There is an old document in the National Library of Paris which has hardly ever been consulted, I dare say, since the day on which it was placed on the dusty shelves of the manuscript room. It is an essay on the idioms of the Indian tribes of the New World, written toward the end of the sixteenth century, by Fray Alonzo Urbano, a monk of the order of St. Augustin. The chain of circumstances which was the means of bringing this curious document from Mexico to Paris is perhaps known only to myself, and that for an excellent reason. It was I who carried thither the unknown work of the monk of St. Augustin. The person from whom I obtained it is very likely dead. Be that as it may, the way in which I got possession of this manuscript will never be effaced from my memory; and the essay of Fray Urbano, although I am no judge of its philological merits, has still a great interest in my eyes. It brings to mind the intercourse I once had with one of the strangest personages that I ever had the good fortune to meet in Mexico. That intercourse was very short, but the recital will enable one easily to understand the deep impression it left upon me. I do not require to add that this story, though it appear romantic, is strictly true. In Mexico, you must remember, romance is ingrained in the manners of the people, and he who would faithfully picture these exceptionable manners would be set down as a somewhat unscrupulous story-teller, when he is, in fact, only a simple historian.

CHAPTER I.

The Public Scribe.—Pepito Rechifla.—The China.—The Callejon del Arco.

At the commencement of the year 1835 I happened to be in Mexico, engaged in the prosecution of a troublesome piece of business. This concerned the somewhat problematical recovery of a very considerable sum of money due me by an individual of whom I could not find the slightest trace. The business demanded the most energetic measures, and I addressed myself, in consequence, to several lawyers, well known for their success in dealing with such difficult cases. They all at first promised their assistance, but when I mentioned my debtor's name (he was called Don Dionisio Peralta), one and all of them excused themselves from having any share in the business. One said he could never pardon himself if he gave the slightest cause of uneasiness to so gallant a man as SeÑor Peralta; a second, that he was attached to him by a compadrazgo[17] of long standing; a third suddenly remembered that he had been a bosom friend of his in his youth. A fourth, more communicative than the others, enlightened me as to the cause of such friendly scruples; these gentlemen had the fear of a dagger before their eyes, a mode of procedure of which SeÑor Peralta had availed himself more than once, to shake himself free of creditors who had been too pressing. "I don't know," he added, "a single person who will undertake your business, if the licentiate Don Tadeo Cristobal refuse: he has a heart of rock and a hand of iron; he is the man for you." I ran immediately to the Calle de los Batanes, where I was told he lived; but another check awaited me there. Don Tadeo had quitted that place, and no one could tell me his present abode.

Wearied and dejected in the evening, after a whole day spent in running up and down to no purpose, I was walking listlessly to and fro in the Merchants' Arcades (Portales de los Mercadores), which stands on the grand square of Mexico. Despairing of success, I resolved to ask for some information about Don Tadeo from some of the numerous public writers, whose stalls under the gallery are so many public intelligence offices; but, once there, I completely forgot the motive which had brought me into this kind of bazar, the daily resort of all the idlers of Mexico, and my attention was completely distracted by the animated picture which was unrolled before my eyes. The spectator will be less astonished at this if he figure to himself the almost magical appearance the Plaza Mayor presents an hour before sunset. The Portales de los Mercadores occupy, in fact, almost one complete side of this immense square. The Cathedral, the Ayuntamiento, and the President's palace form, as the reader already knows, the other three sides. The most beautiful streets in Mexico debouch between those buildings; there is the street Primeria Monterilla, crowded with elegant shops; another, called los Plateros (the street of the goldsmiths), whose shops are almost exclusively occupied by jewelers or lapidaries, while the petty Mexican merchant seems to have chosen, for the display of European commodities, the dark arcades of the los Mercadores. At the time of my stay in Mexico, French innovation had not yet ventured to alter the picturesque appearance of these arcades, which, in their general aspect, bore a remarkable resemblance to the Piliers des Halles in Paris. The heavy arches are supported on one side by vast warehouses, on the other by pillars, at the foot of which are ranged shops (alacenas) well stocked with religious books, rosaries, daggers, and spurs. Close by these shops, as if to represent all the grades of trafficking, lÉperos, in rags, hawk about articles of glassware, and, sticking one of them on the tip of their finger, they search for customers with great eagerness. Every now and then the venders of wild duck ragouts, or tamales,[18] seated in the shade of the arches, strike in, amid the din of the crowd, with their well-known cry,[19] Aqui hay poto grande, mi alma; senorito venga sted, or that as popular but shorter call, Tamales[20] queretanos. The passers-by and purchasers are as worthy of observation as the sellers. The ever-varying color of gowns and tapalos,[21] the gold of the mangas, and the motley color of the serapes, form, under the dim, hazy light which prevail in the pilastera, a brilliant mixture of different colors, which reminds one strongly of the most fantastical Venetian masquerades. In the evening, when the stalls and shops are closed, the Merchants' Arcades become a kind of political club. Seated on the threshold of the gates, or striding along in this kind of cloister, officers and townsmen talk about revolutions that have been effected, or are to be effected, till the time when the almost deserted galleries serve only as a retreat for lovers, and their low whispers is all that is heard beneath the silent arcades.

I had now sauntered for a long time in the Merchants' Arcades, when the sight of a writer's stall reminded me of my business there. Among the working population of the Portales, the public writers form a considerable portion of the community. You must remember that in Mexico primary instruction is not at all general, and that the office of a public writer, among this illiterate population, has lost nothing of its primitive importance. The tractable pen of the evangelists (that is the name they bear) is required for a thousand commissions, more or less delicate, and often of the most equivocal character—from the venal love-letter down to the note sent by a bravo to lure his intended victim to some secret ambuscade. The evangelist whom I had remarked among the rest of his tribe was a little squat fellow, his head almost bald, scarcely encircled with a few gray hairs. What principally drew my attention to this man was an expression of sardonic joviality which shone in his otherwise insignificant face. I was just about to make some inquiries of him about Don Tadeo, when an incident made me suddenly pause, and continue to look on in silence. A young girl came to the stall of the evangelist. The long wavy hair, which escaped in plaits from her open rebozo, her complexion of a slight umber tint, the brown shoulders that her chemise of fine linen, fringed with lace, left almost bare, her slender figure, which had never been deformed by stays, and, above all, the three short petticoats of different colors, which fell in straight folds over her pliant haunches, all pointed out the young woman as a genuine specimen of the China.[22]

"Tio Luquillas," said the maiden.

"What is it?" replied the evangelist.

"I need your assistance."

"I don't doubt that, since you come to me," replied Tio; and, fancying he had divined the message she was going to send, he began complaisantly to fold a sheet of rose-tinted vellum paper, highly glazed, and embossed with cupids. But she made a gesture of impatience with her little brown hand.

"What," said she, "would a man, who is almost breathing his last, care for your rose-tinted billet-doux?"

"The devil!" said the scribe, in a passionless tone, while the girl wiped her streaming eyes with one of her long plaits: "is it a farewell epistle, then?"

A sob was the only reply; then, stooping to the scribe's ear, she forced herself to dictate a short letter, not without frequent pauses to take breath and to wipe away her tears. The contrast between the unsusceptible old man and the passionate girl appeared to me most striking. I was not the only observer; every one who passed the booth of Tio Luquillas could not help casting a glance of pity, not unmingled with curiosity, upon the young China. The evangelist was about to fold the letter, but had not yet written the address, when a passer-by, bolder and more curious than the rest, came unceremoniously to have some conversation with the old man. The new-comer's features were not unknown to me, and I remembered that he had, when standing next me at a bull-fight a few days before, dilated, in the most attractive manner, on a sport which I passionately loved. The time did not seem to me suitable for making any inquiry of the evangelist, and I thought it best not to approach the three. I consequently remained a few paces from the booth, waiting patiently till the visitor would take his departure. The man, with whom an hour or two's chat had made me acquainted, had inspired me with a certain degree of interest. He was about forty years of age. His features were marked with a certain kind of nobility, in spite of a sarcastic expression which he sometimes threw into them. Although I might have forgotten we had ever met, the odd costume in which he was habited stamped him on my recollection. At the bull-fight he wore a wide-flowing blue cloak, lined with red, and on his head an enormous sombrero of yellow vicuna cloth, trimmed with gold lace.

"For whom is the letter, my dear?" he asked of the China, somewhat authoritatively.

The girl pointed to the prison of the presidential palace, and muttered a name which I did not catch.

"Ah! for Pepito?" said the unknown, aloud.

"Alas! yes; and I don't know how to get it conveyed to him," replied the girl.

"Well, never despair. Here's an opportunity that Heaven sends you."

At this moment the people hastily left the galleries, and scattered themselves hastily upon the Plaza Mayor. What motive had they for leaving? The commission of a deed but too common in Mexico; an assassination had been perpetrated on the public street. They had seized the murderer, raised the victim, and the melancholy cortÈge was on its way to the nearest prison. This place of confinement happened to be precisely that in which the lover of the young girl was imprisoned, and I could easily comprehend the tenor of the words of hope which my new acquaintance had addressed to the China.

The procession, which was now making its way across the square, had partly a comical, partly a mournful appearance, with an originality in its arrangement truly Mexican. A cargardor (porter) marched in front, bearing on his shoulders, by means of a leathern belt passed round his forehead (as all Mexican porters do), a chair, upon which was strapped a man, or rather a corpse, wrapped in a bloody sheet. The assassin, guarded by four soldiers, followed closely behind. Some gaping idlers, and a few friends of the dead man, who seemed to be making a sorry attempt to appear sad, closed the procession. Of all the individuals of which that crowd was composed, the man most at his ease was the criminal himself, who, with a cigar in his mouth, marched along with perfect coolness, addressing himself every now and then to the bloody corpse, which, to his great surprise, uttered not a word in reply. "Come, now," said he, "none of your waggish tricks, Panchito; you know quite well that I can't make your wife any allowance. You are shamming death well; but I am not to be done in that style." But Panchito was quite dead, let the assassin say what he might, and I could feel a cold shudder creep over me when the hideous corpse was borne close past me. Its eyes (for the sheet did not cover the face), with a stony glitter, stared at the sun with immovable fixity. The bull-fight amateur, who was doubtless more accustomed to such sights, walked right up to the procession, stopped it, and holding the letter of the China out to the murderer,

"Pay attention!" said he. "Have you not some acquaintance with the illustrious Pepito Rechifla—he who is to be garroted to-morrow?"

"Of course; I am a chum of his."

"Well, as you will, in all probability, not be executed before him, you will see him just now in the prison. Give him this letter from me."

"Ah! SeÑor Cavalier," said the Mexican girl, suddenly, who, with face bathed in tears, and a palpitating bosom, made her way through the crowd, threw herself at the murderer's feet, and seizing the corner of his cloak, after the ancient fashion, said, "By the blood of Christ, and the merits of the Virgin in her seven sorrows, do not forget to give him this letter, which contains my last farewell! I am so unhappy at not being able to see him!"

"Yes, Linda mia, I will," replied the murderer, carrying his hand to his eyes, and trying to give his voice a pathetic tone. "I have as feeling a heart as you; and had not this d—d Panchito been always thwarting me, I should not have been here, I swear; but keep up your spirits, preciosita de mi alma."

A piece of money which the sporting character threw to the prisoner cut short his eloquent speech; the soldiers surrounded him, and they resumed their march to the prison. The procession soon disappeared round a corner of the Ayuntamiento, while some women, with a delicacy peculiar to Mexican females, surrounded the young China, but were unable to persuade her to go home. In a short time, in spite of all their entreaties, I saw her walk to the prison, seat herself at the foot of its dark wall, and, veiling her face with her rebozo, remain there immovable. My friend of the bull-fights was lost in the crowd, and I had now a fitting opportunity for consulting the evangelist. I stepped up to the old man, and tapped him gently on the shoulder.

"Can you tell me," said I, "where the licentiate Don Tadeo Cristobal lives?"

"Don Tadeo Cristobal, do you say? He was here a minute ago."

"Was Don Tadeo here?"

"Did you not see how obligingly he caused a message to be delivered to the bandit Pepito Rechifla, that one of the prettiest Chinas in Mexico dictated to me?"

"What! was that man in the sombrero and red cloak Don Tadeo the licentiate?"

"It was."

"And where shall I find him now?"

"I do not know; for, to say the truth, he has no settled abode, but lives a little every where. If, however, you wish to consult him on urgent business, go this very evening, between the hours of nine and twelve o'clock, to the Callejon del Arco (blind alley of the arcade); you are sure to find him in the last house on the right as you pass the square."

I thanked the scribe, and, after giving him a few reals for his trouble, directed my steps to the Callejon del Arco. Although it was scarcely seven o'clock in the evening, I went to try to find out, before nightfall, the house which I intended to visit two hours afterward. Experience had taught me that such precautions were not useless in Mexico; besides, the Callejon del Arco had long been notorious as one of the most dangerous places in the Mexican capital.

The appearance of the alley justified but too well the reputation which it had acquired. The dense mass of houses, of which the Merchants' Arcades form a part, known by the name of the Impedradillo, does not form one compact cuadra. On the southwest side of the Cathedral, a narrow lane runs into the Impedradillo; this is the Callejon del Arco. It is like one of those caverns which the sea sometimes hollows out in the face of a cliff. When still blinded by the overpowering rays of the sun with which the square is flooded, and which beat in all their intensity on the white walls and granite pavement, the eye, at first dazzled by the glare, sees only after a few moments another street cutting this one at right angles, and forming with it a dark cross-road. There, as in the caverns by the sea-shore, you can not hear the noise without, except it be a dull, mournful hum, which resembles as much the wail of the wind-tossed waves as the tumult of a populous city. A few rope-spinners' shops, their massive doors fast closed, and here and there a few dark passages, are the only signs which remind you that you are in a city, and in the midst of inhabited houses. Water is constantly oozing out of the walls; a perpetual moisture reigns every where; and scarcely, even at midday, at the time of the summer solstice, does a sunbeam visit this dismal den. A little new life then begins to stir, till the sun has advanced into the winter solstice, when it relapses into its former gloom and silence.

It was there, then, in one of these sinister-looking houses, that I was to meet a man able to settle a piece of business for me from which all the other lawyers in Mexico had recoiled. I stopped some moments to gaze with wonder and amazement upon the situation chosen for the office of the lawyer; but had not the episode, which I had witnessed a short time before, already prepared me for the eccentricities of Don Tadeo? How could I explain the easy, familiar tone which he had employed with the wretch to whom he was consigning the message to Pepito Rechifla? How the relations which appeared to exist between the bandit and the licentiate? The strange intimacy of a lawyer with thieves and assassins seemed, at first sight, not at all to be expected. The hope, however, of obtaining a solution of this seeming enigma decided me, and I left the Callejon del Arco with the intention of visiting it again two hours afterward.

CHAPTER II.

A Mexican Gambling-house.—Navaja, the Mexican Bravo.—John Pearce, the Yankee.

Night had come; one of those nights in May in which Mexico, seen by moonlight, assumes an appearance almost magical. The pale light of the moon sheds its soft radiance upon the stained steeples of the churches and the colored faÇades of the monuments. The moon here scatters her voluptuous light over the earth in a bounteous fashion, unknown in our northern regions. The crowd upon the Plaza Mayor was not so dense as before sunset; it was less noisy, and more scattered. The promenaders spoke in a low tone, as if they feared to break the silence which was brooding over all. The light noise produced by the waving of fans, the rustle of silk dresses, sometimes a peal of female laughter, melodious and clear as the tone of a crystal bell, or the striking of a church clock at a distance, alone broke the general silence. Veiled women, and men wrapped in long cloaks, glided like shadows over the sand, that hardly crunched beneath their tread. I saw more than one mysterious couple, whose appearance there would probably furnish dainty food to the scandal-loving denizens of the drawing-room. Besides young and beautiful women, there were also those who, to use an English expression, were on the shady side of thirty years. You could see also a considerable number of those doncellas chanflonas, those beauties of easy virtue mentioned by Perez of Guevara. I say nothing of the adventure-seekers whom you find every where in Mexico—bullies, who wear the pavement with their sabres and spurs. Such was the motley crowd which pushed and jostled one another on the Plaza Mayor at the very time I was betaking myself, not without some fear, I must say, to the Callejon del Arco.

I had hardly reached the mouth of the dark lane, when a current of cold air, as if it had issued from a cave, struck my face, and chilled me to the bone. I stood for some seconds at the entrance of the alley, trying to discover some gleam of light from the windows or grated doors, but there were no signs of life in a single house. I then advanced, groping along in search of the house which I had discovered a short time before. I had almost arrived at the cross-road of which I have already spoken, when I heard a noise of footsteps behind me, and saw a man who, coming from the square, was advancing toward me. I wished to keep on the pavement, but my legs getting entangled in the long rapier of the stranger in some way or other, I stumbled, and, to keep myself from falling, grasped his cloak. The man immediately stepped back, and, by the grazing of steel, I knew he was drawing his sword.

"Capa de Dios!" cried he. "Whether is it my person or my cloak you are fancying, Sir Robber?"

I thought I knew the voice, and I hastened to reply:

"I am neither a robber nor assassin, SeÑor Don—"

I thought the unknown was going to assist my memory, and state his name. He did nothing of the kind; but, putting his back to the door of a house, he said, roughly,

"Who are you, and what do you want?"

"I am seeking for the dwelling of Don Tadeo the licentiate," I replied; "and, if I am not greatly deceived, we are standing before it at this very moment."

"Ah! who told you he lived here?"

"Tio Lucas, the public scribe. I wish to consult Don Tadeo on a very important affair."

"Don Tadeo! It is he that is speaking to you just now."

The costume of this man I could not distinguish; his features were precisely similar to the bull-fight amateur, with whose name Tio Lucas had acquainted me. I hastened to reply to Don Tadeo, counting myself happy in having met him, and begged a few minutes' private conversation.

"With the greatest pleasure," he replied. "I am quite ready to take up your affair; but let us first enter the house; we can then speak more at our ease." At the same time, he struck the pommel of his sword against the door behind him. "My profession," added he, "obliges me to employ many precautions. You will immediately comprehend why. Do not be astonished at my queer domicile. You may think me an original, and may have reason."

Don Tadeo paused, and the door of the mysterious house opened with a great clanking of chains. The porter, with a huge lantern in his hand, bowed respectfully to the licentiate, who motioned me to follow him. We walked rapidly along the zaguan or lobby, and, after mounting a very steep stair, stopped before a serge curtain, surmounted by a transparent lantern, on which was inscribed, in large letters, Sociedad Filarmonica. Voices and confused cries escaped from the hall which bore this ambitious title. "Are those your clients who are making such a great noise, SeÑor Licentiate?" I inquired. Without a word, he lifted the curtain of green serge, and we found ourselves in an immense hall, indifferently lighted. A long table, covered with green baize, and surrounded with players, stood in the middle of the room. Besides the lamps which hung from the walls, the place was lighted up by four candles stuck into tin holders. Some small tables, with refreshments, placed at regular distances from each other, furnished the players with infusions of tamarinds, rose water, or Barcelona brandy. At the bottom of the hall rose a high estrade, ornamented with some size-color paintings, representing, for the purpose, no doubt, of showing the original design of the establishment, a confused group of bassoons, hunting-horns, and clarionets. My surprise may be easily conceived when I found myself in a gambling-house like this at the very time I fancied I was stepping into a lawyer's office. I contemplated my companion as if I were looking upon him for the first time. He was assuredly the very man I had met in the circus and in the Merchants' Arcades. With this strange costume, long rapier, and thick, black curly hair, his appearance partook more of the bandit than of the lawyer. He had taken only a few steps in the hall when he was accosted by two individuals—worthy habituÈs of such a den. The first was a tall, awkward, shambling fellow, with a ferocious air, who held out to the licentiate a hand large as a shoulder of mutton, and said, in Spanish, with strong English accent, "How is SeÑor Don Tadeo to-day?"

"Better than those to whom you wish well, Master John Pearce," replied he, darting upon his interlocutor a look of cold disdain, which pierced him like a sword. "You know well that your reputation here is ruined as much as it was in Texas. Above all, since—"

"Tut!" said the American, evidently not at all desirous that the licentiate should finish his sentence. "With your permission, I have come to consult you."

"Immediately," replied the man of law. "I must, however, give the preference to this gentleman, whom I met before you."

"Do me a favor; listen to me first, SeÑor Licentiate," cried another personage, with squinting eyes and gray hair, dressed in the national costume of Mexico. "I wish also to ask your advice."

"Ah! is it you, Navaja," replied Tadeo, eyeing the Mexican, who seemed to tremble under his stern glance. "Are you going to trouble me any more about that ugly affair?"

"Tut!" cried the Mexican in his turn. "Since it pleases you, I will take the third place."

It was quite sufficient for Don Tadeo to remind them of these two episodes, which doubtless did not redound to their credit, to shake himself free of their importunities. I admired the power that gave my companion an experience, evidently acquired at great personal risk, among the most dangerous bravos of the Mexican brotherhood.

"Ah!" said Don Tadeo, turning at last to me, "will you now enlighten me, SeÑor Cavalier, about the affair which has brought you hither? It must be something very delicate, since only those cases are brought to me which my brother lawyers consider insurmountable. It was doubtless one of these lawyers who advised you to address yourself to me."

I named the licentiate who had extolled the intrepid heart and good sword of Don Tadeo. He shook his head with a disdainful smile.

"The business in question is a dangerous one," replied he, "I can easily see that. The man who recommended me to you is my declared enemy, and he does not send me such jobs for nothing. Besides, perhaps I am a little too ready to draw in the public streets after nightfall. What of it? I am of Seville, and one hasn't passed several years of one's life among the fighting men in the suburb of Triana for nothing."

"Are you a Spaniard?"

"Of course; and, before being a lawyer, I was what you call a go-ahead fellow—uracan y calavera. You see before you a student of Salamanca—of that beautiful city:

"I once made some songs myself, and even set them to music; and it was in consequence of a serenade unhappily broken up, and followed by the death of a man, that necessity compelled me to seek my fortune in New Spain. To insure my success here, I possessed two valuable qualities, which rarely go together—I was a thorough master of law and of fence. You yourself can acknowledge that my old humor of sword-playing has not yet left me; but I think, SeÑor Cavalier, I owe you some amends for the unintentional insult which I lately put upon you. To tell the truth, at that time I was just about to pass my sword through your body. Allow me to offer you, as a slight compensation for my rudeness, some tincture of rose water or Catalonian refino."

Without giving time for reply, the licentiate drew me to a table, where we sat down. My astonishment increased as I became more acquainted with this singular personage. It was not till after we had partaken of some slight refreshment that Don Tadeo would consent to listen to my business, which I told him as clearly and briefly as I could.

"Good!" said he; "you are seeking a debtor you can't find; but won't you tell his name?"

"Ah! his name is one that touches the sympathies of your brethren very nearly, for no one dares take up my case against him."

"Let's hear this terrible name. I am curious to know if it will have the same effect upon me."

"I'll tell it you in a whisper. His name is Don Dionisio Peralta!"

The licentiate never moved a muscle of his face.

"How much does he owe you?"

"Four hundred piastres."

"No more," said Don Tadeo, after a moment's silence. "Let us go to the terrace at the top of the house, where we can converse more at our ease. But, first of all, allow me to finish the business of those two fellows who are waiting for me. The interest even which I take in your case obliges me to put a stop to our conversation for the present, for the purpose of getting some indispensable information among the frequenters of this gaming-house. All I ask of you is to manifest no surprise if you see or hear things you don't exactly understand."

I shook hands with the licentiate. We rose and crossed to a group of players, that had increased considerably since our private conversation began. A crowd of spectators, two deep, surrounded the green board upon which the piastres rolled with a most attractive clink.

The licentiate passed before his two clients, the Mexican and the American, signing them to wait upon him, and walked up to a young man, who, like the other spectators, was devouring the green board with greedy look. This fellow, of a sallow and cadaverous aspect, wore an almost brimless hat over his long, thick hair, and a well-worn esclavina on his shoulders. He was the beau ideal of a lawyer's clerk, sorry at being unable to stake his master's fortune on a card.

"Ortiz!" said the licentiate, "have you writing materials with you?"

"Of course," the clerk replied; and he drew from his pocket a roll containing paper, pens, and ink. The licentiate sat down by himself, wrote a few lines, folded the paper, and passed it to his clerk, who replied to his master's directions, given in a low voice, only by a bow and a hurried exit. The licentiate then begged me to have patience for a few minutes longer, till he had given his two clients their promised consultation, and I mixed with the throng round the table. It was certainly an extraordinary sight; adventurers of all kinds surrounded me, reminding me strongly of the heroes in the old picaresque romances. I was struck by a remarkably characteristic feature. The banker had on the table by him a Catalonian knife, with an edge as keen as a razor. An intimation which he gave the players let me into the secret of this strange proceeding. "I warn the gentlemen now present," said he, "that if any one affects to confound the bank with his stake, I shall nail his hand to the table with this knife." This strange threat seemed not to astonish or offend any one; and I concluded that the mishap provided against by the banker had occurred more than once.

In spite of the extraordinary scenes I was witnessing, I could not help feeling the time rather long till the licentiate drew me away from the green board to a retired corner of the hall, where his two clients, the tall Yankee and the squinting Mexican, were seated together at a table. The American was just finishing a bottle of Catalonian refino, while the Mexican slowly sipped some iced tamarind water.

"Well," said the licentiate, regarding me with a look full of meaning, "here are two gentlemen who will remove your conscientious scruples regarding the four hundred piastres you owe me, and who affirm that you can very easily pay me by making over a similar debt due you by SeÑor Peralta, who will honor his signature with the greatest grace in the world."

"I did not say that," cried the American, with a roar of laughter. "I don't know if he will pay with pleasure. All I know is that he will pay, or—"

"Softly!" interrupted Don Tadeo. "From the moment that Peralta becomes my debtor, his life is valuable to me, and I require you to respect it."

"SeÑor Peralta will pay with pleasure, I uphold," said the Mexican, softly, sipping his liquor by mouthfuls as if it burned him, while the American emptied his glass of refino at a single draught, like so much water.

"Make him pay, that's all I care about," said the licentiate. "But is not that Pepito Rechifla with my clerk over there? That's capital! Ortiz has not been long about his business."

The name of Pepito reminded me of the pretty China that I had seen with such a sad face in the Merchants' Arcades. I contemplated the man pointed out by the licentiate with some curiosity. He was a fellow with a sunburned complexion, shaggy, unkempt hair, and a bold, shameless face—such a one as is met with nowhere but in the tents of the wandering Bohemians or in the streets of Mexico. "Ah! SeÑor Licentiate," cried he, "I shall never forget that I owe my life to you. I was to be garroted the day after to-morrow, and it was you who extricated me from the claws of the juez de letras (criminal judge). Some reals from your purse restored me to freedom. Yes, SeÑor Licentiate, don't be astonished; I know you are my savior; your clerk has told me all."

"Ortiz is a fool!" replied Don Tadeo, dryly; "but I am rejoiced at your good fortune, for I wished to speak with you. I need your assistance. Here's a piastre for your supper."

"Thank you. I am never hungry but when my pocket is empty. When I have a piastre I stake it."

And the fellow hastened to the table. The Yankee and Mexican rose also, and followed him. Don Tadeo, freed from their importunities, drew me aside. "You see these three men," said he, with a smile. "Do you think there is any debtor who can resist three such bailiffs—above all, when the debt has been made over to Don Tadeo the licentiate? You understand me, of course. When I wished the debt made over to me, my name confers additional power in this dangerous war; but when the conflict is over, all the advantages will be yours, less the expenses of the campaign, which, along with the honors of victory, you will allow me to retain."

"But how will you light upon Peralta? Up to this moment I could never get a trace of him."

"That is my concern, and that of the three precious vagabonds you saw just now. Don Dionisio Peralta is a bad payer, but a good fence. However, we shall see."

I then reminded Don Tadeo that he had expressed a wish to know more about my business with him, and I offered to satisfy him in this respect. At bottom I wished to examine more thoroughly this singular character. Don Tadeo seemed to guess my real intention. "It is half past ten," he replied, looking at his watch. "I am at your service till midnight. Let us go up to the azotea (terrace). There is nobody there at this hour. The night is beautiful, and you can tell me your story without any risk of being overheard."

CHAPTER III.

The Convent of the Bernardines.—The young Creole Lady.

Arrived at the terrace, we stood for some time in silent contemplation. At our feet lay the ancient city of the Aztecs, with its domes and spires innumerable glittering in the pale moonlight. Not far from us, the Cathedral threw its gigantic shadow and the profile of its towers on the Plaza Mayor. In the distance, the Parian[24] reared its black mass in the midst of spaces whitened by the moon, like a dark rock surrounded by foaming billows. Still farther off you recognized the elegant cupola of Santa Teresa, the fine domes of the convent of St. Francisco, the steeples of St. Augustin and the Bernardines, and behind this majestic crenulated mass of buildings, cupolas, and colored spires, you saw the country bathed in a white vapor, which, rising from the lakes, encircles the city like a luminous halo.

Don Tadeo was the first to break silence by asking me some questions about the business which had been intrusted to him. I eagerly replied, hoping that he would soon make me some revelations about himself, which could not fail to be interesting; but the licentiate had fallen into a profound reverie, and I was beginning to despair of success, when the merest accident came to my relief. This was the toll of a distant bell, which suddenly rose, like a mysterious wail, from amid the mournful silence. At the sound he shook his head, then put his hands over his face, which became gradually overspread with a deadly pallor. At last he took me by the hand, and, interrupting me in the midst of my explanation, cried, "Don't you hear that bell?"

"Yes," I replied. "And, if I am not deceived, it is the sound of the passing-bell in the convent of the Bernardines."

"In the convent of the Bernardines!" he repeated, in a strangely altered tone; "in the convent of the Bernardines, do you say?"

"Assuredly. I recognize the direction of the sound; I can not be wrong."

"Let us descend immediately, for the sound drives me mad."

"Why descend? Is the light of the moon not better than those smoky lamps in the hell we have just quitted?"

The licentiate made no reply for a long time. The bell, whose strokes became more and more distinct, exercised upon him a kind of influence quite inexplicable. I can not tell whether Don Tadeo remarked my surprise, but he probably relieved his bursting heart by taking my hand, and letting escape, in the midst of stifled sobbing, these strange words:

"You must listen to me. I never hear the peal of that bell without seeing, as in a bad dream, the saddest event in my life rise before my eyes. Nothing in me will more excite your astonishment when you are acquainted with the horrible occurrence of which that bell reminds me."

I made him aware, by signs, that I was ready to listen to him. This is the story he told me, with a coolness that I could hardly have expected, from the sad introduction with which it was prefaced.

"In the year 1825, that is, ten years ago, an attempt at assassination was made in the streets of Mexico. This is, unhappily, such an every-day affair in the capital of Mexico, that the public mind would not have been called to it had it not been accompanied by some strange circumstances. These were so strange, that, instead of being briefly narrated in the last column of the journals, as is commonly the case, it figured among the events, more or less important, which have the privilege of engaging the attention of the idle inhabitants of Mexico for more than a week. A singular mystery, in fact, hung over this attempt at murder. Early in the morning, when the Paseo of Bucareli is quite solitary, a hackney-coach was seen standing in a retired part of the promenade. The coachman had descended from his box, and was standing prudently aside, as if he guessed the meaning of this early drive. Was it a man or a woman whom this coach of providence (you know that is the name given to the hackney-coaches in Mexico) had driven to a love appointment? The blinds, carefully drawn down, left every thing to conjecture; but it transpired afterward that a young female of dazzling beauty was in it, who, prompted by female vanity, was richly adorned with jewels for this occasion. The Creoles, you know, have a strange fancy for appearing to be as rich as they are beautiful; however, although that was the case with this young lady, she was still more beautiful than rich. A few minutes passed, when a man enveloped in a large cloak approached the vehicle. The coachman opened the door of the carriage, and the stranger sprang in precipitately. A meeting of this kind was too much in the Mexican fashion to astonish the coachman, who stretched himself upon the grass under the poplars, and fell into a deep sleep. When he awoke the carriage was still in the same place, only the shadows of the poplars, instead of leaning to the west, as at the time when he fell asleep, were stretching toward the east, as much as to say that the sun had nearly set, and the evening was succeeding the morning. This is the time when the Paseo is most thronged with promenaders. The coachman was astonished at having slept so long; he ran to the carriage, called aloud, and, not receiving any answer, opened the door. A horrible spectacle met his eyes. Upon the cushions lay the young lady in a swoon, the cause of which was sufficiently explained by the blood with which the carriage was flooded. The blood flowed from a large wound, struck by the unerring hand of a skillful practitioner; and this wound, at its first appearance, seemed mortal. Of all the diamonds which sparkled on her neck and dangled from her ears, not one remained. The unhappy female had thus found an assassin instead of a lover, and theft was followed by an attempt at murder. The cries of the coachman were not long in drawing a crowd, among which was luckily a surgeon, who maintained that the lady was still alive. He got her conveyed to the nearest convent, which happened to be that of the Bernardines. The first duty of humanity fulfilled, justice commenced its task; but while the physicians were restoring her to health, the efforts of the ministers of justice were not crowned with a like success. The coachman was first arrested; but he was soon released, having proved his perfect innocence. A young Spaniard, whose attentions to the fair Creole had been very marked for a long time, was then apprehended. He learned at one and the same time both the infidelity and death of her whom he wished to become his wife. This was a terrible stroke." Here Don Tadeo's voice evidently broke, and he seemed as if he had lost his senses. "At the end of a year," continued the licentiate, "the Spaniard was released for want of proof; but he left the prison ruined by law expenses, and with a heart dead to all his former dear illusions. He then learned that she who had deceived him, and whom he had bewailed as dead, was still alive, but that she had renounced the world, and taken the veil in that convent to which she had been carried after the unhappy incident in the Paseo. He never attempted to see her; but all his efforts, all his thoughts were directed to one sole end—vengeance! Mexican justice had been unable to discover the assassin. He set on foot inquiries himself, and succeeded, although the judges declared that success was impossible."

The licentiate here paused; the bell was still tolling, and I began to understand the emotions these melancholy sounds awoke in his bosom.

"This Spaniard, you have guessed already, I dare say, was myself. A letter had been found on the young Creole's person, inviting her to that private interview which had nearly terminated in her death. This was the only clew I had to guide me in the intricate labyrinth where Mexican justice had been at fault. Since then commenced a dark and uneasy period of my life, which death can alone put an end to. I condescended to live among thieves and murderers in the hope of unraveling, by their revelations, that secret which entirely absorbed me. Under color of exercising my profession, I mixed myself up in all those cases which would give me an opportunity of interrogating malefactors, and of penetrating into their haunts and places of amusement. Since then, not a single crime has been committed in Mexico whose perpetrator I could not hand over to justice. The most secret societies of criminals are well known to me in all their most intimate workings. You may perhaps have heard of that band of ensebados who for a whole year kept the Mexican capital in continual alarm. The ensebados were men who, after besmearing their naked bodies with grease or oil, threw themselves upon the benighted pedestrian and robbed him, and, in the event of resistance, plunged a dagger into his body. Only one of the bandits, as slippery as an eel, escaped from the soldiers who had managed to hunt down all the rest. Well, he was their chief. I know him; and even now I could put my hand on him, if I chose. This is not the only singular discovery I made. I could mention a thousand. Thanks to the perilous and watchful life I have led, I acquired an experience which soon made me of incalculable benefit to the miserable cutthroats with whose singular antecedents I had thus become acquainted. Often, for days together, has my life been in danger, and more than one wretch has tried to stab me as a spy; but the services which my knowledge of the law rendered to many of the rest proved my protection. Now, I am not a little proud of the influence which I exercise over the most redoubtable robbers in Mexico, and you see that I have under my orders an army willing to assist honest people who stand in need of my assistance."

"Mine is a case in point," I replied, "and I am glad that I fell in with you; but you have not informed me whether you were successful in finding the assassin of the Paseo of Bucareli."

"I was completely successful. I was lucky enough to fall in with the public scribe who had been employed to write those fatal lines which had enticed my mistress to the Paseo. The evangelist knew the wretch, and he set me on his track. I found him out. I had but to denounce him, and justice would have pounced upon him; but this would have defeated the object to which I had devoted my life. I did not betray him, therefore. Many years had rolled away since the attempt; and, during that time, on account of my intercourse with such characters, I had learned more to pity than hate them. Nay, I often employ them to do certain pieces of business for me, which Mexican justice gives up as impossible. The assassin is still a useful instrument for me; one, too, that I can crush at a word, but whom I prefer employing in the service of my numerous clients."

Another pause. The toll of the bell was still heard. "I never saw my beloved again, who is now in a convent," continued Don Tadeo; "but I learned from a sure quarter that she has been long in a deep consumption. You will now understand why the bell-peal of the Bernardines made me shudder."

I was trying to persuade Don Tadeo to descend, that he might no longer hear the dismal toll of the passing-bell, when the trap-door of the azotea creaked lightly on its hinges, and the squint-eyed Mexican, called Navaja, glided rather than walked toward us. He was pale with fright, and looked uneasily behind him.

"He is the devil in person!" cried he, leaning to take breath against the railing of the azotea.

"Whom do you mean?" asked the licentiate.

"The American. He is just about finishing his third bottle of refino, and is shouting in a loud voice what he calls his war-song. He is a ferocious Indian, with a white man's skin. He is recounting all the hair he has raised, all the murders he has committed. And, would you believe it, he claims my scalp as an addition to his treasures. I tell you again, he is a devil."

"What a saint you have become all at once!" said the licentiate, who again began to fling his sarcasms at the Mexican. "How long is it since you began to hate the smell of blood?"

The gayety of Don Tadeo was terrible to behold. This question of the licentiate's raised a hatred in his mind, fierce and implacable as the tiger's. Don Tadeo did not seem to take any notice of the impression he was producing, but, on the contrary, to delight in irritating the wretch, who foamed with anger under his cold, biting sarcasm. An allusion to the criminal attempt on the Paseo suddenly enlightened me as to this keen, bitter irony. Before me stood the man on whom the licentiate could take vengeance if he chose, at whose mercy he lived, and who had treacherously attempted the life of the unhappy female for whom the passing-bell was perhaps tolling at this very moment. "Does the peal of the Bernardines remind you of nothing?" said Don Tadeo; but this last sally deprived the Mexican of all patience, and, instead of replying, he bounded forward to snatch the licentiate's rapier, but with a vigorous thrust of the arm he was hurled violently to the ground.

"Come, now," cried the licentiate, "you forget the crime you committed. I forgive you, miscreant; but out of this, instantly."

The Mexican, stunned and stupefied, did not wait for a repetition of the order, but shuffled off precipitately. I could not help complimenting Don Tadeo on his coolness and courage. "What of that?" he said, with a melancholy smile. "You know the university in which I took my degree. I value my life only at its true worth. Let us go below. I understand your case thoroughly; and, before many days are passed, I hope to have some good news for you."

We went down, and soon reached the great square upon which the Callejon del Arco opens. There we separated, the licentiate repairing to his abode, and I to mine, by the street Monterilla. "We shall meet again soon," said Don Tadeo to me on bidding me good-night. "I hope so," I replied, although I did not partake so heartily in that belief as did the intrepid lawyer. I could not help comparing Don Tadeo in my own mind with those wild-beast tamers, who often astonish us by their deeds of courage and address, but whose least false step may transform them from masters to victims.

[24] An old bazar, not unlike the Temple-market in Paris.