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!