CHAPTER V.
THE CONSEQUENCES OP A LOVE SONG.
During the conversation between the foster brothers, certain events wemust describe to the reader occurred in the cuarto to which Curumillaand Don Cornelio had retired.
On entering the room, Curumilla, instead of lying down on the cuadrointended for him, laid his zarape on the tiled flooring, stretchedhimself out upon it, and immediately closed his eyes. Don Cornelio, onthe contrary, after hanging the lamp to a nail in the wall, trimmed upthe smoking wick with the point of his knife, sat down on the side ofthe bed, with his legs hanging down, and then began in a sonorous voicethe romance of King Rodrigo.
At this slightly unseasonable music Curumilla half opened one eye,though without protesting in any other way against this unwonteddisturbance of his rest. Don Cornelio may or may not have noticed theIndian's silent protest; but in either case he took no heed of it, butwent on singing, raising his voice to the highest compass of which itwas capable.
"Wah!" the chief said, raising his bead.
"I was certain," Don Cornelio remarked with a friendly smile, "that themusic would please you."
And he redoubled his flourishes.
The Araucanian rose, went up to the singer, and touched him gently onthe shoulder.
"We must sleep," he said in his guttural voice, and with an ill-temperedgrimace.
"Bah, chief! Music makes a man forget sleep. Just listen.
"'Oh, si yo naciera ciego! Oh, tu sin beldad nacieras! Maldito sea el punto--'"[1]
The Indian seemed to listen with sustained attention, his body bent wellforward, and his eyes obstinately fixed on the singer. Don Corneliofelicitated himself internally on the effect he fancied he had producedon this primitive native, when suddenly Curumilla, seizing him by thehips, squeezed him in his nervous hands at in iron pincers, and liftinghim with as much ease as if he had been but a child, carried him, spiteof his resistance, into the patio, and seated him on the side of thewall.
"Wah!" he said, "music is good here."
And, without adding another word, he turned his back on the Spaniard,walked into his cuarto, laid himself on his zarape, and went to sleepimmediately.
At first Don Cornelio was quite confounded by this sudden attack, andknew not if he ought to laugh or feel vexed at the simple way in whichhis companion had got rid of his company; but Don Cornelio was aphilosopher, gifted with an admirable character. What had happened tohim seemed so droll that he burst into an Homeric laugh, which lastedseveral minutes.
"No matter," he said, when he had at length regained his seriousness,"the adventure is curious, and I shall laugh at it for many a long day.After all, the fellow was not entirely in the wrong. I am famouslysituated here to sing and play my jarana as long as I think proper; atany rate I shall run no risk of disturbing the sleepers, as I am quitealone."
And after this consolation, which he administered to himself to satisfyhis somewhat offended pride, he prepared to continue his serenade.
The night was clear and serene; the sky was studded with a profusion ofstars, in the midst of which sparkled the dazzling southern cross; aslight breeze, laden with the perfumes of the desert, gently refreshedthe air; the deepest silence brooded over San Jose; for, in the retiredMexican pueblos, everybody returns home at an early hour. Everybodyappeared asleep, too, in the meson, although at a few windows the weakand dying light of the candles gleamed behind the cotton curtains.
Thus Don Cornelio, unconsciously yielding to the influences of thismagnificent evening, omitted the first four verses of the romancero, andafter a skilful prelude, struck up the sublime description of night:--
"A l'escaso resplendor, De cualque luciente estrella, Que en el medroso silencio, Tristamente centellea."[2]
And he continued thus with eyes uplifted to heaven, and brow glowingwith enthusiasm to the end of the romance; that is to say, until he hadsung the ninety-six verses of which this touching piece of poetry iscomposed.
The Mexicans, children of the Andalusians, the musicians and dancers_par excellence_, have not degenerated in this respect from theirforefathers; on the contrary, they have, if that be possible,exaggerated these two passions, to which they sacrifice everything.
When Don Cornelio began singing, the patio, as we have, alreadyremarked, was completely deserted; but gradually, as the musician becamemore animated, doors opened in every corner of the yard, men and womenappeared, advanced gently to the singer, and formed a circle round him;so that after the final strophe he found himself surrounded by a groupof enthusiastic hearers, who applauded him frenziedly.
Don Cornelio rose from the wall on which he was seated, lifted his hat,and saluted his audience gracefully.
"Come," he said to himself, "this will be something for that Indian, whoappreciates music so slightly, to reflect upon."
"_Capa de Dios!_" an arriero said, "that is what I call singing."
"Poor Senor Don Rodrigo, how he must have suffered!" a young criadaexclaimed in short petticoats, and with a flashing eye.
"And that perfidious _picaro_ of a Count Julian, who introduced theMoors into a Catholic country!" the landlord said with an angry gesture.
"God be praised!" the audience said in chorus; "Let us hope that he isroasting in the lowest pit."
Don Cornelio was at the pinnacle of jubilation. Never before had heobtained such a success. All his hearers thanked him for the pleasure hehad caused them, with those noisy demonstrations and cries of joy whichdistinguish southern races. The Spaniard did not know whom to listen to,or on which side to turn. The shouts assumed such a character ofenthusiasm, that the singer began to fear that he would be unable to getrid of his frenzied audience the whole long night.
Fortunately for him, at the moment when, half willingly, half perforce,he was preparing, on the general request, to recommence his romance,there was a movement in the crowd; it parted to the right and left, andleft a passage for a tall and pretty girl, who, with a well-turned legconfined in silk stockings with gold clocks, her _rebozo_ coquettishlydrawn over her head, and her hair buried beneath a profusion of jasmineflowers, placed herself resolutely before the singer, and said with agraceful smile, which allowed her double row of pearly teeth to beseen,--
"Are you not, caballero, a noble hidalgo of Spain, of the name of DonCornelio?"
We must do Don Cornelio the justice to allow that he was so dazzled bythis delicious apparition that he remained for some seconds with gapingmouth, unable to find a word.
The girl stamped her foot impatiently.
"Have you been suddenly turned into stone?" she asked, with a slightlymocking accent.
"Heaven forbid, senorita!" he at length stammered.
"Then be good enough to answer the question I asked you."
"Nothing easier, senorita. I am indeed Don Cornelio Mendoza deArrizabal, and have the honour to be a Spanish gentleman."
"That is what I call plain speaking," she said, with a slight pout. "Ifit be so, caballero, I must ask you to follow me."
"To the end of the world," the young man exclaimed impetuously. "Ishould never travel in pleasanter company."
"I thank you for the compliment, caballero, but I do not intend to takeyou so far. I only wish to conduct you to my mistress, who desires tosee you and speak with you for an instant."
"_Rayo del cielo!_ If the mistress be only as pretty as the maid, Ishall not regret the trip if it last a week."
The girl smiled again.
"My mistress is staying in this inn, only a few steps off."
"All the worse, all the worse! I should have preferred a journey ofseveral leagues before meeting her."
"A truce to gallantry. Are you willing to follow me?"
"At once, senorita."
And throwing his jarana on his back, and bowing for the last time to theaudience, who opened a passage for him respectfully,--
"I am at your orders," he said.
"Come, then."
The girl turned away a
nd hurried off rapidly, the Spaniard followingclose at her heels.
Don Cornelio, like all the adventurers whom a hazardous life in Europehad cast on the American shores, nourished in his heart a secret hopeof re-establishing, by a rich marriage, his fortunes, which were morethan compromised. Several instances, though rare, we allow, of marriagescontracted in this romantic fashion, had imbedded this idea deeply inthe Spaniard's somewhat windy brain.
He was young, noble, handsome--at least he thought so; hence hepossessed all needed for success. It is true that, until this moment,fortune had never deigned to smile on him; no young girl seemed to carefor his assassinating glances, or respond to his interested advances.But this ill success had in no way rebuffed him, and what happened atthis moment seemed to justify his schemes, by offering him, at themoment he least expected it, that occasion he had so long awaited.
Only one thing saddened his brow, and clouded the internal joy heexperienced, and that was the seedy condition of his attire, sadlyill-treated by the brambles, and torn by the sharp points of the rocks,during his long journey in Sonora. But with that characteristic fatuityinnate in the Spaniards, he consoled himself by the reflection that hispersonal advantages would amply compensate for the seedy condition ofhis dress, and that the lady who had sent for him, if she felt anytender interest in him, would attach but slight value to a new cloak ora faded cloak. It was with these conquering feelings that Don Cornelioarrived behind the _camarista_ at the door of a cuarto, before which shestopped.
"It is here," she said, turning round to him.
"Very good," he said, drawing himself up. "We will enter whenever youplease."
She smiled cunningly with a twinkle of her black eyes, and turned thekey in the lock. The door opened.
"Senorita," the waiting-maid said, "I have brought you the gentleman."
"Let him come in, Violanta," a sweet voice answered.
The girl stepped aside to make room for Don Cornelio, who walked in,twisting his moustache with a conquering air.
The room in which he found himself was small, and rather betterfurnished than the other cuartos in the hostelry, probably owing to theindispensable articles the temporary occupier of the room had theprecaution to bring with her. Several pink candles burned in silverchandeliers, and on a sofa lay a lovely young girl of sixteen toseventeen years of age, buried in muslin, like a hummingbird in a nestof roses, who bent on the Spanish gentleman two large black eyessparkling with humour, maliciousness, and curiosity.
In spite of the immense dose of self-love with which he was cuirassed,and the intimate conviction he had of his own merits, Don Corneliostopped in considerable embarrassment on the threshold, and bowedprofoundly, without daring to advance into the interior of this cuarto,which appeared to him a sanctuary.
By a charming sign the young woman invited him to draw nearer, andpointed out a butaca, about two paces from the sofa on which she wasreclining. The young man hesitated; but the camarista, laughing like amadcap, pushed him by the shoulders and compelled him to sit down.
Still the position of our two actors, opposite each other, was rathersingular. Don Cornelio, a prey to the most powerful embarrassment heever experienced, twisted the brim of his beaver in his hands, as hecast investigating glances cautiously around; while the girl, no lessconfused, timidly looked down, and seemed at present almost to regretthe inconsiderate step she had let herself be led to take.
Still, as in all difficult circumstances of life, women possess a willof initiative greater than that of men, because they make a strength oftheir weakness, and know at once how to approach the most awkwardquestions, it was the lady who first regained her coolness and commencedthe conversation.
"Do you recognise me, Don Cornelio?" she asked him in a deliberate tone,which made the Spaniard quiver.
"Alas, senorita!" he replied, trying to gain time, "where could I havehad the happiness of ever seeing you? I have only lived up to thepresent in an _inferno_."
"Let us speak seriously," she said with an almost imperceptible frown."Look me well in the face, caballero, and answer me frankly: do yourecognise me--yes or no?"
Don Cornelio timidly raised his eyes, obeyed the order he had receivedin so peremptory a fashion, and after a few seconds,--
"No, senorita," he said with a suppressed sigh, "I do not recognise you;I do not believe that I ever had the happiness of meeting you beforetoday."
"You are mistaken," she replied.
"I! O no! It is impossible."
"Do not swear, Don Cornelio; I will prove to you the truth of what Iassert."
The young man shook his head incredulously.
"When a man has had once the happiness of seeing you--" he murmured.
She interrupted him sharply.
"You do not know what you say, and your gallantry is misplaced. Beforecontradicting me you would do better by listening to what I have to sayto you."
Don Cornelio protested.
"I repeat," she said distinctly, "that you are mad. For two days youtravelled in the company of my father and myself."
"I!"
"Yes, you."
"Oh!"
"It is just three years ago. At that period I was only a child, scarcefourteen: there is, consequently, nothing extraordinary in your havingforgotten me. At that period you sang your inevitable romance of DonRodrigo, of which I will say no harm, however," she added, with anenchanting smile, "because I recognised you by that song. My father, nowgovernor and political chief of Sonora, was at that time only acolonel."
The Spaniard struck his forehead.
"I remember," he exclaimed. "You were going from Guadalajara to Tepic,when I had the pleasure of meeting you in the middle of the night."
"Yes."
"That is it. Let me see, your father's name is Don Sebastian Guerrero,and yours--"
"Well, and mine?" she said, with a pretty challenging pout.
"Yours, senorita," he said gallantly, "is Dona Angela. What other namecould you bear?"
"Come," she said, clapping her dainty hands together with a ringinglaugh, "I am glad to see that you have a better memory than I believed."
"Oh!" he muttered reproachfully.
"We had a rather disagreeable adventure, if I remember right, withcertain bandits?" she continued.
"Extremely disagreeable, for I was half killed."
"That is true; I remember something of the sort. Were you not rescued bya hunter, a wood ranger? I can hardly remember."
"A noble gentleman, senorita," Don Cornelio replied with fire, "to whomI owe my life."
"Ah!" she said carelessly, "that is possible. The man helped you, nursedyou, and then you parted?"
"Not exactly."
"What!" she said, with some agitation, "you continued to live together?"
"Yes."
"Always?"
"Yes."
"But now?" she said, with a certain hesitation in her voice.
"I repeat to you, senorita, that we have not separated."
"Indeed! Is he here?"
"Yes."
"In this hostelry?"
"On the other side of the yard."
"Ah!" she murmured, letting her head fall on her breast.
"What's the matter now?" the Spaniard asked himself.
And not interrupting the sudden reverie into which the young lady hadfallen, he waited respectfully until it pleased her to renew theconversation.
[1] Oh, if I had been born blind, or if you had been born ugly! Accursedbe the day and hour--
[2] By the feeble light of some clear star, which, in the midst of thegloomy silence, mournfully twinkles.