[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.