Cecilio went about the business immediately. I told him that economy was to be considered in the purchase, but the fellow did not conform too scrupulously to my instructions. A few hours afterward he came to tell me that a picador, one of his friends, had a horse to dispose of which seemed to come up to my standard. In a few minutes, a sorry hack, of a dun color, with hanging head and tottering legs, that apparently had escaped from the bull-ring, came slowly into the court. I almost screamed when the picador, with matchless effrontery, asked ten piastres for the miserable brute; but, considering that the only time on which we needed to travel rapidly would be in joining the convoy, and that afterward short stages would be the rule, I consented to the purchase. The picador and Cecilio, seeing my impatience, began to expatiate on the noble qualities that lay hidden beneath the miserable skin of the wretched beast, and I paid the knave the sum he demanded, knowing well that my honest valet would partake in the plunder with the picador.
All my preparations being made, I determined to set out next morning; but a series of unforeseen events retarded my departure for several days. The time for sending this rich convoy of silver to Vera Cruz appeared to have been ill chosen. A dull, vague feeling of uneasiness weighed on all men's minds. The most alarming symptoms of an imminent political storm were apparent. Even on the very day after the convoy had left Mexico, it was universally regretted that a lading so valuable had been exposed to the dangers of a long road at this conjuncture, and several circumstances, it must be owned, justified these fears.
General Don Anastasio Bustamente—after losing in Europe, in learned retirement, the remembrance of his country's misfortunes—had returned, and assumed the presidency of the republic. If disinterestedness and probity, joined to ardent patriotism, were sufficient to govern a great state, Bustamente was the man for Mexico. Like almost all the generals who have attained to power in Mexico, it was in the war of independence that he showed what he was capable of performing. A devoted friend and partisan of the Emperor Iturbide, he had taxed Santa Anna with the blackest ingratitude in commencing his military career by revolting against the one who had raised him from obscurity. This was the commencement of that personal enmity which still subsists between the two generals. During the time I was at Mexico, Santa Anna could not be prevailed on to forgive Bustamente for having forestalled him in the presidency. For three years Bustamente had been subjected to many trials. Two years had scarcely elapsed since the taking of Vera Cruz by the French, and already the emptiness of the public treasury had compelled Congress to impose an additional duty of fifteen per cent. upon imports. Commerce languished by this measure. The decision of Congress only augmented its sufferings. A general bad feeling began to gain ground in the state, which, to all accustomed to the march of political events in Mexico, seemed likely to be employed to the disadvantage of the existing government. Events were not long in confirming the justice of these forebodings.
The reader may not, perhaps, have forgotten a certain lieutenant Don Blas, whom I had met at the venta of Arroyo Zarco, and had left seated at table with the bravo, Don Tomas Verduzco. The slight degree of acquaintanceship which I had with this officer never occurred to my mind without recalling to memory the mysterious relations which seemed to exist between him and a man who I had every reason to believe was my mortal enemy. Since my last meeting with Don Tomas I had been under a continual apprehension, but too well justified by the known antecedents of this ruffian.
I had, I believed, taken every precaution against an attack which would, according to all appearance, be made in the dark. Besides, I had conformed to the rules of the strictest prudence by restricting myself only to short walks from my place of abode. The porter of my house was an old soldier of the wars of independence, a brave and honorable man, who never showed more vigilance than when he was intoxicated. The result was, that the house could not have been better guarded. I was, it is true, the first victim of this excess of precaution on his part, for it was not without the greatest difficulty that, on one occasion, I prevailed upon him to unlock the iron chain that held together the two leaves of the entrance gate.
The Angelus was still sounding from all the churches in Mexico when, returning from a gallop on the Paseo, I rode through the streets, as I fancied, for the last time. Night was coming on when I gained my lodging, and it was not without a longer parley than ordinary with the old porter that I succeeded in gaining admittance. Leaning against the wall to steady himself and keep up appearances, the brave man, with a bayonet in his hand, contented himself by jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of a soldier, who, seated on one of the stone benches of the vestibule, rose up eagerly at my approach. A peakless shako, too small for the head it covered, tottered on the top of a dense thatch of thick yellow hair. A uniform coat of thick cloth, and a pair of trowsers as large as the shako was small; shoes, whose upper leather had long parted company from the sole, not only allowing the toes to be seen, but also ventilating on the most approved principles the wearer's feet, and a complexion of a bright copper color, all served to stamp the man as a lépero who had been torn away, by the exigencies of the service, from following his profession of sleeping in the sun on the pavement. However, a sort of picaresque and arrogant bearing about the fellow showed that he was not insensible to his profession, and to the splendor of his military dress. The soldier, who was the asistente of Don Blas, had been sent by him with a letter to me. I recognized, in fact, his handwriting. The note ran thus:
"My dear Friend,—I have just read with much emotion, in a French novel that you lately lent me, a story of two friends, who, when in need, aided one another with their purse and their sword. As I require some money at present, I should be obliged by your sending with the bearer, in whom I have every confidence, an ounce of gold, which I shall restore to you on the first opportunity. I can tell you that this will be a service with which the country will be as well pleased as your devoted friend and servant,
"Q. S. M. B.,[41]
"Blas P——.
"P.S.—On reflection, if you will bring the ounce of gold yourself, it will be better; and, to imitate the devotion of those friends whose story has made such an impression upon me, I offer you my sword."
I thought, as the lieutenant did, that the ounce of gold would have a greater chance of coming into his hands if I carried it myself.
"Where is your officer?" I inquired of the soldier.
"At the Guadaloupe gate."