THE CONSEQUENCES OP A LOVE SONG.
During the conversation between the foster brothers, certain events we must describe to the reader occurred in the cuarto to which Curumilla and Don Cornelio had retired.
On entering the room, Curumilla, instead of lying down on the cuadro intended for him, laid his zarapé on the tiled flooring, stretched himself out upon it, and immediately closed his eyes. Don Cornelio, on the contrary, after hanging the lamp to a nail in the wall, trimmed up the smoking wick with the point of his knife, sat down on the side of the bed, with his legs hanging down, and then began in a sonorous voice the romance of King Rodrigo.
At this slightly unseasonable music Curumilla half opened one eye, though without protesting in any other way against this unwonted disturbance of his rest. Don Cornelio may or may not have noticed the Indian's silent protest; but in either case he took no heed of it, but went on singing, raising his voice to the highest compass of which it was capable.
"Wah!" the chief said, raising his bead.
"I was certain," Don Cornelio remarked with a friendly smile, "that the music would please you."
And he redoubled his flourishes.
The Araucanian rose, went up to the singer, and touched him gently on the shoulder.
"We must sleep," he said in his guttural voice, and with an ill-tempered grimace.
"Bah, chief! Music makes a man forget sleep. Just listen.
"'Oh, si yo naciera ciego!
Oh, tú sin beldad nacieras!
Maldito sea el punto—'"[1]
The Indian seemed to listen with sustained attention, his body bent well forward, and his eyes obstinately fixed on the singer. Don Cornelio felicitated himself internally on the effect he fancied he had produced on this primitive native, when suddenly Curumilla, seizing him by the hips, squeezed him in his nervous hands at in iron pincers, and lifting him with as much ease as if he had been but a child, carried him, spite of his resistance, into the patio, and seated him on the side of the wall.
"Wah!" he said, "music is good here."
And, without adding another word, he turned his back on the Spaniard, walked into his cuarto, laid himself on his zarapé, and went to sleep immediately.
At first Don Cornelio was quite confounded by this sudden attack, and knew not if he ought to laugh or feel vexed at the simple way in which his companion had got rid of his company; but Don Cornelio was a philosopher, gifted with an admirable character. What had happened to him seemed so droll that he burst into an Homeric laugh, which lasted several minutes.
"No matter," he said, when he had at length regained his seriousness, "the adventure is curious, and I shall laugh at it for many a long day. After all, the fellow was not entirely in the wrong. I am famously situated here to sing and play my jarana as long as I think proper; at any rate I shall run no risk of disturbing the sleepers, as I am quite alone."
And after this consolation, which he administered to himself to satisfy his somewhat offended pride, he prepared to continue his serenade.
The night was clear and serene; the sky was studded with a profusion of stars, in the midst of which sparkled the dazzling southern cross; a slight breeze, laden with the perfumes of the desert, gently refreshed the air; the deepest silence brooded over San José; for, in the retired Mexican pueblos, everybody returns home at an early hour. Everybody appeared asleep, too, in the mesón, although at a few windows the weak and dying light of the candles gleamed behind the cotton curtains.
Thus Don Cornelio, unconsciously yielding to the influences of this magnificent evening, omitted the first four verses of the romancero, and after a skilful prelude, struck up the sublime description of night:—
"A l'escaso resplendor,
De cualque luciente estrella,
Que en el medroso silencio,
Tristamente centellea."[2]
And he continued thus with eyes uplifted to heaven, and brow glowing with enthusiasm to the end of the romance; that is to say, until he had sung the ninety-six verses of which this touching piece of poetry is composed.
The Mexicans, children of the Andalusians, the musicians and dancers par excellence, have not degenerated in this respect from their forefathers; on the contrary, they have, if that be possible, exaggerated these two passions, to which they sacrifice everything.
When Don Cornelio began singing, the patio, as we have, already remarked, was completely deserted; but gradually, as the musician became more animated, doors opened in every corner of the yard, men and women appeared, advanced gently to the singer, and formed a circle round him; so that after the final strophe he found himself surrounded by a group of enthusiastic hearers, who applauded him frenziedly.
Don Cornelio rose from the wall on which he was seated, lifted his hat, and saluted his audience gracefully.
"Come," he said to himself, "this will be something for that Indian, who appreciates music so slightly, to reflect upon."
"Capa de Dios!" an arriero said, "that is what I call singing."
"Poor Señor Don Rodrigo, how he must have suffered!" a young criada exclaimed in short petticoats, and with a flashing eye.
"And that perfidious picaro of a Count Julian, who introduced the Moors into a Catholic country!" the landlord said with an angry gesture.
"God be praised!" the audience said in chorus; "Let us hope that he is roasting in the lowest pit."
Don Cornelio was at the pinnacle of jubilation. Never before had he obtained such a success. All his hearers thanked him for the pleasure he had caused them, with those noisy demonstrations and cries of joy which distinguish southern races. The Spaniard did not know whom to listen to, or on which side to turn. The shouts assumed such a character of enthusiasm, that the singer began to fear that he would be unable to get rid of his frenzied audience the whole long night.
Fortunately for him, at the moment when, half willingly, half perforce, he was preparing, on the general request, to recommence his romance, there was a movement in the crowd; it parted to the right and left, and left a passage for a tall and pretty girl, who, with a well-turned leg confined in silk stockings with gold clocks, her rebozo coquettishly drawn over her head, and her hair buried beneath a profusion of jasmine flowers, placed herself resolutely before the singer, and said with a graceful smile, which allowed her double row of pearly teeth to be seen,—
"Are you not, caballero, a noble hidalgo of Spain, of the name of Don Cornelio?"
We must do Don Cornelio the justice to allow that he was so dazzled by this delicious apparition that he remained for some seconds with gaping mouth, unable to find a word.
The girl stamped her foot impatiently.
"Have you been suddenly turned into stone?" she asked, with a slightly mocking accent.
"Heaven forbid, señorita!" he at length stammered.
"Then be good enough to answer the question I asked you."
"Nothing easier, señorita. I am indeed Don Cornelio Mendoza de Arrizabal, and have the honour to be a Spanish gentleman."
"That is what I call plain speaking," she said, with a slight pout. "If it be so, caballero, I must ask you to follow me."
"To the end of the world," the young man exclaimed impetuously. "I should never travel in pleasanter company."
"I thank you for the compliment, caballero, but I do not intend to take you so far. I only wish to conduct you to my mistress, who desires to see you and speak with you for an instant."
"Rayo del cielo! If the mistress be only as pretty as the maid, I shall not regret the trip if it last a week."
The girl smiled again.
"My mistress is staying in this inn, only a few steps off."
"All the worse, all the worse! I should have preferred a journey of several leagues before meeting her."
"A truce to gallantry. Are you willing to follow me?"
"At once, señorita."
And throwing his jarana on his back, and bowing for the last time to the audience, who opened a passage for him respectfully,—
"I am at your orders," he said.
"Come, then."
The girl turned away and hurried off rapidly, the Spaniard following close at her heels.
Don Cornelio, like all the adventurers whom a hazardous life in Europe had cast on the American shores, nourished in his heart a secret hope of re-establishing, by a rich marriage, his fortunes, which were more than compromised. Several instances, though rare, we allow, of marriages contracted in this romantic fashion, had imbedded this idea deeply in the Spaniard's somewhat windy brain.
He was young, noble, handsome—at least he thought so; hence he possessed all needed for success. It is true that, until this moment, fortune had never deigned to smile on him; no young girl seemed to care for his assassinating glances, or respond to his interested advances. But this ill success had in no way rebuffed him, and what happened at this moment seemed to justify his schemes, by offering him, at the moment he least expected it, that occasion he had so long awaited.
Only one thing saddened his brow, and clouded the internal joy he experienced, and that was the seedy condition of his attire, sadly ill-treated by the brambles, and torn by the sharp points of the rocks, during his long journey in Sonora. But with that characteristic fatuity innate in the Spaniards, he consoled himself by the reflection that his personal advantages would amply compensate for the seedy condition of his dress, and that the lady who had sent for him, if she felt any tender interest in him, would attach but slight value to a new cloak or a faded cloak. It was with these conquering feelings that Don Cornelio arrived behind the camarista at the door of a cuarto, before which she stopped.
"It is here," she said, turning round to him.
"Very good," he said, drawing himself up. "We will enter whenever you please."
She smiled cunningly with a twinkle of her black eyes, and turned the key in the lock. The door opened.
"Señorita," the waiting-maid said, "I have brought you the gentleman."
"Let him come in, Violanta," a sweet voice answered.
The girl stepped aside to make room for Don Cornelio, who walked in, twisting his moustache with a conquering air.
The room in which he found himself was small, and rather better furnished than the other cuartos in the hostelry, probably owing to the indispensable articles the temporary occupier of the room had the precaution to bring with her. Several pink candles burned in silver chandeliers, and on a sofa lay a lovely young girl of sixteen to seventeen years of age, buried in muslin, like a hummingbird in a nest of roses, who bent on the Spanish gentleman two large black eyes sparkling with humour, maliciousness, and curiosity.
In spite of the immense dose of self-love with which he was cuirassed, and the intimate conviction he had of his own merits, Don Cornelio stopped in considerable embarrassment on the threshold, and bowed profoundly, without daring to advance into the interior of this cuarto, which appeared to him a sanctuary.
By a charming sign the young woman invited him to draw nearer, and pointed out a butaca, about two paces from the sofa on which she was reclining. The young man hesitated; but the camarista, laughing like a madcap, pushed him by the shoulders and compelled him to sit down.
Still the position of our two actors, opposite each other, was rather singular. Don Cornelio, a prey to the most powerful embarrassment he ever experienced, twisted the brim of his beaver in his hands, as he cast investigating glances cautiously around; while the girl, no less confused, timidly looked down, and seemed at present almost to regret the inconsiderate step she had let herself be led to take.
Still, as in all difficult circumstances of life, women possess a will of initiative greater than that of men, because they make a strength of their weakness, and know at once how to approach the most awkward questions, it was the lady who first regained her coolness and commenced the conversation.
"Do you recognise me, Don Cornelio?" she asked him in a deliberate tone, which made the Spaniard quiver.
"Alas, señorita!" he replied, trying to gain time, "where could I have had the happiness of ever seeing you? I have only lived up to the present in an inferno."
"Let us speak seriously," she said with an almost imperceptible frown. "Look me well in the face, caballero, and answer me frankly: do you recognise me—yes or no?"
Don Cornelio timidly raised his eyes, obeyed the order he had received in so peremptory a fashion, and after a few seconds,—
"No, señorita," he said with a suppressed sigh, "I do not recognise you; I do not believe that I ever had the happiness of meeting you before today."
"You are mistaken," she replied.
"I! O no! It is impossible."
"Do not swear, Don Cornelio; I will prove to you the truth of what I assert."
The young man shook his head incredulously.
"When a man has had once the happiness of seeing you—" he murmured.
She interrupted him sharply.
"You do not know what you say, and your gallantry is misplaced. Before contradicting me you would do better by listening to what I have to say to you."
Don Cornelio protested.
"I repeat," she said distinctly, "that you are mad. For two days you travelled in the company of my father and myself."
"I!"
"Yes, you."
"Oh!"
"It is just three years ago. At that period I was only a child, scarce fourteen: there is, consequently, nothing extraordinary in your having forgotten me. At that period you sang your inevitable romance of Don Rodrigo, of which I will say no harm, however," she added, with an enchanting smile, "because I recognised you by that song. My father, now governor and political chief of Sonora, was at that time only a colonel."
The Spaniard struck his forehead.
"I remember," he exclaimed. "You were going from Guadalajara to Tepic, when I had the pleasure of meeting you in the middle of the night."
"Yes."
"That is it. Let me see, your father's name is Don Sebastian Guerrero, and yours—"
"Well, and mine?" she said, with a pretty challenging pout.
"Yours, señorita," he said gallantly, "is Doña Angela. What other name could you bear?"
"Come," she said, clapping her dainty hands together with a ringing laugh, "I am glad to see that you have a better memory than I believed."
"Oh!" he muttered reproachfully.
"We had a rather disagreeable adventure, if I remember right, with certain bandits?" she continued.
"Extremely disagreeable, for I was half killed."
"That is true; I remember something of the sort. Were you not rescued by a hunter, a wood ranger? I can hardly remember."
"A noble gentleman, señorita," Don Cornelio replied with fire, "to whom I owe my life."
"Ah!" she said carelessly, "that is possible. The man helped you, nursed you, and then you parted?"
"Not exactly."
"What!" she said, with some agitation, "you continued to live together?"
"Yes."
"Always?"
"Yes."
"But now?" she said, with a certain hesitation in her voice.
"I repeat to you, señorita, that we have not separated."
"Indeed! Is he here?"
"Yes."
"In this hostelry?"
"On the other side of the yard."
"Ah!" she murmured, letting her head fall on her breast.
"What's the matter now?" the Spaniard asked himself.
And not interrupting the sudden reverie into which the young lady had fallen, he waited respectfully until it pleased her to renew the conversation.
[1] Oh, if I had been born blind, or if you had been born ugly! Accursed be the day and hour—
[2] By the feeble light of some clear star, which, in the midst of the gloomy silence, mournfully twinkles.