Pepita it was, though in a different style of dress to what he had been accustomed to see her in; as at New Orleans she had not kept to her national costume. Besides, there was a soupçon of shabbiness about her present attire, and then the shoeless feet!
“Dismissed the Valverde service—out of a situation—poor girl!”
He would not have so pityingly reflected, had he seen her as she was but a short half-hour before, in a pretty muslin dress, snow-white stockings, and blue satin slippers. Since then she had made a change in her toilet under direction and by help of the Condesa, who had attired her in a way more befitting the task intended.
Kearney, in full belief of her being a discharged servant, remembering her many little kindnesses to himself in the Casa de Calvo, was about to call her up, and speak a word of sympathy for old time’s sake. Dominguez was still absent, and the nearest sentry engaged in a chaffing encounter with some one in the crowd.
Just then he observed a slight tremor of her head, and with a sudden movement of the hand which seemed to say, “No, don’t speak to me.” She, too, could talk that mute language, so well understood in her country.
So restrained, he kept silent; to see her now glance furtively around, as if to make sure no one else was observing her. She had again closed the scarf over her face, but in the hand that held it under her chin something white—a piece of paper he supposed—appeared; just for one instant, then drawn under. Another significant look accompanied this gesture, saying plain as word could speak it:—
“You see what I’ve got for you; leave the action all to me.”
He did, for he could not do otherwise; he was fixed to this spot, she foot free. And the use she now made of this freedom was to walk straight out into the street, though not as coming to him; instead, her steps, as her eyes were directed towards Cris Rock and the hunchback, who were at work some paces further on. She seemed bent on making a closer inspection of the odd pair, nor would any one suppose she had other object in crossing over to them. No one did, save Kearney himself. Rivas had been again ordered into the sewer, and was at work in it. Besides, he did not know Pepita, though he was the one she most wished to be near. Chiefly for him was the communication she had to make.
It could not be, however, without a demonstration likely to be observed, therefore dangerous. But her wit was equal to the occasion, proving how well the ladies had chosen their letter-carrier.
“Ay Dios!” she exclaimed aloud, brushing past the young Irishman, and stopping with her eyes bent wonderingly on the strangely contrasted couple; then aside in sotto voce to Kearney, whom she had managed to place close behind her, apparently unconscious of his being there—“A billetita, Don Florencio—not for you—for the Señor Rivas—you can give it him—I daren’t. Try to take it out of my hand without being seen.” Then once more aloud. “Gigante y enano!” just as others had said, “Rue cosa estranja!” (what a strange thing).