"And what if we don't want to see the alcalde?" said the officer.

"You will then be taken by force," said the Indian, pointing to his

armed escort. This gesture was sufficient. It was impossible for us to

resist, for the ministers of Indian justice had very prudently seized

our horses and arms. We looked at one another in no small dismay. The

Indian _mansos_, who rule their villages according to the laws of the

republic, and even choose from their brothers of the same race their

municipal magistracy, behave in the most merciless manner to all the

Mexicans who may have committed any crimes in the district intrusted to

their care. The worst of all cruelties, the cruelty of weakness, is

resorted to on such occasions. It was quite useless to struggle against

those sturdy rough alguazils with the bare legs and long hair. We went

quietly enough to the house of the alcalde.

"Have patience," said Fray Serapio to me, in a low voice, while going

along: "instead of the history of Fray Epigmenio, which I will tell you

at some other time, you will behold a sight which few foreigners have an

opportunity of seeing in Mexico. If I am not mistaken, we have fallen

upon this cursed village at the very time when the Indians celebrate, in

their way, the fêtes of the Holy Week. The house of the alcalde is one

of the ordinary resting-places of their nocturnal processions."

I had often heard of these singular ceremonies, in which the remains of

Indian idolatry are mixed up with the rites of Catholicism. Just when I

was going to reply to Fray Serapio, some melancholy monotonous sounds

met our ears. The plaintive wail of the reed flute, called by the

Indians _chirimia_, was sadly intermingled with the tapping of several

drums struck at regular intervals.

"Three hundred years ago," said Don Diego Mercado to me in a whisper,

"it was to the sound of these _chirimias_ that the ancestors of these

Indians butchered their human victims at the feet of their idols."

Round a lane, which ran at right angles to the road, came the procession

whose approach was announced by this funereal music. Engaged during the

day in cultivating their grounds, the Indians devote the night to

certain religious solemnities. The time thus adds to the lugubrious

effect of their ceremonies. At the head of the procession, borne by four

men, was an image of Christ, of a hideously gigantic form, bedabbled

with blood. At the two arms of the cross hung two Christs of a smaller

size; behind came a disorderly throng of Indians from the village and

its environs, carrying crosses of all shapes and dimensions. I remarked

that the size of several of the crosses was by no means in harmony with

the height of the person who carried them; their dimensions were, in

fact, only regulated by the higher or lower sum paid by the person who

wished to figure in these processions. The most splendid images were

carried in the van by the head men of the village; the poorer

inhabitants followed, and nothing could be imagined more grotesque, more

sadly ludicrous than this motley crowd of tatterdemalions; some, too

poor to purchase Christs, were carrying little images of the saints;

others, less lucky still, were forced to hoist on long poles, for want

of better, faded pieces of colored cloth and tawdry tinsel, while some

had even been forced to carry hen-coops. We bent the knee respectfully

as this singular procession slowly wended its way through the streets,

while the odd collection of hideous and incongruous objects, and the

grotesque faces of the men, lighted up by the dim, ruddy glare of the

pine torches, and seen through the smoke, struck us as being more like

some infernal procession revisiting this earth than a body of Christians

engaged in the celebration of a religious festival.

We arrived at the alcalde's house. The sinister appearance of this

Indian magistrate did not tend to soothe our apprehensions. Long gray

hair, encircling a face deeply furrowed with wrinkles, flowed down

behind to the middle of his back; his muscular arms were hardly covered

by the sleeves of his _sayal_ (a tunic with short sleeves); his

shrunken, sinewy legs were only half covered by his flapping trowsers of

_calzoneras_ skin. On his feet were leather sandals. In such a dress

this singular personage seated himself, with an air of comic grandeur,

under a sort of canopy formed by the branches of _xocopan_ (a kind of

sweet-smelling laurel). The red-skin alguazils ranged themselves behind

like a group of stage supernumeraries. We were now asked, "Who and what

are you?" This question, delivered in bad Spanish, was put to Fray

Serapio, whom his long beard, jaunty costume, and free manners had

undoubtedly caused the alcalde to regard as the most suspicious of the

party. The monk hesitated. The alcalde continued:

"When people come with arms to a village, it is to be presumed they have

a right to carry arms. Can you prove your right?"

It was, then, to examine us as to our right of carrying arms that we had

been arrested. The alcalde thought he had us in a trap, and would have

an opportunity of inflicting upon us, without going beyond the strict

letter of the law, some of those petty insults, for which opportunities

are eagerly seized on, to satisfy the traditionary hatred of the Indians

against the whites. We understood this perfectly, but we could not

counterplot him. We were all obliged to make the same reply. We were

traveling incognito, and had no right to carry arms. With the exception

of the monk, who seemed ill at ease in his disguise, we were eager to

tell our names and quality. As it was a point of the very highest

importance to let the Indians know the powerful protectors we had in

Mexico, the student fancied he was acting prudently when he said that he

was the nephew of the most celebrated apothecary in the city. The clerk

wrote down the answer, stopping every now and then to break in pieces

little branches of _xocopan_. As for the alcalde, he seemed to triumph

at having in his power five of the enemies of his race. When the student

avowed his relationship to the Mexican apothecary, the wily Indian did

not consider himself foiled. He seemed lost in thought; but suddenly an

expression of malignant joy shot across his features as he hastily put

this question to Don Diego:

"If you are the nephew of an apothecary, you must know something of

botany?"

Don Diego replied in the affirmative, with an air of perfect

satisfaction.

"You must, then, be acquainted with the virtues of _matlalquahuitl_?"

The alcalde had intentionally chosen a strange Mexican plant very little

known, with an Indian name of the most uncouth sound. When he saw the

blank look that immediately appeared on the countenance of the student,

he guessed that his ruse was successful, and he rubbed his hands with an

air of satisfaction. You know nothing of botany; you were trying to

cheat me; you are not the nephew of an apothecary; you have all a

suspicious air about you. I have a right to detain you, and I'll do it,

too. Such was the reasoning which we saw written on the face of the

alcalde, who looked with a cool air of disdain both on Don Diego Mercado

and on us. At this moment the religious fête, in which the alcalde had

to play an important part, luckily created a diversion in our favor by

putting a stop to this examination. A band of Indians hurriedly entered

the room. They dragged along, or rather pushed before them, a man

crowned with a wreath of rushes, and draped in a tattered red cloak

which had very probably been used as a _muleta_[15] in a bull-fight. His

face and body were quite bespattered with mud. I looked at this man with

astonishment as a living enigma, when the student, who was better

acquainted with the manners of the Indians than with the virtues of the

_matlalquahuitl_, said, in a low tone,

"There is nothing in this but a religious joke. They are going to get up

here a dramatic representation of the Passion. We are no longer in an

Indian village, but in Jerusalem. This fellow with the bespattered face

personates Christ, and the alcalde, confound him! is Pilate."

In fact, we were about to have produced before us all the scenes of a

genuine mystery of the Middle Ages. The alcalde, seated under his canopy

of laurel, having gravely listened to the calumnious accusations of the

Jews, rose and pronounced in the Indian tongue the historical sentence

of condemnation. Such a storm of cries and yells greeted the sentence,

that the unfortunate lépero (for it was one of that class, who, for a

few reals, was personating Christ) seemed to think that the drama was

becoming rather too serious. He cried out in Spanish,

"Caramba! I think it would have been better had I taken the part of the

good thief. Señor Alcalde, don't forget to pay me three reals more for

personating the Divine Redeemer!"

"You are a fine fellow!" said the alcalde, pushing the lépero back, who,

in violation of all historical truth, took refuge in the tribunal

itself. At the same time, one of the soldiers who surrounded the Christ,

more faithful to his part than the bespattered lépero, struck him a

smart blow on the cheek. The lépero could contain himself no longer; he

rapped out a fearful oath, and struck out right and left at his

astonished persecutors. There was a general melée; a fierce struggle

arose between the actor, who had completely forgotten the spirit of his

part, and the Indians, who attacked him with a vigor worthy of the

agents of Herod. The contest was brought to an end by a heroic sacrifice

on the part of the alcalde, who, to overcome the obstinacy of the

lépero, promised him six reals more than he was originally entitled to.

On this condition the fellow agreed to walk to Calvary in the midst of

the Indians. They dragged him along to the place of execution, dealing

him a more than ordinary allowance of blows.

This business finished, the alcalde returned to us. He had pronounced

the sentence upon the pretended Christ with an ill-disguised anxiety.

When we saw him conversing with the clerk, I looked somewhat dejectedly

at the monk. To my amazement, a smile appeared on his lips which set me

completely at my ease. The cause of this sudden change in Fray Serapio

was soon explained. To avoid the imprisonment which he saw impending

over us, he resolved to appeal to the religious feelings of the alcalde

and his followers, of which they had just given such striking proofs.

Fray Serapio had reasoned justly. Just when the alcalde was rising to

pronounce our sentence, the monk gravely approached the tribunal,

snatched off the neckerchief which encircled his head, and showed the

Indian magistrate his tonsure. This was truly a theatrical stroke. The

man who, scarcely a second before, was affecting to look upon us with

such stubborn pride, threw himself trembling and confused at the feet of

the Franciscan.

"Ah! holy father," cried the Indian, "why did you not discover yourself

sooner? Taking every thing into consideration, one can be an honest man

without knowing the virtues of _matlalquahuitl_."

Fray Serapio need not have answered the terrified Indian. He

condescended to confess that, under this disguise and with this escort,

he was traveling to execute a mission of religious interest; and the

alcalde, who crossed himself devoutly at every word of the monk, took

good care not to press him with imprudent questions. An instant after,

we marched majestically out of the cabin into which our entrance had

been so humble and crestfallen. The Indians returned us our arms and

horses. They pressed us in vain to return to the hostelry where we had

been so scurvily welcomed. We were very ill pleased at the reception

they had given us; and, in spite of the thunder, which had again begun

to growl, we galloped out of the village without lending an ear to their

entreaties.

FOOTNOTE:

[15] A red cloth shaken before the bull for the purpose of exciting him.

CHAPTER IV.

Fray Epigmenio.

Already the Indian village lay a league behind us. The route we were

pursuing was through a ravine, the road through which could with

difficulty be believed to have been made by the hand of man. We soon

entered a pine forest which ran along a chain of precipitous hills. The

darkness, which was rendered thicker by the interlaced branches of the

trees overhead, was so profound that our horses could literally advance

only by the gleam of the vivid flashes of lightning. Soon the storm

increased; the trunks of the pines cracked and swayed to and fro in the

wind, and the hollows in the mountains resounded with the multiplied

echoes of terrific thunder-claps. The flashes now became less and less

frequent, and at last, the intermittent gleams, which had hitherto

lightened our advance, failed us entirely. A deafening thunder-clap was

followed by a torrent of rain. It had now become impossible for us

either to advance or to regain the road. Forced to remain immovable like

equestrian statues, we were obliged to shout to one another to find out

our respective positions. I then discovered that I was very near Fray

Serapio. The voices of our three companions reached us like a distant

echo borne along amid the whistling of the squall. We at last found

ourselves separated from one another, without any probable hope of

joining each other during the whole night, each of us being forced to

stay where the darkness had overtaken him, exposed to all the dangers of

the forest.

"Since we are condemned to remain here, as motionless as the statue of

Charles IV. in Mexico," said I to the Franciscan, "don't you think this

is a very good opportunity for telling me the history of your friend,

Fray Epigmenio?"

"Fray Epigmenio!" cried the monk. "This is not a story suited either to

the time or place. When I hear the trees groaning like spirits in

Purgatory, and the torrents raging like wild beasts, I have not the

courage to go over a history that is frightful enough in itself."

A long pause followed. "Where are we?" I at last asked.

"We ought to be only a mile and a half from the _Desierto_. We have kept

on the right road; but I have strong fears that we have got entangled in

a ravine, from which escape is almost impossible amid this darkness. In

a few hours, should the rain continue, this ravine will be no longer a

road, but a torrent, that will carry us along on its rushing waters like

dead leaves. God succor our poor souls!" He crossed himself devoutly.

I had seen too often in America torrents suddenly swollen by

thunder-showers to such a degree as to uproot trees a hundred years old,

and carry down rocks, to doubt for a moment the imminent danger of which

I had been apprised by Fray Serapio. To this disheartening reply I had

but one answer to make--we must have a fire, at any price. Unluckily,

the monk had left his flint and steel with the student. I was not

discouraged, however; and, unwilling to throw away any chance of

extricating ourselves from our disagreeable position, I alighted from my

horse, took in one of my hands the _reata_ attached to the neck of the

animal, and with the other tried to guide myself while holding on to the

rocks. I was not long in finding my progress stopped by a precipitous

bluff. I tried the other side; always a perpendicular wall of rock.

Forced at last to stop after having unrolled the _reata_ to its utmost

length, I came back step by step to my horse, and, gathering it up again

in my hand, remounted.

"This ravine is in truth a prison," said I.

"It is not the torrent alone that I fear," replied the monk. "Even if we

escape drowning, we may be burned to death if the trees are set on fire

by the lightning."

"Could we not leave our horses here, and try to gain on foot a place

less exposed to danger?"

"We run a risk of tumbling into some quagmire. By the way the wind hits

my face, I know that this ravine is of great extent. Let us remain where

we are, and trust to Divine Providence."

I had exhausted all my expedients, and could find nothing to reply to

those last words of Fray Serapio's, which were uttered in a truly

mournful tone. Some moments passed. The storm was still at its height,

and I could not shut my ears to its wild music. In the depths of the

forests, a wail as of a thousand spirits came booming on the wind;

torrents raged and dashed from rock to rock, the pines creaked like the

masts of a vessel caught in a hard gale, and above our heads the wind

whistled strangely among the leaves. During the temporary lulls of the

tempest, we heard our companions, who, whether from ignorance or a wish

to drown their sense of danger, were shouting and singing with all their

might.

"Don't you think," said I to the monk, "that this gayety is somewhat out

of place? I have a good mind to make them sensible of the danger they

are running, to cause them to change their song for the 'De Profundis.'"

"What good would that do?" said the monk, gloomily. "Would it not be

better for them to remain ignorant of their danger, and let death

surprise them in their joyous thoughtlessness? At this moment, when the

spirits of darkness are hovering about us, the human voice seems to

bring with it an undefinable charm. I have not yet told you the story of

Fray Epigmenio. I'll do it now. I would rather hear the sound of my own

voice than the whistling of the wind among the firs. And now, when I

think of it, it was in the convent of the Desierto, in the vicinity of

this forest, and exactly at this time of the year, that the most

interesting occurrence in the life of Fray Epigmenio took place."

"This circumstance," said I, "must add particular interest to your

recital; but, at such a moment as this, I hardly feel disposed to listen

to you. However, if you like to tell the story, I--"

"Fray Epigmenio," began the Franciscan, interrupting me, "was, even in

his youth, but a melancholy companion. That is to say, he was not at all

like me. Far from having wished, as I did, to be a soldier before

donning the monk's habit, he was, when a mere boy, admitted as a novice

into the Carmelite convent of the Desierto. At the time I refer to, that

is, fifty years ago, the Desierto was not abandoned as it is now. It was

then a retreat inhabited by several monks, who wished, by thus

withdrawing themselves from the cities, to push austerity to its utmost

limits. You may guess what influence a wild solitude like that would

exercise upon a weak brain. For my part, I don't think I should be long

in my right mind were I to live in such a place. The superiors of the

young novice were soon alarmed at the ferocious exultation that soon

took the place of his former solid piety. They represented to Epigmenio

that the devil, jealous of his merits, was setting a trap for him, into

which he would fall. It was a wise advice; but Epigmenio paid no heed to

it. Worse than all, he isolated himself almost entirely from his

brethren, and shut himself up more closely than ever in his cell--a sort

of dark dungeon, whose windows opened upon the wood which surrounded

the convent. This was the gloomiest cell in this gloomy cloister. Fray

Epigmenio had chosen it in preference to those whose windows looked out

upon the garden. The sight of the flowers seemed to this rigid cenobite

too much of a worldly pleasure. The heavy masses of the dark woods,

constantly agitated by the wind, and surrounded by an amphitheatre of

rocks in fantastic forms, was the kind of landscape which had the

greatest charm for Epigmenio. I told you before that the soundest head

in the world could not long resist the combined influences of solitude

and prayer. The monk confessed, when too late, that strange visions

passed before his eyes in those long days of contemplation and silence.

Mysterious voices assailed his ears, and it was not always the concerts

of angels that he heard: the murmurs of the forest were often changed

into voluptuous sighs and--"

At this moment the Franciscan suddenly paused, and, turning to me, said,

"Are you listening?"

"I confess," I rejoined, "that I am paying more attention to the noise

of the water which is now rising about our feet."

"Fray Epigmenio," said Serapio, without attending to my remark, "fancied

himself a saint, since temptations like these assailed him, and that he

was struggling against the devil, like the monks in the old legends. One

day, about sunset, not content to wait for the tempter in his cell, he

resolved to beard him in the forest itself, which was peopled with such

phantoms. He had not wandered far among the pines when he heard the

sound of stifled sobbing not far from him. He stopped and listened, and

then advanced in the direction from which the moaning seemed to

proceed. For a long time his search was fruitless. At last, after many

turnings and windings, he arrived at a glade in the wood, in the centre

of which lay, on the turf, a man, who invited him by signs to approach.

Fray Epigmenio hesitated a moment. At last, having crossed himself

devoutly, he falteringly approached the wounded man. 'In God's name,'

cried he, 'of what unfortunate accident are you the victim?' The holy

name of God appeared to rouse in the stranger a painful emotion, and his

voice was hardly perceptible when he told Epigmenio that, as he was

traveling with his daughter, he had been set upon by robbers, stripped

of all he had, and left bleeding on the ground. He added that it was not

for himself that he was asking assistance, but for the feeble creature

by his side; and, at the same time, parting the branches of a bush near

which he lay, he showed the monk a young lady lying in a swoon upon the

grass. The rays of the moon fell full upon her marble countenance and

white dress. You may imagine the confusion Epigmenio was in when he saw

this beautiful female, who seemed to realize to him the most beautiful

visions of his dreams. After a short silence, he represented to the

stranger that the convent of the Desierto was not far off; but, were it

nearer, a female could not be received within its walls. The unknown was

grieved that he could not continue his journey, as his horse had escaped

when the robbers attacked him. Plucking up his spirits, he declared, as

his wound now gave him less pain, he would like to rise and seek for his

lost steed. They set out together, but soon after agreed to separate,

and--"

A blinding flash of lightning interrupted the monk's story. The storm

was increasing. The muddy water had now risen as far as our stirrups.

Our horses, that had stood without motion a long time, now turned and

presented their chests to the current, which was surging up higher and

higher every minute. Around us, in the depth of the woods, the noise of

the torrents was mingled with the wild harmony of the brawling winds,

that seemed to blow from every point of the compass.

"The water is rising," cried Fray Serapio, "and our horses will soon be

utterly powerless against its force."

Almost at the same moment the poor animals turned quickly round, and,

whether guided by instinct, or carried away by the force of the current,

they moved toward the bottom of the ravine. A cry of distress, wafted to

us by the wind, apprised us that the torrent was also bearing away our

companions in misfortune. A second flash lighted up the forest, and was

followed by a clap of thunder which shook the air. A sulphurous odor

filled the atmosphere, and immediately, to our inexpressible

satisfaction, a pine, which had been struck by lightning a few paces

from us, blazed up, and soon illuminated the surrounding objects.

"We are saved!" cried Fray Serapio: "I see near us a rock low enough for

our horses to mount."

Our companions had already escaped from the torrent; they encouraged us

by voice and gestures to do the same. My horse, by a desperate effort,

reached the top of the bank. I had kept close by Fray Serapio, whose

horse had twice attempted the ascent, and had twice fallen back; but the

third time, like a true Mexican, he accomplished it. We were still not

out of all danger. A shelter must be found, as it was now out of the

question to push on to the hacienda.

By the pale light in the sky, which was now comparatively clear, we

could discern a narrow bridle-path running along the edge of the ravine.

This road doubtless led to the Desierto, the very convent in which Fray

Epigmenio had first taken his vows. We hurried along this path, certain

this time of not missing our way; and a few minutes after, having

escaped the most imminent peril, our little troop stopped, with

heartfelt satisfaction, before the ruined walls of the ancient

monastery.

CHAPTER V.

The Desierto.

After fastening our horses in the outer court of the convent, we chose,

near the entrance of the building, the cell which seemed to be most

convenient for shelter. The first moments of our halt were devoted to an

interchange of reflections, half merry, half serious, upon the danger we

had run. Don Romulo confessed that he had taken part in seventeen

conspiracies; that he had been banished, under circumstances of great

aggravation, from three republics--from Peru, Ecuador, and Colombia, but

that the danger he had just escaped was the most imminent he had ever

experienced in his life. As for the monk, the student, and the officer,

they owned frankly enough that, when the danger appeared most imminent,

and they had seemed callous to it, they were far from feeling so in

their minds. After some more talk of a like kind, our eyes roamed around

the old monastery to which chance had directed us for shelter.

Situated in the midst of a tract of country which reminds one of the

Grande Chartreuse of Grenoble, the convent of the Desierto is, to all

outward appearance, far from being in a ruinous condition. Its cupolas

and spires still shoot as high as ever above the pines which surround

it; and although half a century has rolled away since the monks quitted

it, ivy has not yet entirely covered the embrasures of its deserted

cells. The green moss which grows upon its walls shows only the want of

repair and the ravages of time. You must pass through the first

quadrangle, which is still in good preservation, so as to reach the

interior of the convent, before seeing the spectacle of melancholy and

desolation which there meets your eye. The dilapidated cupolas admit the

daylight through large chinks, the pilasters in the cloisters are

crumbling away, large stones have been forced from their sockets, heaps

of ruins block up the choir and the nave of the chapel, and a thick

mantle of pellitories covers the rubbish. The vapors which hang in a

dense curtain round the summit of the mountain, at the foot of which the

convent is built, fall in fine rain on the bare stones, and cover every

thing with an icy moisture. Above the high altar, through one of the

numerous fissures in the dome, the condensed vapor escapes, and falls

drop by drop with the regularity of a water-clock, as if to mark the

flight of time, and to relieve, by the light noise it makes on the

marble, the melancholy silence which reigns in this dreary solitude.

Such is the convent of the Desierto, seen by the light of day and under

a clear sky. Let any one fancy its appearance at the time we sought

refuge within its walls, when the storm, which had lasted since

twilight, was scarcely over. Imagine the beams of the moon, fitfully

streaming through its deserted arches, and the wind whistling in the

empty nave, in its organ loft, in its solitary cells, and he will have

some idea of the shelter in which we spent the remainder of the night.

We stood shivering in our wet clothes, and our first business was to

seek materials for a fire. We took each a different part of the convent.

The quarter in which I was engaged happened to be the most ruinous in

the whole building. The remembrance of the old monk of St. Francis often

came into my mind; and, in passing along the deserted galleries, I could

not help fancying I saw him flitting through the gloomy arches. Around

me the pillars stretched their great shadows upon the ground, whitened

by the moonbeams. A stillness, as of the grave, rested every where. The

ivy curtains alone shook in the wind.

From the cloister I entered a vast corridor. Through the large chinks in

the vaulted roof above the moonbeams stealthily penetrated. In the

distance I thought I observed a red glow on the flagstones playing amid

the surrounding whiteness, and imagined I heard the snort of a horse

which did not seem to proceed from the court where we had fastened our

steeds. At the same instant my companions called me; I eagerly joined

them. They had collected some brushwood, as they could find nothing

better. The officer, Don Blas, affirmed that he had seen, by the light

of the moon, in a distant court, a horse which was not one of ours. The

student pretended he had met the ghost of one of the monks who had been

buried in the convent. A short silence succeeded. Don Romulo was the

first to break it.

"Here is a charming variety of horrors; the horse of a bandit; the

ghost of a monk; spectres and malefactors!"

We tried to induce Fray Serapio to pronounce the classical formula of

exorcism in his formidable Latin, but the monk replied tartly,

"My Latin won't drive away the spectre you talk of; it will rather

attract it. God grant it may not appear! Be assured this is no freak of

the imagination. The phantom seen by Señor Don Blas is a reality. It is

my superior, the Reverend Father Epigmenio, who comes here every year,

at the return of the Holy Week, to fulfill a penitential vow imposed on

him for some sins of his youth. If he recognize me, how can I justify my

present disguise and foolish excursion?"

The Franciscan's reply set us completely at our ease, and we sympathized

very little in his anxiety. Wishing, however, to have no meeting between

the two, we resolved to light our fire in a cell in a retired part of

the convent, and to stretch ourselves on our wet cloaks round it. The

student, the officer, and the hidalgo were soon sound asleep; the monk

and I remained awake. Fray Serapio, on the watch to catch the slightest

noise, trembled all over at the thought of being surprised by his

superior, while my mind was filled with the story of Fray Epigmenio, so

unfortunately interrupted. Seeing the Franciscan was not inclined to

sleep, I pressed him to finish it. My companion, who could not shut an

eye, was overjoyed at finding this means of whiling away the time. He

consented with a very good grace, and crept more closely to the fire.

"I left," said he, "Fray Epigmenio at the moment when chance had

delivered to his care a female in a swoon. His first impulse was to run

away; his second was to remain, and he remained. He ceased even to shout

for the wounded horseman, whose return he did not now particularly

desire; and when the young lady, coming out of her faint, opened her

languid eyes, the reverend father lost his senses entirely. If at this

moment the stranger had appeared, the monk would have strangled him, for

you have doubtless guessed by this time that the stranger in black was

no other than the devil!"

To this unexpected assertion my only reply was a shake of the head. Fray

Serapio, believing I agreed with him, continued:

"Fray Epigmenio yielded to temptation. He fell deeply, madly in love.

For a time his vows were forgotten, but the prickings of conscience at

last aroused him, and he resolved to confess his fault. He was taken

before the tribunal of the Inquisition.[16] Till the final judgment was

pronounced, they were both kept in confinement, the monk in his cell,

the female in a dungeon. Some weeks passed in miserable anticipation.

One evening, the cell of Fray Epigmenio was the theatre of a scene, in

which the intervention of the devil was as clearly seen as in the

meeting in the forest. Kneeling before his crucifix, the monk was asking

from God that peace which his soul had lost. All at once he was startled

by a footfall in his cell. A man stood before him, who regarded him with

a stern, watchful eye. This man was no other than the stranger who had

appeared to the recluse a month before in the wood; his dress was the

same, and he appeared still paler than on the night in which the monk

had found him bathed in blood. Fray Epigmenio stepped back, but the

stranger did not stir. The formula of exorcism, hastily stammered out,

had no effect upon him. The monk then called for help, but it was too

late. When they entered the cell the stranger had disappeared.

Epigmenio, bleeding from a dagger thrust, lay in a swoon before his

folding-stool, and you could see the impress of the villain's bloody

fingers. Time has not effaced these marks; they are still there."

"I can guess the conclusion of your story," said I to Fray Serapio; "the

female was condemned as a sorceress, and the monk was acquitted."

"The female," said Serapio, "confessed on the rack that she had been in

league with the devil, and was condemned to expiate the crime _by a

public act_; but she did not undergo that punishment. Her keepers found

her one morning lying dead on the floor of her dungeon, strangled with

the beautiful black tresses which had proved so fatal to Fray Epigmenio.

As for the monk, his wound was slight; it soon healed. Condemned to five

years menial servitude in the convent of St. Francis, he was made the

convent gardener. Almost at the same period the Inquisition ceased to

exist, and the convent of the Desierto was abandoned as unhealthy. The

visit which Fray Epigmenio makes at the same time every year to this

ruined building is the only memorial of this event."

Fray Serapio paused. I was weary for want of sleep; he seemed also ready

to drop with fatigue, and I forbore troubling him with any remarks on

the story I had just heard. I had already lain down by the side of my

companions, who were all fast asleep. Suddenly the Franciscan shook me

by the arm, and invited me precipitately to follow him. I rose and

accompanied him to a window which commanded a view of the inner courts

of the convent, which were still bathed in the silvery light of the

moon. The monk, whose stern and forbidding countenance had awakened my

attention in the garden of St. Francis, was at this moment traversing

one of the courts. We remarked that his steps were more tottering, and

his body more bent than usual. When he disappeared, "Follow me," said

Fray Serapio, "to the cell which was his, which he has just quitted." We

soon arrived at the cell, but nothing distinguished it from the others.

The walls were quite bare; the wind whistled through the parasitical

plants which clung to the disjointed stones. A pine torch, stuck into an

interstice of the wall, was just expiring. Fray Serapio fanned the dying

flame, and, with all the obstinacy of a conscientious cicerone, he

pretended to point out upon the wall the traces of the five fingers of

the unknown who had stabbed the monk in his prison. I did not tell

Serapio that the black stains on the wall had been produced by damp, and

not by the hand of Satan. I seized, however, this opportunity of

informing the worthy monk that the story of his unfortunate superior

could be perfectly well explained without the intervention of the devil.

The superiors of Fray Epigmenio, jealous of his rigid virtue, had

probably set the trap into which he had fallen. They had found an adroit

monk and a female willing to work through their plans, and the brutal

fanaticism of the monk had unhappily spoiled every thing. The

Inquisition had got wind of the matter. The farce was then turned into a

tragedy. The vengeance of the father, who repented the selling of his

child, her unhappy end, and the blighted, melancholy life which Fray

Epigmenio had been afterward doomed to lead, were the unhappy

consequences of the shameful intrigue hatched in the very convent in

which we now were. Such was my commentary on Fray Serapio's story; but

he, with an obstinacy only equaled by his credulity, held fast by his

own interpretation.

Next morning we arrived at the hacienda of the friend of Don Diego

Mercado, where the cordial reception we experienced soon made us forget

the dangers and sufferings of the previous night.

On my return to Mexico I resumed my visits to the convent of St.

Francis, and I read with more interest than ever the narratives

preserved in these valuable archives, for I had now a thorough

conviction that the old Spanish fanaticism, of which there were many

instances in these documents, had still firm root in the minds of the

people of Mexico. There is a close connection between the past and

present race of the inhabitants of the cloisters, which the frivolous

manners of the monks, as seen by me in the streets of Mexico, had not

led me to suspect. The Inquisition has passed away, but it has left in

the clergy a well-defined outline, a singularly deep-rooted tradition of

demoralization, superstitious ignorance, and fanaticism.

Every time I went to the convent of St. Francis I met Fray Epigmenio,

sometimes in the cloisters, sometimes sunk in reverie in the arbor. One

day, however, I traversed the whole convent in search of him, but in

vain. Just as I was quitting it I met Fray Serapio. The presence of the

Franciscan in his convent was so very rare an occurrence that I could

not help inquiring why he had condescended so far as to break through

his usual habits.

"It is a pity," cried Fray Serapio, "but don't ask me why. Fray

Epigmenio has just breathed his last. A lingering fever hung about him a

long time; he died this morning, and the duty of watching the corpse of

the reverend father has been assigned to me. Could any one have played

me a more scurvy trick?"

"I don't understand you," I replied. "You surely don't mean poor Fray

Epigmenio?"

"Who then, if it isn't he? Do you know what this duty makes me lose? A

charming assignation, _mon cher_." And, as a commentary on these words,

there darted from his eyes an expressive glance which, told more than he

said. I had not the heart to reproach the monk for his heartless talk,

uttered, too, in such a cavalier tone. At this moment the first strokes

of the passing-bell interrupted our conversation. "Good-by!" said Fray

Serapio; "the bell calls me to my post." I shook him by the hand, and,

on retiring, could not help reflecting on the singular contrast which

these two men presented, inhabitants of the same convent, both under the

same rules, both regardless of the sanctity of their mission; the one

uniting libertinism with credulity, the other pushing piety to

fanaticism, till it degenerated into cruelty. This contrast, I said

sadly to myself, is a faithful picture of Mexican life. Who can tell how

many unhappy wretches there are, in the numerous convents in Mexico, who

have commenced with the first and ended with the second?

Among the persons who have figured in this narrative, one only succeeded

in securing a peaceful life after a youth of stirring adventure: this

was the student Don Diego Mercado, who, belonging to a rich family in

Mexico, had always looked to the future without uneasiness. As for Don

Blas, he met his death in a petty encounter with some robbers on the

high road. Don Romulo's lot was at once more brilliant and more varied.

After having, as I said before, taken part in seventeen conspiracies,

and been banished from three republics, Don Romulo, after engaging in

another political intrigue, was forced to quit Mexico in the same way as

he had left Peru, Colombia, and Ecuador. On returning to the

last-mentioned state, in which he had been born, he was raised to the

presidency; and this time, being at the head of affairs in his own

country, one would think he ought to have renounced his revolutionary

principles. We do not know, however, if his conversion was sincere.

There are some political agitators whom the attainment of supreme power

can not correct, and who still prefer the precarious advantages gained

by intrigue to the pleasures of unlimited authority.

FOOTNOTE:

[16] Suppressed in Mexico in 1810. The old palace of the Inquisition,

situated on the street St. Domingo, is now used as a custom-house.

Don Cadeo Cristobal, the Thieves' Lawyer of Mexico.

There is an old document in the National Library of Paris which has

hardly ever been consulted, I dare say, since the day on which it was

placed on the dusty shelves of the manuscript room. It is an essay on

the idioms of the Indian tribes of the New World, written toward the end

of the sixteenth century, by Fray Alonzo Urbano, a monk of the order of

St. Augustin. The chain of circumstances which was the means of bringing

this curious document from Mexico to Paris is perhaps known only to

myself, and that for an excellent reason. It was I who carried thither

the unknown work of the monk of St. Augustin. The person from whom I

obtained it is very likely dead. Be that as it may, the way in which I

got possession of this manuscript will never be effaced from my memory;

and the essay of Fray Urbano, although I am no judge of its philological

merits, has still a great interest in my eyes. It brings to mind the

intercourse I once had with one of the strangest personages that I ever

had the good fortune to meet in Mexico. That intercourse was very short,

but the recital will enable one easily to understand the deep impression

it left upon me. I do not require to add that this story, though it

appear romantic, is strictly true. In Mexico, you must remember, romance

is ingrained in the manners of the people, and he who would faithfully

picture these exceptionable manners would be set down as a somewhat

unscrupulous story-teller, _when he is, in fact, only a simple

historian_.

CHAPTER I.

The Public Scribe.--Pepito Rechifla.--The China.--The Callejon del Arco.

At the commencement of the year 1835 I happened to be in Mexico, engaged

in the prosecution of a troublesome piece of business. This concerned

the somewhat problematical recovery of a very considerable sum of money

due me by an individual of whom I could not find the slightest trace.

The business demanded the most energetic measures, and I addressed

myself, in consequence, to several lawyers, well known for their success

in dealing with such difficult cases. They all at first promised their

assistance, but when I mentioned my debtor's name (he was called Don

Dionisio Peralta), one and all of them excused themselves from having

any share in the business. One said he could never pardon himself if he

gave the slightest cause of uneasiness to so gallant a man as Señor

Peralta; a second, that he was attached to him by a _compadrazgo_[17] of

long standing; a third suddenly remembered that he had been a bosom

friend of his in his youth. A fourth, more communicative than the

others, enlightened me as to the cause of such friendly scruples; these

gentlemen had the fear of a dagger before their eyes, a mode of

procedure of which Señor Peralta had availed himself more than once, to

shake himself free of creditors who had been too pressing. "I don't

know," he added, "a single person who will undertake your business, if

the licentiate Don Tadeo Cristobal refuse: he has a heart of rock and a

hand of iron; he is the man for you." I ran immediately to the _Calle de

los Batanes_, where I was told he lived; but another check awaited me

there. Don Tadeo had quitted that place, and no one could tell me his

present abode.

Wearied and dejected in the evening, after a whole day spent in running

up and down to no purpose, I was walking listlessly to and fro in the

Merchants' Arcades (_Portales de los Mercadores_), which stands on the

grand square of Mexico. Despairing of success, I resolved to ask for

some information about Don Tadeo from some of the numerous public

writers, whose stalls under the gallery are so many public intelligence

offices; but, once there, I completely forgot the motive which had

brought me into this kind of bazar, the daily resort of all the idlers

of Mexico, and my attention was completely distracted by the animated

picture which was unrolled before my eyes. The spectator will be less

astonished at this if he figure to himself the almost magical appearance

the Plaza Mayor presents an hour before sunset. The _Portales de los

Mercadores_ occupy, in fact, almost one complete side of this immense

square. The Cathedral, the Ayuntamiento, and the President's palace

form, as the reader already knows, the other three sides. The most

beautiful streets in Mexico debouch between those buildings; there is

the street Primeria Monterilla, crowded with elegant shops; another,

called _los Plateros_ (the street of the goldsmiths), whose shops are

almost exclusively occupied by jewelers or lapidaries, while the petty

Mexican merchant seems to have chosen, for the display of European

commodities, the dark arcades of the _los Mercadores_. At the time of my

stay in Mexico, French innovation had not yet ventured to alter the

picturesque appearance of these arcades, which, in their general aspect,

bore a remarkable resemblance to the Piliers des Halles in Paris. The

heavy arches are supported on one side by vast warehouses, on the other

by pillars, at the foot of which are ranged shops (_alacenas_) well

stocked with religious books, rosaries, daggers, and spurs. Close by

these shops, as if to represent all the grades of trafficking, léperos,

in rags, hawk about articles of glassware, and, sticking one of them on

the tip of their finger, they search for customers with great eagerness.

Every now and then the venders of wild duck ragouts, or _tamales_,[18]

seated in the shade of the arches, strike in, amid the din of the crowd,

with their well-known cry,[19] _Aqui hay poto grande, mi alma; senorito

venga sted_, or that as popular but shorter call, _Tamales[20]

queretanos_. The passers-by and purchasers are as worthy of observation

as the sellers. The ever-varying color of gowns and _tapalos_,[21] the

gold of the mangas, and the motley color of the serapes, form, under the

dim, hazy light which prevail in the pilastera, a brilliant mixture of

different colors, which reminds one strongly of the most fantastical

Venetian masquerades. In the evening, when the stalls and shops are

closed, the _Merchants' Arcades_ become a kind of political club. Seated

on the threshold of the gates, or striding along in this kind of

cloister, officers and townsmen talk about revolutions that have been

effected, or are to be effected, till the time when the almost deserted

galleries serve only as a retreat for lovers, and their low whispers is

all that is heard beneath the silent arcades.

I had now sauntered for a long time in the Merchants' Arcades, when the

sight of a writer's stall reminded me of my business there. Among the

working population of the _Portales_, the public writers form a

considerable portion of the community. You must remember that in Mexico

primary instruction is not at all general, and that the office of a

public writer, among this illiterate population, has lost nothing of its

primitive importance. The tractable pen of the _evangelists_ (that is

the name they bear) is required for a thousand commissions, more or less

delicate, and often of the most equivocal character--from the venal

love-letter down to the note sent by a bravo to lure his intended victim

to some secret ambuscade. The evangelist whom I had remarked among the

rest of his tribe was a little squat fellow, his head almost bald,

scarcely encircled with a few gray hairs. What principally drew my

attention to this man was an expression of sardonic joviality which

shone in his otherwise insignificant face. I was just about to make some

inquiries of him about Don Tadeo, when an incident made me suddenly

pause, and continue to look on in silence. A young girl came to the

stall of the evangelist. The long wavy hair, which escaped in plaits

from her open _rebozo_, her complexion of a slight umber tint, the brown

shoulders that her chemise of fine linen, fringed with lace, left almost

bare, her slender figure, which had never been deformed by stays, and,

above all, the three short petticoats of different colors, which fell in

straight folds over her pliant haunches, all pointed out the young

woman as a genuine specimen of the _China_.[22]

"Tio Luquillas," said the maiden.

"What is it?" replied the evangelist.

"I need your assistance."

"I don't doubt that, since you come to me," replied Tio; and, fancying

he had divined the message she was going to send, he began complaisantly

to fold a sheet of rose-tinted vellum paper, highly glazed, and embossed

with cupids. But she made a gesture of impatience with her little brown

hand.

"What," said she, "would a man, who is almost breathing his last, care

for your rose-tinted billet-doux?"

"The devil!" said the scribe, in a passionless tone, while the girl

wiped her streaming eyes with one of her long plaits: "is it a farewell

epistle, then?"

A sob was the only reply; then, stooping to the scribe's ear, she forced

herself to dictate a short letter, not without frequent pauses to take

breath and to wipe away her tears. The contrast between the

unsusceptible old man and the passionate girl appeared to me most

striking. I was not the only observer; every one who passed the booth of

Tio Luquillas could not help casting a glance of pity, not unmingled

with curiosity, upon the young _China_. The evangelist was about to fold

the letter, but had not yet written the address, when a passer-by,

bolder and more curious than the rest, came unceremoniously to have some

conversation with the old man. The new-comer's features were not unknown

to me, and I remembered that he had, when standing next me at a

bull-fight a few days before, dilated, in the most attractive manner,

on a sport which I passionately loved. The time did not seem to me

suitable for making any inquiry of the evangelist, and I thought it best

not to approach the three. I consequently remained a few paces from the

booth, waiting patiently till the visitor would take his departure. The

man, with whom an hour or two's chat had made me acquainted, had

inspired me with a certain degree of interest. He was about forty years

of age. His features were marked with a certain kind of nobility, in

spite of a sarcastic expression which he sometimes threw into them.

Although I might have forgotten we had ever met, the odd costume in

which he was habited stamped him on my recollection. At the bull-fight

he wore a wide-flowing blue cloak, lined with red, and on his head an

enormous _sombrero_ of yellow vicuna cloth, trimmed with gold lace.

"For whom is the letter, my dear?" he asked of the _China_, somewhat

authoritatively.

The girl pointed to the prison of the presidential palace, and muttered

a name which I did not catch.

"Ah! for Pepito?" said the unknown, aloud.

"Alas! yes; and I don't know how to get it conveyed to him," replied the

girl.

"Well, never despair. Here's an opportunity that Heaven sends you."

At this moment the people hastily left the galleries, and scattered

themselves hastily upon the _Plaza Mayor_. What motive had they for

leaving? The commission of a deed but too common in Mexico; an

assassination had been perpetrated on the public street. They had seized

the murderer, raised the victim, and the melancholy cortège was on its

way to the nearest prison. This place of confinement happened to be

precisely that in which the lover of the young girl was imprisoned, and

I could easily comprehend the tenor of the words of hope which my new

acquaintance had addressed to the _China_.

The procession, which was now making its way across the square, had

partly a comical, partly a mournful appearance, with an originality in

its arrangement truly Mexican. A _cargardor_ (porter) marched in front,

bearing on his shoulders, by means of a leathern belt passed round his

forehead (as all Mexican porters do), a chair, upon which was strapped a

man, or rather a corpse, wrapped in a bloody sheet. The assassin,

guarded by four soldiers, followed closely behind. Some gaping idlers,

and a few friends of the dead man, who seemed to be making a sorry

attempt to appear sad, closed the procession. Of all the individuals of

which that crowd was composed, the man most at his ease was the criminal

himself, who, with a cigar in his mouth, marched along with perfect

coolness, addressing himself every now and then to the bloody corpse,

which, to his great surprise, uttered not a word in reply. "Come, now,"

said he, "none of your waggish tricks, Panchito; you know quite well

that I can't make your wife any allowance. You are shamming death well;

but I am not to be done in that style." But Panchito was quite dead, let

the assassin say what he might, and I could feel a cold shudder creep

over me when the hideous corpse was borne close past me. Its eyes (for

the sheet did not cover the face), with a stony glitter, stared at the

sun with immovable fixity. The bull-fight amateur, who was doubtless

more accustomed to such sights, walked right up to the procession,

stopped it, and holding the letter of the _China_ out to the murderer,

"Pay attention!" said he. "Have you not some acquaintance with the

illustrious Pepito Rechifla--he who is to be garroted to-morrow?"

"Of course; I am a chum of his."

"Well, as you will, in all probability, not be executed before him, you

will see him just now in the prison. Give him this letter from me."

"Ah! Señor Cavalier," said the Mexican girl, suddenly, who, with face

bathed in tears, and a palpitating bosom, made her way through the

crowd, threw herself at the murderer's feet, and seizing the corner of

his cloak, after the ancient fashion, said, "By the blood of Christ, and

the merits of the Virgin in her seven sorrows, do not forget to give him

this letter, which contains my last farewell! I am so unhappy at not

being able to see him!"

"Yes, _Linda mia_, I will," replied the murderer, carrying his hand to

his eyes, and trying to give his voice a pathetic tone. "I have as

feeling a heart as you; and had not this d--d Panchito been always

thwarting me, I should not have been here, I swear; but keep up your

spirits, _preciosita de mi alma_."

A piece of money which the sporting character threw to the prisoner cut

short his eloquent speech; the soldiers surrounded him, and they resumed

their march to the prison. The procession soon disappeared round a

corner of the _Ayuntamiento_, while some women, with a delicacy peculiar

to Mexican females, surrounded the young _China_, but were unable to

persuade her to go home. In a short time, in spite of all their

entreaties, I saw her walk to the prison, seat herself at the foot of

its dark wall, and, veiling her face with her rebozo, remain there

immovable. My friend of the bull-fights was lost in the crowd, and I had

now a fitting opportunity for consulting the evangelist. I stepped up

to the old man, and tapped him gently on the shoulder.

"Can you tell me," said I, "where the licentiate Don Tadeo Cristobal

lives?"

"Don Tadeo Cristobal, do you say? He was here a minute ago."

"Was Don Tadeo here?"

"Did you not see how obligingly he caused a message to be delivered to

the bandit Pepito Rechifla, that one of the prettiest _Chinas_ in Mexico

dictated to me?"

"What! was that man in the _sombrero_ and red cloak Don Tadeo the

licentiate?"

"It was."

"And where shall I find him now?"

"I do not know; for, to say the truth, he has no settled abode, but

lives a little every where. If, however, you wish to consult him on

urgent business, go this very evening, between the hours of nine and

twelve o'clock, to the _Callejon del Arco_ (blind alley of the arcade);

you are sure to find him in the last house on the right as you pass the

square."

I thanked the scribe, and, after giving him a few reals for his trouble,

directed my steps to the Callejon del Arco. Although it was scarcely

seven o'clock in the evening, I went to try to find out, before

nightfall, the house which I intended to visit two hours afterward.

Experience had taught me that such precautions were not useless in

Mexico; besides, the Callejon del Arco had long been notorious as one of

the most dangerous places in the Mexican capital.

The appearance of the alley justified but too well the reputation which

it had acquired. The dense mass of houses, of which the Merchants'

Arcades form a part, known by the name of the _Impedradillo_, does not

form one compact _cuadra_. On the southwest side of the Cathedral, a

narrow lane runs into the Impedradillo; this is the Callejon del Arco.

It is like one of those caverns which the sea sometimes hollows out in

the face of a cliff. When still blinded by the overpowering rays of the

sun with which the square is flooded, and which beat in all their

intensity on the white walls and granite pavement, the eye, at first

dazzled by the glare, sees only after a few moments another street

cutting this one at right angles, and forming with it a dark cross-road.

There, as in the caverns by the sea-shore, you can not hear the noise

without, except it be a dull, mournful hum, which resembles as much the

wail of the wind-tossed waves as the tumult of a populous city. A few

rope-spinners' shops, their massive doors fast closed, and here and

there a few dark passages, are the only signs which remind you that you

are in a city, and in the midst of inhabited houses. Water is constantly

oozing out of the walls; a perpetual moisture reigns every where; and

scarcely, even at midday, at the time of the summer solstice, does a

sunbeam visit this dismal den. A little new life then begins to stir,

till the sun has advanced into the winter solstice, when it relapses

into its former gloom and silence.

It was there, then, in one of these sinister-looking houses, that I was

to meet a man able to settle a piece of business for me from which all

the other lawyers in Mexico had recoiled. I stopped some moments to gaze

with wonder and amazement upon the situation chosen for the office of

the lawyer; but had not the episode, which I had witnessed a short time

before, already prepared me for the eccentricities of Don Tadeo? How

could I explain the easy, familiar tone which he had employed with the

wretch to whom he was consigning the message to Pepito Rechifla? How the

relations which appeared to exist between the bandit and the licentiate?

The strange intimacy of a lawyer with thieves and assassins seemed, at

first sight, not at all to be expected. The hope, however, of obtaining

a solution of this seeming enigma decided me, and I left the Callejon

del Arco with the intention of visiting it again two hours afterward.

FOOTNOTES:

[17] Lit., a compaternity.

[18] A kind of meat pudding, strongly seasoned with pimenta.

[19] Here's your fine duck, my jewel; come, buy, my young master.

[20] _Tamales_, made in Queretaro, a town about forty leagues from

Mexico.

[21] A shawl, which is sometimes used as a head-dress.

[22] A China is, in Mexico, what the manola is in Madrid, and the

grisette in Paris.

CHAPTER II.

A Mexican Gambling-house.--Navaja, the Mexican Bravo.--John Pearce, the

Yankee.

Night had come; one of those nights in May in which Mexico, seen by

moonlight, assumes an appearance almost magical. The pale light of the

moon sheds its soft radiance upon the stained steeples of the churches

and the colored façades of the monuments. The moon here scatters her

voluptuous light over the earth in a bounteous fashion, unknown in our

northern regions. The crowd upon the Plaza Mayor was not so dense as

before sunset; it was less noisy, and more scattered. The promenaders

spoke in a low tone, as if they feared to break the silence which was

brooding over all. The light noise produced by the waving of fans, the

rustle of silk dresses, sometimes a peal of female laughter, melodious

and clear as the tone of a crystal bell, or the striking of a church

clock at a distance, alone broke the general silence. Veiled women, and

men wrapped in long cloaks, glided like shadows over the sand, that

hardly crunched beneath their tread. I saw more than one mysterious

couple, whose appearance there would probably furnish dainty food to the

scandal-loving denizens of the drawing-room. Besides young and beautiful

women, there were also those who, to use an English expression, were on

the shady side of thirty years. You could see also a considerable number

of those _doncellas chanflonas_, those beauties of easy virtue mentioned

by Perez of Guevara. I say nothing of the adventure-seekers whom you

find every where in Mexico--bullies, who wear the pavement with their

sabres and spurs. Such was the motley crowd which pushed and jostled one

another on the Plaza Mayor at the very time I was betaking myself, not

without some fear, I must say, to the Callejon del Arco.

I had hardly reached the mouth of the dark lane, when a current of cold

air, as if it had issued from a cave, struck my face, and chilled me to

the bone. I stood for some seconds at the entrance of the alley, trying

to discover some gleam of light from the windows or grated doors, but

there were no signs of life in a single house. I then advanced, groping

along in search of the house which I had discovered a short time before.

I had almost arrived at the cross-road of which I have already spoken,

when I heard a noise of footsteps behind me, and saw a man who, coming

from the square, was advancing toward me. I wished to keep on the

pavement, but my legs getting entangled in the long rapier of the

stranger in some way or other, I stumbled, and, to keep myself from

falling, grasped his cloak. The man immediately stepped back, and, by

the grazing of steel, I knew he was drawing his sword.

"_Capa de Dios!_" cried he. "Whether is it my person or my cloak you

are fancying, Sir Robber?"

I thought I knew the voice, and I hastened to reply:

"I am neither a robber nor assassin, Señor Don--"

I thought the unknown was going to assist my memory, and state his name.

He did nothing of the kind; but, putting his back to the door of a

house, he said, roughly,

"Who are you, and what do you want?"

"I am seeking for the dwelling of Don Tadeo the licentiate," I replied;

"and, if I am not greatly deceived, we are standing before it at this

very moment."

"Ah! who told you he lived here?"

"Tio Lucas, the public scribe. I wish to consult Don Tadeo on a very

important affair."

"Don Tadeo! It is he that is speaking to you just now."

The costume of this man I could not distinguish; his features were

precisely similar to the bull-fight amateur, with whose name Tio Lucas

had acquainted me. I hastened to reply to Don Tadeo, counting myself

happy in having met him, and begged a few minutes' private conversation.

"With the greatest pleasure," he replied. "I am quite ready to take up

your affair; but let us first enter the house; we can then speak more at

our ease." At the same time, he struck the pommel of his sword against

the door behind him. "My profession," added he, "obliges me to employ

many precautions. You will immediately comprehend why. Do not be

astonished at my queer domicile. You may think me an original, and may

have reason."

Don Tadeo paused, and the door of the mysterious house opened with a

great clanking of chains. The porter, with a huge lantern in his hand,

bowed respectfully to the licentiate, who motioned me to follow him. We

walked rapidly along the _zaguan_ or lobby, and, after mounting a very

steep stair, stopped before a serge curtain, surmounted by a transparent

lantern, on which was inscribed, in large letters, _Sociedad

Filarmonica_. Voices and confused cries escaped from the hall which bore

this ambitious title. "Are those your clients who are making such a

great noise, Señor Licentiate?" I inquired. Without a word, he lifted

the curtain of green serge, and we found ourselves in an immense hall,

indifferently lighted. A long table, covered with green baize, and

surrounded with players, stood in the middle of the room. Besides the

lamps which hung from the walls, the place was lighted up by four

candles stuck into tin holders. Some small tables, with refreshments,

placed at regular distances from each other, furnished the players with

infusions of tamarinds, rose water, or Barcelona brandy. At the bottom

of the hall rose a high estrade, ornamented with some size-color

paintings, representing, for the purpose, no doubt, of showing the

original design of the establishment, a confused group of bassoons,

hunting-horns, and clarionets. My surprise may be easily conceived when

I found myself in a gambling-house like this at the very time I fancied

I was stepping into a lawyer's office. I contemplated my companion as if

I were looking upon him for the first time. He was assuredly the very

man I had met in the circus and in the Merchants' Arcades. With this

strange costume, long rapier, and thick, black curly hair, his

appearance partook more of the bandit than of the lawyer. He had taken

only a few steps in the hall when he was accosted by two

individuals--worthy habituès of such a den. The first was a tall,

awkward, shambling fellow, with a ferocious air, who held out to the

licentiate a hand large as a shoulder of mutton, and said, in Spanish,

with strong English accent, "How is Señor Don Tadeo to-day?"

"Better than those to whom you wish well, Master John Pearce," replied

he, darting upon his interlocutor a look of cold disdain, which pierced

him like a sword. "You know well that your reputation here is ruined as

much as it was in Texas. Above all, since--"

"Tut!" said the American, evidently not at all desirous that the

licentiate should finish his sentence. "With your permission, I have

come to consult you."

"Immediately," replied the man of law. "I must, however, give the

preference to this gentleman, whom I met before you."

"Do me a favor; listen to me first, Señor Licentiate," cried another

personage, with squinting eyes and gray hair, dressed in the national

costume of Mexico. "I wish also to ask your advice."

"Ah! is it you, Navaja," replied Tadeo, eyeing the Mexican, who seemed

to tremble under his stern glance. "Are you going to trouble me any more

about that ugly affair?"

"Tut!" cried the Mexican in his turn. "Since it pleases you, I will take

the third place."

It was quite sufficient for Don Tadeo to remind them of these two

episodes, which doubtless did not redound to their credit, to shake

himself free of their importunities. I admired the power that gave my

companion an experience, evidently acquired at great personal risk,

among the most dangerous bravos of the Mexican brotherhood.

"Ah!" said Don Tadeo, turning at last to me, "will you now enlighten me,

Señor Cavalier, about the affair which has brought you hither? It must

be something very delicate, since only those cases are brought to me

which my brother lawyers consider insurmountable. It was doubtless one

of these lawyers who advised you to address yourself to me."

I named the licentiate who had extolled the intrepid heart and good

sword of Don Tadeo. He shook his head with a disdainful smile.

"The business in question is a dangerous one," replied he, "I can easily

see that. The man who recommended me to you is my declared enemy, and he

does not send me such jobs for nothing. Besides, perhaps I am a little

too ready to draw in the public streets after nightfall. What of it? I

am of Seville, and one hasn't passed several years of one's life among

the fighting men in the suburb of Triana for nothing."

"Are you a Spaniard?"

"Of course; and, before being a lawyer, I was what you call a go-ahead

fellow--_uracan y calavera_. You see before you a student of

Salamanca--of that beautiful city:

"'En Salamanca, la tuna

Anduve marzo y abril.

Niñas he visto mas de mil

Pero como tu, ninguna.'[23]

"I once made some songs myself, and even set them to music; and it was

in consequence of a serenade unhappily broken up, and followed by the

death of a man, that necessity compelled me to seek my fortune in New

Spain. To insure my success here, I possessed two valuable qualities,

which rarely go together--I was a thorough master of law and of fence.

You yourself can acknowledge that my old humor of sword-playing has not

yet left me; but I think, Señor Cavalier, I owe you some amends for the

unintentional insult which I lately put upon you. To tell the truth, at

that time I was just about to pass my sword through your body. Allow me

to offer you, as a slight compensation for my rudeness, some tincture of

rose water or Catalonian _refino_."

Without giving time for reply, the licentiate drew me to a table, where

we sat down. My astonishment increased as I became more acquainted with

this singular personage. It was not till after we had partaken of some

slight refreshment that Don Tadeo would consent to listen to my

business, which I told him as clearly and briefly as I could.

"Good!" said he; "you are seeking a debtor you can't find; but won't you

tell his name?"

"Ah! his name is one that touches the sympathies of your brethren very

nearly, for no one dares take up my case against him."

"Let's hear this terrible name. I am curious to know if it will have the

same effect upon me."

"I'll tell it you in a whisper. His name is Don Dionisio Peralta!"

The licentiate never moved a muscle of his face.

"How much does he owe you?"

"Four hundred piastres."

"No more," said Don Tadeo, after a moment's silence. "Let us go to the

terrace at the top of the house, where we can converse more at our

ease. But, first of all, allow me to finish the business of those two

fellows who are waiting for me. The interest even which I take in your

case obliges me to put a stop to our conversation for the present, for

the purpose of getting some indispensable information among the

frequenters of this gaming-house. All I ask of you is to manifest no

surprise if you see or hear things you don't exactly understand."

I shook hands with the licentiate. We rose and crossed to a group of

players, that had increased considerably since our private conversation

began. A crowd of spectators, two deep, surrounded the green board upon

which the piastres rolled with a most attractive clink.

The licentiate passed before his two clients, the Mexican and the

American, signing them to wait upon him, and walked up to a young man,

who, like the other spectators, was devouring the green board with

greedy look. This fellow, of a sallow and cadaverous aspect, wore an

almost brimless hat over his long, thick hair, and a well-worn

_esclavina_ on his shoulders. He was the beau ideal of a lawyer's clerk,

sorry at being unable to stake his master's fortune on a card.

"Ortiz!" said the licentiate, "have you writing materials with you?"

"Of course," the clerk replied; and he drew from his pocket a roll

containing paper, pens, and ink. The licentiate sat down by himself,

wrote a few lines, folded the paper, and passed it to his clerk, who

replied to his master's directions, given in a low voice, only by a bow

and a hurried exit. The licentiate then begged me to have patience for a

few minutes longer, till he had given his two clients their promised

consultation, and I mixed with the throng round the table. It was

certainly an extraordinary sight; adventurers of all kinds surrounded

me, reminding me strongly of the heroes in the old picaresque romances.

I was struck by a remarkably characteristic feature. The banker had on

the table by him a Catalonian knife, with an edge as keen as a razor. An

intimation which he gave the players let me into the secret of this

strange proceeding. "I warn the gentlemen now present," said he, "that

if any one affects to confound the bank with his stake, I shall nail his

hand to the table with this knife." This strange threat seemed not to

astonish or offend any one; and I concluded that the mishap provided

against by the banker had occurred more than once.

In spite of the extraordinary scenes I was witnessing, I could not help

feeling the time rather long till the licentiate drew me away from the

green board to a retired corner of the hall, where his two clients, the

tall Yankee and the squinting Mexican, were seated together at a table.

The American was just finishing a bottle of Catalonian _refino_, while

the Mexican slowly sipped some iced tamarind water.

"Well," said the licentiate, regarding me with a look full of meaning,

"here are two gentlemen who will remove your conscientious scruples

regarding the four hundred piastres you owe me, and who affirm that you

can very easily pay me by making over a similar debt due you by Señor

Peralta, who will honor his signature with the greatest grace in the

world."

"I did not say that," cried the American, with a roar of laughter. "I

don't know if he will pay with pleasure. All I know is that he will pay,

or--"

"Softly!" interrupted Don Tadeo. "From the moment that Peralta becomes

my debtor, his life is valuable to me, and I require you to respect it."

"Señor Peralta will pay with pleasure, I uphold," said the Mexican,

softly, sipping his liquor by mouthfuls as if it burned him, while the

American emptied his glass of _refino_ at a single draught, like so much

water.

"Make him pay, that's all I care about," said the licentiate. "But is

not that Pepito Rechifla with my clerk over there? That's capital! Ortiz

has not been long about his business."

The name of Pepito reminded me of the pretty _China_ that I had seen

with such a sad face in the Merchants' Arcades. I contemplated the man

pointed out by the licentiate with some curiosity. He was a fellow with

a sunburned complexion, shaggy, unkempt hair, and a bold, shameless

face--such a one as is met with nowhere but in the tents of the

wandering Bohemians or in the streets of Mexico. "Ah! Señor Licentiate,"

cried he, "I shall never forget that I owe my life to you. I was to be

garroted the day after to-morrow, and it was you who extricated me from

the claws of the _juez de letras_ (criminal judge). Some reals from your

purse restored me to freedom. Yes, Señor Licentiate, don't be

astonished; I know you are my savior; your clerk has told me all."

"Ortiz is a fool!" replied Don Tadeo, dryly; "but I am rejoiced at your

good fortune, for I wished to speak with you. I need your assistance.

Here's a piastre for your supper."

"Thank you. I am never hungry but when my pocket is empty. When I have a

piastre I stake it."

And the fellow hastened to the table. The Yankee and Mexican rose also,

and followed him. Don Tadeo, freed from their importunities, drew me

aside. "You see these three men," said he, with a smile. "Do you think

there is any debtor who can resist three such bailiffs--above all, when

the debt has been made over to Don Tadeo the licentiate? You understand

me, of course. When I wished the debt made over to me, my name confers

additional power in this dangerous war; but when the conflict is over,

all the advantages will be yours, less the expenses of the campaign,

which, along with the honors of victory, you will allow me to retain."

"But how will you light upon Peralta? Up to this moment I could never

get a trace of him."

"That is my concern, and that of the three precious vagabonds you saw

just now. Don Dionisio Peralta is a bad payer, but a good fence.

However, we shall see."

I then reminded Don Tadeo that he had expressed a wish to know more

about my business with him, and I offered to satisfy him in this

respect. At bottom I wished to examine more thoroughly this singular

character. Don Tadeo seemed to guess my real intention. "It is half past

ten," he replied, looking at his watch. "I am at your service till

midnight. Let us go up to the _azotea_ (terrace). There is nobody there

at this hour. The night is beautiful, and you can tell me your story

without any risk of being overheard."

FOOTNOTE:

[23] At Salamanca I led a very dissipated life in the months of March

and April. I saw more than a thousand women, but none so fair as you.

CHAPTER III.

The Convent of the Bernardines.--The young Creole Lady.

Arrived at the terrace, we stood for some time in silent contemplation.

At our feet lay the ancient city of the Aztecs, with its domes and

spires innumerable glittering in the pale moonlight. Not far from us,

the Cathedral threw its gigantic shadow and the profile of its towers on

the _Plaza Mayor_. In the distance, the Parian[24] reared its black mass

in the midst of spaces whitened by the moon, like a dark rock surrounded

by foaming billows. Still farther off you recognized the elegant cupola

of Santa Teresa, the fine domes of the convent of St. Francisco, the

steeples of St. Augustin and the Bernardines, and behind this majestic

crenulated mass of buildings, cupolas, and colored spires, you saw the

country bathed in a white vapor, which, rising from the lakes, encircles

the city like a luminous halo.

Don Tadeo was the first to break silence by asking me some questions

about the business which had been intrusted to him. I eagerly replied,

hoping that he would soon make me some revelations about himself, which

could not fail to be interesting; but the licentiate had fallen into a

profound reverie, and I was beginning to despair of success, when the

merest accident came to my relief. This was the toll of a distant bell,

which suddenly rose, like a mysterious wail, from amid the mournful

silence. At the sound he shook his head, then put his hands over his

face, which became gradually overspread with a deadly pallor. At last he

took me by the hand, and, interrupting me in the midst of my

explanation, cried, "Don't you hear that bell?"

"Yes," I replied. "And, if I am not deceived, it is the sound of the

passing-bell in the convent of the Bernardines."

"In the convent of the Bernardines!" he repeated, in a strangely altered

tone; "in the convent of the Bernardines, do you say?"

"Assuredly. I recognize the direction of the sound; I can not be wrong."

"Let us descend immediately, for the sound drives me mad."

"Why descend? Is the light of the moon not better than those smoky lamps

in the hell we have just quitted?"

The licentiate made no reply for a long time. The bell, whose strokes

became more and more distinct, exercised upon him a kind of influence

quite inexplicable. I can not tell whether Don Tadeo remarked my

surprise, but he probably relieved his bursting heart by taking my hand,

and letting escape, in the midst of stifled sobbing, these strange

words:

"You must listen to me. I never hear the peal of that bell without

seeing, as in a bad dream, the saddest event in my life rise before my

eyes. Nothing in me will more excite your astonishment when you are

acquainted with the horrible occurrence of which that bell reminds me."

I made him aware, by signs, that I was ready to listen to him. This is

the story he told me, with a coolness that I could hardly have

expected, from the sad introduction with which it was prefaced.

"In the year 1825, that is, ten years ago, an attempt at assassination

was made in the streets of Mexico. This is, unhappily, such an every-day

affair in the capital of Mexico, that the public mind would not have

been called to it had it not been accompanied by some strange

circumstances. These were so strange, that, instead of being briefly

narrated in the last column of the journals, as is commonly the case, it

figured among the events, more or less important, which have the

privilege of engaging the attention of the idle inhabitants of Mexico

for more than a week. A singular mystery, in fact, hung over this

attempt at murder. Early in the morning, when the Paseo of Bucareli is

quite solitary, a hackney-coach was seen standing in a retired part of

the promenade. The coachman had descended from his box, and was standing

prudently aside, as if he guessed the meaning of this early drive. Was

it a man or a woman whom this coach of _providence_ (you know that is

the name given to the hackney-coaches in Mexico) had driven to a love

appointment? The blinds, carefully drawn down, left every thing to

conjecture; but it transpired afterward that a young female of dazzling

beauty was in it, who, prompted by female vanity, was richly adorned

with jewels for this occasion. The Creoles, you know, have a strange

fancy for appearing to be as rich as they are beautiful; however,

although that was the case with this young lady, she was still more

beautiful than rich. A few minutes passed, when a man enveloped in a

large cloak approached the vehicle. The coachman opened the door of the

carriage, and the stranger sprang in precipitately. A meeting of this

kind was too much in the Mexican fashion to astonish the coachman, who

stretched himself upon the grass under the poplars, and fell into a deep

sleep. When he awoke the carriage was still in the same place, only the

shadows of the poplars, instead of leaning to the west, as at the time

when he fell asleep, were stretching toward the east, as much as to say

that the sun had nearly set, and the evening was succeeding the morning.

This is the time when the Paseo is most thronged with promenaders. The

coachman was astonished at having slept so long; he ran to the carriage,

called aloud, and, not receiving any answer, opened the door. A horrible

spectacle met his eyes. Upon the cushions lay the young lady in a swoon,

the cause of which was sufficiently explained by the blood with which

the carriage was flooded. The blood flowed from a large wound, struck by

the unerring hand of a skillful practitioner; and this wound, at its

first appearance, seemed mortal. Of all the diamonds which sparkled on

her neck and dangled from her ears, not one remained. The unhappy female

had thus found an assassin instead of a lover, and theft was followed by

an attempt at murder. The cries of the coachman were not long in drawing

a crowd, among which was luckily a surgeon, who maintained that the lady

was still alive. He got her conveyed to the nearest convent, which

happened to be that of the Bernardines. The first duty of humanity

fulfilled, justice commenced its task; but while the physicians were

restoring her to health, the efforts of the ministers of justice were

not crowned with a like success. The coachman was first arrested; but he

was soon released, having proved his perfect innocence. A young

Spaniard, whose attentions to the fair Creole had been very marked for a

long time, was then apprehended. He learned at one and the same time

both the infidelity and death of her whom he wished to become his wife.

This was a terrible stroke." Here Don Tadeo's voice evidently broke, and

he seemed as if he had lost his senses. "At the end of a year,"

continued the licentiate, "the Spaniard was released for want of proof;

but he left the prison ruined by law expenses, and with a heart dead to

all his former dear illusions. He then learned that she who had deceived

him, and whom he had bewailed as dead, was still alive, but that she had

renounced the world, and taken the veil in that convent to which she had

been carried after the unhappy incident in the Paseo. He never attempted

to see her; but all his efforts, all his thoughts were directed to one

sole end--vengeance! Mexican justice had been unable to discover the

assassin. He set on foot inquiries himself, and succeeded, although the

judges declared that success was impossible."

The licentiate here paused; the bell was still tolling, and I began to

understand the emotions these melancholy sounds awoke in his bosom.

"This Spaniard, you have guessed already, I dare say, was myself. A

letter had been found on the young Creole's person, inviting her to that

private interview which had nearly terminated in her death. This was the

only clew I had to guide me in the intricate labyrinth where Mexican

justice had been at fault. Since then commenced a dark and uneasy period

of my life, which death can alone put an end to. I condescended to live

among thieves and murderers in the hope of unraveling, by their

revelations, that secret which entirely absorbed me. Under color of

exercising my profession, I mixed myself up in all those cases which

would give me an opportunity of interrogating malefactors, and of

penetrating into their haunts and places of amusement. Since then, not a

single crime has been committed in Mexico whose perpetrator I could not

hand over to justice. The most secret societies of criminals are well

known to me in all their most intimate workings. You may perhaps have

heard of that band of _ensebados_ who for a whole year kept the Mexican

capital in continual alarm. The _ensebados_ were men who, after

besmearing their naked bodies with grease or oil, threw themselves upon

the benighted pedestrian and robbed him, and, in the event of

resistance, plunged a dagger into his body. Only one of the bandits, as

slippery as an eel, escaped from the soldiers who had managed to hunt

down all the rest. Well, he was their chief. I know him; and even now I

could put my hand on him, if I chose. This is not the only singular

discovery I made. I could mention a thousand. Thanks to the perilous and

watchful life I have led, I acquired an experience which soon made me of

incalculable benefit to the miserable cutthroats with whose singular

antecedents I had thus become acquainted. Often, for days together, has

my life been in danger, and more than one wretch has tried to stab me as

a spy; but the services which my knowledge of the law rendered to many

of the rest proved my protection. Now, I am not a little proud of the

influence which I exercise over the most redoubtable robbers in Mexico,

and you see that I have under my orders an army willing to assist honest

people who stand in need of my assistance."

"Mine is a case in point," I replied, "and I am glad that I fell in with

you; but you have not informed me whether you were successful in

finding the assassin of the Paseo of Bucareli."

"I was completely successful. I was lucky enough to fall in with the

public scribe who had been employed to write those fatal lines which had

enticed my mistress to the Paseo. The evangelist knew the wretch, and he

set me on his track. I found him out. I had but to denounce him, and

justice would have pounced upon him; but this would have defeated the

object to which I had devoted my life. I did not betray him, therefore.

Many years had rolled away since the attempt; and, during that time, on

account of my intercourse with such characters, I had learned more to

pity than hate them. Nay, I often employ them to do certain pieces of

business for me, which Mexican justice gives up as impossible. The

assassin is still a useful instrument for me; one, too, that I can crush

at a word, but whom I prefer employing in the service of my numerous

clients."

Another pause. The toll of the bell was still heard. "I never saw my

beloved again, who is now in a convent," continued Don Tadeo; "but I

learned from a sure quarter that she has been long in a deep

consumption. You will now understand why the bell-peal of the

Bernardines made me shudder."

I was trying to persuade Don Tadeo to descend, that he might no longer

hear the dismal toll of the passing-bell, when the trap-door of the

_azotea_ creaked lightly on its hinges, and the squint-eyed Mexican,

called Navaja, glided rather than walked toward us. He was pale with

fright, and looked uneasily behind him.

"He is the devil in person!" cried he, leaning to take breath against

the railing of the _azotea_.

"Whom do you mean?" asked the licentiate.

"The American. He is just about finishing his third bottle of _refino_,

and is shouting in a loud voice what he calls his war-song. He is a

ferocious Indian, with a white man's skin. He is recounting all the hair

he has raised, all the murders he has committed. And, would you believe

it, he claims my scalp as an addition to his treasures. I tell you

again, he is a devil."

"What a saint you have become all at once!" said the licentiate, who

again began to fling his sarcasms at the Mexican. "How long is it since

you began to hate the smell of blood?"

The gayety of Don Tadeo was terrible to behold. This question of the

licentiate's raised a hatred in his mind, fierce and implacable as the

tiger's. Don Tadeo did not seem to take any notice of the impression he

was producing, but, on the contrary, to delight in irritating the

wretch, who foamed with anger under his cold, biting sarcasm. An

allusion to the criminal attempt on the Paseo suddenly enlightened me as

to this keen, bitter irony. Before me stood the man on whom the

licentiate could take vengeance if he chose, at whose mercy he lived,

and who had treacherously attempted the life of the unhappy female for

whom the passing-bell was perhaps tolling at this very moment. "Does the

peal of the Bernardines remind you of nothing?" said Don Tadeo; but this

last sally deprived the Mexican of all patience, and, instead of

replying, he bounded forward to snatch the licentiate's rapier, but with

a vigorous thrust of the arm he was hurled violently to the ground.

"Come, now," cried the licentiate, "you forget the crime you committed.

I forgive you, miscreant; but out of this, instantly."

The Mexican, stunned and stupefied, did not wait for a repetition of

the order, but shuffled off precipitately. I could not help

complimenting Don Tadeo on his coolness and courage. "What of that?" he

said, with a melancholy smile. "You know the university in which I took

my degree. I value my life only at its true worth. Let us go below. I

understand your case thoroughly; and, before many days are passed, I

hope to have some good news for you."

We went down, and soon reached the great square upon which the Callejon

del Arco opens. There we separated, the licentiate repairing to his

abode, and I to mine, by the street Monterilla. "We shall meet again

soon," said Don Tadeo to me on bidding me good-night. "I hope so," I

replied, although I did not partake so heartily in that belief as did

the intrepid lawyer. I could not help comparing Don Tadeo in my own mind

with those wild-beast tamers, who often astonish us by their deeds of

courage and address, but whose least false step may transform them from

masters to victims.

FOOTNOTE:

[24] An old bazar, not unlike the Temple-market in Paris.

CHAPTER IV.

Manner of taking Possession in Mexico.--Tragical End of the Assassin of

the Paseo.

A month passed away without Don Tadeo giving any signs of life. At last

a note, that he had sent me by his clerk Ortiz, explained the reason of

his long delay. There were two causes that hindered my case from being

proceeded with according to his customary activity. "One of these you

may probably guess," he said. "The passing-bell that we heard tolling

was for _her_! After the first burst of grief I was about to take up

your case, when I received a dagger-stab from an invisible hand, the

effects of which forced me to keep my bed for a considerable time.

However, I am happy to be able to announce to you that your case is now

progressing favorably. I succeeded in discovering, not without some

trouble, the abode of Dionisio Peralta, and have set upon his traces the

three knaves whom you saw the other night. Good-by; take no step without

consulting me, and in a short time you will receive more satisfactory

news."

Eight days had scarcely elapsed when I received another note from the

licentiate. This letter contained a detailed account of the campaign

which he had conducted against Dionisio Peralto, and its happy

termination. Pepito Rechifla, John Pearce the Yankee, and Navaja the

Mexican, went, one after the other, to the house of Dionisio Peralta,

claiming, as they said, the recovery of a debt with which they had been

intrusted by their friend the licentiate, Don Tadeo. Dionisio Peralta,

in spite of his gentlemanly airs, was, to speak the truth, a knave of

their own stamp, and received them at first with all the arrogance of a

bully; but the significant threats of the three ruffians soon brought

him to terms. Peralta knew but too well the character of the men with

whom he had to deal, and the influence of the licentiate, who directed

these bullies, rendered the odds decidedly against him. He at last ended

by proposing a compromise, which the licentiate had been constrained to

accept. Peralta had a small villa in the little village of Tacuba, about

a league from Mexico, the value of which was almost equal to the amount

of the debt. He consented, in lieu of payment, to deliver up this house

to Don Tadeo, who had taken possession of it from the very first. There

remained nothing now to wind up the affair but to receive the house from

the hands of its new owner. Don Tadeo invited me to wait upon him the

following day. We proposed to go together to the domain of my old

debtor, of whose property he would install me as rightful owner.

Next day we set out together on horseback for the village of Tacuba. I

was somewhat curious to see my new property, and, above all, to witness

the ceremonies which, in Mexico, ordinarily accompany the act of taking

possession. On the road I congratulated the licentiate on the lucky star

which seemed to favor him, and that had on a recent occasion saved his

life a second time. I expressed at the same time my regret that perhaps

he had drawn upon himself the vengeance of Dionisio Peralto; but he

replied that I was wrong in my supposition, and that, to all appearance,

the man who had attempted his life was no other than the same wretch who

had assaulted the Creole lady in the Paseo of Bucareli. "Be that as it

may," he added, "my suspicions of Navaja have not hindered me from

employing him in this business of yours, in which his zeal has been very

conspicuous. Men of this class, when not in their cups or in a sullen

mood, are blindly obedient to the person who has made them feel his

superiority. In a letter which Peralto wrote me, announcing his

acceptance of my terms, I read without regret the terrible menaces which

he launched against this ruffian, whom I strongly suspect to have

attempted my life, and who has shown himself the most active of the

three in pursuit of your debtor. Peralta is hardly a man that will

threaten in vain, and I fear his vengeance will follow quickly."

In conversation like this, we soon left the town behind us and got into

the country, if the desert and arid plains that we crossed at full

gallop could be so termed. The heat was stifling, and a deep silence lay

around. All at once a horse's hoof broke the stillness, and we were

joined by a cavalier, in whom I could hardly have recognized Pepito

Rechifla. The ruffian had attired himself with some degree of elegance;

he wore a blue manga lined with yellow cotton, and his horse's

equipments were of a character thoroughly Mexican. He saluted us with an

air at once courtly and patronizing. "You will pardon me," he said,

"Señor Licentiate, if I take the liberty of traveling in your company;

but, aware of your intention to take a short ride to-day, I thought you

would not be the worse of having an additional companion. This road does

not bear a very good character;" and, casting an expressive look at the

arm which the lawyer carried in a sling, he added, "it is not always

prudent to run into dangers at a distance from home. I am, however,

pretty sure that we shall not need to draw upon any body to-day."

Having finished this last sentence with a drawling affectedness, Pepito

whispered into the ear of the licentiate some words which I could not

make out. I only remarked that he pointed out to Don Tadeo a group of

hillocks on our left, over which hovered a flock of great black

vultures. Without replying to Pepito, the licentiate stopped his horse a

moment, and looked in a different direction. His face had a painful

expression in it. He then signed to us to continue our route, spurred

his horse vigorously, and a few minutes after we clattered through the

streets of the village in which my new property was situated.

The house which Don Tadeo had gained (for he had at first taken

possession in his own name) was situated at the extremity of the

village. Crowds of villagers, who had assembled to share in the

largesses which are usually distributed on an occasion of this kind,

stood before the house, and assisted us in recognizing it. It was a

little building of a very sorry appearance, with a small porch before

the door, supported by brick pillars. Numerous cracks furrowed the walls

in every direction, clearly indicating a sad state of disrepair. Behind

the house was a garden choked with weeds, surrounded by a wall thickly

covered with moss, and crowned with pellitories. The porter, whom the

licentiate had put in charge of the house, opened the door. "You are in

your own house," said Don Tadeo to me. We entered. The interior of the

house was as desolate as the exterior. The ceilings were gaping with

chinks, the disjointed boards in the stairs creaked sadly under foot,

and the garden was nothing more than a collection of sentern, nettles,

and thistles, in the midst of which rose some sickly-looking

fruit-trees. This wretched house and garden, however, were almost equal

to the debt, and that was sufficient; the more in the case of such a

debtor as Peralta was, with whom one could not be too exacting.

After visiting the ground floor and the garden, we went up stairs. The

room which we first entered seemed to have been a dining-room, and had

not been entered for many years, if one could judge from the musty smell

which pervaded the apartment. We hastened to let in the air and light by

opening the strongly-barred window-shutters. A collection of spiders'

webs, thickly matted together, covered the entire ceiling. We looked

into the presses, but they were all empty; one only contained a large

dusty tome, in an antique binding, which the licentiate put under his

cloak after hurriedly glancing over its contents. Our inspection was

over. "Let us call the witnesses," said Don Tadeo to Pepito, whom we

have constituted upon this solemn occasion master of the ceremonies. The

lépero, magnificently dressed in his blue manga, advanced to the

casement, and made a short speech to the worthy people in rags, who were

collected in groups beneath the windows. The eloquence of Pepito had the

desired effect, and a few minutes afterward the court was filled with a

far greater number of witnesses than the law required. I had never seen

such a rich collection of gallows-birds. Preceded by Pepito, we

descended into the court, and thence into the garden, followed by the

crowd. "Señores," cried Pepito, in a loud voice, "you are witnesses

that, in the name of the law, his lordship here present," and Pepito

pointed to me, "takes regular possession of this estate. _Dios y

Libertad!_" Don Tadeo then came forward. By his instructions I first

plucked a handful of grass and threw it over my head, and then pitched a

stone over the garden wall. These, by the terms of the Mexican law, are

the ceremonies which accompany the act of taking possession. A general

hurrah now burst from the throats of the respectable company assembled

in the garden. All that now remained, according to national usage, was

to present some gratuity to the dirty ruffians who had crawled from

every corner of the village to wish me joy of my new possession. I gave

them a few piastres to drink, and, headed by Pepito, they went to spend

them in the neighboring cabaret.

"Well," said the licentiate to me, when we were alone, "you see you have

got payment of your debt. What do you think of my plan for making

stubborn debtors pay?"

"I fear, Don Tadeo, that you are playing a very dangerous game for

yourself; and, if you would take my advice, you would give up business

immediately as redresser of wrongs, as I think the losses exceed the

profits."

"You see, however, that I am fortunate in my enterprises. Never mind.

But as I may prematurely receive a dagger-thrust some day or other, I

would like you to keep some remembrance of me. Here is a book which was

not comprised in the inventory of the house. It is an old work, and not

without its value."

"Thank you," said I to the licentiate, taking the dusty tome. "The story

that you told me on the _azotea_ of the house in the Callejon del Arco

will ever live in my recollection. One can not easily forget such

revelations; and I was very fortunate indeed in listening to such a

romantic history."

The time had now come when we must return to Mexico. Without waiting for

Pepito, who would probably finish the day at a wine-shop, we pushed

along. The heat was as insupportable as before. The flock of vultures

that Pepito had pointed out to Don Tadeo had evidently increased, and a

fetid odor was wafted by the wind in our direction from the little

mounds above which the birds were fluttering. The licentiate drew up

suddenly.

"If you are curious to read the last page of the history of which we

were just talking," said he, "go over to these hillocks; but I fear your

nerves are not strong enough."

"And what shall I see among these rocks?"

"A corpse; you observe that at this very moment the birds are pecking

at it. One of the three ruffians whom I employed to recover your debt

has paid for all the others. God is just! The man who fell under the

dagger of Peralta was the perpetrator of the outrage on the Paseo of

Bucareli. The romance is now complete, is it not?"

"Assuredly; and the sight of the vultures will add to the impression

your story has made upon me."

"Come," said the licentiate, spurring his horse, "I see you are getting

nervous. To town, then."

We parted on the Plaza Mayor in the hope of seeing one another again,

but fortune decreed otherwise; and a few weeks after my installation in

Peralta's house I quitted Mexico.

During my absence the gambling-house in the Callejon was closed. On my

return, Tio Lucas informed me that the licentiate had returned to Spain.

Since that time I have made many ineffectual attempts to procure some

information about him. The only souvenir that was left me of this

extraordinary man is the manuscript of Alonso Urbano, now in the

National Library at Paris.

Remigio Vasquez.

CHAPTER I.

There is one peculiar charm in the towns of Mexico, and that is the

perfect straightness of the streets, along which the eye wanders till

the point of sight terminates in the blue hills of the country. In

Mexico especially I was never tired gazing upon the mountains which

bound the horizon upon all sides. On the east I seemed to hear the

murmur of the Pacific, and on the west the hoarse roar of the Atlantic

sounding from behind these mountains. The first of these oceans reminded

me of one of the most adventurous epochs of my life; and I never could

forget that the second washed the shores of my native country. I never

looked in that direction without feeling a kind of regret and sadness,

which often merged into feverish anxiety. In this state of mind, I

grasped at every thing which could afford me a pretext for quitting

Mexico. I hastened to shake off the sluggishness which began to weigh

upon me, and to abandon myself anew to the dangers and emotions of a

wandering life--a sure remedy against home-sickness.

One evening, on reaching home, I learned that a stranger had called

during my absence. The unknown had said that his business with me

related to a matter of life and death; but, when asked to leave his

name, had obstinately refused to give it. He happened to say, however,

that he was living at an inn, the _Meson de Regina_, and had gone away

expressing great annoyance at not finding me, and promising to return

the next day. The strange air of the visitor, the numerous questions he

put, the care that he evidently took not to allow his face to be seen by

arranging the folds of his blue manga over it, and the large hat which

shaded his eyes, combined to give to this visit a mysterious character,

which acted very strongly on my imagination. When alone in my chamber, I

called to recollection every one whom it might possibly be, but in vain,

and I waited anxiously for the next day, which might probably unriddle

the enigma; but the morning passed, the day advanced, and the unknown

had not made his appearance. I resolved to go to the Meson de Regina;

and, having got a description of the stranger, set out for the inn.

Although situated in one of the most central streets in Mexico, the

Meson de Regina is only distinguished from other inns on less frequented

roads by the greater number of travelers who are always coming and

going. There is the same range of stabling, the same barrenness of

furniture, the same absence of every comfort. I called for the

_huesped_. In any other country it would have been an easy thing to find

out the name of the unknown, whose costume I could describe to the most

minute details, but it is very different in a Mexican hotel.

"Do you fancy," said the huesped to me, "that it is my business to ask

the names of those who frequent my house? I have something else to think

of, I assure you; but as for the person you are inquiring after, he set

out, not half an hour ago, for Cuantitlan, as his servant, who

accompanied him, informed me, and, if you are a swift horseman, you may

overtake him, if you are so very desirous to know his name."

"What was the color of their horses?"

"Iron-gray and peach-blossom."

A ride of some hours before dinner could not but be salutary. Before

setting out in pursuit of the stranger, I went home in order to ask some

more questions of Cecilio, my valet, about my visitant. This lad had

been already several years in my service, and his round chubby face,

with an air at once hypocritical and simple, reminded me strongly of

Ambrosio of Lamela in Gil Blas. As I expected, he gave me a very

unsatisfactory description of the unknown. I then disclosed to Cecilio

my intention of setting out immediately for Cuantitlan, ordering him at

the same time to saddle our horses with all speed. Cecilio tried to

convince me that, in an affair of so delicate a nature, it were best if

I went alone, but I reiterated my order, and he left the room to execute

my commands. As I was going to travel in the country, I donned my

Mexican costume, and went down into the court in all haste. I remarked,

without surprise, that my _serape_ had been attached to the back of my

saddle. My pistols were in their holsters; and I also carried a lance

with a scarlet pennon, heavily shod with iron, which I was accustomed,

when traveling, to have fixed to my right stirrup. A sabre hung from

Cecilio's saddle-bow, and a tolerably well-packed valise was fixed to

the croup of his horse. I asked him why he was making such preparations,

as we were only going out for a short ride; but his only answer was,

that the environs of Mexico were infested by robbers.

We set out. The travelers we were in pursuit of could not be more than

an hour in advance of us, and the unusual color of their horses would

aid us in tracking them easily. I flattered myself that if we pushed on

we could overtake them without difficulty in two hours, and if that were

beyond our power, a couple of fresh horses would not take long to cover

the six leagues between Mexico and Cuantitlan. I thus set out with the

intention of returning before sunset. The difference of speed, however,

between my horse and that of my servant, forced me to slacken my pace.

Two hours had already rolled away without catching the slightest glimpse

of the man I was in quest of, and the spire of Cuantitlan had not even

come in sight. I almost feared that the inn-keeper had sent us the wrong

road, when some muleteers, returning to Mexico, told me that they had

met two horsemen, one mounted on an iron-gray, the other on a

peach-blossom. We reached Cuantitlan in a short time, and I was directed

to the hostelry where the two horsemen had stopped. I had not been long

in coming hither, and was at last soon to know what I was burning to

learn. I went to the inn which had been pointed out to me, and my foot

had no sooner reached the ground than I began questioning the huesped

with the air of one who is sure of finding what he wants.

"Are your horses tired?" said the host, when I had finished.

"No."

"Well, that's something, for the travelers only entered my house for

refreshment and then left, and it will be fresh horses alone that can

overtake them."

And the host, who interested himself as much, if that could be, with the

horsemen that passed his house as with those that lived within it,

turned his back upon me with the politeness peculiar to his class. I

vaulted again into my saddle. A quarter of an hour more, thought I,

would explain to me a certain defiant raillery which Cecilio had taken

little pains to suppress. To my great mortification, however, the time

rolled away; night was coming on, and the shades of evening were falling

insensibly around. Night at last fell; and I would have given up this

long-protracted chase, had not wounded self-esteem goaded me as much as

curiosity. A solemn silence brooded over the road we were pursuing.

Sometimes I stopped, fancying I heard before me the stamp of horses'

feet, and then redoubled my pace with ardor, till the unbroken stillness

which reigned around showed that I had been under a delusion. Still, the

certainty of being on the traces of the unknown kept up my spirits, for,

from Mexico to the place where we now were, not even a bridle-path

joined our road. All the probabilities were in my favor. However, after

a six hours' ride we required rest, and a twelve leagues' gallop

rendered a halt necessary for our horses. It was, besides, time to set

about looking for a place to put up, for in Mexico there are two

requisites for getting into an inn; the first is, that the inn please

the travelers; and the second, that the hour and the travelers please

the inn-keeper. Luckily, I was not long in discovering a light in a

cabin standing by itself, toward which we spurred our horses. Our host

informed us that two horsemen had passed his house about half an hour

before we came up, but the night was so dark that he could not

distinguish the color of their horses. As he was sure that they must

stop a short way off to pass the night, we decided to stay where we were

till dawn, hoping to overtake them on the following morning. I

considered that if we were off before sunrise we could easily make up

for lost time. Unfortunately, Cecilio did not rise next morning till

late, and the sun was high in the heavens ere we found ourselves on the

road. I had, however, gone too far to recede, and, besides, I had now a

definite aim to pursue. Cecilio did not view the case in the same light

as myself, and it was with a slight feeling of despair that every now

and then he informed me of the number of leagues we had traveled since

we left Mexico. But, though seen by so many people, the travelers seemed

to slip from me as if by magic at the very moment I was flattering

myself that I had overtaken them. I had already passed through the rocky

defile of the Cañada, and had left behind me the hacienda of St.

Francisco. During my journey I had inquired at every _rancho_, and at

all the ordinary halting-places, and every one concurred in saying that

two mounted travelers, one on an iron-gray, the other on a

peach-blossom, could be only a short distance in advance.

"These two travelers are surely a brace of devils," said Cecilio, sadly,

"or two great criminals at least, as they seem to stop to rest nowhere."

Without replying, I continued my route, for I did not wish to have the

worst in this contest, and a kind of phrensy began to take the place of

my former curiosity. For the second time since leaving Mexico the sun

set behind the hills that lay before us, and still there was no hope of

attaining the object of our journey. Our horses, jaded by a ride of

twenty hours, were beginning to be fatigued; and it was with a lively

satisfaction that I perceived, by the last gleams of departing day, the

red walls of the _hacienda_ of Arroyo Zarco.