Chapter Twenty Two.
Appointment and Disappointment.
In most Mexican cities of the first and second class, there is both a “Paseo” and an “Alameda;” the former a public drive—riding included; the latter more especially set apart for pedestrians, though there is also a carriage way around it.
In the capital itself there are two Paseos—Bucareli and La Vega. The latter extending along the famed chinampas, or “floating gardens,” is only fashionable at a certain season of the year—during the week of Carnival. At all other times it is neglected for the more magnificent drive of Bucareli.
The Paseo of Puebla is poor by comparison; but its Alameda is not without merits. It is a large quadrangle lying on the western edge of the city; with trees, walks, statues, flowers, fountains, and all the usual adornments of a public garden. Around it is a road for carriages and equestrians, as well as a path for promenaders—with benches at intervals on which they may rest themselves.
Its view includes the teocalli of Cholula, with the church of the virgin “Remedios” on its top; beyond, the snow-cone of Popocatepec, and the twin nevada of the “White Sister.”
It was not to look upon these that I was “in the Alameda at six o’clock;” or, perhaps, a half-hour earlier.
With such an appointment as mine, no living man could have restrained himself from anticipating the time.
As the place is devoted to the three several kinds of recreation—walking, riding, driving—it was a question in which way Mercedes would present herself.
The last was the most likely; though the first would have been the more convenient—keeping in view the supposed purpose.
It was the mode I had myself adopted: having entered the enclosure as a simple pedestrian, and in civilian dress—to avoid observation.
I sauntered along the walks—apparently admiring the flowers, and criticising the statues. It was sheer pretence—to deceive the promenaders, who were moving before and behind me. At that moment I had no thought, either of the elegancies of Art, or the beauties of Nature; not even for its sublimities, displayed within sight on the snow-clad slopes of the great “Cordillera.”
I was thinking only of the beauty of woman—impatient to behold it in its most perfect type.
Was it to appear on foot, on horseback, or between wheels?
Considering the character of the times—and that Red Hats were in the Alameda—the last was the most likely.
Notwithstanding this conjecture, I scrutinised every female pedestrian who came inside the enclosure—even those coifed by the cheapest reboso.
Though her sister had said otherwise, Mercedes might not always be free to go forth? She might have to take her recreation by stealth, and disguised?
My surmises soon came to an end; and, to my joy, proved erroneous. Dolores had been right. The cochero in black glaze hat and jaqueta of blue camlet cloth, driving a pair of frisones, could be no other than he who had once lost a doubloon by staying too late over his stable duties?
I took no further note of him. Thenceforth my eyes were occupied with a countenance seen through the windows of the carriage. It was a carretela of elegant construction—all glass in front—best plate, and clear as crystal.
The face inside was but improved by its interposition—toned to the softness of tinted wax.
It needed no scrutiny to identify it. There was no mistaking the countenance of Mercedes.
I had done this before; but that was under the uncertain glimmer of a street lamp.
I now saw it in the full light of day; and well did it bear the exposure. If possible it was more perfect than ever; and the jetty eyes, the carmine tinted checks, the lips—but I had no time to observe them in detail before the carriage came close up.
I saw that she was its sole occupant—unaccompanied either by sister, or chaperone. Even Tia Josefa was not with her!
It was true, then, what Dolores had said. Poor Dolores! I could not help feeling sympathy for her; the more so that I was now the friend of her Francisco.
The carriage was coming on at a slow pace. The frisones scarce trotted. I had time to take some steps, which simple prudence suggested. Even love has its instincts of caution; especially when full of confidence.
Mine was to seek some solitary nook of the Alameda, where I might observe without being observed—except by the occupant of the carretela.
Fortune favoured me. A clump of Peruvian pepper-trees stood close by—their pendant fronds drooping over the drive. Under their shadow was a recess—quiet, cornered, apparently unoccupied. It was the very spot I was in search of.
In ten seconds I had placed myself under the pimentos.
In ten more the carriage came abreast of me—still slowly moving on.
My eyes met those of Mercedes!
Half blinded by the blaze of her beauty, I stood gazing upon it. My glance must have betrayed my admiration; but not less the faltering fear that had hold of me. It was in my heart, and must have been symbolled in my countenance. It was the humility of a man who feels that he is not worthy of the woman he would worship; for I could have worshipped Mercedes!
In five minutes afterwards I was cursing her! She passed, with her eyes full upon me, but without showing any sign of recognition, either by speech or gesture!
It was only after they were averted that I thought of interpreting their glance; and then I was prevented by a surprise that stupified me—a rage that almost rendered me frantic.
Instead of the smile—the something more which I had been fondly expecting—the look vouchsafed to me was such as might have been given to a complete stranger!
And yet it was not like this. There was salutation in it, distant, disguised under some strange reserve—to me unreadable.
Was it caution? Was it coquetry?
It stung me to think it was the latter.
I gazed after the carretela for an explanation. I was not likely to get it—now that the blind back of the vehicle was towards me, and its occupant no longer to be seen.
But I had it the instant after.
A little farther along the drive I saw a man pass out from among the pepper-trees; who, like myself, appeared to have been there “in waiting.”
Unlike me, he was on horseback—bestriding a well caparisoned steed. The man was no stranger to me. At a glance I saw who it was.
Yielding to a touch of the spur, his horse launched himself out into the road; and was pulled up close to the carretela—through the opened window of which a white arm was at the same time protruded.
I saw the flashing of a jewelled wrist, with a billetita held at the tips of tapering fingers!
Stodare could not have taken that note more adroitly, or concealed it with quicker sleight, than did my friend Francisco Moreno—never more to be friend of mine!