Chapter Twelve.
“Un Clavo Saca Otro Clavo.”
Now that its streets were no longer obstructed by the fear of mob violence, or midnight assassination, we had an opportunity of exploring the “City of the Angels.”
A fine old town we found it—with its grand cathedral, of which, according to monkish legend, real angels were the architects; its scores of capillas and parroquias; its hundreds of massive stone and stuccoed houses; and its thousands of adobé dwellings.
Besides those standing, we discovered whole streets that had fallen to decay; barrios of uninhabited ruins, covered with a weed-tangle of convolvuli, cowage, and other creepers, growing in green luxuriousness over the chaos of crumbling walls.
No other evidence is needed to prove that La Puebla, still the third city of Anahuac, was once much grander than it is to-day.
I sought distraction in wandering through its streets; though there was one into which I never went—the Calle del Obispo.
I shunned it with as much zeal as if there had been a plague in it; though I knew it contained una cosa muy linda—the fairest thing in the city of Puebla.
And it was for this that I shunned it. Since I had no longer the slightest hope of possessing Mercedes Villa-Señor, I was acting in accordance with the counsel of a friend, sager than myself, to whom I had communicated the story of my illusion. The course advised by him was to forget her,—if I could.
“Don’t go near again, nor see her on any account,” were the words of my wise counsellor. “It’s the only plan with a passion like yours—suddenly conceived, and, perhaps, founded on a mistaken fancy. She may not be such perfection, after all. You’ve had but a poor chance of judging. Beauty in the balcony is sometimes wonderfully changed when it descends into the street. No doubt this damsel at close quarters would turn out very different from what you describe her. It’s only imagination.”
“No imagination could create such a form—such a face—such—”
“Such fiddlesticks! Come, old fellow! Don’t give way to this confounded romancing. I venture to say, that, if you could see her at six feet distance, and under a good strong light, you’d be completely disenchanted. The same tripe-coloured skin all these Spanish women have—that won’t bear the sun upon it. I wouldn’t give one of our fair-haired Saxon girls for a whole shipload of them.”
“Take my advice,” continued my mentor, whose leaning was towards light hair; “don’t see her again. If she should prove plain, it would only cause you a chagrin to discover it; and, if she really be the angel you think she is, better you should never more meet her—except in heaven! From what you’ve told me, she’s either engaged to this young fellow, or in the fair way of being made a fool of—a thing not so uncommon among the damsels of this good city. In either case there’s no chance for you. Give up fretting about her. It will be easy as falling off a log. Don’t go into the street where she lives; though I don’t suppose there’d be much danger of seeing her if you did—now that those rascally Red Hats are about. In a month more we’ll be on the march for the Halls of the Moctezumas; and there you’ll either get a bullet in your abdomen, or another shot through the heart, from a pair of eyes perhaps as sparkling as those of the Villa-Señor.”
The word “never” was upon my lips, and the thought was in my mind. I did not utter it, knowing that my friend would only laugh at me.
“Un clavo saca otro clavo,” (one nail drives out another), continued my Job’s comforter; “A proverb of their own exactly applicable to your case. Ah! well do they understand the intricacies and tricks of love. These same Spaniards understood them three hundred years ago; while we simple Saxons only knew them as instincts. No doubt Miss Mercedes has often heard the proverb—perhaps often practised it. So take my advice, old boy, and do you the same. Take for your motto, ‘un clavo saca otro clavo!’”
“All very well for you, who have no love to be expelled. That is a thing not so easy, as you imagine.”
“Bah! Easy enough. Look around you. I’ll warrant you’ll see plenty of beautiful women—according to your style—among these dark-complexioned señoritas. Go out upon the streets—into the Alameda—to church—anywhere, excepting into the ‘street of the bishop.’”
I followed my friend’s advice, and sought for the “un clavo” that should force out the “otro clavo.” I did not succeed in finding it. The first nail held its place in my heart, despite every endeavour to draw it.
Still did I persevere in the resolution to see Mercedes no more—stern struggle though it cost me.
It was not necessary I should shut my eyes, while passing through the streets. There was little likelihood of my encountering her by chance. More than ever did the ladies keep to their seclusion. And no wonder, during the reign of the Red Hats.
The few who sallied forth in carriages, for a drive round the Alameda, were either the wives of foreign merchants, or belonging to one of the half dozen families, who, from interested motives, had become, for the time, “Ayankeado.”
With these exceptions, we saw only the little brown-skinned leperas, in their hideous slate-coloured rebosos; and now and then, when chance conducted us to a fandango, a few flaunting specimens of the class “poblana,” whose patriotism was not proof against our purses.
Among the élite our epaulettes were not specially attractive; and our company was altogether tabooed. The gown appeared to take the shine out of the sword. The soldier might rule in the streets; but within doors the sleek curas had it all their own way.
It was these last to whom we were chiefly indebted for the taboo; and of course we hated them accordingly.
For my part, I cared but little. If the donçellas of Puebla had made me ever so welcome, I could not have responded to their smiles. The wound I had received from one of them was sufficient for the time; and, so long as it remained uncicatrised, I had no zest for a second amour.
For weeks I adhered to the programme traced out by my friend; but without finding the relief he had so confidently prognosticated.
The society of woman was absolutely distasteful to me. I had become almost a gynothrope.
I sought distraction in the company of men; and, I regret to add, men who played monté.
Play is but a sorry resource—though one of the commonest resorted to—for soothing the pangs of an unrequited passion. The coquette makes many a recruit for the gaming table. Homburg has seen its scores of frequenters—sent there by her arts—hanging over its tables with broken hearts—even when fortune seems smiling upon them!
I had no difficulty in discovering a place to practise the soul-absorbing passion. Professional gamblers travelled along with us—as if part of the regular staff of the army. Every division had its “dealer” of “faro” or “monté;” and almost the first canvas spread in an encampment was that which covered the tapis vert of a card table!
In the country it was a tent; in the city a grand saloon, with chandeliers and a set supper.
Our army gamblers usually superintended such places—having established temporary partnerships with the indigenous vultures who owned them.
The game usually played was that universal in Mexico—monté. It was the most convenient—permitting players of all kinds and classes, and equally favourable to the novice as to the skilled gambler. There is no skill required—not much knowledge of any sort. A “banquier,” a “croupier,” a piece of green baize, and a pack of Spanish cards—voilà tout!
There were two or three of these gambling saloons, or “monté banks,” in La Puebla. More likely there were twenty; but two or three were grand establishments—frequented by the Poblanos of the better class; where gold doblones might be seen upon the green cloth as common as silver dollars. They were attachments to the grand Cafés, or Exchanges, that in Mexican cities take the place of our clubs—serving as places of rendezvous for the haciendados, and higher class of commerciantes.
One was much frequented by the officers of our army; though not exclusively by them. The Mexican gentlemen did not deny us their company over the monté table; and around it might be seen representatives of the Teutonic and Latinic races, in nearly equal proportions—with many a type between.
Though the natives were all in civilian costume, we knew that there were among them men who had once worn uniforms. In fact, some of them were our prisoners on parole; whom we had encountered, and captured, at the siege of Vera Cruz, or on the ensanguined summit of Cerro Gordo.
The poverty of these men was too conspicuous to escape observation. Their pay—scant at all times and often in arrears—was now stopped altogether; and how they contrived to live on parole, they and God alone can tell.
It was painful to note their contrivances for keeping up the appearance of gentility. A close inspection of their coats would show where the shoulder-straps and facings had been stripped off—to convert them into civilian garments; and the unfaded stripe, down the seams of their pantaloons, told where the gold lace had once gaily glittered.
They were usually provided with an ample cloth cloak; which in the streets effectually concealed the transformation. But in the hot saloons this could not well be worn; and a man standing behind, as they sat around the monté table, might look upon a pair of shoulders—now plain—that had been lately decorated with the epaulettes of a colonel, or even general!
Their ventures were usually of the most modest kind: beginning with a peseta, and graduating upwards, in proportion to the propitiousness of Fortune. When their luck was good, they gambled with doblones.
Otherwise, the peseta ended their play for the night; but, instead of retiring in despair, they would continue at the table; as though they took a pleasure in contemplating the gains of the more fortunate players, and the losses of the banker!